Backstage Mistress


PLEASE NOTE: The band “Tundra” as featured in this story is entirely fictitious.The first thing you have to understand about me is that I’m a rock chick with a very particular style. Take, for example, my goth inspired wardrobe, my ten piercings and the white-blonde dreadlocks that go all the way down to my backside. I don’t think anyone could accuse me of not being unique. In my day to day life I’m independent, in control and that’s the way I like it. But there’s another side to me. A side that’s always been dormant, waiting for someone to come along and sense it in me. Normally, if I want something, I make it well known. But when it comes to the thing I really want, I can never seem to find the words to say it. The thing is; I long to belong to someone. To be controlled by them, strictly but lovingly. The thought sets my pulse racing and my clit tingling and I don’t even know why. Whenever I get a new piercing and the sharp, cold metal parts my flesh, I fantasise that it’s a lover putting their mark on me, showing the world that I’m theirs. The problem is, the way I look tends to give men the wrong impression. Without fail, they assume that I’m a dominatrix who’s going to whip them into shape and demand they perform all kinds of dastardly acts. My life had reached a point where I was getting pretty sick of it and I wondered if people would ever stop making assumptions about me based solely on my sense of style. I mused on the unfairness of life in this way as I got ready for the evening ahead. My friend Sophie and I were going to see Tundra, who’ve been my favourite band for as long as I can remember. To set the mood I pushed their latest CD into my player and the sound of pounding drums and guitars filled the room, shortly followed by the hypnotic sound of the lead singer’s voice. Tundra’s singer is called Lydia and she rocks. Over the years I must have spent hundreds of hours listening to that voice, somehow both silken and razor sharp, singing words that seemed destined just for me. When I was happy, when I was sad, when life seemed too much to bear, Lydia was always there for me, no further away than my headphones. And tonight, I would finally get to see her in the flesh. I took my time getting ready and only once I’d squeezed into my PVC minidress, laced up my big, black boots and tied my dreadlocks into two cascading bunches did I finally open my lacquered jewellery box. Slowly and carefully I lifted out the beautiful, leather collar that I’d treated myself to some months previously. The collar was black with a delicate spider web design running round it and a dainty silver ring at the front. Most people who saw it assumed it was just another gothic accessory. However, there was a certain type of person who would spot it and know it for the sure sign of a submissive. I just hoped that some of those people would be at the gig tonight; I was determined to find my perfect dom.* * * Later that evening, I found myself rushing to meet Sophie in the queue outside the venue. I was running late, having bahis şirketleri spent an excessively long time admiring my accessory in the mirror. Despite my tardiness we were still near the front of the queue, however, and got chatting to the girl in front of us. Her name was Tara. She was a willowy girl with piercing brown eyes and she wore head to toe Tundra merchandise. It transpired she was an even more obsessive fan than me and had followed the band on their tour throughout Europe. I couldn’t help but be impressed by her dedication. “So, do you guys fancy coming backstage after the show?” she asked us out of the blue, as casually as if she was inviting us for a pub lunch. Sophie and I looked at each other quizzically. “Um, can you do that?” asked Sophie, obviously unconvinced. “Oh yeah, I’ve done it loads of times. Security are suckers for a pretty girl. And of course three pretty girls is even better!” she giggled a dirty giggle. “Sure, why not,” I grinned, “God, meeting Lydia, can you imagine!” “Oh Lydia’s great, but Thomas is my personal favourite,” she let out that filthy laugh again. Thomas is Tundra’s mean and moody bass player, who seems to emanate sex appeal in waves. We went back to discussing the finer points of Tundra’s back catalogue and all the while I was keeping an eye on the fans passing us to join the back of the queue. Part of me was hoping to see my perfect, dominant partner at any moment. They were an interesting bunch, that was for sure, but as yet no one seemed to have spotted my collar. Still, there was plenty of time yet. I remained hopeful. As the doors opened and we flowed into the tiny venue I kept toying with the ring on the collar, casting subtle little glances around. Everyone seemed too preoccupied with their excitement to notice, however, and I couldn’t blame them. My stomach was doing back flips as Sophie, Tara and I raced up to the stage and managed to bag a front row spot. We hugged each other, laughing and slightly giddy, surrounded by the familiar rock-show scent of cheap beer and excitement. It seemed to take a lifetime but eventually everyone was packed in and the room went pitch black. Excited screams filled the air followed by the chant “Tundra! Tundra!” Keeping us waiting until the excitement reached fever pitch, the band finally burst onto the stage in a flood of blue lighting and a riot of sound. They launched into their newest and most popular single to the ecstatic cheers of the crowd. It didn’t take me long to forget about finding someone to dominate me and let myself be taken over by the music instead. We had a fantastic view and the acoustics were out of this world, every note reverberating round the hall and matched by the screams of the crowd. It was about halfway through the set when something very strange happened. Right from the beginning of the song, I’d felt someone’s eyes on me; that inexplicable yet undeniable sensation of being watched. I ran a hand over my hair self-consciously and glanced about, trying to figure out who was observing bahis firmaları me. Eventually my eyes came to rest on the stage. On the small but imposing figure of Lydia herself. Lydia, with her dyed blue hair and miniskirt to match. Lydia, with her ripped, punk-rock top held together by delicate silver chains. Lydia, the lead singer of Tundra, was caressing the microphone with her lips and purring out an incredibly sexy song as she stared unblinkingly at me. There was no mistaking it. Even though I couldn’t rip my eyes off her, I could sense the disbelief of Sophie and Tara beside me as they realised I was being serenaded. “You’re in there, kiddo,” whispered Tara in my ear. “But I’m not a lesbian!” was my first, resounding thought. Why, then, was I so hellishly turned on? Why did the feeling behind my quickening pulse and tingling skin feel so much like lust? And why did my eyes keep returning to the flesh peeping tantalisingly through the rips in Lydia’s top? Because I’m a big fan, I told myself. I’ve idolised her for years and now here she is, singing to me, of course I’m excited. But part of me didn’t quite buy that convenient explanation. I was unnerved and turned on as she prowled across the stage towards me, her honey voice continuing to fill the hall. Her voice that was dangerous and oh so sweetly seductive. By the final verse of the song I found myself face to face with the singer as she crouched down on the edge of the stage and sang right to me. She was close enough to touch but my body seemed rooted to the spot. Delivering the final line in barely a whisper, she suddenly flashed me a private and devastatingly evil smile. As the crowd went wild she reached out her slender fingers to my neck, hooked them round the silver ring at my throat and tugged me towards her, ever so gently. We kept eye contact for a powerful, meaningful beat, our faces inches from each other. Then, just like that, she was out of my grasp, back onto the stage and getting the crowd ready for another raucous song. Our spell was broken and as far as I could tell she didn’t so much as look at me for the rest of the gig. I was confused, elated and horny. For the rest of the show, my skin couldn’t seem to forget the whisper of Lydia’s fingertips and I couldn’t forget that wicked smile. After the last song was sung, the band had departed the stage and the harsh, neon lights were switched back on, Tara turned to me and I saw that her eyes were brimming with excitement. “Next stop, backstage!” “Um, I’m not sure…” I started to stammer, suddenly very nervous about meeting a rock star who had serenaded me in front of a hall full of people and even more nervous at the strange craving of my body to feel her touch again. My protests were dismissed by Tara and Sophie as they grabbed my hands and started dragging me against the direction of the thronging crowd, towards a small door next to the stage. It was flanked by a burly security guard. “Oh well, never mind,” I started, before realising Tara was already working her magic kaçak bahis siteleri on the unwitting doorman. “So you see, sir,” I heard her wheedle in a beguiling tone, “I’d be ever so grateful if you could let us through. Call it a favour to my friend,” at this point she gestured at me, “she’s got a bit of a crush on Lydia.” I was mortified. Everyone seemed to be oblivious to my horror as Tara’s charms started to work. The security guard’s austere expression visibly altered as he no doubt imagined some depraved scenario where mine and Lydia’s naked limbs were wrapped around each other in a sweaty frenzy. After a few seconds of lusty imaginings he cast a glance over the three of us and with a resigned expression said, “I’ll see what I can do,” before disappearing through the door. Tara was grinning like the cat who’d got the cream and Sophie looked stunned that the tactic had worked. It wasn’t long before the security guard put his head round the door and said to us, “come on then girls, they’re in the dressing room,” for which he was treated to a grateful snog from Tara. Not quite believing this was happening, Sophie and I exchanged a bemused look before following Tara and the security guard down a narrow corridor lined with concert posters, through a labyrinth of passages and staircases until we reached a door with a star containing the word “Tundra” tacked to it. “Have fun, ladies,” he smirked, his imagination no doubt working overtime. As he walked back to his post, footsteps echoing on the wooden floorboards, I took a deep breath. I wasn’t sure if I could actually do this. I’d loved the band for years, I’d admired Lydia for years, but somehow tonight that admiration had taken on a whole new meaning. She’d serenaded me. She’d caressed my skin. And I’d loved it. The new feelings swirling about my body excited and scared me at the same time until the combined emotions were almost too much to bear. If Sophie hadn’t linked my arm and pushed open the door I think I might just have run very fast in the opposite direction. Stepping nervously into the dimly lit dressing room, I inhaled the unmistakable, musty smell of cigarettes and beer. The three male members of the band were lounging around on black, leather sofas looking hot, sweaty and still slightly euphoric from the gig. Lydia was standing with her back to us looking out a window at the far end of the room and talking into a cell phone. In my boots I was slightly taller than her, yet I still felt small in her presence, as if her aura was all-consuming. Eventually, she stopped talking, flipped the phone closed and turned round to face the room, wearing a huge smile. “Guys, the album’s just gone double platinum!” Ear-splitting cheers erupted around the room and the band members rushed to hug each other. The drummer produced a bottle of champagne and opened it with a pop. Tara, Sophie and I stood there awkwardly. Eventually the band members noticed us and came over to hug us, too. Tara shot me a euphoric grin as she was enveloped in Thomas’ arms and pressed against his muscular body. And then, finally, Lydia recognised me. “Well hello,” she purred in a voice as glossy as her hair, “nice to see you again.” My heart was thumping and I felt as if it was just the two of us there in the room.

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