Rockstar Guest

Janice Griffith strolls down the block when Carmen Caliente catches her and spills pure fan-girl energy. Jan should be on the other coast with The Pussy Slayers, but the band fractured. She’s scouting fresh faces and ears prick up when Carmen mentions she plays drums. They step into Carmen’s place, Carmen already peeling her top, heart thudding harder than the kick drum she claims to own. Janice eyes the curve of that cleavage and steers them straight to the bedroom. Carmen’s only angle is her kit—Carmen’s mind is on something wetter. She leans in, slides two fingers under the V-neck, finds warm skin, then flat-out says, "Fuck me now or I walk." The words hit like a threat and a promise. Carmen would sell the skins on her drum set for a shot at the gig, so the clothes come off in a rush. Janice pushes skimpy lace aside and plants Carmen’s mouth between her legs, hips rolling until spit shines on skin. Janice reciprocates, lips parting slick folds, tongue circling, tasting the quick throb of a new favorite beat. They crawl into a messy sixty-nine, wet suction and muffled moans filling the room. Just when breaths crest, Janice stops cold, sits up, straightens her dress. Business calls. Carmen, tits still out, blurts the obvious question about the audition, about staying in touch. Jan is already halfway to the door, brushing it off like yesterday’s setlist. Door clicks. Carmen is left gripping the phone, telling her best friend every slick detail, voice shaking with awe. The drumming gig never crossed her mind again.