Group Sex Lusty Lynn - Sexy Biker Nurse

It was one of those shifts that was long and arduous, all participants happy when it was at an end. On the third floor of the "Helping Hands" Memorial Hospital, Nurse Lynn Goodrhyde was finishing up with the shift change and checking her messages. With nothing pressing appearing on her phone's screen, she gave her associate Nancy a pat on the shoulder saying,

"It's all yours hun, hope the old guy in room three seventeen is not too damned cranky for you."

"I can handle him sweetie," Nurse Gardener replied, "you just have to handle a fellow like that with just the right... delicate touch."

Nancy raised and lowered her eyebrows a couple of times and ran a tongue across her lips while making a slight jerking motion with her thumb and forefinger. There was a pregnant pause. Lynn's face registered a bit of horrified disgust.

"Ewwwwww ...he is eighty-three years old!"

She shuddered at Nancy's implication; seizing up her motorcycle helmet and gym bag as Nancy laughed at her own joke. Nancy gave her a friendly wave and Lynn responded in kind with a little fingery "see you later" wave of her own like she was back in kindergarten. A second later and she was headed down the hall and out the door. A quick change from scrubs into riding apparel later and she was out the door to the parking garage.

Two minutes later and a Jet Black Harley Davidson Night Train roared to life; leaving the garage with its characteristic Milwaukee vibrator, DIGGUH! DIGGUH! DIGGUH! DIGGUH! sound echoing against the building. Ignoring the posted 15 MPH speed limit sign, Nurse Lynn made her exit out of work in a style fitting a woman atop a fine piece of machinery who wasn't concerned with conventional rules when off the clock. She sped down the hospital drive and seeing the lights in her favor, she just gunned it; leaving only swirling wind and a jarring BBRRRAAAAPPPPPPP THUGGAH! THUGGAH! THUGGAH! behind her. The day was definitely over and what was even better; she had the next two days off!

She weaved in and out of the traffic on the straight away; expertly handling her machine and compensating for its wide tires as she stitched her between cars and semis. Making one green light after another, she made good time to her entrance for the highway home. It was all working her way. The traffic ahead was sparse. PERFECT! She gunned it up the on ramp and headed west.

Two miles down the highway was her favorite part of the home commute, THE FUCKING TUNNEL! It was just the thing she needed after a long shift...a chance to blast through that hole in the hill ahead; the tunnel lights and dotted lines racing past her as those after-market side-pipes reverberated with deafening thunder against the tile walls. Without fail the experience make Lynn's clit absolutely tingle through her riding leathers. Some girls had their time in the tub with a glass of wine, some had smutty paperbacks in a lounge chair by the poolside; Lusty Lynn - the sexy biker nurse had the fucking tunnel.

Her pretty black-gloved hand cracked the throttle as she gritted her teeth and wrinkled a tiny button nose behind her visor. She "opened her up," and felt the bike lurch forward as she leaned into it. There was nothing in her way, no trucks vans or cars, just gaping tunnel... a hole needing to be fucked hard by speed and noise. Luckily,Lynn was JUST the lady to fuck it!

She rocketed ahead, letting the angry BAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH! of her engine vibrate inside her skull. The road became a slipstream blur beneath her, white dotted lines becoming less and less distinct until they became painted strobes flashing at the edge of her periphery. The straight away of the highway ran forward to the hill; hillside at the edge resembling parted tanned thighs, the hill itself a round feminine tummy and the tunnel opening; a great yawning gash. Oddly enough, bushes landscaped by the Arizona Highway Authority draped down from the slopes above and gave the entrance just the correct amount of anatomical correctness Lynn observed. Lynn giggled at a naughty little thought in her head and licking her lips whispered beneath her visor to the hill,

"Take it bitch!"

She plunged into the hillside, brilliant afternoon sun being replaced by the dimness of the tunnel's slightly claustrophobic squeeze. It was an illusion. She'd had the same amount of room to either side as she'd had before on the highway, but now up inside the hill's cunt (aided only by her front headlamp, the tunnel lights and the road reflectors), she knew her sense of sight and perception was changed.

The increase in velocity combined with the dim twilight meant her peripheral cues were deprived and starved, (much like the uncertainty of a blindfold placed over eyes prior to a fuck from a total stranger). It made her heart rush with fear and apprehension... in a dangerously nice way! She resisted the urge to slow down, leaving that throttle right where it was; relishing the thunderous cacophony of her pipes against walls moving too fast now for her to perceive properly.

The straightness of the tunnel gave way to a curve. She loved curves of all types and varieties; be it road, cloud, ass, tit, or cock. Any fool could make a straight line but it took a higher power to make a curve, and it took a naughty girl such as herself to appreciate it and ride it!

She leaned into the gradual right turn, white lines continuing to fly past. The curve reversed left and she tilted the bike over the opposite way accordingly. A red security phone shot past her right side. She knew there would be more straightaway ... more straightaway and ... THE DROP.

At three hundred yards from the start of this straight portion, engineers had set a distinctive slant to the tunnel at a shallow angle, (ostensibly to aid in drainage and runoff). It was appropriately marked well ahead of the descent, showing an incline road-sign to adequately warn motorists. To Lynn however, it could mean but one thing; FUN AHEAD!

At the end of the curve left, she cut inside an SUV and then changed lanes around a way -too-slow delivery van without slowing. She was now in the straightaway and saw the "Descent Ahead" warning-sign as it flashed past on the ceiling high above. This was the part she loved; that bit of heart skipping terror that made her nipples hard as ball bearings beneath her riding jacket and sent a corkscrew sensation up her spine.

She was there quickly, the road ahead and tunnel sloping away. It was now time for the sensation she craved as she forced her eyes to remain open bit her lip. The wheels became light, Lynn became light. Rider and wheeled machine were momentarily transformed into an imaginary fighter jet roaring from a runway.

It never failed to provide her with a huge mind-blowing rush, that gravity defying lift. The only other lift providing her with more rush came from a standing male impaling her on his dong like a coat on a hook; her feet well off the floor while two powerful arms held her fast beneath her heart shaped hiney as easily as if she'd been a teacup. This would do for now; she could get that later perhaps.

A second and a half later gravity did its work, (it always did dammit)! She returned to the road with a KA-THUD, (her softail absorbing the shock, - along with her heat-shaped tushy and spine). The impact always was always a little rough on her rump, but hey... if a girl could find a man to slam her rear-end like that she reasoned; she'd do well to marry him and never leave home again!

She kept the bike going straight. Riding between the lanes and allowing the road reflectors on the white lines to fuck her with a steady dubbah dubbah dubbah against her tires. She was bad and she knew it as she smiled at her own badness.

Shooting out of the tunnel she saw her turnoff a mile and a half later. Good! The traffic was finally picking up. As the downward swoop of the hill became flat she moved to the exit lane.

She left the highway and pulled into her neighborhood. It was now time for the domesticated ride home so as not to endanger families and piss off too many home owners. Ten minutes and three stop-signs later and she was in her driveway; shutting down her bike.

Now came the ritual she repeated every day without really knowing she did so; the whipping off of the helmet that was straight out of a 1970s cigarette commercial. A pretty head, a blonde head, a head that made other heads turn shook yellow locks free and scanned the yard. Lynn Goodrhyde, the sexy biker nurse had survived another commute. Now her only task was to pause for minute and look at the desert flowers in her front rock garden, (which strove to compete with her daily as to see who was prettier).

Oh and pretty she for damned sure was! At five foot five the skinny blonde sported golden bangs that drooped lazily over her left eye. The eyes themselves were lovely blue and never left the house without mascara. That pair of blue pools were set in a face possessing exquisitely high cheekbones and the same button nose mentioned earlier. A pair of pouty kissable lips smiled above a kew-pie doll chin.

Her skinny proportions and porcelain features might have made any casual on-looker think that Dru-barrymore and the 1960's model, Twiggy had somehow defied known biological science; conceiving Lynn in the form of a love child. She had an aura that screamed sensuality, it oozed charisma, hinted at badass, and was confidently desirable. It's my considered opinion; those flowers fought a losing battle each day to "out-gorgeous" the lovely Lynn Goodrhyde. They simply didn't have a fucking chance!

She unzipped the front of her leather riding jacket to reveal a simply white wife-beater t-shirt below; allowing her small pert 34B tits to breathe. She was no milkmaid perhaps, but "her itty bitty gals" as she called them, could rock any dress or skirt no matter how skimpy (and with a panache and grace that would be the envy of any model in Milan). A pair of gumdrop nipples poked against the cotton tee, itching sooooo terribly after being delightfully agitated on the commute home.

She started up the sandstone walk to the house when she was presently interrupted by a drop of moisture... or was it a drip? She'd felt what amounted to a wicked little wet trickle suddenly "down below." Funny, it was warm out but she hadn't been that hot on the rid home had she? She unsnapped the leather pants hugging her ass. Wiggling a finger around down beneath her red panties (trimmed with a bit of black lace) she located that little bit of mysterious moisture. Bringing it to her nose (and then to her tongue), she decided it wasn't sweat that registered on her tongue; no she knew that taste and this was not it.

She recognized this particular flavor all too well as she smiled devilishly and let her own feminine notes of excitement dance upon her taste buds. What can one say, the ride home worked her up, yes? Mr. "D" inside was going to get a good working over by her estimation.

"Thank you Harley Davidson," she whispered as she stepped through the front door and shut it behind herself, (another satisfied customer of a time-honored motorcycle company -inadvertently keeping marriages happy for over a hundred years, and still going strong apparently).

Alright, now if she'd been in a good mood when she'd entered her home, (all coos and purrs like a hungry house-cat in heat); its ironic that that same frisky feline became a roaring snarling tiger shortly after entering. She threw the mail across the room with junk-mail and bills raining down like oversized post-marked confetti. A stream of obscenities left her lips- loud one's too. There on the kitchen table was a note from Mr. D saying,

"Babe, I got a short notice for construction gig up-state over the weekend but I had to leave tonight. No time to explain but the money is damn good. I tried to message you at work but could not get a signal from the work site. Back Monday. There's beer in the fridge.

Luv ya!"

"FUCKING NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" she screamed.

She was looking forward to a perfectly lovely weekend at home; ripping her husband's clothes off when he left his construction job and afterwards. He and she would have done lots of nasty bunga bunga sex, (as well as other things she'd never tell her mother she liked while they drank tequila and partook of at least one controlled substance). Eventually she'd have phoned her mother and lied (saying that it was a calm and placid weekend). Now she was faced with just that; a calm and placid weekend. FUCKING FUCK!

"FUCKING FUCK NOOOOOOOOO!" she howled at no one in particular, (save her cat who knew better than to come out from hiding when she was in a cat kicking mood such as this). Even the fish in the tank swam to the far side of Cinderella's Castle and waited in the shadows for this latest "Lynn-storm" to subside. No she was in an absolute fog of disappointment; the prospect of crappy Friday Night TV, microwaved mono-sodium-sludge for dinner all by herself, and a lack of Mr D and his "vitamin D injections" all looming ominously close ahead.

Several hours later the fish decided the time was right to emerge from their hiding spot and resume swimming in the light. The cat emerged from her "feline American safe space" under the bed in the guestroom as she too guessed she could enter the laundry room and use her litter box in peace. On the opposite side of the house in the bath adjacent to the master bedroom Lynn soaked in a tub of steamy water and negativity.

She might as well have been taking a bath in BLAH, as grey as her fucking mood was. The half-eaten container of ice-cream along with the half-drunk bottle of red had done nothing to alleviate that funk. The stubby burnt blunts of two expertly rolled former doobies were of no effect either on this bad mood. They lay in crushed smoky defeat at the bottom of an ash tray (alongside the wine and rocky road at the edge of the bath). Well ...third time was a charm, so she lit another.

She let the illicit ciggie get a good tug from her lips while cracking the hot water valve open just a touch with her toes; steaming up her pity party pond even more as the smoke went to work on her lungs and senses. She then raised her feet up high to the tub's edge and got low, low, low in the water as she held in ...WHEWWWWW...and released a huge mushroom cloud of controlled substance, (courtesy of the great State of Colorado's legislature, but still not exactly legal here in Phoenix). Her pretty blue eyes which had now ceased crying away their mascara settled on her right leg, her ankle in particular; with its calla lily tattoo.

She loved her calla lily. As tattoos went it was a good one. She liked it even more than the yellow sun on her right upper back, although of her "sunny" as she called it, she'd only seen in photos (or backwards in a mirror). She smiled, and wrinkled her pretty button of a nose at her lily, her silver nose stud twitching at it. Well she didn't have the benefit of her hubby's vitamin D here in the tub as she'd fucking hoped, but she could at least smoke up his vitamin J before he went back up to Colorado on another construction gig to get more!

The silly thought made her laugh at that juxtaposition. It shouldn't have, (it was a stupid joke). Yep, she was buzzed. Well at least she was done crying and throwing shit around the house like a primate at the Scottsdale Zoo. She'd have to see if there was a coupon for KFC on the counter, (next to where Mr. D kept his spare motorcycle keys).

This bit of munchy musing was interrupted by the angry hornet BUZZZZZZZZZ of her phone vibrating next to the ashtray. She'd left it on vibrate for good reason. Earlier at the end of the first joint and the third glass of red, she'd flung her pocket-rocket across the room in howling frustration when she'd learned the batteries were deceased.

Not to be defeated, she'd called herself on the cordless phone for several minutes until she brought herself off with a colossal screamer of a girlie-gasm; her ass perched on the edge of the tub. Mr. D may have been away but she could still give herself a phone-gasm ..there was an App for that! She took the call, hoping it was Mr. D.

"Yes?"

"Lynn," came a familiar female voice on the other line.

"WOOO HOOO CHRISSY GIRL," Lynn screamed into the phone, "WHAT'S UP?"

"Are you high?'

"OH NO NO NO hon," Lynn lied into the phone as her feet dropped down into the tub with a splash and she rolled on her side in the churning water and steam; attempting to pull herself together, "what's going on?"

"I'm sick," came her friends voice back over the phone, "both me and Tim have the stomach bug."

"What? Oh damn," Lynn said concerned, "you need me to take your shift or something?"

"No I got that covered," Chrissy replied, "I need another favor."

"What is it?" Lynn asked, (figuring she needed to sober her shit up quick and go help a friend).

"Tim and I cannot go to the concert in Flagstaff tomorrow. We found one person to take his ticket for us, but we gotta have somebody else take the other ticket. I thought of you. I know you like hair metal as much as me hun!"

"Oh Chrissy you are a doll! I LOVE YOU!"

And that was it... between the weed, the wine, a mind blower of an orgasm (thanks to Apple products), and Chrissy's thoughtfulness; Lynn was happy again. The funk was gone. Her weekend was brighter.

The next day Lynn pulled up to Chrissy's Santa Fe ranch style home with the characteristic DIGGUH DIGGUH DIGGUH of her pipes waking up anyone in the neighborhood who mistakingly thought they'd sleep in that Saturday. Chrissy had told her she was too sick to come to the door, (so she'd left the ticket in her mailbox to retrieve). Looking down at the bit of paper in her hands she read in big bold lettering,

"Touch the Serpent - GRAB HER BY THE HAIR AND HANG ON TOUR: ADMIT ONE"

She placed the ticket in her jacket and with a loud blast of motorcycle flatulence, she was gone. The whole neighborhood knew it too. No matter, she needed to get to the liquor store for "essentials" before heading home and getting dressed, (that outfit she had in mind wasn't going to just get itself ready without her)! Nope, she had work to do and she needed to hurry.

Two hours later, Lynn rode out of her drive and down the lane; leaving her neighborhood and heading to the highway as fast as cheap gas and expensive bike parts would take her. She was "transformed." as it were. The riding pants were gone, (replaced by a leather mini-skirt that would have been better suited as a clutch purse). It was ok... it showed off her legs nicely and accentuated her black engineer boots. As she entered the highway and turned north she cracked the throttle open; letting the bike roar and the speed build.

To the uninitiated she may have miscalculated something ...WIND! The oncoming rush of desert highway air became a blast from an aircraft test tunnel. Immediately her teensy black skirt that only came down over a quarter of her thighs filled with wind like a parachute. It rode up and reversed itself, (like a backwards umbrella in the front and back); revealing a black cotton thong containing less cotton than a q-tip.

Now the whole world could plainly see the delightful heart-shaped globes of her ass, (especially the truckers, who blared their horns in approval at her choice of riding apparel). She smiled and blew kisses with each horn-blast; leaving that skirt up right where it was, (damned happy she'd shaved that day). Apparently it hadn't been a miscalculation after all; mini-skirt math it seemed was her forte!

Up top, her shoulders and arms were protected by a classic leather biker jacket, (not hers). It was Mr. D's jacket; too big for her but it had his 'stink" on it. She loved that stink; adored it... craved it and wished she could bathe in it. The jacket was the next best thing to feeling him next to her.She left it opened and unzipped; her 34B "gals" buffeted hard by the wind and shielded only by a teal blue and black lace trim bustier. Her nipples were bullet hard in no-time.

Beneath her helmet visor she smiled, four hours she figured, (maybe three and a half if the traffic was light). Contented eyes blinked in the afternoon sun beneath bifocals. She was supposed to wear them all the time but now and again she cheated (just like with everything), as the mood took her. This afternoon she had them for the road-signs. She didn't like wearing them all the time but they gave her an intellectual quality on top of her dynamite good looks; making people stop and listen to what she had to say. Today the people on the highway were simply staring at the beautiful bad lady (who looked like a cross between a hooker and a corporate lawyer), as she barreled up the highway; heading north to the concert, and a wild ass night even SHE hadn't counted on!

She made good time getting to the Flagstaff fairgrounds, (damn good time even). It didn't hurt that male motorists wanted to ride behind her instead of pass her and ruin the view. She pulled into the parking lot and paid to park; the attendant's mouth nearly dropping in the dirt when he saw her skirt riding up. She shot the kid a wink and wrinkled her nose at him; her nose stud twinkling in the late afternoon sun.

She found the bike row and parked, then dove into her saddle bags. Off her helmet came and she stowed her spectacles, (no need for either of 'em now). She looked at her watch; plenty of time. A quick change was necessary. She pulled her skirt down to just barely hide her ass and coochie-bandaid of a thong; figuringto herself might as well do it here girl, (almost causing two fender benders in the process from onlookers suddenly distracted as they attempted to park).

Off came the engineer boots and out of her saddle-bags came some fishnet stockings along with a garter to hold it all in place. A passing pickup truck full of half-drunk fraternity boys honked and hooted in approval as she tossed on the belt under her skirt and continued with the garters and stockings; shooting the boys a thumbs up and blowing more kisses in reply. Next out of the bag came a pair of thigh high black leather boots with three-inch-high heels. She hoped the field was not too soft, (or those stiletto sharp heels would be good as lawn darts trying to walk in them). Her engineer boots had been necessary for the ride up here, but this was a hair metal concert and she knew those "fuck me like a bad girl" boots were just the thing for something like this! The clunky riding boots went into the saddle bags and she found her clutch purse with the ticket.

She walked away from the bike and then came to a dead stop. She'd forgotten something most important of all. She'd left it in the other saddle bag.

"Momma's rheumatiz medicine and her inhaler, can't forget those!"

She spun herself around and ran back to her saddle bags, hastily opening one of the flaps. In triumph she pulled out a cough drop tin that went in her jacket. Next came a pipe and bottle of tequila. As she stowed the pipe in the same pocket she gave the bottle a big smoochy kiss; asking of it,

"Did you miss momma, baby doll? Let's go have some fun hun!"

She closed the saddlebags and spun around. She was in the entry line in no time. The line moved nice and fast too. Good, she observed, it wouldn't be a long wait. She opened another long pocket on the opposite side of the jacket's interior.

This was THE POCKET...the DEEP POCKET. This was where you could stow all sorts of shit you didn't want the general public or average Joe copper to know about. She'd put all kinds of things in that pocket and gotten them past security at a dozen different functions. It had become a pocket of "lost things while she was drunk" sort of affair; hell there were small groups of Japanese soldiers in that pocket that didn't even know the fucking war had ended yet! Sliding the bottle deep down inside, her hand bumped against something odd shaped and rubbery; all coiled up inside.

Was THAT still in there? OH SHIT GIRL! No wonder that side had felt a little heavy on the ride up. No sense hauling it out here with everyone in line.

She stowed the very last of her goodies inside the jacket and waited for her turn at the entrance with the ticket counters and the security goons standing like stoner sentries at a castle gate. She smiled at what she'd done. It was like she was a bad kid sneaking snacks into a movie theater - to include one item she hadn't expected to be there; her rubbery hitchhiker.

She really should have cleaned this damned thing out since the last time she'd borrowed it. She wouldn't have had such a noticeable bulge to one side but, there it was. OK readers let me level... she may not have borrowed it. She'd swiped it from hubby without ever returning it, (but hey listen... the guy was working another construction gig back then as well and completely unaware of the jacket's absence anyhow, plus she looked soooo cute in it and as I told you already; it smelled like him). Ok - stop judging her and just read dammit.

She made it up to almost the head of the line when an idea bubbled up to the front of her pretty blonde noggin. She pulled out the ticket and the same time unzipped the jacket; allowing the edges to drape over her shoulders like a fox fur. With one hand she unsnapped the two buttons holding her skirt in place. and shoved the leather booty-cover into yet another jacket storage- pouch.

She was now just boots thong and fishnets down below; nothing else! As she approached the young dredded-out kid punching tickets between his security cronies, she acted as if the wind caught the ticket and had blown it behind her, (despite there being not so much as a breeze that night). The little slip of paper fluttered down behind her and making a big noisy show, she spun around to pick it up; giving the nineteen-year-old dude and his coworkers a ringside view of her pretty feminine undercarriage, (and barely concealed exhaust port).

It worked. When she spun around and rose up with the ticket (triumphantly thrusting it in the boy's grasp), he'd barely the presence of mind to properly punch the piece of paper and stamp her hand. Both he and his associates were somewhat spellbound; completely failing to notice all her peculiar jacket bulges, (and that's not to mention how they neglected to search her for anything).

She could have possessed four hand-grenades and a suicide vest and they wouldn't have remembered to check; the fact that the young man had accidentally pinched his own finger with the paper punch was testament to that fact alone. Lynn retrieved the ticket from the gawking boy. She walked on while the young dude's eyes and those of his three companions all followed her beautifully be-thonged behind, (oblivious to the fact she'd ever even worn a jacket). Hetero males could be so malleable, she observed to herself.

She moved into the in-field of the Flagstaff Fairgrounds stepping through the dried yellow-green grass; her illicit cargo sloshing inside her leathers. Reaching inside her jacket, she considered replacing her naughty mini skirt back onto her delectably defenseless derriere. She then wrinkled her nose; thinking the better of it with a shake of her head to herself. It was a concert and she wasn't here to make a favorable impression. Tonight she felt bad and dammit; she'd made up her mind to BE just so!

She milled into the group-huddle of early arrivals close to the stage and the amps. A master of ceremonies somewhere backstage announced the first of a couple of opening bands as the members tuned up in the dark before the houselights came up. Opening bands always have it rough; especially in this kind of venue. The mention of a band's name (so unknown that they do not appear on the ticket or billboard ad), is very much a "BOO magnet" for fans.

Tonight was no exception. The people had paid money to see Touch the Serpent pure and simple. Some fucking no-name garage-band (no matter how cool the name may have sounded when it was announced), was only going to get a massive shit-storm sent their way.

As the lights came up, so did a chorus of inebriated catcalls and booing. A plastic bottle of piss arced through the air; striking the edge of the stage harmlessly, but close enough for the base player to hop sideways. Roadies pointed out the would-be "piss launcher" in the audience and soon security descended upon him; intent on giving him a little 'love and understanding." The band began to play and the boo's trailed off as fans waited for the first set to finish, (if impatiently so).

The huddle fans up close to the stage soon became a cluster, (and clusters have a habit of becoming a crowd as often is the case.) As more and more fans spilled in to the field, the crowd began to grow and spread like an oil slick until the crowd was now a clotted mass of people, all squeezing up to the stage. By now the first band had finished but to the crowd's dismay and disapproval, there was another band opening ahead of "Touch The Serpent."

As the master of ceremonies (still safely off stage), announced the arrival to the stage of "Tender Lovin' Money Shot," a howl of protest raged from the crowd. Having one opening act was sufficient enough to make this throng of humanity cranky, but two opening acts ahead of the featured headliner was equivalent to an emperor making a bad call in the ancient Colosseum of Rome. The crowd was now quite agitated and more piss bottles flew; along with a host of epithets and boos.

This crowd wanted Touch the Serpent and made no bones about it. Lynn was right there with the rest of the folks in that clot of pissed off humanity; voicing her displeasure with middle fingers prodding skywards. It was there and then that Tender Lovin' Money Shot began to play... and Lynn's evening began to become shall we say... interesting. Interesting is a good word, I'll leave it at that for now.

At first the mob of fans now choking the field in the darkness acted as though the band up on stage was attempting to challenge them; that their mere playing was somehow intended as an affront. Unfazed by the anguished protests of the audience, it was as if the four guitarists, and drummer leaned forward into a driving storm of rain, hail, and abuse (plus more thrown piss bottles). They would not be silenced however; they'd be fucking heard Goddammit! They would have their day in the court of public opinion; despite the fact that some of the jurors in that court were either stoned or had been drinking since before noon.

The thing was they played. What's more; they didn't stink. Nope... they were good actually. Very good.

"Damn good," Lynn whispered under her breath as the crowd simmered down save a few drunk boo-ers who hadn't quite focused yet on the music.

She dropped her arms which had up till now been raised aloft with middle fingers extended. Now her arms hung loosely at her side and her mouth hung open like a coy in a pond. Her eyes simply stared ahead and her ears attempted to hear and distinguish each note. This was simply NOT what she and the multitude expected; not from some warm-up group anyhow. The boos were still ringing out but they became fewer and fewer... for damned good reason!

She was transfixed to say the least. Now the last catcalls and drunken reproaches were like white background noise to her ears which attempted to hear every note of the music, and that coming from one musician in particular; that being none other than the lead guitarist. He was killing it - and her too, (with his performance and his appearance as it turned out).

He stood center stage, tall and wiry. Perhaps that didn't describe him adequately enough, so let me try again. How about a tall lean heroin addict looking devil; handsome as fucking all get-out and plucking away at his guitar like a baroque master while striking every note with exquisite precision and nuance? Fucking better? Yep, I thought so too.

He sported the typical rocker affectations; the skinny black leather pants, the black leather shirt, a mane of black hair hanging down past mirrored sun-glassed eyes in front and to the middle of his spine in the back; giving the standard renaissance wig meets heavy metal strummer appearance... nothing new there. It was matched with brown cowboy boots and a belt buckle large enough to think he'd been expecting an assassins bullet from the crowd, the whole package set below a jauntily tilted Stetson cowboy hat. He was cowboy rocker through and through; honest earnest and simply plucking away at his electric Winchester, slaying the audience single-fucking-handedly.

Lynn felt it. Those long-ass turquoise ringed fingers of his did it for her. They made her pink-lima-bean clitty-nub simply throb and pulse beneath its hood with each plucking grinding fucking WONK-AH! WONK-AH! SCRONCHY WONK! upon the strings!

Not merely playing, this hombre was making sweet love to her; through his guitar and out through the amplifiers. He was fucking the song hard with each screeching note; bucking and stroking it. At the same time, he was bucking and stroking more than a couple thousand appreciative females in the audience; all at the same time!

Lynn just happened to be one of those lucky women, but she was probably turned on more than the rest BY FAR ...and she for damned sure knew it! With her eyes never leaving that sexy cowboy fantasy of hers up on the stage, her fingers fumbled inside the jacket; finding eventually that damned tequila bottle. She brought it to her lips for a thirsty sip while those fingers up on stage rippled up and down the strings, (making her mind go to work on all the nasty shit she could do with a guy like that).

The WONK! AH WONK! AH WONK! began working in a perverted partnership with the tequila; casting a sort of hypnotic spell on her pretty blonde head. She felt the warmth of the agave nectar splash down through her insides as another feverish warmth came up from her pelvis to meet it and shake hands. A lovely little fire was now blazing away in her boiler room "down there." She licked across her smile; thinking hot filth. Like all desirable women of her fabric, she was in touch with her sexuality and could really crank out a wonderfully raunchy mental porno of the baddest and best variety, (with just the slightest visual inspiration and a little help from old mother tequila).

Oh yeah, she could make that little fucking cowboy screech like a set of tires burning out on asphalt if she could just get her nasty fucking hands on him! She'd grab that sexy mop of hair and snag her fingers in it as she covered that slim high cheek-boned face with its prominent chin in kisses; fucking those thin pursed lips of his with her tongue. She'd just plain Ra*e the fucking shit out him; pulling him down to her crotch to hump his chin and lips - grinding her twat against that straight pointy nose!

Ooohh... there it was, the little dew trickle! Awwww well what the fuck, she thought, it was dark anyhow; just go ahead bitch and fuckin juice all over your thong - HELL WITH IT!

Her "mind porno" continued to flicker inside that nasty little blonde melon of hers as the WONKA SCRONKA WONKA SCRUNCH of his guitar screeched and yowled like a cat in heat. She saw by his hands that most likely down below: her cowpoke had a pretty formidable shooting iron, the big hands and the bulge in the front of his leather pants was a dead fuckin' giveaway. Yeah he was a gunslinger, a pistol packin motherfucker; she could tell. He was absolutely hung like a fuckin 4H exhibit at the county fuckin fair by her estimate! She took a chug of the bottle; allowing ruder fucked up shit to dance through her head.

Four spotlights moved away from the rest of band and ascended upon her heavy metal fuck fantasy. He was in a solo... she knew the song; the thing was ...that genius motherfucker was now improvising and just going off on a trek of his own. The other thing now of course was... he'd won the crowd. What's more he had Lynn's heart, mind and pussy from twenty yards away with each diddle of those wicked fingers on the strings.

She brought her bottle up for another swallow as those fingers danced feverishly up and down scales of impossibly intricate chords. The dance now for her anyway had stopped being on merely a guitar neck; instead it was now all strums and taps striking her clit and swollen gumdrop nippies. OH FUCK YEAH, she wanted it to not be just in her head; ohhhh...she wished it to be true -so fucking hard she wished it!

The notes ticked off now too fast her mind to register; far too many notes for her to savor. In the steamy x-rated fog of her mind she'd already ripped all his clothes off and she'd lain below him, naked and helpless; a mother earth goddess just waiting for him to take her... to sink his plowshare deep in her furrow. Oh FUCK yeah, she let that six stringed plucking motherfucker just "wonka wonk" the goddamned shit out of her until he'd satisfied himself all up inside her! She raised the tequila to her lips and...

"HEY WHAT THE FUCK!" Lynn shouted as her bottle was snatched from her lips by a hand from off to one side.

She spun left; wanting to see just who in the fuck it was that had just fuckin cock-blocked her; wrecking a perfectly good tequila and metal guitar-fueled fuck fantasy! Oh ...she was mad as fuck now and in no mood for shit! Her eyes adjusted in the darkness; having been staring at the bright stage lights. Whomever they were, they were going to catch ALL FUCKING HELL and ...

"NANCY?"

She was met by a cackle and a wide happy "GOTCHA" grin that she recognized all to fucking well! There before her, was a hot fifty-three-year old GILF with curly short "oh so fucking sassy" brown hair; her shoulders covered by a black leather jacket with a red lace bra with black trim beneath, (and not a damned thing else)! She stood on lanky legs clad only in leopard spotted spandex; atop high black stiletto heels with red soles that matched her bra and jacket.

"What the fuck are you doing here girl?" Lynn shouted wide eyed and wide armed as she grabbed her friend from work in a big smoochie she-bear hug.

"Same reason as you honey! Chrissy called me this morning when I got off shift and gave me the other ticket!" Nancy replied; returning the hug before taking a generous gulp from the tequila bottle.

Lynn then realized Nancy wasn't alone. A tall black man the size of a bulldozer stood next to Nancy and slightly behind. Nancy caught Lynn's look of surprise as she dropped her hug. She made introductions.

"This great big lovable fellah," Nancy explained, "is Bear. Oh and Bear, this is Lynn from where I work at the hospital."

"Pleased to meet 'yah Lynn," the towering black man said as he took Lynn's tiny little paw in his two enormous hands; making our heroine immediately wonder if his glove size was any indicator of his...

"Bear," Nancy explained... "is one of the roadies for the headliner band tonight."

"You roadie for TOUCH THE SERPENT?" Lynn asked incredulously; eyes going big as saucers, and looking like a little girl who'd just met Santa.​