Roxana Shirazi - The Last Living Slut - Born in Iran, Bred Backstage

“Jeremy, get your cock out and join in,” Tracii encouraged his “son.”

Oh, this is so cool, I thought. As Tracii pounded me, I sucked Jeremy’s cock and within a couple of minutes he came in my mouth. I let the cum dribble down my chin. It made a gurgling sound.

“Did ya come already?” Tracii chided him, as any father would.

“Yeah,” Jeremy said, staring meekly at the ground. He fell back on his bed, eyes rolled up. I pulled Tracii out of me, walked over to Jeremy, and kissed him all over his mouth, letting his own cum stick to his face.

“I’ll be with you in a minute,” I said to Tracii as he stood there, apple-green-condom erection in his hand. “Hold on.”

My body was seething—hot and raw. I was so turned on my cheeks burned. I wanted both of them inside me at once. I so wanted to get pumped hard with double penetration: one of them in my butt and the other in my vagina.

“Have you guys ever double-penetrated a girl?” I asked them, gently. I didn’t want to shock them.

“No, never. Why—do you want to do it?” Tracii smiled, and I felt relieved.

“Come on, I’ll show you how,” I replied lovingly. They both giggled; they were such willing participants that I gained a new respect for them that night. If two guys were so comfortable with their masculinity and sexuality that they were willing to try such an intimate sexual position together, then in my eyes they were real rock stars. That’s how rock stars should be.

I lay Jeremy down and sat on his dick. Then I got Tracii to go behind me and fuck me anally. They were now both inside me. I kept still as they fucked me simultaneously. It was heaven, like a delicious double milkshake. As I remained still, all my sensitive points were scrubbed and rubbed hard in one big raw bang. I tried so hard not to come—not yet. Tracii grabbed my hips and pounded my ass as Jeremy thrust his dick in my pussy, fucking me hard as I kissed him. Tracii was skillful at not hurting my ass, and Jeremy’s eyes were wide as a meerkat as he rammed himself into me, not giving a shit that his balls were slapping Tracii’s.

“Don’t come,” I moaned, begging them both. “Please don’t come.” I wanted the feeling to go on forever—this feeling of helplessness, getting fucked doubly like I was in seventh heaven. It was so good I thought I’d faint if I came. I had been doubly, even triply penetrated before, but with Tracii and Jeremy it felt like I was being reborn. I felt stunningly beautiful, helpless, brand new.

Afterward, I couldn’t walk. They both kissed me, and we all fell asleep in a heap. It was time for bed.

My high with Tracii and Jeremy floated me in the direction of my beautiful boys, Buckcherry. I joined them for every show on their UK tour, drifting with them like a stray flower.

One night in Cheltenham, as I stood with my two friends Mia and Kate, screaming the words of songs that pumped us with testosterone and hallelujahs, I decided to do the whole band together. I watched them onstage, watching me as if they knew the immensity of my adoration and respect for them. They knew me inside out: my sexuality, my pains, my crashes, my studies, even my reading preferences.

When I’d last seen them, our group love had been in the semi-haze of my post-abortion yearning to be rescued from hell. One by one I had gone through the band, with plenty of blood and pain thrown in. Now I was ready to do it in a happier state of mind.

Mia and Kate followed me back to the tour bus. Tonight I was wearing a white cotton summer dress with daisies in my hair and beige sandals. The moon was full that night over the miniature conservative English town of tea and biscuits, full of sanitized literature and arts.

“Are you feeling horny?” Josh Todd asked when he saw the smile on my face.

“Can you round up the boys?” I urged him.

Keith Nelson, the lead guitarist, was first on the bus—followed by Stevie, the rhythm guitarist; Xavier, the drummer; and then a cute young boy who was a friend of the band. I left Mia and Kate with Josh and made my way to the lounge at the back of the bus.

Keith was the first to enter. I lay on my back on the tiny table as he put his beer on the counter. He pulled down his jeans and then his boxer shorts, with his massive arms, his face and brawny jaw looking down at me. I remembered his huge cockring and grimaced, fearing its choking discomfort. But as he kissed me and touched my body, I mentally prepared myself for the ring and urged him to slide his cock into me.

“Hey, girl, I heard you were horny tonight,” Keith said, looking down at me kindly. “How many of us are you gonna be able to handle?”

He was tender and sweet, his quiet, broad features in heavy concentration. I adored this band; they always fulfilled my every need. I drew my legs up to his shoulders, and we rocked in that tiny little space in the back of the bus. After Keith finished and left, it was Stevie’s turn to come in. Locking the door behind him, he pulled down his pants and fucked me from behind. He was shirtless and tattooed, his body lithe like a tiger’s. My dress was still on, scrunched up to my waist. The daisies in my hair tumbled off and were trampled under our knees.

“You are a wildcat, aren’t you?” Stevie drawled in a rock-star mellow voice, which made me shy and little-girly. I cocooned in my nest of tour-bus sex as Stevie’s guitar fingers played me nonstop.

“I want more!” I yelled, so Stevie sent for Xavier. Xavier had long hair and a ravaged soul; he grunted as he fucked me to the cheers of the others listening on the bus. This time I tasted his cum, sweet and low and abundant like milk. He kissed me and smiled, leaning over me with his long hair.

The boy was next—a young, wide-eyed teen with spiky black hair and nervous attitude. I made him watch me until he couldn’t take it anymore, then let him rip me apart. Inside I was laughing. But I still needed more. I tumbled out of the area and stumbled over to Josh.

“Don’t tell me you’re still horny.” Josh looked at me in disbelief. “I can’t believe you. You’re something else!”

“I wanna be with you again,” I wanted to say. “You were amazing the last time.” Instead, I walked back to the tiny room at the end of the bus as Mia and Kate yawned and looked at their watches, waiting for me to hurry the fuck up and get satisfied. It was a full moon in Cheltenham that night.

“You girls are old-school!” Matt Sorum smooched into my neck. Abi moaned a low animal sound as Matt fingered her while sucking my mouth.

It was summer and I was happy again. Scotty’s residue had finally been rinsed away and I felt free. Abigail and I were in Milan for the Gods of Metal Festival with Mötley Crüe, Velvet Revolver, and dozens of other bands. That Friday we’d gone to a nightclub to meet Matt Sorum of Velvet Revolver, who had just flown in from Switzerland.

We were being driven to the Four Seasons Hotel. It was midnight or maybe one a.m. The cobbled streets were steeped in dignified silence and decadently Renaissance. The Italian driver stole intermittent glances in his mirror at our bodies as we writhed like alley cats in heat.

Matt’s assistant turned to look at us. “You girls really are old-school, aren’t you?” He repeated what Matt had said as if he knew he’d get a double Christmas bonus for finding us for him.

I wore my white virgin-whore dress—tight, trimmed with shredded cotton and a white rose pinned on the breast. I hadn’t worn panties, just dressed my legs with sheer white lace stockings.