Sex 'n' Potions 'n' Rocknroll
God, it was hot. It was so fucking hot that Summer that even if you couldn't literally fry eggs on the pavements (the tabloid reporters tried) you could sure as hell fry 'em on the tops of the speaker-stacks. Soho was an oven by day when the sun beat down relentlessly on the white canvas awnings of the market stalls, and a sauna by night with sweaty bodies crowded into the basement clubs and restaurants. People were dropping like flies in the heat. Hell, flies were dropping. Sales of fans soared along with the temperature. Not that it did much more than move the already foetid air around to spread the misery.
So, of course, that had to be the year that I spent knocking around the fringes of the music biz and doing odd jobs for various bands and promoters and scraping together a reputation as a 'supplier'. Nothing exactly illegal, you dig? But stuff that could fly under the radar on both the Muggle and Wizard side of the Leaky's front door.
At the time when the heat wave was at its height I'd hooked up with a blues-rock band that called themselves Death Eaters, fronted by two slumming rich-kid brothers with more money than sense and a couple of their less moneyed (but more musically talented) friends. They were getting a following, and support gigs in some of the better venues, though I suspect that was more because they'd managed to blag their way into Mister Lord's circle than because of any musical talent.
I never really sussed Mister Lord. Rumour had it that he was a crime boss – fingers in lots of pies; gambling, drugs, prostitution, blackmail; all at a far enough remove to remain clean, at least in the eyes of the cops – but I got the impression that his involvement in the rock scene was something else. Not business, (though he owned a couple of clubs and pubs that were on the circuit), and not exactly pleasure (he never hung around to listen to the music), but maybe he got his kicks from being on the scene. And the people. He collected people. Bands, A&R men, promoters, roadies, liggers, pushers, groupies. Even me, in the end. There was something charismatic about him; he had the knack of making you feel special, important. Not flattery, exactly, but something about the way he looked at you made you want to please him.
That Thursday night the Death Eaters were booked in at Club Sixty One, a basement place just off Berwick Street which Lord had bought in the 60s as a 'gentleman's club' but had turned over first to a strip joint and then, as the queues outside the Marquee in neighbouring Wardour Street showed just how much cash the punters could bring in, into a music venue.
The band did their own setup, so I was acting as gofer, which didn't give me much to do other than hang out at the bar and bring drinks across at regular intervals. The first half of the set bombed, and I could see Roddy getting thoroughly pissed off with the red Fender he was playing as the heat and humidity sent it wildly out of tune. There was the break number coming up – a big set piece with a drum solo in the middle that would let the rest of the band get off stage for a couple of beers and a smoke – and I knew that Roddy would want to switch to his pet axe, the customised Gretsch with the skull-and-snake paint job that he had done in a wild moment in LA when the band was on its (one) US tour. I wasn't too keen on facing his wrath so I slipped upstairs to collect it from the private room where the band had been hanging out before the gig.
Once I was out of the basement the atmosphere improved, though it was still hot. I slipped out through the back of the ground floor ticket office and up the narrow, lino-covered stairs past the first floor offices to what had been a small private flat on the top floor.
That was before Lord took over the place, had the interior walls knocked down and the resulting open space done out like a Turkish bordello – not that I know what that would look like, but I know what orders Mr Lord gave to the interior designer who did the job. Bright patterned tiles up the walls, faded red and gold carpets on the floor, thick embroidered and fringed curtains and cushions everywhere else. The space was dimly lit by scented candles burning in an open metal lantern suspended from the ceiling. The other scents were stronger. There was a hookah in one corner, and a tile-topped table still bore a dusting of powder, a razor-blade and a rolled fiver. Lord always did a couple of lines before a gig – it never seemed to affect him, apart from the ruin it made of his nose. I think he was using just to tempt the marks.
The other smell in the room was sex.
There were two people on the bed.
Lord was lying full length, head propped up on the black and gold cushions, but obscured from my sight by the chick straddling his body, one knee either side of his too-prominent ribcage, her bare arse in the air, and one hand wrapped around his cock. As I watched she lowered her mouth over the head and started to suck, moaning as she did so because he obviously had his tongue in her arse, and probably a couple of fingers in her cunt.
I hardly needed to see her face to recognise Trixie Black.
In her own way she was as weird as him. Nothing like the other girls, or the guys in the band, working class kids clawing our way out of the gutter. She had money and class, poor little rich kid slumming it with the plebs. Most groupies are in it for the fame or the music, as if doing a member of the band , or even one of the roadies, gives them some connection with the business. Not Trixie though. She was in it for the power. And she knew that the band didn't have any. But Lord did.
Two floors below Buster flailed into the drum solo in the middle of Ragnar Rock. The bass permeated the building like a heartbeat.
He was thrusting now, in time to the beat, fucking her mouth hard. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated with whatever shit she'd been mainlining, and her head jerked back with each thrust, the curtain of her hair alternately revealing and concealing her face. Saliva and pre-come dribbled from her lips as she continued to suck and release the darkening organ, slicking it up for Act Two of the entertainment.
I couldn't look away. My own arousal was growing insistent. I was about to reach down to ease the pressure when another hand forestalled me, palm pressing hard against my fly before the fingers flipped open the button and eased down the zip of my Levis and the waistband of my pants to close firmly around my erection. I would have cried out, but the man's other hand was over my mouth, blocking protest, and his lips brushed my ear.
"Quietly, Severus. We don't want his Lordship to know he has an audience."
I didn't need to turn my head to see the distinctive fall of white-blond hair over my shoulder to recognise the speaker as Lucius Malfoy, the incongruous plumy upper-class drawl was enough to identify him as the man who bankrolled a lot of Lord's enterprises. I might not know what motivated Lord, but I had no doubt about Malfoy's motives. He really did enjoy the music. I'd watched him when a band was playing, leaning back against a wall at the back of the room that was practically vibrating with the beat, eyes hooded, long fingers closed around a pint glass, just getting off on the music and the atmosphere. Malfoy was a hedonist, and one who had the money to indulge himself and his friends. He never played publicly, but jammed with the band in rehearsal occasionally and was a good keyboard player. The electric Yamaha canted across the foot of the bed was probably his, and the reason why he'd followed me up here – looking out for his own gear. Rumour had it that he had been taught to play on the full pipe organ in the chapel of the family mansion – and I believed it, I could easily imagine the fingers pulling at my cock had learned their skill on the ivory stops of vox humana and vox céleste in a very private performance.
I leaned back into his embrace, still watching the couple on the bed. Lord was still flat on his back, but Trixie had shifted forward, to straddle his hips and guide the cock she'd sucked to hardness into her saliva-slicked hole while her own fingers continued the work of arousal on clit and cunt that he'd begun. Both of them were shaved, which made the sight of his long purple cock and hairless balls driving into her and slapping against her equally nude flesh seem doubly clinical, like watching some animated diagram from a sex manual.
There was nothing clinical about what Malfoy was doing to me.
"I didn't take you for a voyeur," he whispered, before gripping my earlobe between his teeth and pulling gently in time with the tug of his fingers on my balls. Lost between the sensations I barely managed an answer.
"I came up here for Roddy's Gretsch."
"And you're going to come for me." It was a promise that quickly became a reality as I filled his hand and thrust against the friction of his palm.
Fortunately my groan was lost in Trixie's scream as Lord finally reached climax and pulled out of her, dousing her thighs, cunt and the bedclothes with his own come.
I didn't think that anyone would notice another stain on the carpet.
Behind me, Lucius gave a contented and rather smug sigh. I was pretty sure it wasn't a result of his own release (he was still fully clothed and pressed closely against me), but an appreciation of what he'd done and seen. It was exactly the sound he made after hearing a particularly satisfying piece of music, or downing a good pint of beer. Repletion. Satisfaction. I wondered, in that moment, what it would be like to see Lucius Malfoy really come undone. I didn't even see his face.
When external sensation returned I realised that the pounding of the drums from below had ceased. Lucius tucked my now limp cock back and zipped me up one-handed as he leaned very close to my ear and whispered, so that I could barely hear, let alone the couple on the bed, "You had better complete your task now, Rodolphus will need his guitar."
I nodded, grabbed the axe, and split.