Riffs and Ruts

The dark of the club wraps around me like a second skin, the air thick with sweat, anticipation, and the relentless thump of the bass drum pounding in my chest. It's a primal rhythm, a heartbeat synced to the chaos of the rock concert unfolding around me. I lean against the bar, waiting for a whiskey and coke that I know will be watered down to hell, but I don't care. I fucking love this scene--the raw edge of it, the way it hums with life. And it sure as shit doesn't hurt that the women here are a walking wet dream: tight black miniskirts that cling like they're painted on, leggings that hug every curve, and shirts slashed low enough to tease miles of cleavage. The guitar riffs slice through the air, sharp and electric, like foreplay set to music. Hips sway, boots stomp, and bodies glisten under the dim lights, the heat of the club turning every movement into something primal.

I've got time to kill while the bartender fumbles my drink, and my eyes wander--lucky me--landing on you. You're a few feet down the bar, turned away, but holy fuck, that skirt. It's a black, skin-tight number that molds to your ass like it's trying to start a riot. Every curve is on display, lush and unapologetic, the kind of sight that makes a man's pulse jackhammer. Your heels--towering, dangerous--add at least six inches to your frame, and I've got to hand it to you: wearing those to a gig with a mosh pit churning near the stage takes balls. Your black hair's swept back into a teased-out ponytail, wild and messy in a way that begs to be grabbed, and your pale neck glows against the black top draped over your tits. It's loose, hanging just right to hint at what's underneath, ending at your midriff to show off a sliver of skin. The black eyeliner rimming your eyes isn't some goth cliché--it's a neon sign screaming fuck me hard, and I'm already half sold.

The opening band's long gone, their echoes fading into the buzz of the crowd, when I finally knock back the last of my drink. You finish yours at the same damn time, like we're synced without even trying. We weave into the throng separately, pushing toward the stage for the main act, a band I have seen many times and always make time for when they come anywhere close to me. The sea of bodies is tight, a sweaty mess of leather and denim, but I can't stop tracking you. My eyes keep snagging on that skirt, that hair, and yeah, I'm staring--caught red-handed when you glance back. You don't flinch. Instead, you hit me with a sultry little smile, one eyebrow arched like a dare. I grin back, all teeth and heat, and muscle my way over. We shout flirty bullshit over the noise--small talk that's more vibe than words. Your eyes are fucking stunning up close, sharp and alive, and every time you laugh, your hand brushes my arm, light but deliberate. The crowd shoves us closer, bodies colliding as people jostle past, and I'm not complaining about the excuse to feel you against me.

Time blurs as we drift nearer to the stage, elbowing through the chaos for a prime spot. We end up by the metal guardrail, that thin barrier between the crowd's madness and the stage's promise. You're inches from it now, and when the lights crash low, you let out a scream--pure, wild energy. I match it as the band storms on, tearing into their first song with a riff that hits like a punch. The crowd surges behind us, a tidal wave of bodies, and I'm pressed tight against you. It's not awkward--it's fucking electric. Our hips move together, a messy kind of dance, and you twist back to look at me, belting out lyrics you've got memorized. Your hand flicks a stray strand of hair off your face, and that smile--goddamn, it's a weapon. Your ass sways, brushing my crotch in a slow, teasing bump that's no accident.

I'm not dumb enough to miss the signal. My hand slides around your waist, pulling you in, and we're locked in now--moving, singing, sweat-slick and shameless. Your hands snake back, grazing my hips, my thighs, tugging me closer like you're starving for it. The music's a live wire, the band shredding through their set, and we're caught in the current. The crowd keeps pushing, relentless, and soon you're pinned against the guardrail, hands gripping the metal. I'm right behind you, chest to back, and during a slower ballad--some gritty, aching tune--you grind against me, deliberate and filthy. Your ass presses into my cock, stirring it to life, and your hand trails back, sliding over my neck. It's an invitation I don't ignore. I dip my head, lips finding your neck, kissing and nipping at that pale skin while you arch into me.

The song shifts, tempo spiking, and we're a tangle of heat and rhythm. Our mouths crash together between shouted lyrics, hungry and sloppy, your tongue teasing mine. Your ass keeps working my cock through my jeans, and my hands drop to your hips, guiding the grind. You feel it--the hard line of me--and you shift forward, popping your ass higher as your fingers slip back to hike your skirt up. The fabric slides above those perfect curves, and fuck me, no panties. Just bare, glistening skin in the flicker of stage lights. I dart a glance around--nobody's clocking us, too lost in the pit or the music--and you wiggle, parting your legs just enough. My brain's screaming is this real? but your ass twitches against me, and that's all the answer I need.

My fingers fumble with my zipper, slow and careful, letting my cock spring free--hard, throbbing, ready. Another quick scan: the crowd's a wall, the dark's a shield, and the pit's got everyone distracted. I bend my knees, angling just right, and find you--wet, hot, and so fucking willing. My cock slides in, easy and deep, and your whole-body shudders against me as I fill you. I hold there for a beat, savoring the tight grip of you around me, your heat swallowing me whole. Your hands clamp the guardrail, and you pull forward, my cock slipping out to the tip before you rock back, setting a rhythm. To anyone else, you're just a chick losing it to the band, head banging to the beat--but it's a lie. You're fucking me, slow and steady, every thrust masked by the music's pulse.

I keep one hand on your hip, the other raised like I'm cheering the band, playing it cool while you give me the ride of my life. My cock glides in and out, slick and perfect, matching the song's tempo. Your head tips back, eyes fluttering shut, and you let out a wail--part song, part climax--that blends with the crowd's roar. I'm right behind you, a growl ripping from my throat as I grab your waist, hands diving under your shirt to find your bare tits. No bra, just soft flesh and hard nipples I squeeze as you tremble through your orgasm, dragging me over the edge with you. I spill into you, hot and messy, and we ride the aftershocks together, bodies locked tight.

Thank fuck for those heels--they made this possible. You tilt forward as I slip out, and I tuck myself away fast, smoothing your skirt down. I can't help wondering how much of me is dripping down your thighs, but you don't flinch--just turn to me with a wicked grin and yell over the noise, "Parking lot? My car?" I nod, grinning like an idiot, and as we start to move, my eyes catch the stage. The guitarist locks on me, smirking like he saw it all, and winks. I flash a grin back, and he flicks his pick my way. I snag it mid-air with the same hand that was just gripping your hips while I fucked you in front of hundreds.

We stumble out into the night, the cool air a shock after the club's furnace. The parking lot's a maze of cars, but you lead the way, heels clicking on asphalt, your hand tugging mine. We reach your car--a beat-up sedan that's seen better days--and you unlock it, sliding into the backseat with a look that says we're not done. I follow, door slamming shut, and you're on me before I can blink. Your mouth's on mine, fierce and needy, and your hands claw at my shirt, yanking it up. I rip your top off in return, exposing those tits I'd only felt before--full, perfect, begging to be touched. My lips close around a nipple, sucking hard, and you moan, loud and unrestrained now that we're free of the crowd.

You straddle me, skirt bunched around your waist, and I can feel the wet heat of you through my jeans. Your fingers work my fly again, faster this time, and my cock's out, still half-hard and slick from before. You don't waste time--lining me up and sinking down, taking me in one smooth drop. We groan together, the car rocking slightly as you start to ride me. It's slower now, more deliberate, your hips rolling in circles that make my eyes cross. My hands roam your body--ass, thighs, tits--grabbing, kneading, urging you on. The windows fog up fast, the air thick with our breath and the faint echo of the concert still buzzing in our bones.

You lean back, hands braced on my knees, and fuck, the angle's insane--your pussy clenching me tighter, your tits bouncing with every thrust. I reach down, thumb finding your clit, rubbing hard, and your head falls back with a cry. "Don't stop," you gasp, and I don't, driving up into you as you unravel again, shaking and cursing through another orgasm. I'm not far behind, gripping your ass and slamming you down one last time before I come, spilling into you again, the heat of it mingling with the mess we've already made.

We collapse together, panting, a tangle of limbs and sweat in the cramped backseat. The pick's still in my pocket, a souvenir of the wildest night I've ever had. You laugh, low and husky, and murmur, "Next concert's on me." I smirk, already counting the days. Then, through the haze of our breathing, something catches my eye--a flicker of movement beyond the steamy window. I squint, and there they are: another couple, half-hidden in the shadows near a truck a few spaces over. They're pressed close, watching us, their silhouettes sharp against the dim lot lights. The woman's hand is down the guy's pants, stroking slow and deliberate, while his fingers dig into her hip, pulling her tight. Their eyes are locked on us, wide and hungry, the steam on our glass no match for the heat they're catching off our show.

You notice too, twisting in my lap to peek, and instead of shying away, you grin--slow, wicked, and unashamed. "Looks like we've got fans," you whisper, voice dripping with mischief. The woman outside bites her lip, her pace quickening, and the guy groans loud enough for us to hear through the cracked window. They're getting off on us, turned on by the mess of you still straddling me, my hands still on your bare skin. You shift, grinding against me one last time, and I'm half-hard again, the thrill of their stares sparking something feral. "Let's give 'em something to remember," you say, leaning in to kiss me deep, your tongue promising round three while our audience stays rapt with attention.