Music to my ears [Rigor & Starry]

[Rigor Samsa]

Between a snakes and ladders labyrinth of producer booths, unscrambled Cush and Louisiana chicken special boxes a record label called BDE; dwelled. Music had always slipped through the cracks of cultural ruling; on either side of them gangs cracked cases and bumped fists; the unsavoury underbelly business. Genesis Griffin habitually scrolled through his Instagram and sussed out the message requests - careful to look at the previews so as to not fork over an undeserved piece of attention to those who desired it. Mama G always said success shined brightest when someone else wanted something from you. From further within the brightly lit studio the engineers argued loudly with each other, it sounded like Edeio and Speed but Genesis couldn't be sure: the beat overwhelmed both voices and subsumed then into the sonic assault until whatever meaning might have been encoded was washed out like erosion of the white sand at Heathcliffe Beach. Each wave of the ocean and each wave of the track carried away more and more sand until all that was left was a polished chrome nothing. "Lads, fucking make it right by the time I get back or I'll crack something, or someone over the console!" He shouted it, but doubted the words would have fared much better than the argument coming the other way. Even moderately success labels needed to stay productive and retain success, each trophy, each accolade became another metric which could be taken away from you. BDE; had began as a way to get away from a lot of the pressure, industry, personal or otherwise. He ran a hand through the air, and then laid it on the redbrick dividers letting the vibrations of the beat cool his Black heart. Anger and annoyance were familiar bedfellows for Genesis but he never liked to sleep with them, a one night stand which always showed an ugly face in the mirror. Genesis bashed his palm flat against the wall twice, and got a return thud in reward for his efforts: an acknowledgement of the message as the music turned down. Breezing out past the recruiters listening to underground tapes, Genesis fancied a moment in the bathroom mirror: dampened, suppressed music rumbling in the background; a solitary figure as he would examine his tattooed dark skin replete with razor-fine cheekbones and teeth glinting with white-gold. His rolly chain lolled out like a hot dog's tongue, the light playing out on a discoball at its heart. His long, thick fingers brushed over the links in the chain. But before the melancholy moment could realize itself he turned towards the light, the loud chaotic street and left the building without telling anyone where or who he was going to see. Perhaps the more responsible thing to do would have been to find a brother or sister to bust up the cloud of inertia which was hanging on. Instead Genesis felt like making a mistake, maybe finding a fine bitch or three. It'd been too long since he'd inked a new page of lore for his songs of big dick misery — and there was nothing like nostalgia to prompt a return to his roots.

 

[Starry]

The humid evening air kissed the glitter-slicked skin of Tiffany Starr as she strolled down L’Impasse - a stretch of sidewalk so iconic for rapper nightlife it practically dripped Henny and heartbreak. A casino buzzed with broken dreams to her left, the neon signage bouncing off her glossy, bronzed curves like paparazzi flashbulbs on Versace. Behind her, bars were already thumping, velvet ropes writhing with early crowds desperate for validation and views. And there she was. Tiffany. Motherfucking. Starr. Live and unfiltered for her 6.2 million devoted little followers, teetering in sky-high bubble-gum pink Lucite heels and a matching latex mini-dress that looked like it had been spray-painted onto her stacked, fuckable body. The dress - if it could even be called that - clung to her like a second skin, thin enough to show the curve of her pierced nipples and low enough to hint at the soft swell of her perfectly waxed mound. Her cleavage was practically criminal, overflowing with bronzer shimmer and teased for the camera like it owed her rent. Gold rings glinted on each dainty finger, oversized bracelets clinked on her wrists, and her ears hosted thick hoop earrings that caught every last drop of neon light. A chunky choker reading “𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑭𝑼𝑪𝑲𝑹” in dripping diamond script wrapped her swanlike throat while a belly chain winked around her midriff like a secret slutty promise. Tiffany had her phone raised in one manicured hand, the other holding a sugary vape pen she barely used - mostly for aesthetic. Her glossed-up lips puckered as she faced the front cam, speaking in that signature pouty whine she was oh-so-famous for. “Hi my littttle bimbo babies~!” she cooed, voice sugar-dipped and sinfully smug. “Okay so like, I knooow you’ve all been blowing up my DMs about the viral Challenge Game, sooo here’s the sitch, m’kay?” She spun dramatically, the camera catching her big, bouncing blonde hair and the jiggle of her bubble butt as she twisted toward the glowing barfronts. “You see a dude? You ask him: is your cock bigger than this—” She thrust out her tanned, glitter-dusted forearm with a flourish, fingers sparkly and spread. “If it ain’t? Bitch owes you a drink. Or a lil favour… hehehe~ unless he’s packin’ heat… like, monster-heat.” Her blue eyes sparkled with faux-innocence as she leaned into the camera. “Like, what are the odds, right? Most of these boys talk big and carry limp lil gummy worms~[” she giggled nastily, snapping her gum. “Anywayyyy~ tonight I’m manifesting free cocktails and maybe a sloppy lil lapdance if I’m bored. You girls know I always win these challenges…” As she flounced past a group of suited-up club security - one of whom got a very intentional eyeful of her jiggling cleavage - Tiffany caught sight of a tall, tattooed figure stepping out of a side alley where the beat of a studio still faintly echoed. She slowed. Zoomed the camera in slightly with a lazy, slutty smirk tugging at her glossed-up pout. “Oh my gawwwwwd… babes, look who it is~” she drawled, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial coo, her phone angled sneakily so her followers could spy the tall, muscled man with the unmistakable chain and swagger. “King Gene. Mister 'I write sad songs about my big ol’ dick and how bitches can't handle it',” she purred with an exaggerated pout, eyes glittering with bratty mischief. “Bet you all twenty dollars he’s full of shit and I get a free drink outta this easy—like, c’mon, he probably exaggerates to sell records. That’s a thing, right?” She adjusted her top slightly, pressing her tits up even higher for the camera. “Wish me luck, whores~! Let’s see if Mister Size King wants to play the game~” She adjusted her dress slightly, pressing her tits up even higher for the camera, one hand theatrically fluffing her platinum waves while the other kept her livestream rolling - chat exploding with eggplant emojis and “QUEEN GO GET HIM” comments. She licked her lips slowly, like she was about to devour someone. Then, with all the performance of a high-end pornstar on a red carpet, Tiffany squealed. “Ohmygod—babeessss—he’s lookin’ this way! Like—shhhshhh, act casual~” she whispered like a bad actress pretending to sneak up on a wild animal in stilettos. Her voice dropped into a throaty pout as she waved one sparkly hand high in the air. “GENEEEEY~! Oh-em-gee, hiiiii~! I’m like, literally your biggest fan, babe,” she sang out in a syrupy squeal, trotting up toward him with her ass bouncing and her arm still holding her phone high so her followers had front-row seats to the potential humiliation about to unfold. “I’ve been, like, obsessed with your music since that one track where you talked about your ‘fat-ass misery stick’ or whateverrrr, ughhh you’re sooo funny~!” She giggled and made a dramatic heart with her fingers in front of her heaving tits, then practically shoved her glittering phone into his direction. “Okay soooo, I have to know if you wanna be a part of this suuuper viral challenge that’s like, totally blowing up TikTok RN,” she batted her lashes, the forearm already coming up as she bent her elbow just a little… just enough to frame her delicious cleavage and pointed acrylics. “It’s like, suuuper dumb and slutty~” she said with a wink to her viewers. “Basically… if your cock isn’t bigger than my forearm—like this one right here—” she thrust it out with all the smug flair of a beauty queen holding out a microphone, “—then you gotta buy me a drink. Or like, do me a lil favour~ teehee.” She flashed her phone at him, letting the stream catch both their faces for that juicy reaction shot, her blue eyes sparkling with bratty challenge. “But if it is… well… guess I’ll owe you somethin’ instead~”

 

[Rigor Samsa]

Gutherie Avenue was a delight to the senses, offering a veritable cornucopia of confections of many a delicacy: sweets, Korean, honey, Porto Rican, Mexicano, Jobille -and some of those delicacies were the people; the vox populi; flesh, blood and rabid red hearts. A fundamental proponent of rap was the creation, cultivation and aggrandisement of the individual mythos, everyone practiced to an extent even those who did not directly partake in the great game. Genesis lived and breathed it. He’d been born on the streets -literally- and although the music now came polished and mixed through silicone wires and carefully modulated by a Black Troubadour for excellence there was a gritty soul he courted from the streets and no matter the lofty heights he ascended to that would be the sound his music breathed. As soon as forefoot made contact with the pavement a weight lifted from his chest: an iron corset about his lungs was loosened like a pelican taking flight. But all too quickly his peace and truth were intruded upon by a vision of beauty. Or at least, an ultra-modern sexually liberated woman misogyny crowned Queen’s vision; she came floating towards him as though weightless - each step ripped upwards and caused a generous bosom to shudder and shake with seismic activity. God that’s distracting, a firework of glitter and sparkle alongside an avalanche of sex appeal. Instantly he knew she was gunning directly for him - the intensity of the gaze and the ripple of sensation as the ancient reptilian brain whispered directly into his wrinkled grey matter: ‘sire, avast. Sire, evasive action is recommended.’ Genesis paid no heed to those baser instincts which were bred into antediluvian man to avoid tigers, and more corporeal threats. An influencer with an audience, and a bone to pick was a beast you couldn’t simply run from without losing face, and followers. Genesis felt with an ugly twist of recognition: this was a setup he’d seen a couple of times in the reels and shorts of the gram — although it had always been from the POV of the woman springing the challenge on someone unaware. It was a moment of cognitive dissonance as the overlay of the comment section greeted him. Haha, idiot! Look at him! “Listen ‘honey’ it’s been a long day and I’m looking for some stress relief - if you’re volunteering to do some charity work das not my blood ya feel?” Against the grain of his words was an undercurrent of terse backed bends. “So if you owe me somethin’ it is gonna be graphic and loud ... maybe a lil messy too.” He spread his hands accentuating the broadness of his shoulders and the thinness of his waist: the athletes v-taper on full display. At both extreme ends of sexual dimorphism their phenotypic expressions clashed with all the grandeur of a royal banquet. Genesis was sure he recognised the woman after all, a queen who sat in her self-made court of product placement and public opinion. “Now don't run away screaming aite, you wanted to see this.” Playfully he slowly unzipped his Levi Strauss jeans which hung artfully low on his hips anyway, the unbuckling involving a leather belt whose clasp had been fashioned after a silver bull - some called it tacky, the more mild minded called it crass. Genesis thought it was appropriate foreshadowing, "but I think he will be happy to see you." With all the drama of a gameshow host Genesis slowly extracted his dark trouser snake with each inch seemingly less probable than the last. He played the scene up for the camera, playing the comments over in his head as her 40% female audience screamed in incredulity and the 60% simps were no doubt screaming in their paper thin poorly built houses. When he was finished unsheathing his length he beckoned her to come closer as though summoning a wild beast which might turn and run into the feral blue yonder at the slightest provocation. He could feel himself begging harder just making eye contact with her - the STARFUCKR as her necklace so proudly shouted. “Don't be shy now I need you to get in close here and do some measurements. He doesn't bite, but he does make the bitches scream.” Genesis pulled a packet of blue prince cigarettes from his now slack jeans and tapped one into his hand. His cock, even half mast and semi-dormant was intimidating and the longer the clock ticked the more aware of its surroundings and proximity to a woman whose essence screamed fuckability was pulled closer by the rules of the game.

 

[Starry]

The moment it came out, Tiffany’s world stopped. Her lips, plumped to perfection and still slick with candy pink gloss, parted with a soft, startled gasp. One heel wobbled slightly on the uneven pavement as she froze mid-strut, eyes blown wide beneath thick lashes as the sheer magnitude of what Genesis had just unleashed throbbed into view like a myth made flesh. “Um—uhh—babe…?” she blinked, her voice cracking into a breathless little squeak, her diamond phone still held high as thousands of her fans lost their fucking minds in the chat. “MOTHER OF DICK” “HER WHOLE SOUL JUST LEFT HER BODY LMFAO” “SHE IS RE-EVALUATING LIFE CHOICES IN REAL TIME” Tiffany’s spine stiffened. She tilted her phone slightly, biting her lip hard to hold together what little composure she still had. She tried to smirk—tried to roll her eyes like this wasn’t the biggest dick she’d ever seen - but her expression betrayed her, caught in that perfectly bratty glitch between shocked, curious, and visibly aroused. “Okay, like… What. The. Fuck,” she stammered, finally forcing out a breathy giggle. “Babe, this isn’t a dick, this is like… a lifestyle change. This is a commitment. This is like… a three-part Netflix docu-series with a trigger warning.” The words came faster now - nervous, spiralling, half-laughing as she continued to stare down at the thick, dark, unbelievably heavy cock swaying in front of her with audible gravity. “No, ‘cause like—this isn’t even fair? You didn’t say you were gonna pull out a fucking cast iron drainpipe! I thought this was gonna be like, a cute lil ha-ha moment where I flirt and you buy me a drink, not a religious awakening, ohmygod~” Still she stared as her legs started to bend at the knee's - squatting down ever so slightly. The bottom of her ass peaking from the tight dress. Her forearm came up beside it like she was lining up for a crime scene photo, glittering bracelets sliding down to her elbow as she displayed the size difference with all the drama of a woman about to fake her own death for attention. Her arm looked child-sized next to it. “…Oh, you definitely win,” she muttered under her breath, half to herself and half to her rapidly spiralling livestream. “Like, you win everything. You win the challenge, you win the lawsuit I’m gonna file when this thing breaks me, you win my fucking followers—hi besties~ hope y’all like cock-shaped trauma~!” The chat was feral: “SHE’S GAGGING JUST LOOKING AT IT” “I’M CRYING SHE’S IN SHAMBLES” “TIFFY THIS IS HOW VILLAINS GET MADE” Then - because of course she would - Tiffany touched it. With just one trembling, glitter-tipped hand, she reached out and let her fingers trail along the side of the beast. Her phone dipped lower to follow the moment, capturing the exact second her face went from bratty disbelief to something far softer… far filthier. “Oh my—fuck, it’s real,” she gasped, her palm pressing to the shaft. Her hand looked like it was trying to grip a damn thermos. “It’s so warm… it’s like, alive, holy shit.” She started stroking. Slowly. Subconsciously. Like she was under a spell she accidentally cast. Her phone was still up. Still streaming. Her other hand was now busy trying to work its way around the monster in front of her, fingers splayed wide as she gently rubbed along the top, every stroke making the tip twitch and her thighs clench. “Okay, like—be honest,” she said shakily, voice cracking with breathless laughter. “Did you like… grow this in a lab? Is this some Black Mirror body mod shit?? No one has a cock this big unless they were born on a secret dick farm or, like… blessed by some ancient fertility goddess in a past life…” Her laugh hiccupped into a soft moan. Her glossy lips twitched. Her breath quickened. “I swear to god if this thing twitches at me again I’m gonna pass out. I mean, look at my hand! I can’t even wrap around it! I’m like, actually getting wrist strain—this should count as fucking manual labour! I’m too pretty for this!” Then her voice softened. Just a little. A crack in the sugar. “So like… umm… do you wanna, maybe, cash in that lil favour now~?” she asked, peeking up at him from beneath thick lashes, her tone caught halfway between a tease and a plea, her fingers still gently stroking. “I mean, not that I think I can… like… take it, ohmygod... this thing’s not even a cock, it’s a home invasion.” Another stroke. Another twitch. Her eyes fluttered. “There’s no way this is gonna fit. Not even close. Like, I’m sorry but this would split me in half, and not even in a cute bimbo way—this is spinal tap level. Like, you don’t need a condom, you need a real estate agent.” She was still talking. Still stroking. Still pink-cheeked and breathless and visibly fighting the urge to drop her phone and get on her knees. Tiffany Starr - snowbunny bimbo queen, livestream goddess, and professional slutty brat - was in deep trouble. And every one of her viewers knew it. “LOOK AT HER FACE SHE’S NOT COMING BACK FROM THIS” “SOMEONE PLAY THE FUNERAL MUSIC” “TIFFY BABE YOU’RE ABOUT TO GET MARRIED” But Tiffany didn’t see it. She couldn’t. Because her hand was still wrapped around the biggest mistake she’d ever flirted with, and her mind was busy doing one thing only: Calculating how much lube it would take to survive.