Three hours later, we were back up. We showered together and Derek drove the two of us into London proper, whereupon I pissed off for the nearest taxi to go to Harrod's and then walk around the area it was in. There were some great hole in the wall record shops and I ran my credit card up buying remasters of old rockabilly and blues stuff. Too bad it was all on LP since compact disks hadn't been invented yet, weighing me down. I later hopped another taxi to take me to Derek's work, where I was supposed to meet him for lunch. I hugged and kissed him and then he told me his bosses wanted to meet me after the dust up with the punk band the other night. I was introduced to the other staff writers as well as the editors. They were curious as to what records I had picked up and we went through them. Some of the writers were astonishingly fluent in the history of much of it.

"So I hear you're quite the little player," editor Gerry MacKinnon, in a somewhat patronizing tone, remarked. "Yeah, I've been known to throw down a riff or two, " I giggled. "Well, let's see what you can do," he commanded. MacKinnon told one of his underlings to bring me an amp and a guitar, which turned out to be a Vox AC30 that appeared to have been originally built back in the paleolithic age, it was so beat up, and a Gibson SG that had also been well banged around on. I tuned it up., but it was evident that the thing was shot. "I hate to tell you this, guys, but this thing is unplayable. It needs a refretting job, the neck is warped and the tone knob for the front pickup is dead. Have any of  you actually been trying to play this piece of shit?' "You're  not dodging playing for us are you love?" Gerry accused. "Tell ya what, sweety, come over to Derek's house Saturday and we'll have ourselves a nice little dinner party. Then I'll do my band's set for you. I can't sing for shit, though, so it will be all instrumental. How's that?" "Sounds delightful!," he reacted.

"So tell us more about yourself, dear," Gerry desired. "Well, I speak six languages fluently, I'm a high school graduate and I've been playing guitar for six years," I propounded. "What languages are those?" Gerry cross examined. "Japanese, Chinese, Korean, Spanish, Portuguese and English," I informed him. "Hmmmm....." he muttered,  eyeing me suspiciously. He picked up his phone. "Hello, Asako? Yeah, this is Gerry MacKinnon. How are you love? I'm glad to hear that. Would you mind doing me a favor? Yeah, I have a girl here who says she can speak Japanese and I was wondering if you can test her for me. Thank you darling." He handed me the phone. "Moshi moshi (hello?---note that this phrase is only used for phone calls and that is it)," I began. I talked to her for about five minutes. It turns out that Asako was a former editor in chief for one of Japan's most prominent music magazines and was now freelancing due to a fascination with British rock. In fact, she would later write a well received book about it. I said I hope we could meet soon and then said goodbye. I handed the phone back to Gerry. "Hello Asako. So how did she do? Wonderful. Thank you so much love. See you out on the tiles." He turned to me. "She said you sounded Japanese to her. Let me call a friend in Spain so I can see if your Spanish is on the same level." We went through the same kind of song and dance with his acquaintance in Ibiza, where he liked to holiday, and got largely the same feedback, though the pal indicated my Spanish was more Mexican style. "Well, I am from California," I justified.

In the wake of the tete a tete with Gerry, Derek was not pleased. "What was that bollocks about throwing a dinner party at my house? You did that without asking me first." "Don't worry sweety, you're golden. Nothing pleases men more than two things: pussy and getting some food down 'em. Only you're getting the first, but they will love the second. So be a good lad and drive me to the supermarket so that I can begin getting ready for it." "How do you know so much British usage?' he inquired. "Been reading the British rock press for a few years, honey," I revealed.

Derek ferried me to the supermarket on the way home from his job and we loaded up on food, seasoning and other ingredients, a dozen bottles of wine and much needed housecleaning supplies. Then we turned around and visited a department store to buy nice dishes, glasses and flatware, all on my dime. This was going to have to be buffet style because his living room was too small to feed 70 people at a table. The kitchen was also very limited. All I had to do,  though, was a few things well and not spread myself too thin. I started by cleaning the downstairs and the bathrooms thoroughly. That took a bit of time. Then I made three chocolate cheesecakes and three regular ones. By the time I had crammed them into the refrigerator, which I had also cleaned out,  to set, it was 4 a.m. on Friday morning. I went to sleep and rose at 1 p.m. and did some more prep work, chopping vegetables and making up spring rolls to be fried up later. The meat,  which was sliced steak strips, would all have to be done in a two hour windowt he day of the party.

Somehow, everything went off without a lot of trouble and Derek's coworkers didn't leave a morsel unconsumed. I went to the bathroom and cleaned myself up before I came back down, plugged in and serenaded all and sundry for two and a half hours. The material ranged from Al Stewart and Fleetwood Mac to Led Zeppelin and Ted Nugent. Of course, I finished it with "Doctor Doctor." During my rendition of "Burn," I stretched it out  to toss in a bunch of hyperspeed licks that would later be made famous by Yngwie Malmsteen. I posed, preened and showboated up a storn. "Fuck Derek, where did you find this girl and are there any more like her?" one of his fellow writers, Dick Wellington, enthused. One of the staff even asserted that,  "it isn't a question whether or not she's the best rock guitarist in the country right now, but how much better is she than everyone else." I think that was going badly overboard. I mean, Jeff Beck was still walking the earth at that moment.

The comprehensive result of the festivities was that everybody enjoyed themselves immensely. I didn't get to bed, though, until after 2 a.m. after I had cleaned everything up and showered. Derek didn't lift a finger to help me with the pile of dishes, glasses and other instruments of food preparation. I didn't complain about it because men are what they are. However, what bothered me about it was that it was an open question as to whether Derek was engaging in a bit of passive-aggressive nonsense as a way of sending a tacit message to not do this again. He was already asleep by the time I stepped out of the shower, so rather than risking disturbing him, I slept alone in the guest room. Was I mad? Yeah, especially after I pleased his bosses for him.

When I got up at just before noon, I thanked Derek for helping me clean up after the party and for waiting up for me in bed. He riposted with thanking me for allowing his refuge to be invaded by dozens of his coworkers. I apologized for overstepping my bounds, but that what I did was also an act of self defense that would directly benefit him. "Couldn't you have found another way to do that?" he shot back with a sour expression. "Listen Derek, I don't like doling out ultimatums to men because that sucks. But I do like to cook for people and show off what I can do on guitar. It is part of who I am. Now you can either make room for it or I can pack up and return to America tomorrow."

Then I added, "look sweety, I'm not much of a drinker. I actually hate alcohol. But I'm not  going to go passive-aggressive (he didn't know what I meant by that and I had to explain it to him later) on you about you wanting to go down the pub for a knees up every now and again. That kind of social behavior is part and parcel of your culture and I have to acknowledge it. When we make choices in our lives there is always something that accompanies that decision. So what is it going to be Derek?" I asked with formative tears in my eyes. "I'm sorry darling, I was being rash. But so were you," he blamed. "You have a point, Derek," I retorted. "I should have asked you first. But let's talk about our points of contention and not just shut the other person out in hopes that minds will get read." "Quite right," he agreed. "I was hoping to do something that would make us both look good and I think I did that. But I didn't set out to violate your space." "Look love, the thing I hate most about women is that they have a tendency to go the bridge too far. They take over your life and then get pushed out of shape when you call them on it."

"Derek, if I didn't captain my band, we wouldn't even have had a band. I've been on my own since I was 15 and have always had to take the bull by the horns. If you don't want to see me go overboard like a lot of women do, and I will admit that is a fair charge, then it is up to you to be the leader in this relationship. I'm not saying boss me around, but what I am advocating is giving me a sense of things moving forward." "Fair  enough, love." "So do you think we understand each other better now, baby?" I quizzed. "Very much so, darling," he said.

I straddled his lap and put my arms around him. "Are you still glad you met me?" I flirted. "Without a doubt, Melody. You're a woman like no other." I stroked the back of his head as I tilted mine to kiss him. I hugged him tightly as his tongue plumbed the depths of my mouth. My vagina felt warm and slick and I began to dry hump my ass on  his stiff cock over his pants. He slid his hands up the back of my shirt and unhooked my bra before those paws grabbed a big heapin' helpin' of my breasts. I so enjoyed the sensation of his hands rubbing against my nipples while we smooched heatedly. "Come on darling, let's go to bed," he urged. I consented to that and, when we entered his bedroom, I went to my knees and pulled his zipper down, followed by unfastening his pants. His seven inch cock popped out and I lovingly stroked and squeezed it before circling the tip of my tongue around the head. "Oh fuck me," he blurted. I then applied short sucks to each side of his cock with my lips. "Jesus Christ!" he moaned. I straightened up a little more on my knees and dropped my tits around his dick, squeezing the soft globes together to create friction on his warm, turgid weapon. He pressed it into my sternum for added rubbing power while I rocked my body vertically. His precum leaked on to my chest and  my tongue darted against the tip of his glans every time it slid upward toward my head. "Shit darling, oh oh ohhhh," he sighed while the pistoning of his cock through the vice of my flesh pillows continued to generate pleasure for him.

I released his penis from its mammary trap and shoved my mouth all the way down on his spike in one go, the contractions of my esophagus aiming to expel what was invading it and tickling his increasingly sensitive sperm injector. I bobbed my head faster and faster, subjecting his love gun to repeated heavy pressure. He spooged my yapper with a healthy portion of mancream amid constricted sounding grunts.

"Fucking hell Melody, is there anything you're not a master of?" That was a rhetorical question and I giggled to accept the kind remark in the spirit in which it was offered. I stood up and dropped myself into his bed. I laid on my back so that my butt was on the edge of the bed and spread my legs. Now it was his turn to sink to his knees and he dug into my pussy with his tongue to taste my lady juice. "You're delicious darling," he commented and went to work on my clit. The way he sucked on it made it seem as if my warm blood would all be drawn to that one little point on the head of said nubbin. It made me crazy horny. I bowed my back as the first tingles of what would eventually bloom into my orgasm hit me. I emitted a series of machine gun gasps as I sensed the expansion of the clit in his piehole, becoming awash  in an intense undertow of heat. He kept at it and I kept cumming, my pubic muscles trembling and my breathing devolving into a sustained series of hard pants. My voice was squeaking and squealing while I sought to not broadcast my ecstasy to the neighbors.

I was pert near hyperventilating when he abandoned eating me and instead comforted his penis by inserting it into me. My pussy felt full as he entered me and withdrew dozens of times, my vaginal muscles clenching his little monster on the path of its travels between inner and outer sexual space. "Oh fuck Derek, God damn, oh fuck," I insensibly mouthed while I focused on the unbelievably great bolts of pleasure he generated. He soon tripped my trigger, my pubic muscles tightly ringing his schvanz as he carried me to the logical end of my orgasm. Like John Henry in the old folk song, he kept his hammer swinging away to rail me better than anything or anyone could, owning my gash with the fallout of his instinctive passion and porking me into the promised land time and again until he painted my womb white with sperm.

We scooted over toward the headboard so we could relax and enjoy the mellow high that good sex engenders. "If we're going to have sex like that every time after we argue we need to get angry more often,"  he cracked. I chuckled in acknowledging what he said and snuggled up to him more tightly.