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o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
o The 'Bookshelf collection' offers a very wide variety of o
o stories. They have been submitted by people from all over the o
o world. Also from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups). There is no o
o particular order other than offering them to you in alpha- o
o betical directories. o
o I don’t believe in categorizing things. "I don’t want to o
o be typed therefore I don’t type things myself." I think it’s o
o a lot more fun to browse around and find 'little' surprises o
o that you might not have even thought of looking for. o
o Lest we forget!!! This story was produced as adult en- o
o tertainment and should not be read by minors. Kristen o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
Concert Fantasy, The (MF, public places)
by Anonymous (c) 1988
***
I'm in the standing-room-only crowd on the floor at the
Jethro Tull concert in Frankfurt, West Germany, April 27, 1982.
The crowd is constantly shifting; a single organism trying to
make itself comfortable on the concrete floor of the arena. The
air is thick with the smells of beer, wine, and smoke (cigars,
cigarettes, pipe tobacco, and hash). Voices of the hawkers can
be made out above the noise of the crowd advertising (in German
and English) their wine, beer, posters, and T-shirts. Canned
music is piped in over speakers in the rafters.
The roadies are playing games with the crowd while doing the
sound system checks. Frisbees and funny little glowing things
fly at random through the air.
I'm standing at the center of the stage, about 30 feet back
into the crowd. After the concert my ears will be ringing for
three days. I can live with that...
The lights begin to dim and the crowd settles down as the
drummer for the warm-up band sets the beat on his high-hat. The
curtains open, the spots blaze to life, and the crowd goes nuts
as the warm-up band hits the stage with a hard-driving rhythm and
screaming guitars.
I've never heard (or heard of) the band before. Probably a
local hired to warm up the crowd for Tull. They're good at it -
warming the crowd up, that is - but I don't think they'll make it
on their own.
The crowd is getting into it. The energy that bands live on
- in their symbiotic way - starts flowing. People are pumping
their fists into the air - the air which is rapidly getting
thicker with the smell of hashish as the pipes are passed around.
The folks are getting fired up!
Surveying the people around me, my eyes come to a screeching
halt on a small cluster of young ladies who are definitely
getting into the rhythm of the thing. They're dancing and
screaming and bouncing around as if it were the last night of
their lives.
One of the gals - a sweet young lady with waist-length,
chestnut tresses in a yellow, knit mini-dress - is also surveying
the crowd. Our eyes meet. Hers are the gray of early-morning
fog on the Rhine. I smile. She returns a knowing half-smile
that sends a shiver up my spine, before turning back to the band
on stage.
The warm-up band finishes its sixth set with a flourish and
runs off stage. The spots die and are replaced by the house
lights as the curtains are closed for the intermission. The
canned music begins to play.
Once again, the crowd shifts as parts head for the restrooms
to unburden themselves of the beer, wine, and soda consumed
before (and during) the warm-up act. More beverages are bought,
along with albums, posters, T-shirts, and popcorn. Only the most
brazen are firing up their bowls with the house lights up.
I look around for the clump of young women I noted earlier,
but they have faded into the mob. Probably in line for the
restroom, think I, as I turn back to the stage.
The roadies can be heard moving equipment around on the
stage. An occasional glimpse of a roadie with a guitar or an amp
can be seen through the small gap in the curtain.
We wait for about half an hour as the stage is reset for
Jethro Tull. The tension of anticipation is like a physical
thing filling the arena; I feel as if I could float on it.
Then the house lights dim, and the tension boils away in the
roar of the crowd.
The arena is black as pitch, and the crowd has settled into
its final configuration, when the first notes of the piano intro
to "Locomotive Breath" push their way through the crowd noise. A
few of us recognize the song from the first few notes and cry out
in joy and appreciation. Others don't realize what they are
listening to until the first whining guitar riffs have faded into
reverberating feedback.
Then the stage is ablaze with light as the lead guitar is
banging out the opening bar of the song proper. Ian Anderson is
dancing around the stage, twirling his silver flute as if it were
a baton. The drums and bass are hammering out the beat as the
rhythm guitar is doing that rhythm thing.
The crowd has sprouted a forest of pumping arms and the
amplified sounds of the band are nearly drowned out by its
triumphant bellow.
And even as Ian sidles up to the microphone to sing "In the
shuffling madness/Of locomotive breath," I look down to see a
head of chestnut hair bouncing and bobbing before me. The young
lady with the misty-gray eyes looks over her shoulder at me. Her
crazy half-smile laughs at me when she turns back to the stage.
Sorry, Ian, I think as my eyes drop to watch the sway of her
hips and the play of her ass under the thin fabric of her yellow
mini-dress. I'm delighted to notice that - by the way the clingy
fabric gathers in the cleft of her ass - either she's not wearing
any panties, or she's wearing a G-string. Fine by me! And,
believe me, "fine" is the active word here!
I feel my cock coming to life, its girth and length growing
rapidly. By the end of the song, I'm throbbing to my own beat!
The crowd goes wild as the song crashes to its end.
"Guten abend, Frankfurt!" cries Ian to a crowd which proves
that is CAN get louder! "That's the extent of my German," he
adds. Laughter. "The next song we'd like to play for you is
something off our new album..." Dramatic pause. "...A little
something called `Beastie.'"
The spotlights die, leaving the arena in darkness again. I
feel the gal in the mini-dress back slowly into me. And with the
first synthesized strains of "Beastie," my throbbing member
thrills to the sensation of slow shift of her firm ass through
the thick denim of my jeans.
Does this woman know what she's DOING to me? I ask myself.
As if in answer, I feel her hands reach behind her to grab my
hips. She then pulls me tightly against her and moves her sweet
ass in a slow, grinding roll against my crotch.
Any other stupid fucking questions?
As I slide my hands around her waist, she turns in my arms.
The spotlights come up on stage as she loops her arms around my
neck and drags my face down to hers. My lips find her mouth
open. Her tongue like a hot, wet, fleshy spear drives into my
mouth before my mind has time to catch up! Her firm, toned body
melts against me as our tongues start to dance.
Though my eyes are probably wide with surprise, the vision
centers of my brain are closed for business. The other
sensations easily override any sights my eyes are trying to bring
me. The warm, sweet smell of her. The sound of my moan drowning
out her smaller one. The hot, wet, clean taste of her mouth
grinding hungrily against mine. I feel her hardened nipples
pressing through her dress and my T-shirt into my chest. The
feel of her smooth belly pressing firmly against my crotch. The
play of her back muscles beneath my fingers.
Who the hell needs eyes?!
When our lips part, vision comes flooding back. Her face is
only a couple inches away from mine, and she is smiling that
damned smile again! I start to say something, but she kisses me
quickly again to shut me up. (Hey! I'm dense, but I'm not THAT
dense!)
Smiling, she turns her back to me, once again, to applaud
the end of the song.
Ian smiled, "I hope everyone's having a good time."
Yeah, buddy!
"Our next tune," he goes on, "is something else off our
latest record. It's an odd little ditty called `Watching'!"
The synthesizer starts turning out a bewildering combination of
notes. The drummer soon picks up an odd, jerky beat which neatly
compliments the synth. It was a tune to which I had thought it
was impossible to dance. My lovely, chestnut-haired lady seemed
only too happy to prove me wrong.
As her hips start moving in time with the drums, she takes
my hands from their resting place at her waist and slides them up
her wonderfully smooth torso to the mounds of her breasts. She
then reaches one hand over my head, grabs a handful of my hair,
and pulls my face into the curve of her neck. Her other hand is
caressing the back of one of mine as I stroke her breasts with my
palms, brushing her nipples with the balls of my fingers.
My mouth works its way - kissing, licking, nibbling -
gradually from the outside of her shoulder, up her neck to her
ear. As my hands are lifting and kneading her tits, my tongue is
darting into her ear. She continues to press her lovely ass into
my cock as I, pausing for a bit to nibble on the lobe of her ear,
work my way down to where her shoulder meets her neck.
All the while I've been enjoying the taste and feel of her
neck and breasts (respectively), I've been paying careful
attention to the song. When the song comes to its sudden end, I
pinch her nipples and bite her neck - not TOO hard, mind you, but
hard enough for her to know I'm still here!
Her gasp perfectly coincides with the last beat of the song.
She whirls around and stares at me with a look of mock-
indignation. Her misty gray eyes sparkle mischievously and her
half-smile replaces the pettish pout. Slipping her arms around
my neck, she lifts herself off the floor and presses her lips
roughly against mine. The brunette's pelvis grinds against mine
as our tongues slip and slide upon each other. Her breathing has
become quite rapid - my own is none to steady!
Suddenly, the young lady drops to her feet and twists around
in my arms, once again facing the stage.
Ian is gazing out at the audience. He starts to introduce
the band - drummer, bass, new lead guitar, etc. - all the while
twirling his flute like a baton.
My companion, while looking up at the stage, is reaching
around to the front of my jeans. With deft movements she
unbuttons the top and pulls the zipper open. My engorged prick
fairly leaps into her waiting hand. She feels the heft of my
eight-inch cock, wrapping her slim fingers around, measuring its
girth.
Introductions over, Ian says, "This is the title cut off our
latest album." The crowd goes nuts. I can barely hear him as he
says, "Broadsword!" The stage lights die.
The young lady with my dick in her hand uses her free hand
to guide one of mine to her left breast. She then pushes my
other hand down, down past the hem of her T-shirt dress to the
warm, silky smoothness of her inner thigh.
From onstage a slow, rhythmic beat - reminiscent of movie-
style indian tom-toms - begins. Soon, it is joined by the
moaning of a guitar. Anderson sings: "I see a dark sail/On the
horizon..."
The brunette's hand has moved to the head of my cock,
feeling the mushroom shape, spreading the bead of my own moisture
around. Her hand slides back to cup my balls and give a gentle
squeeze. My face is buried in her neck. I moan softly as she
begins slowly stroking me.
My hand is kneeding the inside of her thigh as it moves
lingeringly toward the meeting of her legs. My loving companion
widens her stance to allow me easier access. I feel the heat of
her pussy against the back of my thumb. My other hand continues
to caress her left breast - stroking, rubbing, rolling the nipple
like a marble...
I'm a little startled when the back of my thumb slides
across her hot, wet, *clean shaven* cunt. I let my surprise show
somehow, as my gray-eyed lover giggles and gives my prick a
couple of quick squeezes.
Thus encouraged, I hike the hem of her mini-dress a bit and
begin to slide my fingers across her slippery cunt. The hot
wetness of her flows over my questing fingers. I hear her moan
gently as against my ear as the middle finger slips between her
labia. She readjusts her stance. My middle finger finds the
opening of her vagina; my thumb, the button of her clit.
I hear air sucking through her teeth. She releases my cock,
bringing both of her hands around to press mine more firmly
against her pussy.
I pull her back into me. My dick slides up under the hem of
her dress. For a moment, it's 50-50 as to whether my prick will
slide down and forward between her legs, or back and up against
her ass. The moment passes and the latter wins out. I feel my
cock slip along the cleft of her ass as the middle finger of my
right hand slides up to the second knuckle into her slippery
vagina.
The lovely young woman grips my finger with her vaginal
muscles while she wiggles her ass. Soon, my prick is firmly
entrenched between the lovely, round lobes of her ass. It is
quite happy to be there. Her head falls back onto my right
shoulder; mouth open, eyes closed.
I begin to slide my finger in and out of her wet snatch, my
thumb rubbing her joy-button, the fingers of my left hand rolling
and pinching her nipple. I nibble her earlobe and watch her lick
her lips.
She begins to thrust her pelvis, in time with my probing
finger. Her thrusts are doing wonderful things to my cock,
wedged as it is between her buttocks. She moans and turns her
face to bring her mouth to mine. We kiss as hungrily as we can
at this awkward angle.
Jethro Tull has jarringly blended the end of "Broadsword"
with the beginning of "Aqualung." "Sitting on a park bench
/Eyeing little girls with bad intent..." sings Ian as he dances
across the stage.
I feel a shudder run through my companion. The kiss is
released and she draws air sharply between her teeth. She,
again, moves her luscious buttocks, releasing my ridged member.
She pulls my hand away from her crotch and turns in my arms to
face me. She then kisses me thoroughly, pushing down on my
shoulders until I'm kneeling. Widening her legs again, she grabs
a double handful of my hair and pulls my face into her dripping
crotch.
Without hesitation, I begin lapping at her cunt. Using my
thumbs to spread her labia, I bury my face in her wet, hairless
pussy. The hot, musky sweetness of her rolls across my tongue as
my mustache brushes her clitoris.
"Jesus Fuckin' Christ," I'm thinking. "I'm on my knees,
eating this lovely wench right here in the middle of a huge
concert crowd!" Then thoughts are wiped from my mind as I
concentrate on trying to make the woman scream!
I can't see her face because of the poor lighting and the
fabric of the T-shirt dress piled up in front of my eyes, but my
companion's fingers are clenching the hair at the back of my
head; grinding my face in her cunt. I can feel her breathing. I
can feel her knee against my ribs quaking.
Presently, I focus my attention on her clit. I begin
planting tiny, sucking kisses upon her joy-button. Her fingers
stop pulling at my hair, but she holds my head, as if she can't
decide to pull me in or push me away. Shortly, I feel quivers
race through her legs with each kiss I plant.
I slip my right hand between her thighs in such a way that I
can insert my thumb in her pussy and press my middle finger
against the rosebud of her anus. My thumb slides all the way
into her lust-slick love tunnel, and I begin to wiggle the tip in
time with the music.
Now, the girl's fingers begin to claw at the back of my
head. Her nails slowly dig into my flesh, as she starts to
shudder uncontrollably. I feel her breath coming in gasps. Her
knees are shaking so that I fear that she might fall.
I push the tip of my middle finger into her anus. That
little ring of muscle slams shut upon my finger like a jail-cell
door!
Of a sudden, her entire body goes stiff. I clamp my lips
down around her clit and suck; my tongue flicking the tip of the
tiny cone of ridged flesh. She is trying to pull my whole head
into her cunt!
My face is washed in the juices flowing from her pussy. The
tangy sweetness sends chills up my spine as my lovely companion
is wracked with shudders. I'm almost forced to hold her up while
she rides the waves of her orgasm!
By the end of "The Teacher," the song which follows "Aqua-
lung," the luscious brunnette has recovered enough to return the
favor. She gives my that half-smile of hers before dropping to
her knees.
For a moment she seems hypnotized by my throbbing prick as
it bobs in front of her face. But she recovers quickly. She
wraps her delicate hand around the base of my shaft and presses
her lips to its head. Her tongue flicks across the tiny slit in
the end, catching up the bead of preseminal moisture which clung
there like a tiny pearl.
I look down on her as she swirls her tongue around the head
of my cock. My fingers are caught up in her hair; not pulling
toward me, but holding her head for lack of anything else to do.
Presently, she engulfs the mushroom-like head of my dick with
her mouth. She begins to suck on only the head as the hand she
had wrapped around the base of the shaft shifts to capture my
balls. The sweet mouth of the young lady then begins to pull me
in. Slowly, inch by inch, she draws my throbbing member into her
mouth and down her throat. Eventually, I feel her nose press
into my pubic hair as my entire eight-inch prod vanishes between
her lovely, sweet lips.
She begins to slowly move her head up and down the length of
my cock, never releasing the suction she has built. I can see
her cheeks dimpling with the suction of her mouth. She begins to
bob and weave, rolling the head around with her tongue at the top
of every stroke.
Faster and faster, she pulls me in and releases me.
I'm soon gritting my teeth. The fabulous sensation of her
mouth and throat upon my cock is driving me crazy. I can feel
that old, familiar pressure beginning to build in my balls.
Just as I begin to think I can't stand it anymore, the brunnette
backs her had away until only the head of my prick is in her
mouth. Then she begins humming along with the song being played
by Tull - "Cross-Eyed Mary," I believe.
My balls explode! When my cock jumps, I swear I must loosen
her front teeth! I pump streams of slippery cream into her mouth
and, try as she might, she cannot keep a thin trickle from
running from the corner of her mouth. The feeling of her swal-
lowing my cum only prolongs the jolts of my orgasm.
She licks my cock clean and uses her fingers to catch the
trickle running down her chin. My sweet lover makes a show of
licking this last dab of my cream from her fingers.
I pull her up from the floor and our mouths meet in a
lingering kiss. I can taste my jism mingling with the sweetness
of her mouth. It only serves to turn me on further.
Her cool fingers encircle my still ridged member and, using
it as a handle, she pulls me down into a kneeling position once
more. This time, though, she is down here with me. She pushes
my back until I am sitting on my heels.
As I watch in the dim light which filters between the people
of the crowd, she releases my cock and grabs the neckline of her
dress. With a jerk, she tears the neck apart. With another, the
front of her dress splits down to her navel. She pulls the flaps
of fabric away from her lovely breasts. They are creamy smooth
and no larger than baseballs. Her breasts stand out proudly from
her chest with puckered, pink nipples screaming for attention.
Grasping a handful of my hair, she pushes my face into her
left breast. I pull most of her tit into my mouth, rolling her
nipple around on my tongue. Her moan is lost in the crowd noise,
but I feel it through my mouth.
Moving carefully so as not to dislodge my sucking lips, the
brunette squats down upon my lap. Slowly, she impales herself
upon my throbbing cock. As she eases herself down, I can no
longer reach her tits with my mouth. I cup her right breast in
my left hand while my right arm circles her waist. With a flex
of my thighs, I thrust my prod into her to the hilt. The grip of
her silken pussy upon my cock is sheerest bliss.
For a moment we stay like this, my cock in her wet pussy as
far as it will go, my fingers pinching and rolling her nipple.
Then, she eases herself up and I lower myself back to the floor.
As she lets gravity pull her down onto my prick, I use my thighs
to meet her halfway.
Slowly at first, we continue in this manner, but soon our
rhythm is increasing in speed. She comes down on me, I move up
to meet her. As we slide apart, her clutching vaginal muscles
show their reluctance in losing my cock.
Faster and still faster we thrust ourselves into/onto each
other until we are each gasping for breath. Her head is thrown
back, mouth open as, presently, I feel her body begin to shudder
in the forewarnings of her orgasm. I, too, can feel the boiling
surge building in my testicles. I grit my teeth to hold the
inevitable at bay as long as I can.
When, finally, she can no longer hold out against the
rushing tide of her release, the brunette drops down upon my pole
one last time. She hooks her legs around my back. She buries
her face in my neck, biting my shoulder through the material of
my T-shirt. I feel her nails bite into my back.
As for myself, I can but hold on. Both of my hands now hold
her arching back as I feel her entire body tense. She is
screaming into my shoulder!
I can stave off my own orgasm no longer. I hear myself gasp
as my cock fires the first salvo off into her hungry vagina.
Stream after stream of my viscous cum are thrust from my prick,
only to be gobbled up by her clutching pussy.
After an eternal minute, we are holding on to each other to
keep from slumping to the floor. We kiss tenderly. I stroke her
back and she plays with my hair.
A few minutes longer and we recover enough to climb to our
feet. We are still each leaning upon the other, but we are
feeling stable enough to stand that way for a time.
We watch the rest of the show holding each other. There are
only a few more songs before Ian Anderson calls his final "Good
Night!" to the crowd and vanishes from the stage. A few moments
after that, the house lights come up.
As the crowd begins to slowly filter out, my lovely brunette
lover takes my hand. She licks the length of my index finger
before drawing it into her mouth. The wonderful sensation of her
tongue sliding my finger as she sucks on it rapidly brings my
resting prick to full attention.
Smiling up at me for the merest moment, she takes my finger
from her mouth and pulls me along through the crowd by the hand.
Holding the front of her dress closed with her free hand, she
pulls me out into the cool night air. Our breath becomes thin
plumes of mist in the chill April night.
The young woman pulls me along until we reach her apartment,
only a few blocks from the concert hall. We make love about five
more times that night and into the morning.
THE END