Bad for You

By: Candy J. Starr

Chapter 1.Devon

“What did you just say?” She sounded angry.

What had I said? The chick straddling me stopped moving. She glared and groaned, not in a good way. I’d obviously said something wrong. I had to fix this so she’d go back to doing that thing she’d been doing to my cock. That had been really nice.

“You don’t even know, do you? Who the hell is Julie?” she yelled.

Fuck! I hadn’t.

“I never said ‘Julie’. I said ‘duly’. As in ‘duly noted’. Have you never heard anyone say that?”

Fast thinking on my part but my stomach clenched. The things you say in the heat of the moment. She raised her eyebrows but went back to riding my cock. The bed sheets twisted around us, and the room smelt of sex and lust and cheap perfume. Outside, a maid’s trolley rattled down the hallway. I’d pulled the curtains tight to block out the sun but a sliver of light came through the crack, making a line along the floor.

I wasn’t so into it now. The spell had been broken. Why hadn’t she just kept quiet?

Could I could fake it and get rid of her? Chicks do it all the time and if I hid the condom from her afterwards, she’d never know.

This had definitely become a cock-softening situation. I hadn’t lost my hard on altogether but I wasn’t meeting my full potential. The chick hadn’t seemed to notice. A lacklustre performance from me was still better than most men.

She whipped me with her long, brown hair as she ground against me. I couldn’t even remember her name. Grace or something with a kind of religious feel to it. Faith? Mary? No matter. I’d never see her again.

I raised my hips, lifting her in the air and grunting with the sexual performance of my life. That’d finish it off.

“You like that, baby?” she said, with a sly grin.

“Sure,” I replied, rolling her off me. I got up and handed her the dress she’d thrown on my hotel room floor. “But I’ve got to get to rehearsal now. I’ll call you sometime.”

I wrapped a robe around myself. She dressed slowly. Very slowly, considering she’d only been wearing that dress and a pair of shoes when she came to my room. As she buckled her shoes, she kept shooting me glances. She wanted to stick around. She wanted to talk, even.

I checked my watch and sighed. There was no rehearsal, we didn’t even play for another week. I just needed her out of here. She had that generic hot chick look about her — long legs, small waist, big tits. The standard wavy hair and long eyelashes, probably false. There wasn’t much to distinguish her from the one last night, or yesterday afternoon or all the days before that. Sometimes they were blonde instead, sometimes redheads but they all blurred into one.

Even I hated myself for thinking like that. I was a pig. A man-whoring pig. But what could I do about it? Even if I tried to resist, they threw themselves at me. They came knocking on my door or draping themselves over me in a bar. So many women requiring me to satisfy them. It was hard work but luckily I was up for it.

It was easier this way. I never had to talk to them or consider their feelings. The most conversation I ever had to make was asking them what they wanted to drink. They didn’t care either. They knew the score. Well, most of the time they did. Some of them, like this one, wanted to linger.

“Are you sure you have to rush?” she said. She walked over to where I sat at the desk. I could see her behind me in the mirror. She put her arms around me and rested her head on my shoulder.

“Sorry, love.”

She opened my robe and trailed her hand down my chest. “I give good head,” she said.

I’m sure she did but I needed to be alone.

“Next time…”

With a huff, she walked out the door. Finally, some peace.

I had no emotion to spare on her. She was probably already working on the next rocker on her list anyway. I was just a name to be crossed off. And reviewed. Damn, I hoped it was a good rating. I’d have to check the groupie sites later. I didn’t want my 9.5-star rating to go down.

There’d been a lot of women in my life but only one had mattered.

I was in love with a ghost, the memory of a lost love. Julie. She’d been the one. When she’d died, my heart had been buried with her. Not much else remained.

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