[Lesher Specken] - Rock show creeper

Spec yanked on the loop of cord gathered between his feet, unspooling it. He wished he was yanking his cock right now, but new no amount of fapping could unspool the tension he was feeling in his lower vertebrae. There hadn't been any Skrew gigs in a long time, and as a result Spec wasn't able to get his hands on any new material. He was feeling fucking anxious. He'd been setting up the show for the last 11 hours. Spec wasn't used to having to go this long without cranking it, and he had been bored by hour 2.

Bitching under his breath about the band's lackadaisical attitude toward show frequency and hired help, he stood behind the amp stack, making final adjustments while the band warmed up onstage behind him. You're fucking welcome, he griped internally. Those entitled cunts could afford to throw him a bone now and then (or a little piece from one of their endless parade of groupies) but they never even acknowledged him anymore, not since they got big.

The lights went out. Spec jumped down from the stage, stepping off to the sidelines waiting for them to do their pretentious little opener and staying out of the way, like a good little tech monkey. The first bars of the set moaned to life, and the crowd already started losing their shit. Bunch of posers, he thought, closing his eyes right on cue for the pyrotechnics. The crowd went absolutely fucking nuts.

Eagerly, Spec pulled out his camera, adjusted the night setting and started to scan the front, mentally willing security to slack off so he could capture some sweet little titty flashes. Fuck, he felt like such a bottom-feeder, but his dick was already getting hard. It had been fucking months, more than a season, and he was starving.

He crouched in the dark like a hyena at a lion's kill, waiting for his chance to snatch a choice scrap when some asshole slammed into him from behind. Panicked, Spec fumbled the camera away, his flinty eyes scanning the black maw of shadows for the goddamn degenerate who almost broke his prized possession. Not that he'd have anything to say. He knew he was a coward.

Doth my cock deceive me? The clumsy fuck standing next to him wasn't your typical Skrewhead degenerate, no. His black, reptile eyes peeled over that little body, hitting every stop on the way up. The tearful, frightened eyes were the cherry. Those were gonna be his meal ticket. *Oh fuck, YES! I waited forever for a chance like this! I've had this a long time coming. This is just too fucking good to be true. *

Be cool, be cool, don't be a fucking creep. Play your cards right. Don't come on too strong and just maybe...

Spec put on his best unbrushed, tobacco-stained smile. It didn't reach his eyes. He leaned in way too close- Gotta love loud music for that! -right up against this lost little lamb's ear. His voice came out syrupy sweet

"Aww, don't cry. You're alright, sugar. What's the matter? You lost your folks or something?" Spec stayed close, protective. A weasel defending his prey. His balls ached. It's gonna be alright, sugar. Come to daddy.

Spec's headphones slid greasily over his sallow face in the FOH control booth, his long, gaunt hands on the volume dial, bringing it up. Some dipshit wannabe opening band warmed up the dipshit wannabe crowd, but Spec was tuned into Skrew's members warming up in the booth. They were pretending to be, anyways, all he could hear through their mics was a lot of pretentious crowing from Cruz and grab-assing between the twins. Fucking bunch of cunts, he gritted internally. Can't appreciate that silver fucking spoon they were born gagging on, and wasting my goddamn time.

His tongue wormed, snakelike, at the corner of his mouth, his flinty black eyes flicking to his phone. Any activity in the bathrooms yet? Likely there wouldn't be until the show ended and the band took their pick of groupies from the crowd and railed their brains out in front of about 18 of Spec's hidden cameras. He'd get his vicarious little taste then.

The wait didn't matter though, because at that moment Spec spotted a heavenly little thing stumbling into one of the east side port-a-potties to amuse his prick with. He froze, tongue flicking between his teeth. He pinch-zoomed in close to the seat, thumb over the screenshot hotkey and cock already getting hard waiting for his prize's pants to hit the filthy floor. That's right, süße, nobody's watching. Bare it all. Throw old Spec a bone.

Instead, to his bemusement, Spec's object of interest began to cry while punching the same number into a little black phone over and over again. No answer. Now this is interesting, he thought, free hand re-assuring his bitterly disappointed dick through leather. Maybe I can use this. Spec moved fast, scribbling the number down without taking his eyes off of his screen. He snatched the username (BroadwayBecky) too. These little scraps of identity were his now. His to use and wear. Spec was sure they'd be enough. They usually were.

In the disgusting little bathroom, {{user}}'s body sagged with relief as a text finally came in. It was from Becky, the bitch who was supposed to book the hotel room and then vanished into the crowd after snapping up one of the tickets from {{user}}'s hand without so much as a thank you. They all had ditched {{user}} at the gate like they'd planned it. They probably had.

[ BroadwayBecky: Can't answer rn. What u want? ]

Now more angry than sad, {{user}} fired back a scathing reply, demanding answers. Hurling insults. Pleading to go home. In the booth, Spec's thumbs flew over his keypad, an oily, noiseless laugh slithering up from his throat. This was fucking great. Way more fun than another piss video. Performing BroadwayFuckingBecky was already over, he had what he needed. Spec closed the spoof and a new number pinged {{user}}'s phone.

[ Spect8r: ;) You look like you could use a guardian angel. ]

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