Rock my world


A short erotic story about a woman discovering her bisexuality and experiencing a range of emotions from guilt to shame. Her long-term partner is also watching her. How will he react?

A photo of two women with their heads on each others shoulders in pink portraying the intimacy the couple in this story about bisexuality feels - erotica

The assistant throws the newspaper before my leather boots. Setting my drink down, I pick it up. My stomach lurches as I instantly recognise the photo on the front page. It had been a unique moment of intimacy over the last four years. The music tours had taken their toll, his mood had ebbed and flowed, and my patience had dwelled. This picture was taken by a pap while he and I exchanged vows. An impromptu decision, a secret hope it would save our relationship. How my heart had already faded when we said „I do.“ 

Downing my drink I shudder at the bright and dry cranberry taste. And then I stare at my reflection in the mirror long and hard. I look tired. The face of a woman no longer in control of her life leers back at me. A mask consumed by a life of rock and roll, shrieking groupies, and schedules hard to maintain without the compulsive energy boosts of narcotics.

The final encore rings out on stage. Smudging my eyeliner insensitively to cover the bags under my eyes, I question when I last felt alive.

Jack’s footsteps pound over the floor as he exits the stage, guitar in hand, sweat seeping from every pore, the elation and exhilaration encircling him like an intoxicating scent. 

I am propelled back to the honeymoon phase of our relationship.

Sex everywhere. Irrelevant of the time of day, whether the band or groupies were around. Our stifling and heady obsession with another; all grabby hands and entwined permanent touch. Rough, hungry, angry even.

Yearning to consume each other… When he played his guitar I would stand behind the curtains, run a hand into my knickers, my pussy wet with lust for him. One look of his turned my eyes backwards and set off a soundtrack of fantasies. 

But as he brushes past, planting a hot, wet, sweaty kiss on my cheek, I can’t help but think he’s lost me. His passion for me has dissipated, our intimacy is non-existent, his spirit reserved for the stage and his groupies.

His groupies.

The groupies that throw their knickers and bras at him, profess their love, their want to birth his child, and their eagerness to give him every sexual favour.

Groupies. What a fascinating tribe.

A photo of hands at a concert reaching out to the band - this image portrays the hunger of the fans for the guitar player protagonist in the story

As the booze is passed around, the joints lit, the women balanced precariously on knees, the music turned louder and the lights are dimmed, I catch a glimpse of a new groupie. Fresh flesh. A face untouched. A body unscathed by the realities of a rock and roll life.

Glancing at my husband, engrossed in his guitar, stroking those strings, I wish he would touch me again. He’s preoccupied. Oblivious to it all…

His warm eyes still lit above his shaggy beard. But married to his career first and foremost. What I would give to be an instrument in his hands. His experienced fingers stroking me, playing me, strumming my strings of lust…

I focus my attention on the new groupie as she picks at the buffet. Her long fingers reach for the fruit and deliver it to her mouth. Her tantalising composure intrigues me. I feel a stir in my stomach. Something I’ve not felt in a long time. A jolt. Electricity. I continue to watch her, overcome with almost nauseating sensations. 

The room is raucous and busy but there’s a corridor of stillness and silence between her and me. She doesn’t know I’m watching her. 

Her forest green sergeant pepper jacket looks aged and passed on through generations: I admire its integrity. I notice she is not wearing a bra beneath her white T. Her jeans are torn and held together at the waist with a thick black leather belt. The understatement of her outfit suits her. As if her entire existence is superior to her exterior appearance. Perfectly imperfect.

But I am glued to the spot, unsure what these butterflies in my stomach mean. My hands are damp, my brain busy. So for lack of an alternative, I continue to feast my eyes on her, as my mind simmers with swelling fantasies.

Women have always fascinated me. As a former groupie myself, the bustle beside each other was never a competition for me. I relished the women’s company, I drank in the sweaty, danced out musk of them as we all lay in tents or vans, sleeping off our drunken nights and wasted procrastination.

Whilst Jack captivates the room with his soulful rendition of „I want to know what love is“ I move behind her, my heart pounding like a drum.

Subtly trying to fill her scent into a box and store it in my nose, she swiftly turns to me, her hair a slow-motion swoosh.

„You’re Marianne.“

Her matter-of-fact tone makes me ascertain that that is my name. Yet it sounds different coming from her mouth. It sounds whole. Like I have come home.

Our eyes lock. It feels like I might pass out. No drugs or alcohol have ever made me feel this high before. I blink furiously, and lick my dry lips, struggling to find words. 

I take in every detail of her face from her eyes down her cheek to her lips. Every freckle, every mark. She doesn’t move a muscle. Her gaze is rooted in my eyes.


Time stops as her lips move. Like a black and white movie everything flickers. I am enchanted by her spell. Jack’s guitar plays like a theme tune to our encounter. Can he see us?

A photo of a man playing guitar with the caption: What I would give to be an instrument in his hands. His experienced fingers stroking me, playing me, strumming my strings of lust…

„Angela.“ I repeat. Her name causes my mind to trip and stumble. It rattles in my brain until she speaks again. She makes me nervous.

„Do you want to go somewhere a little quieter?“

The only reciprocation I can muster up is a nod. I follow her like a little child to behind the main stage where the crew is still tidying. Underwear and stuffed toys lie strewn along the stage. 

Overcome with… well, I can’t really tell you what because the infatuation has taken full hold of me, I take her hand. 

Facing each other we say nothing. And suddenly I can’t take it any longer. Like a bird taking flight, my hands soar to her cheeks. Our lips press in the lightest way possible against each other. Everything is new, yet so familiar. 

The earth-shattering fervour quakes through my skin. I do not recognise myself. My brain scans the entire situation. Struggling to compartmentalise all the sensations I notice that the music has faded around me. 

It is as if we are in the eye of a storm.  Heat crawls up my neck, settling in my cheeks. My lips tingle. Her lips are dry. An eternity goes by. I become acutely aware of my heart still racing like a hummingbird.

And then the confusion sets in. Is it guilt? Shame? Greed? What am I doing? What does this mean? I love Jack. But this woman. This woman is making me giddy. I know nothing about her. Yet she makes me feel understood.

With my knees trembling, my brain darting from one explanation to another, she senses my unease. I almost choke on my own breath as I feel her fingers trace up my back. My ribcage sinks, my heart slows again and as my eyes settle into this moment of inexplicable sensuality she caresses my face and kisses me.

Our tongues are soft, playful, considerate… She pushes me backward into a speaker. I feel Jack’s music vibrating in the small of my back. I feel alive. My hands dare to touch her. Running my fingers up her thighs, into her waist, her skin so different from my own body. And then, I reach up beneath her T-Shirt, cupping her breasts. My entire pelvis dances. My gut is awakened and autopilot takes over.

This is more than lust, tighter than desire yet looser than any yearning I have ever encountered.

She licks up the side of my neck. Coarse, sharp. Breathing in my ear I relish her attention.  As she nibbles, I glance over to Jack. He is far away.

Angela’s hand struggles to grab my entire breast. She pulls my bra down gently, sucking on my hard, plump nipple. Her hands are still making mind maps of my body. Over the soft folds of my belly. Round to my butt, dragging a finger up the middle like a stream between two mountains.

Our pelvis grind against each other, the hard buckle of her belt adding a cathartic edge to my heightened senses.

I feel utter euphoria. Invigorated by her flavour, and with the reverberation of the speaker, I am moister than I have ever been. She knows. Something about her being a woman gives her a superpower.

Hoisting me up, although I despise being lifted considering myself heavier than most, she wiggles off my underwear beneath the sheer dress. Licking up my thighs, snagging on my skin with her dry tongue she pauses at my pussy.

A fleeting look at Jack morphs into a colossal „yes,“ from my challenged voice. This isn’t the first time for her. My breathing becomes heavier and my voice fades into my head, unable to put this frenzy of a thrill into words.

My mind flits between an image of Jack and the realism of Angela between my legs. Their tongues; so different. Her hands meander to places not even I have explored before.

She is tender, her fingers brushing the entrance of my pussy, sliding my lips apart. As they slip into me I can’t help but gasp; a response so involuntary. So unchoreographed. So real.

It feels as if she is painting with her tongue as she takes long licks along my labia, softly on my clit then in tiny circles, increasing the pressure, intensifying the electricity shooting through my entire body.

My toes curl as she once more gazes up at me. Her eyes taunt me with longing. The spotlights from above frame her face like a portrait, etching the image into my eyes like staring at the sun for too long. How will I ever look at another person now that she is all I see? Her hand reaches up and around my butt, holding my pelvis closer as she slides her fingers in, massaging. Her nose nestled deep into my hairy bush. I’m sweating.

Faintly I become aware that the music has slowed or perhaps even stopped. Opening my eyes I glimpse Jack through the ajar door. He is watching me now. But he is still playing.

Trying to gauge the look in his eyes I am overcome with melancholy. His face is so full of love. When I have doused my body with his amorous flicker of understanding he lowers his eyes again and keeps playing. Angela has stopped. Lovingly I peer down at her face still snug between my thighs. She smiles; a smile so small yet so divine.

Jumping down to greet her ravenous body with mine I feel no resistance. Like a puppy pressing against your leg, our bodies fold together. Pulling my underwear up, I languish in the soft wash of calm that has filled my body.

I feel full again. Like a wave that laps up a shell. I feel an incandescent love for life.

Such a stark contrast to mere moments ago, the cranberry taste in my mouth still omnipresent.

„Marianne“, Angela whispers again, „you’re right where you should be.“

And yet again, her truth speaks volumes.

Photo of three newspapers on a pink background
This story was performed at a Skirtclub Party in Berlin with the Motto "Rock chic". These Newspapers were distributed amongst guests with the full story.

This story was inspired by the bisexual and bicurious Skirtclub (a female members only club).

If you are currently wondering about your sexuality and looking to explore it further then perhaps this questionnaire on female pleasure would interest you.

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