It was part of the game.
They knew the rules and they wanted to play.
Risk vs benefit, reward vs penalty; the danger made sense to them to keep trying.
Because sometimes they'd win. Sometimes they'd drift past us, use their mates to set up diversions or just circumvent the venue security. Sometimes they'd get to see their idols, talk to them and most often fuck them in the dressing rooms, clearly prepared to offer their female wares to any man or woman who can play a musical instrument.
But often they didn't win; often we caught them sneaking past us to get to the superstars and apprehend the cheeky minxes. At which point they had an option: out the front to a waiting police car or out the back to a dozen waiting dicks.
If it sounds like blackmail, it probably is, but it was the suggestion of Maggie. What she was short on in skirt-length, she had in abundance in sexiness. Her sex drive was legendary, and her wanton lust for all musicians made her the toast of Telford's music scene. But she wasn't always invited, and the venue eventually took out a restraining order against her, preventing the depraved nymphomaniac from coming within a quarter-of-a-mile of my employer.
She ignored the court order, we caught her the next day and she begged for mercy, pleading and imploring for us not to give her up. It would have meant a jail term. And then she made her suggestion: if she showed us a good time, would we hide her aberration from the Police?
That night changed everything; the cat-and-mouse game got more interesting; the stakes became higher. It became personal. All ten of us lined up to fuck the insatiable deviant and a new game was born. She started coming to the shows simply to screw; if we got to her first, then we would get her and if we didn't she was the had the run of the musicians.
But normally we caught her, and the warm cunt of Maggie became a weekly receptacle for our cum. She's moved on now; she found a session musician to take her to the shires to live out her days making jam and baking cakes, but her depraved legacy in Telford lives on. All the girls expect to dispense sexual favours if they are caught sneaking in to see the latest music craze. They come for group sex; they don't really care which man is on the end of the dick firing cum into them. They'd just rather win the game and beat us.
Like the slutty degenerate Rebecca and scheming, sly Sandy. They were dressed in paramedics uniforms, striding past me when I caught a whiff of Rebecca's distinctive perfume: a mixture of the subtle tones of melon and cheap anti-freeze. "Oi," I cried and a chase ensued. She reached the top of the stairs when I managed to catch her, a few feet away from the changing room of the ageing rocker. She swore at me, as my colleagues joined us: me pinning her onto the stairs. "Take them out the back and fuck them in the alleyway!"
It was more of a statement than a suggestion, but Rebecca and Sandy both groaned and were escorted by my two colleagues to the back door. They'd been here many times before. So had I. I joined the frenzied fucking at midnight, the two girls resting on crates in the smoking shelter. Their show and punishment was winding down. Sandy had the attentions of our barman, kneeling at his feet as her tongue slid over his erect cock, but Rebecca was alone, watching.
"You look lovely tonight. Sure he would have loved you." I offered the words as a consolation and she swore at me; that's frustration and it's not unexpected. Underneath the discarded green outer uniform, she wore just a grey shirt, black bra and black heels, and was not dressed to be in our cold alleyway.
