Last night....

I was dressed to kill, but I doubt that anyone noticed.  The music was so loud that you had to shout even when you whispering, and the moshpit was so crowded that you had no choice but to move with the rest of the audience, a rhythmic swaying and surging that threatened to topple you off balance, even as the people packed against you made certain that you wouldn’t ever fall.  

I closed my eyes and went with the flow, only dimly aware of all the points on my body where others were squashed against me – an elbow here, a shoulder there, a purse somewhere else, and I don’t know what it was about that pressure on my ass but  I knew it wasn’t anything I’d have expected to find.  I turned my head as much as I could and the guy standing behind me caught my eye and smiled, which was when I knew for sure what it was.  He had a hard-on like you wouldn’t believe and the only thing stopping it from sliding up my ass were his jeans and my sequins.

I tried to wriggle away but couldn’t, the crowd was too thick.  And part of me, I realized, wasn’t trying too hard, either.  There’s something oddly arousing about having a complete stranger just a few millimeters of denim away from fucking you up the ass.  Besides, a new outfit always turns me on, and I'd just hit the motherlode.   


When a particularly hard surge separated us for a moment, I was shocked to find myself feeling disappointed.  He was still behind me, I knew, but his body had changed its angle just enough that the wonderful pressure I’d been riding for so long was gone.  And I missed it.  

I wriggled my ass, hoping to make contact again.  Nothing.  Just the hardness of his hips… but at least I knew I was close.  I shifted from one foot to the other, stepped a little to the left – ah, that’s better.  He was still off target but an inch or two more – and then I felt him again, hard between my butt cheeks and I wondered what had changed to make him feel so much more “real”?  Which was when I reached behind me with one hand and came into contact with flesh.  Hard, hot flesh.

I turned again, and he was still looking at me.  Not a bad looking guy, either – probably no-one I’d have gone home with, or even looked at twice under normal circumstances.  But the volume of the music, the heat of the crowd, the sudden unexpectedness of everything else – I curled my fingers around his cock, moved away slightly to give myself room, and began gently jerking him off to the rhythm, long hard tugs that pulled the breath from his body, short, fast twists that just seemed to make him harder.  

His hand was on my tit, squeezing, teasing.  My wrist was twisted but I didn’t care.  I just kept on jerking him and when he came, a sudden flood that splashed hot on my fist, I kept going, massaging him back to softness as his hand touched mine to let me know I should stop. I wiped my hand dry on his jeans and turned my attention back to the concert, and the next time I turned around, he was gone.

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