Backstage

Her long tobacco-colored tresses clung to her back as she made her way through the dense and confused crowd toward the metal barrier that led to the backstage area.  She forgot to grab the "pass" (really just a home-laminated square hung from a lanyard) from her husband before he went on stage, but she strode confidently to the gate anyway.  The squatty, bald security guard, whose only credentials were a red t-shirt that had the word "Security" printed on the back; it might has well been scribbled in magic marker, was chatting up a chubby, piggish girl crammed into a tube top.  She didn't even bother to break stride to explain.  He paused his gripping banter just long enough to try to exert his bantam authority.
  
      "This area is restricted, Miss," he mustered with feigned license.

      "Oh, I'm with the band," she drily replied.

       "Uh, you are?" he trailed off as she breezed past.

She really hated saying that, it was ridiculously cliche, but casually delivering that line got her where she wanted.  She laughed at how easy it was, how easy it was to take command of situations.  An air of confidence and a disinterested manner was all it took.  It was natural to feel superior, as she was 6'1 in bare feet.  When you tower over the public, ideas like that get reinforced without much effort.
     
She wandered around what was essentially a shipping bay to find the dressing room she and her husband lounged in before the show.  A nondescript man exited the opposite dressing room and assessed her.  She got the split-second feeling he was going to say something she didn't particularly want to hear.

       "Aren't you a tall one, darling.  You look good," he stated with a British accent, as if his gallant appraisal was actually worth a damn to her.

       "Yeah.  Thanks," she apathetically replied with a curt smile. She got comments like this all time, especially from short men, trying to manufacture some kind of masculinity to cover up their deep-seeded feelings of inadequacy.  Analyzing the shit out of them was her only solace from their neurotic parade of remarks.

      "Are you looking for someone?" he asked arrogantly.

      Not you, pal, she thought.  "Actually, I was looking for my husband.  He's right in there." She motioned to the dressing room door.

      "Lucky man," he muttered on his way toward the stage.

She turned toward the door, but she found herself hesitating as her hand grazed the cool, metallic knob.  She didn't quite know why, but something made her breath catch in her throat before swinging open the door.  She snapped out of it and pushed the weighty door open anyway.  The room was icy compared to the blistering heat of the July sun and so many close-quartered bodies.  She spotted the guitarist first, she couldn't recall his name; but she never could recall anyone's name.  He was sitting at a generic looking, faux-woodgrained folding table, surrounded by a dozen or so mismatched chairs from the Nixon administration.  He tilted his head back to swig from a beaded-up bottle of water.  She exhaled.  She pushed the door open further to reveal her husband sitting directly across from her in a vinyl-upholstered attempt at a wing-back chair.

      What a glamorous life, she thought flippantly.  Of course, he would choose that chair from among all the others, her mind continued.  It's the most throne-like in the room.  He did have a mock-regality about his demeanor.  He looked so imposing on his makeshift throne in the corner, presiding over the room.  She admittedly had a love/hate relationship with his egregious ego.  It infuriated her to no end when he acted like a king, but it excited her so when he was her king.  He looked up from his cellphone casually as she entered.  Fuck he was addicted to that thing.

     "Hey baby.  How are you?" he asked, unfolding his 6'5 frame to greet her with a kiss.  "Were you too hot out there?"

     "No, I was fine.  I guess.  It was hot, but I kind of like the heat," she replied.  She still felt strangely.  Maybe it was the heat taking its toll.

     "I could see your skin glistening from the stage.  I like that dress on you; it kept distracting me while I was playing."

    He was referring to the pure white halter dress finished with a blue and white striped bow.  She called it her Marilyn dress because it bore a striking resemblance to one Marilyn Monroe wore in  The Seven Year Itch.  The fabric flowed away just right under her breasts to show off her tall, lean body.  She wore white espadrilles with ribbon lacing around her slender ankles tied with sweet, little bows on either side.  She did feel very sexy in that dress.  It was hard not to.  It let her sexuality radiate from her.

    "I didn't even know you could see me out there," she said honestly.

    "Honey, you are kind of hard to miss." He flashed that million-dollar, boyish smile at her.  "You're a tall, unique woman," something he often said to her.

    "Yeah, I guess you're right," she said almost shyly.

       He made his way back to his distinguished chair.  A few more band members trickled in and made recapping small talk as they cooled down.  She stood idly in the center of the fluorescently lit room with one hand coquettishly placed on her jutting right hip.  Her body language would give her away if anyone paid the slightest attention.  She is becoming increasingly pissed off at her husband's cocky manner.  He's trying to act slick in front of his bandmates, like the big fucking man, trying to get her to gush over his compliments.  But he's really just coming off like a bit of an asshole, so she immediately reverts to a standoffish, aloof disposition.  Looking away from him to focus on the inane conversation taking place at the table; she throws out a few well-placed quips to further take command of the room.  The laughs further her haughty behavior. Her husband picks up on the subtle shift and imperiously tries to regain control over his kingdom.

      "Do you want to come sit on Santa's lap and tell him what you want for Christmas?" he delivers pompously, while patting his knee.

      This simultaneously enrages her and excites her; part of her want to punch him across his self-important face and part of her wants to do exactly what he dictates. But pride and decorum win out and she flashes her middle finger and gives him a murderous look instead.

 He either must have saw through her or simply didn't care because he asked again, undeterred, "Are you sure you don't want to sit on my lap and tell me what you want for Christmas?"

      The cavalier tone of his deep, baritone voice sends a shiver down her spine which culminates somewhere in her increasingly moistening panties.   No one else in the room seems to notice, or at least they politely pretend not to.  This wasn't exactly backstage at the L.A.Forum after a Guns N' Roses concert.  It was a thrown-together afterthought, at an adult contemporary blues festival, with the only amenities being a plastic tub with some scattered water and apple juice tossed in it and air conditioning.

     She contemplated for a second on her next move.  She could continue her feigned indifference or she could do what she vehemently desired deep inside, which was to stride over to him and curl up on her big man's lap.  Her long, slender legs made the decision for her.  She advanced to her husband's awaiting arms.  She turned slightly to position herself on his right knee, facing outward, away from the group, with her crossed legs in between his.  He wrapped his lanky arms around her waist as she settled into his lap and she felt that tingle course through her again.  He kissed her sweetly on her pouty lips.  She leaned in to rest her head on his broad shoulder.  His shirt was drenched in sweat and sticking to him at every available point.  His strong, masculine scent invaded her airspace.  She breathed it in deeply; it drove her wild.  She compulsively kissed his neck, then withdrew upon realization.  He looked up at her with his oceanic eyes in both color and depth.  She subconsciously began to rock back and forth almost imperceptibly as he proceeded to kiss her passionately and deeply this time.  She was beginning to forget where she was; being fully enveloped in the moment.  He alone had the power to do that to her.  He didn't seem to mind the other guys in the room either, as his hands began to grip around her narrow waist tighter and tighter; almost to the point of pain.  God, she was getting aroused. 

     The guitarist she first spotted, sensing some tension, makes an excuse to leave the room, and soon the others, thankfully follow suit and wander out.  She found herself starting to grind against his rapidly lengthening bulge, more obviously now; their bodies moving in perfect dynamic rhythm.  They begin to kiss more intensely now, with more abandon as the room has cleared out.  His large hands make their way to her tits.  He grabs one in each hand, squeezing them together, forcibly.  His thumb and forefinger begin to find her hardening nipple on her left breast.  He pinches it roughly through the cotton, the way he knows she likes.  She is so hot at this public foreplay, but she knows it can only go so far.  He's not really one for such voyeuristic or dangerous scenarios, like she can be.  But she deeply appreciates the effort.  She figures he will stop any moment, upon sobering up from the intoxication of love and the heat madness, but instead he slides his strong hand from her nipple, down her stomach to the hem of her dress.  He slips his hand underneath the fabric onto her soaking wet, white cotton panties below.

     "Mmm, you're so wet for me.  I love it.  You have the juiciest pussy," he whispers in her titillated ear.

      This makes her even hotter as he licks her elongated neck and earlobe to which she grinds even faster to the rhythm of his fingers on her panty-covered clit.  He loops his forefinger around the drenched panties and deftly pulls them to the side.  She is wild with desire.  Her dress is still covering her, so the danger is minimal.  Her husband sensing this, hikes up the skirt, exposing her shaved pussy.  She instinctively tightens her thighs around his exploring hand.

   "Spread your legs wide for me," he commands, as he tries to push her knees apart.

     She resists as much as she can.

    "Spread your legs open for me, or I'll stop..."

    "But what if someone comes in?" she asks only half worriedly, resisting futilely.

    "Then they're going to see how wet I get my wife's pussy," he replied smoothly, as he continued to rub her clit with his fore and middle fingers in a soft, circular motion.

     God, he was driving her crazy; he's never been that dominant before. She longed for it more than anything.  She wanted him to take control, command her to do whatever he wanted, do what no other man could do to her.  She wanted to worship his cock; do nothing but pleasure him.  It was against her every waking and latent feminist notion, but that's what her uninhibited, raw, sexual id begged for.  They kissed fiercely, their tongues wound around one another.  She rode his hand and his yet to be unearthed cock, simultaneously with the pulsing of her hips and ass.  His hand that had been groping her breast, quickly found the bow at the back of her neck and adroitly pulled on the the ribbons to release the halter.  She could feel her face blush with bashfulness and a hint of voyeuristic indulgence.

      "What are you doing?" she breathed feebly.

      "I want to taste your nipples and I certainly can't do it with your dress covering up those sweet titties," he answered with calm logic.

     She attempted to protest, but let him peel back the material covering her perked breasts.  His tongue lingered and flicked at her left nipple, while his fingers were back tugging hard on her right.  She writhed in pleasure. He took her nipple into his mouth and sucked and swirled his tongue against the erect surface.  There she was, completely exposed save for the crumpled white dress gathered around her waist.

     Her hand was stroking his granite dick through his conservative black pants.  She let her fingers just glide over the outline.  She dragged her nails delicately and deliberately across the fabric.  He moaned gutturally in her ear.  She loved to hear him in the throes of delectation. She couldn't wait any longer, she unfastened his belt only to reveal a further obstacle in her decadent path; the button on his pants couldn't come undone fast enough.  She unbuttoned it as fervently as she could while still riding her husband's hand furiously.  She tore down the zipper with hedonistic anticipation.  She reached into his boxers to release his monstercock from its textile prison.  It sprang up at full attention like the royalty it was.  Massive and august, but smooth and refined.  She wanted to kiss its length, lick it, cradle it in her delicate hands for hours; never wanting to be away from his imperial monolith.   But he slid her panties out from under her ass, down her porcelain thighs, just past her trembling knees.

        He wanted to fuck her, for then he mouthed into the scintillated nape of her stately neck, "I can't wait to feel that tight, wet pussy wrapped around my big cock."

       The hand that was playing with her clit so wickedly, moved to the base of his cock to guide it into his wife's covetous pussy.  God, this was insane, here in this harshly-lit, makeshift dressing room with an unlocked door and plenty of passersby shuffling about behind it, able to waltz in at any given time.  He teased her with the head of his concrete cock, spanking it against her clit and sliding it the length of her pussy.

     "But what if someone see us, Chris?"

     "That's what you wanted isn't it?  The thrill of getting caught.  Isn't that why you're cunt is dripping wet right now?"  he posited boldly.

     He positioned his cock at her aperture.  She knew he was at least partly right.  The thrill of getting caught was exciting, but not as exciting as the thought of others stumbling upon the physical manifestation of their profound love.  It was her most sacred acquisition and she childishly wanted to show it off like a beautiful scalloped shell found amidst the lapping waves some warm, summer afternoon.  She lost what little self-control that weakly remained and slid down onto his shaft the rest of the way.  She bounced up and down furiously with her hips, relishing the sound her ass made as it slapped against his sweat-drenched thigh.  He rhythmically thrust into her, slow and rough, to send fiery currents of electricity surging through her quaking body, straight down to her toes.

     "Mmm," she purred.  "Your cock feels so amazing.  I just want to fuck forever."

     "That's it, honey.  Ride my fucking cock just like that.  Uhh.  Yeah.  Like a good fucking wife."

     "Oh my God! You're going to make me fucking come," she screamed.

     "Oh yeah, baby.  Fucking come for me.  I want you to come all over my cock."

     She was panting now with wanton lust.  Her concentrated orgasm was building irrepressibly.  She moaned and purred.

     "Fuck your dick feels so fucking good.  You're so deep in me," she yelped as she could barely breathe.  Her body was on fire with sybaritic voltage.

     He kept drilling her with forceful, deliberate strokes, to build her orgasm up at an agonizingly slow speed.  He could feel her pussy tightening even further around his cock; he knew she was on the verge of climax.

     Just then, the door swung open and the band's drummer, an older gray-haired man, walked in, not noticing for a split-second.  Her mind realized someone had walked in, but her body refused to stop.  Her head was reeling.

     "Oh my God! I'm so sorry," he stammered.  "I didn't realize anyone was still in here.  Oh Jesus.  I'm sorry.  I just forgot my drumsticks, " he blathered on, tripping over a chair as he stumbled toward where the drumsticks lay on the table.

      She felt a flush of embarrassment wash over her, but she was so fucking close to coming.  Her body took over again.  She threw her head back and closed her obsidian-painted eyes, while she continued to ride her husband's rigid cock.  The man tried to politely avert his eyes, but her moaning had commenced and he couldn't help but sneak a glance.  His mixture of arousal and self-consciousness was too much to contain.  He lingered at the door for a minute, drinking in the tableau before him.  Her husband rousing from his own ecstasy spotted the drummer stalling at the exit.

    "Look what you did, honey.  You got George all disconcerted watching you ride me.  Hey, George.  You can look, but you can't touch.  This is my wife, and she is all mine.  Isn't that right, baby?"

     "Ohh, fuck yeah," she moaned.  "I'm all yours, Chris. No one else's"  God, she was fucking close.

With that George reluctantly left shaking his head in disbelief and rubbing the growing bulge in his Dockers.    
   
    "That's a good girl, Cesca.  Sit on that cock like a good wife.  Are you going to come for me, baby?"

    "Oh, fuck yes."

     "Good, baby.  Come for me."

     "Fuck, baby.  I'm so close.  Can I come now?  Please can I come now, baby?"

     "Oh yes, baby.  Come for me.  I want you to come for me.  Come all over my cock."

      With that she couldn't take anymore.  She had withstood all she could.  Her thighs burned as she bounced fervently up and down the length of his shaft.

     "Fuck, I'm going to come," she choked out.

     "Fucking come, baby."

      She writhed and tensed as her whole body melted into orgasm.  She screamed and moaned as the orgasm fully washed over her.  As she came, her husband picked up the speed of his thrusts.  She knew he couldn't hold out any longer either.

      "Oh baby, I'm coming," he panted. He growled and grunted.  His cock tensing up as he shot his hot come deep inside her voracious pussy.  She loved it when they came together.  His cock would hit her G-spot perfectly when his ossified dick discharged.  It extended her orgasm even longer.  They slowed down their grinding, he every few seconds thrusting powerfully just to wring every ounce of orgasm out of her.

     "Fuck!" she exclaimed exhausted and wholly satisfied.

    "I know, baby.  That was fucking amazing.  You were so excited."

     They just lay there, collapsed into one another upon their vinyl throne; just then realizing the sweat that had pooled atop their skin.  She never wanted to move.  She wanted to live in the afterglow forever.  His now softening cock still inside her, making her cunt pulsate spasmodically around it.  After a few minutes of complete blissfulness, he shifted in his throne to signify that they should get dressed.  She reluctantly raised her hips to let his beautiful cock slip out of her soaked pussy.  God, she wanted more.  She was growing insatiable.

     "We better get going, Cesca."

     She didn't want the experience to end, but she wanted only to please him.

     "Can I at least clean your cock before we go, baby?" she asked with pleading eyes.

      A look of inspired surprise flashed across his face.  "Of course you can, honey; if that's what will make you happy."

      She slithered down his thighs and kneeled in front of him.  She would get to worship his cock yet, she thought excitedly.  She gingerly took his super-sensitive cock in her soft hands.  She began kissing it at the base of his shaft, working her way up to the head, gently, lovingly, like only a wife could do.  She lapped at his cock sweetly. She slowly and delicately sucked the head into her mouth.  She loved to have his cock in her mouth.  The taste of their tangled essences sent more electricity through her already overworked limbic system.  She loved the taste of his come.  She loved his big cock, she loved fucking him.  She fucking loved him.

    "Cesca, baby, you're the absolute best wife a man could ask for," he said as he gently stroked her thick, chestnut hair.  "I love you so much."

     God, she was overwhelmed with emotion.  The distant ideas of love and lust finally coming together for her in one man.

    "I love you more than anything, Chris," she purred as she planted a few last kisses on his well-attended cock.

     He pulled her to her feet as he stood and lovingly dressed her.  He wrapped his strong arms around her as she leaned down to nuzzle her face in his perfectly masculine chest; her arms wrapped around his muscular back in an amorous embrace.  And they vowed never to let each other go.