Verse

A NOTE TO READERS: Welcome to another one of Five Eight's black comedies, everybody. Damn, it's hot enough outside for a cold shower BUT there's plenty of naughty bits, sneaky characters and snarky dialogue ahead. Five loves his new heroine and knows you will too. She's hot, she's blonde, but not dumb. The cold shower can wait until after you get to know her a little better.

**********

April March's summer vacation turned out to be pretty shitty. So far.

At first she'd been excited about going to Jamaica. But there wasn't anything to do once she got there except swim. Swimming got old quick, even in the azure Caribbean. Instead of staying in a resort her parents rented a place out of town. She didn't have any girlfriends to talk to, there were zero guys, only an old groundskeeper who didn't qualify and a fellow from her daddy's firm whom she seldom saw. Despite the beautiful scenery there were few places to ride her skateboard, and she'd lugged that unwieldy fucker through three airports.

As far as any inspired creativity on her part went: Nil City. This damn rock jutting out of the ocean and its tropical moon inspired her not a bit. She'd only written a single poem in her notebook, Verse by Avril Mars (her name in French, it sounded like a mixed-up calendar in English), and scribbled over it. It read like an amateur high school rant when she'd been trying to channel her inner Jim Morrison.

Her dad owned a big security outfit in southern Cal, her mom employed a staff of three to run their luxurious home in Santa Monica. In Jamaica April's folks lounged around the big beach house they'd rented getting drunk all day. Since neither of them smoked there weren't any cigarettes for her to steal. The food sucked too; island shit, she came to think of it. You couldn't get a decent burger here. If she laid eyes on one more slimy mango slice she'd hurl. A few days ago her parents informed her they were throwing a party tonight for their friends on the island. Catered food and entertainment; they'd hired a calypso band. Big fucking whoop, she'd groaned inside: bring on the Harry Bellafonte, the melon balls, brick-hard pineapple chunks and monkey meat on a stick.

April perked up when the group proved to be a reggae band, not that her parents could tell the difference, the musicians all young guys in their twenties. When she saw them setting up out by the freshwater pool she immediately changed into her most revealing thong bikini. When the band started playing everybody stood around for a minute before drifting away, talking. Very few partygoers stayed and listened, but April did, sneaking cup after cup of wine punch while her parents were busy inside the house 'entertaining.' The resultant buzz ushered her ennui into the background, the reggae vibe brought a smile to her face. Her body moved with the music, not dancing per se, she'd perched her bubble butt on a chaise lounge grooving to what she knew Rastafarians called dem riddems. She smiled wide at the thought her parents would probably label this devil music. And its rhythms infected her, getting under her skin, helping to soothe her teenage blues.

The drummer responsible for those rhythms soon caught her eye, a tall lean muscled black man. He'd pulled a red, green and yellow knit cap down over the top of his head, long tails of knotted hair spilled out of it, not the typical twists or braids but honest-to-God dreadlocks. A red T-shirt with Sly & Robbie written on it stretched across his chest and the muscles of his upper arms. She liked the way the red contrasted with his shiny skin in the afternoon sunshine; she liked the way his hair whirled around his head as he flailed his drumsticks. But from where she sat what attracted her most was what appeared to be quite a potent weapon being held at bay by his immodest white Speedo trunks.

April pushed her slender thighs together as her tiny bikini bottoms went from damp to wet. Odd, because her mouth had gone very dry. She put the plastic cup to her lips and drained what was left in it. Odd, it didn't seem to help. Her pulse roared in her ears. She licked at her dry lips.

************

Taylor, the band's agent, regretted going to the gig. So far.

He'd heard their tunes a million times and, truthfully, was a little tired of them. Not that he didn't enjoy music, but music was only business to him, he made his living booking lots of acts he cared nothing about. When he heard a rumor some Island Records reps would be at the party, he'd decided to tag along. He saw money down the road if he could connect with some record company people. But they hadn't shown; nobody here but boring old farts and their drudge-like wives, some of them in muumuus. Jeez, didn't they know the difference between Honolulu and Kingston?

But it hadn't been a total loss. He got fifteen per cent off the top of the abnormally high fee of eight hundred bucks he'd negotiated with March's wife over the phone. Just to be on the safe side he'd taken the liberty of booking the band under the name of The Beachcombers instead of their real one, The Spliffs. No need to queer such a lucrative deal. And what The Spliffs didn't know wouldn't hurt them, it wasn't like they had business cards or T-shirts or their name painted on the bass drumhead. Taylor informed each of the four band members they'd get a hundred apiece for the gig, less his fifteen of course. Did he feel guilty about cheating his own act? Not a damned bit, consciences were for suckers.

He inserted another Winston into his jade cigarette holder, prepared to dip a final cup of punch from the cut-glass bowl on the patio table and get the fuck home. He'd made sure to pig out on the chicken wings so he wouldn't have to stop for dinner. A free meal, numerous bevvies and a chunk of change: no, not a total loss.

As he strolled across the lawn to the punchbowl on an umbrella table by the pool he noticed a very hot girl in a pink bikini swaying on a chaise lounge, very obviously tripping on The Spliffs, uh, Beachcombers. Where the fuck had she come from?

Taylor watched her set a yellow plastic cup on the cement and lick her lips. A breeze blew the cup over and he noticed it empty. Quickly he maneuvered to the punchbowl, filled two cups and carried them over to the vacant lawn chair next to the chaise lounge upon which the girl shimmied.

Ogling the flesh peeping out of her bathing suit he smiled as he came up alongside her saying, "I saw you were out of punch and thought I'd bring a refill," before he snapped to just how young she was.

Jeez, a teenage slut. Shoulder length pale blonde hair dark at the roots, the fringe and left front side dyed pink, too much makeup, especially eye shadow, a diamond chip glittered on one side of her nose, a unicorn tattoo close enough to her young snapper that he knew she was shaved. Was that a dark patch on the crotch of her bikini bottoms? Jeez! She really was digging the band. He swallowed uneasily, tilting the cigarette holder between his teeth, now expecting her to glance up at him, accuse him of being a perv and to please bugger off.

The girl surprised him though. She pried her eyes away from Jamal's crotch (Taylor had warned him not wear that damned Speedo) long enough to smile and reach for the cup he held out. "Thank you very much, I'm so grateful," she said, "you saved me a trip."

He'd be forty in October and the young slut really put him off his game. "You're welcome," Taylor replied as casually as possible. He took the stupid cigarette holder out of his mouth and tried to keep that clenched shut. The tops of both her nipples were visible and the wet spot on her thong resembled a surreal outline of the state of Florida. Finally all that therapy was paying for itself. The thoughts crowded his mind in a blurred jumble. While collecting them she said something he didn't hear. To cover his embarrassment he remarked, "Great band, isn't it?"

"I love reggae, they're fantastic." She took a quick sip from the cup he'd handed her.

"I like them, but then I'm their manager," Taylor lied. "I go to every show of theirs I can."

"Really?" asked the girl, wide-eyed.

"Yeah. I'll introduce you to them after the set. If you want."

"Sure!"

For a moment he thought she eyed the bulge in his cargo pants and asked, "What?"

"Is it okay?"

"Is what okay?" he swallowed again, nervous, his dick at rigid attention.

"You've been so nice I hate to ask but do you mind if I bum one of your cigarettes? You didn't seem to hear me the first time I asked."

Remain calm and cool he reminded himself. "Sorry, caught up in the jams." Reaching for his pack he had second thoughts. Chuckling innocently, he slipped a question in his remark: "You look awfully young for the booze and cancer sticks."

"Fuck all that," she blurted, rolling her eyes before abruptly changing her tune. "Excuse me, I guess that's a compliment. This time next month I'll be chilling on campus. UC Berkeley."

"Well then, since you're off to university, of course you can," he said, relieved. Ripping off musicians and clients was one thing, shagging schoolgirls was another altogether. He passed her the pack and sat down on the lawn chair.

When he realized he'd accomplished what he set out to do, meet the blonde by the pool and take the seat beside her, he began to relax and evaluate. This hot little honey seemed absolutely ready to scratch that itch deep inside that sweet kootch of hers. But how to go about it? Her presence compensated for the Island Records people being MIA. He relaxed, lit her cigarette with his lighter. No need to be in such a hurry.

"By the way, I'm Avril Mars," she said, smoke dribbling from between her lips before the breeze twisted it away. When the girl stuck her hand out to shake her right tit almost jiggled free of its pink habitat. She paid no attention.

He smiled and gave her hand a single shake. "Taylor Lancaster, talent scout, business manager, booking agent, among other various and sundry duties in the entertainment industry."

"Cool," she acknowledged with a sip of punch and a long pull on her Winston. "God, that tastes great, I haven't had a cigarette in days."

Taylor heard Avril slurring her words. Tipsy, no doubt. Who knew what might come of this? "Glad I could be of help."

Avril started making inquiries about the band, mostly about the drummer. She directed the majority of her attention his way, constantly watching his every move. Taylor answered her questions, all the while imagining he could smell her dripping pussy; already formulating a way to get into those wet panties of hers.

************

The nice Englishman who'd given her a cigarette not only fetched her a second big cup of punch but offered her another Winston. April felt his eyes staring at her body while she watched Jamal play; Taylor had supplied the drummer's name when she'd asked earlier. She decided if she didn't hook up with Jamal she'd consider Taylor. She liked his British accent and the way his unruly longish hair curled at the ends. Even though he was older, she could tell by his unbuttoned shirt he had a flat stomach and broad chest, she thought he had a cute butt too. As cute as he was she though had eyes for Jamal. And that ferocious lump straining at his swimsuit.

When the band took a break Taylor led her by hand over to meet them. She stumbled along the way and realized she'd had more wine punch than she'd bargained on, and was drunk. Taylor seemed not to notice. When they reached the band equipment he introduced everyone, saving Jamal for last. April immediately began engaging him in conversation. She rudely ignored the others as she smiled and flirted with the dreadlocked drummer. After a minute or two everyone got the idea and left them alone.

"Do you give drum lessons?" she asked him, a bit breathless, wanting to keep up the small talk.

"Sometimes. Are you interested in being a drummer?"

"You mean you'd teach me? I'm here for another week."

"I'll be glad to show you some things but right now . . ." he stopped and swiveled his head around as if searching for something through the trees and down on the beach.

"But right now what?" she wanted to know.

Jamal chuckled while gazing into her eyes. She feared her legs would melt and she'd fall. "I like talking to you, Avril, you make me feel good, you really do, but right now I need to find a piece of privacy and have a little smoke before we play the next set."

"You can smoke here, silly, we're outside."

Jamal chuckled again. "No cigarette, sweetheart. I'm talking about a spliff."

"What's a spliff?"

"Ganja. Everybody'd smell it up here."

"Is ganja weed?"

He nodded sagely. The front of his Speedo stuck out so far she wanted to fuck his brains out. Her nipples pointed through the material of her bikini top and she'd positively soaked her bottoms. She could smell her own pussy.

"Do you have enough to share?"

"Why, do you want some?"

"You bet I do," April chirped, never taking her eyes off his dick. She moved close enough for it to touch her belly as she leaned in to whisper to him: "If you have enough to share I know a private place we can smoke."

"You do?"

"Yep! Don't hide it, divide it."

He laughed and ran his fingers through his dreads. "Lead the way, young lady."

"Thank you," she gushed. "This has been one boring summer vacation. Until now."

"I'll do my best to elevate you out of the doldrums then," he promised.

April liked that phrase and made a mental note to write it down, later.

At first Jamal walked behind her, April hoped he checked out her ass and wagged it for all she was worth. Eventually he moved up beside her and she took him through a garden and down a green slope leading to the ocean. In the shade of a stand of unruly wind-shaped Juniper trees an ancient gazebo with chipped and peeling paint leaned to one side. They brushed away a few cobwebs and sat down, half hidden among all the gnarled roots and limbs and greenery. Jamal extracted a banana-sized joint and a Zippo from a fanny pack he'd brought with him. He lit up, took a few big hits and handed it to her. April had smoked weed dozens of times before, but the ganja Jamal had got her very high on top of being buzzed on wine. She felt brazen enough to edge closer to him until their bodies touched then altered her position in such a way her left breast squashed into his arm, she placed a hand high on his thigh, just inches from the raging erection she couldn't wait to get her hands on. And mouth.

He held out the spliff to her again, appraising her through eyes like slits. April shook her head. "You keep it, I've had plenty. Why don't you smoke while I thank you."

"Thank me for what?"

"For the kickass music, silly."

"I don't understand the thanking me part. You already have."

She felt really good and giggled. "Yeah, but not the way a true fan girl would."

"What you got in mind, Avril?"

"You just sit back and suck on that and I'll find something else . . . to suck on."

The expression on his face made her giggle, she loved being naughty. April crouched in front of him and removed her top, her tits swollen and firm. She drew the Speedo down to free his dick. It literally sprang out of his shorts, standing straight up, tall and wide, like a redwood. She gulped as she circled both hands around it, had known Jamal's pecker would be bigger than any she'd held before. No doubts lingered in her mind, she found herself more excited than intimidated or awed, he packed a very impressive piece of equipment. April put her mouth around the tip and sunk her face downward to devour it. Jamal grunted and groaned while she slurped, intent upon getting all that beef inside her mouth. As much as she wanted to she couldn't quite deepthroat him to the balls, but he made no complaints regarding her succulent skills. For minutes on end she blew him like she'd never blown before, putting every bit of her experience into it. She gasped from her valiant efforts, eyes watering.

Jamal gasped suddenly himself. April felt a warm splash against her cheek, then another and another, on her nose and in one eye. She closed her eyes while his sperm continued to splash her face, she felt the excess dripping onto her breasts. April was so aroused that she actually came when the first gob splattered her face. Opening her mouth she got a few salty spurts on her pierced tongue. The girl tried backing away but Jamal gripped each side of her head in his hands, put the head of his penis between her lips and began to fuck her mouth with great abandon. April sucked willfully to coax every last drop out of that long chocolate drumstick between Jamal's legs. When she looked up at him finally his eyes were no longer slits. He'd closed them, smiling blissfully as if he communed with Haile Selassie.

Feeling her face plastered with a rich tapestry of thick pearl white semen, April said something like, "Ohmigod." How excellent, she thought, that facial had to look phenomenal! She reached for the iPhone tucked into her bikini bottoms. None of her girlfriends would ever believe her when she got back to the states so she clicked a couple of selfies of her face glazed with Jamal's outpourings. When she glanced up and saw him watching her they both laughed at the same time.

"Here get a picture of this too," urged Jamal. He wiped up a splotch of cream with a forefinger and slid it into her mouth. No sperm remained on it when he withdrew it. He wiped at her face again saying, "Take a picture this time," before feeding her another congealing batch clinging to his finger. He laved up a third helping and put it in her mouth, repeating the process until her face was clean and she'd eaten every speck.

"Hey, I missed some on your tits," said Jamal, touching her left one. "Open up like a good girl, there you go."

Then April heard a second male voice.

It demanded: "Just exactly what's going on here anyway?"

All of a sudden she felt sick, and not because she just digested each gooey pellet and noodle string of Jamal's flood of juice. Just because she'd eaten more come in one sitting than she had in her entire life was nothing to feel bad about.

Oh no, the shit just hit the fan.

************

Taylor stepped into the tumbledown gazebo with the blonde teen and the somewhat deflated black drummer. He put his hands on his hips and tried to look pissed off when in fact he couldn't have been more delighted.

Jamal asked timidly, "What you doing here, Mister T.L.?"

Simultaneously Avril hissed, "Were you spying on us?"

"Hardly," Taylor lied, indignant. Casually he removed the cigarette holder from his mouth and sipped his drink. "I came looking for Jamal because no one could find him. It's past time for the set to start. Better hustle on up there, mon, and get behind those drums."

"I'm on it, mon," said Jamal reluctantly, hauling his Speedo up over his flopping semi-erect penis.

Avril watched the drummer depart then stood up to leave herself, her phone forgotten in her hand. Taylor blocked her exit and neatly grabbed it away from her never spilling a drop of his punch. She protested as he set his cup on one of the gazebo's warped rails and tapped at the face of her iPhone to retrieve the photos she had taken of her come-smeared face.

"Hey, you can't do that . . ." she stammered, looking daggers at him.

Taylor said gently, "I need to see what kind of incriminating evidence is on here, Avril. You had to have come to this party with your folks. All I need is for them to get a load of you getting a load on your face and suing my act or some shit."

"I won't say anything, I promise. I could get in big trouble too. Don't tell anyone, Taylor, please."

"Chill out, honey," he said. "I don't want to have to say anything to anyone about this, but I may have to."