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From: otzchiim@aol.com (Otzchiim)
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Subject: {ASSM} Rose, Plucked/Dave Whitley 14 (Otzchiim)
Date: Sun, 4 Jun 2000 22:11:14 -0400
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While this is a multi-chapter effort, it began as a set of
(unconnected, for the most part) short stories and still retains
enough of that character that you do not have to read each one in
turn to understand what is going on. Think of it as a series of
incidents in a biography. The sexual activity is invariably M/F
(or m/f in some cases and jurisdictions), almost invariably
consensual, there being one exception in here. Drugs show up
once or twice, defloration more often.
Chapter 14
Rose, Plucked
Rose Simpson had never had such a good time in her life.
These concert tickets had been really expensive, but she and her
girlfriend Laurel Lavin had been talking about this for a long
time, and Rose had saved the money that her grandmother had sent
for her seventeenth birthday two months before.
Nobody knew that they were there. Neither set of parents
knew, probably, that there was even a French Letters concert in
town. They had heard of the group -- indeed both sets of parents
had heard the records and banned them from the house. There was no
question that they would have forbidden the girls to go to the
concert.
Both Rose and Laurel would have preferred to have gone with
their boyfriends, but the boys might have let slip where they were
going, and that wouldn't do. So the girls went alone. The Lavins
thought that Laurel was going to spend the August evening at
Rose's, sitting and talking, while the Simpsons thought the same --
but at Laurel's. And so the two 17-year-olds snuck off together.
Rose giggled as she thought of how they had gotten around the
adults, and got to hear the really naughty lyrics that were going
to be on the new album before anybody else in the school. That
band was so great!
Now that the concert was ended, she was still so high on the
experience -- and on some of the pot-smoke that was still swirling
in the air -- that she didn't want to settle down yet. Laurel was
about ready to go home, but she joined Rose at the arena's back
door where the people gathered to talk to the band.
The two got separated fairly quickly, with Rose getting moved
further forward. She caught a glimpse of Jacques Le Fouterre, the
lead singer, and only about twenty minutes later he had worked his
way down the line to her.
As they faced each other, some news people started taking
flash pictures and the public address system cut in about moving
the cars out away from the arena.
Rose started to tell him how much she liked their music, then
ended with:
"This took so much out of me, I feel tired. I wish I didn't.
I want to spend all night with you, talking to you!" With the
noise around them, the singer only heard the first part of the
third sentence.
"That's what I like to hear," he said. "You're on. Let's get
out of here and get to it!" The speaking voice fit his real name
of Jaime Fernandez a lot better.
He grabbed Rose by the arm and started moving her through the
crowd and out to the van. The girl thought that he was really
interested in continuing the conversation and assumed that he would
drop her at home later. She tried to wave to Laurel and tell her
where she was going, but the other girl wasn't visible. Her four
and a half foot body just did not show up behind the line of hired
guards.
Laurel had no idea what had made her friend vanish like that,
and she didn't dare make a fuss -- they weren't supposed to be
there!
They were only in the van for a couple of minutes. The
musicians, techies, bodyguards, and others less identifiable all
got out and into a couple of long limousines parked a little ways
away.
Jacques Le Fouterre started telling her: "It's going to be a
long ride. We're all sick of travelling all the time, and living
in hotels, and five concerts a week. So we rented this big old
house for a week and we're going to be there until we leave for
Chicago on Thursday. It's not like it's permanent, but it's lots
better."
Rose felt reassured, especially since they were heading toward
the part of town she lived in instead of downtown.
Twenty minutes later they pulled up before a four-story place
built about 1890. Jacques helped her out of the limo and held her
hand as they walked into the house.
He had never let go of it since they left the arena, in fact.
He said to her then: "Oh, you look like a sweet one. I'm going to
keep you all to myself and not let the rest of these get hold of
you."
She thought he was just being playful then.
He led her through a dining hall with a cold buffet set out
and into a large room with a bar built into the wall, a bathroom
off to the side, a big sofa, and a fancy bed--though Rose didn't
notice that last to begin with. The door was left open.
The singer ducked into the bathroom and came back in a minute
wearing only a robe and sandals. "God, it feels good to be out of
that fancy shit! You want a drink? You drink?" he said.
Rose shook her head.
"Yeah, I don't usually either. That stuff can louse up your
voice. Hash is better for relaxing anyway. Sit down."
And he stuffed a big pipe full, lit it, and handed it to Rose
on the sofa after taking a couple of puffs himself. All Rose had
ever experienced in that direction was the contact-high she got
from hanging around places where others used the stuff -- and even
that was plain pot, not this high-grade stuff. But she wanted to
fit in and seen sophisticated, so she took a deep drag.
It had a fast strong effect on her. She lost the thread of
the conversation and she just stared off into space. She did not
come back until she felt the singer's hands on her back and his
lips on hers with his tongue starting to worm into her mouth. That
felt so nice and nothing seemed real and it must all be a dream, so
she cooperated. When he had her leaned back all the way and her
blouse pulled up from the skirt, he got up to shut the door.
"No sense giving them a free show of the master's technique.
Unless maybe it turns you on to have somebody watch?"
Rose shook her head, not understanding the question.
Jacques stood her up now and kissed her again deep in her
mouth. He put his hands up the back of her blouse and opened her
bra. The effects of the hashish started to fade and she came back
to herself while his hands were cupping her breasts and pressing
her now-erect nipples.
"OH!"
She dropped her arms from his back and twisted away, suddenly
realizing what was going on.
"You like to tease, do you? Haven't had one of them for a
while, but working at it may be good for me."
And he pursued her around the room in slow steps, with her
control of her limbs and her presence of mind coming and going, and
making her easy prey. When he finally caught her firmly, she
rested with one hand on the upright brass post of the bed, without
realizing what it was.
"I don't know... I don't know...," she was muttering.
"Well, babe, I'm here to make up your mind," he replied.
He quickly undid the two buttons that were still holding her
blouse on and he threw that and the loose bra to the floor. He
leaned Rose back a little and let her fall across the big brass
bed. The hard tips of her breasts made little circles as they
bounced. Her dizziness and surprise at the bed being there kept
her from getting up until Jacques had already dropped his robe and
lay atop her, nude between her legs.
But the feel of his hands at her panties, taking them down,
made her react and try to push him off. When that had no effect,
Rose began to scream for help.
Very little of the sound carried to anyone else in the house
through the closed door, and what was heard by others was just
taken as either love-play or the sign of intense pleasure.
"A screamer! I've never had one before, but I got to say it
turns me on," said Jacques. His hands had removed her underwear
and flung it aside, and he was forcing her legs apart.
Rose become more desperate now to get away, and her
fingernails scratched at his bare back.
"Oh God! I never had it this rough before! I'm gonna love
this!" And he placed his bulging erection at the opening of her
vagina.
He shoved the full length into her all at once, certain that
she was as aroused by all this as he was. Rose screamed again,
this time in pain.
He burst through the membrane in a second, not realizing it
was there until he had gone beyond it. He pushed her inner walls
violently apart and strained her unprepared muscles as he moved
into her.
She beat on his back and began to weep in fright and futility.
This pounding, which he took as a token of lust, combined with the
knowledge that he had just deflowered a virgin, and her incredible
tightness inside, excited Jacques and made him reach orgasm very
quickly. When he rolled off of her, she continued to weep.
He quickly fell asleep, but Rose eventually gathered up her
clothing and dressed and went out into the dining hall. It was
deserted now except for one man, whom she recognized as one of the
technical crew. David Whitley.
"Hello," he said. "Want something to eat?"
David was just back from his job in Ocean City in time to get
a phone call from the band's manager, who needed a fast substitute
for a roadie who got arrested for possession in the last town.
They would have to find yet another worker after they left the D.C.
area, but Dave could take it for the week until school started
again.
Rose sat down at the table, and tried to think of what to say.
Her pride was too great to allow her to admit that she had not
known what she was going to face here. She censored the account of
her last hour or so and left Dave only with the impression that
Jacques Le Fouterre was too violent at sex for her.
Dave acted quite understanding toward her--as, in truth, he
was inclined to be with anyone--and it may not be surprising with
Rose's emotional turmoil that after an hour Dave was holding her
and kissing her and beginning to give her other physical comforts.
And so they drifted into his bedroom.
In odd moments Rose found it hard to believe that she was
reacting this way to the caresses of a man she had never known
before this night, but it all seemed so right for him to be taking
her blouse off and lifting her bra up and kissing the tips of her
round breasts.
And then all the rest of her clothing followed, and his, and
he lay beside her and gently massaged her until her legs opened and
she was ready for him. This entry was gentle and loving and slow,
but still his long strokes deep into her made her legs wrap around
him and made her tremble with sensation. Dave built her to a
climax over and over and finally joined her in an eruption that
brought her calmness and mental healing.
Rose slept for some hours. It was close to an hour before
dawn when she rose and started to think about going home. She took
a fast shower before dressing again, but Dave slept on. She left
Dave's room and went to the dining hall again, since that was close
to the door to the outside--or the only one that she knew of.
She was standing there in thought for a moment when she heard
footsteps behind her. She turned to see Molly Fesse, the band's
pianist and sometime vocalist standing in the door.
"You're the one who came in with Jaime, aren't you? I hope
he wasn't as much of a fast finisher as usual. Or as I hear he is,
since I've always passed on finding out myself, though God knows
he's tried to show me," she half-laughed.
"Jaime?" Rose asked.
"Jacques, he calls himself."
Rose felt again the urge to tell someone about what had
happened to her, and perhaps a woman would sympathize completely.
But she decided to censor herself again and not mention the comfort
she had already gained from Dave -- it might make her seem, well,
easy, though she had been a virgin only a few hours ago.
So she told Molly (Athena Marlevos, really) about it, moving
soon from the dining hall to the couch in Molly's room. At the end
Rose began to cry again, and Molly gave her some pills to calm her
down. Molly said that they should still be good, though they were
years old since she so seldom used anything like that.
They took quick effect, perhaps aided by the glass of wine and
even the residue of that high-potency hashish. Rose sat and
stared, eyes drying, at the exquisite-featured Greek woman, now in
a dressing-gown instead of the Paris-fashion evening wear of her
performances.
"You need a gentle hand to calm you, Rose, and make it all
better. You are so beautiful... I really wonder if I dare. You
are so fresh and innocent, but you may not be the sort to want what
I can give."
And once again Rose was leaned back against a couch and once
again hands, but small feminine ones now, opened her blouse and
exposed her breasts and soft lips found the nipples and made them
erect. Rose was only half-conscious of it when it began, but soon
she found herself very aware of what was happening and very willing
to respond.
Molly led Rose to her third bed of that night and made her
naked before Molly removed her own gown and stood for a moment in
austere beauty, the jet-black pubic hair matching that on her head,
before she bent to kiss Rose again.
Them they lay together and kissed, and let their hands wander
and fondle, until one of Molly's slim fingers parted the folds of
Rose's vagina and found it wet.
Molly raised her body then, and moved, and lowered her head.
Rose drew in a sharp breath at the new sensation. She responded
quickly to the lips and tongue that drank from her, and she reached
a peak. But Molly continued, and sooner than she thought possible
Rose soared to orgasm again, and again, until she found herself
holding Molly's head there despite her own exhaustion.
Dawn had come before Rose reached her home and crept quietly
into her own bed at last. She called Laurel in a few hours to
reassure her, but told her only the middle third of what had
happened to her. Her parents of course were never told anything.
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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