Rockstar Guest

Janice Griffith strolls down the empty street when Carmen Caliente spots her and nearly trips over herself running up. Excitement flies out of Carmen in fast breaths—she can’t believe a star from The Pussy Slayers is here, right in front of her. Janice smiles, weary. She admits the band blew apart in New York. New project. Fresh start. Carmen blurts out she bangs drums; Janice wants proof now. They cut straight to Carmen’s place. Carmen drops onto the bed, reaches for her phone to pull up some clips, but Janice never glances at the screen. Her eyes lock lower. She tugs the neckline of Carmen’s dress aside, fingertips inching toward bare skin. Carmen freezes—never touched a girl before. Janice doesn’t blink. “Fuck me or I walk.” Carmen swallows hard, rips off every stitch. One look at those naked curves and any hesitation cracks. Janice peels her panties aside; Carmen dives straight in, tongue dragging wet and hungry over slick folds. Saliva strings and smears. Janice grabs Carmen’s hips, flips her around, and shoves her own tongue deep, lips sucking, teeth grazing. They lock tight—69, tangled thighs, muffled moans bouncing off the walls. Lick, suck, thrust—both bodies coil tighter, breaths short. Just when climax rips close, Janice pushes up, already reaching for her jeans. “Places to be.” Carmen’s still panting, face shining, chest heaving. “You’ll call, right? About the band?” Janice barely turns her head. “Sure,” she mutters, and she’s gone. Carmen fumbles for her phone, voice jittering as she tells her friend everything that just happened, because the only fire still burning is the feel of Janice’s cunt against her lips, not some drummer spot she’ll never fill.