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Banging Rebecca
    By Alison Tyler
     
    And a one, and a two…
    When you date a drummer, you know what you’re getting into. There is no confusion about schedules or lifestyles. Right from the rim shot, your world is thrown off beat. I didn’t go in with my eyes closed. (Sure, I’m blindfolded at this moment, but my eyes were open from the start.) After all, I’d met Sean at a concert. I knew his nights were spent playing the drums for a local art house band called Daemon 7. I understood he was often up until three in the morning, because that very first night, he was up with me. Up in the alley behind the Pico Boulevard venue, pressing against me, pawing his way into my little black satin shorts, flicking open the silver buttons on my buffalo plaid shirt with a dynamic rhythm.
    I could almost hear the drum beat in my head.
    “Saw you in the front row,” he told me, mouth to my ear, hot breath on my skin. “I knew you saw me, too.”
    While most of the girls in the crowd oohed over Derrick Jacobsen, the feline lead singer with the mane of white hair, I had been captivated by Sean. He wore a sleeveless chrome-gray tee-shirt, and the muscles in his arms flexed and danced when he beat the skins. He was a man possessed, eyes glazed, body moving as he kept the band on track. Yet apparently, he’d felt me watching him, had seen me through his tangled mess of caramel curls.
    That night, he tore down my midnight shorts and stared impatiently until I stepped forward—leaving a tiny ripple of black satin on the gravel-strewn ground. I was wearing thigh-high fencenet stockings and no panties, and he hesitated only long enough to bend to his knees on the pavement and lick my clit. His face burrowed into me, and I gripped onto his ripped shoulders—my fingers slipping on his bare skin—and sighed. Although the urge was there, I didn’t toss my back head or close my eyes. I wanted to see everything, wanted to watch as he parted my nether lips with his thumbs and went in tight for those dreamy circles around and around my clit.
    “Fucking god,” I hissed.
    We were in a groove right from the very start, no stammering, no struggling. But when he sensed my impending climax, he stood up, lifted me up in those steady arms of his, pinned me against the brick wall, and slammed inside of me.
    I cried out at the first thrust of his cock, driving hard and fast into my pussy.
    “You like that.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Tell me why, girl.”
    I had to slow down, to really look at him—unable to believe he had hit on one of my top fantasies so quickly. Making me talk when words were failing. Making me tell him what turned me on when I could hardly find the ability to open my mouth. We were still strangers: fan and musician, groupie and rock god, even if he was only a rock god to a pierced and tattooed crowd of seventy-five. How had he known what to ask me?
    “Because…” I stuttered. “Because anyone could see.”
    He gripped my dark hair in his hand, balancing my weight with on his thighs. “See who you really are?”
    He didn’t even know my name, but he seemed to understand my soul. “Yeah—” I murmured.
    “What a dirty little slut you are?”
    “Oh, god, yeah.”
    He pulled out then, gripped my hips and moved me up and down slowly, so that he was fucking my clit with the shaft of his cock. I became entirely still, letting him manhandle me, knowing that he was going to make me come like that, from fucking my clit with the girth of his cock. He didn’t climax, himself. He let me reach my outer limits, biting my lips, trembling all over, and then he set me gently down on the ground.
    My skin was scraped raw afterwards, bricks an unfriendly excuse for a bed, but the feeling of being pounded—quite literally between the rocklike wall and a hard place of the drummer—had me flying.
    “I’m Sean Mitchell,” he said, after he’d managed to tuck himself back into his jeans, grinning as I shook out my little shorts and stepped back