“Oh, God,” I groan again, and it’s inevitable now.
Inevitable. I think about the way Pia said that word a moment ago. The syllables a bit more pronounced. The vowels higher in pitch.
“Yes, Cassie,” she tells me. “Make all the noise. Be loud. I want to hear you.”
I think about her hearing. I want to ask her about it. I want to know every single detail about Pia’s life. About the tour. About the music she’s writing, which she hinted at in an interview I read. But I’m too far gone to act on anything but my fingers in my cunt and the way that tight elastic is sosoclose to snapping completely.
“I … my God,Pia,” I sigh. “I want … I wish…I need…”
“I know, Cassie, I know,” she says, and I allow myself to believe she really does.
And then I come. I clench. I spasm. I shake. I sweat. I lose my hearing. I don’t see anything but bright light. I yelp. I sigh. I moan, and I sing.
It must only last seconds, but it feels like hours of pleasure have just wrecked my body.
When I finally open my eyes and see the yellowing ceiling of my hotel room, I am panting and trembling, and the phone has slipped out of my grip.
“Pia,” I say when it’s back to my ear.
“I’m here,” she says.
“That was … oh, my…Did you? Did you … already?”
“No,” she says. “I want you to hear me.”
Inexplicably and unbelievably, another coil of desire makes itself known in my cunt. “I want that too.”
“I’m going to use the phone,” she says. “I’m going to fuck the phone. I’m going to imagine it’s you.”
“It’s me,” I affirm.
“Yeah,” Pia says, and then there’s the loudest rustling of all, which doesn’t stop. It only becomes more rhythmic, more predictable. My fingers are back in my knickers by the time Pia is moaning out my name at the end of each muffled beat.
“Fuck, Cassie,” she says, more distant. “Why is it this good with you? Why does it have to be like this?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper as I cradle the phone as close to me as I can.
“Fuck, yes, there … Shit,” Pia hisses, and thank fuck she sounds so close. Even though she is so very far away, I feel so incredibly close to her.
“Please come, Pia,” I whisper again, and then I realise I can say whatever I want. She can’t hear me. “Please come with me, Pia. Please. And please, let’s do this again. Please let’s keep doing this. Let’s … Let’s…”
I can’t finish that sentence because my orgasm overwhelms me again. And with any awareness I have left, I focus on listening to the desperate, delicious sounds that Pia makes as she comes with me.
RHYTHM & NEWS
Saturday, November 10, 1979
BATTLE OF THE BANGS: The Show Must Go On!
It appears nothing can stop Cassie Everard from putting on a show – not her band’s drummer being detained in Canada, not their bass guitarist, George Redfern, checking into an emergency rehab in Portland, Oregon and not her ex and fellow lead singer telling reporters in Minnesota that they are back together, which fans say isn’t true based on what they’re seeing on stage. While they have found a drummer to take on Vik Greene’s role, they have performed without a bassist for the last week, although Kevin Briggs claims Redfern will reunite with the band imminently.
As for Femme Fatale, their upcoming dates in Amsterdam will garner a lot of attention as this is the city they all met in. Their opening night at Het Roadhuis – where they all met eleven years ago – is a fraction of the size of their usual venues, but Martin Dowde recently told UK’sSmash Hitsmagazine that this will mean they’ll try out some new material for the first time.
Whether that will include a performance of ‘What I Want’ is undetermined. But we wait patiently to find out, and not just because of the bets in the office, but because it continues to jump around the Top 20, making it more and more likely to be the best-selling song of the year and dare we say it, a likely Grammy nominee. A remarkable achievement for two performers who can’t stand to be in the same room at the same time…
CHAPTER 23
PIA
