The Education of Lisa Ch. 03

"Oh my my, oh hell yes, honey put on that party dress," my best friend Carrie said. She'd been quoting Tom Petty all day, and it was starting to get just the teensiest bit irritating.

We were getting ready for the concert, and she was determined to dress me "slutty" from her own personal wardrobe. Because Carrie was about two sizes smaller than me, all her stuff looked even sluttier on me than it did on her. I stepped into a little black party dress with thin spaghetti straps, lots of fringe, and a total of about two square feet of very thin material. It fit me snugly, to say the least, and the skirt rode about a mile above my knees.

"Yes!" Carrie squealed when she saw me in it. "We have a winner. But lose the bra."

The white bra did kind of look ridiculous beneath the black dress, but without it I would be almost completely exposed.

"Everybody will be looking at my chest," I said.

"Duh," Carrie replied.

So I hesitantly removed the bra. I pulled the dress straps back on and eyed myself in the mirror.

"God, I wish I had your tits," Carrie said, eyeing mine and feeling up her own. "They're gorgeous."

"You can totally see my nipples," I said. They were poking through the material of the dress like I had stuffed tic-tacs down there.

"That's kind of the point," Carrie said. "Trust me on this. Erect nipples make men your slaves. Now drop your panties."

"What?"

"I never wear underwear with that dress. It gets me so jacked up and horny that I'd fuck anything that moves. That's totally the mood we're going for," Carrie said. "Besides, men are psychic about that sort of thing. They can tell how naked you are without even looking."

So I let my panties slide down to my ankles and kicked them away. I have to admit that there was a certain thrill in knowing that if I were to sit down just the wrong way, my pussy would be on display for the world to see.

"Too bad there's no time to shave you," Carrie said. "Some guys like a little hair, though."

She turned me around so she could get a good look, eyeing me from head to toe with a critic's eye.

"What do you think?" I said.

"I'd fuck you," she answered. I'm not sure if she was being serious or not.

We were on our way to a Tom Petty concert. Carrie had won tickets by being the fifth caller to the radio station. "Front row, baby," as she said. She had invited me along for the express purpose of meeting a guy at the concert so I could get laid. I'd just broken up with my dickhead boyfriend Jerry and, though we'd had anal sex many times, my vagina was practically untouched. (Long story.) I was, technically anyway, a virgin. This was a situation which I intended to remedy. Tonight. Carrie was enthusiastic about the plan. She had never liked Jerry.

"I am so glad we're doing this," she said. "This is such the right thing to do. You won't even remember that jerk's name after tonight."

I have to say, I was getting excited. In addition to me being dressed like a high-class whore, there was the fact that Tom Petty had always turned me on. Ever since that video with all the "Alice in Wonderland" stuff. At the end of the video, when Alice's body mysteriously turns to cake and the whole band starts cutting off slices . . . ooh, that was hot. In fact, the first time I ever masturbated, I fantasized that my pussy was cake and that Tom Petty was eating it. With icing.

As if that wasn't enough, Carrie had provided what she called "additional lubrication." She had a flask full of it. I'm not sure what it was, I'm not much of a drinker, but it burned going down and seemed to stoke the fires in my nether regions. Then she pulled out a baggy of green stuff and some rolling papers.

"Let's get to the point," she said, lighting up the big spliff. "Let's roll another joint."

I'd never smoked pot before, but tonight was a night for new experiences, wasn't it? When she offered it to me, I surprised both of us by taking a hit.

So, lit up like Christmas trees, Carrie and I made our way to the concert hall. Guys were checking us out from the second we walked through the door. Carrie was dressed in a comparatively modest halter top and tight jeans. ("Tonight's your night," she'd said. "I don't want to steal your thunder.") She was even wearing underwear. Still, she got her fair share of eyeball attention.

She pointed out guys here and there, who she saw as "prospects," but I didn't see anybody who did much for me. Either they reminded me of dorks I had gone to high school with or, this being a "classic rock" concert, were old enough to be my Dad. Despite my vows to give it up for the first halfway attractive guy, I suddenly found myself having standards. This was, after all, my virginity we were talking about. So we just took our seats in the front row.

"You mean to tell me you didn't see anybody you liked?" Carrie said.

"We'll hook up with somebody after the show," I said, though I was having doubts. This suddenly didn't seem like such a hot idea after all.

Then the lights went down and everybody around us started to get excited. The Heartbreakers ripped into "American Girl," the spotlight came up, and there, not four feet away from me, was Tom Fucking Petty.

Christ, I thought. He looked good. The same age as my Dad, true, but still hot and freaky. He was wearing tight jeans and my mouth watered when I looked at his bulging crotch. That wasn't all that was watering, either. I felt moisture drip down the inside of my leg and remembered what I wasn't wearing. My pussy was sopping wet, and he'd only been on stage for a few seconds.

Then he started to sing. That voice, so sinuous and reedy. I shivered. And those lips. I remembered my cake fantasy and, despite being in the presence of literally thousands of people, I found myself wanting to slide my fingers down between my legs and give my clit a few healthy strokes which, at that point, would have been more than enough to get me off. It was driving me crazy that I couldn't. I knew then that I would either get with Tom Petty or no one.

It was a few songs into the show, "I Won't Back Down," I think, when I started to imagine that Tom Petty was checking me out. Or maybe I wasn't imagining it. Carrie, dancing beside me, screamed in my ear: "He's STARING at you!"

I looked up on stage and, swear to God, Tom Petty and I made eye contact. He actually smiled at me.

A few songs later, Carrie threw her arms around my neck. "Kiss me," she yelled over the music.

"What?"

"You really want to get his attention, make out with me for a minute," she said. "He'll flip out."

Before I could think of how to respond, Carrie kissed me full on the mouth. I'd never kissed a girl like that before, I had no idea how cool it was. She was a way better kisser than . . . shit. Carrie had been right. At that moment, I couldn't even remember my stupid ex's name. We started going at it really hot and heavy. If things don't work out with me and Tom Petty, I thought, I just might settle for Carrie. Weird.

I had this crazy desire to touch Carrie's breast, which I resisted until Carrie herself grabbed my hand and put it on her tit. Needless to say, I had never felt a girl up before, but I understood right away why guys were so crazy for breasts. It felt so soft and warm in my hand, but with this hard little nub at the center. I started playing with her breast, and Carrie leaned into me and kissed me even deeper. We must have put on a pretty good show. Tom Petty stumbled on the lyrics for "Learning to Fly."

Carrie released me and we exchanged a smile containing God knew what kind of promises.

"Maybe some other time," she screamed into my ear. "Tonight, you belong to Tom Petty."

The band finished with the song and then started in on "Last Dance With Mary Jane." My absolute, hands down, no doubt about it, favorite song of all time. And Tom Petty wouldn't take his eyes off me. I couldn't hold his gaze for very long. It was too much. I wanted him so badly. I didn't even think about the next thing I did. It just came naturally. I pulled the strap down on my dress and flashed him my right breast.

"Yours," I mouthed to Tom Petty.

"Buy me a drink, sing me a song, take me as I come because . . . uh," Tom Petty froze. He just stopped singing. I couldn't believe it. The sight of my naked breast had caused him to fuck up in front of thousands of people. It took him several beats to recover.

After the song, he went to the back of the stage and wrote something on a scrap of paper. He tossed it to me, then started blowing his harmonica for the opening lines of "You Don't Know How It Feels."

"Let me run with you tonight, I'll take you on a moonlight ride," he sang.

"Bellmore Hotel, Room 222," the note said.

"Yes," I said, nodding up at the stage.

Carrie squealed when she saw the note. "Holy shit," she said. "You're going to fuck Tom Petty."

They finished that song, then went off-stage to thunderous applause. They came back on to do "Free Fallin'" as the encore. It might have been my imagination, but I swear they rushed through it.

After the concert, we walked over to the hotel, which was only a few blocks away. I almost chickened out on the way, but Carrie provided me with verbal encouragement and a few shots of liquid courage from her flask. She walked me to the elevator, where she handed me a few condoms and gave me a kiss for good luck.

"Come with me," I begged.

"No," Carrie said. "Some things you must do on your own."

"Please."

"Tom Petty wants you," she said.

I flashed her a smile. "I'm willing to share."

Carrie shook her head in disbelief. "You want your first time to be a three-way with a rock star. I guess if you're going to lose your virginity, you might as well do it in a big way."

"So you'll come with me?"

She shrugged. "Maybe I can hook up with one of the guys in the band."

"Thank you."

We got in the elevator and rode up one floor to my destiny.

Tom Petty himself answered the door. "Hi," he smiled.

We were both two star-struck to do anything but nod and blush.

"So," he said, letting us in and shutting the door. "How old are you girls?"

"N-nineteen," Carrie stuttered.

"No shit?" Tom Petty said. "Really?"

"Yeah," I managed to say. "That's right. Nineteen."

"Honestly? Nineteen? Because we don't want no trouble with local jailbait."

So we pulled out our ID's to show Tom Petty how old we were. I wondered if many people were carded before they could have sex.

After that, it was better. Tom Petty was in the room with a few guys from his band. Everybody had acoustic guitars and was passing around joints. I snuggled up close to Petty, and Carrie wedged herself comfortably between two of the guys in the band. It was very relaxed, very casual. And, needless to say, it was incredibly cool to just sit and listen to Tom Petty jam on old Bob Dylan songs.

The weed gave everything a lazy, dreamy tinge and after a while the guitars were laid aside. That's when Tom Petty leaned over and kissed me. He was a great kisser. I climbed up on his lap and he put his arms around me, and we proceeded to get as close as we could. His hands were all over me, expertly. A musician's touch, playing me like an instrument. And his lips, kissing all over my face and neck, moving down to my breasts so slowly that I was practically begging for it by the time he finally pulled down my straps. He kissed my nipples into bristly nubs.

We made out like that for what felt like hours. Tom Petty wasn't hurrying me, he was letting me set the pace. Which was so cool. Finally, I pulled away from him. It was only then that I realized that Carrie wasn't there anymore.

"Where's my friend?" I said.

"She went off in another room with a couple of the guys," Tom Petty said. "It's cool. She's all right."

I smiled up at him and then leaned over to unzip his jeans. Tom Petty laid back on the bed while I freed him from his pants.

I know everyone's probably interested in Petty's prick. Well, let me tell you. It was of prominent proportions. A real monster. I couldn't tell you how long in inches, just that he was way bigger than Jerry, who was the only other guy who's prick I've seen. Tom Petty wasn't even all the way hard, and he put Jerry to shame. But that was a situation I intended to remedy.

I took the big beautiful rock star cock in my hand and rolled the skin slowly up and down. Then I took the head in my mouth and licked him like an ice cream cone. Tom Petty moaned a little and began to inflate in my mouth.

I wasn't trying to suck him off. It was more of an "American Girl" blow job. You know, "Ooh, yeah. All right. Take it easy, baby. Make it last all night." I explored every centimeter of his cock with my lips and tongue and fingertips. Down the shaft to his scrotum, licking and kissing all down the seam to that little part at the bottom which led to his asshole, getting the whole thing slicked up with saliva before moving back up to focus on the bulbous head again. He tasted manly and musky, like some kind of exotic meat. So much more tantalizing than Jerry, who had taken four showers a day and had always tasted like soap.

There was a bead of white cream dripping from the eye of Petty's prick. I kissed it away, surprised at its sweetness. Jerry's come had been bitter. With that thought, I forced myself to stop comparing Tom Petty to my ex-boyfriend.

Tom Petty let me work on him for as long as I wanted to. Somehow, I knew he wasn't going to come until I was ready for him. One of the benefits of an older man, I guess, better self-control. He just kept getting harder and harder until I couldn't stand it anymore. Finally, I released him and lay back on the bed. I spread my legs wide, offering my pussy to him.

Tom Petty's expert hand worked me. Stroking gently, the thumb applying just the right degree of pressure to my clitoris, two or three fingers sliding into my cunt. I gasped.

"So," Tom Petty said. "Tell me what you like and what you don't like."

How sweet, I thought. "I don't want anal sex," I told him. "Other than that, Tom Petty, I'm yours."

He laughed. "OK, but why don't you tell me what you do want?"

"Eat my pussy," I said. "Pretend like it's cake."

"Cake," he grinned, but he was already going down.

Tom Petty must have eaten hundreds of pussies in his life time. He was like some kind of pussy-eating genius. I mean it. Maybe it came from playing the harmonica, I don't know, but Jesus that guy knew what he was doing down there.

It wasn't like the orgasms I had while masturbating, which were simple patterns of build-up and release. The orgasms I had under Tom Petty's incredible lips were like ocean waves, one on top of another, each one crashing harder than the last. The tide was coming in.

Finally, he lifted his head, his face dripping with my juices.

"Con . . ." I tried to say, but I was too breathless to speak.

"I got it, babe," Tom Petty said. From a drawer on the bedside, he pulled out a condom and rolled it on.

Then he laid on top and slid inside. Petty pierced me. I was filled up for the first time. There was an instant of pain, but it was over in a second and wasn't exactly like pain anyway, more like a release. I was so primed and ready by two hours of foreplay that my pussy, virginal though it was, was positively crying out to be filled.

I spread my legs as far as they would go, then wrapped them around his waist. I tried to pull him in farther, tried to pull him right through me. Tom Petty moved slow at first, until I was begging him to go faster, to fuck me harder. He obliged, harder and faster until I was screaming.

Did I say I had orgasms when he was going down on me? Turns out I didn't even know what an orgasm was until Tom Petty balled my brains out. I screamed so loud that I thought someone would surely call the police on us. Tom Petty cried out, in answer to my scream, and deep inside I felt the condom bulge as it was filled with a huge load. In the moment, I wished senselessly that he wasn't wearing it. I wanted to be filled the overflowing with a sweet load of Petty cream, consequences be damned.

With that wish in my head, I blacked out into blissful, fucked-out unconsciousness.

The next morning, I made my way downstairs, feeling very naked in Carrie's tight black dress. At least Tom Petty had given me a pair of his very own boxer shorts to wear under the dress. Such a sweetheart.

We'd made love a few more times the night before, although it's hard to say how many. At least a few of them had been dreams. For breakfast, Tom Petty had ordered me an incredible room service spread. For desert, I'd had a mouthful of his sweet milky come.

I found Carrie waiting for me in the lobby, dozing off on the couch. I woke her up and we walked out to the car together. I was walking a little funny, I think, the result of fucking a rock star all night long.

We exchanged stories of the night before. Carrie had made it with not one, but two Heartbreakers. "I blew Benmont Tench while Mike Campbell fucked me from behind. Halfway through, they switched. It was awesome. I've always wanted to do two guys at once."

As we got into the car, Carrie squealed from the excitement of it all.

"Oh my God," she said. "Do you realize how cool this is? You lost your virginity to Tom Petty. I lost mine to pimply Brian Gordo in the eighth grade. Mark my words, this is the start of a great sexual future."

As we drove home from that wondrous night, I had no idea how right she was.

To be continued . . .