We had just begun dating when he had to put in his time for committing some or other crime. I think Scott had beaten someone up and/or robbed a church. He’d recently done both, and I can’t remember which one he got caught for. Either way, it was petty enough that he was allowed work release from jail. His job? Bartending at the most lawless punk club in town.
Through his copious charm, and his established musicianship, he somehow convinced the judge that since he was the promoter of the bands that played there (which was true) he needed to be on the premise for the shows (which was also kind of true). To make his already cushy sentence even more tolerable, Scott had created a sort of curtained getaway in the basement of this club wherein he could have a couch to sit on, watch videos, hang out with friends, and of course get it on with me, his new, hot girlfriend. Employees would knock on the wooden staircase to warn him they were coming down to get ice or change a keg. People knew to give him privacy. He was the Tony Montana of the music scene, and he never let you forget it.
To get an idea of the ambiance of this makeshift man cave, one has to picture the basement of one of the oldest buildings (and taverns) in a mid-sized Midwestern city. The walls were made of fieldstones. It leaked and flooded. It was damp, had low ceilings, was blanketed with graffiti from decades of bands rolling through, and had mysterious objects rotting in dark crumbling corners where mushrooms had once been spotted growing. And then, there was the smell. Standing basement water mixed with spilled beer. Sixty years of it. On a hot, humid night, it would sting the eyes, and gag the reflexes.
One sticky evening, I walked into the club, passed by the stage, the music, the fans, the acquaintances, and grabbed a drink. I did my disappearing act into this retched cellar, awaiting Scott’s embrace. We felt like renegades in our den of iniquity, thumbing our noses to the authorities like we were getting away with something (which we were). I felt like a rock star, hanging out on the scratchy vintage couch, watching crappy VHS tapes, and getting drunk while my boyfriend stayed sober (he would return to lock-up nightly by 2am). As I entered his lair that night, he greeted me with rebellious passion, kissing me hard. His mood tonight seemed especially adrenalized.
Skipping the chitchat, he began stripping me of my rock & roll t-shirt and fishnets, leaving my Catholic girl mini-skirt on to protect my ass from the nasty couch as he began to kneel on the cleaner spots of the cement floor. He licked me for a minute, enough to relax me, then came up for air with a black bandana in his hand. He leaned into me and began tying it around me eyes.
“Oh, this is cute,” I thought. “It is already sufficiently dark in this decrepit crypt, but I suppose we could block out the decorative Christmas lights to mix it up a bit.”
After the blindfold was in place, I heard him rise to his work boot covered feet. He took my hands, pulled me up from the couch, and led me slowly to an unfinished doorframe a few feet away. I smiled with anticipation. He gently brought my arms up over my head and tied them to the unpainted 2x4. He kissed me, fingered me, then said, “Don’t go anywhere”. I chuckled as he walked away. Then, amidst a long pause in the action, I reconsidered my laughter. Where had he gone? Why was it so quiet? What was this game? My mood began to shift from tantalization to impatience. Then I felt them. Hands. More than one set. I heard some whispering, a tiny giggle, some hesitation in the air, and then I felt lips. Lips that were not framed by a goatee. Lips that were softer than silk. At that moment, I was more surprised than turned on by Scott’s mischievous forethought. All those hours of idleness in jail had preened the devil’s playground.
Soon, I felt both parties caressing, kissing, and licking my now naked body. As my head fell back with bliss, it knocked into the raw wood of the doorframe, disheveling my blindfold. Under the crooked fabric, I could see a glimpse of strawberry-blond hair. It was our mutual friend, Sara, a deliciously impish nymph who Scott had chosen well for the surprise escapade. She didn’t threaten me, and I trusted her. I knew we could enjoy a ménage à trois without all the inevitable follow-up weirdness. I relaxed. Sara and I kissed up a sultry slobber, her petite frame pressing into mine as Scott untied my arms, and swept the bandana from my face. The both of them lead me back to the couch as Sara and I exchanged an enthusiastic, and ever-so-slightly awkward “hello”. We didn’t need to talk. I sat on the couch as Sara stood in front of me. Scott bent her over from behind, her face landing on my dripping pussy. She hesitantly licked me, not out of dislike, but seemingly out of inexperience. I could tell she wanted to do me right. As she navigated her tongue, Scott fucked her from behind, her soft moans reverberating through my clit.
Wanting to touch her pale skin, I reached up to fondle her breasts as they jiggled with each thrust from behind. Her nipples, my god, I wanted them in my mouth. We did some musical chair maneuvering, and my breasts wound up in Sara’s mouth while Scott finally fucked my quivering cunt. I was in heaven. Realizing we had already pressed our luck with our freedom from disturbance, I knew I had to come soon. I rested on my back, propping my hips up on musty pillows. Scott began licking my clit. I beckoned for Sara to lean over me so I could finally suckle the soft pink of her nipples. As my tongue slicked over her perky apex, I was shot up with bliss. I fumbled with her pussy with my right hand, but soon lost interest as I became lost in the ever-growing orgasm rising inside of me. With the swell of a shaken beer can, I exploded into Scott’s mouth, glistening his chin. Sara exclaimed, “Oh yeah!” as I cried out a howl I knew couldn’t be heard over the pulsing Marshall amps upstairs.
Sensing someone was going to be down at any minute to do something actually work related, we got dressed, all of us in a haze of humid, pungent sex. Nobody else had come but me, which in a way, made me feel like a queen. I kissed Scott, his mouth sweet with my cum. I thanked him from the bottom of my heart. After an epilogue kiss, Sara went back upstairs to the bar. I followed a moment later, attempting to be nonchalant, but finding it impossible to hide my wicked grin or tame my tousled hair. Satisfying the day’s debt to society, Scott walked back to the jailhouse, providing his cellmate with an enviable bouquet.
Nice work if you can get it.