Beautiful Losers - Part Twenty Five

There was no getting off work before five-thirty: too much going on and I could hardly ask for more time off. Even with a taxi, I didn't reach Sebastian's house until six and, of course, there were five cars in the private driveway. The house was lit up like a Christmas tree.

Well, I figured, if the video turns out to be really unacceptable, I could always stomp my feet and whine until I got my way - maybe. I'd have to live with the band seeing whatever was on the screen, but at least I could make sure the audience never saw it.

After ringing the doorbell, I had to wait several minutes to find out that what had sounded like a party from outside, was indeed a party on the inside. Jean opened the door, a pale blue cocktail in a martini glass in one hand. "Shirakins! Why are you so late? Everyone's here," he fussed, waving me inside.

"Everyone?" I repeated dubiously, shrugging off my jacket, painfully aware of my filthy clothes and the fact that I smelled like burned rubber. "Everyone who?"

Jean wrinkled his nose and took a sip of his drink. "Your band, their sig-oths, a few acquaintances. Well, you know how it is, sweetie, Sebastian *has* to shine."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," I muttered, peering around the hallway into the living room. "Just... just give me five minutes."

I ran up the stairs, pulling off my clothes as I walked down the corridor, swearing under my breath. I needed a shower and a change into something that didn't smell like fried electrical cables. It was only when I stood, fuming, under the hot water that a number of things occurred to me. Firstly, it was not my imagination that Jean was retreating into camp, club mode. Secondly, I was hugely pissed at Sebastian. Why had he decided it was okay to show this to everyone without at least letting me look at it first?

My clothes were still packed haphazardly in my bags. I had to rummage through stuff, and eventually gave up and settled on an identical pair of black combat trousers and a badly creased t-shirt. My hand shook as I put on my eyeliner. I had to wipe it off and start again.

On the third try, Sebastian strolled into the bathroom looking pleased with himself. I glared at him in the mirror.

"You're not in my good books," I mumbled, steadying my hand against the counter and closing one lid.

He stepped behind me, snugged himself against my ass and slid his hands up the front of my t-shirt. The nice neat black line was no more. It trailed jaggedly over my temple.

"Oh, FUCK! Sebastian!"

"Mm... yes please. Don't be mad at me Shirakins," he said in a mock whimper. "This way, everyone who is involved gets to see what it looks like before it runs live. And you do look good with your make-up fucked up like that. Quickie?" He punctuated the word with a thrust.

I growled in frustration, wiping off the third attempt with a wet Kleenex and slamming the eyeliner tube down onto the counter top. "No!" I snapped. It was annoying to be so angry and know that he could feel my nipple tighten at the same time.

As if to make sure I knew that he knew, he pinched one of them hard, and then let it go, sliding his hand down to my waist, undoing the buttons on my trousers. He lowered his lips to my neck, taking a sharp little bite, as his hand slipped beneath the waistband of my panties.

"Ow!"

The fingers at my cunt slid between my lips with annoying ease, teasing my clit. "Not quite as disinterested as all that," he said in a dry, rough voice. "But you're still mad at me."

"I am." It sounded pathetic, because I was already moving my hips, pushing myself against his hand. My eyes met his in the mirror. "I *am*!"

It was a half-smile that curled his lips. "I know you are," he said, bending forward, pushing me with him as he reached into the box of condoms on the counter. He handed it to me, pulling fingers from between my legs, trailing wetness up my stomach. "Open it."

"Don't think..." I said in a sharp voice, ripping a corner off the condom wrapper with my incisor, "that just because I want to fuck, I'm not still pissed at you." I proffered the peeled condom over my shoulder.

"Oh, I'm banking on it, Shira. You be just as mad as you like." Sebastian unzipped his jeans, pushing them down his hips a little and shaking his head, still smirking. He took the condom and I heard it unroll wetly over his cock.

"Fuck you!" I half-turned, infuriated by the patronizing tone of his voice, but he grabbed the back of my neck and pushed me over the sink with one hand. The other tugged down my trousers, with a complete lack of regard for my skin, taking my panties down with them. "Ow! You asshole," I hissed, squirming. The fact he hadn't even bothered to pull them past mid-thigh pissed me off more.

The sound he made was something between a laugh and a moan. The warm, wet texture of his sheathed cock pushed between my thighs and he reached around to guide it. The head nestle against my opening.

"Want it?"

"Yes!" I snapped.

Sebastian let go of my neck and dug his fingers into my hips. The thrust was so hard, it lifted me off the floor.

I let out a yelp, and tried to twist around, to hit him or claw him or something, but there were no satisfying targets within my reach. "You...you bastard!"

Perhaps if he'd just gone on thrusting, I would have been able to keep up my ire, but after that first violent shove, he held himself buried and still, breathing hard. The grip on my hips loosened. The walls of my cunt reverberated around him with the shock of that first, rough penetration.

"More?" he growled.

"Yes."

"Same as before, or not so hard?"

Something in the question, something in the tone of his voice almost pushed me over the edge right then and there. "Not...not quite so hard, please," I answered softly.

He bent forwards, his arms sliding between mine, crossing over my chest. His hands cupped my shoulders, and he pressed his face to my neck. "Alright, not so hard," he murmured to my skin.

It wasn't gentle, but it felt so overwhelmingly sweet, I gasped again - this time at the sheer pleasure. All the anger I'd felt a minute before notched down step by step with each stroke. As it ebbed, an intensely delicious feeling overtook it.

"God...Seb...Sebastian." My breath caught and caught again. I was coming in the strangest way. Like sinking in thick, hot quicksand. The sensation crawled up my body and enveloped it.

"Good?" he panted.

"Oh...yes! You?"

But there was no answer. He pushed in a little harder, a little deeper, through my contracting muscles, until he stopped, fully seated and shuddered against my back. No one moved for a bit. Then slowly I realized I was staring at a tap, very close up.

"Can you shift a little?"

"Mm-m. I guess, if I have to. Are you still mad?"

"No."

The problem was, I actually meant it. But that wasn't the time to think about it. I pushed myself up on the counter, to meet my reflection: half-stunned and the skin flush blazing on my neck and cheeks. Sebastian eased out of me.

I sighed, trying to bring my brain and my body into a semblance of order. Staring at the mirror, I said. "I can't go down there for a bit. Not like this."

After disposing of the condom, he zipped himself back up. He glanced down and bit his lip.

"Well, you might..." the effort of suppressing his mirth muddled his words, "want to...do your pants up first, Shira," he managed, before breaking into fits of laughter.

I reached down and tugged them over my hips, my blush only adding to the colour in my skin. "Fuck you, Sebastian."

* * *

I did make it downstairs fifteen minutes later, still feeling shaky and spaced-out. Fixing an artificial smile on my face, I sipped the drink Jean shoved into my hand and made small talk with Lindsey and her husband. When Tom walked by with a lit joint, I almost tackled him to the carpet to get my hands on it.

"Feeling nervous?" simpered Matt.

After two years in the same band with him, I had to admit it: I really didn't like him very much. There was no question about his musicianship, but he had an uncanny ability to know exactly where all the publicly humiliating traps were buried, and took delight in withholding the information from the people who really could have done with a warning.

Finally Sebastian herded us into the library. The drop-sheets still covered the floor and everyone picked a spot, sat down, and faced the only wall in the room that didn't have bookshelves against it.

But I couldn't. I made some room on the sofa, shoving aside a pile of clothes, and held my breath. Jean got the switched off the lights, and Sebastian ran the projector from his laptop.

I knew he hadn't shot in infared film because his camera was digital, but the video had the same silvery green quality. For part of it, he'd used stills and just flashed them up and out to black, for other parts, there were sequences of limbs moving in an almost mechanical, jerky way, leaving trails of themselves behind like afterthoughts. Sebastian had been telling the truth. It was impossible to know whom the parts belonged too. They were just ghost body parts, like the severed hand in those old horror films, only more poignant, more human.

He'd obviously gotten a hold of our demo CD off Tom, because the music on the speakers was ours, and it worked. It worked beautifully. I shifted in my seat, feeling bruised.

losers22

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