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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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!

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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!

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enormous cockAs 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.

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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.

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