Manchester Calling

There’s nothing like being at a live show—dancing in a sea of people, being pushed around as you all sing and shout lyrics in unison, albeit mainly off-key. You feel the drumbeat move through you, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end as you wrap your arms around your friends and jump up and down until you can’t feel your legs anymore. Even if you’re not close to the stage, you can tell the guitarist has nifty fingers and the way the lead singer commands his faithful followers… oh Christ, yes! I’ve always had the fantasy of fucking a rockstar, although I never thought it would actually happen.

I met Freddie online (as so many modern love stories begin). In his profile, he described himself as a “calmly chaotic musician,” and his photos showcased a shabby-chic Hugh Grant camp that I’ve found alluring since I watched Notting Hill at the age of eight and fell in love. A hopeless romantic with an edge? Sign me up!

We messaged back and forth for weeks, divulging snippets of our personalities via the filter of the internet. I found it charming how he only alluded to his talent, all the more surprised when I heard his music on Spotify and discovered he sings like a god (not that I told him this, of course). Our conversation about creativity flowed freely and, as cliche as it sounds, I felt like I’d known him for years. He literally spoke of minor chords and major lifts and how a minor triad takes the listener on a sad yet uplifting journey. I felt somewhat in awe of Freddie, the way his modesty cast a shadow over his talent. (I’ve always had a thing for people who are subtle about their success yet generous with their knowledge).

Perhaps it’s wishful thinking, but when we spoke, he seemed impressed by my journalistic flair. On learning about my creative output, he showed genuine interest in questioning me about what I was presently writing. We spoke of (song)writer’s block and how we overcame it, we mulled over the mutual frustration when words don’t appear on the page in the way we intended; I sent articles I had written and he sent video messages whilst he tinkled on his piano. Although we’d been messaging for a while, I initially felt timorous sending a video of me in “Writer’s Mode”--hair up in a messy bun, pen wedged behind my ear and wearing a comfortable jumper to avoid any distraction or procrastination on account of a jaunty bra strap.

“God, you’re gorgeous in Writer’s Mode,” he beamed. Internally, I was beaming too.

It took forever to organize a date. He was up and down the country recording, performing and seeing countless lovers (ENM being the sexuality-du-jour). Somewhere between recording studios, stages and pages, we found a Saturday afternoon to rendezvous. Gratefully, he came down to the coast on the way back to Manchester (quite the detour from the capital). We met at a local pub; he had a non-alcoholic beer, having stopped drinking ages ago following (what I got the impression was) a few too many years of the Rockstar Lifestyle. 

It was the first sunny day of the year, and the pub was packed: families with kids fresh out of a tennis tournament, elderly couples enjoying a spritzer, and groups of lads slowly descending into pre-party pandemonium.

I wouldn’t exactly call it small talk, but we certainly started off with polite conversation. Yet before long, our words returned to the themes of our messages. Sexual exploration, amusing anecdotes of disastrous dates and carefully unpicking each other’s words as overtly as we mentally peeled off the other’s clothes. 

I told him about disappointing exes and what I’m looking for now. The adventures I want to explore while I’m still young and hot. “My body isn’t going to look like this forever,” I said before catching him glancing at my midriff. Did he spot my piercing?

As I spoke, I got the sense he was really listening to what I was saying. I noticed him watching my lips as they traversed the sentences, questioning me on what I’d said and working with me to propel this conversation onwards. Watching him study me, I felt relieved my lips were glossy with pinky-red sheen. 

Freddie divulged he was returning to Manchester after this following a wild birthday weekend. How wild? Wild. His Monday consisted of a pre-arranged orgy; on Tuesday, it was his birthday and the spotlight event was a romantic dinner with his primary lover, Wednesday’s highlight was a threesome with lovers in Mayfair, Thursday culminated in a boat party with a woman he’s known for not too long—it evolved into a choppy marathon of sex—then Friday rolled around and he went to a kink rave, and here we were on Saturday.

Over a few glasses of wine and 0% alcohol beer, I laughed at his remarks, and he laughed at mine. At some point he said, “You’ve got the most sparkling green eyes. Can I kiss you?” 

He leaned forward, our lips touched. The stubble of his beard brushed against my cheeks, sending a jolt of electricity through my belly. I wanted more.

Maybe I should have known better, but I very much thought we’d have a few drinks and he’d hop on the 5:39 to London Victoria.

As we left the pub, he asked, “Where to?”

“The station?” I replied.

“I don’t have to head back just yet, how about we go somewhere?”

I clearly wanted him; we were walking in the direction of a charming boutique hotel in Brighton.

~~~

As Freddie slots the keycard into the door, I feel butterflies in my stomach. Will we have as much chemistry with our clothes off as we do on? What if the room’s disappointing? Will he say anything about the scars on my body?

“Come on,” he says as he takes my hand and leads me into the room. I feel my nerves settle at his touch.

Amidst a flurry of kisses, bags are flung on the floor, jackets are strewn over chairs and my sexiest playlist is started. The room is modern, light, and airy and the generous double bed is adorned with dreamy White Company bedding. Thank God.

Freddie sits on the edge of the bed and pulls me onto him. He instinctively hitches my skirt up, making it easier for me to wrap my legs around his body. Facing him, I notice his lips part slightly and I find myself mirroring his expression. All afternoon, I’ve been watching his mouth as he speaks, the way you follow the shape of someone’s words as you’re learning their voice. Sat here, feeling the heat of him underneath me, I remember he’s been watching my mouth, too.

We stay here for a moment, breathing into each other and I can almost taste his woody, smoky scent. He leans forward, softly meeting my lips with his before taking my lower lip between his teeth, gently nibbling at it between kisses. As our tongues explore each other’s mouths, I’m aware of my weight on him and his hands sliding up my top. Freddie’s fingers trace and scratch my back. I moan into him and run my fingers through his crunchy-soft, bleached blonde hair. 

His hands trace over my body; setting each new patch of untouched skin alight. He caresses my stomach and grabs my waist with conviction, as though he’s discerned the way I like to be handled. Beneath my lap, he’s growing hard. I’m tugging at his T-shirt; he takes the bait and pulls it up and over his head, revealing a light coverage of soft brown chest hair. Involuntarily, I moan again and rock my hips back and forth as he growls into my neck. This desire is carnal and I sink deeper into him.

Learning my legs and reaching for the waistband of my panties, his hands discover that today, I chose to forgo them. His pupils dilate, his fingers grasp my thighs and he pulls me closer. Between his growls, he offers up soft, intent kisses–throwing me off his scent. He’s a hunter. Am I his prey? When I find comfort in his stealth, he changes position; poised to pounce. The hunt thrills me. 

Throughout this chase, our four green eyes are locked. Am I now the hunter?

As he kisses my neck, buried in my long blonde hair, Freddie snarls. It’s a deep, guttural noise that intensifies my desire to have more of him, to embody this vehement connection. I paw at his chest, claw at his back and he seamlessly removes my top, barely breaking his lips free from my neck. His hands find their way to my bra, scooping my breasts free before teasing my nipples with his fingers. He starts to pinch them gently.

“Harder,” I murmur.

Freddie squeezes harder, watching my face and searching for my reaction. I wrap my arms around his neck, interlace my fingers, close my eyes and lean back. He takes one of my boobs in his mouth, flicking my nipple with his tongue and I feel my most sensitive lips becoming moist. The roughness of his trousers against my exposed skin only makes me wetter and I worry I’ll soak the fabric—that is, until he takes both breasts in his hands and licks my nipples, one after the other in quick succession, and I’m back in my body, carefree.

I swear I can feel Freddie’s cock throbbing between my legs. I want to see him, touch him, taste him. Lifting myself off his lap I tell him to lay back. He pulls down his trousers (yes, there’s a damp patch), not once losing eye contact.

I peel off his boxers, letting his beautiful dick spring free. I take him in, admire his body and relish the moment. With one hand I grasp the base of his dick, look him in the eyes and slowly trace my tongue all the way to the head. I feel Freddie’s dick twitch. I do it again. Long, slow, deliberate movements, like licking an ice cream cone, savoring the taste. Pre-cum gathers and I greedily lick it up. He closes his eyes, rolls his head back, and inhales.

I wrap my lips around the head of Freddie’s cock and swirl my tongue around slowly. My mouth slides all the way down to the base and I suck hard, just once. I hear him moan loudly. I press my lips tightly against his hard cock and start working them up and down, back and forth, syncing with the movement of my hand.

Momentarily, I pause. “Put your hand on my head and show me how you like it.”

With Freddie’s hand on my head, wrapped in my hair, my other hand reaches up to stroke his abs and play with his nipples. At first, he holds my head lightly and drives his hips against me, then he forces my head all the way down and I gag, making his cock wetter. I moan, and eagerly take him deep in my mouth, again and again. 

The warmth between my legs is building and my clit is yearning to be touched. Keeping his cock in my mouth, I shift my hips to either side of his leg, adjust my skirt and begin grinding against him.

Freddie continues to thrust into me deeply, grunting as I moan onto his dick. I lightly tug at his balls, his breathing quickens, and before long, he throws his head back and howls at the devil.

“I want to taste you,” he pants, regaining his breath.

I lift myself off his leg and lay back on the bed. Rearranging my skirt, Freddie’s lips kiss my thighs, moving closer to my center. Under his gaze, I momentarily feel self-conscious about my body. 

“Don’t worry about my scars,” I say.

“It’s all you, Darling,” he replies, planting soft kisses across my stomach. I melt at his words as much as his touch.

Freddie positions his face between my legs–the act alone is rapturous–and I feel his hot breath above my lips. I arch my back, my pussy pulsing with heat before the wetness of his lips meets mine. I exhale. With the flat of his tongue, he tenderly licks from the lowest part of my lips, parting them as he moves up towards my most sensitive place. He does it again, pressing a little firmer before circling my clit with the tip of his tongue. There’s a burning deep within me and as if reading my mind, he slides two fingers inside me, making me moan. I feel him moan in an echo.

Swirling his tongue around, he drives his fingers in and out, causing my breath to quicken. For the briefest moment, his tongue enters me and I cry out in frustration. I want more. Eliciting new ways to make me writhe, his tongue teases and explores, navigating untouched skin. How his tongue has me in ecstasy!

Without breaking free from my clit he skilfully unwraps and puts on a condom, one-handed, without looking. A thought surfaces: how many times has he done this? But then intrigue makes way for pleasure and I find my back arching, my hips rising and falling and my hands pulling his head closer to me. It isn’t too long until I’m wanting to give him more of me. 

Freddie moves his body up mine, leans on his forearms, kisses me deeply then eases his cock inside. He growls and I sigh in response. Against LCD Soundsystem’s “Oh Baby,” my body envelopes his. “Oh, sugar / Give in to me” as heads roll back, hips move in exquisite rhythm; enraptured by each other. Sweat-drenched bodies entangled, he drives harder and faster into me, pushing me down. My fingers claw his back, and for the first time in a long time, I’m giving in to the moment and getting out of my head.

His weight, the sweat sheen on his forehead and the look of lust in his eyes... With each thrust, I feel tension gathering inside me. I don’t want it to break, not just yet. My muscles clench, evoking a rumbling growl from Freddie. I don’t want him to climax yet either; this is too good to end.

“Let me get on top,” I request.

With my legs on either side of him, I lower myself, inhaling deeply as he enters me. Rising up and down, I find balance with his chest. His hands grasp my hips, lifting me up and pulling me back onto him. He’s filling me up, becoming part of me.

The dark euphoric lyrics by Haelos seem strategically fitting. “Still / The space and the time / Dust in the flow like / Shadows in twine.” I hope, as much as I fear, his song playing next on the playlist. Mercifully, it doesn’t.

Looking down to see his wet dick sliding inside me, I notice my thighs are soaking. He notices me noticing.

“Unh, so hot,” he pants.

He grabs my ass firmly, squeezing it. This is hard, fast, and wanton fucking. Moving my hand in between my legs, I push my lips against my clit and draw quick, small circles. We bring me close to the edge and within minutes, my thighs are burning and my orgasm is building. It's clear he’s reaching for release, too. I feel my body contract, expand, and explode. Loud cries and moans are dragged from my body. It’s intense, heady, and I feel somewhat delirious. The taste of amber fills my mouth as I cling on to Freddie’s shoulders. He wraps his arms around me, pulls me down and I feel his hot breath on my neck. He spanks me hard and I let out another cry, catching my breath. With one arm wrapped around me, the other grabbing my ass, Freddie comes hard. His chest rises and falls under mine and I hear him growling into my ear while I trail kisses along his neck.

On the sun-kissed bed, we lie in post-coital bliss, returning to our own steady rhythms of breath. With my legs intertwined with Freddie’s, and his with mine, I check the clock. Manchester is calling him and I have a party to go to.

Photo by Alina Kurson