Backstage for March, 2011

Yeah, that piano guy who couldn’t hit two keys in rhythm and the freewheeling masseur with the wandering hands? They both wound up right where this scene starts—naked, grinning, and dealing with what two delighted nymphs served up next. First cue the pianist. He’s leaning against the keys, cock out, grinning like he still owns the room. The girls’ bare, oiled feet slide across his lap, toes curling under the shaft, arches pressing, sliding, squeezing every inch in playful little pumps. He swears his pedal-work’s improving. One foot slips higher, slides lower, circles the tip; the other cups his balls like it’s catching the final chord of his sad little recital. The rhythm breaks when someone laughs, and another giggle ripples as his head slides between two warm, wrinkly soles. Pre-cum makes the game slippery. The piano twangs every time a heel strikes a key. Fast cut to the “masseur,” oil-slicked and on his back. A different pair of feet owns him this time—one sole slicking over his balls while the other has the whole length sliding in its grip, heel riding like a gearshift. He tries a joke about deep-tissue technique; the only reply is a wet stroke that makes his abs jump. While one girl smears her toes through the oily mess and pinches the frenulum, her friend leans in, foot beside foot, trapping him together. He yelps, then groans. Strings of cum shoot in streaks that catch on painted toenails. The girls laugh, give him one last wriggle, and tilt their feet toward the lens so the lens can appreciate the glistening work.