July Fair Concert
Copyright© 2026 by Guisamo
Chapter 1
True Story Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Sex is more enjoyable in the summer heat.
Caution: This True Story Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including True Story Anal Sex Double Penetration Masturbation
Selena and Brian, my husband at the time, was my boyfriend. It was July, concert season in Valencia. We went to a huge concert; it was very hot, and I was wearing a short, flared miniskirt. We got in line, and some young men arrived looking for trouble. They were pushing people, and as they pushed, the one who seemed to be in charge put his hand under my miniskirt and caressed my backside, saying, “You look good, baby.” I automatically screamed, and my boyfriend turned around, asking, “What’s wrong?” I told him, “Nothing, I just got stepped on,” and he confronted them, telling them to be careful.
July, Valencia The heat was stifling. July in Valencia is like living inside an oven, and that day the thermometer was nearing forty degrees Celsius. Brian and I—still dating then, although we already knew we would get married—had been looking forward to this concert for months. A massive festival, miles of people packed together, sweat, music, and that electricity that only a mass of humanity vibrating to the same rhythm can generate.
I was wearing a short, flared black miniskirt. I’d chosen it precisely for that reason: because in the infernal heat, any fabric that clung to my skin was torture. Underneath, tiny black lace panties, which Brian had enjoyed taking off before we left the house, though he’d put them back on me later with a mischievous grin.
“Everyone’s going to see you,” he’d said, kissing my neck.
“Let them look,” I’d replied provocatively.
Selena was waiting for us in line. My best friend, brunette, in a red dress just as short as my skirt, drinking water from a bottle that was sweating almost as much as we were.
“Finally,” she complained, hugging us. “I’m melting.”
The line moved slowly. The crowd was overwhelming, bodies pressed together, the smell of sweat and cheap cologne mingling in the stifling air. Brian positioned himself behind me, shielding me from the throng with his body, a hand on my waist, casual, possessive.
That’s when they arrived.
A group of five or six guys, in their early twenties, muscular, wearing tank tops, and with the air of those who’d been drinking since noon. They pushed their way through the crowd without a second thought, shoving, looking for trouble, provocation, cheap entertainment.
I was distracted, talking to Selena about the band’s latest album, when I felt the shove.
It wasn’t a normal shove. It was a calculated charge that made me lose my balance, stumble forward, and in that moment—that second of chaos—I felt the hand.
A large, rough hand that slipped under the hem of my miniskirt with a speed that took my breath away. Fingers found my bare buttock, squeezed it, slid down to the cleft, brushing against my lace panties, and then a husky, warm voice, too close to my ear:
“You’re so hot, baby.”
I let out a gasp. Automatic, sharp, a sound of surprise and something else I didn’t want to acknowledge at that moment.
Brian was back instantly. His hand left my waist, his body tensed, his expression shifted from relaxed to alert, protective, dangerous.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, grabbing my shoulder, turning me toward him.
My eyes met his. The leader, I guessed. Tall, dark-haired, with a defiant smile and eyes that didn’t apologize. That challenged. That looked at me as if he’d seen me naked, as if he knew exactly what my voice sounded like when I came.
“Nothing,” I said quickly, too quickly, feeling the blush creep up my neck. “I’ve ... I’ve been stepped on. Pushed.”
Brian didn’t quite believe me. He knows me too well. But he also saw the group of guys, saw the situation, saw that I didn’t want a scene.
He turned toward them. The leader was still smiling, his hand—the same one that had been under my skirt seconds before—now hanging casually at his side, the fingers that had touched me slowly flexing, reminding me of it.
“Hey,” Brian said, his voice firm, low, dangerous. “Let’s be careful. There are people here. No need to push.”
The guy—the one who had touched me—raised his hands in a gesture of peace that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Sorry, man,” he said, his voice with a marked Valencian accent. “It’s the crowd. It’s pulling us all along. I didn’t mean to bother your girl.”
He was lying. And he knew it. And Brian knew it. But the line was moving, people were pushing us from behind, and there was no room for confrontation.
The group of guys moved past, clearing a path through the crowd. But before disappearing, the leader turned one last time. His eyes met mine. And his tongue flicked out, slowly, brushing against his upper lip, while his hand—that hand—came to his nose, inhaling, smiling.
He had smelled his fingers. He had smelled my perfume, my sweat, my involuntary arousal.
I shuddered.
“Are you okay?” Brian asked, concerned, his hand returning to my waist, now more protective than ever.
“Yes,” I lied. “Just the heat. Come on, we’re going to miss the start.”
Selena looked at me. She had seen him. She knew. But she didn’t say anything. She just raised an eyebrow, a silent question that I answered with an almost imperceptible nod.
No. Don’t tell her.
We entered the venue. The music was already playing, the bass vibrating in my chest, miles of bodies moving in the dim light. Brian grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the center of the crowd, toward the epicenter of the chaos.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about that hand. Those fingers. The way they had touched me without permission, without consideration, without mercy.
And how, God forgive me, my body had reacted before my mind could process the horror.
The Reunion We were in the middle of the concert, between the eighth and ninth songs, when I went to the bathroom. Selena came with me, as always. The lines for the portable toilets were endless, so we ventured backstage, looking for less crowded places to relieve ourselves.
That’s where I found him again.
He was leaning against a fence, smoking, alone. Without his group of friends. Waiting, maybe. Waiting for me.
“Baby,” he said when he saw me, his smile pure provocation. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Leave me alone,” I said, but my voice didn’t sound convincing, not even to myself.
“Your boyfriend is very protective,” he said, taking a step closer. I backed away, the cold fence against my back. “But you ... you didn’t want me to protect you. Did you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do,” he whispered, so close I could smell his breath, alcohol and mint. “I felt you getting wet. The moment I touched you. The moment I grabbed that perfect ass.” You were really into it, babe. And your boyfriend didn’t even notice.
Selena appeared in the hallway, saw the situation, and stopped. Her gaze shifted from alert to ... curious. An accomplice.
“Everything okay?” she asked, but didn’t come any closer.
“Everything’s fine,” the guy replied, without taking his eyes off me. “Your friend and I are talking. Right, babe?”
“Selena...” I started, but I didn’t know what to ask. Should I ask her to rescue me? Should I ask her to leave?
“I’m going to get Brian,” Selena said, and there was something about her smile that I couldn’t quite decipher. “Don’t move from here.”
She left. We were left alone. The guy and I, in the dimness of the backstage area, with the music muffled and the heat stifling.
“Now we’re alone,” he said, and his hand—that hand—found my hip again, sliding under the curve of my skirt. And I can do this... —he squeezed my ass, his fingers finding the line of my panties, pulling them down— ... without anyone screaming.
“Please,” I sighed, but I didn’t know if it was a plea for him to stop or to continue.
“Please what?” he murmured, his mouth close to my neck, his breath burning me. “Please stop? Or please let me fuck you right here, against this fence, while your boyfriend is out there, looking for you, not knowing his girlfriend is a slut who gets turned on when a stranger touches her?”
His words were raw, brutal. And my body responded with utter betrayal. I felt myself getting wet, my nipples hardening against the fabric of my top, my knees trembling.
“I’m not...” I began.
“You are whatever I say you are,” he interrupted, and his other hand moved up, finding my breast, pinching my nipple hard. “And now you’re mine. Five minutes. That’s all I need. Five minutes to show you who’s boss here.”
I heard footsteps. Brian. Selena. Coming toward us.