The dark room with black painted walls was overcrowded and poorly lit. Random colors of all wavelengths and intensities painted the stage at crazy angles. Calm ambient jazzy music burned slowly.
Five guys wearing unremarkable baggy t-shirts stood on the stage, tickling their instruments calmly, two hundred or so audience members talking loudly and drinking out of cheap dixie cups. Suddenly, a guy on center stage wearing a wifebeater started bouncing like a twelve-foot-tall bunny on his toes and started screaming. Just as fast as he sprung into action, the band kicked in and collectively sounded like they were taking a hedge trimmer to a violin.
"TELEVISION..."
The audience started bouncing off each other like molecules in a volatile chemical reaction, and within seconds a hole formed in the center, like an angry eye of a tornado. People swirled around it, some got stuck in the vortex and got bruised making the passage, but they all obviously loved it with an animalistic passion. Temperature of the room rose fast and Carla stood back, protecting her $9 Long Island Iced Tea. The singer was spinning in manic circles from jump to jump.
"...THE MEANS OF WORLDWIDE INFECTION..."
It wasn't 1.6 million people in a Moscow airfield, but they made up for those numbers in fervor. Carla slowly backed up toward a wall, where lesser energy levels ensured she could finish her drink. She smiled at the wildness of the event. In an another time, these people could have easily been mistaken for Ostrogoths sacking a city. But right now, they too were musical instruments of a sort, enhancing the experience. It wasn't her sort of thing, but she smiled at their participation. It made her feel alive.
"You having fun?" her date wishfully yelled in her ear.
"Yeah!" Carla tried screaming back, unsure of how she actually felt.
"...A GESTURE OF ILLICIT EXCURSIONS..."
They watched for awhile and Carla danced to it best she could, nodded to it more like, wondering about her boyfriend's obsession with the band. Her auburn hair glowed in the local light. She didn't mind the genre, whatever it was, but the experience was taxing for the expense; she spent nearly her entire paycheck for this night for the two of them. She dressed up slutty for the concert, short black skirt with a mesh top and thigh highs. She wished she had a garter belt, because the tight elastic bands were cutting into her legs. Minutes later, he told her he had to go use the bathroom.
"I'll come with you," she yelled, or hope she was heard yelling.
The club bathrooms were unisex with long lines and they waited patiently. When a stall opened, she slipped inside it along with him and he gave her a funny look. She grinned and pushed his back toward the toilet. He hesitated, looking at her. Finally, he shrugged and pissed in it. It was the first time they'd been this intimate. As he finished shaking, Carla got down on her knees and tried to put his limp cock in her mouth.
"Heyyy," he started saying because he'd just pissed, but realized she didn't care.
Carla didn't. This was an intimate moment, she was intoxicated and dressed like a teenage whore just for him, and a few drops of urine weren't going to make a difference in her decision making. She put his limp cock in her mouth and started blowing him as earnestly as she could, warming it up. Pleasing him here felt wild and she got undeniably positive feedback for doing such a good job. She stared at his eyes as she was sucking him, feeding off of his smile. Within a minute, they heard banging on the stall door and the banging got more intense and more frequent minute after minute so they had to stop, despite her protests. It was so juvenile. And fun.
On the group drive back home they stopped by another dude's apartment and wound down over snifters of cognac, listening to mopey songs. Some guys were smoking Chronic on the back deck. Barry, the homeowner, unapologetically stared at Carla and her visible thigh high tops and was sorely disappointed to learn she was both taken and faithful, in reverse order. Lights dimmed and music changed somewhat, experimentally, jumping into funk land. The boyfriend had blue balls and Barry greedily watched her get groped through her fishnet top. She didn't mind.
The after-party fizzed out slowly. Eventually they got driven to her boyfriend's home and passed out naked together in his bed. She was so grateful to take off those constricting thigh highs.
In the morning she was woken up by a quiet noise, a vibration, a shuffling. Sheet rubbing sounds. Seconds later she started recognizing the patterns and realized her boyfriend was jerking off under the sheets. Without signaling having been woken up, she simply reached back and grabbed his cock and guided it toward her pussy. Surprised, he fumbled but stuck it in, providing his own ample lubrication at first. He came within minutes and was amazed she didn't complain about any of it.
After a nap, he started bumping into her again from behind and she helped him, groggily. Carla turned around and they kissed, her neck twisted uncomfortably. But this was so hot, that was alright. This time the fucking was more intense, more intended, more ignited. She was being driven crazy by his need, her very fetish of pleasing her man driving her lust. She put on the constricting thigh highs for him when he asked and the intricate mesh top, lingerie always got him more excited. When he got close, he talked dirty, which she liked.
"Would you ever fuck an older guy for me?" he whispered in her ear.
Carla was startled and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't form a look on her face to show otherwise. Alarmed, she blurted out, "Like how old?" because this weird thing came out of the blue, and she didn't know where it was coming from. Like few years older? Five? Ten? An uncle? Grandpa old? She was so close to cumming. He evaded the answer, shrugging not knowing a ballpark age, but, it was so obvious he had someone particular picked out for his indiscreet question. He didn't answer, just kissed her while they fucked. Carla came twice when he finally shot a load on her stomach.
The question came up again weeks later, under similar circumstances. He only brought up dirty things while they were fucking, which Carla thought annoying. It was so obvious that he was angling for something very specific and it was so frustrating how evasive he was about it. "Baby, I'm trying to work with you here," she pleaded with him. She was open-minded. If only he'd bring it up out in the open, she'd be open to all sorts of things, but it took some serious leveling first and he didn't talk. That's all she asked for. Finally, Carla just vaguely agreed to it, thinking he'd finally open up.
"Yeah."
That loose one-word agreement got him so excited to where she was genuinely concerned about how much hornier it made him, like scary eyes horny. Normally, he couldn't keep up with her needs, and here he was ultra-hard, reaming her, making her pussy froth. She just stared in his eyes while he tugged her nipple ring, bewildered and watched herself get fucked. How much older, she worried? And why? He kept asking fucked up questions.
"Would you lick his balls?"
"How deep would you suck it?"
"Would you swallow his cum?"
"Would you let him cum on your face?"
