Breaking the Band

Author's Note:

Breaking the Band was originally published on Kindle Unlimited. After a year, it was removed for violating Amazon's vague content guidelines, probably because it mixes sex and violence freely.

This story stars a super-powered young woman who tracks down the individual members of a famous rock band to give her a one-off private performance. She also demands personal attention from each of them in turn, and they are in no position to refuse.

I may rewrite or use elements of this story in the future, but in the meantime, I am making the original version available here for free.

Please enjoy, and remember that this is a fantasy. Almost everything the main character does would be extremely wrong to do in real life.

Guitar: Nolan

I’m pissed off, horny and a little drunk. The blue-haired girl working the bar is fuckable, but has no idea who I am. Without the aphrodisiac of celebrity, I’m just a middle-aged guy with great hair. If I want to get anywhere with this chick, I’ll have to put in some work and feign interest. Without the edge of being a former rock star, my odds of banging her are no better than fifty-fifty, and I can’t be bothered.

She bends over to flip the LP on the turntable behind the bar. Fucking millennial - all her music is on vinyl old enough to be her father, or stolen MP3s. I bet she’s never bought a CD. We were too late for vinyl the first time round, and not cool enough for the revival. What’s the point of twenty years in a rock band if hot chicks don’t recognize me?

I order another bourbon and ice. “You got anything by The Gift back there?” Maybe the name of the band will jog her memory.

She laughs. “I only play good music.”

Bitch. She’s not even hot, only young enough nothing sags. She’s a piece of hipster tail with more tattoos than a roadie, stuck in a dead-end job in Nowhere, Oklahoma. There must be a sad story behind it, but unless she puts out, I don’t have to listen to it.

Doesn’t matter. This is an unplanned pit stop. The plane will be fixed in the morning and soon after I’ll be swimming in pussy in New Orleans, where they respect musicians. I appreciate the girl’s ass when her back’s turned and her tits when it isn’t - it’s the most entertainment I’m going to get out of an empty bar.

I down my drink and slam the glass on the bar, harder than I intended.

“Feeling frustrated?”

I jump at the voice. I don’t know when she arrived, but there’s a woman on the seat next to me. She has a pretty face, framed by long waves of platinum-blond hair, a toned physique, and a stunning pair of tits. She wears a white halter-top sun dress and brown cowboy boots.

She looks like an all-American gal, but her accent is English - I’ve banged enough British chicks to recognize it as one of the “posh” ones. The upper-class girls are into the dirtiest stuff. If she’s a fan, I’ve hit the jackpot. I hope there’s a spark of recognition in her emerald eyes.

“A little bit frustrated,” I say.

She nods towards the girl whose denim-swaddled ass I’ve been eye-banging. “I can see why.”

Busted. It’s better to make a joke than deny it. “I’m only human.”

“Must be horrible,” she says.

“Can I buy you a drink?” I ask.

“I insist you do.”

“They have everything: beer and bourbon.”

My lame joke earns a thin smile. “Bourbon will be fine. Neat.”

The blue-haired bartender, jealous she’s no longer the most bangable chick in the bar, asks to see her ID. Too bad, Sonic the Barkeep, you had your chance.

The Englishwoman passes a thick envelope to the bartender. “I called earlier.”

The bartender nods and opens the envelope. There’s cash, photographs, and documents, but I’m too far away to make out the details.

The bartender tucks the envelope behind the bar. “I love your accent,” she says. “I’ll get you that bourbon.”

“What was that?” I ask.

The Englishwoman shrugs. “Her ticket out of here. Now, what’s a big-time rock star doing in a dump like this?”

Bingo. I’m getting laid tonight. “Trouble with my plane. What can you do?” My tone is casual, as if mechanical difficulties with a private jet is something everyone can relate to. It makes me appear humble and reminds her I’m loaded.

She yawns and stretches. The cut of her dress exposes the sides of her tits almost to the nipples. It’s obvious she’s not wearing a bra, but her breasts are high and firm. They have to be fake, but I don’t care - they look amazing.

She slaps my hand. “Eyes ahead. I didn’t say you could ogle my side-boob. I’m not that kind of girl.”

The bartender brings her drink. “Please let me know if there’s anything else you need.” She bites her bottom lip. “Anything at all.”

I can’t tell if the bartender is nervous or aroused. If she’s gay it would explain her lack of interest in me. The Englishwoman dismisses her with a curt nod. She’s been here less than five minutes and she already acts like she owns the place.

“So, what kind of girl are you?” I ask.

She leans over and whispers in my ear. “The kind that wants to get the band back together.”

Oh shit, she’s crazy. Some craziness is okay, provided the girl is hot enough. I give her another once-over to check - she’s got heat to spare.

“Let’s not talk about the band,” I say. “We can talk about you and me.”

She slides a hand onto my crotch and strokes me through the denim. “Okay, we’ll talk about us. I want you to get the band back together and you are going to do as I say.”

And she crosses the line to where it doesn’t matter how hot she is. I’m not sticking my dick into that mess. I drop a pair of twenties on the bar. “I’m out of here.”

I start to get up, but she grabs my crotch and presses me down onto the seat. I try to pry her hand away, but I’m unable to move it even a fraction of an inch. She’s a lot stronger than she looks.

“You’re not going anywhere, sweetie,” she says. “Not until we’ve finished our chat.”

“Piss off.”

“Is this guy bothering you?” asks the bartender.

The blond-haired woman shakes her head. “Don’t worry, I’ve got him under control.” She empties her glass. “Bring me another bourbon. He’s paying.”

“Hey,” I say. “This woman’s assaulting me.”

The bartender ignores me as she pours another shot of bourbon. The Englishwoman resumes stroking the bulge in my pants. My cock responds to her caress - it doesn’t care how weird things have got. She leans in close and her coconut-scented hair brushes my cheek. I try to calm my erection, but her touch, scent, and closeness are overwhelming. My mind is fogged with thoughts of sex.

“Your penis enjoys my company,” she says.

“Leave me alone.”

She squeezes a testicle, eliciting a sharp jolt of pain. “Not until I get what I want.”

“The band broke up for good reasons and we’re not getting back together because some bimbo gropes me.”

With her free hand, she grabs my wrist. She doesn’t appear to put any effort into the hold, but her fingers are so tight I’m afraid she’s going to break my arm. “If you insult me again, I’ll snap your hand off.”

I gesture at the bartender. “Call the police. This woman is assaulting me.”

The bartender laughs.

The Englishwoman winks at her. “Take a quick peek,” she says. “I’ve got him right where I want him.”

The bartender leans over the bar to get a better view of my crotch. “Damn. He looks like he’s going to come in his pants.”

She’s right. My dick is as hard as a rock, straining against the zipper.

“Oh, he’s not going to come any time soon,” says the Englishwoman.

“Do you need anything else?” asks the bartender.

“Yes. Lock the door and bring me a couple of towels.”

The bartender hurries to do her bidding. I don’t know what’s going on. Maybe the two women are in cahoots? Was there enough money in the envelope to buy the bartender’s unswerving loyalty?

The Englishwoman releases my wrist and slaps my face. “Asking her to call the police was impudent. Impudence will be punished.”

“You’re fucking nuts.” My cheek stings.

I stand and this time she doesn’t stop me, but as soon as I’m on my feet, she pushes me back against the bar. The bartender brings her some towels and she tears them into strips. She ties my left hand to the bar rail behind me. I struggle, but she’s far too strong - stronger than possible.

She ties my ankles to the foot rail. I pick at the knot around my wrist with my free hand, but it’s too tight. When she’s finished binding my ankles, she slaps my hand away.

“Don’t fiddle with it,” she says.

She unzips my jeans and releases my dick from its denim prison. It’s harder than ever, sticking up like a lamppost.

“Please,” I say. “This is embarrassing.”

She shrugs. “I’ve seen worse.”

She dips a finger into her bourbon and rubs it over the tip of my cock. The alcohol stings at first, but the burn fades as my pre-come emissions dilute it. I squirm as she massages my penis with long strokes.

“Put your hand up my dress,” she says. “I want your fingers in my pussy.”


She stops stroking and puts her thumb and forefinger around one of my balls. “Not a request. Obey me, or I’ll tear your bollocks off, one at a time.” She gives me a painful squeeze - colored spots appear in front of my eyes.

She grabs my free hand and shoves it under her dress and against her naked pussy. She’s wet - torturing me must be a turn-on for her.

“If you are disobedient, you will be punished.” She emphasizes this with another agonizing testicle squeeze.

I yelp and nod.

“Good.” She releases my testicle and resumes stroking my cock. “You’re supposed to be good with your fingers. I want you to play my pussy like a guitar.”

I slip two fingers inside her and anchor my thumb on her clitoris. Her pussy is tight, but I push in and curve my fingers up onto what I hope is her g-spot. A small gasp indicates I’m on the money. Using her wetness as lubricant, I caress her clitoris with my thumb, moving in circles. I tease her g-spot with the tips of my fingers.

Meanwhile, she pumps my cock with long, fast strokes. It’s so good, my mind drifts from what I’m doing with my fingers. She reminds me with a squeeze of her vagina that almost breaks my fingers. She must do insane Kegel exercises.

I’m getting close to orgasm - it’s going to make a mess. A moment before I come, she stops and takes her hand away. My cock throbs, angry at the denied release.

“No you don’t,” she says.

She lets me cool down for a minute. When she starts to stroke, it doesn’t take me long to get close. Again, she stops just short of my orgasm. I hump the air in frustration, hoping it will be enough to finish me off. It isn’t. She waits two minutes this time before restarting the tease.

Meanwhile, I play her pussy like a guitar solo. When I slack off or become distracted by her hand on my cock, she reminds me of my responsibilities with a vaginal squeeze. She comes while she’s letting my dick cool down after its fourth denied orgasm. She’s loud, she’s energetic, and I don’t think she’s in full control. I try to pull my fingers out of her pussy before she breaks them, but she grabs my wrist and holds them inside her.

“Don’t you bloody dare,” she says. “You’re not done yet.”

I go back to work and she soon has another orgasm. She screams so loud the mirror behind the bar shatters. The bartender has been watching with a rapt expression, but the broken glass snaps her out of her reverie. Is she going to put a stop to this?

She leans over to examine my throbbing dick. “Are you going to let him come?”

The Englishwoman shakes her head. “No. This is for me, not him.”

Again, she brings me to the edge and leaves me there. I groan in frustration. Finding a way to cross the threshold of ecstasy she’s keeping me from has become the most important thing in the world.

“How do you know when to stop?” asks the bartender.

“Experience. Every man has a ‘tell’ when he’s about to come.”

“I should do this with my boyfriend,” says the bartender.

The English woman nods in agreement, but also because she’s close to another orgasm. “You should. Turn him into a little fuck toy by controlling his orgasms.”

“You going to ride his cock?”

“No. His talent is in his fingers. He’s a guitarist. An actual - OH MY GOD - rock star.” She comes mid-sentence, harder than ever.

She tightens her vagina and my fingers explode with pain. I scream, but she doesn’t care. She extracts my hand from her pussy. My fingers are twisted at a sickening angle, the bones snapped like twigs.

She strokes my dick. “Last one. I promise.”

What she said to the bartender suggests she won’t let me have an orgasm, but the urgent rhythm of her hand on my cock says otherwise. There’s no way she can stop me this time. Sure enough, I reach the point of no return and she doesn’t take her hand away. Instead, she squeezes my dick so hard the orgasm is throttled in its crib. Semen blasts back into my bladder instead of spurting from the tip of my cock. She’s made my orgasm a source of pain instead of pleasure. She squeezes me back to flaccidity.

“You weren’t kidding,” says the bartender. “How long are you going to deny him?”

“For the rest of his life.” Her smile is as sharp as diamond-coated drill bit.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “Won’t be as long as you might think.”

She’s strong enough to choke the life out of me. I can’t run. I’m at her mercy. “Please don’t kill me.”

She makes a show of considering it. “If I don’t kill you, I’m going to need something else.”

“Getting the band back together?”

“Clever boy. Now, tell me where I can find the others.”

Part Two

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