After Ten Years of Following My Favorite Band on Tour, I F*cked the Bass Player
I fell in love with him the moment his fingers first stroked the double bass strings.
Original illustration by Eduardo.
Byline: Penny Lane
I remember wanting to be “the girl with the band” since I was 14. Watching the movie Almost Famous, my teenage self wanted to become Penny Lane—a "Band-Aid." I imagined it as being part of a big secret. Something behind the curtains that no one knew about—arousing, exciting, almost a bit taboo. There were always stories about musicians having women in different cities. But becoming Penny Lane meant being there for the long haul, seeing those women come and go, feeling like they would never get to know the band as intimately as I did. I wanted that for myself.
On my 17th birthday, an opportunity presented itself. My friend decided to surprise me with tickets to a concert by her favorite band. I didn’t know much about them, apart from being a bunch of older guys playing jazzy rock, so I wasn’t particularly thrilled. But my friend swore I would love them, and it was a gift, so I couldn’t say no. Our seats were just in front of the stage, which stressed me out even more because I didn’t want the performers to see my bored face.
The lights went out, and everybody grew silent as the band quietly stepped on stage. Nobody moved a muscle. Then I heard the first few notes emerge. They sounded like they were coming from the Earth’s core—low and warm. It was a double bass. Shivers went down my spine and right between my thighs. I pressed them together, hoping to catch the feeling longer. I couldn’t remember ever reacting this way to music, let alone one instrument.
Slowly, some light revealed the stage—just enough to see the instruments and people behind them. And then I saw it right in front of me. Fingers running up and down thick strings. Some just pressing them against the wood, some stroking and pulling. I didn’t even care about the face. It was the fingers and the notes. I followed each movement very carefully, wondering how those fingertips would move on my skin.
My friend nudged me, seeing my investment. She had no idea how much—and where—it moved me. I had to cross my arms so that she wouldn’t notice my nipples piercing through my blouse.
The sound of applause woke me up from my wet dream. My eyes focused on who was behind that dark and heavy instrument. It wasn’t my usual type. As a teenager, I had a thing for nerds and emo boys. But he was a man, much older, but not “too old.” Mr. Double Bass was in his mid-30s. Mature face with a bit of stubble. Full lips that would press together when “in the groove.” Eyes that wandered around the room without actually looking at anyone. But what got me the most were his arms around that instrument. I knew he was strong and safe. And that’s how a man should make you feel, right?
I couldn’t sit still for the rest of the concert. I was fidgeting, trying not to reveal how enamored and aroused I was. I didn’t want the concert to end. It was my first edging experience—begging for a climax—but each song stopped just seconds before I could cum.
After the final bow, my friend had yet another surprise. We were slotted to head backstage and meet the band. This was my chance to feel like a groupie, even just for the night. Get to know them like nobody else. They were all chilling in the room on big, old couches, drinking wine. My friend told them it was my birthday, and they all jumped up to hug me.
Mr. Double Bass was the last one to greet me, not nearly as enthusiastic as the rest of his bandmates. But I couldn’t wait to feel his arms wrap around me. I don’t remember what he said, but my knees went weak. He held me tight, just like his instrument. He didn’t let go until he was sure I could stand up straight. The second I gained consciousness, I looked down at my pants because I could swear they were soaking wet. Thankfully, nothing showed, but it was time to go.
I left the club with a strong decision to repeat this experience immediately. I had found my band and was ready to become Penny Lane.
For a decade, my friend and I would follow the band wherever we could. We listened to their entire discography on repeat. Soon, their manager put us on the list with friends and family, so we always had the best seats and backstage passes. We would hang with them and celebrate with immense amounts of wine. But Mr. Double Bass never took part in our shenanigans. He was always on the side, sitting by himself or talking to the technicians.
I never tried to bother him or get his attention. That mystery vibe made him even more desirable. Every time I would sit in front of the stage, I would allow the sounds from his instrument to run through me and take over. Whenever it was his turn to improvise a solo, I could feel the climax coming, but never well, cumming. The second he stopped, we would both breathe heavily, but for different reasons. And after each concert, my underwear was drenched.
Later on, my friend moved to another country, so I continued by myself. And that was the moment I really felt like Penny Lane. I would spend time backstage after and before the concerts during rehearsals and soundchecks. I knew everyone on their technical crew. And yet, to him, I was just a huge fan—nothing more.
Until one fateful night.
I got a special invitation to attend the concert on my 27th birthday, exactly ten years after “my first time.” Their playing moved me, as it always did. And they played an encore with my favorite song, which they hadn’t performed recently. The lead singer winked at me when he started, so I knew it was my gift. Once they left the stage for good, everyone exited the venue. I decided to sit in the audience before joining the band to enjoy the view of instruments resting calmly on their stands. Microphones still perked up. Speakers still warm.
I felt the urge to check something. I hopped on stage and found myself standing next to the double bass. It was taller than me and much wider. I ran my fingers along the wooden curves. I wanted to touch the strings, but they seemed so sacred, forbidden. So I focused on the body, wrapping my arms around it.
I heard a loud stomp behind my head. Startled, I almost fell, holding onto the instrument. I kept my balance, but my fingers stroked the strings, and another shiver ran down my body. No, not a shiver. It was a deep vibration that shot through my heart, through my belly, abdomen, straight between my thighs. My knees went weak again. Suddenly, a pair of hands appeared from behind my back and held not just the instrument but also me. I looked up, and it was him, Mr Double Bass. I wanted to apologize, run, and hide, but nothing could move me or come out of my mouth. I just looked at him and prayed he would never let me go.
I was standing in front of him, mute and aroused. I didn’t know if he saw that, but he smiled, turned me around, and whispered in my ear, “You could have just asked me if you wanted to learn how to play.”
With my back against his chest, I didn’t know what to expect. He pulled the double bass back in front of me, tilted it slightly, and guided my hands to the strings. His arms were just as I had always suspected: safe and strong. He placed his palms on mine and used my fingers to move the strings. We played the same song that made me fall for him, the first song of theirs I ever heard.
Every inch of my body felt those notes, those soundwaves. With every breath he took, I felt warmth on my neck. He smelled like musk mixed with sweat. My thighs shook. He placed his chin on my shoulder, and the stubble gently scratched my skin. I tilted my head back unconsciously. He took that as an invitation to kiss my neck, and I completely lost focus on my fingers. My hands slid down from the wooden curves along my body, and I felt the instrument's weight being pulled off my chest.
His arms wrapped tightly around me, his fingers running up and down my body. With each touch, push, or pull, a quiet sound would emerge from my lips: a moan, gasp, or whimper. I tried to be silent; after all, we were on stage. Anyone could see us, but he didn’t care. I was wearing a dress with a zipper in the front. And I felt him pulling that little piece of metal down swiftly, sharply. There I was, almost naked but warm, hidden in him.
His fingertips kept moving down me. I tried to turn around to at least reciprocate some of his caresses, but he just squeezed me tighter, stopping me from moving. His left hand eventually landed on my breasts, pulling them out of my bra and squeezing my nipples between his fingers. At the same time, his right hand found its way under my panties. His finger tapped on my clit in perfect rhythm, then slid inside me. His two hands worked in perfect harmony, creating waves of rush in my body. I leaned on him even more because I could feel my knees letting go completely. Once again, his lips were touching my neck, leaving small, wet marks. But I could also feel a bulge where my ass landed. I smiled, knowing it wasn’t just me feeling good.
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