It had been his suggestion that they came to see the band. She'd been jealous of the time. It wasn't often he ventured south to see her, and she wanted to be in a bedroom with him, not in the backroom of a pub. Never mind. Here they were, and she was determined to enjoy it. There was lot to enjoy. He was attentive as ever, amusing, and yes, as usual, dominant. That's why her thing was in his pocket. The band had been good as well. Authentic hard rock, done the right way. Posing and leering lead singer, reliable bass player and drummer, and a guitarist who wielded his Les Paul like a gun slinger twirling a pistol. In the close quarters environment of the pub back room it was sensual, physical music, the bass line a visceral experience like a punch in the stomach. It didn't help that he kept standing behind her, his hands under the bottom of her teeshirt, his presence always there. It didn't help that he'd been teasing her about this weekend, about its possibilities. The anticipation was like that bass line from Alright Now, punching her in the stomach, not as clear as a melody but giving her a sugar rush as the adrenalin sent its signals coursing round her body. So why did he want to hang around talking to the band? The drummer and bass player had gone, sharing a van back to wherever they'd come from. That left her, him, the lead singer and the guitar player swigging off their drinks in the space between the PA cabs and the side entrance to the pool room. She wanted to be somewhere else with him, but there was a sudden playfulness in his voice that changed her pulse rate. 'You know, you two are bad for her neck. She couldn't decide whose bulge to ogle first.' She couldn't decide how to react, so stayed still, keeping her face fixed. They both reacted, teasing, asking her whose bulge she preferred. She didn't know what to say, couldn't react, but couldn't effect a disinterested stare away from them. His voice cut through the fog that was forming in her mind. 'She wants to test them out, to suck you both so she can decide whose cock she prefers.' She decides she won't lie to herself. It isn't that her knees collapse. He doesn't force her to her knees. There isn't even an implied threat. He wants her to kneel and suck them, so she does. She kneels, and reaches up with trembling fingers for the lead singers zip, She unzips him, and he's so hard she can't get him out through the aperture. So she undoes the button of his jeans, and pulls his jeans apart so she can pull him out of his briefs. She can hear the barmaid saying goodnight to the landlady, but it doesn't register in the same way as the cock in her face registers with her. She knows she gives good blow jobs; she works on it with her tongue and lips, milking it, kissing the end and taking it as deep into her mouth as she can manage. His orgasm is fast, a series of spasms that make him arch his back. The guitarist is rougher. He doesn't want her to milk him. He doesn't want her to use her skills. He wants to fuck her face, and he does, burying his fingers in her hair, moving her head back and fore until his come rushes in a salty stream into her throat, almost missing her tongue. She has abstract memories of a school experiment into how taste buds work, but mainly she knows he's come. Sir helps her to her feet, steers her out to his car with barely a word to the band members. He drives her home, where R is waiting for her. He kisses her cheek, and tells her that he'll pick her up tomorrow night to take her to Sheffield. She blushes, and wants to argue, but he warned her it might be like this. She goes into the house, where R is sat on the sofa, watching a music video. She kneels by his side, and tells him what has happened. She hears her phone ping. She excuses herself to R, looks at the screen. He's texted her. 'Between tonight and tomorrow night you must give R everything. Tomorrow night I will take everything.' She shows the text to R, then smiles. She can wait.