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I had been so nervous and excited and afraid of rejection when my friends made me go meet him. They told me they would hold me down and make me get that picture of us together, but when I was finally in front of him I didn't need them to hold me down anymore. Meeting my favorite rock star was bizarrely like seeing an old friend, so I guess looking at him a lot in pictures on the internet was like exposure therapy.

But some of it was just him, too. I think I just caught him at a deep moment. I suppose he had a lot on his mind, with the giant concert in his home town; a place that doesn't "do" RockStardom or Ego, that he left professionally and as a resident to unhappy media reports, and he is coming back as a Star, now. And at the fortress that served as former Royal Residence, no less. No choice now to but to accept his crown as King and see if they allow his reign or burn him alive as pagans did of the Holly Kings of old to ensure returning crops.

He was so obliging, taking photos with me in strange positions to take advantage of the small beams of sun that came through the plastic windows of the marquee that served as backstage/ready room for the outdoor concert. They and the dancers and band had just finished Soundcheck, so a whole crowd of people and my friends had been there at the beginning. But by the time we were finished with our game of selfie twister everyone had followed his gregarious brother outside under the ancient stone archway that had served as the sortie gate for seven centuries.

I had just said something about being away from my family and how this was a vacation from responsibility for me when I fell into the whole spiral of thought about home-coming and Kings. And when I got to the part about ritual sacrifice his phone buzzed and he jumped and I realized that he had been standing there in his own thought spiral, and who knows how much time had passed with the two of us dopes staring at each other with slightly furrowed brows and mouths half open like small trolls trying to calculate 15 degree angles. In fact, I had seen that look on his face before when he was tapdancing and seemingly communicating telepathically with his brother.

Perhaps it did look as though we had been scanning eachother's minds, because after he checked his phone with a glance he clicked it to silent, looked straight at me with eyes that burned and said "Let's get out of here." I knew exactly what he meant. He quickly grabbed a plain black stocking cap and sunglasses and we slipped out under the tentside and ran east behind the stage and along the backs of the trucks and service tents. We knew we couldn't make it out by the front covered archway as it was mobbed with fans, so we threaded our way back toward the guard quarters and left by a small gate in a wall where there was a dumpster and crossed the street to the hotel before we dared speak.

We had hooked our arms into one another's as part of our cosplay as normal people out strolling in the sun on 17 mai weekend. "Let's do something irresponsible." he said and led the way across the street toward the harbor.

"Like Two Hookers and an Eight-Ball?" I replied brightly. It's a stock line of mine, I cribbed it from a song by Mindless Self Indulgence. He paused on the side walk with an unfathomable expression on what I could see of his face, his glasses blocking his eyes so I could not read them at all. Perhaps he did not know what hookers were, or eight-balls, for that matter!

I think maybe I would have gotten scared then, but he was holding my hand onto his arm and skin to skin is the type of communication I am most comfortable with. Finally he said, "No. Like ride the Ferris Wheel, actually." So, we did. It was a big Ferris Wheel! He kept his hat and glasses on until we were more than half way up. The view was marvelous, and you could see the ancient tower and fortress walls before us, and the pillar that marked the killing field hidden in the trees across the water. He stuffed the hat into his pocket and hung the glasses from the collar of his white t-shirt. "I am nervous to drop them," he explained. And I realized that he was a little nervous, now that I could see his eyes.

He's such an Earth Creature I thought to myself. There is a heaviness to him, a feeling of being more in contact with the ground, more of his surface area gripping the firmament even when he is dancing. "You must like to pilot so much because you can't fly." I stated. Which is confusing, even when English is your first language. So I went on. "This body. This meat-thing." I said touching his thigh to demonstrate. "You can't fly in it. Your brother? He can fly. I've seen him. You've probably sat on him to keep him on the ground a time or two." He merely smiled at this.

Then I started rocking the open metal cage we were in. "This you can't control, like you can control an airplane." He gripped the bar a bit harder. "You can't fly, either, you know." he reminded me. "I know! I'd be scared right now, but I feel calmer because I'm teasing you." He laughed out loud at this which scared us both, as we remembered suddenly that we were runaways and there were people looking for us and everyone for a quarter mile probably knew that laugh. We squished his give-away curls under his hat again, and popped his glasses on, though thankfully he kept them up off his eyes while we talked. And he was so engaging and asked so many questions about my trip and where I lived that I didn't think at all about how I think of him when I touch myself, or that I have a deep crush on his wife, or what a grand rockstar he turned out to be.

I did tell him how much I loved his radio show, and he said that was basically what the TV show was now, a few pre-set things, some running gags, entertainment guests instead of songs, and freedom to do whatever they want! Then he sighed. And I felt bad that his heart was heavy. I said "You know what I do when my responsibilities are overwhelming? I watch Ylvis." And then the ride bumped us down to the ground. I don't know if this cheered him, or if it was just his huge capacity for joy that buoyed him, but he was light hearted as we snuck back around the fortress, over the rise with the statue of King Haakon VII and found ourselves in a crowd of service-people jog-trotting pieces of concessions set-up around. From the direction of the stage we could hear a number of voices, his brother's discernible among them, and from the east the low mumble of fandom. The only place to duck out of this impending mess was into the Tower of King Rosenkrantz. Once inside the medieval museum foyer I said, "Oh, Darling, I really did find the most amazing guard stuck in the wall earlier. Don't worry, I will pay your way so I can show it to you."then to the ticket lady "Shall I pay another entry for myself as well?" but she took only the twelve Kroner for one entry and waved us through. I hoped he knew well enough not to speak, his english was very good but his accent would give us away for sure! "I really did find astounding things, you know." I left out the fairy and the ghost stories. He wouldn't believe in them anyway.

But I did tell him about the Guard in the Wall I found and want to study, and the King's toilet. "Do you know," he started,"how many awful times I have had to do this boring tour for school trips and I have never seen the King's toilet. Are you sure?" We tripped hand in hand up Argonautic spirals of stone, past dungeon dark and hidden guard. I looked behind me as I dragged him forward by the hand up the gothic steps, his fractal curls loose again, his knitted cap bulging his pocket, glasses dangling from the neckline of his shirt pulling the fabric down.

Into the King's Bedroom we traipsed where there are these Cathedral like arched recesses in the walls, and a small door to the right which leads down a short narrow yellowish hall where the folding chairs are kept (perhaps there is a King's Bedroom Lecture Series? I don't know!). Past these chairs and around a small wall that acts as partition was the oldest indoor latrine I have ever been witness to.

Dank as medieval shitholes everywhere, walls cool and clammy with centuries of Bergensk rain, yet capped by a painted lid to make it seem kingly I suppose. I did a tah-dah thingy with my hands, awkward in such a small space "Just like Graceland!" I looked up at him as I said this, and saw how close he was to me, how actually close his eyes and mouth were to mine, being a very small space between walls and he only inches taller than me. And I think I would have said "wow, you really are short" only, his eyes and lips were closer still, magnetic forces pulling me to him. My body suddenly felt bathed in hot water all down my front, and I could see he could feel it, too.

Then he asked in a low voice "Would you have really had hookers with me?" and I still couldn't tell if he knew what hookers were, but I said "Ja" anyway. Only, those soft big brown eyes like forest pools where the hulderfolk gaze into the waters to admire their own reflection took over all my concentration as he bowed his head toward mine and covered my open mouth with his. I answered tongue for tongue; his hot and sure, mine tasting his every move. Our bodies ignored all molecular bounds and found each other despite clothes, despite being in the bend of a hallway still openly connected to a public room, completely at odds with logic. I found his kuk with my left hand first, my nerve endings singing at it's amazing silky skin, my eyes betraying shock at its size. Then it pulsed larger and stayed that way, and when he grinned it was like he grew horns and fangs. Without planning it my leg had slid up his body and my foot had purchase on the King Rosencrantz's john's wall, pressing my back into the small wall that formed the partition between hallway full of folding chairs and the king's toilet. My dress offered him easy access to all my treasures. His forefinger had gotten inside my panties and as he went to stroke me he said "are you sure this isokohmygodyouaresofuckingwet."

And I said "ja" again and he kissed me again and he took his kuk out of my hand and put it inside me; slid it right home. He ate the moan right out of my mouth and then he stopped, held deep inside me...and I heard voices. A tour group was coming up the spiral staircase and if anyone peeked into the doorway of the hall and looked past the rolling cart of beige folding chairs they'd have seen at the least two people very heavily petting even if they didn't see that he was inside me. And my very first thought was "no! They will recognize him!"

So I grabbed the hat from his pocket and the glasses from his collar and put them on him. He was very cooperative and I thought, oh, well other people probably dress him all the time because he's a rock star and a TV star and then, as everyone in the tour group quieted down to hear about the saint statues that belonged in the bedchamber alcoves, I looked up at him and he WAS that rockstar that I loved looking at online with the glasses on and the rich stubble and he was right there inside me, huge and strong and held into me with a pelvis like a hammer crashed into an anvil...and I came. All over his big hard cock I came absolutely without making a single noise.

Before I realized what I was doing I found myself silently practicing a breathing exercise for singers where you sing into a candle flame, and he was doing it along with me. At the crest of the second climax he lifted up the glasses and locked eyes with me as we breathed. We waited in that position until the stragglers of the tour group were finished taking selfies in the alcoves and we could hear no more voices or steps on our floor. Then he pistoned into me a number of times, quietly if not silently, until I begged him to cum in my mouth.

He said "ok", but then he slid himself all the way into me again, lifted my other leg onto his waist and tickled my neck with his breath as he whispered "kommer, nå". And I did for him, so hard I had to hold my breath to not scream. Then I was permitted to slide down the wall on shaking legs and take him in my mouth, sucking my own juices off of him and finally guzzling down his hot seed.

By the time we had giggled our way to the front door to exit we were just friends again, with no sign of the passion that had taken us. We parted ways easily and he slipped back and, presumably got ready for his concert. I don't know what he thought or felt about it, or if he ever thought of it again. But I got the impression that this was not something he was in the habit of doing, and that he had been as moved by the moment as I was. I have no explanation. But I like to think the Gods Of Rock maybe just needed Their newest member to get blown by an American groupie in a king's toilet because that's what rockstars do. I think Elvis would approve.