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Grasping a handful of my hair, she pushes my face into her left breast. I pull most of her tit into my mouth, rolling her nipple around on my tongue. Her moan is lost in the crowd noise, but I feel it through my mouth. Moving carefully so as not to dislodge my sucking lips, the brunette squats down upon my lap. Slowly, she impales herself upon my throbbing cock. As she eases herself down, I can no longer reach her tits with my mouth. I cup her right breast in my left hand while my right arm circles her waist. With a flex of my thighs, I thrust my prod into her to the hilt. The grip of her silken pussy upon my cock is sheerest bliss.

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I pull her up from the floor and our mouths meet in a lingering kiss. I can taste my jism mingling with the sweetness of her mouth. It only serves to turn me on further. Her cool fingers encircle my still ridged member and, using it as a handle, she pulls me down into a kneeling position once more. This time, though, she is down here with me. She pushes my back until I am sitting on my heels. As I watch in the dim light which filters between the people of the crowd, she releases my cock and grabs the neckline of her dress. With a jerk, she tears the neck apart. With another, the front of her dress splits down to her navel. She pulls the flaps of fabric away from her lovely breasts. They are creamy smooth and no larger than baseballs. Her breasts stand out proudly from her chest with puckered, pink nipples screaming for attention.

She begins to slowly move her head up and down the length of
my cock, never releasing the suction she has built. I can see
her cheeks dimpling with the suction of her mouth. She begins to
bob and weave, rolling the head around with her tongue at the top
of every stroke.
Faster and faster, she pulls me in and releases me.
I’m soon gritting my teeth. The fabulous sensation of her
mouth and throat upon my cock is driving me crazy. I can feel
that old, familiar pressure beginning to build in my balls.

The lovely woman grips my finger with her vaginal
muscles while she wiggles her ass. Soon, my prick is firmly
entrenched between the lovely, round lobes of her ass. It is
quite happy to be there. Her head falls back onto my right
shoulder; mouth open, eyes closed.
I begin to slide my finger in and out of her wet snatch, my
thumb rubbing her joy-button, the fingers of my left hand rolling
and pinching her nipple. I nibble her earlobe and watch her lick
her lips.
She begins to thrust her pelvis, in time with my probing
finger. Her thrusts are doing wonderful things to my cock,
wedged as it is between her buttocks. She moans and turns her
face to bring her mouth to mine. We kiss as hungrily as we can
at this awkward angle.

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I hear air sucking through her teeth. She releases my cock, bringing both of her hands around to press mine more firmly against her pussy. I pull her back into me. My dick slides up under the hem of her dress. For a moment, it's 50-50 as to whether my prick will slide down and forward between her legs, or back and up against her ass. The moment passes and the latter wins out. I feel my cock slip along the cleft of her ass as the middle finger of my right hand slides up to the second knuckle into her slippery vagina.

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From onstage a slow, rhythmic beat - reminiscent of movie- style indian tom-toms - begins. Soon, it is joined by the moaning of a guitar. Anderson sings: "I see a dark sail/On the horizon..." The brunette's hand has moved to the head of my cock, feeling the mushroom shape, spreading the bead of my own moisture around. Her hand slides back to cup my balls and give a gentle squeeze. My face is buried in her neck. I moan softly as she begins slowly stroking me. My hand is kneeding the inside of her thigh as it moves lingeringly toward the meeting of her legs. My loving companion widens her stance to allow me easier access. I feel the heat of her pussy against the back of my thumb. My other hand continues to caress her left breast - stroking, rubbing, rolling the nipple like a marble...

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Introductions over, Ian says, "This is the title cut off our latest album." The crowd goes nuts. I can barely hear him as he says, "Broadsword!" The stage lights die. The lady with my dick in her hand uses her free hand to guide one of mine to her left breast. She then pushes my other hand down, down past the hem of her T-shirt dress to the warm, silky smoothness of her inner thigh.

Suddenly, the lady drops to her feet and twists around in my arms, once again facing the stage. Ian is gazing out at the audience. He starts to introduce the band - drummer, bass, new lead guitar, etc. - all the while twirling his flute like a baton. My companion, while looking up at the stage, is reaching around to the front of my jeans. With deft movements she unbuttons the top and pulls the zipper open. My engorged prick fairly leaps into her waiting hand. She feels the heft of my eight-inch cock, wrapping her slim fingers around, measuring its girth.

Her gasp perfectly coincides with the last beat of the song. She whirls around and stares at me with a look of mock- indignation. Her misty gray eyes sparkle mischievously and her half-smile replaces the pettish pout. Slipping her arms around my neck, she lifts herself off the floor and presses her lips roughly against mine. The brunette's pelvis grinds against mine as our tongues slip and slide upon each other. Her breathing has become quite rapid - my own is none to steady!

My mouth works its way - kissing, licking, nibbling - gradually from the outside of her shoulder, up her neck to her ear. As my hands are lifting and kneading her tits, my tongue is darting into her ear. She continues to press her lovely ass into my cock as I, pausing for a bit to nibble on the lobe of her ear, work my way down to where her shoulder meets her neck. All the while I've been enjoying the taste and feel of her neck and breasts (respectively), I've been paying careful attention to the song. When the song comes to its sudden end, I pinch her nipples and bite her neck - not TOO hard, mind you, but hard enough for her to know I'm still here!

As her hips start moving in time with the drums, she takes my hands from their resting place at her waist and slides them up her wonderfully smooth torso to the mounds of her breasts. She then reaches one hand over my head, grabs a handful of my hair, and pulls my face into the curve of her neck. Her other hand is caressing the back of one of mine as I stroke her breasts with my palms, brushing her nipples with the balls of my fingers.

As I slide my hands around her waist, she turns in my arms. The spotlights come up on stage as she loops her arms around my neck and drags my face down to hers. My lips find her mouth open. Her tongue like a hot, wet, fleshy spear drives into my mouth before my mind has time to catch up! Her firm, toned body melts against me as our tongues start to dance. Though my eyes are probably wide with surprise, the vision centers of my brain are closed for business. The other sensations easily override any sights my eyes are trying to bring me. The warm, sweet smell of her. The sound of my moan drowning out her smaller one. The hot, wet, clean taste of her mouth grinding hungrily against mine. I feel her hardened nipples pressing through her dress and my T-shirt into my chest. The feel of her smooth belly pressing firmly against my crotch. The play of her back muscles beneath my fingers. Who the hell needs eyes?!

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We wait for about half an hour as the stage is reset for Jethro Tull. The tension of anticipation is like a physical thing filling the arena; I feel as if I could float on it. Then the house lights dim, and the tension boils away in the roar of the crowd. The arena is black as pitch, and the crowd has settled into its final configuration, when the first notes of the piano intro to "Locomotive Breath" push their way through the crowd noise. A few of us recognize the song from the first few notes and cry out in joy and appreciation. Others don't realize what they are listening to until the first whining guitar riffs have faded into reverberating feedback. Then the stage is ablaze with light as the lead guitar is banging out the opening bar of the song proper. Ian Anderson is dancing around the stage, twirling his silver flute as if it were a baton. The drums and bass are hammering out the beat as the rhythm guitar is doing that rhythm thing.

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I've never heard the band before. Probably a local hired to warm up the crowd for Tull. They're good at it - warming the crowd up, that is - but I don't think they'll make it on their own. The crowd is getting into it. The energy that bands live on - in their symbiotic way - starts flowing. People are pumping their fists into the air - the air which is rapidly getting thicker with the smell of hashish as the pipes are passed around. The folks are getting fired up! Surveying the people around me, my eyes come to a screeching halt on a small cluster of ladies who are definitely getting into the rhythm of the thing. They're dancing and screaming and bouncing around as if it were the last night of their lives. One of the gals - a sweet lady with waist-length, chestnut tresses in a yellow, knit mini-dress - is also surveying the crowd. Our eyes meet. Hers are the gray of early-morning fog on the Rhine. I smile. She returns a knowing half-smile that sends a shiver up my spine, before turning back to the band on stage. The warm-up band finishes its sixth set with a flourish and runs off stage. The spots die and are replaced by the house lights as the curtains are closed for the intermission. The canned music begins to play. Once again, the crowd shifts as parts head for the restrooms to unburden themselves of the beer, wine, and soda consumed before (and during) the warm-up act. More beverages are bought, along with albums, posters, T-shirts, and popcorn. Only the most brazen are firing up their bowls with the house lights up. I look around for the clump of women I noted earlier, but they have faded into the mob. Probably in line for the restroom, think I, as I turn back to the stage. The roadies can be heard moving equipment around on the stage. An occasional glimpse of a roadie with a guitar or an amp can be seen through the small gap in the curtain.

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I'm in the standing-room-only crowd on the floor at the Jethro Tull concert in Frankfurt, West Germany, April 27, 1982. The crowd is constantly shifting; a single organism trying to make itself comfortable on the concrete floor of the arena. The air is thick with the smells of beer, wine, and smoke (cigars, cigarettes, pipe tobacco, and hash). Voices of the hawkers can be made out above the noise of the crowd advertising (in German and English) their wine, beer, posters, and T-shirts. Canned music is piped in over speakers in the rafters. The roadies are playing games with the crowd while doing the sound system checks. Frisbees and funny little glowing things fly at random through the air. I'm standing at the center of the stage, about 30 feet back into the crowd. After the concert my ears will be ringing for three days. I can live with that... The lights begin to dim and the crowd settles down as the drummer for the warm-up band sets the beat on his high-hat. The curtains open, the spots blaze to life, and the crowd goes nuts as the warm-up band hits the stage with a hard-driving rhythm and screaming guitars.