Billy Jeffers:Rockers of Steel

By: Mj Fields


Day seven of our tour. And I wake up a little refreshed because we actually got to stay in a hotel last night. I yawn. I roll onto my back and stretch out on the king-sized bed before yanking the sheets back over my naked body. The smell of cut-rate hotel laundry detergent floats up to my nose, and my lips curl. No matter how nice the suite is, the sheets always smell like shit. I can’t stand that smell. My mouth is so fucking dry it feels like someone’s shoved a fistful of cotton balls inside it. Well, a fistful of cotton balls soaked in alcohol. I hear a breathy sigh. The covers shift off of me. Seconds later, there’s warm skin against mine, and a hand gently wrapping around my stiff-ass dick. Fingers skim along its length, stopping to play with the metal bar lodged through the head. Oh, shit. One of them stayed with me?

Slowly, I open my eyes. What city am I fucking in? The sun pours in through one of the windows, illuminating the crowded Manhattan skyline. My mind is foggy. I have no idea who this person is next to me, or how they even ended up with me. And as for a name, yeah, right!. Sinking my dick in an unknown woman is nothing out of the usual. It’s not a slip-up, an accident, it’s more like a habit of mine, but waking up with one--that’s not something that usually happens.

Now, do I want to look over and see what she looks like, or not? One of the pluses of kicking them out of the hotel room before they ass out is that you don’t have to look poor judgment in the face the next morning.

Her grip on my cock tightens, and she gently strokes me in her hand. “Good morning,” she whispers in a husky, sleep-laced voice.

I grunt and close my eyes again. I hate this shit. I hate when they end up staying the night. It’s so fucking awkward the next morning when I’m sober. I don’t like talking to them, listening to them tell me what a huge fan they are. It is a fucking feat to keep from rolling my eyes when they tell me they're not a whore, that they just really wanted to fuck me. And then, of course, they upload pictures to social media which makes one of my managers have to do damage control. There is nothing worse than passing out in the room with one of them. Fangirls: dying to brag to the world that Jag Steele bent them over face down on a bed and rammed it home. I don’t understand why they get so excited about it. Statistically, it’s not really much of an achievement. If you have a pussy, it could happen to you. My dick is not picky.

I peep through one halfway-opened eye and see a woman. She looks like she’s at least twenty-two. And thank God. She’s legal. Her platinum blonde hair is sticking up in all directions. There’s makeup smeared all over her face, bite marks and hickeys all over body. Don’t get me wrong, she’s not bad looking, but she’s absolutely no different than all the other privileged little rich girls whose daddies buy their daughters’ way into the VIP areas. This is the kind of girl I’m used to: fake, horny, and willing to do anything for a brush with fame.

A slight giggle bounces from her lips as she tugs the covers off my body. Her warm, slimy tongue, coated with morning breath germs traces along my shaft. The sensation sends a small tingle shooting up my groin. I let out a short sigh. Leaning back, I shut my eyes, no hint of a smile on my face. The way she’s wrapping her tongue around me feels damn good. After just a few minutes of her head bobbing up and down, her hand twisting at just the right moments, and her choking a few times, my legs stiffen, and then my entire body heats from the overwhelming rush of endorphins coursing through me. It’s amazing how quickly orgasms come when you’re not strung out on coke, or a bottle of oxycodone, or speed, or…well, let’s just say I get off a lot faster when I’m sober.

The warm and fuzzy post-orgasm feeling rapidly fades, and I’m ready to get her the hell out of my hotel room. I sit up and give her a thumbs up. “Thanks for the great blow job. Pretty sure the door’s still unlocked.” Then, I fling my naked ass back down across the bed.

Her green eyes narrow, her lip twitches. Here comes the ‘OMG, I can’t believe what a bastard he is’ huff that chicks are so good at in 3, 2, 1... A loud breath huffs between her collagen plumped lips. The springs of the mattress bounce when she hops up. She’s shuffling around the room, mumbling to herself while gathering her things. And I just lay right here with my flaccid dick, staring up at the ceiling.

I tap my finger in beat with her heels as they click across the tiled floors, and then, the sound stops. Raising my head from the pillow, I glance up at her, arching one brow in disinterest. The girl, whose name I haven’t bothered to ask for, glares at me for a minute, then a smile inches its way across her face.

“I can’t believe this!” She falls silent and shakes her head, then covers her mouth with her hand. “I’m,” she pauses, fanning herself. “I’m getting kicked out of Jag Steele’s hotel room. OMG! This. Is. Amazing!” she squeals. Next thing I know, her phone’s in her face, her fingers typing furiously and her grin growing wider by the second. My guess is she’s posting on Facebook to let everyone know she’s just become the one-thousand, five hundred and sixty-seventh woman to have her tonsils rammed by me—or some number close to that. I sure as hell don’t try to keep count anymore.