Short sex stories

Erotic fiction and short sex stories




F6: Slick's Swamp Shack

This story is a submission to the sixth Friendly Anonymous Writing Challenge (FAWC) and a tribute to the founder of FAWC, slyc_willie, who we lost unexpectedly in October 2015. The true author of this story is kept anonymous until the end of the competition. Authors base their story on a list of four items. Their choices included the following letters: S L Y C. Each item was used in the story. There are no prizes given in this challenge; this is simply a friendly competition.

The list for this story includes: Singer, Scissors, Swamp, Smut

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“Why the fuck did you get me this gig, Willie?” I hissed under my breath into my cellphone.

“Gabby, you’re always talking about the origins of the blues, and being authentic and all that.”

“OK, being authentic is one thing, but you should see this place.”

“Why? Is it as real-deal as the name sounds?”

“Man, it’s like a timewarp! Slick’s Swamp Shack – fuck – it lives up to its name alright. It’s a real shithole straight outta hell!”

“Hah, girl, now for a taste of some real blues history!”

“Fuck you, Willie! You could at least have warned me before I drove all the way down here.”

“Look, Gabby, these people love their music. They love your music; the guy who called me up was in raptures about your demo CD. I’m your agent, I’m here for you, and this gig is totally your bag, girl. You get on that stage, open up them dulcets, and they’ll be putty in your hands.”

“But …”

“But nothing, girl. You love the history of the blues, and now’s your chance to taste a real slice of that pie. Look, I gotta go catch my Spurs game. You’ll be great.”

“OK, Willie. If this gig turns sour, we’re going to have a serious talk. Anyway, enjoy your game.” Not waiting for an answer, I hung up on my agent. The sweet-talking Texan was all promise, no recognition – no glory, and definitely no dollar.

I clicked open the car door, and eased myself out of my used Toyota. The ground under foot had some of the feel of the swamp to it. The asphalt of civilization had given out miles back. The ensuing dirt track found its way to this parking lot – if that’s what you’d call it – spongy to the step. At least I hadn’t worn my lucky heels, but, even so, my sneakers didn’t feel right good stepping out onto this moist lot.

I peered up at the shack. The red neon announced ‘ LICK SWAMP S ACK’. The doorway below was lit sodium yellow, the light curving around a thick figure in its frame. He must have caught sight of me, for he hulked himself out into the lot, in my direction. I moved back behind the car, using it as a shield. I popped open the trunk, surveying my holdall, my dress in its garment bag, and my good old Singer. I take that portable sewing machine everywhere, to prevent ‘wardrobe malfunctions’.

I opened the compartment molded to its base, and drew out my pair of orange-handled dress scissors. I slipped them into the pocket of my leather jacket, keeping grip on their handle for safety’s sake.

“Hi, li’l lady! I don’t s’pose you that blues singer Gabrielle Smuts, are you?” The guy had the physique of a wrestler, hardly contained by his torn denim jacket and stained t-shirt.

I grasped my scissors more surely. I gave a brisk nod of my head. “You Slick?”

The man-mountain threw back his head, and his whole form trembled with barely audible bass laughter. “No, ma’am, Slick dead.”

“Oh, sorry. I am sorry.”

“We all are, li’l lady, we all are.” He thrust out a paw in welcome.

I reluctantly relinquished grip on my scissors, withdrew my hand from my pocket, and reached for a handshake.

“Scissors,” he proclaimed.

Shocked, I scanned his eyes.

“They call me Scissors, ma’am.” His great paw engulfed my hand, giving it a brisk shake, before releasing me, infused with his clammy touch.

“I’m Gabby.”

“Pretty name for a pretty lady.” With that, he stepped between me and the Toyota. “Lemme he’p you with your things.” He hoisted my dress bag to his shoulder. “This too?” He pointed to my holdall.

I nodded sharply.

He took my holdall to his other shoulder and inched past me towards the shack. “Come on, li’l lady. I’m a-show you aroun’.”

I pushed the trunk shut, and locked it. Opening the passenger door, I lifted out the guitar case, my precious old Geeshie. I locked up my car and followed my performing dress as it danced across the lot on Scissors’ back.

The Swamp Shack was an old wooden shotgun house, sitting on a tree-lined hammock of land that pushed out into the cypress swamp. It’s narrow front elevation was maybe only twelve feet wide, with a simple veranda.

Scissors stood holding the door. “We’come to Slick’s, li’l lady!”

I lugged my guitar case past him and inside. The interior was one long, thin room, with a low stage at the far end, and a small bar halfway down the righthand side. The whitewash had long faded, but some beams and struts had been recently repainted firetruck red. Sets of round card tables and chairs peppered the floor, the interior lit by four fluorescent tubes. The only life was a wizened man behind the bar lighting a row of colorful kerosene lamps.

The door banged shut behind me. I moved in and turned to give Scissors room, still somewhat wary of this hulk.

“This here Ole Bill. He be runnin’ this barrelhouse now,” he gestured to the old man.

Bill looked up from his lamps. “Well, look see: if this ain’t the diva behind that sultry voice!” He shuffled out from behind the bar, his face beaming in adulation.

The three of us met halfway. I held out my hand in greeting to my new old fan. “Hello, sir, I’m Gabrielle Smuts … Gabby.”

Ole Bill took my fingers with delicate devotion, and planted a slow, graceful kiss on my knuckles. “Ever’ inch the diva, but that voice … Gee, that voice done take me way back.” His eyes held mine, clouded with cataracts in sun-wrinkled sockets, and I understood he wasn’t giving me empty flattery.

I was speechless before his adoration.

“It don’t look much, but this here place got spirit, real history.”

I looked round the building. The only history I could see was that of a dime museum. “Really?” I replied, wanting to hear it, to be convinced.

“Oh, you betcha! This here an old-time sharecropper place. The Old Gray been given our folk this worthless swamp land here. You see, it was out the way, a place where sharecroppers and the like could come hear a jig, drink some, and get mellow in peace. Slick, he been bought this shack years back.

Man, he loved the blues, and he done steady workin’ keep the barrelhouse culture alive right here. I done been he’pin’ him here from a lad, been pourin’ the drinks and shinin’ them there lamps like Aladdin. He done gone now, but his spirit live on in this place, like the spirit of the Delta blues live on in your sweet voice.” Ole Bill caressed the wooden tabletop at his side, the callouses of his hand rasping lightly across the grain.

I still wasn’t totally inspired, but I wanted to be. I fumbled for something appreciative to say. “There’s a lot of love gone into this place.”

“You ain’t wrong, ain’t wrong at all. Slick done fill this shack of his with plenty love. So, come on now: can I fix you a li’l drink, some whiskey to warm your heart and we’come you in?”

I hesitated. Ole Bill was hanging on my answer. I turned to Scissors, still carrying my things. In the light I could see his features: a fat muzzle broken by an innocent smile. “Yeah, I’d like that drink, please.”

Bill shuffled back behind the bar. It was a rustic wooden counter without the rows of branded liquor one might expect at a downtown joint. Instead, a collage of photographs – some curling black and white, others with faded colors, and some bright and recent – covered the wall. The photos seemed mostly of performers clutching guitars or banjos, with their arms round the recognisable forms of Scissors, Ole Bill and another guy whom I took to be Slick.

Ole Bill made a show of slamming a shot glass down on the bar and filling it with amber liquor from a plain bottle.

I leaned my Geeshie up against the bar. “Won’t you be joining me in a drink?”

“Only if you insis’,” he replied, fishing out and filling two more glasses even before finishing his four words. Scissors laid my dress bag over the end of the bar as Bill handed him his whiskey shot.

We lifted our glasses.

“To the lovely diva and her mighty fine voice!” toasted Ole Bill.

“To Slick!” I gave them, and they both repeated my toast eagerly.

We downed our drinks: the sweet, smooth heat of Tennessee.

Ole Bill turned back to his lamps. He removed the glass from a lamp in cerise enamel, adjusted the mantle, struck a match, and lit it. I watched, letting my whiskey go down. The swift shot gave me a little heartburn, and I knew I was nervous about playing a gig in this strange place. Bill looked up at me from his lamp, a black smut riding the convection thrown up by the flame between us.

“I know it empty now, but the shack fitna get real crowded for your show. It ain’t mucha ‘green room’, but Scissors can show you where you can get ready in peace. Just you holler if you be needin’ aught.”

I looped my fingers around the handle of my guitar case, but hesitated.

Ole Bill must have read my mind. “Don’t you be lettin’ his size intimidate you. Scissors the kindes’ and gentles’ man I know. Go with him now.”

I looked at Scissors, whose smile opened into a toothy grin. I smiled back an apology for doubting his character.

“It a backroom behin’ there stage. Follow me, li’l lady.” Scissors took up my dress again, and went his way between the tables towards a door beside the stage.

I picked up my Geeshie, and turned to Bill. “Thanks for the drink … and the little history.”

“My pleasure entirely. We ain’t got much, but you be comin’ back for more if you get parched. It’s on the house.”

“Thanks again,” I smiled back at him. I turned and lifted my guitar case over the tables to follow the route Scissors had taken.

He was standing just inside the door by the low stage, in a narrow transverse passage that ran behind it. His giant hand was against a door directly opposite. “This the res’room, ma’am. I did scrub it clean myse’f for you.”

“Thank you,” I called, still trying to make up for doubting this gentle giant.

He squeezed further up the passage, opened a door and went through it. I followed him in.

“They be calling this the ‘green room’, though it ain’t green.” He hung my dress bag on a peg and placed my holdall on a chair.

At some point the room had been painted baby blue, but much of it had flaked and faded. A large wooden press almost filled one wall, the other had a small single bed, a cot, made up with fresh linen. The two windows, on either side were covered with ragged floral curtains. The focus was an antique dressing table and chair with four pegs on the wall beside them. To one side was a door leading through to the next room.

I leaned my Geeshie against the far wall, beside my dress. “What’s through there?” I gestured towards the door.

“It a storeroom, an’ beyon’ you out in the backwater with them gators.” His grin seemed almost an impression of a toothy alligator.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why do they call you ‘Scissors’?”

“I was a wrestler, see: statewide champion!” He smiled broadly with pride.

I gave him a blank look, not getting the train of thought.

“Oh ‘scissors’, it a wrestlin’ hold, see.” He demonstrated in thin air, but I still couldn’t see.

“You must have been quite a contender; do you still wrestle?”

“Nah, too old. But Slick, he been took me on to keep them rowdies out the place.” He moved back into the frame of the door through which we entered. “You bes’ get yourse’f ready. Holler if you be needin’ me!” With that he withdrew, closing the door behind him. I listened to the floorboards creak as he made his way back along the passage.

I gave the room another once over and slipped off my jacket. My dress scissors clattered to the floor from my jacket pocket. I bent and scooped them up, placing them on the table, noticing a small photo of Ma Rainey tucked into the corner of the mirror at the dressing table.

I draped my leather jacket over the back of the chair, shifted my holdall to the floor, and sat in front of the mirror. Ma Rainey was aglow in black and white, while I looked tired from the long drive. I unzipped my holdall and fished out my pick comb and tousled out my long, tight curls.

I placed the comb down beside my scissors, and headed next door to wash my face. I hadn’t worn any makeup for the drive down, preferring to apply it once I got here. Although it was a simple set, the restroom was scrupulously clean; Scissors was true to his word. I opened the faucet, turned the mixture to lukewarm, and splashed my face and rubbed my eyes. The hand towel was fluffy and clean, so I dabbed myself dry with it.

Back in my room a tray with a bottle of water and a tumbler had appeared on the dressing table. I filled the tumbler and gulped down the refreshment. I could hear more voices in the front room – the audience was beginning to arrive. I sat, and unlaced my sneakers, kicking them under the table. I stood, unfastening my belt and unbuttoning the fly of my jeans.

I glanced warily at the curtained windows and then towards the door. I walked to the door, slid the bolt across, then moved back to the table and wriggled out of my tight jeans. I pulled my white cotton vest-top over my head, trying not to muss my curls. I caught sight of myself in my underwear, the royal-blue lace lingerie Mike gave me last Valentine’s. The relationship didn’t last long after that, but I was too miserly to throw out a good set.

I sat and applied my makeup. I found that just a few highlights well applied worked wonders. Some black eyeliner made my eyes look big, some light foundation smoothed my complexion, and a nude-tone no-smudge lip gloss gave my mouth juicy definition.

I unzipped the garment bag. After the first gig he’d gotten me – at Jack’s Cabaret – Willie had invested in this slinky deep-blue number to give me the ‘diva look’ he was trying to promote. I loved it; I loved a man buying me a dress, and loved the African Queen it made me feel. I took it down off the hanger and stepped into it, slipping the straps over my shoulders and smoothing the bodice into place over my bust.

That was when I realized I had no one to zip me up. Willie usually did the deed. I did think, though, that he complained too vigorously about artist-agent professionalism and not looking while he slid the zipper up my back.

I strode barefoot down the passage and chinked open the stage door. I would have preferred Ole Bill, but he was pouring a drink for a white gentleman with silver hair decked out in a seersucker suit. Scissors was closer, so I hissed his name.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Would you kindly zip me up?” Without waiting for a reply, I turned my back to him, showing him my vulnerable skin and the blue band of my bra.

“Sure thing!” he announced with a slight touch of glee.

I felt his hand cover my left shoulder blade, while ever so gently he moved the zipper up my spine. I tingled at his masterful touch. He reached the top and withdrew both hands. Then I felt the knuckles of one hand gently brush down the track from between my shoulder blades to the small of my back. He was smoothing out the creases of my dress, but its effect smoothed out the creases between my legs.

“There you go, ma’am. You a-gonna knock us all out tonight.”

“Thank you, Scissors,” I said, turning and giving him a smile.

Then he was back to welcoming and seating customers. I slipped back to my room.

I heaved up my guitar case and laid it on the cot. I flicked the catches, lifted the lid, and there she was: my dear old Geeshie. Named after the great Delta blues singer Geeshie Wiley. She wasn’t much to look at, an unvarnished six-string acoustic, but she had the softest, sweetest action of any guitar. Gabby and Geeshie were a double act, a package deal.

I lifted her from her cradle, and went to sit down with the guitar on my thigh. She didn’t need much tuning: she held tension well. I curled three fingers into a V-shape, and played out a languorous twelve-bar blues in D. I stretched out my pinkie to hammer on a G, creating a suspension. Geeshie sang true under my touch, the nails of my right hand plucking out the rhythm while the round fingertips of my left sought out the bluest of blues notes.

There was a knock at the door.

“Yes? Hi!”

Ole Bill’s head appeared round the door. “Miss Smuts, we’re fitna get go’n’. Are you ready?”

“Just give me a minute, and I’ll be out.”

“Right you are.” He closed the door and went back out to his customers.

I leaned Geeshie against the table, and then fished out my shoes from the bottom of the garment bag. I slipped into my lucky indigo heels, and stood to settle my feet down into them.

I walked over to the cot, and took my guitar capo and bottleneck slide from the compartment in the neck of the guitar case, and slipped them and my car keys into a hidden pocket I’d sewn into the waistband of my performance dress. I perched on the chair and gave my hair a last tease with my pick.

I emerged through the door beside the stage into the warmth of Ole Bill’s adoring smile.

“I’m a-warm up the crowd for you, OK?”

I nodded, and the old man bounded across the stage a tapped the old box microphone to gain the attention of the crowd.

“Ladies an’ gen’lemen, with great pride Slick’s Swamp Shack presenna you the Diva of the Delta, Miss Gabrielle Smuts!”

Hearty applause erupted all around the room. The fluorescent tubes had been turned off, and the shack was lit only by the hissing kerosene lamps dancing from the rafters. Bill continued his warm-up, describing the moment he first listened to the demo CD that Willie had sent out. The audience was surprisingly mixed: young and old, black and white, rich and poor.

Up front the seersucker gentleman was sat at a table beside a cheerfully voluptuous woman, her ebony skin glowing in the lamplight. Their table was distinguished by a long lace tablecloth and small glass vase of gardenias. Scissors was at the bar exchanging bottles of beer for eagerly outthrust greenbacks, as late customers hustled to get their drinks before the show started.

My focus returned to the stage as Ole Bill heaped superlative upon embarrassing superlative. “Without further ado, I give you Miss Gabrielle Smuts!” The applause rose once more. He reached out his arm towards me, and I was drawn magnetically onto the stage. Bill brushed my cheek with his lips. “Go get ‘em, girl!” He stepped down and went to help Scissors out at the bar.

I looked out from behind the microphone. Every seat was taken and latecomers continued to throng the bar. “Er … Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Gabrielle Smuts, and I want to share with you some old treasures of the blues. Thank you.” There was more applause, as I swung the guitar strap over my shoulder and rechecked its tuning.

I leaped straight into a performance of Etta Baker’s One Dime Blues. It was my regular opener, because the bouncy Piedmont-style finger picking was one way to prove skeptical men in downtown blues clubs that I could play. Coming out of the bridge and looking up from Geeshie’s fretboard for the first time, I saw smiles and tapping feet all round. I rounded out my instrumental showcase and was met with applause.

“Thank you, thank you,” I said, as I re-tuned to an open D major and pulled my chrome bottleneck slide from my waistband. “I think you’ll know this one.” I pulled a hard glissando up Geeshie’s fretboard and she wailed like a Mississippi swamp banshee. The raw sound of the Delta never failed to hit the audience right in the gut. I began a ragged twelve-bar blues, gulped down a breath, and crooned, “If your woman get personal / want you to have your fun.”
I heard a collective intake of breath as I released my voice into the space. I love the effect my voice has when folk hear it the first time. The warm wood acoustic of the room was perfect as I launched into my lightly revised version of Robert Johnson’s Traveling Riverside Blues. I repeated the line, infusing it with more cheeky sexiness, giving microtonal inflections to ‘personal’ and ‘your fun’.

I punched the verse with, “Well, come on back to Slick’s Swamp Shack, baby / barrelhouse all night long.” My local namecheck was met with whoops of appreciation around the room, and seersucker and his big beauty clasped hands over the table. I rounded out the last bar with some slick fingerwork and wailing slides.

“I got me boyfriends in Vicksburg / clean on into Tennessee / I got boyfriends in Vicksburg / clean on into Tennessee / but my Slick’s Swamp Shack rider, now / he hops all over me.” They didn’t have to know how a big a gulf existed between the woman of my lyrics and my lovelorn reality; while the gig was on I played the sexy seductress. My Geeshie accompanied me, gasping in feigned shock at my lewdness, then moaning sexually as I sang of my rider hoping all over me.

The crowd was warming. A young white couple at the bar were locked in a passionate French kiss, and they weren’t alone in being moved to appreciate their companion: lip met lip, tongue to tongue, all over the joint, as if it were a Valentine’s special.

I changed my stance, knowing this was going to get bawdier. “Gonna squeeze your lemon till / juice run down your leg / gonna squeeze your lemon till / juice run down my tongue / that’s what I’m talkin’ about / now gonna take you back to Slick’s Swamp Shack, baby / rock you to your head.” I felt my crotch wetten with arousal. I didn’t usually get so turned on by my lyrics: this was intense.

It was about to get more intense. I took a wide stance, legs spread, and took the volume way down to a sultry stage whisper for my last verse. “Gonna feed you my jelly roll / get my cream right roun’ your face / gonna feed you my jelly roll, baby / get my cream right roun’ your face / ‘caus once you lick clean my dish, baby / you gonna want dessert ever’ night.” Geeshie added a few howling glissandi, and we closed out the number with a louche diminuendo.

This time the applause was rapturous, and for only my second number. I spotted Ole Bill behind the bar raising a shot of whiskey in appreciation. To one side stood Scissors, his great hands above his head beating out thunderous praise while he whooped appreciation.

A young woman in a leather skirt hung round his neck, pecking kisses on his thick-cut steak of a cheek. The only other person not applauding was the voluptuous woman at the front. She beamed at me with wide eyes, her mouth a perfect O. It took me a moment to spot the fine leather soles of a pair of spectators, toes down, peeking from under her lace tablecloth. Colonel Seersucker had a taste for some chocolate jelly roll!

I giggled to myself at the effect I was having, while I returned Geeshie to standard tuning and slipped my slide into its pocket. “Thank you,” I gushed, “This is a Memphis Minnie number, When the Levee Breaks.” A smattering of applause welcomed the fast finger picking that was a tribute to Minnie’s style. The playover done, I inhaled and switched to my deep, husky contralto register, “If it keep on rainin’ / levee gonna break.” As I sang the words, I became aware of a flood precipitating in my panties.

I knew from my blues research that it was a song about the Great Mississippi Flood of 1927, but suddenly every word was pregnant with innuendo. “I’s a mean old levee / cause me to weep and moan / I’s a mean old levee / cause me to weep and moan / gonna leave my baby, and my happy home.” The audience was with me in this interpretation. Couples were kissing and engaging in some heavy petting. Mama Jelly Roll began to coo gently with pleasure from her dapper gentleman’s submensal offertory.

I moved on through a series of three more blues classics – some Geeshie Wiley, Ma Rainey, and more Memphis Minnie – all fine blues ladies. I enjoyed the tease of introducing Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom with “Now I want to show you my black bottom,” in the same way she did. This and the other songs felt sleazier than ever, as the floor seethed into a friendly swamp orgy. The colonel came up from under tablecloth, red faced and with a contented smile of work well done.

“Thank you. I’m gonna take ten. Don’t be goin’ nowhere.” More appreciative applause washed over me. I propped Geeshie safely at the back of the narrow stage, and moved down towards the bar.

“Mighty fine, that’s mighty fine. You’re one Queen of Hearts!” exclaimed Colonel Seersucker, beaming at me, his chin glistening with moisture, his or hers.

“Indeed, girl, you can sing them blues!” added Mama Jelly Roll, pursing her fingers together in praise.

“Thank you. You’re too kind,” I said as I placed a hand on the soft seersucker of the gentleman’s shoulder. I felt that I knew them after observing their little bit of fun, as if they were my kinky godmother and godfather.

I moved slowly through the crowd like a conquering hero, as they pressed to gladhand me, and pat me with their praise.

As I approached the bar the young woman in the leather skirt bounced in front of me. “You sure can sing an’ play that guitar!” I took her hand, if only to regulate her bouncing.

Scissors squeezed up behind her, wrapping her in his thick arms. “I see you met my Saving Grace. I call her that ‘cause she done pull me up out the swamp when I gone drunk too much liquor when I finish with wrestlin’.”

I looked at Grace, short and slim. “You were strong enough to pull him out of the swamp?”

“No way I could let him die! That’d be horrible! I done strain with all my might to be savin’ him, holdin’ his darlin’ head up outta water, an’ hollerin’ at the top of my lung’ for he’p.”

“That the power of love, right there!” proclaimed Scissors as he planted a sloppy kiss on her cheek.

“Miss Smuts, you sure well done earn this!” Ole Bill called out from the bar, holding up a shot of whiskey.

The crowd parted so I could get the bar. I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face: this was my best gig ever, and I was high on it.

“Thanks, Bill,” I said as I saluted him with the glass. This time the whiskey gave me no heartburn, but prickled its warmth across my cheeks. I put down the empty glass on the bar, as Ole Bill filled a tumbler with water.

“You mus’ keep that voice of yours hydrated now.”

“That’s so thoughtful of you.” I greedily gulped down the cool water.

“It an ole school frien’ of yours here, done drive up outta Jackson specially to see you.”

I looked at Bill quizzically. Apart from a second cousin I’d never seen, I didn’t know anyone from Jackson.

“Now where can that fine young gen’leman be?” Bill scanned the crowd, and raised his hand to beckon a man to the bar.

He was the image of a gypsy fortune teller’s promise of tall, dark and handsome. He wore a fitted navy polo shirt and khakis, with neat hair, horn-rimmed glasses and a boyish grin. I couldn’t place him. “Hi Gabby! Don’t suppose you remember me. I’m James Singer. We were at high school together.”

Suddenly, I recognized the beanpole nerdy guy who had now become a man. His shirt showed enough of his biceps and pecs to tell me he worked out. I remember feeling sympathy for him when other kids picked on this geeky weakling. He was weak no more. “Of course I remember you, James,” I replied, shaking his hand. “And you drove out from Jackson specially to see me?”

“I sure did. There was this little poster in a bar a couple of blocks down from UMMC – the Ole Miss medical center – I saw your name, and recognized you in the photo as the girl with big hair from high school who would sing a song at the drop of a hat. I must say you sound … and look fantastic.”

“Why, thank you! I hope I’ve improved a little on high school.”

“I’ll say! I went to every show you sang there, but this gig knocks them all out of the park!”

I smiled with embarrassment. I could just about take Ole Bill’s adulation, but when it was a cute guy like this … I wished I could remember as much about him as he did of me. “So you live in Jackson now?”

“Oh no, I’m just there for a conference, and a darn lame one at that. I’m still in Atlanta. I’m a cardiologist at Emory University Hospital.”

A cardiologist: my mind said ‘heart’, and my heart went ‘throb’. The crazy headiness of the gig made want to grab this guy and kiss him hard. I wondered if there was a subtle way to ask whether he was married, but I couldn’t think of one.

Ole Bill interrupted with two shots of whiskey, “For the reunion of ole frien’s!”

“Why, thank you, Bill!” answered James as he picked up the two shots, offering one to me. He wasn’t wearing a ring. He raised his glass, “To the most beautiful blues singer I know.”

“To the … well … only cardiologist I know.”

We laughed and downed our shots.

“Bes’ be gettin’ back up there, Miss Smuts,” Bill interjected. “You don’t wanna be keepin’ your audience waitin’ now.”

James leaned in, “So is that your … er … stage name, or did you never marry?”

A gong sounded in my head – perhaps from the whiskey – ‘we have a winner!’ I turned in to him, inhaling his cologne – sandalwood. “No one’s been brave enough to take me yet!” I teased, and sauntered back through the tables and chairs, wiggling my ass all the way to the stage.

I jumped right into the Robert Johnson classic Cross Road Blues, pulling my bottleneck hard up Geeshie’s strings to make her wail. Suddenly the chatter of the interval ceased and the room was mine once more.

I didn’t care much for the legend of Robert Johnson’s pact with the devil at the crossroads. When I became a year older than he was when he died, so tragically young, I felt I could now exorcise the song of all that hoodoo. The way I sang it, the song was about bad choices: my bad choices, mostly when it came to picking men. Now I found myself right back at that crossroads, praying down on my knees to get reaquainted with a cute young doctor.

The applause was powerful, but I felt the need to push it further. I changed my set, “Here’s another Robert Johnson number.” I broke into Terraplane Blues. In my version, it was I who was the car, the sleek, powerful Terraplane in need of a good tune-up and taking for a ride. “And I feel so lonesome / you hear me when I moan.” I repeated it, laying bare my need. “Who gonna drive my Terraplane? / it been too long since you been gone.” The shack was like a resonator, amplifying my emotion. I felt like weeping out my lovelorn heart. I was in need of that heart doctor.

Even before I hit the second verse, my hidden sex pulsed in anticipation. “I said I flashed my lights, baby / but the horn won’t even blow / I goddamn flashed my lights at you, honey / but the horn don’t even blow / mus’ be a short in the connection / hoo well, babe, it’s way down below.” I was hot and horny, and I wasn’t alone. The young white couple were back to French kissing, only now she must have unfastened her jeans so her beau could reach inside to grab her ass cheeks. As I sang “way down below,” one of his forearms disappeared, drilling deep down into a rich seam.

“I want you to hoist my hood, baby / better check the oil / I need you to hoist my hood, baby / come on check the oil / you can take me round the block, chauffeur / or all the way down to Arkansas.”

“I’m gonna need you get deep down in this connection / keep tanglin’ with my wires / you needa get deep down in this connection / get tanglin’ with my wires / and when you mash down my li’l starter / that spark plug sure gonna fire.”

I let Geeshie take center stage, playing through the melody with quivering blues notes. I repeated the first verse – “And I feel so lonesome / you hear me when I moan” – and it felt like I was making a desperate plea, like I was singing out to the crowd, “Just fuck me now!”

Finishing out the set with a few other pieces, I was the horniest I’d ever been in my life. The atmosphere in the room was saturated with sex. As I leaned my Geeshie against the back of the stage, all I wanted was to fly into the arms of Dr. James Singer. It was as if the crowd knew, and they parted like the Red Sea before me, opening onto a vista of the man who suddenly seemed my everything. He stood square on to me, feet planted, hands open just wide of his thighs.

“Phenomenal!” he beamed.

I threw myself against him, trying, failing to mask my need with a friendly hug. I wrapped my arms round his neck and mashed my breasts into his warm, hard chest. His hands held me in the small of my back and between my shoulder blades. It was too much, too obvious. I leaned back in the embrace. His dark eyes mesmerized. He craned his neck forward, and I parted my lips to receive him. His kiss was silk, luxuriously light. He pulled back, his face creased in earnest emotion.

“I’m so sorry, Gabby. I didn’t …”

With a hand on the back of his head, I pulled his lips back hard against mine. I kissed him hungrily, and he returned the kiss with desperation. His hand moved from my upper back, and his fingers wove into the curls over my right ear. I loved his hand in my hair, his palm against the burning coal of my cheek.

I slipped the tip of my tongue between his lips, tasting him. His tongue pushed back into my mouth, and we abandoned ourselves to the kiss. His trimmed nails pressed into the temporal ridge above my ear, and my scalp tingled in arcs from ear to ear. Our lips revolved around each other as our tongues twisted between. This kiss had no thought, no purpose, no technique; it was.

There was no telling how long it was before we parted to gulp down the humid air in the shack. I glanced around. Everyone was minding their own business, or, more correctly, minding the business of the person they were with.

“Do you wanna get some air?” I asked, searching his big browns.

“Sure!” He took my hand and led me to the front door of the shack.

It was just humid out as in, but a slight breeze made the night air pleasant, refreshing. Goose flesh rose on my arms. Two steps down from the veranda and my heels sunk slightly into the dirt of the lot.

“James, I can’t walk out here in my heels!” I called to him.

He turned, taking in the sight of the diva out of her natural habitat. “Wanna piggyback, Gabby?” He waited for no answer, but hunkered down before me.

I slid my arms around his neck and parted my legs to mount him. He took hold of me behind my knees, and rose up through me, hoisting me up in the night as if I were weightless. I hadn’t ridden on someone’s back since junior high.

My faultless mount strode off across the lot. I pressed my cheek against the woolly hairline on the nape of his neck. My dress was bunched up over my thighs, and the wet crotch of my panties rode the firmness of his spine. “Where are we going?”

“Don’t rightly know. Was thinking of my car. Can’t carry you round all night now.”

A few strides more and we rounded a beat-up Bimmer convertible; a raw gash along its side exposed ripped metal. A step further and we saw the young white couple. She was sprawled on her back on the hood of the car – her t-shirt pulled up, her bra pulled down to expose hard pink nipples – while her beau was fucking her hard. Both were oblivious to their new audience.

James backed away and moved us off as Bimmer Girl’s cries rose.

“Don’t you mind them fucking on the hood of your car?”

“Another dent’s not gonna hurt it any.”

“You got a nice car, nicer than mine. What happened to it?”

James halted. “Hah!” His laughter vibrated through me, a vertebra rubbing my clit through my panties. “The nurses joke I’m the worst driver in ATL. They call me Captain Crash. My insurance is through the roof!”

“Perhaps you should have disclosed this before I hopped on your back!”

We reached one side of the lot. The ground rose over tree roots before dropping down steeply to the swamp below. James turned and lowered my feet onto a knot of roots, solid ground of a sort. I struggled to find my footing, leaning back against the gnarled trunk of a cypress.

I relinquished hold of James’s neck just long enough for him to turn back to me. I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him against me. He stumbled on the roots, and fell into me. Our lips found each other. I existed between rough bark and soft lips.

James pulled back, gulped and looked down. Without looking up he struggled over his words, “Gabby, I know this is forward, but … when ever since hearing you sing about your … er … jelly roll … I’ve been desperate … to taste you … you know, down there.” His eyes rose to meet mine, ashamed of his forwardness, but hungry for me.

I took in a sharp breath. James, I’m yours to devour!”

We kissed with greater passion.

He sank to his knees in front of me, planting a kiss on my belly through the fabric of my dress. His hands ranged up my outer thighs under my skirt, and pulled my blue lacy panties down to my ankles. His hands rose once more, and his lips tickled over my knee cap. His hands rounded my ass inside my dress. I threw my head back against my sturdy swamp tree.

I gasped as he squeezed my butt. Looking down, I saw his head slipping under the hem of my dress, and felt his lips connect wetly with my quivering inner thigh. I took hold of the mound of blue material, and eased his head up into my crotch, desperate for the feel of his lips on my pussy.

Ten yards away, Bimmer Girl cried out in orgasm. James’s lips made contact with my lower set, and I responded to the girl’s call with a bottleneck slide of a moan. I turned my ankles, bent my knees, and pushed James’s lips between mine. I moaned again. It wasn’t quite as long as since my last piggyback, but it had been a good while since I last had a man’s face between my legs.

His tongue slipped up into me, and I knew I was wet and open to him. I held his head, and ground myself into his mouth, anxious to connect him with every inch of my sex. He drew his tongue up through my cleft, and I had to throw myself back against my tree to keep from falling over him. My movement pushed my pelvis out, and harder against him. My moan this time was more of a wail.

His tongue met my apex and looped languorously around the hood of my clit. He worked around me again, and again. The cool evening breeze lifted my curls, soothed by burning cheeks, and carried my moans out into the swamp. He plowed through my sweet spot. I shuddered, releasing his head, pushing the fingers of one hand into my hair, and cupping my breast with the other. I abandoned myself to him. He circled me a few more times before pushing his tongue through me again.

I leaned my head back against my cypress and let him take me up beyond my sexual plateau. His hands firmly squeezed my ass, and I mounted upon him like a bird at the dawning of the day. The gulf between me and the stage diva narrowed and twisted together into a new delta of emotions. When I came, I came hard with my screams of joy floating out over the backwaters.

I dug my fingers into his shoulders. “That’s what I mean, baby!” I pulled my dress from over James’s head, releasing him, revealing my new lover’s glistening, smiling features.

“You taste delicious. I could eat dessert every night!”

“I think I could live with that.” I hooked my hands under his arms, motioning him to stand. The knees of his khakis were darkened with mud. I tasted myself on his lips, kissing him with gratitude. I wriggled one shoe and then other free of my underwear, and stepped down from the root knot, clutching them up behind me.

As I stepped back into the dank lot, I spotted my little Toyota right there, and had an idea. I slipped my hand into the waistband pocket hidden in my dress, and pulled out my car keys. I opened its door and stood in the white light of its interior.
“I know it’s not as classy as your convertible.”

“Intact though.”

“Let’s see what we can do about that!” I reached for him, and kissed him. I pulled slowly away from his lips, and lowered myself onto the edge of the driver’s seat. My hands slid over his chest to his belt. “I wanna return the favor!” I unbuckled his belt and unzipped his khakis, letting them slide down the sculpted ebony pillars of his legs. The bulging pouch of a pair of maroon boxer briefs faced me.

I ran my fingertips over the shape, and he emitted a low, throaty groan. I brought my palm against the heat of his bulge and pressed onto it. He groaned once more. I wound my fingers into the side opening of his pouch and grasped his straining manhood. With my other hand I held the fabric agape, and pulled his dick through the opening. He was beautiful: hard, thick and twitching with expectation.

“You’ve had me hard since you first started singing tonight.”

I reached for him, pulling softly on his shaft, and bringing a bead of dew to his tip. I flicked my tongue over it, tasting its saltiness, and took his head between my lips. James moaned more loudly.

I pursed my lips together and plunged as far down his shaft as I could manage, then slowly sucked back up.

“My God, Gabby! You’ll make me come in no time if you do that.”

Encouraged, I repeated the action. I reached around him and seized his tight ass in both hands, pulling him into my mouth once again. I wrapped my tongue around the head of his dick, tasting more of his flavor, and he trembled against me. I looked up at his face, contorted with pleasure, and licked a wet trail up the underside of his quivering dick.

I was back to sucking him deeply, building up speed. My hands slipped down the back of his thighs, and then back under the leg elastic of his briefs to grasp his naked rump. I wound my tongue around him and dug my nails into his fleshly butt. His fingers plowed through my hair, caressing my scalp as I sucked his dick. I plunged down his shaft.

“Oh, that’s it!” His fingers pressed against the side of my head.

I increased speed, twirling my tongue around him. After a few minutes of that treatment, I could feel James’s sexual tension.

“No, Gabby! Stop! I’m going to come!”

I wanted to taste him, and pulled his dick into my mouth.

“Fuck! No!”

He exploded in my mouth in fountains of hot cum. I gulped down his salty seed. I was the sultry diva of my performance, sucking down my man’s juice.

He pulled his hands from my hair, and collapsed onto the hard top of the Toyota. I gave his beautiful dick one last lick, and looked up at his exhausted face.

“Sorry, Gabby, I couldn’t hold back.”

“No, I wanted to taste you.”

He sunk down on his knees in front of me, and leaned in for a passionate, grateful kiss, his hands caressing my breasts. I luxuriated in his touch for a long time.

“Miss Smuts!” It was Scissors calling out across the lot.

James stood up and waved.

“They be callin’ for an encore from the diva, if you’re up for it, li’l lady,” inquired Scissors.

I stood, smoothing down my dress, and locking the car behind me. “Yeah, I could manage that,” I told him. I was so high on the night, that I could go back and sing a whole bonus gig. I took a step in my heels, and added, “But I can’t walk across this lot in these shoes.”

James crossed his forearms, “How about a chair hoist?”

Scissors reached out and grasped James’s wrists, their arms forming a lattice, which they lowered for me. I sat on their hands, wrapping an arm around their shoulders, and my new friends hoisted smoothly back to Slick’s Swamp Shack.

Ole Bill was at the bar. “Time for a beer,” he said, putting two bottles on the counter for James and me.

“Why thank you!” said James, taking a slug from his bottle.

“Miss Smuts, are you up for givin’ us some more of your beautiful music?” asked Bill.

“Please!” cried Grace, hopping at the end of the bar.

“Sure, I’d love to sing a bit more,” I replied, sipping at my beer.

“Would you min’ a bit of accompaniment?” asked Ole Bill, as he pulled a violin and bow from below the bar. “Scissors done fetch it from the storeroom out back.”

“Sure, why not! Let’s have a jam session!” I answered.

“Not me, the han’some doctor.” Bill held out the fiddle for James.

I looked at James, nonplussed.

“How d’you know I played?” he said.

“I thought to m’se’f why some hot-shot doctor would have a hickey on his neck,” replied Bill.

Sure enough, as James held back his collar, there was a small welt on the left side of his neck, at just the height of a violin held in the crook of the neck.

I winked at him, “So, good doctor, are you up for a jam session?”

“The chance of making sweet music with my favorite blues singer?” he said, taking the fiddle and bow.

“Come on then, maestro!” I told him, slapping his ass as I passed him, before working my way between the tables to the stage.

“Sweetheart, I jus’ been prayin’ for more,” said Mama Jelly Roll as I passed her.

I stepped up on the stage and retrieved Geeshie, turning to see James join me.

“If it ain’t too much trouble, let me have your A.”

I played him the open string, and he tucked the fiddle under his chin and tuned to my note. He tuned the other strings from it, looked across at me and nodded.

I stepped up to the microphone. “Ladies and gentleman, for an encore, I present a jam session with my old school friend …”

“And new lover!” called Mama Jelly Roll.

I smirked at her, and then at James, who returned the smirk. “… Dr. James Singer.” I stepped back, turning to him, “What shall we start with?”

“How about a slow twelve-bar?”

“D major good for you?”

He nodded.

I began a slow finger-picking blues. One bar in, James’s fiddle entered, singing the line just as I would sing it. I picked through the accompaniment, and his fiddle sang a simple, unadorned blues melody.

We returned to the beginning, and James made the fiddle wail just as I would Geeshie. These and the next twelve bars were more improvised, James’s fiddle soaring and singing, allowing me to throw some simple suspensions and sevenths into the rhythm part below him. Then he brought his melody down low and slow, and mirrored my rhythm part.

“Play it, Gabby!” he said.

I moved my fingers up Geeshie’s fretboard, bending the notes like a howl. James bowed the slow rhythm part below me, and I played off it, soaring, singing, wailing.

I looked out over the room. Colonel Seersucker and Mama Jelly Roll were kissing and canoodling up front. The Bimmer girl was being twirled as she danced with her beau. Ole Bill was to one side of the bar, raising another glass of whiskey to our performance.

Scissors was leaning back behind the bar, smiling up at me. It was only from the raised stage that I could spot the top of Grace’s head bobbing against her big man’s crotch. The rest of the room was full of people doing similar things – kissing, cuddling, dancing, drinking, and perhaps more intimate things.

I became aware that James had left the rhythm part behind and had risen to improvise round my own playing. I turned to him and smiled, hammering on that G in a suspension. He answered with a long glissando onto a G, giving me a wink. The game was on: I twisted and turned, and he followed, improvising off me. Then he slipped down an octave, and I followed him.

I turned to face him, and he me. I upped the tempo, the duel was on. I threw fast fingerpicking, note bending, hammering and sliding. I felt my panty-less crotch get wet again as I played with my man. His boyish smile beamed at my over his sawing bow, mud stains still on the knees of his pants. He responded with a series of rapid tremolos played up near the bridge of the violin, producing an impassioned plea.

I bent some squealing blues notes, and James responded with a series of ethereal harmonics that made my hair pop. My body was on fire, deeply aroused. Our eyes met, registering satisfaction of each other’s playing.

I dropped back to the slow, twelve-bar rhythm part, and James mirrored me with a double-stopped drone that filled out my part. Hollers and whoops erupted around the shack. Starting with Scissors, as Grace stood up beside him, wiping her chin. Maybe his climax had corresponded with ours. We brought the music way down low, to an exhausted diminuendo of an ending. Applause broke out. James held aloft his fiddle and bow in his left hand and took my hand with his right, leading us in a bow to the enraptured house.

Suddenly, Grace was there before the stage with an old Polaroid camera. “May I?” she asked us.

I nodded, and, before I knew it, Ole Bill and Scissors were on the stage beside us. My old Geeshie and I, James and his borrowed fiddle, the man-mountain Scissors, and the half-blind, but so perceptive, Bill huddled together for two shots.

“Memories of one blissful night. One for behin’ the bar, an’ one for the diva lady!” declared Grace.

The huddle broke, and Ole Bill handed me a stuffed envelope. “It more than I done promise your manager, but less than what you did give us.”

I could only smile into his cloudy eyes as I took the money.

Scissors handed James one of the polaroids from Grace. “For your li’l lady there.”

I smiled at the possessive turn of phrase.

“You two lovebirds can use the backroom for the night. I gonna fix you a royal breakfas’ come mornin’,” beamed Bill.

Without hesitation, I took James’s hand and led him off through the stage door and back round to the ‘green room’. I tossed the money on the table, and James his fiddle beside it, standing the slowly developing photograph between its strings. I stowed Geeshie back in her case, closed the lid and its catches, and leaned it against the wall.

That was enough: our hands and lips were exploring each other hungrily. I took James’s wrist and lowered his hand down my back to the zip of my dress. As he moved the zip slowly down its track, my breasts heaved free against the loosened fabric. He slid the dress over my shoulders, kissing the exposed rise of my breasts in their blue lace cups. I placed my hands on his shoulders, and eased my feet down out of my shoes.

I stepped back, and wriggled out of my dress. James knelt before me, kissing the thick crop of my pubic hair as I revealed it. I pushed him back, so I could step out of the dress and hang it in its bag. He stood and caressed my breasts from behind as I reached to hang the dress. His hands rounded my back and unhitched my bra strap, easing me free of my last constraint, kissing across my shoulder blade. He turned me slowly in his arms, and as I turned I saw the developed photo.

“James, look!”

He peered over my shoulder, following my pointing hand to the photograph. There were the five us: me, James, Ole Bill, Scissors, and the man I knew from the other pictures, the man I thought must be Slick.

James whispered, “Ole Bill did say that Slick put a whole lotta love into this place.”

We all had felt his presence tonight. I leaned against James chest, letting his hands cup my breasts, smelling his cologne. I whispered to him, “Fuck me!”

shack   slick's   swamp  

Nov 24, 2017 in blowjob

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