by SemperViridis
In this chapter, we discover that two of DumpsterPhoenix’s characters provide support to the band. In the Silmarellaverse, Ali is using the pseudonym ‘Alanis’ (suggested by Maglor because she absolutely has gone down on him in a theater), and Kenny chose the name ‘Kyle’ because of South Park (which apparently existed prior to 1988 in the Silmarellaverse). Kenny|Kyle commonly shouts “You bastards!” at Koopas as he plays Super Mario Bros.
_
Nolan sat at the dining table in the band’s tour bus, sipping coffee, reading a newspaper, and resolutely ignoring Sparky, who was leaning against the counter of the kitchenette and drinking Mountain Dew, intentionally wrapping his lips enticingly around the neck of the bottle. Breakfast had been a painful affair; Nolan had cringed as Sparky enjoyed Frosted Flakes with chocolate milk, and now the irritating guitarist was adding insult to injury by consuming an apparently radioactive beverage — in the morning, no less. He looked entirely too alluring despite the infernal carbonated drink, but Nolan wasn’t going to admit that at the moment.
Whole Lotta Love was playing on the radio, its suggestive lyrics lending weight to Sparky’s teasing. The Led Zeppelin classic was a staple of Silmarella’s live performances, although Mick didn’t moan his way through fake orgasms onstage, as Robert Plant had done in the original studio recording. The potential repercussions of doing so, considering the raw power in Mick’s voice, included the very real possibility that the band members would be buried underneath a mountain of ladies’ unmentionables. They were subjected to bombardment by lingerie often enough as it was.
Sparky, listening to the gasps and pants of the first simulated climax in the song, looked over at Mick and announced, “I want to hear you do this.”
“Because … you think that he’ll somehow sound qualitatively different now than he did twenty minutes ago?” Andy snickered.
“No,” Sparky laughed, grinning at Mick, “although I always appreciate what a screamer he is.”
Mick and Sparky were alike in that regard; at one point, their impassioned cries had become so loud that concerned hotel guests had called the police, surmising that someone was being murdered. As a result, Silmarella now used hotels for amenities such as full-sized bathrooms* and continental breakfasts, but generally made love in their double-decker tour bus, which included a lavish oversized bed on the second level — and custom soundproofing.
“What I mean,” Sparky continued, “is that I want to hear Mick fake an orgasm during a show.”
“Would that really be wise?” Andy questioned. Gesturing toward Nolan, who was still obscured by his newspaper, Andy explained, “Our brother continues to be haunted by the memory of that g-string that got caught on one of his cymbals for an entire song. I don’t know that we could survive the fusillade of undergarments that would result from Maglor, of all people, moaning orgasmically at 120 decibels.”
“You mean, ‘moaning orgasMICKally,’” Sparky quipped, having a bit of fun with Maglor’s stage name.
Nolan emerged from behind his newspaper to glare at Sparky, who resumed swigging his Mountain Dew as he attempted to wink at the drummer — although the attempt only resulted in an awkward blink, which Nolan found adorable. But Sparky was still drinking that damnable chartreuse soft drink, so Nolan’s countenance remained stern as he responded to Andy’s pronouncement. “Andy, I think you are rather more haunted by the thought that your coiffed hair might be mussed by a barrage of brassières. My concern for this proposed endeavor is that Sparky will come undone on stage in front of fifty thousand screaming fans.”
Sparky nearly spewed his mouthful of Mountain Dew. “You really think I’d jizz in my pants?” he guffawed.
Nolan winced. “As you know, your verbiage is unrefined, much like your choice of forenoon refreshment,” he huffed, looking pointedly at the offensively neon-green soda, “but yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”
Sparky tossed back the remainder of his soft drink, then belched theatrically, eliciting laughs from Mick and Andy. Nolan facepalmed and rubbed his temples with his thumb and middle finger.
Mick settled himself with his back against the arm of a couch and extended his gloriously long, denim-clad legs across the cushions as he purred smugly, “Oh, I know I can make him cream himself onstage.”
“Is that so?” Sparky responded to the implicit challenge. “And what if you can’t?”
“Shall we make a bet?” asked Andy excitedly. “If Sparky … loses control of himself during a show,” he offered, using delicate phrasing out of respect for Nolan’s Sparky-induced tension headache, “… he has to orally satisfy us after the performance.”
“A performance after the performance?” Sparky suggested, waggling his eyebrows.
“You’d do that anyway,” Mick interjected. “How about … if my vocalizing succeeds in giving you an orgasm during a show … you have to dance like a giant dork in our next music video.”
“He’d do that anyway!” Andy objected. Nolan snorted behind his newspaper.
Mick specified, “This would have to be … epic dorkiness.”
Sparky returned, “And you’ll do the epic dork dance yourself, if you don’t succeed?” He cocked his head to one side. “Or, the epMICK dork dance.”
A resounding sigh emanated from Nolan’s direction.
Mick chuckled, “Yes, I’ll dance like an epic dork in our next music video if I lose the bet.”
“You’re on!” Sparky enthused, before leaning over and lowering Nolan’s newspaper. “Stop trying to hide your boner behind newsprint,” he teased, his lips meeting Nolan’s as the sounds of another fake orgasm faded toward the end of Whole Lotta Love.
Silmarella’s personal driver, Alanis, entered the tour bus along with her partner Kyle, the band’s stage manager. Clapping her hands, Alanis briskly announced, “Alrighty, boys, it’s time to get this show back on the road!”
“We’ll be upstairs,” Sparky informed the others as he took Nolan by the hand and began ascending the stairs to the second level.
Mick conspiratorially lowered his voice as he described to Andy his strategy for winning the bet. Kyle and Alanis were quickly brought up to speed regarding the situation, and Alanis laughed, “Oh, you’ll definitely win this one,” exchanging a quick kiss with Mick before proceeding to the driver’s seat.
As Alanis drove the tour bus out of the hotel parking lot, leading the caravan that transported Silmarella’s road crew and extensive touring equipment, Andy and Kyle started a game of Contra on the Nintendo system, and Mick began composing the song that would contribute to Sparky’s ‘undoing.’
* * * ~ ~ ~ * * *
While on tour, Sparky took every opportunity to sightsee as Simarella’s tour bus navigated the highways. On recent outings, he had been accompanied by Alanis and Kyle, while Mick, Andy, and Nolan chose to remain either with the bus or at their hotel, citing various reasons that they couldn’t join the short excursions.
Sparky was certain that they were plotting against him, trying to ensure that he’d lose The Bet. Over the last few shows, each time he launched into the opening riff of Whole Lotta Love, he wondered if this would be the night when Maglor would entertain them with orgasMICKally acrobatic vocals. And each time that Mick sang the song normally, without moaning, Sparky grew more convinced that his partners had a plot with proportions so epic that it rivaled the epicness of the dance that either he or Mick would have to perform on their next music video.
Tonight they were playing a large stadium and had arrived behind schedule due to a semi tractor-trailer accident that had held up traffic for hours. Kyle had run himself ragged, ordering around the road crew like a general commanding his troops to ensure that every last detail of the stage and systems setup met his exacting specifications. “It’s the Concert of Unnumbered Special Effects, not the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Hopefully, I’ll survive,” Kyle had joked to Nolan at one point; Nolan’s steadfast presence was always a comfort to Kyle when events became hectic.
So far, Silmarella’s performance had been flawless. Mick strutted around the stage like a rock god, Sparky delivered sizzling guitar solos, Nolan pounded the skins like a maniac, and Andy provided a solid bass line while calmly dodging bra and panty missiles, his teased hair remaining perfectly in place.
At the end of one of their songs, Mick nodded to Andy and Nolan, then informed the audience that he would be playing lead guitar for the next number, Shoot From the Hip,** as a special gift for Sparky, who hadn’t heard the new song yet. An excited roar answered Mick’s announcement as thousands of fans eagerly anticipated a brand-new rock anthem, and more lingerie found its way to the stage as three quarters of Silmarella played their new tune, with Sparky watching appreciatively from the side of the stage.
Nolan and Andy had only been able to rehearse the song a handful of times, while Sparky went on outings with Alanis and Kyle, but the band members were so in sync with Mick in the Song that they were able to perform together perfectly.
The lyrics were pure, unadulterated, 1980s heavy-metal-cheese with a heaping portion of swagger. And, although Mick necessarily had to phrase the subject matter in terms of heterosexual intercourse for the band’s continued success in the world of hair metal music, he aimed the words directly at Sparky’s presence in the Song.
“Hot sweaty steel, a woman's fingers on my gun,
Pull it hard, touch the trigger, squeeze it when I'm done.
Come woman, touch me, put it in your hand!
Take a hold, heart and soul, honey, I'm your man.
Cock the hammer slowly, and aim it at your love;
Put my barrel in your holster like a velvet glove!”
Mick grinned across the stage at Sparky, knowing that his ardent vocals were having the desired effect.
In anticipation of The OrgasMick Showdown, Sparky had been wearing leather pants rather than spandex at the band’s recent shows. They impeded the high kicks that typically punctuated Sparky’s guitar solos, but if he lost The Bet, it wouldn’t be as obvious to bystanders that the front of his pants was drenched.
Unfortunately, the tight leather pants were exceedingly uncomfortable when sporting an erection.
Sparky cursed to himself, realizing from Mick’s smirk that he had picked up on that thought as Mick began to sing:
“Hot and sticky, here it comes,
Emotion you can't tame;
Kinda tricky, watch it run,
Smoking like a flame - flame - flame - flame!”
During Mick’s guitar solo, Sparky noted ruefully that Mick had crafted the lyrics to work rather like priming a water pump before turning on a faucet at full blast. Fuck. His cock twitched, aching for release.
“Hot and sticky, here it comes;
I got the bullets, load it up,
Slide it into place,
My emotions coming down,
All across your face!!! ”
Sparky resisted the urge to come with every fiber in his being, trying not to think about Mick’s delectable cream.
Mick triumphantly sang the final refrain:
“I'm gonna shoot it, bang-boom, shoot it from the hip.
Got it loaded bang, pull the trigger boom; I don't never miss!
I'm gonna shoot it, bang-boom, shoot it from the hip.
Got it loaded bang, pull the trigger boom; I DON’T NEVER MISS!!!”
The way Mick belted out that last line sounded ominously like a promise; a certainty.
Women’s underclothes rained down upon the stage as the audience cheered and Sparky resumed his customary place to Mick’s right. It was time to play Whole Lotta Love.
Such a fabulous song.
It had never been so agonizing to perform.
“Way down inside,
Honey, you need it.
I'm gonna give you my love;
I'm gonna give you my love.”
Shi-i-i-i-iiitt, Sparky thought, biting his lip.
Sparky fought his impending climax through the verses of the song, his hole twitching, aching to be filled, and then it was time for his theremin performance, just like Jimmy Page used to do. He could focus on that, playing the strange instrument by moving his hands near it. Some of the motions reminded him of throwing clay on a potter’s wheel - a calming activity. He could do this. He could continue to resist. Just a little longer, he told himself.
And then Mick started moaning into the mic, exhorting an imaginary lover with ever-increasing desperation, thrusting his hips and tossing his glossy hair, his cries becoming more insistent as he approached his fictitious release.
Fuuuuuuuuuuck. Sparky refused to give in, continuing to keep his orgasm at bay. But it was … so close. So very, very close.
Another salvo of panties arrived on the stage as Silmarella thundered back into the song after the theremin interlude, Nolan’s drums hitting like flesh-on-flesh and riposting with Sparky’s guitar chords, the interplay of the instruments sounding like the mutual give-and-take of sex.
Almost. Sparky tried valiantly to ignore the climax that had been building … Just a liiiittle bit longer …
Mick directed the next lyrics at Sparky with surgical precision.
“Way, way down inside
I'm gonna give you my love
I'm gonna give you every inch of my love.
I'm gonna give you my love …”
There was a hailstorm of lingerie on the stage, to the extent that Andy practically retreated offstage in order to avoid the cascade. Mick was in his glory, prowling around with feline grace, managing to avoid tripping in the ankle-deep bras and panties. Sparky didn’t think he had ever seen so many women’s undergarments, even with the prodigious offerings at their previous concerts. But then, Mick’s fake orgasm had been way too convincing … and he wasn’t finished yet.
“WAY DOWN INSIDE …
YOU NEED …
LLLLOOOOOOOOOOOOVVVVE!!!!!”
Once again, Mick began screaming out another faux climax, panting with ecstasy, moaning wantonly … and Sparky finally lost control of his orgasm that had been building throughout the last two songs.
Somehow, Sparky managed to continue playing guitar as his cock erupted seemingly endlessly, spurt after spurt, his hole contracting rhythmically as Mick crooned,
“I wanna be your backdoor man …”
Indeed.
Mick commenced moaning again, as another stream of underwear pelted the stage. This had to set a Guinness World Record for the greatest amount of feminine underwear ever tossed upon a stage at a rock concert. All because Maglor had been screaming and panting with orgasMick abandon. Well … he certainly was impossible to resist.
Sparky felt Andy’s mental presence brush his awareness: You tried.
* * * ~ ~ ~ * * *
Fair warning: now I have to write another chapter, concerning the Dance of Epic Dorkiness. 😂
*Although Silmarella’s double-decker personal tour bus is custom-designed with ceilings high enough for Maglor to walk upright in the cowboy boots that were ubiquitous for 1980s rock stars, two upstairs bedrooms (one for the band members and one for Ali and Kenny), a cab that is open to the rest of the bus (so the guys can [pester] keep Ali company while she drives), and a bathroom that includes a shower, the smallest hotel bathroom is still spacious compared to a bus/RV lavatory. Besides, anybody who knows anything about concert tours knows about the universal No Pooping On the Bus rule, right? … Right???
**Shoot From the Hip is an actual song by the heavy metal band WASP. Maglor borrowed it for the purposes of this fic, due to its apropos lyrics.