Profaned

Emily desired this ecstatic crowd more than anything in the world.

The harsh glare of the spotlights cut out her silhouette--athletic yet slender, upright and fragile--at the center of the stage, while her free breasts swayed beneath her short green top that bared a lightly tanned belly and a navel half-closed vertically, resembling a cat's pupil.

Below, her fans stretched out their arms and called to her.

Microphone in hand, she poured out her powerful, lascivious, and silky voice as her musicians' instruments rang through the air thick with electricity, smells, and screams. From her full, inviting mouth flowed bold lyrics of her own writing, betraying the unspeakable urge that shimmered like a fire between her legs, lyrics she exploited to address every one of the thousands of spectators packed at her feet that night.

Males and females of every age, sweating and in a trance.

Dancing, hopping, graceful as a gazelle in heat, she crossed the stage in both directions, then faced them right at the edge, tugging her elastic-waisted pants upward until the fabric--under which she wore nothing--molded perfectly to the shape of her outer labia, offering the youngest ones, packed tight and aroused in the front rows, a partial imprint of the intimacy they already sometimes coveted in secret.

One of them challenged her to come closer.

And the singer, brightly, answered that she was coming, drawing howls. Once down in the pit, she signaled her bodyguards to stay back; they obeyed reluctantly. Used to her escapades, they had been warned of her reckless plan before the show. The head of security disapproved and was told she was eighteen and knew what she was doing.

The young woman pressed herself against a galvanized steel barrier.

Desperate hands shot out at once and grabbed her arms, her waist, a shoulder, while others, bolder, brushed her generous breasts through the short top clinging to her skin, damp with effort, heat, and arousal. Her eyes settled on those small fingers--often with painted nails--sweeping across her chest in every direction and caressing her nipples without restraint. Stirred up by the way they touched her, she felt each tip harden under the fabric, a smile on her lips.

Still holding her microphone, she invited them to be patient.

Not to cool their ardor, but on the contrary, assuring them she would stay with them for a long while and that there would therefore be enough for everyone.

Hysterical screams rang out under the open sky.

On the small stadium's screen stretched her radiant face, her piercing brown eyes, and her carnivorous smile. Truth be told, she adored what they were doing to her, but she needed more. Emily was then pulled forward by a hand firmly gripping her elastic-waisted pants, which parted just long enough for her to catch a glimpse of her shaved pubis. Alarmed, a bodyguard stepped closer, then, at a gesture from her, thought better of it.

She gently rid herself of that admirer.

After which she climbed onto the barrier and crossed to the other side amid the howls. Barely five-foot-five and a hundred and twenty pounds, she was swallowed by the surge of the crowd that followed and reappeared a moment later, only her head sticking out. One hand delicately seized a thick lock of her long, wavy blond hair; another lingered on her left cheek; two more settled on either side of her hips, while a greedy finger slid in from behind, found the entrance to her wet pussy, and buried itself fully inside.

The singer turned as the finger withdrew.

She found herself face to face with its owner, who, mouth half-open in astonishment, saw that his finger was wet. She bit her lower lip, raised her eyebrows twice, and gave him a knowing wink before resuming her position. Then she felt him dig into her again at the same spot where, earlier that afternoon, she had slit her pants to allow easy and, above all, direct access to her vulva.

The mass tightened around the young woman.

Someone put a hand on her ass, then grabbed one of her buttocks and kneaded it the way one kneads warm bread dough, while she was now being fingered--a thumb in her vagina, an index finger in her rectum, both gently pinching the recto-vaginal septum and exerting a relative downward pull. She found the sensation delicious and felt a sharp pleasure, perceiving brief internal contractions around the double intrusion that made it even more electrifying. She leaned forward a little, sighed twice, and let out a moan, telling herself that the unknown male who was taking her on with such boldness would never forget either this moment or her.

This was also what excited her in such a situation.

Emily tried to move forward as the crowd roared, forming a compact, heterogeneous mass of bodies pressed around her and surging like a conscious wave, obsessed with her presence, idolizing her to the point of wanting to possess her. Men with clenched jaws, mature women, inexperienced youths seeking sexual contact--all mingled in a maelstrom of smells of sweat, beer, fries, dust, and cheap perfume that rose to her nostrils, bodies straining toward her like bees drawn to nectar.

A slender male stepped forward and kissed her.

She let him, guiding him, intoxicated by desire, while he pressed his left hand into her back and gripped her pussy with the other, vigorously stroking her labia through the fabric before sliding his fingers deeper and thrusting as much as he could into her vagina, moving in and out in rhythm.

Afterward she watched him dive into the hollow of her neck.

He licked her thoroughly under the envious gazes of the fans surrounding them. Countless hands and fingers were now groping her, caressing, pinching, clinging to everything that stuck out, pushing, pulling her hair, shoving her again, while an intense sensation enveloped her.

The singer began to come as she had never come before.

It was not only because she was being fingered below or groped above, but also because of this simultaneous, all-over stimulation that triggered a true neurochemical cascade in her brain, drowning her in an abyss of intense pleasure of which the orgasm was only the tip of the sensory iceberg--comparable to an ecstasy coupled with an altered state of consciousness; the fact that she desired her fans as much as they desired her only added to this unmatched climax.

The massive release of dopamine overwhelmed her.

Eyes closed, head thrown back, the young woman felt freed from every form of discomfort or stress, every cell of her brain bathing in endorphins that acted like so many natural opiates. The oxytocin, released in abnormally high amounts following the prolonged skin contact and in response to the sexual arousal, fostered in her a feeling of absolute trust, total self-abandonment, and heightened tactile connection. Vasopressin thus amplified her sexual arousal and sensations; norepinephrine and adrenaline increased her heart rate, blood pressure, and the volume of blood in her skin and sex, placing her brain in a state of hyper-arousal that made every brush of a hand, finger, or tongue, every massage, kneading, or digital penetration incredibly electric and amplified beyond words.

She barely felt that she was being carried.

Held more than three feet off the ground, limbs spread like a woman under torture, relieved of her microphone, she perceived that whole sections of her clothes were being torn from her and that hands were busy around her firm thighs; those thighs then found themselves stretched vertically, the bends of her knees resting on the shoulders of a tall man who ripped the upper half of her elastic-waisted pants before impaling himself into her pussy, all the way to the womb.

The cock was long and excessively thick.

She welcomed it with a smile on her lips, mouth open as if to swallow the sun, eyes half-closed, tears of joy streaming down her flushed cheeks. The cries, the thrusting motions, the hot jets of semen that splashed her skin, her hair, what remained of her clothes, those fingers that forced her throat, plunged deep into her ass, spread the walls of her vagina while someone was pounding her hard enough to split her in two--Emily had sought them out, found them, embraced them, wishing they would never stop. Sunk in an altered state of consciousness, she was nothing more than laughter, spasms, offering, twists, arches, a fountain of cunt juice, a bottomless well displayed to every appetite and to the appetite of all.

Voracious mouths tasted her body.

She surrendered, the combination of global and synchronous tactile stimulation saturating her nervous system, while the unique neurochemical cocktail released by her brain temporarily suspended the activity of her prefrontal cortex--the zone of reasoning and control--plunging her into a state of pure abandon and pure pleasure. She remained conscious, however, at least enough to perceive the dozens of hands and hundreds of fingers that pressed, touched, and pierced her without brake, restraint, or scruple.

Her pussy suddenly gushed out a flood of cum.

She then had the impression that a miniature forearm was sinking into her without meeting the slightest resistance, striking her cervix and sending her tumbling even deeper into bliss.

The singer finally disappeared, swallowed whole by the crowd.

At once the bodies closed over her like quicksand. She perceived the heat of the skins, the smell of sweat, the taste of the fluids, the sound of their combined breaths, the sight of their predatory faces. She had realized her dream. She belonged to them body and soul, letting it happen, her body wrecked and shipwrecked, her mind floating in a hedonistic intoxication where every contact, every outrage, every profanation fed an inner fire she had secretly kept burning for so long.

The young woman felt a mouth sucking her clitoris.

After that, air began to fail her. The videos of her immersion were circling the globe, gone viral to a degree perhaps never reached before. She knew nothing of it until she woke at dawn, slowly coming back to herself while one of her fans was losing his virginity between her thighs. When he came and then withdrew, she saw bodies lying around her, half-naked--a spectacle that seemed straight out of an ancient Roman orgy.

She learned that the police had tried to disperse the crowd.

Firefighters were talking in the distance, blocked by a cordon of spectators determined to keep them from getting through.

Emily did nothing to hide her nudity, still being filmed by several cell phones. She suspected her career had just come to an end and that this had been her last public concert. Perhaps the prosecutor's office would charge her with exhibitionism, but she didn't care, knowing she had just marked the history of music as surely as they had marked her depths. A little numb, she walked away naked, hungry, filthy, and dehydrated, trailed by a column of devoted followers--women with bare asses and men with cocks standing hard.

More alive than ever.