Of whiskey, guitars and sex in cargo holds

Image by the incredible Stuart F Taylor

This gorgeous story about fucking a hot guitarist is written and read by Carolyna Luna, and originally appeared on her website. 

Ah, Blondie’s! I fucking loved that place. I always arrived before ten to snag a prime spot at the bar. It was the best vantage point to enjoy the local bands that frequently played there. It was also where Sheila, the bartender, liked to lean whenever she could sneak in a break to offer naughty banter. That night was no different.

“Now that guy is one hundred percent fuckable,” she mused as we regarded the young man tuning for his set.

I sipped my whiskey.

“Too young, don’t you think? I’d fuck the shit out of his Silverburst Gibson, though. Damn, that’s one sexy-ass guitar.”

Sheila smirked.

“You and guitars, Angie. I swear, when you started coming here, I pegged you as having a thing for musicians. Who knew your thing was actually guitar porn?!”

I drained my glass.

“And why can’t it be both, again?” I retorted as she walked away to greet the newest patrons.

Turning my attention back to the musician, I had to admit that Sheila wasn’t wrong. Despite the positively sapling face hidden behind cascading hair, his chin hinted at a sculpted quality that anyone would drool over in a few years. Curiously, his song selection centered around 90’s Alternative. I was pretty sure he couldn’t have been more than a couple of years old at the end of that decade. He sang well enough, but his real talent was in the way he picked out the richest tones from that guitar. It made me wonder how those hands would feel strumming me. The thought made me squeeze my thighs together with every flex of his bicep – his fingers contorted to hit the right chords. With every particularly passionate intonation of his voice, I could not take my eyes off his lips. And sure did meet every furtive glance he dared to make my way with a wink.

As the first bars of Green Day’s Basket Case filled the room, Sheila returned with a fresh pour – on the rocks, three cherries – just how I like it.

“Pour another, please,” I asked. And then motioned toward the young buck.

“Of the good stuff?” she countered.

Swirling the cherries around the ice in my glass, I smiled.

“Yeah, the good stuff. He’s earned it.”

Sheila smiled back and moments later, she placed the whiskey on the tiny table next to his amp. He didn’t skip a note, but looked up at her and then at me. Hair clung to his face. Sweat dripped from his chin. And then, he went in hard on the final bars, improvising a lengthier ending to show off a bit of how he could really shred. The result was an instant surge of heat and wet between my legs. But soon the music faded, he downed the whiskey in one gulp, and fixed his gaze on mine as he blurted – “That’s my time everyone. Thank you!!”

There was my cue. I emptied my glass and took leave of the barstool for a quick trip to the bathroom where I fussed with my hair and adjusted my tits in their bra. Lipstick refreshed, I emerged and pivoted directly out of the back door to the parking lot.

And there he was, loading up his van, and beaming impishly when he saw me coming.

“So, do I look like my pictures?” I asked, leaning against the open door of the van.

“Yeah, you absolutely do. And you weren’t kidding about how good that whiskey is.”

I feigned consternation for a hot second.

“I’ll forgive you for shooting down what’s meant to be a slow sipper because you weren’t kidding about that gorgeous Gibson. Did you put it away already?” I peered into the van. “I’d love a closer look.”

“Sure, hop in and I’ll take it out again.”

I guffawed in response. “You want me to hop into the back of a sketchy van in an isolated parking lot? Isn’t that more like a second date kind of thing?”

Confusion shone on his face and he stammered, “I’m, I’m sorry. I’m…not trying to do anything.”

He scratched his head. “But, wait, I…I thought that was how you wanted it to go?”

I extended my hand in request of a hoist into the van and grinned to put him out of his misery.

“No, you’re getting it right, Flynn. Perfect actually. I just like to tease a bit.”

Moments later, I was sat upon the amp case near the back of the cargo hold. Flynn kneeled in front of me and placed the guitar on my lap. It was still warm to the touch, much like my pussy had been the entire night. I slid my hand over the frets of the Gibson, slowly past the neck, and then over to his lips.

“Are you nervous, Flynn?”

He didn’t pull his face away.

“I’m a little nervous. But we’ve been texting for so long that I kind of feel like I know you. Crazy, right?”

Cradling the Gibson against my belly, I trailed my hands up to his scalp and smoothed the hair down onto both sides of his face. He continued.

“Thanks again, by the way. Really appreciate you hooking me up to play here. I’ve been hurting for gigs.”

I pulled my hands away. I had to clarify.

“You know that wasn’t contingent on fucking me, right? I did that because I like to help people and they know me here. The rest… of… this… is only if you’re down. If you really want it.”

His mouth turned up in a slanted grin I hadn’t suspected he could make from the very serious expression in most of his photos.

“Oh, I want it. Want you, I mean.”

Then, his lips were on mine to prove it. The force of their landing had me leaning back over the amp case, crushing the Gibson between our bodies, his pelvis grinding against my thigh. There’s much to be said about the slow buildup of a mature, familiar lover. But almost as much can be said about the vitality and vigor of youthful lust.

I clawed at the back of his t-shirt, damp with the sweat of his musical efforts, but he pulled my arms off of him and pinned them over my head. Planting warm, wet kisses and nibbles on my neck, my ears, in between the folds of my inner elbows, he pulled up on my blouse to continue the trail over my bra. When he bit down firmly on my nipple through the fabric, every electric impulse that could be generated between the neural junctions of my brain sparked along my skin. I pushed him off and sat upright.

“Here, take the Gibson,” I demanded, and then pulled the bra up clean over my breasts, but left it fastened and bunched up against my clavicle. I didn’t need the constriction it provided to my throat to feed my frenzy, but it was a welcome addition. When his hands were free again, I motioned for Flynn to lean back on the case and then promptly straddled him. And his hands found my tits expeditiously.

Flynn didn’t need much instruction, or at least, any more instruction. We’d been chatting about this for weeks. His intense curiosity about what I liked and how I liked it was the thing that convinced me he was worth meeting. It had also convinced my husband, whom I always consulted before a rendezvous with anyone new. I trusted his judgment implicitly, and in this case, he was right.

I’ve never been one to linger for the first time with a new lover. The intoxication of new attraction normally has me insisting for a fuck right away, balls deep and hard, because we can focus on the other stuff in the second round. I don’t even usually come from penetration, but there’s a different kind of satisfaction from compelling that first orgasm from someone different. And someone so very hungry. There’s power in taking it from them and leaving no doubt about the desire, want, and need to have him inside of me. Not all new lovers catch on to my ways. Those who don’t risk falling into the lazy habit of assuming I won’t expect and demand every last bit of reciprocity in the long run. I could already tell that Flynn wasn’t of that ilk, though, as he meticulously and thoroughly worshipped my nipples with his hands, lips, and tongue. The jolt of his susurrations tingled the tips of my toes.

“Scooch up and straddle my face, woman. Let me taste you.”

My response was to reach down between us and make quick work of the belt and zipper of his jeans. Ever so carefully, but swiftly, I freed his erection, then pulled out the condom I’d tucked into my handbag and ripped it open with my teeth. Flynn tensed under me as I unrolled the latex down the drippy tip of his cock to the base. Holding his gaze, I lifted my skirt, pulled the lace of my panties to one side, and guided his firm head into my sopping cunt.

“You will taste me… after,” I moaned, my hands anchored into his sweaty hair for balance and leverage.

Properly impaled upon his cock, I began with slow rocking motions so that our bodies could adjust to each other and my wetness could combat the friction from the sheath. Before long, I set about to take what I wanted. What I needed. I bucked on Flynn, long and hard and heavy, eliciting nonsensical mumblings from deep in his throat. He anchored me by gripping my hips, my ass, my bouncing tits. His hands were soft, but his fingertips were calloused and a little rough, making for an extraordinary sensation against my skin. I felt the intensity of his climax from the buildup of heat on his pulsing cock, from the force with which he grabbed my hair, and from the way he brought my ear down to his mouth so he could groan into it as he crested.


That word. It’s both simple and so very complex and never fails to wind me up. To keep me going. Flynn’s arms fell to his side as his breath calmed and his cock softened happily inside of me. But before I could gather my wits, Flynn slid his body deftly down between my legs, then positioned his face directly below my freshly fucked pussy. I felt his next words vibrate across my slick labia.

My turn now.”


If you liked this, you can find more of Carolyna’s amazing work at CarolynaLuna.com and head to the free audio porn hub for more sexy stories read aloud. 

1 Comment

  • Fajolan says:

    Great build up of the storyline. From “oh another bar guitar player story” step by step to premeditated date with dynamics far beyond the usual. Makes it very hot.

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