Getting Kinky at the Concert with a Free Use MILF

I love being a Free Use MILF

It was the last concert of the tour. I was dressed in fishnets and a see-through top. Black X’s covered taut nipples and kept me from getting the cops called. My hair was slick with rain and the music was thumping through my veins.

The crowd undulated around me, ecstasy, and body heat. Couples next to me, multiple people licking and fucking in time with the rhythm.

My hands were raised high above me, my head tossing to and fro in time with the guitarist’s pickings. All I could feel was the vibration of the bass traveling from the speakers I was next to and seeping into every pore.

Then a stranger’s hand came from behind me, snaking its way to my hip. His handspan covered my hip bone as he gyrated against me. His thumb hooked into the pants of my fish nets to hold me close. I didn’t protest, didn’t turn to meet him. I just kept dancing with a thirst for pleasure driven by instinct and desire.

The music, the lust all around me, and the wanton energy of the lyrics all melted together and pooled into my crotch, a heat felt by every other concertgoer. My new dance partner must have sensed this, because his second hand moved to cup my neck and jaw, and his hips ground against mine. I felt his prick through his jeans and leaned my ass backward to meet him.

It was all the invitation he needed to fuck this Free Use MILF.

Then unhooking his thumb, he pressed against the small of my back, bending me forward. I felt my fishnets tear, and then nothing. I glanced backward behind me, my ass swaying in the mist and sweat of the summer night’s heat.

Then he undid his jeans quickly, popping out his engorged cock. My dance partner was kind, thankfully, and tested the waters. One, two fingers sank deep into my waiting pussy, and I groaned with the music, reaching for my ankles to keep myself steady.

I was sopping wet, my desire dripping down my thighs. Then I was a lust-filled slut with a need to be filled. The music ebbed and flowed around me, and he removed his digits, tasting me with a smirk. When the song crescendoed, he entered me. His entrance was deliberate and erotic and I sank back onto my heels, meeting his thrusts.

The snare drum kept our beat. 1-2-3-4. 1-2-3-4. Over and over, his flesh met mine with wet slaps that were drowned out by the sound of the crowd and the band. Then his meaty hands dug into my ass as he pounded me.

My cries and gasps were lost in the sea of moaning at the concert-turned-orgy that went on around us. 1-2-3-4 the music went on, and as the cymbals climaxed. So too did we, riding wave after wave of pleasure. Then as we floated on cloud nine, my legs got weak and were no longer providing stability. I sank to Free Use knees trembling, the crowd shouted above the cacophony, “Encore!”

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