Imogen Heap rolled her hips to her greatest achievement in life, her claim to fame, the one thing she would be remembered for after twenty long years of hard work in the music industry.
Singing the girl part of Jason Derulo's hit song Whatcha Say.
Dressed in the costume Derulo had selected for her, Imogen shook her tits on stage to the amusement and delight of his fans. Her sped up vocals booming from the speakers forced the former artist into a faster pace than she would have liked, bouncing those big fake knockers around and almost stumbling over her own two feet. The black bra studded with gold rhinestone did little to contain the weight. They flopped about monstrously, earning her cheers and applause with their jiggling.
Shame and outrage hid behind her wide smile. With a few strokes of a pen, her contract, and with it her whole life, belonged to this man. It was, ironically and infuriatingly enough, the millions he had made from sampling her for this very song that he had used to buy her like a modern day slave. He had made that part very clear. He wanted her to know she had contributed to her own disgrace.
Kind of like she was already doing right now. When she spun around and twerked her fat ass, revealing Derulo's last name in more gold rhinestone stretched across her tight black panties. She didn't need implants for this. All natural. Her 'ghetto booty' was the real draw of her performance, each flex of her cheeks feeding those panties deeper into her crack. The wedgie irritated her same as always, but she endured, because she had to. Her contract insisted.
"Mm that you only meant weeeeeell? Well of course you did."
The high pitched squeak of her doubly auto-tuned voice made this doubly insulting. Timing her body with the exaggerated sound, she kept her hands firmly on her knees as she lowered herself into range of the front row. Her hanging ass merited slaps. Slaps she accepted. The sting seeped deeper and redder into her thickness, so familiar after months on tour that it no longer stopped her from her task. She had a body to degrade, a name to ruin, and nothing would stop the cutely nicknamed Immi from giving these cretins what they wanted.
Peering over her shoulder, she buried the seething disgust she felt and instead acted flirty, blowing a kiss. One of many thoroughly practiced acts to train the dignity out of her reactions. She followed this by tossing her wild hair, the stillness of her butt allowing them to see her tattoos. JD, his initials, to demonstrate Derulo literally owned that ass they admired. Roman numerals, Derulo's birthdate and hers. A keen eye might have noticed the difference. Him, 28. Her, 40. Yet despite her years, it was Immi who found herself governed by the whims of a man 12 years younger, letting him use her as a sex piece in his shows.
But now was the moment they had all been waiting for. She wasn't the star. She was the opener.
Immi rose. Strutting further into the stage, she approached the man, the legend, the great Jason Derulo as he headed to the front. The disgust in her eyes slipped out briefly. Glaring directly at him. Right before she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and wriggling her rear while her awfully altered chorus played him in.
"Mm that it's all for the beeeeeest? Of course it is."
She slunk behind him. His lyrics, his words, superseded hers like they commanded the real respect around here. Her hands slid over his chest, feeling him up. She played the homewrecker in this story. Ass out, tits out, fake and horny, her part required every ounce of skankery she could get across to sell her image as a temptress. The effect left her a desperate nobody in the eyes of their audience.
She straddled him. Clung her thighs against his side. Still he sang. She ground her butt against his leg. Knelt at his crotch and fumbled with the zipper. Still, he sang. Nothing she did could distract him. This went on for several minutes, other dancers in much more modest attire doing real dance moves next to her display.
Eventually, it was time to embarrass herself again. Separating from Derulo's side, Immi stepped forward and squeezed her boobs. Her constant mashing of them only reminded her of the saline bags deep inside, firm and unyielding no matter how hard she massaged those huge funbags. They kept their shape well, as intended. They were meant for looking. Not feeling. Just like the rest of her. Leaning forward, she faked a moan.
"Mmmm whatcha saaaayyy? Mmmm that you only meant weeell, well of course you did."
Her hands slithered between her legs as they parted. Squatting, groping her own crotch, Immi rubbed her slit through the very thin fabric and bit her lip at the buzz of arousal it left. She couldn't pretend at this part during rehearsals, so she had to do it for real. A wet spot grew there unseen by anyone but those people closest to her. Holding this pose was hell on her thighs with those high heels on her feet.
Then as suddenly as she had teased her clit, she stopped. Every single day, the frustration of edging herself and having to back off before she could climax on stage felt less like a reprieve for her pride and more like losing out on the one good thing she could gain from this performance. They got to see her O face. She got a soggy cunt, left unsatisfied. Sweating profusely and flushed from head to toe almost as red as her bare ass, Immi snapped her legs back together, stood, stomped and sashayed that ass to where it belonged - behind Jason Derulo. All the while listening to what got her into this mess, the only voice she had anymore besides her tits, ass, and pussy.
"Mmmm whatcha saaaayyy? Wha-wha-wha-wha-what did you say?"
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Imogen Heap, Backup Skank - pt 1
"Wh-wh-wh-what did you say?"
Imogen Heap rolled her hips to her greatest achievement in life, her claim to fame, the one thing she would be remembered for after twenty long years of hard work in the music industry.
Singing the girl part of Jason Derulo's hit song Whatcha Say.
Dressed in the costume Derulo had selected for her, Imogen shook her tits on stage to the amusement and delight of his fans. Her sped up vocals booming from the speakers forced the former artist into a faster pace than she would have liked, bouncing those big fake knockers around and almost stumbling over her own two feet. The black bra studded with gold rhinestone did little to contain the weight. They flopped about monstrously, earning her cheers and applause with their jiggling.
Shame and outrage hid behind her wide smile. With a few strokes of a pen, her contract, and with it her whole life, belonged to this man. It was, ironically and infuriatingly enough, the millions he had made from sampling her for this very song that he had used to buy her like a modern day slave. He had made that part very clear. He wanted her to know she had contributed to her own disgrace.
Kind of like she was already doing right now. When she spun around and twerked her fat ass, revealing Derulo's last name in more gold rhinestone stretched across her tight black panties. She didn't need implants for this. All natural. Her 'ghetto booty' was the real draw of her performance, each flex of her cheeks feeding those panties deeper into her crack. The wedgie irritated her same as always, but she endured, because she had to. Her contract insisted.
"Mm that you only meant weeeeeell? Well of course you did."
The high pitched squeak of her doubly auto-tuned voice made this doubly insulting. Timing her body with the exaggerated sound, she kept her hands firmly on her knees as she lowered herself into range of the front row. Her hanging ass merited slaps. Slaps she accepted. The sting seeped deeper and redder into her thickness, so familiar after months on tour that it no longer stopped her from her task. She had a body to degrade, a name to ruin, and nothing would stop the cutely nicknamed Immi from giving these cretins what they wanted.
Peering over her shoulder, she buried the seething disgust she felt and instead acted flirty, blowing a kiss. One of many thoroughly practiced acts to train the dignity out of her reactions. She followed this by tossing her wild hair, the stillness of her butt allowing them to see her tattoos. JD, his initials, to demonstrate Derulo literally owned that ass they admired. Roman numerals, Derulo's birthdate and hers. A keen eye might have noticed the difference. Him, 28. Her, 40. Yet despite her years, it was Immi who found herself governed by the whims of a man 12 years younger, letting him use her as a sex piece in his shows.
But now was the moment they had all been waiting for. She wasn't the star. She was the opener.
Immi rose. Strutting further into the stage, she approached the man, the legend, the great Jason Derulo as he headed to the front. The disgust in her eyes slipped out briefly. Glaring directly at him. Right before she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and wriggling her rear while her awfully altered chorus played him in.
"Mm that it's all for the beeeeeest? Of course it is."
She slunk behind him. His lyrics, his words, superseded hers like they commanded the real respect around here. Her hands slid over his chest, feeling him up. She played the homewrecker in this story. Ass out, tits out, fake and horny, her part required every ounce of skankery she could get across to sell her image as a temptress. The effect left her a desperate nobody in the eyes of their audience.
She straddled him. Clung her thighs against his side. Still he sang. She ground her butt against his leg. Knelt at his crotch and fumbled with the zipper. Still, he sang. Nothing she did could distract him. This went on for several minutes, other dancers in much more modest attire doing real dance moves next to her display.
Eventually, it was time to embarrass herself again. Separating from Derulo's side, Immi stepped forward and squeezed her boobs. Her constant mashing of them only reminded her of the saline bags deep inside, firm and unyielding no matter how hard she massaged those huge funbags. They kept their shape well, as intended. They were meant for looking. Not feeling. Just like the rest of her. Leaning forward, she faked a moan.
"Mmmm whatcha saaaayyy? Mmmm that you only meant weeell, well of course you did."
Her hands slithered between her legs as they parted. Squatting, groping her own crotch, Immi rubbed her slit through the very thin fabric and bit her lip at the buzz of arousal it left. She couldn't pretend at this part during rehearsals, so she had to do it for real. A wet spot grew there unseen by anyone but those people closest to her. Holding this pose was hell on her thighs with those high heels on her feet.
Then as suddenly as she had teased her clit, she stopped. Every single day, the frustration of edging herself and having to back off before she could climax on stage felt less like a reprieve for her pride and more like losing out on the one good thing she could gain from this performance. They got to see her O face. She got a soggy cunt, left unsatisfied. Sweating profusely and flushed from head to toe almost as red as her bare ass, Immi snapped her legs back together, stood, stomped and sashayed that ass to where it belonged - behind Jason Derulo. All the while listening to what got her into this mess, the only voice she had anymore besides her tits, ass, and pussy.
"Mmmm whatcha saaaayyy? Wha-wha-wha-wha-what did you say?"