Arousing Her

by Tia Siren

  She narrowed her eyes and tapped a black-tipped finger to her chin. “They say that all the big names are on there. Singers, actresses, Victoria’s Secret models…”

  “Does his list have specific names?” I asked thoughtfully. “Or does he just do it by category?”

  “Why are you being such a dick?” she asked, trying hard not to smile. “It’s a fuck list. Leave it at that.”

  I grinned at her and bobbed my head. “Fair enough. Cain Bohannon has a fuck list.” I pooched out my lips in thought. “I wonder how one gets on that list.”

  Her black eyebrows arched. “Maybe there’s a formal application process. Do you want me to see if you can apply online?”

  “Hey, if it will get him to notice our music, I might fuck him,” I said jokingly. I picked up the guitar and placed my fingers to strum an E chord.

  “They also say Cain Bohannon is so rich that he doesn’t have an alarm clock,” Mona said as she closed the laptop and set it on the couch beside her. She picked up the drumsticks that were on the table and started tapping out a beat on her knee.

  I sighed and took the bait. “Wait. What?”

  “They say that instead of using an alarm clock to wake up in the morning, he has a girl come in and wake him up by giving him a blow job.” Mona said it like it was gospel. She held one of the drumsticks to her mouth and flicked her tongue to the round tip. She moaned. “Mmm…time to wake up, Cain.”

  “Okay, first of all, that’s wrong on so many levels,” I said, scrunching up my nose at the thought of an oral alarm clock. “Second of all, you’re a lesbian. What do you know about blow jobs?”

  She tapped the drumstick to her chin and smiled. “I experimented a little before I signed on to team lesbo. I’ve had a few dicks in my mouth. Can’t say I liked it much. They always tasted so…sweaty.”

  “Gross,” I chuckled. “So, he has a girl come in every morning to wake him up with a blow job.” I cupped my chin and put on a thoughtful face. “Is it the same girl every time? Or does he have a different girl for each day of the week or month?”

  “They didn’t say,” she said, pushing her thin shoulders up and down. “I would think it would be at least a different girl every day of the week. That’s what I’d do if I had his money. A different girl coming in to give me head every morning.”

  She held one of the drumsticks to her crotch and moved her hand up and down as she gave me an evil grin.

  “When the Flakes make it big, I’m going to do that. Have a different bitch come in every morning and wake me up munching on my rug.”

  “You don’t get up till the afternoon,” I said, rolling my eyes. “And the last time I saw you naked, you didn’t even have a rug.”

  “Well, it will be a flexible schedule,” she said. “And maybe I’ll grow my rug back by then.” She glanced at the watch on the thick black leather band around her wrist. “Anyway, I have to get to the Nail for my shift at six. Do you work tonight?”

  The Nail was The Rusty Nail, the club where the battle of the bands would be held tomorrow night. Mona and I worked there as waitresses to make ends meet until the Flakes got a record deal. Or until we got tired of chasing the dream and moved on to boring, normal lives. God forbid we have to grow up and get married and squeeze out a bunch of kids. How totally boring would that be?

  “I’m on the late shift,” I said with a tired sigh. “So I’ll be there around nine.”

  “Okay. In the meantime, write us a killer song,” she said, tossing the drumsticks on the table and pushing herself off the couch. “And figure out how to get on Cain Bohannon’ fuck list. If our talent doesn’t blow him away, maybe your big boobs and bubble butt will.”

  “I’ll get right to work on that,” I said, tugging the pencil from behind my ear and setting it on the pad of paper on the coffee table. I strummed an E chord and sang her out the door.

  “Baby, put me on your fuck list…”

  CHAPTER TWO: Cain Bohannon

  The room was still dark because of the heavy drapes and blackout blinds installed over the wall of windows that faced the east river from my penthouse apartment.

  I had earplugs in, but I was awake enough to hear the bedroom door open. I felt the king-sized bed bounce when she climbed in and cuddled up next to me.

  I didn’t move.

  I didn’t open my eyes.

  I felt her head on my chest.

  Her warm breath, and then her wet tongue, teased my hard nipple.

  She trailed her fingernails down the line of my stomach, circling my belly button for a moment before swirling into the thick curls above my cock.

  Her lips moaned against my nipple as her fingers closed around my cock and started slowly sliding up and down. I was already hard and waiting for her, as I was every morning, but her touch always brought out more of me.

  When I grew to full length in her hand, I felt her lips start their downward trek. She planted little kisses down my stomach. She pulled at the dark curls with her teeth. Then her mouth engulfed the bulbous head of my cock as her hand slowly pumped up and down.

  I took a deep breath and sighed it out slowly.

  Faleen’s lips and tongue were like magic. In less than a minute, I exploded inside her mouth. She hummed as she swallowed my load. Then she cleaned me off with her tongue as she had every morning for as long as I could remember.

  God, I loved waking up in the morning.

  Then, as silently as she had come, she slipped out of the bed and left the room.

  I lay quietly for a moment, wondering, as I often did, what it would be like to feel her pussy around my cock instead of her lips and hand, to explode inside her cunt rather than inside her mouth.

  Sadly, I would never know.

  Faleen wasn’t famous enough to be on my fuck list. And if a bitch wasn’t on my list, she wasn’t going to ride my cock, my fingers, or my face.

  It was a code that probably knocked me out of getting some pretty decent pussy, but I was Cain Bohannon. I didn’t settle for “pretty decent” anything, especially when it came to women.

  * * *

  “I want accounting to give Faleen a bonus this month,” I said as I stepped out of the shower onto the thick rug. My personal assistant, Drew Inman, was sitting on the closed toilet with his long legs crossed, taking notes with his iPhone. I caught him glance at my dangling cock as I stood at the sink toweling the water out of my hair.

  “Stop looking at my cock,” I said, turning my ass toward him long enough to drape the towel around my waist.

  “Well stop putting the damn thing in my face,” he said, drawing out the words in his overdramatized, effeminate manner. Drew waved a hand at me. “I swear, you should register that thing as a deadly weapon, because you might kill somebody with it.”

  “Well, it won’t be you,” I said with a grin.

  “Your loss,” he said, clicking his tongue.

  I lathered up my face and nodded at his phone. “Did you make a note of what I just said?”

  “No. Your giant cock distracted me,” he said with a sigh. His fingers quickly tapped the screen. “Dear accounting, please give Faleen a bonus for being such an awesome cocksucker.” He looked up at me and pooched out his lips. “Isn’t giving her a six-figure salary, a rent-free apartment downstairs, and a Mercedes to drive compensation enough for sucking your cock every morning?”

  I scraped the razor up my neck and stared at my reflection. “I believe in rewarding a job well done,” I said. “You would know that if you ever did your job well.”

  “Fuck you,” Drew said, slapping a hand at me. “Good luck finding another PA who will sit on your fucking toilet and take notes while you wash Faleen’s spit off your cock.”

  “Fine. Give yourself a bonus,” I said with a grin. “Now, what’s on the agenda for today?”

  He flipped through my schedule he kept on his phone. “You have a meeting with your executive team at ten, lunch with Simon Cowell at one, an interview with Rolling Stone at three, and t
he fundraiser for homeless veterans tonight. You’re the co-chair this year with Ivanka Trump, so you can’t just write a big check. You actually have to go.” He looked up at me and sighed. “Just another fun day in the life of Cain Bohannon.”

  I turned my cheek and smiled at myself in the mirror as I finished shaving. “Oh, by the way, I’m tired of shaving myself and washing my own cock. Will you see if you can find a woman with big boobs and a Kardashian ass to come in every morning to take care of that for me?”

  Drew rolled his eyes at me. “Why don’t you just add that to Faleen’s job description since she already has the boobs and ass?”

  “Faleen already has her hands full,” I said with a grin. “And her mouth.”

  Drew sunk his teeth into his bottom lip to keep from smiling. “Wanted, woman with big boobs and Kardashian ass to suck cock, wash cock, wash balls, wash ass…dry cock, dry balls…” He made a silly face. “Oh, my god, this might be a two-person job.”

  I chuckled as I rinsed my face with water. “Fine. Forget that idea. I’ll just do it myself.” I blotted the water from my face and started into the bedroom with Drew close behind.

  “Oh, don’t forget that battle of the bands tonight,” he said, wiggling his phone at me. “I talked to Rusty at the Rusty Nail, and he says they have a dozen top-notch acts for you to check out.”

  I dropped the towel from my waist and walked into my closet, which was the size of a New York studio apartment. I pulled on a pair of Jockey’s and thumbed through the wall of Armani suits hung there.

  “Wear the navy blue,” Drew said, leaning against the door. “Did you hear what I said about the battle of the bands?”

  “Yes,” I said, pulling a dark blue suit from the rack. I handed Drew the jacket while I pulled on the pants. “Is Rusty Nail his real name?”

  “I’m not sure,” Drew said thoughtfully. “Would you like me to ask?”

  “No. Just tell me what I’ve gotten myself into with this battle of the bands.”

  Drew held out the jacket on one finger while I chose a pressed white shirt. He said, “The guys in talent acquisition think BEG needs to break out more new artists rather than relying on the current list to generate future revenue. They worked a deal with Rusty to do this band showcase. His club is hot right now, packed every night with our demographic, and he seems to have his finger on the pulse of the New York band scene. He’s lined up twelve bands that he thinks might be worthy of a look.”

  I buttoned the shirt and clipped in the diamond cufflinks. “So, let me get this right; I have to go listen to twelve shitty bands, then let the talent acquisition guys know which one I think is the least shitty so we can tentatively award them a contract they will probably end up owing us money on.”

  “That’s about it,” Drew said, bobbing his head. He put his phone away so he could hold out the jacket for me to slip on.

  “What time does this fiasco begin?” I asked as I slipped my bare feet into a pair of brown leather Ferragamos.

  “You have to be at the club by nine tonight,” he said.

  “You mean we have to be at the club by nine,” I said, checking my reflection in the wall of full-length mirrors at the back of the closet.

  “What? No! I have plans,” Drew whined.

  “Yes, you have plans to come with me,” I said. “I’m not going to sit there by myself and be tortured. It’s much more fun to share the torture with you.”

  “Fine,” Drew said with a pout. “But you’re buying all my drinks.”

  “I’ll buy your drinks,” I said. “But if you hook up with some girly-man, don’t put his drinks on my tab.”

  I chose a gold Rolex Mariner from my collection and strapped it on my wrist. I slipped on a couple of gold pinkie rings for good measure and then clicked off the closet light.

  “Fair enough,” Drew said. He gave me the once-over, brushed lint off my lapel, and then turned to go. “I’ll get the car brought around. See you downstairs.”

  CHAPTER THREE: Olivia

  “You nervous, Liv?” the bartender asked as he set four bottles of Miller Lite and four tequila shots on my tray. I handed him the customer’s credit card and tried to act much cooler than I felt.

  “Nah. I’ve played a hundred gigs,” I said, giving him a carefree shrug to prove how not nervous I was. It looked more like a twitch than a shrug. “This is just another one.”

  He snorted at me. “Only this one could land you a record deal with BEG.” He ran the card and handed it back with the receipt for the customer to sign. He nodded at the packed house behind me. “Cain Bohannon himself is supposed to be here at nine. Rusty has a VIP table for him on the upper deck. That’s Sherry’s section. You should see if she’ll let you work the table for her.”

  I hefted the heavy tray onto one hand so I could use the other hand to part the crowd. That was one of the few perks of being a cocktail waitress: My arms were toned and muscled. I had guns like a dude. Which, I’d been told more than once, looked sexy as hell when I was onstage, hammering away at my guitar.

  “Why would I want to work Sherry’s table?” I asked. “My section is full.”

  “So you can schmooze Bohannon ahead of time,” he said in a tone that told me he thought I was an idiot for not thinking of it myself. “Just offer to give Sherry the tips and she’ll do it for you.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said.

  “Don’t think too long,” he said, nodding at the crowd that was already getting restless. “You’re gonna need all the help you can get with this crowd.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I said, flipping him the bird over my shoulder as I turned away. I paused for a second to survey the packed and rowdy crowd. They were young, hard-partying, opinionated assholes. If they liked your music, they let you know by screaming and applauding. If they didn’t like your music, they let you know by booing the shit out of you and throwing beer bottles at your head until you ran offstage in fear for your life.

  I knew every band in the lineup. There were a few rock cover bands I wasn’t too worried about (BEG wasn’t going to give a contract to a freakin’ cover band). Then there were a few bands that bordered on heavy metal, a few that leaned toward old-style grunge, and a few, like the Flakes, that gave new meaning to the term “punk rock.”

  Mona called it “spoiled-rotten white girl punk” because that was what most of our followers were. We were as loud and edgy as the guys, but we were the only all-girl band on the bill. I had no idea how we’d fare with this crowd. Maybe doing a little schmoozing ahead of time wasn’t such a bad idea.

  As I walked from the bar my eyes started scanning the room for Sherry, the waitress assigned to work the upper level. If she would let me work Cain Bohannon’s table, I’d give her all of my tips for the night. Fuck pride and fair play. I would do anything and everything it took to get my name on a BEG contract.

  * * *

  “Okay, kids, this is how this is going to work,” Rusty, the club owner, said as one member of each band stood circling him backstage. We were all nervous as hell—well, those of us who weren’t high or drunk already—but we were all doing our best to act cool.

  Rusty held a paper bag above his head. “There are twelve numbers in the bag,” he said. “Each band gets to pull out one number. The number you get is your number in the lineup for the night. Period. I don’t want to hear any whining or bitching and moaning about high numbers. And no exchanging or selling your numbers. Do that and you’re out. Am I clear?”

  Rusty was a fifty-something hippie with a gray braid that ran halfway down his back and a mountain-man beard that hung halfway down his chest. He always wore a red Willie Nelson bandana tied around his head. He dressed like he was on his way to Woodstock and barked orders like a drill sergeant.

  Rusty held out the bag to me. “Ladies first, Liv,” he said, shaking the bag at me. He gave me a wink. “Good luck.”

  I held my breath as I thrust my hand into the bag. I pulled out a folded slip of paper and handed it to
Rusty. He opened the paper. I saw him wince a little when he read the number.

  “The Flakes are number eleven,” he said, holding up the paper for all to see. He held out the paper to me and sighed. “Sorry, Liv. No do-overs.”

  I didn’t understand the meaning of his words, but everyone else did, because they all moaned—or chuckled—at my misfortune. I’d never been in a battle of bands before. I took the paper and gave Rusty a confused look. “Is number eleven bad?”

  “Means you’re up next to last, sweet cheeks,” a guy with hair cut into a pink mohawk said.

  “Worst fuckin’ spot of the night,” a black guy with an afro the size of a medicine ball added. “I mean, other than twelve.”

  “Why? I don’t understand?” I realized I was holding out the slip of paper as if it were covered in anthrax. I willed the nervous tears from my eyes and looked at Rusty. “Rusty, what are they talking about?”

  He sighed and put a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t let them get to you, Liv. They’re all just jealous because they know you’re gonna kick their dicks in the dirt.”

  “No, we’re not,” mohawk dude said, spit shooting from his lips. He tugged the note from my hand and held it out so I could see the number Rusty had scrawled on the paper. “You’re number fucking eleven. The higher your number, the lower your chances of winning.”

  I grabbed the paper from his hand and gave him a frown. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “It’s common sense, big tits,” he said, glancing at my breasts beneath the tight Rusty Nail T-shirt. “The fuckers who judge these things don’t even wanna be here. They’re here on the off chance that they might discover another Prince or Springsteen. So, they start drinking right away. They pay attention to the first few acts, but then, when the drinks start to kick in and the music all starts to sound the fucking same, they tune out. Any number above four or five is death. You might as well set fire to the fucking stage, because that’s what it’ll take to get their fucking attention.”

  “That’s enough,” Rusty snapped, giving the guy a shove to put him in his place. “Let’s get this done so we can start the show.”