Sunday Quickie: The Jazz Club

I’ve been involved in a jazz jam club for about a year. I switch between the alto sax and electric guitar, one of which I’m pretty good at and the other I’m just okay at. But the point is to have fun and stretch myself musically.

Plus, it’s kind of fun being one of only two women in the club. Let’s just say, lots of talented cute guys and I have pick of the best.

But only one has had my full attention the entire year. Scott, who plays the drums. He has curly, chin-length brown hair, a dashing smile, and a permanent five o’clock shadow. I love watching him set up his drum kit. The way he takes his time with each drum. His shapely torso and waist. How he pretends to ignore me. Drives me crazy, wondering what he thinks of me.

We chat every week between songs. Light banter. A tad bit flirty. He jokes at my funky style of guitar plucking. I rib him when he misses a beat. But it never goes anywhere.

Until one week, out of the blue he says my name.

“Rachel,” Scott said. The way he looked at me is both cruel and damn sexy at the same time. Like he was undressing me with his mind, and winking. The drum kit was still set up. I was cleaning the spit out of my saxophone.

“Scott,” I said. This time, I ignored him with my eyes. I turned around, and bent at the waist to put my instrument in its case. I still felt him watching me like a predator.

The entire session had been intense. The songs were sultry and got me hot. Scott wore a muscle shirt, sweat glistened on his arms and forehead. I had to take off my cardigan halfway through, just to feel some air on my arms. The combination of Scott’s primal drum beat with my smooth sax, and I was worked up.

And we were the only ones left in the practice hall.

I snapped shut the instrument case and was about to turn around again. Except there he was, right behind me. Scott smacked me on the ass. Any other man, I’d have smacked him across the face.

But this man, this time, I was practically in his arms already.

And then practically turned to literally.

Scott grabbed me by the biceps and ravaged me with a kiss. A rather clumsy kiss, admittedly, but since it was the first I let that pass. I moaned sweetly for him and gave him a taste of my tongue, just a little something to encourage him.

Not like he needed much. Scott grabbed me by the ass and lifted me up. I held onto his shoulders, wrapping my legs around his waist. Our kiss deepened. He tasted like coffee with Irish cream. I’d always wondered what was in the foam cup he kept near his feet. I tugged on a fistful of his hair, moving his head around while I sucked on his lips.

That wasn’t all I wanted to suck on. I asked him to set me down. Scott let me go gently. And then I dropped to my knees and unzipped his jeans.

“Right here?” he asked, breathless.

“You started this, mister,” I pulled at his pants and whipped out his cock. Scott didn’t disappoint. Not the biggest I’d ever seen, far from the smallest. Just right, with big heavy balls and a line of neatly trimmed hair just above.

I dove right in. Got him hard in no time. My saliva dripped down his shaft. I licked up his salty cream. Scott tensed up. His breathing slowed down, became panting. I think he was about to blow his load. I didn’t care, I just wanted it. Thankfully, he pushed my head away. Gave us both a breather. But he wasn’t strong enough to hold me away forever.

On the second try, I was more gentle, taking my time and rubbing my tongue all over every inch. He played with my hair and massaged my shoulders. The entire time, I kept wondering if somebody were going to walk in on us. A band mate who forgot their sheet music, or whoever was scheduled to use the room next.

The idea of getting caught turned me on even more. I tongued fucked his balls while stroking his shaft. The rhythm faster. Hotter. I knew I was close to my wet, sticky prize.

And then Scott grabbed me by the arm and lifted me off my knees. He dragged me to the stool behind his drum kit. Then he tore my jeans apart and bent me over the stool.

I closed my eyes, thinking about how he’d just been sitting here making music. The leather seat cushion was still warm.

And then all that nasty oral play I just gave him, got repaid three-fold. He ate me like I was his last meal. I was already creamy. His saliva made me even more moist. Scott traced his tongue across my lips, flicked my clit. And then he stroked a finger inside me.

I clasped my legs shut and wiggled my hips around his finger. An attempt at taking back control. But he wasn’t giving up control that easy. A sharp smack on the ass and a spit on my pussy reminded who was really in charge. Scott finger fucked me for what must’ve been a few minutes, but he made it feel like an hour of endless pleasure.

I reached between my legs and rubbed my clit while he pushed another finger inside. My body shuddered. And then I orgasmed on his fingers. Damn near passed out, draped across the stool.

But Scott wasn’t done.

He squeezed both my ass cheeks. And then I felt him enter me, one inch at a time. Balls deep, he rotated his hips, hitting my G-spot in just the way I really fucking like.

His tempo increased. I was a hot, sweaty mess, ready to explode again. I begged. Pleaded. Cajoled him to really give it to me. I had no idea what was getting into me. Well, besides Scott.

I pressed a finger to my clit, rubbing furiously. Scott rammed even harder. Faster, picking up the pace. He busted his nuts on me. I had another orgasm. My pussy squeezed him tight, and then spit him out.

“Oh God,” he shouted. “Fuck!”

And then I felt hot sticky cream on the back of my shirt. A few drops at first. Then a river of it. I didn’t know if he’d stop. But I kept still for all of it. I didn’t care that he ruined my shirt. I was only disappointed that I didn’t get to see the streams of come. My shirt stuck to my back, held there by his seed and my sweat.

I got up slowly. We stared at each other for a long moment. And then he embraced me, and kissed me on the forehead.

“See you next week?” I said.

“Only if this happens again,” he said.

Jam practice was never the same again. The practice hall got a lot more than just practice after that.


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Author: D. Anthony Brown

Indie writer and publisher. Among other jack-of-all-trade skills...

2 thoughts on “Sunday Quickie: The Jazz Club”

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