#fluxcore

She wasn’t sure where or how the rumor started, but she knew what was being said: she was an exceptional lay, a firecracker in bed, the best you could possibly get, if you could get her attention.

It wasn’t an activity she made a habit out of, she could actually only count on both hands the times in which she did, in fact, take some poor soul to bed after a show, yet the rumors continued to proliferate. To be fair, though, she did very little to discourage them. Her reputation for being a good fuck was, after all, publicity. And publicity meant more fans, which meant more speculation.

When a decently attractive guy with a few tattoos and curly caramel hair kept trying to talk to her after one particularly rowdy show, she let him. He was nice to look at, not too much taller than her, and his nervous attempts at flirting made him, for whatever reason, more attractive to her than she normally would have thought of a human.

His friend with the camera, though, she could do without.

They were stuck together like glue all night, one trying to catch her attention during the show while the other snapped allegedly candid photos with his cheap-looking camera, not once thinking to turn off the flash. The intermittent blinding light had been tormenting her for hours.

So when curly-hair-tattoos asked her if she’d like to head back to his place, she agreed.

She didn’t mind that it was a semi-low-end hotel room on the first floor, he had come in from out of town after all.

She didn’t mind that he had left the window slightly open, with the blinds pulled slightly to the side. They had been in a cramped bar all night, it was cool outside, and he was at the back of the building.

And when the camera began flashing, she didn’t mind, because she was not the one bent over the bed, bound and gagged, with one hand roughly grabbing at her hair, and another leaving a fiery red handprint on her ass.