Archive-name: 3plus/country.txt
Archive-author: 
Archive-title: Country-Western Style


Isabelle was on her way to the city for a recording session at the new
studio. Tanned hands on the wheel, a chiffon scarf rippling at the
window and gold-rimmed shades: she was satisfied with her appearance
in the way a pretty woman vain enough to spend time in front of the
mirror is bound to be. There was the added consciousness of incipient
stardom. The agent told her over the phone that morning, ''This one
is really it, baby! This new guy is great, you're going to love him.
Got the voice of a god. A real hunk. I'm going to send
you to the top of the charts with this fellow!''

''Hold on, Sam.'' She had been alarmed by the excitement in her
agent's voice. He had made impulsive and sometimes foolish
decisions in the past. Isabelle liked to move cautiously,
methodically.
''We'd agreed not to decide anything until after we
finished this cut.'' She spook in a cool, low voice that was both
hypnotic and sexy. ''Look Sam, I know we're going to make it big with
all this---I'm the one who convinced you of that, remember? Now who
is this guy?''

''Well, I don't think you know him. He's a bit of a newcomer, but I've
seen him playing down at the club doing solo stuff and some back-up
work and he's damn good. He's the real thing straight from the farm belt. Name's
Ian Kaehler.''

''Yeah, I'm sure he's good, Sam,'' said Isabelle drily. ''You sure you
haven't got your eye on this hunk for other reasons?''

''Cool it, baby. You don't meddle with me and I don't meddle with
you.'' 

''Yeah, yeah, I know. The Golden Rule. OK, Sam, you better be right on
this one. That's all I've got to say.'' 

Isabelle had
dressed with the usual care, but with a vague sense of anticipation.
Only when she put on the black scarf with gold sparkles and the fire-
engine red lipstick did she become fully aware of her excitement. In
the mirror she gave herself a smile of frank
admiration. She wore no bra under the red silk tank top and 
wanted to be sure the effect was right. Sideways, frontways, the
sunlight hitting her breasts directly or indirectly: anyway she tried
it, she found she looked good. She realized the air-conditioning in the
building would make her nipples conspicuous, 
and the thought made her smile.
''What the hell are you thinking,
girl?'' She said suddenly out loud. ''That hunk will probably end up
in Sam's bed, not yours.'' She pulled on her jeans without consulting
the mirror.

_____________________________________________________

He arrived on a motorcycle from the long and dusty ride. He thought
too late that it would have been wise to bring along a change of
clothing. The denim work shirt he wore had gotten smeared with
grease when he'd had to stop to tighten a valve. He knew his hair
would be like the wheatfields at home after a storm; he hadn't worn
his helmet on the last leg. He'd stupidly left it at the diner where
he'd stopped for coffee. ''Got to call that place,'' he thought
as he dismounted.

Inside the crew was lounging by the door. He glimpsed his guitar propped
up by a microphone. The producer was already glaring at him.
''Where the hell have you been? Do you know what studio time costs?''

''Listen I'm sorry---I had engine troub---''

''Listen you me, kid. I'm not going to waste my time with no-shows. If
you want the job, you get here on time. Is that clear? Now let's get
going. We don't have all day.'' He vaguely remembered the producer
had a reputation for a temper. He saw something red out of
the corner of his eye and instinctively glanced at it. It was Isabelle
Stiles.  A pal had informed him that she was a ''great piece of ass.''
>From what he could see his friend was right, but he didn't want to
stare. Besides she looked like those cold, polished women who don't
like to be touched. He tried to collect his thoughts.

''Look, uh, I just need to make a quick phone call. I left my helmet
at a diner on the road.'' There was silence. The girl was staring at
him in disbelief or maybe even disgust.  He thought of the grease
on his shirt. The producer---what was his name?---looked flushed under
his tan.

''Look Travis---.'' It was the girl's voice. ''Why don't we just go
ahead and do the other cut. He can settle his business and I can
finish the track.'' She spoke calmly and with a poised determination.
Because she was now looking at Travis, Ian could observe her
more closely. He noticed almost immediately that she wasn't wearing a
bra.  Her breasts were two delicate, but definite points under the red
silk. He guessed that if she bent over he would be able to follow the
soft round curves all the way to the nipples.
Maybe she did like to be touched after
all.  Keep your mind on your work, he thought to himself.
Besides, this girl is being groomed for stardom; she's going to shoot
right out of reach. She's got all the right people, the right connections.

Travis grumbled, but Isabelle made a motion to the man in the mixing
booth. In a few moments her voice was filling the studio and everyone
was silent, watching.

You're the first man I saw, and what I saw I liked,
You didn't take no nonsense, you had a big black bike---

She looked good singing those words. He thought of his
own dusty bike. And he thought she looked at him. He felt a swelling
in his crotch.

_________________________________________________________________


Isabelle sang but she wasn't paying attention to the words. She was
thinking of the lean, musccular body she imagined Ian must have.
She could not explain this excitement to herself.
She didn't
approve of his appearance, at least not the disheveled look of his
hair and his unironed shirt.  Ordinarily she preferred a sleek,
well-groomed look, and Ian was not sleek.
He had on cowboy
boots, but they were worn and scuffed---not the kind she'd admired in
Nashville with polished metal tips and alligator skin.
The buckle of his belt, however, was singularly shiney, obviously new.
It was in the shape of a train.
She looked closer and blushed. Was it possible that he---?

''You came right on in and spun 'round my head,
You're one hell of a man---oh yeah, that's what I said!
So come on down with me Baby, come right on down this way!
I'm in a real big hurry, I haven't got all day,
Teach me how you do it, show me what you like
Come on and hold me tight on that big black bike!''

Isabelle looked up to applause in the sound booth when she finished.
Even Ian was grinning, although he wasn't clapping outright
like the others.  Isabelle blushed again. There was something
interesting about this fellow in spite of his disheveled look. His rich
auburn hair caught the glint of the studio lights, his legs stretched
out under the jeans looked long and muscular. She was sure she had
noticed a bulge in his pants; it wouldn't be the first time she had
observed that kind of reaction in men. But there was something quietly
self-assured about him that aroused her in return. He hadn't
seemed embarassed when she stared; he had just sat there grinning with
his thumbs hooked in his pockets, legs comfortably parted.


And now, in spite of the producer's rude welcome, he calmly strode into
the studio, grasped the neck of his guitar and swung the instrument
over his head until the strap came to rest comfortably on his shoulder.
In a moment he was wholly absorbed in the guitar: he stroked the
strings, he carefully adjusted the keys. She watched fascinated as his
hand darted back and forth from keys to strings, from strings to keys.
Then, hovering over the sound-hole, his fingers began moving smoothly
and rapidly, in what seemed like an elegant, effortless form of flight.
His head was slightly bent over the guitar's rounded form.
When he looked up and quietly informed her that he was ready, she
realized she had been holding her breath. 

___________________________________________________________

The recording session went better than he'd expected. Isabelle accepted
several of his suggestions and she even began to sing with more subtlty
and debth. Not that she hadn't been good, but the songs were somehow
predictable. He tried to show her how to add color and richness and far
from resenting his interference, she began to solicit his advice.
He guessed she would probably ''make it'' (as Travis put it) without
him, but he felt instinctively that the songs could use improvement.
Travis stood by mutely at first with folded arms and stiff legs, but
as the session progressed he relaxed enough to let his feet tap out
the time. Sam was visibly excited and clapped loudly after each take.
Ian thought he felt the older man's eyes on him and although it didn't make
him uncomfortable, he could not help wondering if he'd been offered
this job on criteria other than musical talent.

Ian gathered his belongings as the crew swarmed into the studio
to dismantle the equipment. He was planning on returning to the diner
to pick up his helmet, but first he would sit down outside to cool off
and have a smoke. Under the studio lights he had worked up a sweat.
Isabelle was hovering about looking nervous and uncertain. He
supposed she was concerned about the equipment. He stepped outside,
stripped off his slightly damp shirt, and sat on the bottom step with a
cigarette.

''Well, cowboy, are you headed home?''

Ian swiveled around and squinted up into the sunlight. It was Sam.
''No, well, yes, but I have to pick up my helmet. They're keeping it
for me at the diner.'' Facing forward again, he exhaled a voluptuous
cloud of smoke.

''You play real good,'' said Sam matter-of-factly. His hands were deep
in his pockets. His face was shadowed. 

''Thanks.  I'm flattered to be asked. Miss Stiles has got quite a
reputation around here. She's a real fine singer.'' Ian watched the
smoke dissipate and wondered what else to say to Sam.  Then Isabelle
walked out onto the concrete steps. As Ian turned toward the sound of
footsteps he had just enough time to make out her collapsing silhouette
and fasten his cigarette firmly between his lips when he felt the full
weight of her body come down hard into his arms. There was a sort of
muffled shriek.  As he regained his balance, he found he was cupping
her left breast with his right hand.
He withdrew his hand reluctantly as Isabelle struggled to get to her
feet. 

''Thank you,'' she said quickly. 'You probably saved me from a nasty
fall. I must have caught my heel on that crumbled step.'' She bent over
and gingerly massaged her ankle. Ian followed the round, soft curves
all the way to the nipples. He could feel that he was hard again.
_____________________________________________________________________

''I think I may have sprained my ankle....I wonder if you could help me
get inside to the lounge?'' Isabelle knew her ankle was not sprained.
She had twisted it slightly, but the pressure had given way when she'd
fallen. She felt excited and almost light-headed: she had decided to
act on an impulse. There was in fact a slight pain 
in her ankle, but it didn't matter.
She was admiring Ian's bared torso: a full well-developed chest, with
a soft covering of auburn down that tapered to his belly and
disappeared underneath his belt. She sucked in her breath sharply and
couldn't help noticing the buckle---and his erection.


''Uh, yes, of course. I'd like to help. Here let me hold your arm
and---that's right. That's just fine.  We'll get you right
upstairs.''
Ian cleared his thoughts and put out his cigarette. Avoiding her eyes
he grasped her gently around the waist with one arm, and with the
other he supported her elbow. They managed the steps with some
difficulty and made their way slowly into a carpeted room adjacent to
the studio.

''By the way, this is the lounge,'' said Isabelle.  ''Anybody who's
working here can use this room.'' With her heel she swung the door
shut. Sam had been lingering in the corridoor in case his help was
needed and she wanted him to receive a definite message. Then she
raised the hand that had grasped Ian's waist and began gently stroking
his smooth, tanned back. Her other hand explored his chest. 
''Ian, I want you--now.'' She said in a low, silky voice. ''Do you
want me?''

Ian was
motionless, but he could feel his cock throbbing. He felt sure that
Isabelle had noticed it. The idea pleased him and gave him confidence.
He knew exactly what to do. Without answering, he gathered her in his
arms and kissed her long and hard. His hands could glide smoothly up
and down the silk of her blouse and it was almost like feeling her
skin the way the material revealed the texture of the nipples, the
shape of her breasts. Underneath the silk he could feel their softness
and could squeeze them gently while at the same time caressing the
nipples. Isabelle was already at Ian's buckle, fingering it as though
it was itself a cock; abruptly she pulled away and lifted the silk shell
over her head revealing the slightly tanned, full breasts still
swaying from her sudden movement. Ian thought, ''My God! What gorgeous
knockers!'' in the language he was accustomed to use in his own thoughts.
To her he was about to say something he thought she would consider 
more tasteful, 
but she interrupted him.

''I want to do something I've always dreamed of doing,'' she half
moaned. As she said this she was pressing her bare breasts to his
chest, smelling his skin, kissing his nipples, running her fingers through
the soft, auburn curls. In a series of slow, moist kisses, she
traced the contours of his breast, his lean sides, and finally his
belly. She came to a stop at the buckle. She unzipped the
fly, taking care to avoid nicking his bulge. By this time she was
kneeling in front of him. She parted the rims of the fly and began
kissing and sucking at his cock through the layer of cotton
underneath. She did this until the material was soaked; then she
peeled it down to reveal the flushed velvet skin of his shaft which
she now bathed with her tongue. Gently she freed his prick from
the surrounding material until it stood out stiffly, unencumbered.

''Come on, now,'' she murmured. ''I want you to be my stud. I want
to feel this cock deep in my throat!''

Ian rocked his hips forward until his shaft disappeared between her
moist, red lips. He could feel the warmth and wetness engulf him---a
deliciously ambiguous sensation since at times he could imagine that
it was her vagina that enveloped him, instead of her mouth. Then he
would confuse the two and tell himself that her mouth was a vagina,
and he would think of her pussy, of what it would be like when he
penetrated her there as well. Fucking her mouth and thinking of
fucking her cunt almost made him shoot off, but he resisted.
He watched her face as she sucked and it
seemed to him that she kept it uplifted on purpose so that he could
read her expression. Her lips were ordinarily full, but now were 
stretched by the width of his
dick. Everytime he withdrew slightly in order to rock forward again
she would pull harder on his cock with the suction of her tongue.

''OK, Baby,'' he whispered hoarsely, ''You want to be my bitch? I'm
going to ram this down your throat; I'm going to come into your
mouth!'' She could tell by the engorged shape of his prick that he was
about to come. She gripped his ass cheeks with her hands and then, 
loosening the tight rim of her mouth from around the base of his cock
and relaxing her throat even further, she strained forward until she
was able to feel his balls at her lips.

In a voice that he feared afterwards must have come out as a scream or a
shout, he cried, ''That's right, bitch! Take my balls into that wet
twat of a mouth!'' She gloried in his obscenity and was proud that she
could swallow his entire sex. She had always wanted to
flaunt this ability before a total stranger. But it had to be the
right one, and he was definitely the right one. She relaxed her throat
completely to allow Ian to fuck her mouth hard as he came. He did not
hold back, but treated her mouth as if it was a cunt. ''That's right,
bitch! Take---it, take---all of it!'' He had to pant the words out
now. The next thing he knew he was spurting into her, and she was
swallowing and sucking at him while with her hands she pushed up her
heaving tits so he could see the stiff nipples. When he withdrew, 
she did something that aroused him incredibly. She had
retained some his come in her mouth and now, she dipped two fingers into
the hollow between her lips and spread his come over her nipples,
making them glisten. She dipped her fingers again and this time
encircled the areolas, and finally both breast entirely.  Then she stood
up and he could see her tits gleaming wet with his come. One last time
she anointed her fingers, but instead of smoothing them again over her
breasts, she lay down, spread her legs, and began massaging her
crotch---an area where her jeans were already stained dark from her
juices. 

Ian fell back wide-eyed on the couch. Isabelle proceeded to arch her
back and moan as she slid her hand underneath her jeans. She spoke to
him in a voice that was low and  musical:

''I can feel my smooth, taut belly. The skin is so soft. I love to see
a man's rough dark hand caressing my belly the moment before his
fingers strain to get into my pants and I tell him, 'Oh yes, yes,
there's nowhere I won't let your hand wander. You're making me wet;
you make me crave the feeling of your hand as it spreads over my bush and
discovers my wetness. I'm breathing fast just at the thought of how
you'll part my soft, yielding lips and find absolutely no resistance.
You'll begin by caressing the soft wet interior of my cunt just
inside my lips, and you'll be amazed at how my desire makes my wetness
fill your hand. And then gently at first, with two fingers,
you'll force deeper into my cunt and feel your cock swell as my flesh
spreads and encircles your fingers, kissing and sucking them as if they were a
prick. By now I'll be begging you to fuck my cunt with all of your fingers
and to make them reach down to the deep inner walls of my vagina as though
you were painting me there with the smooth, wet strokes of a
paint-brush.' ''

Isabelle had opened her jeans and was slipping them slowly over her hips
with one hand, while the other remained hidden between her legs. The
lower the jeans went the more Ian could see of the hidden hand, until
finally she allowed her fingers 
to be exposed. Her fore- and middle-fingers were deeply inserted in
her cunt, the other two were just pressing between the folds as she
worked the jeans down to her ankles. When she had freed her feet from
the pant-legs, she slowly and luxuriously  spread her legs. Ian saw
that her four fingers were now gliding easily in and out of her cunt
which made soft, sucking sounds in response. Then, surprisingly she removed her
hand. She now made a cradle for her head with both hands so that her
arms were bent upwards, her upper arms spreading  outward from her
body as if to mimick the form of her legs set wide apart. In this
position, she rocked her hips up and down slowly at first and then
more rapidly. Ian watched tensely as her pussy lips expanded to reveal
the inner opening that was now glistening and dribbling with wetness.
Her legs were so widely spread that her lips were free to expand
liberally until he could actually see the interior of
her vagina. He watched transfixed as it sucked and swallowed at the
air, bursting open and revealing the inner pink wetness, and then
closing around nothing as though it were being penetrated by an
invisible cock.

At that moment Sam walked in. Ian froze, startled, but oddly excited
by the intrusion and by the expression on Sam's face. More surprising
was Isabelle's response. She moaned louder as if craving
the impossible.

''Sam---fuck me! I want you to do with me what you like to do with a
man.'' Without saying a word Sam grabbed her by the hips and flipped
her effortlessly onto her hands and knees. He fumbled for a moment
with his fly, but managed to draw out his prick as he spread her ass.
With his thumbs he opened her ass-hole and guided his cock with his
hips until the tip reached her hole. ''Baby, I'm gonna fuck your
ass-hole, is that what you want?'' Isabelle just panted and rubbed her
hole against the prick in reply. Sam slowly and steadily pushed in.
Then she turned and spoke to Ian: ''I want you to lie underneath me---I want you
to fuck my cunt---''

''As if you needed to ask---'' Ian said almost roughly. ''Baby your
tits alone tell me you want it.'' He slid underneath her and
felt for her cunt. Raising his hips with the strength of his thighs,
he lifted his prick to her wet slit and felt it glide into the
receptive sheath. He pumped hard until he felt Isabelle gasp and cry
out with pleasure. The fullness of Sam in her ass and of Ian in her
cunt was almost unbearable.

As she came she heard Sam whispering fiercely, ''Baby, I never knew
you were such a hot bitch!'' Isabelle barely had the strength to
reply. ''I didn't know you...you liked women, too---.''

''You never asked.'' From her position she could not see the broad
smile on Sam's face.
--