"Any hot cuties out there?" the drummer asked Dylan.
The teenager, like the rest of them in his first year of college, took another glance out of the wings at the audience in front of the stage. Dylan Kemp had come together with the band less because he wanted to make music, (though it could be fun if sometimes practising felt too much like work) than because being a guitarist in a rock group was second only to being its lead singer for picking up pussy. Certainly in the last few months, he hadn't gone short and didn't regret that he and his High School sweetheart had decided to part, on friendly terms, the weekend before they both went away to study. Normally, he'd have been reckoning his chances for fucking some hottie before the end of the night as good -- not only were there plenty of bangable girls crowded on the front of the stage but there were at least twice as many as there were guys, telling him a lot had come without a boyfriend in tow to complicate matters.
However, tonight was an exception, after a quick glance at the potential groupies in the front row he cast his eyes upwards, looking towards the back of the club. If the cock-hungry congregated at the front, those who wanted to see and hear the band without someone elbowing them in the face tended to be further back, near the bar or even sitting at the tables. It was where his Mom would be he was sure. He hadn't told any of his band-mates that she was going to be in the audience, he wasn't sure whether they'd rib him mercilessly or instead become ultra-polite and sensitive and insist that they didn't play the songs with the most suggestive lyrics. He continued to scan the audience, looking for her, ignoring the drummer and now bassist's demands for a temperature check on how hot the audience, or at least its female portion, was.
There was no sign of her either at the bar or at a table, which was slightly worrying, as his Mom was usually punctual and they were on any moment. Still, it was an hour from where she lived and she'd not been to his college before, so she could have easily underestimated the time it'd take to find the bar. It was too late to look anymore as the MC was on stage, introducing the band and so with a quick "It's plenty hot," Dylan came on stage, brandishing his guitar, as the drummer quickly followed twirling his sticks and heading for his kit, followed by the bassist and vocalist.
There was plenty of noise from the crowd as they began to warm up, they'd played here and a number of other local venues before and were pretty popular with the college crowd. Dylan glanced down at his guitar as he plucked a few chords and the singer strutted back and forth, waiting for the right moment for the crowd to quieten down and for him to begin his patter. Behind them, the drummer was starting to snap a quick repeatable rhythm across his kit and Dylan quickly joined in, a low backdrop to the singer as he started his well-practised opening spiel, all about beer and broads. The crowd loved it and cheered even louder. Dylan grinned and looked up again, the lights were beaming onto the stage and all those beyond the front row were just silhouettes; he'd have to look for his Mom after the show. He hoped she'd made it, she'd never seen him play before.
"Let's go crazy!" screamed the vocalist, the signal for the rest of the band to break into the intro of their first song.
For a few moments, Dylan needed to concentrate, ignoring the shrieks from the crowd and just concentrating on his fingers as he angled them across the tight strings of his guitar. But then, as it always did, his body seemed to take over and the fingers seemed to move of their own accord without him having to even think, the music taking over. He grinned, leaning back and blasting out the tune, totally in sync with his buddies, the crowd rocking and screaming in fevered appreciation. His eyes scanned the front row as his fingers sped across the guitar; even if he couldn't fuck a hottie tonight with his Mom here, he could at least take a look at what would have been available.
There was plenty around, the front row packed with hot and sexy rock chicks; blondes and brunettes and redheads, short-haired, permed, long-pony tails, in T-shirts and cropped tops and leather jackets, some so young they'd obviously used false ID and more than a couple of Milfs who'd been round the block more than once. They were all screaming and yelling in fevered adulation, their heads banging back and forth, their tits bouncing in tight tops, their eyes raised upwards trying to catch the gaze of any one of the band and say they were available. Sure, there were plenty of guys there as well, all having a good time, but Dylan didn't concentrate on them, his energy was all with the hotties.
Then he saw her.
All his life Abigail Kemp had been a staid and conventional Mom, her clothes smart and well-turned out, but boring and bland, her hair neatly kept but unstyled and straight, her lipstick and make-up so understated that it was barely noticeable. She organised PTA events and drove him and his high school buddies to football games and the mall and each other's houses and the wildest she got was inviting the neighbours round for a couple of sherries on Christmas Eve.
But not tonight, she was so different Dylan had hardly recognised her, he had to look again to be sure it was not some rock doppelganger. Her hair was cut shorter, to just beyond her collar, but dyed ash blonde rather than her normal mousy brown, her eye shadow was dark around her eyes and the make-up on her cheeks made her look paler and younger at the same time; it accentuated her lips, brightly painted a deep red, almost blood-like, making them seem plump and perfect. Instead of the shapeless blouses or dresses she normally wore she was in a vest, which clung to her large breasts so closely, it was like it was moulded to her and as she danced enthusiastically to the beat they jiggled and pressed out against the material, the nipples evident like two pebbles under the tight top.
Damn, his Mom was hot.
She saw he'd noticed her, giving him an extra big grin and a wave, and probably in his imagination, bounced her bosoms at him. He nodded back at her, did she wink? His fingers automatically strummed at the strings, trying not to look at her. Had she always been this good-looking? He'd banged a few Milfs since he'd started college, older women went for guys with rock star looks as much as their teenage daughters did. None had been as sexy looking as his Mom. He pushed the thought back and tried to concentrate on the music, aware that he was slightly out of tune with the rest of the guys. He got himself back into the rhythm, luckily none of the crowd seemed to have noticed, or if they had, cared. He forced himself not to look at his Mom, but at other members of the audience, stepping forward to play a short solo a few feet from a busty brunette who was shaking her bosoms eagerly under her dark T-shirt. He moved to her next-door neighbour, a redhead whose lipstick was even rosier than her hair and then onto a long-haired blonde who licked her lips seductively and gave him a come hither smile. But even as he was playing he found himself being drawn back to his Mom, looking at her as she bopped and danced, her tits pressing at her top like they wanted out, her red lips pursed in a sexy half-smile as she waved her hands high above her head.
The song they were playing finished and Dylan took a step back from the edge of the stage, wiping a bead of sweat from his head. The singer was ranting into the microphone and most of the crowd were lapping it up, screaming and cheering at his half-formed political opinions. Not all though, his Mom was leaning forward, her eyes on him, her tongue sliding sensually around her lips. He felt his prick hardening of its own accord; damn, he thought, how could his own Mom be having such an effect on him? especially when there were so many other women around. Could she tell? Probably not, that'd be weird, as she was continuing to smile at him. He was reading too much into her dressing for a gig, even if that was more sexy than what she normally wore. He gave her a grin and a thumbs up.
"Yeah, that one is hot," the bassist sidled up to him and mistook his attention, "Reckon she's old enough to have popped a kid. I'd fucking bang her no prob, divorcees are the fucking sluttiest."
"Um yeah," Dylan didn't feel now was the moment to mention that Abigail was his Mom. Instead, he moved a couple of feet away and tried to gaze at some teen who was giving all her attention to the singer's views on the situation in a South American country he couldn't even spell.
