14 Inches: Jillian's Story: Chapter 6 (Patreon)

Writing became my full-time job, and some months the pay was better than others. I started to get pretty good at solving crimes, big and small. TREND really liked my articles and would buy just about anything I sent to them. But they really only wanted a certain amount of investigative journalism, and I needed to live off of more than a thousand bucks every month or so.

Luckily, the editor thought of me when they needed a journalist to cover a new band’s nation-wide tour. “We’ll pay you three-hundred a day, and we’ll cover all your costs for the six weeks you’re on the road with the band.” And it was actually a pretty cool metal band, Black Helix.

I met with the band: four guys who reminded me of my goth friends. They were talented musicians. They were chill: fun guys to hang around. But… like most musicians, they were into sex and drugs and rock and roll—but mostly sex.

After the first show, they all had groupies with them. The girls were young—eighteen and innocent and nervous. The guys had their little rooms on the tour bus, and they took the girls to their rooms, and for the next hour, the bus was loud with sounds of fucking: moaning girls and grunting metalheads. The next night was no different.

And, of course, the guys would occasionally eye me. They would flirt with me. On day three, I overheard them making a bet: to see who could sleep with me first. “I bet she’s a squirter,” the guitar player said with a grin in his voice. I just rolled my eyes.

I did my best to document their shows. I wrote about the venues and the crowds. I conducted interviews with all of the members, as well as the staff. And, it no longer being the 70s, I also had to make social media content: interviews and rig rundowns and backstage tours. I was busy, constantly—and I had to be careful with what I showed, because the band manager was quite strict about me now showing the drugs and the sex. They wanted the band to seem cool, but they didn’t want the band to come across as a bunch of degenerates…

And honestly, I knew that I wouldn’t be hired for a gig like that again if I made the band look like a group of womanizing sodomites…

But after a week, I started to wonder if I was compromising my integrity as an author, as an investigator, and as a journalist. I didn’t want to write some puff piece. I wasn’t there to create promotional media for that band. Sure, I liked money, and I wanted to create a career out of what I enjoyed doing… but not if that meant selling out.

So I kept creating the social media video content. I kept doing the mostly-scripted interviews. But at the same time, I documented the other stuff. I interviewed the girls after the guys fucked them and kicked them off the bus. I secretly filmed the guys doing crack in one of the venue greenrooms. I recorded them coming onto me. I started writing my article, including the part about their bet to see who could fuck me first.

And I was going to let them do it, if they were brave enough--and I was going to include it in my piece.

One night, I walked in on the singer holding an acoustic guitar in an empty green room. He stashed it away quickly and blushed. “What are you doing?” I asked.

“Working on new music. Nobody can hear it yet,” he said.

“Not even me?”

“Especially not you,” he said, narrowing his eyes. He knew that if anyone would leak it, it would be me—and he was right. I felt, in a weird way, like it was my duty to document everything—including his songwriting sessions. If they happened on that tour, TREND was paying me to document it. I didn’t work for Black Helix. I was working for TREND.

“Can I please hear it?” I asked. I already had my recorder running in my purse; it was constantly running.

“No way,” he said.

“Please?” I batted my lashes. I saw his face redden. I knew what that meant. He eyed me up and down. I saw his eyes flash as he remembered the bet he had with his bandmates.

“I’d maybe let you listen to… one song,” he said. “But the question is… how badly do you want to hear it?”

I smirked. “Show me the song, and then I’ll show you how badly I want to hear it.”

The song was good. The sex was better—and it wasn’t at all what he was expecting. When he saw my cock, he nearly screamed. I giggled. At this point, I got a kick out of the different reactions I got to my large shaft.

And I was hardly surprised when he approached me curiously. He looked into my eyes and said, “Nobody can ever know we did this. I don’t want people thinking I’m…”

“Gay?” I asked.

“Just don’t tell anyone,” he growled. Then, he went down on me. He sucked me, unleashing a lifetime of curiosity on my long shaft. He stroked it and licked it. He used both hands as he massaged my girth. He moaned, trembling with nerves. “I want you to, uh… sit on my face,” he said.

I giggled. “Okay,” I said. He got on his back and I sat down on his face, letting my cock slump over his chin. His tongue slithered up between my butt cheeks. I gasped when I felt him find my hole. I was a weird feeling; nobody had ever eaten me out like that. I looked down his slender, tattooed body, and I saw him stroking himself. He didn’t last long. He spilled cum all over his tattooed abs.

I flipped him around. I slapped my cock into his cum puddle and smeared it all around my girth. “What are you doing?”

“Using your cum as lube,” I giggled.

He turned white. “Lube?”

“Yeah. I’m going to fuck you.”

“Y—You are?”

I nodded my head. Then, I spread his legs wide. I shimmied in and pressed my tip against his butthole. He gasped.

He took more of it than I expected. I had a feeling that he’d played with some toys before. Maybe that was his first cock—but it wasn’t his first butt-fucking.

He nearly took every inch, and he could hardly walk by the end of it.

The other guys had turns with me over the coming days, all thinking they were the first. None of them dared to tell the others that they did it. Nobody admitted that they let me fuck them. None of them admitted that I pumped fat loads into their tight, tattooed metalhead bodies.

But they all found out when I published my article. Maybe that information should have remained private… but I didn’t care. Their pride wasn’t my problem. It was my job to cover the facts, and uncover the truth, and that was Black Helix’s truth. TREND loved the article. They called it a masterpiece of modern Gonzo journalism. I just saw it as me doing my job, uncovering the truth, whether it was about murders or womanizing bands…

Working for TREND was good, but I soon got an offer from a much bigger magazine based out of Toronto. They liked my piece about Black Helix, but they were more interested in my investigative journalism. They wanted me weighing in on some of the bigger, more mysterious crimes.

They introduced me to some people they figured I would like—and they were right. The crew in Toronto was so sweet. One girl was particularly clever and cute: Lori. We ended up becoming good friends quickly. She was trans, like me. She showed me all of the cool places to hang out in town, and even introduced me to her tattoo artist friend, who was goth like me.

Then, one morning, I woke up to learn that Lori had been hit by a bus. She was killed instantly: a freak accident. My best friend had been wiped out in an instant…

I went to the police press conference, to hear the details of her passing. I expected them to say that they were investigating—but they were quick to say, “We don’t suspect any fowl play. Just a freak accident.” But she’d only been dead a few hours—how could they seriously be so certain so quickly?

I knew that I had to look into it. And I knew where to start: the scene of Lori’s death. I stood there for a long moment, trying not to cry as I stared at the pavement where she had died. Then, a gleam caught my eye: a traffic camera. Maybe it was recording—and maybe there was some real closure on that footage…

THE END