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slavghoul · 4 years

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Total Guitar, August 2015

Interview with Tobias and Martin, but they’re referred to as Fire and Aether.

PARANORMAL ACTIVITY

They’ve headlined Brixton and count Metallica's James Hetfield among their ever-growing army of fans, but refuse to reveal their identities. TG delves deep inside the secrets to Ghost's sound and success

They often say looks can be deceiving, and in the case of Swedish occult rockers Ghost, they couldn’t be more right. On paper, you’d be forgiven for thinking that Papa Emeritus III and his five Nameless Ghouls play the kind of outlaw black metal that soundtracked many a Norwegian church-burning in the 90s. But influences that span as far and wide as Blue Oyster Cult, The Beatles and ABBA made for spine-tingling serenades that quickly won them friends in high places, including Metallica’s very own James Hetfield and Dave Grohl.

Their rise to glory has been unearthly to say the least, from their UK debut at Camden’s 500-capacity Underworld venue in 2010 to headlining Brixton Academy just three years later. They've certainly worked hard for it, but you can’t help get the feeling there may even be other forces at play. As the sinister ministers prepare to unveil album number three, Meliora, their two gunslingers - or rather, Nameless Ghouls Fire and Aether - offer Total Guitar their most revealing and candid interview to date...

We read that Meliora is Latin for 'better'. Is that a fair assessment of how you feel about your new album?

Fire: I believe the actual translation of the word is: ‘in pursuit of something better’. So it’s more about the road towards something better. And I feel that any band that didn’t have a similar thought going into a new record is just wasting everybody’s time. Of course, we want to outdo everything we’ve done in the past. The title ties in with the album lyrically - the thematics and social commentary - rather than trying to say this our best record. Though we naturally feel like that!

Aether: This is something that grew because we’ve grown as people, too. Maybe five years ago we wouldn’t have liked these songs! This style of writing only came out over the past year, almost because of the other stuff. Of course, what we like most is what we’re working on now.

The Ghost live performance is a theatrical experience. What are the main challenges in conducting your live rituals with masks on?

Aether: It really comes down to the individual. The new masks are harder to perform with than our older ones, which were very lightweight. But you soon get used to it and it makes it easier to let go on stage. I never have to worry about how I might look in a photo, if I was fickle or vain enough to care. Even if I’m really fucking hungover, no-one will ever see it. But that’s not the main perk... I love it because it’s a uniform for the band that makes us feel connected, like a unit. The downside is it gets very hot and changes how we communicate. You become very skilled in reading people’s body language. If a guy walks a certain way, he probably needs to retune his guitar so I better fill in on the next part, stuff like that. We’re all reliant on each other and after a while it feels like we’re one organism that can’t quite see or hear each other. After a while, you know your positions - there’s an element of choreography, I guess.

Fire: It’s a lonely place. As soon as you put the mask on, there’s that Darth Vader moment - ‘Csssshhh’ - and you’re on your own! That’s the end of communication for one-and-a-half hours. It gives no facial expression. Instead, there’s nothing, just blankness. It’s not happy or sad. People don’t even know where you’re looking; you’re a black hole to them. When we look out, we can see a lot of faces. Sometimes I think, ‘Why are they looking at me like that?’ and then realise, ‘Oh yeah, it’s because we look like nutters!’

You're mainly known for playing Gibson RDs, which are notoriously difficult to find. What attracted you to such an unusual model of guitar?

Fire: The guitars we play are so rare that today in London [Ghost flew over for this interview], we could not find any. Not even one! The irony isn’t lost on us. We wanted a guitar that would brand ourselves differently. As much as we’re embracing the past... we wanted to be synonymous with something different.”

Aether: I saw a Gibson RD for the first time about 15 years ago and thought it was the coolest guitar I’d ever seen. When we started Ghost, I was using a white SG and it just so happened that Gibson had recently reissued a series of RDs. We established contact with Gibson and asked for two black and two white ones, saying we wanted to brand them as our guitar. Not many people had stuck with them. Sure, [U2 bassist] Adam Clayton played them for a while, [Nirvana bassist] Krist Novoselic had one, even Dave Grohl owns some...

Speaking of Dave Grohl, what was he like to work with when he produced your If You Have Ghost EP in 2013?

Aether: We went to his Studio 606, and he actually had a bunch of RDs there. Of course, I asked if I could try them out and he was like, ‘Try anything you want!’ And he meant it, too. So I found this 1979 RD and used it to record the EP. The Moog chip had been removed [early RDs were built with active circuitry including a switchable ‘bright’ mode] because while that was cool in ’79, you don’t really want local radio stations coming out of your speakers. It was a very cool-looking guitar that sounded like a cross between a Gibson Les Paul, Explorer and, to some extent, an SG. RDs have that Gibson sound and I guess we’re a Gibson band!

Fire: I must add that we use custom pickups made in Sweden by a guy called Lundgren. He works with many Swedish artists [such as Meshuggah]. They’re all handmade and play a big part in our sound. He just sits at home by his kitchen table, hand-wiring pickups,.. and they sound killer! I’d already bought one set, but then he contacted the band about working together and has been amazing to us.

As for amps, we've only ever seen Orange stacks on your stages. Which models are you using live and in recording?

Fire: We mainly use Rockerverbs, but it’s also important to say that from a recording and rehearsing point of view, we use different things. The mixture of Orange amps with a Gibson SG was the formula for the first record and is what we’ve built our sound on. But nowadays we’re mixing several Orange amps and several other ones to create that wall of sound. Each guitar part is recorded using three different amps. Just think, in the old days, Pete Townshend from The Who would get all the latest gear from Hiwatt, Marshall, all the brands... say thanks and then go smash them up! Nowadays, I find bands that sound retrospective do it so firmly, it destroys their ability to actually evolve the music.

So what is the secret to nailing a convincing vintage guitar tone?

Aether: There are so many rules for what is vintage and what is not. Pay respects to your heroes but don’t be afraid to alter it for yourself. If you live by rules like: 'We have to sound like Sabbath,' well... let’s just say even Black Sabbath didn’t want to sound like Black Sabbath after a while! We’re all here to evolve. Back in the old day bands didn’t have any commandments to follow, they just wanted to sound good. We like the sound of the old albums, they’re not overly distorted or cranked. Our newest album is the closest we’ve come to cultivating our own guitar sound. It took days and days of A/B shooting. We’ve never had that much time to really dial in the tone.

Being in a band with two guitarists, how much awareness is there of leaving space for the keys?

Fire: From a songwriting point of view, it’s imperative to understand all the components you have within the sonic landscape. That definitely comes into the development of the song. A lot of people think the solo on Mummy Dust off our new album is a guitar. It’s actually a keytar solo! We met our keyboard player about 10 years ago. He was playing with this other band and started shredding on a keytar. He was kickass, like Hendrix levels of ‘wow’. So when we made this record it felt like it was time to release the hounds! We’ve been talking about this for years... We have this great trick up our sleeves - he’s so good at keytar, we’re thinking about making a futuristic album. It’ll happen sooner or later, and we’re almost saving his full potential for then...

Aether: Because keytars are like a forbidden thing! You’ll definitely be tormented with more synth moments at some point in the future. And he plays it with a wah-wah! You have to see it to grasp how cool it is, the ability to play that fast and shred... You know, for us, everything has to come into consideration. We use Moogs and early synthesizers for the late 70s early, 80s sounds. Then we balance it with drums, bass, two guitars and vocals. We want to experiment with songwriting rather than mess around with effects. We use maybe a little, just a few choice spices... But mainly we work with the tools at hand and make the best out of it.

And as for your own musical backgrounds, are you classically trained or going more for old-school feel?

Aether: Neither of us really studied music; it’s just about what feels right for the band. I’m very interested in film music and soundtracks. There are schools that teach you how to build suspense and drama. Until we learn more, it’s down to our ears. That’s where ABBA comes into play. They fill every gap of space with something that’s called for.

Fire: I’ve always been into classical music. Even though I’m not classically trained and would struggle to tell you what chord I’m playing. Especially as we tune down, we always have to tell our keyboard player, ‘Transpose to us, motherfucker!’ A lot of unconventional language for us comes from being influenced by classical minor music. Speaking about the future, even though we make rock records, I’m curious to see if we can explore actual dramatic music. Not relying on drums or 4/4 beats, but rather orchestrating pieces like a musical! I think we have achieved an element of that - there are choruses in five bars rather than four, which make sense with vocals... that’s a typical classical thing. It’s closer to classical or prog than standard rock.

The new album has its fair share of prog-rock sounding detours. Can you tell us more about your non-metal influences?

Fire: We have good friends like Opeth, who are definitely a lot more proggy than us. Those guys are like outspoken keepers of the prog tradition. Next to them, we’re more of a shock-rock band! But we are inspired by many progressive artists. Plus the origins of Ghost actually came from the first two Pink Floyd albums. Back when I was learning guitar, they were the band that showed me it’s okay to have over five choruses. It’s only when I started jamming with other people I was told, ‘Dude, that’s pretty weird!’ So we combine metal with a lot 60s and 70s unconventional music. ABBA are complicated and very progressive in ways!

Aether: Sometimes, I listen to a heavy-metal band and think: if you made a symphony orchestra play those songs, they might not sound that malicious. But take an ABBA song... it’s like the end of the world! A lot of it is very sad and melancholic. Their version of I’m A Marionette is way scarier than our cover... it’s got this haunting violence to it. And growing up in Sweden, you just couldn’t avoid them. Their music was everywhere and that almost set our standard for melody.

Fire tells us how it feels to have Metallica legend James Hetfield become a fan of your band

"I think it was Brian Slagel from Metal Blade who told us James was a fan around the first album. Brian played a big role in our American success, as our first album came out on his label. We were lucky he was up for helping us and, sure as shit, he did. Obviously, he’s friends with all these legendary bands, so he started telling me, 'By the way, these guys like you, those guys like you and... James Hetfield likes you!'

Not long after, Metallica played in Gothenburg - it was one of the Big Four shows and broadcast on national television. James wore a Ghost shirt backstage before the show, so the TV host started asking him about us. We were actually on a plane at the time, so when we landed, we switched our phones on and all these messages came in! 'He's wearing the shirt!' Everyone was like, 'Hey man, forget about the 20 bucks you owe me, I love you!'

Then James came to see us at our first San Francisco show in this tiny venue, which was more like a coffee shop. We were stood backstage in our underwear and it probably wasn't the best way to meet your idol for the first time! Then he came by after the show, of course, we were in our underwear again. Come to think of it, I've met James many times in my underwear! It's crazy. The guy is like royalty to us."

#from the archives #the band ghost #meliora era #interview #you can tell from every interview with omega that he was as passionate about the band as tf #shame things ended the way they did

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nowitsdarkfic · 5 years

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creatura della notte // a joey imagine

Started this the other night before the power went out, and then picked up last night. Enjoy 😘😘😘

⚠️ Big fat risqué content warning ⚠️

“Then if anything grows while you pose, I'll oil you up and rub you down. And that's just one small fraction of the main attraction: You need a friendly hand and I need action!” -”Touch-A, Touch-A, Touch Me”, Susan Sarandon

He is the outsider of the band with his hailing from the lush backwoods of upstate, like a prince in his fitted black leather and lustrous kinky black hair. You would think he would be carrying a revolver in his high waisted stud belt, the gunslinger in search of the dark tower looming out from the dense banks of lake effect snows, but he never did brandish anything like that, at least not around you. Or so you believe. You don’t know.

The quintessential strong and silent type, his gaze steely and with the shrieking wail to accompany it, and yet you foresaw his inner silky soft nature. Something about him puts you at ease, even when he flashes a glare at the most unruly of audience members and throws his most guttural of vocals during “Armed and Dangerous”, “S.S.C./Stand or Fall”, and of course, “Raise Hell” which holds the most potent of moments wherein you find yourself curling your toes inside of your Chuck Taylors and your breath even stopping in place. You found yourself orgasming there with him, and yet you feel soft at the sight of him. Was it his big brown eyes? Was it his soft, smooth looking brown skin all over his svelte body? Or the fact he always behaved like a little boy when on stage with them?

You never could put your finger on it, especially when you had an actual moment with him in the back corridor of the concert hall. While on your way to the venue, you put in a little Steve Perry in your stereo and thus you had “Oh Sherrie” stuck in your head at that moment. You couldn’t help it: that first line slipped out from your lips once you rubbed rear ends with him in the bathroom line.You saw him out of the corner of your eye, but he already stepped away before you could continue in your inward singing. It was such an offhand moment but you wanted to hold onto it. You made a rush into the ladies’ room and then returned out when your hands were still dripping wet. He happened to be there outside of the lines, posted up on the other side of the hallway. Shaking your hands about, you wove your way through the people so as to reach him. He was exactly how you saw him in those paper magazines back home, except now he stood there, flesh and blood and without a drop of ink. “I couldn’t help but overhear you back there,” he said as part of his greeting, his fusion upstate Italian American accent smacking you right between the eyes, “that was the very first song I sang for Scott and Frankie in my audition.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s a good song, isn’t it?”

“It’s beautiful. I wish I was there to hear you sing it.”

“Well, I might be singing it tonight when we play.” He flashed you a sly grin and a twinkle in his eye. “Keep your ears astute and your body even more astutely.”

You let out a light little giggle when he spoke again.“Are you here by yourself?”

“I am, yes.”

“Meet me at the backstage door,” he advised you following a lick of his lips, “after the show. If nothing, I can give you a private show—“ His voice trailed off and you filled in the blank. He repeated it for his own sake and for yours, and without another word, he ducked out behind the curtain like a creature of the night.

*************************

Following their one hour set, and riding the rail with the mind’s eye of lightning arising from the crowd, you bustled out of the concert hall and into the chilly New York midnight. You zipped up your coat as you made your way around the corner towards the backstage entrance. Charlie stood hunched near the door with his hands stuffed into his jeans pockets, his hair tied back in a taut ponytail, and his skin milky and opaque against the floodlights on the side of the building: you found him fearless given he wore no sleeves against teenage temperatures and a falling mercury, but it made sense from his diligence that evening.

“Ah, you must be the lady of the hour,” he greeted you, the devil’s cleft in his chin growing more prominent with his impending grin. He curled his index finger back so as to beckon you into the quaint little area, small and cramped but cozy in comparison to the frigid cold outside and the thrown elbows behind you. Scott’s stringy but long hair floated back from his head as he breezed past to the tiny water closet: before closing the door, he raised his thick black eyebrows at you to acknowledge you a greeting.

Frankie and Danny were pouring themselves a drink each, and then he entered the room from the door on the far end, his belt high up on his svelte waist and his shirt hanging around his body like a curtain of lace. He had tousled his black hair back out from his face and his neck; he greeted you with an unassuming smile full of prominent star’s teeth.

“Wow, that was quick,” he remarked, “here—come sit with me.”

The two of you had a seat on the shabby looking olive green sofa next to the refreshments table. Despite the bright sheen upon his neck and his cheeks, he smelled soft and clean, like he had just climbed out of the shower and dried off with haste, in time to meet you there.

“Would you like something?” he offered. “Cup of coffee? Prosciutto? Penne? Pro pens?”

“Pro pens?” echoed Danny, cracking a smile.

“Pro penis, Daniel,” Frank corrected. “It ain’t that pro, though, you guys,” he retorted, wagging his finger at them.

“Damn, Joe, you’re actually going there with our lady here?”

“Hey, at least it’s not all the way,” he pointed out, and Charlie and Frankie burst into a fit of laughter. You felt your face grow warm as you sank down there in lumpy cushion next to him. He then returned to you, with a warm rosy glow spanning over his face and his brown eyes glimmering as if a suggestion crossed his mind.

“So... tell me. What do you have with you? What’s your story?”

“Well, I have a new flat on the fringes of the Big Apple—I moved here from Chicago. I’m a musician.”

The door of the water closet opened and Scott stepped out; meanwhile, the other four men raised their eyebrows and tilted their heads forward.

“Y-You are?” Charlie choked out.

“Yes.” You showed them a sparkling smile because you know you uncovered a sweet spot.The five of them crowded around your shins like children awaiting a story from their wise grandmother.

“Go on,” he coaxed you in a low voice as he nudged closer to you against the lumpy back cushion.

“I drum and play piano.”

Danny and Frankie, both of whom were seated at your feet cross legged, erected their spines at the sound of that.

“Care for a jam session in the future?” suggested Scott. You gave them a modest shrug but you knew you wanted it to happen. “I can sing, too. In fact, he’s one of my favorite singers ever.”

That rosy glow flushed more with modesty: he glanced over at his band mates in hopes of figuring how to respond to that.

“Me?” he stammered.“Yes.”“No wayyyy.” He blushed even more, his brown skin flowing with that lovely warmth.

“Who else do you like?” Scott asked you.

“Well, let’s see, I also like James Hetfield, Ronnie James Dio, Janis Joplin, and Robert Plant.”

“We know you like Steve Perry, too,” recalled Danny.

“Well of course.”

“How ‘bout Geddy Lee?” he added.

“Geddy Lee or bust,” you replied; and with that, he took your hand for a delicate kiss on the back. He showed you a sweet, endearing smile, but it wasn’t smarmy or riddled with the type of sleaze you might expect from boys his age. The sight of his smile added a warm soft feeling to your heart, and a peculiar tingling sensation right in between your thighs.

“By the way... that is a gorgeous color for you,” he spoke out of the blue. You peer down at the rich oxblood red top underneath your coat. You opened your coat to show them the color in its entirety.

“Ooh, hot!” Frankie declared. Scott raised his eyebrows at you, while Charlie and Danny both checked you out. But he showed you a little smirk and a raise of one eyebrow. You began to think about it: you rubbed butts, he caught you singing a song that meant the world to him, and now he had this look upon his face like he was seducing you. The red shirt became the sole thing separating you from him.

*************************

You didn’t see him again after that, and in that time, you found a decent job at a nearby bar called Snarky’s in order to help pay your rent and everything in between. You still desired to play gigs and to show him what you had with you in your repertoire. You wanted to see him again, to be in his presence, and most of all, you wanted to feel his derrière again, to give it a nice hearty caress and maybe a squeeze or two. You wanted to know if he had the best butt you had rubbed against on accident ever.

It drove you crazy, in fact, the desire to feel him in your hand, to feel him pressed against your body. You wore a red button up silk shirt for your waitress job, and once happy hour rolled around, you let one button loose to show more skin and ultimately for more generous tips, and more tips all around. You thought about him, the possibility of seeing him again and perhaps turning the tables on him. The thought of him made you feel sexy, like you could enthrall anyone.

One night was slow in particular, and you were so bored out of your wits that you took out your bun to let down your hair: you actually thought the timers in the building would shut off all the lights in there because nothing was going on. You then took a seat behind the bar and thought about what to do next.

There were things to do in the bar, and in the back in particular, and God forbid anyone caught the new girl lounging around on the job. You stood to your feet and turned around in time to catch him standing right there at the bar with his hand on the back of the chair next to you. You had your face right in his chest. He had on a soft looking leather jacket over a black sweatshirt and denim jeans: sometimes baggy clothes are the best. Meanwhile, he had tousled his black hair to where most of it sprawled over his shoulders; he raised his little black eyebrows at the sight of you.

“Oh,” he gasped. “Hello. I didn’t think I would see you here.”

You chuckled and then clutched at yourself, which in turn brought attention to your chest and your collar bones. He nibbled on his bottom lip and slipped the tip of his tongue out before he cleared his throat.

“Um, have a seat,” he stammered. You collapsed back into the seat of the chair and kept your left thigh over the edge of the seat to bring attention to your crotch. He took a seat next to you and crossed his legs underneath the bar: you took a glimpse down at his belt and the baggy crotch of his jeans. He looked cozy, not the same dark prince you had in mind at first.

“You know, I’m a waitress here,” you began, “so what would you like, babe?”

“You got any pasta?”

“I think we do. I don’t know if our cook is in yet, but I can make some for you.”

“That’d be—kinda hot, actually.” His voice in conjunction with that Italian American accent was utterly erotic to you. You nodded and ducked out from the other side of the chair before he could make out the blush on your face. You rushed into the kitchen for the pot of water and some linguine. You could hardly believe it: you were making dinner for a boy, and a sexy boy at that, too.Once the water was just shy of one hundred degrees, you felt a tap on the shoulder. You peeked over your shoulder and he padded up behind you. He taken off his jacket and slung it over his shoulder with two fingers.

“Getting eager, are we?” you teased him.

“Maybe. It’s also kinda boring out there. You know, we’re the only ones here and whatnot.” He set the coat down on the metal rack near the stove. You watched him toss his hair back from his neck and chest, and you caught a jingling noise underneath his sweatshirt. Your curiosity piqued, you stuck your hands into the back pockets of your jeans to bring attention to your hips and your curves.

“So what’s your last name?” you asked him after clearing your throat.

“Belladonna,” he answered, his voice low and soft. “It’s actually Bellardini but I go by that one instead.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah.” You hovered in closer to his face; eyeing his chest, you considered running your fingers along his neck and to the buttons on his collar.

“You know—I have always found Italian Americans to be the most... sensual of Americans.”

“Oh, really?” He swallowed and nearly gagged on his own oxygen.

“I think your accent is sexy.”

The tip of his tongue caressed over the edge of his teeth, and you wanted to exchange saliva with him right there. You take a fleeting glimpse down at his body, slim and lithe, and yet you could sense his toned muscles underneath that sweatshirt. A soft clean aroma emerged off of his neck and his hair. There was something so delicate and comforting about him at the same time. Even standing there, you could tell he was a lush man of many colors and layers, all of which you wanted to experience under your tongue.

“The other part of me is Iroquois,” he almost breathed those words.

“Chief Italian Stallion—“ You take one hand out of your pocket.

“What say—uh—I take you home with me to Oswego?” You know he blurted that one out. You brought your lips closer to his, but you didn’t kiss him. Instead you placed your hand on that full hip: your thumb rested on the bone and he relaxed at the feeling. He had such voluptuous hips, a gentle curve that would look too effeminate on another man, but were sensual on him. You then recall that night.

“You have quite the booty,” you whispered into his face.

“Do I now?” He licked his lips as you reached behind him and lay your hand on his lower back for a moment before sliding it down.

“You’ve got it—real thick back here—like the rest of you is nice and slim, but—“ You put extra emphasis on “but” as you pulsed your fingers. He rolled his eyes back into his head before snapping the lids shut; he nibbled on his bottom lip once again. He swallowed and accompanied it with the tilt of his head to show you his neck and his Adam’s apple.

“Should you put the linguine in or should I do it?” he choked out; for a second, you misheard that as “lingerie”, but then you hovered closer to his face right as he let out an aroused gasp through gritted teeth.

“I’ll do it. You just relax and be the little slinky stud muffin you are back out front.” You gave his butt another gentle squeeze before letting go of him. He opened his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. You returned your attention to the pot of water with the rolling boil to pour in the pasta.

One dinner was up to par, you served the pasta in a big clean dish for him, accompanied with a generous amount of sauce, a light dusting of Parmesan cheese, and a slice of garlic toast. There was a part of you that wanted to join him there at the bar but a couple of patrons entered the place and you had to care for them.

Every so often, you moseyed on over to him to make sure he was enjoying himself.

“My compliments to the cook,” he told you in a throaty voice at one point before sticking a large twirl of linguine into his mouth.

When he had finished, you sashayed over to him for his plate; and he leaned back into his chair with his hands rubbing over his slim stomach.

“That was too good for words,” he confessed, shifting his weight. You show him a warm smile, and it dawned on you that you had your hair down the whole time. He must have taken your word for it because he showed himself to you, in all his preciousness and his softness. It was that moment you realized he was perfect: you couldn’t resist him any longer.

“I think my jacket is still—mmm, ‘scuse me—in the back there.”

“I’ll—uh, get it for you, big boy,” you whispered into his face again: you followed that up with a run of your tongue around the circumference of your lips. You knew you were succeeding in this seduction, and now you needed the cherry on top.

As you returned to the kitchen to put the dish on the counter and to fetch his coat, you were positive you had him in the palm of your hand. You picked the pile of soft leather off the shelf: before you turned around, you felt a pair of hands wrap around your waist. Fingers crept down the front of your trousers, onto the button. You recognized his olive skin as he unfastened the button. You turned to find him there before you with his chest heaving and his face flushed.

“Kiss me—“ you begged him.

“Only if you kiss me.”

You lay the coat back on the rack so to better lunge for him. You wrapped your arms around his delicate waist as he shoved his tongue right into your mouth. His chest heaved; his belly was soft and so warm from feeling full. You ran your fingers through his dark hair as you sensed his hands over your back: he was unhooking you.

You hoped no one would walk in on the two of you as you moved your head back to hear him breathe.

“You wanna go into the back room here, baby doll?” he whispered to you.

“Please,” you pleaded to him. He took you by the hand and led you into the small narrow nook of a back room, where you were met with a loveseat and a stack of boxes. You nudged the narrow door closed behind you, and without hesitation, he peeled off his sweatshirt. He had smooth, silky looking skin with a healthy kiss of brown, a deep strong looking chest, and a stomach as flat as an ironing board. You could feel that tingling sensation between your thighs again, and then you unfastened the buttons of your work shirt.

“Take it off,” he commanded, gesturing to your bra straps. You unhooked and let the straps fall down your arms. He lay down on the loveseat, on his back.

“My jeans are getting tight,” he confessed, “and not from the fact I made a complete pig of myself back there.”

You, however, let your pants drop down to the floor and you climbed on top of him. Your hair cascaded over his face and neck. Your chest hung right over him, and you could see your nipples tightening and hardening.

“What were you gonna do back there with the unbuttoning?” you asked him.

“Touch you. Like what I’m doing right now.”

You took a glimpse down at your waist in time to catch his fingers down your crotch.

“Spread eagle for me, baby—“

You straddled his waist so he could make a better, deeper caress into you. You gasped out at the feel of him stroking your clit—you didn’t realize his fingers were that long! You gasp and buck your hips at the feeling. You breathe heavily from the feeling, until you take a glimpse down at his waist. He’s getting hard.

“Go comatose for me, baby,” you breathed into his face.

“Gladly—“ he grunted through gritted teeth. You reached down to undo his jeans and peel back his underwear. So big and full.

“Wow—“ you gasped. “Italian Stallion.”

“Giddy up, cowgirl,” he challenged you as he continued to finger you. The tips of his fingers reached that dime sized bundle of nerves in your coochie and then you were ready. You moved your hips forward for a seat on his erection. You ground your hips around like you were churning butter.He gasped and groaned at the feeling. Every gyration of your hips led your closer and closer to the cowgirl he said you were.

“MOTHERFUCKING YEEHAW!” he shouted. You hushed him with a finger over his lips.

“What would the neighbors and patrons think?” you demanded.

“Let them—“ he growled. “Let them see us!” He threw his head back against the pillow of the loveseat.

“Oh God—oh fucking hell—“ He opened his eyes and parted his lips: his face was riddled with lust for you.

“Say my name,” he said in a husky voice.

“Huh?”

“Say my name!”

“Joey!”

“Louder!”

“Joey!”

“Louder, dammit!”

“OH JOEY!”

“YES!”

He gripped onto your hips and yanked you down onto the cushions. He lifted himself up over you, and straddled over your hips. His hair flooded over his shoulders, while his cheekbones filled out with the accompanying warm blush. His lips puckered up at the sight of your face.

“You’re cowgirl, I’ll be Indian,” he told you in a broken voice. You could sense it between you, especially with his hands on your hips like he was going to turn you over onto your face.

“Want me to roll over?”

“God, yes.”

He lifted up for you to roll onto your stomach: you protected your chest from the rough fabric of the loveseat with the backs of your hands. You felt his hands gently holding onto your hips. You spread eagle for him.He thrusted forward right into your clit. You gasped at the feeling, but on the second time you gave him a soft moan from the back of your throat. He thrusted again, and again; the smacking sound filled your ears. Every so often he let out a groan, but once your moans led to a loud squeal he gave away every inch of feeling within him to relish in every inch of you: he surrendered to the feeling.

“Hey—hey—okay—okay—!”

Another thrust, and that time it was the hardest.

“FUCK!” you shouted, and you felt yourself coming.He shrieked, a high piercing shriek with a vibrato as if he was singing.

“Okay—!” he choked out; he let go of your hips and yanked out. You fell onto your hands for a moment: you felt him climb off the loveseat and then he padded out of the back room for something. When he returned, you rolled onto your back. Your breasts poked out for him as he lunged towards you with his jacket in hand, but he slid in between you and the back of the loveseat. He cloaked you with his jacket and put his arm around your body: you know he did it to feel you and hold you close.

“That was—everything I wanted and then some,” you told him in a broken voice. “Shouldn’t we have a blanket other than your jacket?”

“Keep it, sweet cheeks,” he whispered to you, following it up with a low whistle. “God, you did that like a fucking pro.”

“That’s what I get for finding your dick so delicious,” you croaked out.

“What say—uh, you and I call it a night here and mosey back to New York in the morning,” he suggested, putting his arm around you.

“Sounds like a plan. It is closing time after all.”

He nestled closer to you with his fingers on your hip: he still felt full and soft as he pressed himself closer to you. Your eyelids grew heavy right then as the timers shut off all the lights for the night. Your hope was that he would continue to hold you when you awoke in the morning.

#joey belladonna #anthrax #one shot #imagine #smut #lemon #fanfic #heavy metal fanfiction

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