Cecilia
Cecilia. Her hair is a red tiled roof on an alabaster balustrade. Eyes? Her eyes change from ice blue to royal to a deep violet to a bottle green.
If she weighed twenty fewer pounds, she would be described as petite. Short, outrageously curvaceous and a bit thick, Cecilia possesses a rare sexual magnetism. And man, that’s a voice.
Me? I am a 52 year-old bucket of nothing and nobody. Oh yeah, I play some keys, sing, work the shakers or the claves, but the show stopper is Cecilia.
I have taken a very personal interest in Cecilia’s song. She’s my ticket, right? I’ve guided her career since we met two years ago when she was only eighteen. But it’s more than her career that concerns me. See, we hooked up.
Okay, so like you think it’s a Daddy thing? An Uncle thing? Maybe you think I’m paying her to fuck my out-of-shape old body? Maybe you think she’s tryin’ to sleep her way into some kind of record deal. Well, I’ll let you figure it out.
Billboard magazine debuted our single at #88 with a bullet. It got heavy club play, we hit #58 on the pop charts, #42 on the R&B charts. not bad. We toured some, until an overzealous fan nearly broke Cecilia’s back when he tackled her to the stage in Edinburgh.
Now we were back in the studio, cutting our second CD and ready to blow up. That is to say, we were on the verge of pop stardom. A major video producer with a long, illustrious track record was in negotiation with the record company, our management and legal teams from all sides.
The rehearsal had gone well. The bassist rearranged a bridge and punched it up some, and Cecilia let her voice go just a little. She’s warming up slowly, the engineer ready to grab a take.
She looks at me and licks her lips, the microphone a steel phallus waiting for her sonic kiss. The click ticks in my headphones and the first layer of sensuous pad is laid under the sinuous bass line. Still looking at me, Cecilia opens her mouth. I momentarily lift my hand from the bass half of the keyboard, removing my RayBan’s, eyes connecting. She shudders.
The conga pump, sweet shakers, click clave sticktickbongo agogo. She shivers, a low moan, the major seventh in the ninth chord rising without warning from her full lips. .
My eyes. She falls into them, feeling the fingertip beginning to caress her clit, two soft mouths on nipples, a gentle hand rubbing her back, a strong hand squeezing her buttock, a tongue licking around her tight penny. “Damn you,” she thinks, and begins to sing.
The highs are always higher after I convince her with my eyes. The rhythm always strokes and grinds when she falls into my stare. She puts in the performance of her life, cums, cries and sings.
The producer grins again from behind the glass. “Holy fuck! Another hit single… shit, I need to change my shorts.” Laughter in the studio.
Her eyes search mine for another dose, another taste.
“You know how to ask for it, Cecilia.” I smile, not unkindly.
She beckons the boys to stand in a circle, the engineer, the producer, the gopher, Billy the guitarist, Ronnie the bassist, Cujo the conguero. Seven cocks, seven blowjobs.
I smile from behind the keyboard. Yeah, I may be old, fat and unappealing, but I got the Eyes. You ask why I’m not doing the blowjob thang? Well, I have an exclusive contract with all the other members of her body band…The Hole Sisters, the Nipple Twins, the Buns Nuns…you know.
After they all blow their loads down Cecilia’s talented throat, the producer calls for an hour long lunch break and the band wanders out of the studio.
My chanteuse storms over to the piano. “Why did you make me do that?” she demands with a gurgle. “Why do you debase me?”
“Because it makes you sing like an angel and fuck like the Devil.”
She fumes a moment, then blanches as I remove the shades.
“Oh no, please man, don’t do that to me. I need to rest a minute, I beg you.” A moan of arousal escapes her mouth as she locks onto my eyes.
“Oh fuck Daddy! Ah-ha-hie-eee!”
I can smell her sweet sex intensely through her clothing. She doubles over in a howling orgasm, my mind invading her pussy, her ass and her throbbing red clit.
“Oh thank you Master,” she moans.
My eyes allow me to control her, to play her body, voice, mind and soul. She’s addicted to the gaze. She fears it. She needs it.
The engineer and band rejoin us in the studio, taking their places.
:Ready to sing, love?”
She nods, then softly asks, “Bondage for this next track, okay?”
The engineer laughs, “Tape is rolling, ciCi.” He grins from ear to ear.
I rise and move around the stack of keyboard instruments in front of me, pulling a pair of rubber handcuffs from my pocket and quickly pull both hands behind her back. I then pull up the front of her tight tank top, revealing breasts too firm, young and natural to require a bra. She moans softly.
I remove the RayBans, staring into her eyes.
I whisper, “When we come back after the piano riff at the end of the bass solo, you’re going to have an intense orgasm. I want to feel that when you come into the bridge and all the way through the last chorus.”
She gazes into my eyes, feeding on the energy. “please man, no. Don’t make me do that.
I kindly smile at her, my voice low and soothing. “Your pussy is tingling. I think your clit is swelling a bit. You feel so horny.”
Her lip trembles.
“Please.” Her cry of distress turns into a gasp, then a low moan.
“cue the click, barney.” I finger the first chord.
author:Uncle Squinty