$ᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ ɢʀᴏᴜᴘɪᴇ // $ᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇʙᴏʏ$

Chapter One

When he told me to lift my skirt and bend over the sink, there was a moment where I hesitated. There was always a moment. My body went completely still and the word no made a fist in my throat, and then I just did it.

I wriggled my tight skirt up over my thighs and exposed my backside to his waiting gaze.

In fact, I did much more than that. Mainly because I had started anticipating these little trips to the bathroom after each show, and this time I didn't wear panties. Plus, when I'd bend over my legs would somehow automatically spread, so he got a view of everything.

He got to see the slippery pink flesh between, as flushed and swollen as I'd ever felt it. Of course I liked to pretend I hated these little excursions after he'd get done performing, and that what Scrim did to me was degrading and disgusting and oh, wasn't it awful? But the fact remained that the moment he told me to bend over in that deep voice of his, my clit swelled. Wetness trickled from between my legs, down over my quite possibly quivering thighs.

I quivered for Scrim. I bent over for Scrim. I would even forget who I was and become this other creature. I didn't even know her name, to be honest. She looked like me and talked like me and even acted like me in some respects. And she could never let herself be used the way I was going to let Scrim use me right now.

I still laid my hands on the rim of the sink so that they were apart but parallel to each other. I turned over in my mind each way he could possibly debase me as he stood behind me, his orange shirt sweaty from stage, his dreads shaping his tattooed face, his mouth in that mean line it so often fell into.

He could push something into my pussy. He'd never done it before, but that didn't mean he couldn't do it now if he wanted to. I was as slick as I'd ever been, but more than that I felt greedy down there, as though I could take anything he wanted to offer. His fingers? His tongue? His cock? Yeah, he could fill me with any of those if he chose to.

In my normal life, the life outside of following my favorite musicians across the country, the life outside the strange, still unspoken relationship Scrim and I struck up, I would never let something like this happen.

But here my life was different, I was a different person. Here he didn't have to say a word, and my mind flooded with a million options, each more disgusting than the last. In fact, I suspected that my mind was actually far more disgusting than his. After all, he'd never actually fucked me yet. Most of the time he didn't even touch me between my legs, and he hardly ever pushed me into touching him.

It was just this, it was just him behind me with the thought of what he could do buzzing through my body. He could order me to let him slip his cock inside me. He could spank me until my flesh sang red-hot songs, until I bled and wept and begged him not to.

And though I was sure I'd never wanted any of those things, there was something about him that made me give in anyway. Something about his eyes, as calm and blue as a crystal lake. And his tone, his perfect, deep tone.

No order was ever barked, his voice was never raised. His orders didn't seem like orders, to be honest. One night, about a week ago, after a show he just said to me, quite matter-of-factly: "Come backstage, I'd like to see your pussy, shawty."

A then a sort of haze had descended over me, as though his words had thrown a veil over my head. The veil was with me right now as he murmured that I should spread my legs wider and wider. He wanted to see just how wet I was, just how bad I'd been, before he'd progressed to anything further.

And oh god, how I was longing for anything further. Use your fingers, I thought at him frantically, while my cheeks turned crimson and my body shuddered over the idea. Force me to take your cock, I thought at him, though somehow I knew he wouldn't.