The Band Practice

The Band Practice
Literary Fiction
by Lord Malinov

“The guys are coming over.”


“We’re just going to jam, work through some of the new songs. They’re fixing the A/C at the clubhouse and Denise’s parents are in town.”

“Should I go out? I don’t want to get in the way.”

“It might get too noisy, but you won’t get in our way.”

“I could be distracting.” Something in her voice told me she was sporting a mischievous smile.

“You could definitely be distracting. But I don’t see that as a bad thing. The guys need something to excite them at this stage. We’re sounding kinda dull.”

“So you’re angling for some distraction?”

“Why else would I bring the guys around?” Now I was the one who was smiling.


“Put the drums over there. We’ll plug the amps in over here.”

“Can I get you guys anything?”

“Bring us some chairs from the kitchen, Hon.”

Stacey had only appeared for a moment in the doorway, but that quick flash of feminine presence had been enough to stop the entire band in its tracks. The swish of her loosely flowing skirt brought the clatter of moving instruments to a sudden eerie silence, like a breath held from the swing of disappearing hips in an extended pause. With a laugh, the quiet ceased and the chaos grew into an excited chatter.

“Can I get a hand?” she yelled from the other room. The guys simultaneously and in unison applauded, whistled and catcalled. My band is a bunch of smart-asses.

“Take it off,” the drummer shouted in the midst of the cacophony. The rest of the guys joined in the chorus playfully as they herded helpfully toward the kitchen. One by one they grew silent as they realized that she had taken off her top. A tense calm took over as they stared, taking in the unexpected sight of her naked breasts.

“Whoa,” said the bass player in his sultry Barry White voice.

“Take it off,” sang out our vocalist, regaining his senses and seizing at the rare possibility with a daring carpe diem. Stacey began to swing her hips promisingly and the rest of the guys took the opportunity to vocalize their parts in the classic stripper tune. Da dum dum dum, dee dum dum dum.

Stacey swayed and turned, with each swing lowering the waist of her skirt another fraction. The music swelled and thickened, rhythmic and harmonic variations growing with each millimeter of exposed flesh. I held my breath, smiling broadly, enjoying the moment, enjoying her joy and enjoying the scene I felt certain was on the brink of happening. The skirt suddenly dropped to the floor, leaving a thin thong to hide her damp folds of salacious flesh and a soundly naked bottom.

“Is that a microphone in your pocket,” she said as she brushed the bulge of our singer’s pants, “or are you just glad to see me?” Nervous laughter abounded. The narcissism of our front man took control and he unzipped his fly.

“Why don’t you take a peek and see?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, never giving him a chance to reconsider the invitation, Stacey fell to her knees and began to fish within his jeans. A fleshy flute popped into view and as quickly disappeared into her wanting mouth.

“Wow, wow wow wow” said the drummer in rhythm with the bob of her red haired head as she began to play the sturdy instrument. “Wow wow.

“Give me some loving,” murmured the guitarist as he fondled the broad curve of her naked behind. A skilled finger slid down the crack of her ass and began to diddle the moistened triangle of cloth. Stacey moaned low as she sucked and she writhed, arching her back, inviting the touches. The bass player reached for her pendulous breasts, squeezing the bulbs and pinching her nips. Cocks popped into view and she grabbed all she could reach.

A rotation ensued, from before and behind, the guys taking their share and changing smoothly at the bridge. You could tell they knew how to play together, in synch and in rhythm. Stacey took all she could and groaned during the choruses.

For at least a good hour the erotic melody played. With an excess of dick, we took turns at rest, providing the vocal soundtrack to keep the action sharp. Solos and duets, trios and quartets. Stacey played instrument and the band practiced on her.

After a full round of loads were spent in her mouth cunt and ass, the band picked up the chairs and returned to the lounge, to sit in a quiet and meditative state. I think we eventually played some gentle blues but after a few stanzas, the rock began to roll.

Stacey appeared in the doorway, dressed in a silky chemise. The music was moving and she began to move too.

“Encore,” she said in a soft sultry voice. The guys knew the rule and picked up the tune. Practice never ends.

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in books, fiction, literature, music, personal, reading, short stories, writing and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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