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.