Molested At The Noise Show

What I wanted was close to rape or full-on molestation. What I got was somewhat close, although it was not completely one sided, as rape and molestation are known to be. It didn't hurt me . . . sexually. Really. It was more of a role play type action but nothing was ever said.

This happened at a Whitehouse show here in Chicago recently. For those who need to know, Whitehouse is a noise band that addresses rape and molestation and child murder and pedophilia. I really like Whitehouse and--figuring that their audience would contain as many genuine degenerates as it would extreme music fans--I was equally eager to see the crowd as I was the band.

When Whitehouse--two evil-radiating, egg-bald British sex-criminal-types--came out and kicked up their racket I wiggled right up to the stage. I was as close to the band as I could get, leaning against one of the speakers on the stage.

All their distortion-ripped aural bombardment and screaming about forced sex and agony elicited a bizarre feeling inside of me that was somewhat unfamiliar, but not completely. It put me in a mood I have forever enjoyed. I wanted to be touched. Badly.

He stood next to me--a fat, sickening troll of a man about twenty years my senior, but worlds apart from what I would find attractive. He was repulsive. He made me sick, this hideous, obese plug of a wastrel.

I watched Whitehouse as they made their noise and violently spouted hateful lyrics about hairless cunts and playground sex and crying and mommy and daddy and genitals and little girls and little boys, and while I was lost in this I felt him edge closer to me.

I felt his fat body rub against mine and I at first thought that since the show was so crowded, he must have been pushed toward me. But then instead of bumping into me he started to rub his fatness methodically and erotically up and down my side, paying close attention to graze my tit as much as he possibly could.

At first I could not figure out if it was the alcohol I’d consumed, or if maybe I was imagining it, or was this fat parasite actually trying to feel me up? And, for some odd reason, I did not want him to stop. So I stood there, confused, and still did not move. I let it happen.

Like I said, I did not participate, at least not actively. I only stood there, dead still, but his fat, swelling body kept getting closer and closer, and he started to graze my tit even more often until he was almost full-on feeling it up with his lardy arm. It was now extremely clear what was going on. I could have stopped it at any time. Physically, this hulk was disgusting, but I think if he was any less disgusting I could not have continued with this.

Soon enough, I could hear him wheezing in my ear. He breathed heavily, and slowly. I stood my ground, completely still, staring straight ahead, hearing Whitehouse describe exactly what seemed to be happening to me at that exact moment.

Then fatty made a bold move by actually moving his hand around my body, and started to feel my ass, rubbing it up and down and grabbing it. This was my time to make a move, to get away. Or not.

It was definitely happening now and I was in it. But I stared ahead, standing still as a corpse. Letting his fat sausage fingers continually grab my ass while he was rubbing his fatness full-on against my boob. I didn't rub back. It would have felt wrong. Everything felt wrong, but it felt right. No one spoke. If words were exchanged I would have stopped it.

His hand then went around my waist to the front of my pants where he proceeded to unbutton my pants and grazed his fat fingers over my piss-soaked vagina. This was now a good twenty minutes into the show. But I could not keep time. The band and the booze and what was happening proved too much for me.

All the cacophony and wailing about molestation and childhood and sex put me too much in the moment and all I could do was stand still and look ahead. I knew if I looked at him everything would fall to pieces because he was such a disgusting specimen, plus this was all an act. Something that we were both going through and experiencing, but without uttering a single word or exchanging any non-verbal signals. He did everything. A seemingly one-sided sexual experience, so much like molestation, except that while I was completely horrified, I cannot say that I did not enjoy it, and I could have gone on like that for another good four hours, but I knew when the band stopped playing it would be over.

At one time it did occur to me that we were surrounded by people, and that they could probably see what was going on no matter how discreet it was. I did for a moment wonder what they would think; if they thought I knew the fellow or did not. Or if they even cared.

Fatboy moved sideways to rub his dick against me to show me that he was hard. I never looked at him though. I continued to only look forward. I let him rub his fat hard-on against me while he shoved his fingers into my pisshole. I was in a trance again and thoughts of everything were flooding my brain: memories, thoughts of the moment, thoughts of other places, people, everything bombarded me. I imagined that he was my schoolteacher, my father, my brother, my former boss, a police officer, a priest, a pervert, a pedophile, an uncle, almost everything, and I imagined myself to be a student, a little girl, a prepuce, a daughter, a sister, a girl. Still, I looked forward and did not move.

It then occurred to me that this band would soon end. I did not want to do anything. I did not want him to stop. If he did stop, I would not protest. I refused to act as if anything was happening at all. I was very careful to keep my facial expression the same and not to move at all, to stay as still as a scared mouse. It was obviously a game we were playing and I liked the game a bit too much, as I'm sure he did.

Finally Whitehouse left the stage and I clapped, as did he, removing his tainted hand from my vagina. He continued to rub his hard-on against my leg though, and I turned around and walked away as if nothing happened, zipping up my pants on the way.

It was memorable. He was memorable. I really was curious to get a last look at him, just to see how fucking disgusting he really was, but I did not look back. I only hoped to have this kind of encounter again--with someone different, of course.

But it is sad because I know that the environment that I was in that night was so conducive to that sort of encounter. That band drew perverts, and I was one of them, as was this fat old man, and we had our fun. I was so glad that he did not approach me after the music was over. If he’d done that, I truly would have thought that he was terrible and everything would have been ruined, but he stayed away.

And that completed this really great experience for me. It was therapeutic, erotic, and amazing. So big ups to fat perverts, and may I find one again. A girl can only dream.