Truth or Dare, Club Depravity 7
By H.C. Brown
Blake Davenport, the lead guitarist of Satan’s Army, is obsessed with a fan who attends every concert and stares at him with expressions of unbridled lust. He convinces the band to hold a “Meet and Greet” before they go on stage in the hope of meeting his sexy fan.
His dreams of taming the delicious red-haired man fall flat when Syn, the bass guitarist, recognizes him as his straight friend, Rohan. Refusing to give up, Blake sidesteps the fact, Rohan is not only straight but also Mistress Valerie’s sub and makes it his business to prove the very hot fan is not only gay, but in desperate need of his expert guidance.
Reader Advisory: Join in a game of “Truth or Dare” Dom style.
Blake Davenport loved the caress of leather on his bare flesh, the way it outlined his package and hugged his hips in a soft caress. Its silky gloss and smell was part of him and had been for five years. As he leaned against the wall of his dressing room and pressed his heated flesh against the cold, white brick, he gazed languidly at his reflection in the mirror set above the dingy table holding his stage makeup. As usual during sex, his mind went to the man he craved and couldn’t have. The auburn-haired fan with the piercing green eyes had sat in the audience during every concert on the tour and like some lovesick pup, the moment he went on stage he’d look for him in the audience. Sure, he’d sent his manager to invite him and a few other guys to party with the band and the fan’s constant refusals grated on his nerves. He tossed his hair and stared into the mirror. Oh yeah, he looked fucking good. He had fame and money, and usually only needed to crook his little finger to make a man come running, but not Tall, Built, and Fascinating. The delicious man obviously liked his music, so what else did the elusive hunk need—a damn hand written invitation?
The fan kneeling in front of him sucked his throbbing cock with relish and bobbed his head in time to the beat of the warm-up band. The clink of his teeth against his cock stud sounded like a tambourine. His preconcert BJs had become a tradition and people including women, lined up offering their services. He preferred the pretty boys with full ruby lips. Oh yeah, he couldn’t imagine a better way to soothe his concert nerves. Hmm, watching a sweet mouth wrapped around his cock, filling their throats with his cum, and seeing the gratitude in their eyes. Fuck, he’d become a consummate asshole—he’d never bothered to ask their names. None had come close to the warm mouth he craved, needed, fantasized about relentlessly. Thank God, the manager of Satan’s Army was more than a little conscientious and made it very clear any fan joining him or any of the other band members in the dressing rooms had paperwork clearing them of any health issues. He smiled. At every concert they lined up waving their documents, but Sol, his manager understood his needs and sent his type of boy along each night.
He closed his eyes and fell into the darkness of wicked desire, convinced his shaft slid into the hot, wet, temptation of his elusive auburn-haired stranger. He inhaled the rich musky scent of male musk and his groin heated in a rush to climax. Grasping handfuls of the fan’s hair to hold him in place, he rolled his hips.
“Swallow every drop, boy. I don’t want cum ruining my pants.” He heard a groan of approval and forced his dick to the back of the willing man’s throat. His balls tightened and heat rushed up his shaft. “Oh yeah, take all of it. Drink me down.” He spilled in long gushes then slumped against the wall.