I met the girl who later would become my wife at a rock concert when we were both nineteen.
I remember that she looked totally amazing in her Dr. Martens and short leather skirt. She was taller than most other girls, and she stood out from the concert crowd with a magnetism I couldn’t resist.
Luckily, I picked up my courage and talked to her. Her name was Tanya. A year later we were married.
The first couple of years we had tons of fun together. We were both into rock music of all flavors, and we went to all the gigs in our area. I absolutely loved the way she dressed back then. Her style was sexy rock chick, and she could turn me on with just a glance from those dark eyes.
But after the first magical years our lives changed slowly, almost imperceptibly. She got an office job at an insurance firm, and had to dress more formal. Her rock chick outfits were moved to the back of the closet, then later to the attic. When we moved to a new house, she gave her old style to charity.
All of a sudden we were grownups, married for almost seven years. We had all we needed materially. Two cars, a house with a garden, an espresso machine and two sixty inch TV-sets. But the fun was gone. We had lost that tingling sense of excitement from the early days. We never listened to loud rock anymore, just news reports and late night talk shows on TV.
We had decided to wait and focus on our careers before we had any kids. So our house became a kind of quiet and spotless home from some interior design magazine.
Our sexlife had withered as well. Back when we had no money and lived in a crappy apartment we couldn’t keep our paws off of each other. Now we were safe and clean in our upper middle class home, and nothing seemed to spark our old lust.
We were only 26 years old, but already behaved like we were middle aged.
“Honey?” I say to her, sitting by the computer one evening. “Remember what we did on your twentieth birthday?”
She doesn’t even look up from her iPad, just shakes her head.
I put on a song on the stereo, and crank up the volume. She sighs and finally looks at me.
“The Papal Rape gig, right? Their farewell tour?” I’ve put on one of the punk rockers’ biggest hits, and get up from my chair. Trying a little air guitar, but feeling awkward.
“Yeah,” she says, absently. “I remember.”
“Well, they’re doing a comeback!” I tell her. “And I’ve bought us tickets!”
“Oh, you have?” She doesn’t seem too pleased. When is it?”
“Next Saturday.”
“I’ll have to check my calendar, sweetie,” she says, returning to her iPad.
I feel a little deflated – guess I was hoping for a little more enthusiasm. The rest of the evening goes by without a word between us.
The next day at work I do a lot of thinking. Is this what our life and marriage is going to be until we grow old? All work and facade, but no passion or fun? Our rock ‘n’ roll days seem to be over, so can I live with that?
I work overtime, not all to excited about going home. On the drive home I call my buddy Fred to check if he wants the spare ticket and go with me to the Papal Rape reunion concert. I feel pretty sure that Tanya won’t go.
I park the car in the garage and go inside. From the entrance I hear noise coming from the TV-room downstairs. Music. Not something you hear often at our house. I listen and try to hear what’s playing. Can it be?
Yes. It’s definitely Papal Rape. Sounds like a live recording. I stalk downstairs to see what’s going on.
Downstairs I see my wife sitting on the floor in front of the stereo. There’s old concert footage from a VHS tape flickering on the large screen, and the speakers are thumping an almost forgotten Papal Rape tune. She’s completely lost in the music, and doesn’t notice that I’ve come home. I stand by the stairs, watching her.
There’s a cardboard box by her feet, and she’s rummaging through it, finding old CD’s and tapes I thought we gave to charity a long time ago. She must have kept them in the attic.
I smile to myself, happy that my concert tickets seem to have revived some of that old spark in her. I leave her to her little listening trance, and stalk back upstairs.
I cook a quick dinner, and all the time I can hear the music from downstairs. I set the table for two, but decide not to interrupt my wife’s private listening party. So I eat alone.
I’ve finished dinner and cleared my dishes, when Tanya finally turns off the music and emerges from the basement.
“Hi, honey! There’s pasta, if you want,” I say and pull up a chair for her at the dining table.
“Oh, great, I’m starving,” she says. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
“Really? What kept you so busy?”
“Well,” she begins, and sits down, grabbing her fork. “You know I was supposed to work from home today, to get some paperwork out of the way.”
I serve her a steaming plate of pasta and pour her a glass of red wine.
“But last night I had a dream. We went to a Papal Rape concert. And when I got up I couldn’t get the dream out of my head. So I dug up some old records. Thought I’d just put on some background music and get to work. But I kind of got lost in all the old, cool music. Before I knew it the whole day had gone by.”
She digs into her food while talking. I haven’t seen her this eager for a really long time. She looks passionate, like the old Tanya so often was.
“Yeah. So you’ve thought about the concert tickets?” I ask.
She empties her wine glass in one thirsty sip and looks at me.
“Yeah. Let’s go see Papal Rape!”
The week before the concert goes by quickly. My wife keeps listening to the old Papal Rape records, and blasts all the live videos she can find.
I had forgotten how much she was into Papal Rape’s singer and front man Randi Roxster. He was the archetypical hard rock star back then, long hair barely tamed by a bandana, tight leather pants and small denim vests barely covering his tan and muscular chest.
I feel a slight sting of almost forgotten jealousy as my wife watches him strut about on the big screen. Wonder what he looks like now, many years later?
One afternoon I come home, just a few days before the concert, and my wife has found some of her old outfits.
“Wow, I thought you gave those to charity,” I say, as I watch her laying out the clothes on our bedspread. Patterned pantyhoses, short denim shorts, black leather skirts, tight tank tops and other items of assorted rock chick attire.
“No, I couldn’t bear to get rid of these,” she answers. “So I hid them away in the attic. I’m glad I did.”
She starts taking off her clothes, to try on the old outfits. I sit on the edge of the bed, eager to watch.
As she strips off her bra and peels off her panties, I wonder how long it’s been since I got excited by seeing her naked. In a marriage nudity soon becomes trivial and routine. Somewhere along the way you stop associating sex and excitement with your partner’s naked body. But now, seeing my wife standing naked by the bed and looking through her old outfits, I got an instant boner. I felt like seeing a glimpse of the Tanya I got to know when we were nineteen. Tanya the hot rock chick. Tanya with the tight bubble butt and firm tits.
She pulls on a pair of ripped black stockings, reaching up to the middle of her thigh. Then she pulls on a leather miniskirt, and a black band t-shirt with the Papal Rape logo right over her tits. She also puts on a pair of fishnet gloves, with bare fingers.
Looking at herself in the tall cabinet mirror she nods approvingly. I can’t say I disagree. She looks stunning. Granted, she’s a little more curvy now, so the skirt and shirt is a really tight fit. But that makes it all that much more sexy. She has no bra on, so the shape of her delicate nipples are clearly visible on her shirt. She’s not wearing any panties either, and I feel a strong urge to steal a peek up her short skirt.
She walks over to her make-up mirror and start putting on some eyeliner and mascara. After that she puts her hair up in cheeky pigtails, and finishes off with a dark blue lipstick. Her old Dr. Martens’ are in the box from the attic as well, and she puts them on. I strain my neck and catch a glimpse of her pussy as she ties her shoes.
She catches me peeking, and shoots me a stern glance.
Standing before me looking totally awesome, she puts her hands on her hips.
“So, you like to look, huh?” she says sassily, cocking her head to one side.
“You look great, honey!” I nod.
“Of course I do, shut up. And don’t you ‘honey’ me!” She puts a hand on my chest and pushes me down on my back on the bed.
Then she climbs up over me, shoes on and all. Her crotch is right over mine, hovering over the bulge in my pants. I can almost glimpse her pussy under her skirt. Almost, but not quite.
“What’s this?” she says, rubbing a gloved hand over my aching crotch. “Do you really think you’re man enough to fuck me?”
I’m unable to answer. My heartbeat throbs in my ears, and I can feel the adrenaline pump through my body with each pulse. I can’t remember ever being this horny.
“Let’s see if you can use your tongue,” my wife says, and slides up towards my face.
She lifts her tight skirt slightly, and I finally get a glimpse of her pussy. She’s unshaved and slightly wet, so I can spot her wonderfully pink labia. Maneuvering her vulva over my mouth, she lowers, allowing me to reach her pussy with my tongue. I stick it out and get a taste of her wet snatch. It’s deliciously moist and warm.
My wife sits on my face, and I purse my lips around her swollen clit. I suck on it like it was a piece of strawberry candy.
“Come on, hubby. Lick that pussy! It’s time you show your wife that you’re able to please her.”
I continue to suck and lick, working my tongue up and down her slit. I find her wet hole, and stick the tip of my tongue inside.
My wife reaches back with a hand, and grabs the bulge in my pants with one hand. She starts rubbing my cock through the fabric.
“If you do good, maybe I’ll let you fuck me with that mediocre cock of yours,” she says with a stern voice. Is she offending me? I haven’t heard her taking that tone with me before. It feels slightly humiliating, but strangely it turns me on even more.
My body shakes with excitement as she starts rubbing her pussy all over my face. The scent and sensation overwhelms me. She keeps rubbing my cock through my pants, and suddenly I come without warning.
I moan into her wet pussy, as my cock explodes in my pants. I soil my boxers and trousers with pools of cum.
“What just happened, boy?” she shouts at me. “Did you just cum in your pants, like a teenage geek?”
She gets off me, leaving my face wet with her juices. Looking down at the wet spots on my crotch she laughs with scorn, shaking her head.
“Premature and useless,” she laughs. I blush with shame.
She straightens her skirt and heads for the door.
“I’ll just have to take care of business myself,” she says. I can hear her heading down the stairs, going to the TV-room. A few seconds later I can hear the familiar tones of the Papal Rape DVD thumping from the speakers.
I get up from the bed, feeling all wet from cumming in my pants. Carefully, I stalk down the stairs and peek into the TV room.
My wife has positioned herself in the recliner in front of the flatscreen. Her legs are spread with ankles resting on the armrests, and she’s pulled her skirt up again, giving her full access to her pussy.
She’s busy rubbing her clit with one hand, while she fingers her hole with the other hand. With eyes full of lust, she’s staring at the screen where the singer Randi Roxster is in close-up, belting out hit after hit.
An empty beer bottle sits on the table by her side, and she grabs it. Fingers obviously not enough for her hungry pussy, she starts fucking herself with the bottle, while she aggressively flicks her clit.
I stand paralyzed, staring at my barely recognizable wife while she pounds herself to a series of loud orgasms with a beer bottle
I have no idea what the future holds in our marriage. Except the rock concert just a few days from now.
It’s the day of the concert, and my wife looks amazing.
She’s wearing the tight leather skirt again, this time with black lace panties underneath. Her legs look stunning in her stylishly ripped stockings, and in those Doc Martens shoes she swaggers like a teenage girl who has got the whole world pegged. She’s wearing a band t-shirt that’s too small for her, showing off her tight tummy and perky boobs. No bra underneath, of course.
The outfit’s one thing. Her make-up another. Dark eyeliner, blue lipstick, black polish on her fingernails.
My wife is the perfect rock chick, and I have no control over her. As we line up at the entrance of the concert arena, I feel like everybody turns to stare at her. She’s magnetic, impossible to ignore.
I tag along trying to look tough enough to be her man. But I’m pretty sure I’m failing. I didn’t find any of my old clothes from the rockin’ days, so I’m just wearing regular leisure wear.
The gates open and the crowd fills the arena pretty soon. I see many people that are my age and older, fans from the golden days here to see their heroes make a comeback.
My wife struts to center in front of the stage. It’s like the crowd parts to let her through. Girls shoot envious glances while the guys stare at her sexy curves, pursing their lips in silent whistles.
I go to the bar and buy us a couple of beers. When I try to squeeze through the crowd to reach my wife, I find it impossible up front of the stage. It’s just too packed. I spot her by the fence, someone’s already bought her a beer. Of course. I stand by lamely, drinking with both hands and waiting for the concert to start.
Fashionably late the lights go up on stage, and the band kicks off with an old hit. The singer Randi Roxster looks a bit older and more worn, and definitely heavier round the waist than before. But the ladies in the crowd doesn’t seem to mind. They scream and jump for him like time has stood still.
I notice that Randi is the only remaining member from the original lineup. He’s replaced the rest of the band with younger and more anonymous musicians. But I have to admit, they sound pretty great.
My wife is at the front, and as stunning as she looks, I’m pretty sure the band notices her.
A few songs in the band play their best known ballad Barbed Wire Love. Lighters come out in the crowd, and Randi Roxster leads us in a loud singalong. Coming up to the last chorus he climbs off the stage and walks down to the screaming first row. Security gets busy trying to keep crazy fans from pawing the singer.
Crooning seductively, Randi goes straight up to my wife. He grabs her hand and sings the last chorus directly to her. She stares at him self-assuredly, not a ditzy fan girl, but a strong woman with a mind of her own. I can tell he’s impressed.
Me, I’m just jealous and confused. I expected none of this when I first bought these tickets. It’s like I’ve entered the twilight zone.
The song’s over and the singer climbs back on stage. I can see him shouting some orders to a stagehand nearby. When the next song kicks off, the stagehand makes his way down to where my wife is standing, and gives her something.
I’m guessing it’s a backstage pass.
After the last encore the audience starts to leave, but my wife heads for a side door to the backstage area.
I follow her, thinking that she can’t just ignore me like this.
“What are you doing?” I ask, as she knocks on the door.
“Having fun,” she answers, and a huge bouncer opens. She flashes her backstage pass and he lets her in. He looks at me with unfriendly eyes.
“I’m with her,” I say, and amazingly he lets me in as well. I break into a jog to keep up with my wife as she struts along the corridor.
It’s not hard to find the band’s wardrobe, we just follow the loud music and the drunken roars.
Inside the worn and weathered dressing room, the band has started the party. Bare-chested and sweaty rockers lounge around the room on sofas and chairs, with bottles in hand. My wife is greeted by cheers and cat calls. I’m not greeted at all, just ignored.
The two guitar players give my wife a beer, and pulls her down between them on a worn leather couch. I hang around in the corner, where I find a lukewarm beer for myself.
The guys joke around with my wife, who throws her head back and laughs her sexy laugh. I can’t hear what they’re saying over the loud music from the stereo.
Apart from us there are some girls in their early twenties on the other side of the room, hanging out with the drummer and some guys from the crew. I can’t see the singer anywhere.
Pretty soon the two guitarists starts to paw my wife. First just an innocent arm around the shoulder or a hand on her knee. But they grow bolder in no time.
I feel my heart racing with jealousy. What should I do? But then I see my wife take action. She squirms out of their grasp and gets up from the couch, heading towards the bathroom. The guitar players are left disappointed with bulges in their tight leather pants.
I leave my beer and hurry after her. The bathroom is large and has three stalls, and we’re the only ones inside. Grabbing my wife’s arm I stop her before she enters one of the stalls.
“What’s going on here, honey?” I say. She turns around, gives me a stern look and yanks her arm free.
“I’m have to pee, that’s what’s going on,” she says.
“You’re behaving like a groupie,” I complain. “I don’t like those guys feeling you up.”
“Hey, I’ll do anything I want. Maybe I’ll find someone who’s actually capable of pleasing me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I think you know, hubby,” she says, and pats my crotch with a scornful look.
I feel angry and hurt, and don’t know how to reply, so I go into one of the stalls and slam the door shut behind me.
I sit down on the toilet seat, head in my hands. Almost immediately I hear someone else entering the bathroom.
“So, there you are,” I hear a deep and rusty voice saying. I’d recognize that voice anywhere. Rockstar Randi Roxster.
“Yeah. And there you are,” I hear my wife reply in a sassy voice.
“Have you come to party with us?” he asks.
“Right now I really need to pee,” she answers.
“Don’t let me stop you.”
I hear her opening the neighboring stall, but she doesn’t close the door behind her. Holding my breath I carefully lift my feet up from the floor, without making a sound.
I hear my wife rustling with her clothes. Then I hear her peeing.
“You like to watch peeing fans?” she asks.
“Not normally. But I make an exception for the hot ones,” he answers.
I feel dizzy. Randi Roxster is watching my wife pee.
She finishes and dries before flushing. I hear her go out of the stall. I reach out with a hand and push the door slightly ajar, so I can see what’s going on through the crack.
Randi Roxster stands by the sink, wearing tight spandex pants and pointed boots, not much else. He sips the beer bottle in his hand and watches my wife as she walks up to the sink, turning on the tap.
As she washes her hands he moved up behind her. Their eyes meet in the mirror. He touches her hair, and she calmly grabs a paper towel to dry her hands. Getting a little braver he puts down his beer bottle on the counter and starts rubbing my wife’s neck.
She takes his hands and moves them down her body, placing them on her ass.
“Whoa, are you in a hurry, babe?” he laughs.
“I just like to skip to the great parts. Just like when I listen to your records,” she answers.
He squeezes her delicious ass through her leather skirt. She answers by rotating her hips seductively, and he proceeds to kiss her neck.
My heart thumps wildly with confusion and disbelief. Am I really watching my wife being seduced by one of my rockstar heroes?
He puts one hand on her flat stomach while keeping the other on her ass. Slowly he starts lifting up her top, revealing her spectacular tits. She has no bra on, and he nods in admiration. Her nipples point stiffly towards the mirror, and he fills his hands with her glorious D-cup breasts.
Moaning now, my wife starts to grind her ass back against the rockstar’s crotch. He lets his hand drift down from her ass to the edge of her short skirt. He caresses the insides of her thighs, above the edge of her fishnet stockings. Upwards, slowly, his hand finds her tiny panties.
“Yeah, baby,” he whispers. “I can feel you’re wet right through your panties.”
Pulling the string aside he finds her wet crack with his fingers. He spreads her glistening labia apart, and rubs moisture up towards her swollen, pink clit. He slips a couple of fingers inside her pussy, and she answers with a girlish giggle.
Slowly, he starts to fingerfuck my wife from behind in front of the mirror. I watch lamely from one of the stalls where I hide, even though my wife knows I’m there.
She gyrates her hips with lust and pleasure, and he lifts her skirt up to her hips, revealing her tight ass. He slaps it hard, and she whines with pain and lust. Her asscheeks are left with red handprints.
Pretty soon he makes her cum with his expert hands. Her face goes all red, and she screams with pleasure.
After her orgasm he looks at his hand and laughs. It’s soaking wet with my wife’s juices. She whirls around, ready to return the favor. Grabbing two hairbands from around her wrist, she puts her her up in two cute pigtails.
“This should give you something to hold on to,” she giggles as she drops to her knees in front of him.
She grabs his pants and pulls them down to his knees in one hurried move. His fat cock is released, and hits her on the cheek. She’s clearly delighted at the size of the thing.
Grabbing it around the base with her hand, she starts licking the big tool, all along the shaft up to the purple tip.
“Yeah, baby, suck that cock!” he moans. My wife pinches her nipples with one free hand, while she puts the whole head into her mouth. With wet slurping sounds she starts to give him a glorious blowjob.
Soon she takes it out and looks up at him.
“I want you to fuck my face!” she says. He grabs her pigtails and obliges.
She opens her mouth wide, resting her hands on her thighs. He rams his cock into her mouth, holding her head still with a tight grip on her hair. She almost chokes and gags when the giant cock slips down her throat, but she takes it like a seasoned groupie. The rockstar throat-fucks my wife, as dribble runs down her chin onto her shirt and tits. Her eyes tear up, making her mascara run.
After I have to watch this rough oral action for an agonizingly long time, he pulls his cock out of my wife’s mouth. He pulls off his boots and pants, all naked now.
My wife gets up from her knees and stands in front of the mirror. She pulls down her soaking wet panties and drops the on the floor.
“Fuck me from behind, Randi!” she begs, and he gets up behind her. He smacks her red ass cheeks a few times, admiring how firm they are. I can see that her pussy is soaking wet and ready for celebrity cock.
His cock is all wet from my wife’s spit, so there’s no need for lube. Roughly spreading her legs apart, he guides his huge cock towards her pussy. He sinks in with a single, hard thrust. My wife wails with pleasure. He grabs hold of her skirt, which is bundled up on her hips, and starts pounding her pussy from behind. She leans over the counter, tits wiggling over the sink.
Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. She can see me peeking through the crack in the door. I’m unable to read any remorse or shame in her eyes, just pure lust for the rock star that’s fucking her right now.
My wife has never been particularly vocal in bed, but now she’s screaming and moaning like a porn star. Of course it doesn’t take long before the people in the dressing room outside hear what’s going on.
The door opens and the other band members peek in, giggling.
Randi doesn’t break his stride, like the seasoned rockstar he is. He keeps on fucking my wife roughly from behind.
“Come in and watch the show, guys!” my wife pants, hanging on to the counter as her tits sway with each thrust.
The other guys enter the bathroom, the two guitar players, the bass player, the drummer and the two sluttily dressed groupies in their early twenties. They sit down on the tiled floor in a semi circle, like they’re gathering around a camp fire. They sip their beers, laugh and stare at the sexual spectacle. Nobody sees me spying from my stall.
Randi and my wife swap positions. She sits on the edge of the counter, spreading her legs wide. Randi grabs her ankles and penetrates her well fucked pussy with a hard thrust. He keeps rhythm like a fucking metronome, and my wife’s pussy makes a squelching noise with each beat. She grabs a hold of his ass, pulling him deeper with each thrust.
They french kiss, tongues deep in each other’s mouth. I’ve reached the low point in my life. Limply watching my wife fucking and kissing a stranger.
“You know, we have a rule around here,” Randi says, still pounding away. “First time groupies have to be hazed by the band. That means that after I give you a creampie, the rest of the band gets to cum on your face.”
They all laugh.
“Sounds great!” my wife giggles. “Get your cocks out boys! Better get ready!”
The four other band members release their cocks from their tight leather and spandex pants. The other girls watch wide eyed and slightly shocked. They willingly help the guys jack off, grabbing two cocks each, like they were skiing.
“Yeah, mister rockstar, are you gonna cum in my pussy?” my wife moans.
He replies by moving one hand to her pussy, and starts rubbing her sticky clit with his thumb. Her eyes roll to the back of her head, as she hangs on to him. She’s approaching climax.
She cums with a shriek. Legs trembling, cheeks blushing, tears running black with mascara from her eyes.
“Yeah, cum around my cock, baby,” Randi moans. “Work it with your tight pussy!”
My wife’s powerful orgasm pushes him over the edge. Rockstar Randi Roxster cums inside my wife’s pussy, without a condom. He roars like a lion and pulls her hair, filling her up with his juices.
After a long and noisy orgasm, he pulls out of her. Thick cum dribbles from her gaping pussy, dripping on the counter and floor below. My wife breathes heavily from her orgasm, and she’s covered with sweat. But still, she’s ready for the promised finale.
“Come on, guys, cover my face with cum!” she says, and sits down on her knees on the floor.
The guys laugh and line up around her with their pants around their knees. Randi grabs a beer and sits naked on the counter to watch. The groupies stand by to watch the show.
My wife grabs the cocks around her greedily, sucking on one, jacking off two others. The guys are so turned on that it doesn’t take them long to cum.
The bass player goes first, hitting my wife over the nose and forehead with thick streams of sperm. Soon after the three others follow suit. She’s surrounded with big, spurting cocks, and the jizz is flying all over her face. Some of it hits her hair. It drips in small rivers down her neck, over her shirt and tits. Soon she’s all covered with rockstars’ cum.
The groupies applaud and cheer. They look at my slutty wife with a mix of admiration and astonishment.
“You did great, babe!” Randi laughs and helps my wife on her feet. She takes a bow, and almost slips in all the cum and juices at her feet.
“Now, get cleaned up and join us for the party!” Randi says, pulling his pants back on. All the guys get dressed again, and exit the bathroom to continue the party.
The door closes, and the room is quiet. My wife stands in front of the mirror, and I don’t dare to move.
I see her walking slowly towards me. She opens the door, and we look each other in the eye for a long time. I’m still trembling from the shock, and I’m unable to speak.
“I want you to know that this will be part of my life from now on,” she finally says, calmly. “Something’s been missing in my life, and I’ve found it.”
She comes closer, and I can feel the warmth from her freshly fucked body. Cum runs down her legs and all over her upper body and face. I can smell it.
She takes my hand and leads it to her soaking wet and open pussy. It’s so warm and soft.
“I want to fuck rockstars,” she says. “As many as I can. If you can live with that, we can stay married.”
I can barely hear what she says over the frantic beating of my heart. Jealous. Confused. Hurt. But horny. Very horny.
I nod.
“I can live with that,” I answer.