She was 17 and still had baby fat when I met her.

One of her teachers introduced us, hoping a little bit of my American roots music mojo would rub off on her. She was immensely talented, wild and full of herself. When she wasn't jamming and singing and writing songs and listening to music, she was staying up all night downing pints and smoking reefer as a full participant in the contemporary culture of her times. We got to be friends real quick and I would listen to her go on and on about how this bitch was a slut or that bitch was a whore, and it was coming out in her songs. She sat tipsy in my hotel room and played on my guitar her original ditty that snarked on the whole milieu, "Fuck Me Pumps".

"That's very clever," said I, "it'll probably be a hit. But you're better than that."

Obviously she had to return for more and more of such critique and soak up my tough love for her gifts (not to mention my fat cock, which I had her sucking on our first secret 'date'). Her teachers, parents and producers were all that insufferable type of Brit who think they know more about soul music than any Yank ever could, because my countrymen oppressed our native geniuses and it wasn't until the mod Englishmen invaded our shores playing their ham fisted versions of our own heritage back at us that we finally realized what we had. I remained a stealth musician for the most part when passing through London to spare myself that tired discourse, but Amy knew I was more than just a guy setting up European distributorships for my friends' exotic BBQ sauces and reptile products. She reveled in my privileged rhythm knowledge and realized my American perspectives on jazz and blues for what they were - valuable to her.

But what she really needed was some control. Dominating stage and studio, she needed to submit to something elsewhere in her life. I found myself a bemused bystander in her drama, enjoying the drunken booty calls but starting to get weary of her romantic laments, about the "lady boys" not worthy of her.

"Any man that's going to be with you has to be stronger than you," I told her.

That became a song. One night after I had plowed her intoxicated ass and she was in the bathroom expelling my load, I flipped on the TV and caught her playing it live. On the screen her wide stance was solid and defiant as she held her Stratocaster guitar low and played right from her pussy like I had taught her, completely eviscerating a paramour in the lyrics, her saucy funky delivery so fucking hot it made me hard again. Yet I knew a cry for help when I heard one.

She came out of the bathroom and curled up next to me in the crumpled sheets, asking me what I thought. I looked into her eyes, which were suddenly far more doe like than the sass on TV.

"'Seven years'? How about someone who's been here twenty five years longer than you?" I asked.

"Yes, you are stronger than me," she quietly acknowledged.

"You need a daddy," I said.

"Yes, daddy," she whispered.

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