#groupie

"Dave Mustaine / Megadeth: Dave is of average size and is very romantic, at least until he is done. Likes to cuddle, but might not be so friendly in the morning."

"Peter Steele / Type O Negative: About an 11 inch dick and very thick!! But he doesn’t like to use rubbers and says he doesn’t like groupies, yet will use them when he gets a chance. Sort of weird as well, plus he looks like a steel worker from Iowa!"

"Lars Ulrich / Metallica: Lars is about 6 inches and has a HOODED MONK, meaning he’s uncircumcised! That’s to be expected because he was born in Denmark, or some foreign country like that. He’s a quick shooter and likes multiple girls. He’s also fond of blow (what a shock) and that might result in his MONK to not wanting to come out and play. And he constantly talks. Shut the fuck up already! Also he’s losing his hair, but that’s another chart."

"Izzy Stradlin / Ex-Guns ‘N Roses: Our source reveals he is a VERY good lay! Sometimes those guys who aren’t the pretty boy of the bad are better lays than the good looking guys. The pretty boys sometimes think they don’t have to put any effort into anything. Just look at Vince Neil!"

"Slash / Ex-Guns N Roses: average in size and nothing to write home about."

"Axl Rose / Guns N Roses: Temper tantrum boy has only an average cock but above average sized balls. We heard he had one of his famous models (Seymour) take a dump in a kitty liter box!!! I don’t know about you girls, but my pussy ain’t going anywhere near a litter box."

"Paul Stanley / Kiss: About 7 to 8 inches and he’ll treat you very nice! He loves his hairy chest. One girl told me, “The only problem is when you’re having sex with him you get the impression he’s performing for 20,000 screaming fans. I have honestly never seen anyone look more retarded while having an orgasm. I thought he was having a seizure. Overall I’d give him a 9 in the sack, even though it was all I could do to keep from laughing when he came."

"Jon Bon Jovi / Bon Jovi: Back in the day Jon was a huge slut but he’s chilled out a little. Jon has an average size cock and like a lot of guys prefers to receive oral than give it. He has good rhythm though and will even wear 2 condoms if you ask him to."

Hair products, face paint, lipstick, and an empty bottle of Jack Daniels are swept off of the dressing room vanity in front of you. The mirror is dirty with God knows what; the light bulbs surrounding the glass glaring at you and illuminating your sweat-slick face in the reflection. Your hands are planted on the desk, the soft flesh right beneath your belly button pressed to the hard edge of it. You can’t even recall whether or not Eddie closed the door properly, but that's the furthest thing from your mind at the moment. 

His grasp on your hips is almost bruising, thrusting into you from behind with vigour you wouldn’t expect from someone who'd just finished the exhausting task of performing on a stage for such a large crowd. A string of crude profanities is being grunted from behind you, and you can’t help but to watch the man uttering it in the mirror in front of you—his hair still effectively teased into a dark, curly mess on his head, his lipstick smeared across his mouth from your eager lips, his dark stage makeup smudged and running with sweat. 

He’s a goddamn visionary like this, adrenaline still coursing after playing so long and so furiously, now fucking you so hard that you might think it’s out of pure hatred. Of course, it's not; how could he hate you when the whines he's drawing from you sound so pretty?

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you babble, your eyes squeezing shut as his thick cock drags against the sweet spot inside you. 

He moves his hands from your hips and pulls you up against his chest, one palm travelling to cover your mouth. “Be quiet f’me, mkay?” he coos, holding your body against his. “Wouldn’t want the band to hear you, babe.”

A pang of worry springs through you at the mention of your compromised setting, the presence of others being merely a room away, but it quickly subsides when his lips press hotly to your shoulder. Your eyebrows furrow with the newfound wave of pleasure washing over you, your hand moving to grasp the wrist that covers your mouth, the forearm laden with tattoos. 

His cold rings press against your hot mouth, and you’d worry about going limp against him if it weren’t for his tight hold on you. You don’t notice him watching you in the mirror when you flutter your eyes shut, your face flush and your back arching in front of him. 

You realize you’re not the only one struggling here when a deep, throaty groan erupts from Eddie’s throat, his face knotted in concentration. The lewd sound spurs you on, the delicious coil in your lower belly growing tighter and tighter with every unforgiving pound into you. 

You gasp softly when one of his bandmates pounds impatiently on the door, a gruff voice calling from outside. “Eds, get the fuck out here! The limo’s on the way!”

Why are you surprised? He’s a part of a fucking hair metal band, why wouldn’t his mates be itching to get to an after party as soon as they’re off stage? Despite the circumstances, Eddie doesn’t even flinch, let alone stop at all. If anything, it urges him to go faster.

“Just a second!” he calls back, clearly irritated to be interrupted. 

He lets go of you, and instead presses you against the vanity once again, your hands now struggling to keep you upright against the desk. His hands move to roughly grasp your waist, helping himself to pull you back to meet his thrusts.