18++ Prologue and 1st Chapter preview of The Devil’s Reprise — HOT!

The Devil's Reprise SMALLCom­ing Octo­ber 29th, the sexy and scary rock and roll saga comes to an end with The Devil’s Reprise. This is the long-awaited sequel to The Devil’s Metal.

Read on for the pro­logue and an excerpt of chap­ter one. WARNINGREADERS 18 AND OLDER. Rated R for lan­guage, drug use, group sex, etc.


The Devil’s Reprise


There comes a time in every man’s life where he must face his demons.

It sounds cliché, I know.

But I break the mold.

Because I’ve faced my demons.

In the flesh.

And I’ve won.

But it’s the ones inside your head that don’t die.

They keep living.

My per­sonal demons? They’ve got­ten worse since the incident.

They’ve grown now.

They own me.

When I was fif­teen years old, I made a deal with the Devil—or at least one of his spokeswomen—on the muddy red banks of Lake Shasta, Cal­i­for­nia. I wanted tal­ent, fame, and for­tune. The dev­ils upheld their end of the bar­gain. They gave me every­thing I ever wanted. I joined a band called Hybrid, made my way to gui­tarist, and pro­pelled the band into star­dom. We gave Led Zep­pelin a run for their money. We got pussy galore (no, not Honor Black­man). We had everything.

Includ­ing the final thing. My final wish. That Hybrid go down in history.

We did. There was a music jour­nal­ist brought on by Creem mag­a­zine to cover the whole event. Our last tour (unbe­knownst to any­one but me and our man­ager, Jacob). Her name was Dawn. She was young, beau­ti­ful, and our biggest fan.

Dawn saw it all. She recorded it all.

And, some­how, she saved me.

First it giveth then it taketh away. The band broke up. The unthink­able hap­pened. Peo­ple died.

I should have died.

This was all sup­posed to end before I turned twenty-eight.

Yet I lived. Dawn lived.

And I was given another chance at life. To live free of the Devil’s shadow. To live my life, the way it should be.

I should really be the luck­i­est S.O.B. on the planet. The fates that took away Mor­ri­son and Joplin and Hendrix—that wasn’t my fate after all.

Some­how, I won.

But vic­tory is as bit­ter as the quaaludes on my tongue. How can I really live with myself when my whole life had been loaned? I lost the peo­ple clos­est to me. They died, they suf­fered, for my selfishness.

How dare I be allowed to go on, to run free, when I brought this upon them and myself?

And so I haven’t.

I’m not free.

My name is Sage Knightly. One of the few sur­viv­ing mem­bers of the metal band, Hybrid. I’m about to embark on my first solo tour, to be the rock star I was always sup­posed to be.

But some­thing tells me I’m not com­ing out of this alive.

And nei­ther is she.




Chap­ter One

Sage – April, 1975


The pink lips at the end of my dick were some of the nicest I’d ever seen.

But the chick’s tits were better.

I put my palm against her fore­head and pushed her head back until my dick bobbed out of her wet mouth.

Lie down,” I told her. “On your back. Grab your tits and get ready for me.”

I was being com­mand­ing and a bit of an ass.

It wasn’t like me.

But noth­ing was like me lately.

And I didn’t really care.

The chick did as I asked. She was a pretty young thing, a few years above jail­bait, with long brown hair she prob­a­bly ironed every day. I didn’t remem­ber her name, and I didn’t bother ask­ing, so I just called her ‘Babe.’

I called the other one ‘Sugar.’ Sugar had Far­rah Faw­cett hair, blonde and teased and frosted like a cake. Sugar was in the same Detroit hotel room as us and cur­rently on the other bed, rid­ing my bassist, Tricky. And by rid­ing, I mean fuck­ing him sense­less, reverse cow­girl style. The chick needed a hat in her hand to make it that much more authen­tic. Tricky was even more fucked up than me, from our nightly cock­tail of vodka, beer, and cocaine. Some­times we’d throw quaaludes in there. Tonight, though, we wanted to make sure our dicks were working.

Two chicks at once: every man’s dream and every rock star’s pre­rog­a­tive. Sugar and Babe were good friends, or so it seemed, prob­a­bly brought up in a hip­pie com­mune and believed in the free love that was still trick­ling in from the 60s. They weren’t shy being naked, and they didn’t hes­i­tate when they made out with each other, not even when Tricky told Sugar to get her fin­gers up in Babe’s bush. Nat­u­rally, they were fans of Hybrid, before I basi­cally killed the band. Killed Micky Brown, Bob our bus dri­ver, and Gra­ham Freed, too. But Gra­ham didn’t count. He was the only thing that didn’t count. Every­thing else made me bleed.

The singer, Rob­bie, my best friend, wouldn’t speak to me. Noelle, our bassist, was still men­tally ill from what happened.

I didn’t need to be reminded of that. Every time Sugar or Babe would open their mouths and wax on about how much they loved Hybrid, it was a knife to my fuck­ing heart. It never stopped hurt­ing. So the next best thing was to fuck the shit out of the girls—no more talk­ing. Just suck my dick, get each other off, get me off. Give me peace. Make me forget.

I was get­ting there. I was get­ting there.

She pushed her mas­sive tits together, and I squeezed my dick between them, my eyes rolling back in my head from the fric­tion. Jesus. That’s what I was talk­ing about. What I wanted. Just vibes buzzing along, nerves on fire, space travel inside your head.

I was fucked up and fuck­ing. I was going and coming.

I drove myself between her, not both­er­ing to look at her face, at the sounds com­ing from her lips, which sounded a bit too the­atri­cal. How this was fun for her, I didn’t know, but maybe it was always her fan­tasy to have Sage Knightly’s king-sized cock between her tits. It was finally com­ing true. A story to tell her friends.

The fan­tasy is never as good as the real­ity, not for me any­way. Not that I fan­ta­sized about any­thing other than coast­ing along and feel­ing noth­ing. Even my music was slip­ping away at a time that I needed it the most. Sex and drugs and booze and sleep. This was my new life. The rock and roll played some­where in the back­ground, a reminder of where I came from. But I didn’t even know if it was where I was headed.

When I felt my balls tighten, I pulled away and looked over my shoul­der at Tricky and Sugar. She was com­ing so loudly that I was cer­tain some­one was going to com­plain. What­ever, man. I could have been Jimmy Page in here with a chick and a Great Dane; would that have been better?

Hey, Tricky,” I called out to him. “I need her.”

Tricky grunted, his grip tight­en­ing on her small waist, his face fur­row­ing as he approached cli­max. I guess I was being rude, bug­ging him right then, but damn if I didn’t care. I just needed to get off, and I needed her to do it.

A world of want.

My lips curled at that thought, the title of my song that became a hit and let the world know that I still had “it,” even as a solo artist.

I had wanted so much.

It was given to me.

Then taken away.

Now I just wanted to come all over who­ever this chick was.

Rocket ships into the ether. Shoot myself into the abyss.

Tricky got off, and I watched with mild inter­est and sud­den impa­tience. Tricky didn’t know where he was or what he was doing, I could tell. I wanted that.

Hey, Sugar,” I said to the girl as she slowly eased her­self off his dick. I’d seen Tricky naked in all sorts of posi­tions these days, and I was always too high to even be both­ered by it. Maybe this is what it would be like at a hip­pie whore­house. Dicks and balls and pussy every­where, served with a side of speed and whiskey.

Groovy love, man, taken to the next dimension.

Sugar stum­bled over, nearly falling into my back. She was fucked up, too. One big party. Escapism: the new religion.

Get on the bed and get that ass in the air,” I ges­tured, absently stroking myself at the same time. I’d already done her in the back door ear­lier, when Tricky and I tag-teamed her. He in the front, me in the rear. She wasn’t as pretty as Babe, but she was built smaller and her tight ass was a fist.

She gave me an appre­hen­sive smile, like she wasn’t too sure about this. I gave her an expec­tant look in return, try­ing to be seri­ous and threat­en­ing, but a lazy smile crept up on my lips. I failed. Drugs won.

Come on,” I said, “you want to be the one to get me off, don’t you?”

I don’t know why she was hes­i­tat­ing, maybe because she was small and I was large and per­haps once was enough for her. But she just nod­ded while I put one hand on her firm ass and waved at Tricky.

Tricky,” I said, slur­ring slightly. “Pow­der her nose.”

Tricky stag­gered over to the desk, naked as a jay­bird, and then brought over the mir­ror, the rolled fifty, and the line that was still left. He gave me a look as he came over, like, “you sure you don’t want this?”

I did. But relief was so close. Bet­ter to give it to the girl, make her have fun in the last five minutes.

He put the mir­ror on the bed below her, and she dipped down to snort it up. He walked over to the mini fridge and brought out the half-drunk bot­tle of cham­pagne and flopped down on the couch, con­tent to watch. If he wanted to stare at my ass, he could go right ahead.

I waited a few sec­onds, teas­ing her crack with my tip, before she shook her head and seemed to loosen.

What should I do?” Babe asked qui­etly, look­ing rejected since I gave up on her titty-fucking so soon.

Lie back down, Babe,” I told her. “Spread those legs. Sugar here will take care of both of us.”

Babe’s eyes widened as she lay back down. I pushed into Sugar, slowly, as gen­tly as I could. The tight­ness squeezed me. It took hold of my dick, my balls, all the way into the pit of my stom­ach. It made me dizzy, vibrant, real.

So close.

I kept push­ing into her, in and out, her body tense from my move­ment while she tried to go down on her friend. Tricky watched it all. Girl on girl. Cham­pagne and blow. Rock star life.


What a waste.

I pumped into her harder until the pres­sure was too much and I was ready to blow.

I pulled out of her and came in hot, sticky spurts onto her back. I was pretty sure she was moan­ing from relief while I moaned just to moan. To get it all out. Every­thing that was buried inside me.

When my mind rolled back down to planet earth, I looked at the mess I made on her. I tried to hold on to the frag­ment of feel­ings as they passed through me.

That feel­ing of happiness.

Of safety.

Of love.

I thought of Dawn, the last per­son who tried to give me any of that.

I thought she’d been a fool for try­ing to fix me.

But some­times, when the endor­phins and the haze wore off, I real­ized that even fools can be right.

I slept alone that night, send­ing the girls pack­ing with signed chests and merchandise.

I tried to dream of Dawn, her beau­ti­ful face that pulled me out from so many buses, sun through so many clouds. Inno­cence, pas­sion, life…even after every­thing she’d seen. Faith. In me.

I tried to dream of Dawn, but dreams don’t work that way, espe­cially when you fall asleep with an empty bot­tle of whiskey in your clammy hands.

I dreamed of demons instead, chas­ing after Dawn in a cav­ern full of bones. My music played in the background.