The Concert Dad

"Seems like risky behavior," he said, "but then I wasn't any better at your age. Probably worse."

I laughed. He was so clean cut with his head shaved practically bald that I had serious problems picturing him as anything other than what he was. He had no piercings, no beard, and only one tattoo that I could see -- an anchor on his right forearm, wrapped in rope like a banner with a phrase in Latin inscribed on its coils. "What about you?" I asked. "Did you come here by yourself or are you going to have to explain a scantily clad girl to a wife in a minute?"

It was his turn to laugh at me. "I'm here by myself. Well," he looked past me, and I saw after I turned my head for a moment, that the creep was wandering close by, "looks like you're going to be stuck calling me dad for the night. What should I call you?"

He seemed a little too helpful to be dangerous, but I remembered women saying the same thing about Ted Bundy, so I gave him a fake name. Besides, if things did proceed, the anonymity made it feel a little sexier. "Mariana," I said.

He gave me a searching look, and then offered his hand, which I took a little more enthusiastically than I intended. "Nice to meet you," he said, and then turned my arm over from side to side in the low light of the stage. "Nice ink," he leaned a little closer to look at the underside of my forearm and added, "Interesting motif."

"Thanks," I said. "You're not really going to make me call you dad the rest of the night, are you?"

He shrugged. "You could call me daddy instead," and the grin he gave me nearly sealed the deal, "but I leave that up to you. I'm here for the show up on stage."

"Same here, dad," I replied and failed miserably at suppressing a smile. I sidled up next to him, partly to make it easier to hear him. He was easy to talk to. "You don't really seem like the type, though."

"Girl, I have been coming to shows like this since -- how old are you?"

"Nineteen."

He made a look and blew a sigh out the side of his mouth. "Since way before you were born, then. I snuck out of my parents house to my first metal show," he turned his back to the barrier and leaned against the railing, head back in such a way that I could see just how well defined his jaw was, "twenty-six years ago? I was sixteen, so that sounds right. Pantera. The pit was a lot more fun when I had hair, though. You didn't feel your brain rattling around as much while headbanging if your hair was flopping all over the place."

I laughed and tucked some hair behind my ear, which made me conscious of the way I had just been playing with it as he talked. Seeing Pantera live would have been a dream. "Hard to imagine you with hair," I jabbed, teasing. Maybe playing a little bit of the game with him would be fun.

"I'd have to show you an actual photo album to help with that," he said. "Joys of growing up with no cellphone cameras and no social media."

"No cave paintings?" I kept up my attack and hip checked him a little. They were starting the sound check for the main act on stage and he bumped me as he turned around again, on purpose, I was sure. I wasn't paying much attention to the stage at that point, though. The more I looked at him, the more familiar he seemed. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't place him or whoever it was he looked like that made me so sure I had seen him before.

"Now, now," he waggled a finger at me. "Keep up that kind of sassy behavior and I won't take you out for ice cream after the concert, little girl."

"Aww, but daddy," I whined and gave my best pout -- and I had a great pout, complete with lower lip projection. It got a laugh out of him. He had a nice laugh, clear and bright and loud. "But seriously -- what should I call you?"

He hesitated a moment, then answered. "Liam."

I froze and gasped. "No fucking way." The sudden realization of who he was and where I'd seen him hit me like a bucket of cold water. I looked his face over again, turned to see it off center from the front. "There is no fucking way." The inside cover. Just the eyes and the bridge of his nose. "You're Liam Jolliet?" I thought I might choke on my own breath waiting for him to respond, and then he nodded and my knees turned to water. He caught me with an arm around my back and brought me up to the railing to steady me. Oh, God; he was touching me. "I love Chains of Oleander."

"I can't believe someone your age has even heard of that book, let alone read it," he said, now having to be even louder as the band took off on one of their harder hits to start things off. The crowd erupted into elated screams, but I suddenly wanted nothing more than for the world to be quiet. "Mariana," he added, jabbed.

I felt the heat of color rising to my cheeks. "Okay, it's actually --"

"Don't worry about it," he interrupted me, and he suddenly sounded like he was actually a New York native -- the brief blurb about him on the inside cover said he was from the Bronx originally. "I published that book under a pen name, so neither one of us has given away any secrets. It's nice to meet a fan, though. And hey," he continued as he gave me a squeeze with the arm still about me, "a little anonymity can make the game that much more fun, right?" The color in my cheeks got darker, and the heat I felt moved throughout the entirety of my body, but started to pulse in a few locations in particular. I was definitely getting butterflies. "That's why you're here dressed the way you are, isn't it?"

"Yes," I admitted. The game. The flirtation. The teasing with no real intention of following through on what my practically bare flesh promised; constantly edging the imagination with thoughts of what I could do or might be willing to give. As much of an outsider as I always was, I didn't mind the attention my body earned me. I craved it, actually, but from a distance in most cases. Giving in to desire could be dangerous if done thoughtlessly. I remembered, then, something else from the book -- that control was something you kept until you knew you were ready to let go of it entirely.

Standing there with a writer I had idolized for the last two years, his arm wrapped around me, who had shaped so many of my thoughts about sex and pleasure, I felt myself standing at the edge of that space with my toes curled over the ledge. I couldn't stop imaging, wondering how close his reality came to the fantasy in his novel. Even if it was just for one night -- I needed to know. "I've been playing it by myself, lately."

"That doesn't sound nearly as fun as it should be."

I shrugged and, feeling a little like taking the risk, slipped an arm around behind his waist. "It's hard for me to find someone who can keep pace in my own age range. I get bored easily."

"Precocious? Old soul?" The crowd was getting rowdier, and it was harder to hear each other talking. He pulled me a little closer, which made me lose my grip on his side, but got his other hand on my shoulder and his lips very near my ear.

"A little. Also adventurous," I answered and settled my hands on his and pulled them down to my waist, just above the edge of my skirt. "Lots of little boys with weak stomachs where I'm from."

He squeezed my sides and splayed his fingers out. His pinkies slipped under the waistband of my skirt momentarily as his hands converged on my belly. We were both moving to the music; it had a nice rhythm and gave me an excuse to brush up against him. "No weak stomach on you, I take it," he said and pressed his hands against my belly, pushing me back against him.

"Not so far," I felt my breath catch in my throat as his growing bulge pressed against me. It was hard to tell from that angle, and the fact that it was going through a few layers of clothing, but I was sure he came close to the size of my last lover on the train. "I've been a little timid to press my luck, though."

"That's the problem with playing the game alone," he said and fanned his fingers out again, raking the tips of them across my stomach and back to my protruding hip bones. He applied an agonizingly perfect bit of pressure as he slid two fingers of each hand down beneath the waist of my skirt, following the lines made by my pelvic bones. "How do you expect to learn your limits if you don't have someone there to push them?"

"Fuck," I moaned under my breath. He was studying me with his hands for sensitive spots and finding quite a few of them. I arched my back and wrapped my arms about his neck as my hips moved in slow circles with my backside pressed firmly against his crotch. He rocked side to side with me. I breathed him in; just a little bit of that sweet sweat scent and a hint of cologne that made me think of soft leather furniture and low candle light. No -- he was bigger than the lover on the train. "It's hard to find someone who plays the way I like," I said into his ear. "Do you like the way I play, daddy?"

The writhing mass of people around us suddenly lurched forward and forced us up against the barrier. He reacted quickly -- hands moved up and braced against the railing just in time to keep me from being crushed. He still rammed square into my backside, his denim-restrained cock leading the way. The feeling of him was unmistakable, and my mind immediately went to imagine him plowing into me from behind, and how easy it would be to get away with it right there with all those people not paying attention to anything around them.

I ground harder into him, aching at the thought, just as his hands came back off the railing. One went to my belly and the other slipped underneath the hem of my skirt and pressed against my pubic mound, driving me tighter against his rigid length. "What do you think?" he practically growled into my ear. His fingers slid down the edges of my underwear and then beneath the little bit of fabric covering my slit.

I could feel my own juices starting to run down the inside of my leg as he slipped beneath the lace and started rubbing the tips of his fingers in little circles against my aching clit. "Are you okay with how I play, little girl?" he asked as his lips brushed my ear. All I could do was nod my head as he splayed my lips apart and slipped his fingers inside of me. They were strong and much wider than mine, and with it being so long since anything but my own two fingers had been inside of me, it felt like I might be split apart.

I nearly lost it when he curled his fingers into me, over and over again. He must have felt it; must have sensed my twitching, because fingers came out of me and massaged my perineum to slow my advance. The next words out of his mouth, again in that strong growl, were this: "Don't you dare come until I tell you to, little girl. Do you understand? Be a good little girl for daddy and do as you're told."

His hand wandered up my torso and beneath my little red top. We were close enough to the barrier that no one could see more than my head peeking over top of it, so when his fingers pushed my little black bra out of the way, I had no worries except that I might climax too soon as he found my piercings and gave them a firm little twist that sent shock waves through me. "Daddy likes your little breasts, baby. They're perfect handfuls," he rasped into my ear. "And you have your nipples pierced," he said admiringly as he continued playing with them, all the while maintaining pace with my undulating hips. "How did you know your daddy would like that so much?"

How did he know just how hard to press and just how fast to move his fingers to keep me on the edge of orgasm without shoving me over? My whole body felt on fire, and my knees felt so close to jello that the only things actually holding me up were his hands and the clockwork spring he'd wound up inside my belly. He had led me to a state of grinning, peri-orgasmic bliss and every inhibition I possessed was in danger of failing completely.

And I didn't even care. "I'm so glad you like them, daddy." The part of my brain responsible for coherent thoughts was nowhere to be found, and I knew somehow the moment he gave the word that I would be ready to comply. He wasn't as good as his book. He was so much better. His fingers went back to working circles around my clit and then around my vulva and my inner labia before plumbing my depths again. He worked in a cycle like that for what felt like forever. I forgot how many songs went by while he teased my sticky wet slit.

I stood up a little on my toes with my back pressed against his chest and spread my heels apart to give him better access. I was sweating already from how hot it was in the pit, and how hot I felt with his talented fingers inside of me. My legs got weaker by the minute, but I fought to stay standing. I wanted this. I needed it so badly I could taste it.

"I take it you're a happy little girl," he said into my ear and pulled at the love with his teeth.

"Very," I purred into him. "Thank you so much, daddy. You make me feel so beautiful. Only," I reached around behind me and found the zipper to his fly, undid it, and reached my little hand down into his jeans. "I was hoping you would put more than your fingers inside of me." He wore a kind of spandex boxer briefs which made it awkward to find the opening, but I did and gripped onto the base of his shaft. I gasped again when I found my fingers couldn't meet around it. I loved the way he twitched in my hand, though. It felt so good to know he was just as aroused as I was. "Please, daddy," I kept teasing him as I slid my hand down along his shaft and finally found the end, smeared in sticky precum. "Haven't I been a good girl for you?"

"You have been," he answered as he pulled his fingers free of my sopping wet hole. He brought them up to my lips and the scent of my own sex filled my nostrils like some desperate perfume. I had tasted myself before, but somehow this was different. I sucked his fingers clean, first one, then the other, then both. I wanted him to think about what else my mouth could do, and how much I wanted to do it. "You've been so good, in fact, that after the show, we'll grab some dessert, and then I'll take you back to my hotel room."

"Why not here and now," I pouted. I would have done it, too; without a moment's hesitation. I had his cock nearly out of his pants already, all throbbing veins and pulsing flesh in my delicate little hand.

"I know for sure if I took you here, there would be no hiding it. And we don't want to cause a stir, do we, baby girl? You wouldn't want daddy to get into trouble. That would cut our game short much too quickly." He brought his fingers down, across my lips and chin, to my neck. His thumb pressed into the corner where my jaw met my throat, and between his grip, his scent, the taste of myself lingering on my tongue, and the throbbing fistful of meat in my hands, my mind swam almost as hazy and thin as the rest of me. I nearly crossed the point of no return. "I promise," he said as he applied just a little more pressure to my neck -- God, so perfect how he choked me, "I'll do more than just fuck that sweet little cunt of yours."

"Do you promise, daddy?" I managed and slid my hand up and cupped his heavy balls. I would have followed him anywhere at that point. I would have dropped to my knees in front of all those people and sucked his cock for all I was worth if he'd only asked. But the promise of more -- of the game going on longer than just the concert -- was enough to hook me and keep me satisfied in the moment. "Will you lick my little kitty first?" I said as coy as I could sound teetering on the edge of ecstasy. I had never felt so pliable as I did in his hands; never felt so easily brought to the very limits of my own reason.

He turned me around so fast I barely knew how he did it. He still had his hand about my throat, but his other hand moved down to my hip, and then the back of my thigh. He pulled my leg up and I hooked it behind his knee as he talked. "I'll lick more than that," he said as his fingers slipped back up underneath my skirt and pulled my g-string aside. "And I promise," his fingers, wet from juices gathered from the inside of my thigh, slipped into me -- his middle finger into my pussy and his index finger into my asshole, "you'll know you've been fucked when I'm done."

The pressure snapped me into a more wakeful state. I'd never even tried that before, but with my whole body currently alight from the tip of my head to the bottoms of my toes, I wasn't in any position to say no to anything, even if I'd wanted to.

The new sensation sent a shudder through me and I nearly lost it once again, but I gripped tighter to his balls and fought to maintain that last little shred of control. "Goddamn, that feels good," I said as I bore down his fingers, forcing him deeper. The new sensation brought me even closer to release than I'd been before. "I don't know if that is going to fit there, though," I admonished as my hand traveled back to his shaft.

"We'll work it out, I'm sure." he said, and smiled as I looked up at him, loose lidded and gasping while he worked my holes in tandem with his fingers and squeezed my neck with his free hand.

"Daddy," I panted and kissed the underside of his chin. My whole body was starting to shake and clench. It wouldn't be able to fight it much longer, but I didn't want to disappoint him. I took my hand out of his pants and gripped onto his shoulders, like two slabs of granite beneath that white oxford cloth. I wanted to be his good girl for the night, and so I did what any little girl would do to get her daddy to do something for her and begged.

"Daddy, I can't hold... Please let me.. Please, daddy, may I come? Daddy...oh, please," I went on, nearly in tears as his hand tightened on my throat and I fought every spastic neuron in every fiber of my being. My voice cracked as I whimpered as close to his ear as I could get.

I stared up to him, our eyes locked. He had such intense, dark eyes that shot straight into my soul. Something lingered there, something that took measure of me and memorized every twitch of my pupil, every flutter of lashes, every minute crease about my pleading mouth. His hand went from my throat to the back of my head, grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled my face into his chest where he finally, fatally whispered into my ear. "Come for me, Mariana. Come for me now, baby girl."

I convulsed against him, felt my holes pulsing around his digits, and for a moment completely forgot how to breathe. When I remembered, it came in ragged, sobbing moans as all the pent up sexual energy built up from what had to have been an hour and a half of edging me on unleashed itself in a metaphorical and literal flood. I squirted -- not in a stream, but in a sudden and complete release like I'd dropped a cup of water on the floor. I bit his shirt as the waves kept coming, straining to hold back the scream perched just at the back of my throat. Later, I told myself, when you're at his hotel room there will be plenty of chances for screams then.

His fingers were out of me and his hands were wrapped about me to hold me up, which was good because my legs let go completely somewhere in the middle. And there I floated in his arms, a dripping wet mess between my legs, and a feeling of complete, elated release heaving in my chest. When I finally came down and found my footing, the band had finished the main part of the show and was being enticed by the audience to start their encore performance. "Thank you, daddy," was all I could manage. "Thank you, Liam. God, thank you so much."

"You're very welcome, baby girl," he said, and kissed me on the top of my head. "Now, how are your legs? Still a little wobbly, eh? Not a problem. You need a better vantage to grab some merch, anyway. Here," he spun me around again, "let daddy give you a lift."

I yelped as he hoisted me up and laughed despite myself as he sat me, squelching wet g-string, pussy, and all, on his shoulders with his head between my thighs. His face was unfortunately not pointed into my crotch, but I guess that would have been inappropriate. I caught a rolled up t-shirt strapped with a heavy silicon wristband, then gestured down to Liam and waved on another. It wasn't until he set me down again that I realized my bra was still up and I'd flashed the stage. So may firsts for one night.