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School of Tender Rockers
by Vivian Darkbloom
Feeling vulnerable and exposed under the heat of the stage
lights, in the flimsy tank-top and skimpy shorts the girls had
forced me to wear for the concert, I grinned and flailed randomly
at the percussion instruments they had set in front of me. I
doubt the girls ever turned on the microphone hanging there,
seeing as I have absolutely no sense of rhythm or otherwise
redeeming skills which might have justified my position as their
percussion player.
Rhonda, the slim redheaded drummer, shot me a deliciously wicked
glance, flicking her lips briefly with her tongue as she
dexterously rattled off lightning-precision fills and riffs. She
must have been about fourteen, judging by the size of her
breasts, which had budded enough to distinctly be considered
feminine, but not enough to have any degree of "hang" to them.
Her luxurious red curls cascaded in a bounteous bouquet of
sweet-smelling blossoms, streaming like a jungle down the curve
of her sensuous behind.
Our audience seemed to consist entirely of young girl scouts and
brownies, all in full uniform. A thousand seats, Yvette had said,
and I didn't see any empty. And somehow there appeared not to be
a single chaperone in sight, not a single adult other than
myself.
I should have suspected something was up when the girls in the
band first asked me to sign the contract, the occasion of the
first devilish glance flashed by Yvette, the slender vocalist,
with long blonde hair of classically Swedish coloration. I'm not
ordinarily given to staring at women's breasts, which overall was
fortunate as she didn't seem to have any. She couldn't have been
more than about 11.
My first hint of suspicion came from the extensive non-disclosure
agreement that they made me sign. (has anyone else ever heard of
signing such a thing in order to be in a rock band? I didn't
think so). It was about a quarter of an inch thick of heavy legal
jargon in 8-point type. And not being a very fast reader, I sort
of skimmed it. Actually, I sort of just glanced at it and
scribbled my signature, hoping for the best. None of the girls
seemed any older than about twelve. What sort of binding effect
could such an agreement ever have anyway?
Then there were the concert tour arrangements. Every stop in the
bookings seemed to be a girl-scout conference or convention of
one sort or another. And even though there were four of us in the
band, they only booked rooms with two beds! I figured that, being
young and all, they would want to bring sleeping bags and crash
out on the floor.
As it turned out, the first thing that happened when we arrived
in the hotel room was that Wilma, the guitarist, had us all take
off all our clothes. Her black hair was done up in a short,
strikingly Egyptian-styled cut.
"I know you probably want to have sex with each one of us," she
began.
"But..." I protested.
"Sh. So we're going to get that out of the way right now. First,
we'll take turns giving you blow-jobs, and then once you get nice
and stiff, we'll take sticking that magnificent thing of yours
inside us."
Seeing my expression of bewilderment, she replied, "You remember
reading about it in the contract, don't you?"
"Well, um," I coughed.
The girls gathered around, all smiled and nodded in anticipation,
bare skin flushed with excitement all around me.
Rhonda the redhead, Yvette the blonde, Wilma the Egyptian, all
took turns taking me into their sweet, warm, juicy mouths. Then
Kris, the bass player kneeled in front of me as I stood, and
started massaging my penis with her breasts, between erect red
nipple-like nipples. She was rounder and fuller of build than the
rest. The translucence of her pale skin and gentleness of her
dimpled smile breathed a delicate innocence so compelling that to
see the fullness of my gnarled ugly old thing between her two
soft white breasts almost caused me to spray her ruby lips and
long dark hair right then and there.
Almost. Maybe it was on account of sensing the intense shiver of
near-orgasm that inspired her to skip the step of taking me into
her mouth, because instead she laid carefully on her back on one
of the beds, legs spread, and gently but firmly drew me into her
by her grasp on my swollen yearning, until I had no choice but to
thrust myself inside of the sweet soft moist lips between her
legs.
The other girls, all gathered around touching us and each other,
heaved a collective sigh of release to see the repeating call and
response established between my pelvis and hers, and she gazed up
at me in starstruck rapture, gazing into my eyes with innocent
glimmering that reached right into my soul and seized the thorns
of my sexual agony deep inside of her, where they exploded into a
million tiny atoms and quantum particles of light and energy.
As I sweated and grinned under the stage lights, the events of
the previous night that had followed the first glorious climax
played again and again on the screen of my imagination, how they
would not let me alone until I had reached an orgasm whilst
inside each and every one of them. Though towards the end, when
my fullness burst inside of Rhonda, with blossom-smelling red
curls cascading, the other girls were over on the other bed
playing startlingly creative sexual games with each other.
Under the stage lights, Kris, the bass player, turned to face me
as she played, her innocent dimples as the smile played on her
full ruby lips immediately bringing to mind that first climax I
had reached inside of her. Grinning like a fool, I flailed some
more at the instruments in front of me under the heat of the
lights, trying to seem busy as the fullness within my flimsy
shorts increased. I could have been imagining, but I could have
sworn I saw a pair of the girl scouts in the front row kissing
each other -- on the lips! Long juicy ones, too. Not just little
pecks. There they go again! No wait, that's another couple.
After about four or five songs, Rhonda the redheaded drummer
stood up, cascading curls carelessly flung windswept behind her,
as smiling, she came over from behind her drumset and stood
facing me, to where up close I could see her flawlessly smooth
freckled skin like newly whipped cream, feel the vibration of her
lust for me rippling like electric neon through the gentle touch
of her fingertips as they closed around my upper arm and she led
me out from behind my percussion set to center stage, directly
facing the 1,000 girl-scouts.
Heart pounding, bashfully aware that all thousand cute little
faces were watching in my direction, I grinned as best I could,
sweat pouring over my body. She stood beside me holding my hand
for a half a minute or so, then at a high point in the music
(apparently pre-planned) she kneeled in front of me and yanked my
shorts down to around my ankles, causing the gnarled ugly old
thing to tumble out, embarrassingly ready for action.
Before I knew it, the house came down in thunderous applause. It
took a moment to realize that it was the revelation of my
vulnerability that had triggered it. I saw the girls in the front
row smiling eagerly at me and whooping, which increased as Rhonda
stroked gently into greater attention the fullness I carried
between my legs.
I since learned that this sort of event has become all the rage
at girl scout conferences, but at the time it was somewhat of a
shock; my alarm increasing as I saw Kris put down her bass and
work at strapping something around her waist, as blonde-haired
singer Yvette pulled loose the drawstring on her white
half-skirt, allowing it to fall, to reveal that she hadn't been
wearing any underwear all along. Her shirt soon fell aside as
well, and the full nudity of her flat-chested bare-breasted
slenderness triggered another round of applause, in response to
which she curtsied.
At this point, Wilma was the only one still playing, but she
remained off to the side, clad in skimpy black imitation-leather
string laced halter top and hot-pants, belly button cavorting as
she persisted in her long drawn out and beautifully expressive
electric guitar solo, on one hand as if nothing extraordinary
were taking place, but at the same time so that her music went
along with the sexual action building center stage.
Our blonde (and now naked) vocalist, Yvette, laid sideways to the
crowd on a padded bed-sized pedestal that I hadn't noticed
before, so the whole audience would get a good shot at her
profile. She spread her legs towards me, and as she began to work
her finger intensely into the folds between them, a glazed
expression of contentment drew over her face.
This scene, up close like that, caused my ugly gnarled old tuber
to stiffen even further, to where I was afraid it would never
soften again, so tight was it pulled like a bow at full
extension, the archer poised to let go. The thousand uniformed
girl scouts' eyes widened, and they collectively whispered words
of encouragement.
After attending to some formalities with her tongue, Rhonda got
up from kneeling in front of me, and cupping her hands gently
beneath the balls, gently pulled me by my handle over to the
pedestal where blonde Yvette lay fingering herself, her pussy
dripping with hot, oozing desire, slender eleven-year old body
ready to take me in.
The audience grew more excited, and there were cheers as my
knotty old tip traced an approach path towards her pure, innocent
smooth hairless folds. The guitar melody soared with the grace
and elegance of an eagle sailing in the clear blue sky over
mountainside pines.
Contact! Another round of cheers as I forced my tip into her
sweet constriction, loosening it gradually with increasing
leverage, until I was able to thrust fully deep inside of her
with ease and passion.
Blonde young Yvette issued soft, high-pitched grunts, sweetly
cooing as she worked her legs more and more open, opening her
ways to increase my traversal. I watched her starry eyes beneath
me as she gazed up in enraptured lust, eye lashes gently batting
over eyes that mirrored the infinity of cloud-filled windswept
skies.
I felt the warmth of fingers rubbing something slippery against
my butthole, and turned around to look just as Kris manoeuvred
the strap-on dildo around to point into my butt. With a wink and
a grin, she pushed, and the tip of her strap-on erupted into the
dark red pleasure zone of my forbidden exit, drawing even more
unbearably taught my fullness inside of starry-eyed Yvette.
Another round of cheers, and the neatly uniformed crowd grew more
talkative and giggly, some of the girls leaning forward and
straining to see. The screen of my mind impulsively filled with
the image of a thousand tiny young holes moistening and dripping
with excitement.
Now I was sweetly trapped between the two pussies, one in front
and the other behind, so every little move yielded whimpers of
pleasure from fore and aft, gradually accelerating into larger
thrusting as our rhythms synchronized, and the girls in the
audience began to chant in time with our sexmaking, until the
entire room swayed with the push and pull of triplicate passions.
I could see in the front row that some of the girls' hands had
reached over into the laps of the one adjacent, and sly knowing
looks were being exchanged.
Wilma glanced over, never skipping a beat in her dazzlingly
brilliant guitar solo, now sinking into a deep earthy rhythmic
blues, following our every move with her melodic gestures,
caressing our lovemaking with the driving edge of her raw-edged
amplified fretting.
It was at this point that Rhonda, the drummer, kneeled on the
pedestal in front of me, crimson curls cascading, walking over on
her knees until the short red pubic hairs surrounding her
shimmering moist fold were directly over Yvette's Swedishly
blonde face, right in front of my lips. A tiny drop fell from her
pussy to splatter almost invisibly on Yvette's forehead
Yvette, from below me, reached up with curved fingers toward the
pubic arch above her, and digitally penetrated Rhonda's vagina
with an experienced deft thrust, completing the circuit of
connection from Kris inside of me, inside of Yvette, to Yvette
inside of Rhonda. Rhonda's face as she kneeled in front of me
contorted with intense joyous passion, her red curls swaying as
Yvette began working her G-spot.
There was only one thing left to do. Still chanting in rhythm,
the thousand girl scouts and brownies started cheering as they
saw my lips progress toward Rhonda's clitoris.
Soon after my tongue made contact, and I tasted the sweetness of
her chewy red flesh, the four of us found the same rhythm of
thrusting and pulling in the elastic taffy-like media, and not
long after my strokes became slower and more deliberate with
intense quivering as my love for these beautiful young women
wrapped around the core of my soul, tearing at the essence of my
passion until its overflowing could fill no further without
bursting.
Then, with the silent stillness at the eye of the hurricane, I
touched the universal oneness of all spirit, the infinite essence
that connects us all in deep compassion for all living beings.
And from the calm watchful eyes of Mother Mary, a ray of pale
gold alit on the neural fibre at the base of my spine, with a
spark that torched into a lightning flash, and set my backbone
ablaze, shivering with deep burrowing love, as each sweet drop
ripped like like a thunderbolt through the fabric of emotion,
wrapping its hot release into the slimy folds of lust in all
directions, and I felt the bumps and moans of other orgasms as
letting go triggered a chain reaction all around me.
When it was all done, and the three of us on the "bedestal" had
collapsed into each other's arms, the guitar solo had climaxed
and the final notes echoed throughout the hall, when there were a
few moments of complete, absolute silence; the silence of
absolute enthrallment and attention of a thousand pairs of eyes.
Soon followed by thunderous applause as the girls lept from their
chairs to give us a long standing ovation.
As the other girls in the band resumed their position, and they
commenced playing the next song, a dozen or so of the uniformed
girl scouts made their way up onto the stage, and I had to stand
in front next to Yvette as they lined up to lick the stickiness
from between the both of our legs, as a form of souvenir.
I kissed the blonde Yvette, inside of whom I had just injected my
sweet dripping essence, as we both stood naked together, girls'
tongues probing both of our sensitive regions. She smiled back at
me. "You're so romantic," she cooed, and kissed me again
fiercely, thrusting her tongue between my teeth.
Finally, I too resumed my position behind the percussion
instruments, but somehow my clothes seemed to have disappeared,
so I did the best I could in the face of my vulnerability. The
rest of the band did not seem to object that a handful of the
uniformed girl-scouts and brownies had remained onstage. The
prevailing fashion seemed to be to retain the uniform in all its
pressed, impeccable neatness, but to discard panties: a detail
which was only evident from (a) the pile of discarded panties
lying to one corner of the stage and (b) occasional flashes of
bare bottoms and other anatomical features as dresses
inadvertently lifted in the midst of dancing.
Now they were dancing brashly close, hands brushing my now-rested
member, causing it to rise...
One girl approached, dark green beret cocked jauntily askew, with
a box in one hand and a dark cookie in the other. "Thin mint?"
she inquired, white teeth flashing as she smiled. I opened my
mouth to taste the sweetness, eyeing her cookie-box as she popped
one in.
Maybe it was something in the cookie. Because following that, the
details blur together beyond accurate remembering: the soft
slender limbs, the gentle curls, gazes of longing and
anticipation, the shudder of mutual release, the acres of smooth
velvet skin, the lips and butt-holes, the liquid and slippery
sweetness, the smiles...
One thing for certain: I had never before experienced so many
`standing' ovations in one evening.
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