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After being closed for months, Live House has finally reopened its doors to the music-hungry public, and nobody is more excited than Shaw. He’s not one to betray the carefully cultivated uninterested façade I suspect he works hard to maintain, but nothing makes Shaw as giddy as live music.
Though the concert has yet to start, the floor is already packed with people sporting unwashed hair, combat boots, and safety pins for earrings, and, though I came to the show with Shaw, he’s nowhere to be found. After telling me he knows the guitarist of the headliner this evening, Shaw expressed he’d be right back and slipped away into the crowd.
It’s just like him to leave me in a crowd of strangers, especially a crowd in which I stick out! Granted, I probably should have known I’d look odd at a punk rock concert in a yellow sundress, but why not be myself? Music is for everyone.
For somebody who so adamantly claims networking and first impressions are worthless wastes of time, Shaw puts an awful lot of energy into them at shows. He better be planning his own show right now, because he’s been-
“Thirsty?” I nearly jump out of my skin from the sudden presence of Shaw’s cool tone and whip around to find him offering me a condensation-covered can of soda.
“Thank you.” Shaw nods and watches with mild surprise as I quickly down half the soda. It’s certainly less than chilly on the floor, and even my sleeveless dress is proving to be too much clothing; I don’t know how Shaw can stand to wear a leather jacket!
“You can have beer, if you want. I hear it tastes like horse piss, but it’s still beer.”
“No thanks,” I scoff, then taking another sip of soda as Shaw shrugs indifferently and gestures to the stage.
“Show should be starting soon. The opener is decent,” Shaw half-shouts over the intensifying hum of the crowd. Despite trying to appear casual and unconcerned, the giddiness of anticipation of the concert is cracking through Shaw’s façade; he’s practically glowing, even in the dim lights of the venue.
“You know them?”
“Of course I do. I know the headliner, too, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember.” He shifts his weight from one hip to the other before ultimately shrugging again and shoving his hand in his pocket.
“I’ll take you to meet them.”
“Why, so you can show me off?” I jab, teasingly, relishing in the flash of discomfiture that crosses Shaw’s face in the form of reddened cheeks. Ha!
“You know you look ridiculous, right?” Despite Shaw’s sneering tone, his cheeks retain a light dusting of pink, so I decide to let it go in favor of later teasing, and it doesn’t matter either way, because the lights then go low, and the crowd starts cheering as the opener walks onstage.
The frontwoman addresses the crowd and is met with more raucous cheers and shouts, and after a few well-intentioned reminders regarding the venue’s smoking policy, emergency exits, and proper waste and recycling procedures, the band launches into an earsplitting introductory song.
The opener’s brand of sound proves to be loud, loud, and unbelievably louder; though it’s difficult to hear over the baselines and riffs, the singer’s voice is pleasantly and surprisingly melodic. The sway of her denim-clad hips and the gaze of her teal-rimmed eyes makes us all feel that she’s singing to us, to we the crowd, and to we the fans as individuals; she’s almost hypnotic.
Somehow, all that musical magnetism doesn’t keep Shaw’s mind from wandering, which means his hands start to wander. He stands behind me and puts one hand on my shoulder, innocently enough, but by the start of the second song, that hand has moved down to my chest; I knock back the rest of my soda.
“Enjoying the show?” Shaw asks, idly fondling my breast over my dress, as if we are alone in his living room, not in a large, sweaty crowd of punk rockers. If I’d worn a shirt, he’d probably have slipped his hand under it.
“It’s barely started,” I shout, just loudly enough to be heard over the music, “but yes.” Shaw’s never been one for small talk, so, without another word, Shaw takes my now empty soda can and crushes it in his hand, then gestures to the back of the venue and leaves to recycle it.
The opener launches into their third song, just in time for Shaw to return to his place behind me. This tune is a tad more mellow than the previous ones, but not at all lacking in impressive riffs and wordplay; a few couples in the crowd hold each other and sway minutely. Were the venue not so heavy with sound, I’d swear I hear Shaw purr when he now runs both hands over my chest, even more so when he nips at my ear and chuckles when I shiver against him.
“You like that?”
“Yeah,” I admit hesitantly, annoyed by the warm tingle already running through my body, “but-”
“But?” Shaw chuckles again and moves ones hand down my body, resting it on my ass and giving my breast a caressing squeeze. “Nobody’s watching. Besides, don’t you recognize the song?”
While my gaze darts around the crowd to make sure Shaw is correct (he is), I focus on the music. The song does sound familiar; I must have listened to it recently, and something about the chorus oddly reminds me of Shaw’s deodorant when it starts to lose the battle against his sweat…
“Is this what you played last night? Shaw!” He flat out cackles this time and, as if to emphasize the memory of last night, snakes his hand from my ass to my stomach, then a little lower.
“That’s right, dirty girl,” he croons, then skimming his hand across my chest and teasing me over my dress, “and the music made you feel so good, didn’t it?”
“Shaw!” I shout, somewhat less annoyed and then, against my better judgment, clasping my hands over his, instead of pushing them away. “Yes…” He immediately leans into my touch and squeezes my breast more insistently. His breath ghosts along my neck, and I cannot keep myself from leaning back, even swaying slightly with him. I’m reminded of last night, when Shaw and I laid together, relaxing, clad only in our underwear against the humidity of his AC-less apartment, listening to this or that on his bed, and how we ended up in a sweaty tangle on the floor.
“You were shameless in that lace and already soaked by the first chorus. Then, you got so wiggly during the second chorus,” he muses, as if recounting the plot of a narrative poem, “I thought you might wiggle off my cock.” Shaw palms my sex over the fabric of my sundress and probably purrs again, then continues: “But you didn’t, and you were a sticky mess on my carpet by the end of the song.”
He’s right, and now the opener is almost finished; the warm tingle I felt has converted to hot bolts shooting through my veins, so like the ones I felt last night when Shaw kissed me on the lips during the intro and otherwise at the building of the melody. How does he make me feel this way, even in public?
“Shaw…I, um, I-”
“You wanna see backstage? Might surprise you just how large it is, but I know you’ll like it.”
“Mhmm – ah – backstage,” I manage to stammer, disregarding his crass wordplay, panting lightly in the heat of the venue and at the singe of Shaw’s touch. He chuckles mischievously and bites at my ear, then brings both hands to my chest and presses his “backstage” against my backside.
“I knew you’d want to. Let’s go.”
Shaw takes me by the hand just as the headliner takes the stage and the crowd erupts into raucous cheers and applause. As he leads me through the throng of eager fans, I glimpse the opening band emerge from backstage and meld into the excited crowd, presumably leaving the off-limits area vacant.
I’m starting to think Shaw planned this. Extensively.
The lights are low behind the stage, some are even turned off, and Shaw quickly pulls me to a dimly lit part of the back wall and presses me against it, then claiming my mouth with his own and doing his best to snake a hand under my dress. Even in the low light, his lips find my ear and his fingers find my underwear.
“Shaw,” I half-whisper, given the sheer volume of the headliner’s music, even when heard from this distance, “what if somebody sees us?” He chuckles and now certainly purrs to me as he slides his hand into my underwear, clearly delighted by the already-present slick he finds.
“Nobody’s coming back here. And, so what if they did?” he muses, now rubbing small circles on my clit, “you’re pretty cute, even in that ridiculous dress. I’m sure anyone out there would love to see you naked.”
“Ah, f-ah!” My words fall away as Shaw slides one finger in and I clench on it, losing the battle with my sense of place and proper behavior.
“What do you say, dirty girl? Want a little more than this?” he asks, wiggling his finger for emphasis then stifling a groan at another clench.
“Oh! Yes, just not naked, ah…” Shaw chuckles again and agrees then yanks my underwear down to my ankles. Even though I’m wearing shoes, I manage to step out of them, and no sooner have I done so than Shaw has spun me around and pressed me against the wall, face-forward. I moan as quietly as possible when he slides two fingers in but start to slip when he wiggles and pumps them, searching for that spot that can make me scream. I clamp down helplessly on his fingers, longing for more, waiting for more of him, and whining in the dim light.
Shaw pulls away briefly, presumably just long enough to unbuckle his studded belt and free his cock, then grinds against me, kneading my ass with one hand and stroking my drenched pussy with the other. He’s pushed my dress up my back as far as possible for access, and when he teases my pussy with the tip of his cock and grips my shoulder for purchase, I cannot hold back a needy, pitchy whine.
“So excited,” Shaw hums, his tone wrought with mischief and smug desire, “my dirty girl needs my cock, hmm?”
“Yes! Oh-ah!” Shaw’s grip on my shoulder turns harsh as he slides in, but I barely notice the pain. The band plays on as Shaw bottoms out in me and releases my shoulder, then slapping the wall and balling his hand into a fist beside my head. He groans, hisses some curse word or another, and buries his face in my messy hair, pressing me so tightly against the wall, I have to turn my head to the side to keep from knocking my nose. There isn’t much to look at, simply the darkness of backstage, so I close my eyes and let all the noises and sensations flood my senses.
Shaw thrusts slowly at first, truly as if we are alone and in no rush whatsoever, but when the current song picks up in rhythm, so does he. The slide of his cock pulls moan after moan from my throat, leaving me thirsty and panting by the time the headliner launches into the next song, and when Shaw squeezes a hand between myself and the wall and finds my clit, my moans turn to sharp, breathy gasps.
“Fuck, you feel good,” Shaw growls, now alternating between rubbing my clit and harsh thrusting, “and you get so messy.”
“Ah! Oh, Shaw!” I’m a mess, and I don’t care; Shaw loves it.
“Messy, dirty, s-fuck!” Shaw can’t bite back his own moans now as I clench on his cock harder and his cock pulses in me, building my climax. Just a little more, just another song, a little longer…
Suddenly, the music stops. Fans cheer as the last notes of the set dissipate, and the sound of my own whimpers and cries suddenly becomes very, incredibly, undeniably, noticeably raucous.
Shaw doesn’t seem to care. He, in fact, appears to view the break in the music as some kind of challenge. He pulls out, turns me around, and hoists me up against the wall. Shaw then thrusts back into me with a shameless grunt, so I instinctively lock my legs around his waist, throw my arms around his neck, and prepare to hold on.
“Oh, pretty, filthy girl,” he croons, then pausing to give my neck an intense bite. “You’re so tight and so fucking wet. You like it when I pound your cunt like this?”
“Shaw! The music! Somebody might-oh!” He snickers and thrusts more harshly, in a nearly punishing, yet delicious, manner. A low chatter now fills the dank atmosphere of the venue as fans filter out to look at merchandise and grab a smoke, and, to my absolute horror, I hear the unmistakable sound footsteps drawing closer to us. Shaw and I are in a rather dark area backstage, and stray stacks of speakers and boxes cut the line of sight from multiple perspectives, but the footsteps get closer, closer-
“Oh shit!” It’s the headliner’s drummer. He steps in front of the stacks of equipment and locks eyes with me for a few seconds before immediately looking directly at the ground, then the ceiling. “Oh shit, I’m sorr-”
“Stay if you want to,” Shaw interrupts, smug and teasing as he ever is, “but if you want to see the show next time, you’ll have to buy a ticket.”
That said, the drummer is left completely dumbstruck and frozen in place, so he can’t help but watch as Shaw snaps his hips forward frenziedly, over and over, until he’s pounding into me with such force that I’m screaming. My eyes are rolling back into my head and I’m digging my fingernails into his back before I know it, and I cannot keep myself from whining and calling out Shaw’s name as I rise closer and closer to my climax.
“Oh, you like that, pretty girl?” he coos, relentless in his quest to get me as loud as possible. “You want him to watch you get railed? You want to get off? You want me to fill your cunt until you just can’t hold anymore?”
“Shaw! Ah, hngh!”
“My name sounds perfect coming from your filthy mouth,” he continues, crooning in an unbelievably lewd manner, “you’re my number one fan.”
“Ah! Shaw! Fuck!”
“Your cunt is definitely my cock’s number one fan.”
“Sh-ah!” I catch the drummer shoot me one more dazed look before I can’t take it any longer and throw my head back, clamping my legs around Shaw in a vicegrip and grabbing and twisting his leather jacket in my fists. The humid atmosphere of the venue has left sweat rolling down my face, taking my makeup with it, and I’m dripping in more ways than one when writhe against Shaw and am sent plummeting over the edge with a high-pitched, shriek of a whine.
When I open my eyes again, Shaw has spilled into me, and the drummer has fled the scene. Shaw drops me from his waist and laughs smugly when he sees the combined fluid of our not-so-clandestine liaison run down my leg, all over my silver sandal, and straight to the grimy floor.
“I knew somebody would see us! And now look at this mess!”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. That’s probably the most interesting thing he’s seen in months, and it beats watching porn. Besides, it’s always dirty back here.”
“Shaw!” I hiss in reply, frantically looking around for my underwear; he’s already dressed. “What have you done with my underwear? We’ve gotta scoot before he comes back.” Shaw chuckles again and waves away my assertion, flippantly.
“He won’t come back here, again. And, I don’t know what happened to your panties; this certainly wouldn’t be the first time some girl lost her slutty thong backstage at a rock concert.”
“Shaw! Come on!” In a show of feigned indifference, Shaw shrugs and unties the handkerchief around his wrist. He balls it up and tosses it to me then pretends to intently examine his musician-cut fingernails.
“Fine, we can go. They’ll be starting the next set soon, but I’ve heard the songs already.” Shaw wipes his hands on his thighs and then shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “Is that neighbor of yours home?” I scoff as I dab at my thighs with the handkerchief, which is surprisingly absorbent.
“I have no idea. Why, you wanna disturb some other innocent person’s evening?”
“Yeah. Sounds like fun, and I’m sure I can make you yell, pretty girl.”