Punk Rock Parasaurolophus Eats My Ass - (Classic Tingler Revisited)

today new paperback ladybuck on ladybuck paperback collection came out and that means we are celebrating ladybucks on the patreon. when back and found one of my favorite lesbian tinglers because who could ever get enough of a punk rock parasaurolophus

many buds are surprised when they learn that chuck tingle has a big time musical way i listen to all kinds of songs and love to trot my trot with headphones in. buds are even MORE surprised to learn i enjoy a punk rock way and heavy music.

once camp damascus comes out i think this well be even more apparent. chuck used music from my buds in THE LOCUST for the book trailer, but also there is reason for this musical choice that has to do with the book. one of the characters enjoys a GRIND AND THRASH way and it comes into play with the story in some ways.

of course dont want to give to much away gonna be a while before old camp damascus comes out. IN THE MEANTIME lets see whats going on with this beautiful parasaurolophus

Robin has never heard a song that she liked, and she is perfectly fine with this fact. Still, it doesn’t stop her friends from trying to find the perfect record that will finally get Robin to tap her feet.

Hoping to strike a musical nerve, Robin dives in for a full on live experience. She’s seeing Narla and the Nails, a punk rock band fronted by an absolutely gorgeous parasaurolophus, and although she’s still not convinced it’s enough to get her to like music, Robin is excited to see her crush up close and personal.

Now Robin and Narla are getting closer than ever imagined in a lesbian greenroom encounter and has Robin making plenty of noise!

This erotic tale is 4,100 words of sizzling human on lesbian dinosaur action and hardcore parasaurolophus love.

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PUNK ROCK PARASAUROLOPHUS EATS MY ASS

By Chuck Tingle

The world is wide and the variety of folks living here is vast. There’s an infinite amount of variations that can make up someone’s personality and taste, a unique code that still wouldn’t be able to predict all the tiny permutations making up their existence.

Why is it that some of us like the flavor of cheesecake while others don’t? Is it just simple genetics, or something more?

I find myself considering these things quite a bit, thanks to a particularly strange personality trait that I’ve had my entire life. It’s something that I used to be very embarrassed about, and lied through my teeth to avoid the inevitable conversations that would come along with my admission.

While others are ready to forgive a difference in flavor palettes, don’t ever admit that you don’t like music.

I know, I’ve been told many times how crazy this statement is, but as I objectively look deep into myself and search for answers, I keep coming to the same conclusion. I just don’t enjoy it.

Over the years, I’ve had plenty of friends try to show me songs they’re grooving on or feeling inspired by, and most of the time I just smile and nod. When I reveal my secret to people, they rarely believe me, or simply explain that I haven’t heard the write genre, song or artist yet. This may be true, I’ll admit, but so far nothing has scratched that itch.

Over the years, I’ve simply stopped talking about it, but now that I’ve revealed this deep and powerful truth to my best friend, Amanda, all bets are off.

“Are you ready?” she says, opening the door to greet me with a wide, excited smile on her face.

I laugh and roll my eyes, amused by her determination. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“I’ve picked out some great stuff,” Amanda continues, waving me inside her apartment and shutting the door behind me. “Pretty much every genre. We’re definitely gonna find something you like.”

“I really don’t think so,” I counter, “but I’m happy to try.”

It’s true, I really am glad to be here spending the afternoon with my friend. While the process of people showing me songs and me consistently giving them a thumbs down got tired out in my younger years, it’s been a while since I’ve really given this process another try.

Who knows, maybe I’ll finally discover something that gets my head bobbing. Worst case scenario: I spend I fun afternoon hanging out with one of my closest friends, and it’s hard to complain too much about that.

Amanda leads me into her living room, revealing a coffee table full of snacks and a bottle of chocolate milk for us to share. She’s gone all out, and her ambition makes me smile.

Unlike me, my friend loves music. It’s a passion that she’s had ever since the day we met, and while I can’t relate to her on this particular level, there’s something about her excitement that always makes me happy. It would be great to share this feeling with her some day, and maybe this time has finally come.

“Alright Robin, I’ve got ten records, each one from a different style of music. These are the best of the best, and if we can’t find something here for you to listen to, then I don’t think it’s possible,” Amanda begins. She motions towards her couch and I sit down, grabbing a deviled egg and popping it into my mouth.

I watch as my friend strolls over to her enormous sound system, the device nestled between a floor to ceiling shelf of vinyl records. The setup looks impressible, I’ll give her that, but let’s see how it sounds.

My friend takes the first album that she’s laid out for us and slips a large, black disk out of the sleeve. She carries it over to her record player and puts it on, then carefully drops the needle.

Moment’s later, a smooth set of piano chords begin to repeat from the speakers. They slowly mutate as the come, constantly changing their form as a trumpet begins to call out over the variations. The drums stumble in next, their pattern both oddly complex and sparse at the same time, if that’s possible.

“This is Mog Bobkins,” Amanda explains, her eyes closed now as her living room floods with the sweet sound of jazz music. “He’s the best trumpet player that ever lived. Mog was a dinosaur who grew in New York City. He developed a special technique for his tiny T-Rex hands. It was a difficult process, and you can hear his longing in the music. It’s beautiful.”

I sit in silence, letting the song wash over me and trying my best to get swept away. Unfortunately, there’s something about the melody that just doesn’t take. I don’t like it at all.

Eventually, Amanda opens her eyes and notices the unimpressed expression on my face.

“No good?” she questions.

I shake my head.

My friend sighs and then nods, accepting defeat. She steps over and stops the record player, the music immediately winding down in to a strange deep crawl, until it disappears completely.

“What didn’t you like?” my friend questions.

I consider her words, trying my best to quantify what it is about the song that kept me from enjoying myself. Honestly, I would’ve preferred silence, but that doesn’t seem like the nicest thing to say to Amanda, especially considering how hard she’s working.

“It just wasn’t my thing,” I finally tell her.

“Too soft? Too loud? Too weird?” she questions.

“All of the above,” I laugh.

To Amanda’s credit, she doesn’t appear frustrated by my response in the least. In fact, my distaste for her first attempt only seems to make her want to crack the code within my mind even more. She’s determined now, resleeving her initial record and then looking over the others with a deep and powerful intensity.

“How about something louder,” I finally offer, trying my best to be an active part of this process.

“Louder and slower? Like doom metal?” my friend questions.

“Do I seem like I’d like doom metal?” I reply.

“You don’t seem like you’d like anything,” Amanda counters, laughing. “How about louder and faster? Like punk?”

“Sure,” I offer. “Punk it is.”

Amanda smiles, she’s excited about this choice. My friend picks up a record and start to carry it over to the player, but I call out and stop her in her tracks.

“Wait!” I cry. “Can I take a look at that?”

“Sure,” Amanda replies with a nod.

My friend brings the album over to me and shows me the sleeve, causing my heart to immediately skip a beat. There on the cover is the most beautiful dinosaur I’ve ever seen. She’s a parasaurolophus with beautiful, dark scales and a confident stance. She’s not smiling, but offering an enthusiastic snarl instead. Her clothes are tattered and torn, held together with safety pins and patches.

“Who is this?” I question, unable to tear my eyes away.

“Narla Nails,” Amanda replies, “of Narla and the Nails.”

“She’s... really cute,” is all that I can think to say.

“Well, she makes great music, too,” my friend retorts, pulling the large round disk from it’s sleeve and leaving me to continue ogling this gorgeous musician.

Amanda carries the record over and places it on her turntable, carefully dropping her needle onto the vinyl once more.

Immediately, cacophonous sound begins to erupt from her speakers, nearly causing me to jump in surprise. There’s an intensity to this music unlike anything that I’ve ever heard, the guitars and drums hammering away at my ears with brutal enthusiasm. Everything is fast and loud and distorted, and as the vocals make their entrance they blend in just perfectly with the rest of the mess.

I gaze down at the image before me as the song continues to play, imagining this dinosaur actually screaming out the words. To be honest, I still don’t think I could objectively say that I like this song, but in this moment there’s something about it that I actually understand. It’s resonating with me in a way that I didn’t expect, and that’s much more feedback from music than I’d ever received before.

I can tell that Amanda is picking up on this too, my friend staring at me curiously as a grin begins to creep its way across her face.

She says something to me, but I can’t understand her words over the deafening volume.

“What?” I yell back.

Amanda repeats herself, even louder this time, but I still can’t understand her.

“What?” I repeat.

Suddenly the song comes to an abrupt end.

“I asked, ‘do you like that?’” Amanda repeats for a third time, turning around and lifting up the needle of her record player before the next track has a chance to start. “I think you like it.”

I consider my response carefully. “Honestly… maybe,” I finally announce. “Maybe not. I don’t know. I’m interested.”

“Are you sure you’re not just interested in Narla Nails,” my friend suggests.

“That might be it,” I admit.

“That’s not very punk rock,” Amanda offers, “but I’ll take what I can get. Maybe that’s the hook that will draw you in. We can work with this.”

Suddenly, my friend freezes, a realization erupting within her mind like a bolt of lightening. I can see her thoughts racing a mile a minute, and moments later she’s literally clapping her hands together with excitement.

“What?” I finally blurt. “What is it?”

“Narla and the Nails have a show tonight!” she cries. “It’s only an hour away.”

“You want to go?” I ask.

Amanda’s eyes go wide. “Yes! This is perfect. Punk rock sounds great on vinyl, sure, but if you’re really going to get the experience then you need to see it live. If that doesn’t get your foot tapping then I don’t know what will.”

Under normal circumstances, this sounds like a pretty exhausting night, but as my gaze lingers on the beautiful parasaurolophus that graces the cover of this record, I can’t help but feel a strong pull towards my future as a punk rocker.

“Yeah, lets do it,” I finally reply.

As Amanda and I stroll up to the venue, a strange confidence washes over me. These clothes are not what I would normally be wearing on a typical Friday night, but I decided to go all out for the occasion and Amanda was happy to oblige. Now I’m fitting right in, and it doesn’t feel strange at all. There’s a sense of community here I wasn’t expecting. For as hard and aggressive as this music is, there’s a powerful undercurrent of love and affection coursing through everything around me.

We approach the front door and hand over our tickets, then step inside, greeted by a large room full of excitedly buzzing fans. The are all crowding towards the front of the room where the stage is located, but the lights are down and the band has yet to emerge.

“Where should we stand?” I question.

“Well, the full experience would be right in the middle of the crowd when things start to get crazy, but we can hang back here, too,” Amanda explains. “It’s your first time, after all.”

Before we have a chance to decide, a single, distorted chord erupts out from the enormous speakers sitting on either side of the stage. The lights go up and Narla and the Nails erupt forth, tearing into their frantically paced opening number.

I start to bob my head along with the drums, not because I’m feeling the music, but because it seems like the right thing to do. I want to give this everything I’ve got.

Already the crowd has been whipped into a frenzy, pushing against one another in a frantic mess of bodies. There’s a strange order to the chaos, though, people helping each other up as they tumble over and making sure their companions are okay. Everyone is yelling out the words to this song at the top of their lungs, pumping their fists in the air as their expression flood with pure, unfiltered emotion.

“I’m going in!” I suddenly announce.

The next thing I know, I’m running towards to swarming mosh pit, quickly swept away and carried off in the throbbing mass of revelers.

The rest of the concert is a blur, the songs all blending together in a wave of cacophony that, to be honest, I’m still not sure I like. Still, the experience of being here, and of stepping out of my element, is wonderful. It’s meditative in a way that I’d previously only felt after a long hike or a relaxing yoga class.

During the band’s last song, I find myself lifted into the air by the crowd, passed along as though I’m surfing on a wave. I’m laughing the whole way, having the time of my life until, eventually, I wind up on a flat surface once again.

It’s only then that I realize I’ve arrived on the stage.

Suddenly, Narla is thrusting her microphone towards me, and although I don’t know the words to this song, I’m screaming out with everything I’ve got. The musicians are smiling wide, blown away by my enthusiasm and not giving a damn that I’m clearly not familiar with their group.

When the song finally ends I feel a wave of enlightenment wash over me, satisfied in a deep and primal way. That was incredible.

The next thing I know, me and the rest of the band are walking off stage together.

“You did great,” the dinosaur leans over to inform me.

Suddenly, I’m frozen in terror. This had been fun when the music was slamming away, because I’d known exactly what to do with my mind and body. It was wild and free, but now that I’ve been brought back down to the real world, all I can really think about is just how gorgeous this punk rock parasaurolophus is.

“Thanks,” I finally offer in return, forcing the single word out through my lips with all the effort I can muster.

“The way back out to the crowd is over there,” Narla continues, nodding her scaly dinosaur head behind me.

I realize suddenly that now is my moment, and this opportunity will likely never return. As terrifying as it is, I’m in a very unique position to make my move, to turn my fantasy into a reality.

“And what’s that way?” I ask.

The dinosaur smiles. “The dressing rooms.”

“Do you have your own private one?” I continue.

Immediately, the expression on the parasaurolophus’s face changes. She’s finally picking up on what I’m putting down, and I think she likes it.

“Yeah, I do,” the dinosaur replies slyly. “You want to check it out?”

I nod, and soon enough Narla is taking me by the hand and leading me back through a maze of hallways, pushing deeper and deeper into the venue.

Soon enough, we emerge in a small greenroom. It’s nothing luxurious, but it certainly matches the punk rock aesthetic of the evening. Of course, right now that’s the last thing on my mind.

The second we step inside I turn around and close the door behind us, then return to the breathtaking dinosaur with a barrage of frantic kisses. The two of us immediately begin to tear the clothes away from one another’s bodies, stripping each other down and tossing this unnecessary collection of fabric to the side.

We continue to make out like this for a good while, until eventually Narla’s attention begins to slip lower and lower across by body. She starts by kissing my face, then gradually drifts down onto my shoulders and chest. She plays with my nipples a bit, somehow getting me more excited than I already was, before making her way down onto my stomach.

The parasaurolophus finally drops to her knees before me, gazing up with lustful, aching eyes. She reaches up and tickles her way across my hip bones, teasing the border of my waistline until finally having mercy and giving in to the moment completely. The next thing I know she’s rubbing my clit gently, warming me up as a long, satisfied groan escapes my lips.

“Oh fuck,” I coo, falling back against the wall and bracing myself for her touch.

“You like that?” the prehistoric punk rocker questions.

I nod, biting my lip as I struggle to accept the pleasure that’s coursing through me.

“Good,” she offers. “Then you’ll love this.”
 The next thing I know, Narla is diving in, the beautiful dinosaur gently tickling my pussy with her tongue. She takes her time with me, starting slowly at first and then gradually falling into a rhythm with the movement of my hips. I begin to grind back against her, the pulse of our frames quickly falling into sync with one another.

I reach down and place my hand on the back of Narla’s head, pushing her against me. This encouragement causes the parasaurolophus to alter her technique, picking up the intensity slightly. Instead of gentle licks, she begins to drag her tongue across me, lapping away at my pussy with feverish enthusiasm.

Narla is clearly an experienced lover, and she knows exactly how to work me. With every movement of her tongue, another wave of pleasure surges across my body, pushing me closer to my inevitable orgasm. I can feel my muscles growing more and more tense, held tight against the approaching tidal wave.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” I begin to moan, the worlds falling out of my mouth in a repeating, trancelike mantra. With every round the phrase grows louder and louder, until eventually I am crying out at the top of my lungs, completely lost in the moment. “Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh fuck!”

I’m quaking hard, struggling to stay upright as the feelings blossom through me.

Moments later, Narla slips two scaly fingers into my pussy, nearly causing me to buckle at the knees with pleasure. The sensations are coming at me now from two distinct sources, swirling together as they create something that is much more than just the sum of their parts. I throw my head back and let out a frantic scream as the climax hits me hard, using every last ounce of discipline I have to keep from falling over.

When Narla finishes she pulls back, but I can tell she’s not yet through with me. I’m not typically one to need multiple orgasms during the course of an evening, but right now there’s nothing I wouldn’t give for another.

Fortunately, the dinosaur is happy to oblige.

“Turn around,” the dinosaur commands, taking charge of the situation.

I do as I’m told, not entirely sure what’s happening. The beautiful parasaurolophus instructs me to put my hands against the wall, evenly spaced with my legs. I assume this position and moments later I can feel the dinosaur aligning herself behind me.

A knowing smile crosses my face.

“You want to eat that ass?” I question.

“Fuck yes,” Narla replies, then pushes her face against my rump.

I let out a startled gasp as the prehistoric creature’s tongue hits me, testing the limits of my anal seal and then thrusting even deeper. As a dinosaur, her tongue is much longer and more sturdy than that of a human, and it shows in her ass eating technique. Narla is going to town on my butthole, licking me with an enthusiasm unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

I reach back and spread my cheeks open for her, groaning loudly as the parasaurolophus anally works me.

Eventually, Narla reaches up and begins to rump my clit, moving her finger in time with the deep dives of her powerful dinosaur tongue.

“Just like that,” I sigh. “Just like that.”

It’s not long before the simmer of another mighty orgasm begins to bubble up within me, coming on with even more ferocity than the first. I begin to shake hard, and within seconds I’m cumming again.

I cry out, my eyes rolling back into my head as the tidal wave of sensation carries me away. This time, I completely lose control, and when the climax finally ends I fall to the ground.

Soon enough, Narla and I are both laughing together, smiling warmly as she crawls over and wraps her arms around me. I can tell that she’d be perfectly happy just satisfying me for the evening, but I’m not about to let that happen. I want her to also feel that sensations that she’s so generously blessed my body with, and I can’t wait to get started.

Soon enough, the parasaurolophus and me start kissing again, making out right there on the floor of the greenroom.

I begin to work my way down her scaly, prehistoric body, eventually arriving at her dinosaur pussy and then diving in.

Knowing how skilled Narla is, I’m a little intimidated as I begin to reciprocate her oral stylings. Eventually, however, any anxiety I have begins to slip away. I watch as the dinosaur begins to move along with me, a subtle clue of pleasure that simply cannot be faked.

Soon enough, I’m lapping away at her frantically, my fingers deep inside the dinosaur as I fill her up. She’s loving every second of it, making a long, low groan that rumbles through the room around us.

Narla’s moans grow louder and louder, the unbridled passion escalating with every passing second. I could finish her off just like this, and that’s exactly what I intend to do, but moments later the dinosaur is sitting up and pulling me close. I continue to rub her pussy as I kiss her mouth, our bodies intertwined in a beautiful combination of warm and cold blood.

“Yes, yes, yes!” the dinosaur screams, throwing her head back in an eruption of ecstasy.

Her body pulls tight and then releases, trembling with sensation as this prehistoric cry erupts from her throat. If anyone had been wondering what was happening back here, they certainly know now.

When Narla finally finishes, she collapses next to me against the nearby couch, our arms wrapped tight around one another as we struggle to catch our breath.

“That was incredible,” I offer.

“Yeah, it was,” the dinosaur replies, gazing down at me with a loving look in her eyes.

I’d be perfectly fine if this whole encounter was nothing more than a one night stand, in fact that’s all I was really expecting, but there’s an intimacy to this moment that puts that assumption on hold. There’s more going on here than just a simple fling, an unexpected connection that cannot be denied.

“Would you… want to do this again?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Narla nods, then chuckles to herself.

“What was that?” I question.

“I never thought I would date a fan” she finally offers. “It’s not really something I’d ever considered. I don’t know how to feel about it.”

“Luckily, I’m not a fan,” I inform her.

The dinosaur pulls back for a moment. “Really? You’re here for the opening band?”

I shake my head. “I’m not here for any band, actually. I don’t like music.”
 “You don’t like music?” the prehistoric creature repeats back to me, still confused.

The two of us sit in silence for a moment, and during this time my heart begins to slam within my chest. I’ve admitted this to plenty of friends before, but not someone who’s entirely livelihood is dependent on it. The second this admission leaves my mouth I realize that I already might’ve stumbled into a deal breaker between Narla and me.

“That’s cool,” the dinosaur finally replies.

“What?” I blurt, confused.

Narla shrugs. “So you don’t like music. Who cares?”

This was not the response I was expecting, but it definitely fills me with a cascade of relief and joy. “Are you sure that’s not a problem?” I continue.

“Why would I care?” Narla questions. “I like music. You don’t. Simple.”

“A lot of people try and tell me what I’m missing out on,” I continue. “I mean, it’s fine. They’re excited about it. I get it.”

“They’re just trying to help because it’s something they care about. Hell, it’s something I care about, but everyone is different. There are some people who don’t like songs, there are some people who don’t like blueberries, there are some people who don’t like sex, too. These are all totally valid. It’s not that you haven’t heard the right music yet, it’s that you just don’t like music, and that’s totally fine.”

“Wow,” I stammer, not quite sure how to react. “Thanks.”