The Phoenix and the Serpent
My band, Wiccad, was between sets when I accidentally body-checked her. Her softness startled me. Sometimes I’ll touch a guy’s arm and he’ll tense up to show me his muscles or as a display of what he thinks his cock will do after he rips my clothes off. This woman’s body accepted me instantly as if trying to envelop me in her. She had long black hair, blue eyes, and creamy skin. I caught my breath.
“Hey,” was all I could say in the smoky sconce light of The Hurricane, the newly remodeled Kansas City live rock club. She just smiled. I wasn’t totally heterosexual and she knew it. I wasn’t even sure of my “status” in that regard. Most women knew so much more about themselves than I did, and sometimes more about me.
I crawled back onstage to continue my descent into the dark side of my psyche. I worked hard at it. I screamed songs in ranges that boys couldn’t reach without their balls clenched in their hands and blood squirting from their vocal cords. My music was a very special kind of therapy. I ended the set on the ground with my feet in the air screaming, “Give me what I want!” People related to that in a big way. The applause was awesome, but it wasn’t really for the band. It was for how we fucked Death then gave Him a finger in the ass afterward.
She found me after the show. I could see the edges of the artwork that covered her body peeking out from under her shirt. A serpent’s tongue and flames licked up between her breasts. I only had one tattoo—a dragon wrapped around a sword. That card in the dragon tarot deck, the ace of swords, stood for breakthrough. One tat wasn’t enough to fully ingratiate myself into the semi-secret society of the inked underground. Was I a merely an aficionado who’d later regret my decision and go under the laser to erase my mistake? Hell no. I just needed a little more cash and my commitment would deepen with another pet for my skin.
But this chick was married to her ink in a big way.
“Cassandra.” She held out her arm toward me. I took her delicate hand into mine. I could never get over how tiny and crushable a woman’s hand felt, even knowing that mine was also that way.
“Elle. Not the magazine.” My usual response. It was sometimes annoying having a name you have to explain.
She laughed. I knew she found me amusing for reasons that weren’t just my natural wit. I was a bumbling tomboy with long hair and big boobs. Girls loved me.
“Well, Elle,” she said softly, “is there somewhere we can go ... to be alone?”
I was floored. When men said crap like that, my impulse was to laugh at their drunken directness. They were like jolly trolls in go-carts fishing with Twinkie-baited lures and neon bobbers—fucking silly. She was just ... asking me to fuck. My brain could barely handle the idea of indulging in such a sweet double standard.
“Okay.” It just came out of my mouth. I had no idea what I was getting myself into, and I didn’t care. She’d caught me off guard on a good night.
I led her downstairs to the red-walled green room. We were the only act that night. The usual green room groupies were upstairs hanging out with the rest of the band. I’d be missed, but the absence would add to my mystique. Let them assume I was inhaling some magic powder or smoking some exotic poppy derivative. Drugs never appealed to me, so I needed all the help I could get playing “rock star.”
One light bulb gave off about two candles worth of light. We were alone underneath the layer of party noise upstairs. She was a girl. I was a girl. I couldn’t even try to do the math, so I stood there caught inside the implied demand of her previous words. She touched the hollow of my collarbone, her thumb resting on the notch in my neck. I’d cough spasmodically if she pressed in there. She didn’t, but teased me with the prospect. My skin tingled. Her fingers came together and she slid her hand up my neck and around to the nape, dragging her thumb up along my jaw line as her fingers found the back of my head. She grabbed my hair and pulled down. My head fell back and my mouth opened. She pushed her lips into mine, stealing my breath and drowning me in her soft tongue.
Sounds came out my throat that my vocal training only wished it could duplicate. In one move, she was in complete control of me. I could command the attention of a drunk audience for four hours. Now I was being held captive by a being I’d only just encountered. I felt the cosmic balance of it.
She grasped the front of my shirt and tore it off me in one stroke, her kiss still flavoring my mouth. There was strength underneath the soft. Uncanny strength.
I shook in the wake of her move, my body hanging there like a puppet. I had to regain some sense of myself before she took everything and left me in heap because there was nothing else to take.
I pushed her lightning hard across the room into the painted stone wall. She smiled as she hit.
“Wasn’t sure if you had it in you,” she said, kicking off her shoes.
“What I do up there,” I said, pointing at the ceiling under the stage, “isn’t fake.”
She bowed her head almost imperceptibly. I blinked. She came at me faster than a hawk to a mouse. I turned to whisk some of the oncoming energy past my central core. My solar plexus would have caved under such an impact. She hooked me around the waist with one arm and took me down with her. The upright fight was finished. It was now a ground war. She vied for the top spot right away, very adept at maneuvering her weight.
“You’ve been trained in ... something,” I breathed in her ear. She smelled so good, hints of cinnamon and blackberries and almond. I licked her neck to get a taste of her. I wanted to consume her. She held me down playfully. I had studied martial arts a little. I’d never gotten a black belt, but I knew bits and pieces of kung fu and karate—enough to get myself killed in a fight, and enough to know a pro when I met one.
“Yes,” she said.
“Grappling?” I asked, knowing that the ground was where grapplers did their best work.
“Jujitsu,” she said, fully pinning me.
“You set me up, then. Just now,” I stated flatly. She smiled. Her initial aggression had been a martial arts joke of sorts, mocking the impact-oriented studies. Flashy. Impractical. She could do whatever she wanted with me without that kind of display.
I found her mouth with mine and sucked her breath into me. I was a master of ... air. I sang notes longer than was safe with a focused anger that turned to power under the right conditions. I breathed her down until I felt her weaken a little. She pulled away from the vacuum, breathless. I tore her shirt off, found her bra clasp and released her breasts.
It was my turn to lose my breath again. Her body was spectacular. A serpent worked its way around her torso, meeting a phoenix whose wingspan extended around her body. Her C-cup breasts presided over the scene with hieroglyphic majesty. The fire of the phoenix seemed to reach out toward me in the dim light.
She pulled her body close to me, pulling at the last of my clothing until I was her naked prey. She removed her own pants, holding me down with one long arm extending between my breasts, reaching for my throat again. I was at a loss as to how to approach this last step in the disrobing process with her. Cock was easy. Obvious. Familiar. She instinctively knew when to fill the gaps in my knowledge without making me feel like the novice I was—the true sign of a master.
I tasted her breasts. This was something I always knew I needed. As I took a gorgeous nipple into my mouth, I reached around her back where the serpent’s tail and one phoenix wing tip touched. I kissed back up to her mouth. I was the hottest wet I could imagine. She got on her knees. I lifted my legs, wrapping them around her waist. She slid her arm around me and up my back. The serpent seemed to wrap itself around me as she lifted me. I saw our entwined bodies in the dressing mirror. We looked like a scorpion in mid-sting. She slid her tongue to my breasts. Her red lips electrified me. She laid me on the ground again. She was going down.
I could not believe the feeling. She knew me better than I knew myself down there. It had always taken forever for a guy to get me to come that way, even the skilled ones. Her tongue navigated me with perfect precision. I was re-lit by her tongue’s every flick. The ball of fire was building and I couldn’t control it. I just hoped that if they found me dead in the basement of The Hurricane, I’d be wearing a peaceful smile instead of the wretched contortions that were ripping through my facial muscles at that moment. She built me up then backed off over and over until she controlled my soul. I would have sacrificed my life to her. The ball of fire ran from my throat down to where her mouth owned me, then back to my throat again. I screamed the most unholy scream ever to escape from my mouth. The red carpet and stone walls ate the sound like it never happened.
Coming—such sweet, sublime sorrow. The orgasm rolled through me for a small eternity then rolled quietly away. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t see, the phoenix and the serpent burned into my mental theater of vision. I could barely feel myself breathing as she slid herself along my body up to my face to kiss me. I could taste myself in her mouth. I wanted to return the favor, let her taste herself in my mouth, but I couldn’t make my limbs do a damn thing. I also knew that I’d do her no justice as a beginner, especially one who had just been drained of everything she had. I looked her in the eyes. She smiled.
“Your debt is already paid, love,” she said, reading my intent.
“How?” I whispered.
She pointed upstairs to the stage. Tears welled in her eyes. She kissed me, dressed herself in her torn clothes, then left. I wasn’t rich, didn’t have a record deal, rarely rode in limos, never drank Cristal, but I’d had that much of an effect on her. My eyes burned, crying a dehydrated vapor of post-show water loss and Cassandra’s sweet, draining work on me.
I waited a little while to collect myself then walked back upstairs. People were drinking and talking in the din of recorded music that seeped from the PA system, unaware of what had happened right under their feet. I felt myself smile as I packed up my equipment. She’d be back. I’d be ready for her.
Copyright © 2007 by Lory Lacy. All rights reserved.
Lory Lacy has a master’s degree in music. She attended Oberlin, Peabody, and San Francisco conservatories as a flute major. She performed and recorded on disc and on television as a classical, jazz, and rock musician in Los Angeles before moving to Kansas City in 2003. She was recently included in the “Women in Jazz” archives in the American Jazz Museum. She sings/screams and plays flute and saxophone for the Kansas City hard rock band, Firebox. Her weekly guest spot, “Lory on the Loose!”, on the 99.7 KYYS morning radio show, “Max and Tanna,” features Lory’s adventures in sex, music, and comedy. She enjoys writing comedy and erotic fiction. Visit her rock & roll mayhem at http://www.fyvm.com.
If you enjoyed the story, why not let the author know? Type your message below and we’ll send the author email. Leave the from box empty to be anonymous, but include your email address if you want a reply.