Backstage Rider
by Jean-Philippe Aubourg

Clemmy strummed a chord, sipped her coffee, and checked her watch. Scotty would be here soon. Her other pupils could pick a tune, but Scotty was going places. Scotty could not just play music, he could create it.

So could Clemmy, although she had not created much for 20 years, not since the band had folded.

The Screamin’ Demons had been a serious proposition. Part of the New Wave of British Heavy Metal, their first album had sold well. They had come the usual route, pub gigs, support gigs, their own tour, when they were spotted and offered a deal. The first LP had produced a track which was almost a hit.

They were aware of two things. It was Clemmy’s songwriting, playing and vocals which got them listened to. It was her long black hair, tight jeans and tighter 

T-shirts which got them looked at, “the hot chick with the hot licks”.

By their third album, it was holding them back. Clemmy was fed up with record execs and video directors trying to put her in bikinis, and as much as she did not want the attention, her three band mates were jealous she got it. They insisted on writing and singing songs for the album, and Clemmy agreed, even though she could hear how weak the material was. The record flopped, their contract was dropped, and the Demons were silenced.

Clemmy was glad it had ended when it did. All three albums still sold, even the third, and the royalties paid for a modest house in a London suburb. She had seen enough budget hotels to last a lifetime, and if she never sat in a smelly tour bus again, it would be a day too soon.

She still had bills, though. A solution presented itself as she thumbed through a music paper. There were many adverts for “tuition”. Clemmy had always been good at explaining her ideas to the band, it was the music business, and there was no commuting. One advert and she was established.

Her students ranged from the hopeless, to those who were only there because of her fame. The occasional teenager would tell her how “my Dad used to love you”, but it was fun fostering talent and ambition.

Not many had been as talented as Scotty, though. He had come to Clemmy, not to learn how to play, but to play exceptionally. He had given her a four-track demo from a gig, the songs full of catchy hooks and driving rhythms.

The doorbell rang and she put down her guitar and walked to the hall, seeing his tall shape behind the frosted glass. A second later his frame filled the open door. He wore a black T-shirt of the latest band, under a German army surplus shirt. Baggy combats stretched to his off-white Converses, his guitar case in his left hand.

‘Come in,’ said Clemmy. ‘Get set up, I’ll make coffee.’

When she entered the lounge with two steaming mugs, Scotty was poised on one of two stools. His guitar was cradled in his lap, the neck in his left hand, his right running through his shoulder-length black hair.

‘So, how are preparations going for the gig?’ Scotty’s band had their first headline slot. The back room of a pub, but a big thing when your name is used to get people in.

‘Pretty good – in fact, I’d like us to work on a song we want to add to the set.’

‘You’ve written another one?’

‘No – what we’d like to do is … Well, we’d like to do one of yours!’

Clemmy was touched. Over the years, she had heard her work murdered by performers with far less talent. She was sure she could trust him. ‘Which one?’

They had chosen one from the debut album, a killer riff, a clap-and-sing-along chorus and an unforgettable hook. For the next two hours she passed on all her tricks. He mastered them quickly, all except part of the hook.

Eventually, she put down her guitar and stood up. She slid behind him and placed her left hand over his on the neck. ‘Like this,’ she said, manipulating his fingers. As she touched him, he stiffened. She reached for his right hand with hers, so her arms half-encircled him, then guided the plectrum to the spot where it needed to be. ‘Now pluck.’

His picking seemed shaky as he hit the note, but it was an improvement. He stiffened again, this time so much his back scraped her breasts. She felt her nipples respond involuntarily, and her own body shivered.

‘Great! That’s perfect! Now try it again, without me.’ She stepped back, glad they were not face to face, so Scotty could not see the flush in her cheeks. He plucked the strings more confidently, and the result was perfect. ‘You’ve got it. Now practise like your life depends on it.’

Scotty smiled and played the hook over again, and looked at Clemmy. ‘You’ll come, of course?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘To the gig. It’d really mean a lot to me. I’ve already put you on the guest list.’

‘Oh! Well, if you’re sure …’

‘We’d be honoured. And nervous, but you always say nerves are good – keep you focused.’ Clemmy laughed to hear the glib comment she had once used to get their drummer out of the toilet now turned into a great saying.

‘Of course I’ll come!’

Clemmy checked herself in the mirror. It had been a long time since she had dressed this carefully for a gig.

She turned up the collar of her denim jacket and pulled down the hem of her T-shirt – a metal band selling well in the download charts. She noticed how the name tightened across her breasts. They were a good size, big enough to have some column inches written about them when Clemmy was in the spotlight.

She ran her hands over her bottom, feeling the supple leather of the miniskirt against her palms. She loved to wear short skirts, adored the feminine power it endowed her with. She tugged the hem down to just above mid thigh, then reached for the tops of her thigh boots, six inches lower, and made sure they were smooth all the way up her slender legs. A final check of her make-up – dark black eyeliner and pale mascara – her long black hair shaken over her shoulders, and she was ready to rock.

As she left the tube and walked to the pub, she became one of the crowd. The pub was a well-known rock venue, and she felt she was back where she belonged.

Clemmy purposely hung outside until just before Scotty and his band were due on stage. She did not want to be a distraction. At the last minute, she gave her name to the doorman, who ushered her inside. She got herself a bottle of lager and slid along the back of the hall.

They took to the stage, three young men anxious about the next 30 minutes, but exhilarated to be given this chance. Clemmy tried to put her protective feelings for Scotty’s talent aside, as she sipped her beer and assessed the performance.

They were raw but good. Tight, too – she knew how hard Scotty practised. Their songs were promising, albeit dwarfed by the epic covers they were mixed with.

Then it was her song. She had heard many versions of it, and sometimes not recognised it, but this was a faithful rendition. The rhythm section drove the tune, she saw the familiar sight of mouths in the audience singing along, and when it came to that hook, Scotty pulled it off perfectly.

The song finished on a drum roll and a crescendo, the crowd’s arms went up and they cheered as one. Clemmy was transported back 20 years – she felt a pang, recalling how it felt to fill a room with that much energy. Then she was overwhelmed with pleasure for Scotty and the band, discovering this for the first time.

The band left the stage, waving and grinning, only to be called back for an encore, one of their own numbers. Then they were gone again, the house lights came up, and it really was the end. The crowd headed to the bar or toilets. Clemmy leaned against a corner, finishing her beer, getting more than the occasional look from nervous young men and jealous girlfriends. Eventually she judged the moment right.

She walked around the stage and found the door to the backroom. She watched as the drummer and bassist came out, hair lank with sweat and faces high with adrenaline. Only then did she duck through the door. She wanted to see Scotty alone, so as not to embarrass him with her gushing praise.

Sure enough, she caught him without the rest of the band, but he was still embarrassed. He had stripped to his boxers, and was vigorously applying a towel to his torso.

‘Oh! Clemmy!’ His eyes were wide with shock.

‘Oh! Scotty! Sorry … I’ll come back!’ She turned but was called back.

‘No! Wait! It’s great that you came backstage! I just wasn’t expecting you!’ He dropped the towel to cover his crotch, but not before Clemmy’s eyes had strayed there, noting how the black material bulged.

‘Shall I wait at the bar? Get us a drink?’ She hoped she had not been caught looking at this gorgeous youth.

‘Bar’ll be crowded, and my dad gave me this to mark the gig.’ Throwing the towel to one side, he reached into a canvas shoulder bag. There was a clink and he held up a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

‘I didn’t show it to the other guys before the gig, or they’d have got plastered to steady their “nerves”. Now 

I can relax, and I’d love to relax with you.’

He handed Clemmy the bottle and turned to a window sill, where a stack of plastic cups was standing. As he pulled out the top two, she saw the rounded curve of his muscular bottom, the Calvin Kleins moulded perfectly. As he turned back, she busied herself with breaking the seal, then unscrewing the cap and feeling her nostrils assaulted by the scorch of rock music’s favourite fuel.

‘It’s been a long time since I’ve drunk JD backstage,’ she laughed, as the young man poured generous measures for both of them.

‘I guess this means I’ve made it!’ said Scotty, lifting the cup to his nostrils to savour the scent.

‘So welcome to rock and roll!’ Clemmy congratulated him. They drank, both pulling a face at the burn of good whiskey.

‘You look amazing, by the way,’ Scotty said.

‘Oh!’ Clemmy reddened. ‘So … er, do you!’ She turned beetroot as she realised how her words could be misinterpreted.

‘And I really do appreciate everything you did – the gig wouldn’t have been a success without you.’

‘Oh, come on, you’re the one with the talented fingers!

‘No, you made it all happen, with your patient teaching. And now it’s over, I can finally do this.’

Before Clemmy could do anything, Scotty had leaned towards her. Her eyes widened as his grew closer, then his lips were on hers, not imposing, but much more than a friendly peck. She could almost feel her mouth being forced open, but then he pulled back, and they parted with a light smacking sound.

For a second, his eyes questioned her, obviously wondering if he had just made some horrendous miscalculation. She answered him with a smile full of reassurance, and another message – lust.

She raised her hands and placed her fingertips on his jaw. She pulled him back and, when their mouths met again, she was in charge. Their lips squeezed together and she pushed her tongue against him. His mouth opened and they were French kissing.

His arms slipped around her shoulders, two empty plastic cups discarded and rolling across the dirty floorboards. She put her fingertips on his broad, smooth chest and ran her scarlet nails down its length to his flat stomach, unspoiled by middle-aged indulgences.

His left hand grasped the back of her neck under her long flowing hair, and pulled her face harder against his. His right slipped down her back and squeezed her trim waist through the rough denim of her jacket, fondling her just above the hip, revelling in her softness.

She let him enjoy the sensation, then decided it was time to move him to something more complex. What she was going to teach him would last a lifetime.

Breaking the kiss, she placed her hands on his bare shoulders and pushed him back, just enough for them to make eye contact. ‘If you really want to do this,’ she whispered, ‘we’re going to do it my way. You up for it?

The hungry look in his eyes was all the answer she needed. Slipping off her jacket, she tossed it onto a cable box, then walked to the door. She manoeuvred a Marshall amp against it, then walked back to Scotty.

‘Learned that on my first tour supporting a major band. Their singer kept “accidentally” coming into the dressing room when I was naked. I soon found an amp isn’t just good for making a loud noise. Speaking of being naked …’

Clemmy snagged Scotty’s waistband. She pulled him towards her, the elastic stretching to give a hint of pubic hair, before he shuffled forward with them. She put her left hand on his neck, just under his ear, and pulled his lips back onto hers.

Suddenly he seemed to remember where he was and what he was doing. Clemmy felt hands on her breasts, the large soft globes massaged through her bra and T-shirt. He was tentative, as well he might be, given that he was fondling a pair of famous and once highly desired breasts, but when no one tried to stop him, he became bolder, thumbing the nipples, which strained against Clemmy’s bra cups. They needed closer attention.

She pushed him away again, the expression of puzzlement quickly replaced by one of pure joy as she crossed her arms and grabbed the hem of her T-shirt, then pulled it up over her breasts, over her shoulders, down her arms, snagging it slightly on the studs of the leather band decorating her right wrist, then tossing it onto the cable box. Scotty could not take his eyes off her bare breasts.

In seconds, his hands were back on them, her rock-hard nipples flattened against his warm palms, his slender fingers squeezing as much as possible. ‘Hmm!’ moaned Clemmy, ‘you do have very talented hands! But no need to rush to the chorus! Let’s have the verse first!’ She giggled as Scotty’s hands opened, freeing her breasts. ‘Don’t stop,’ she whispered, ‘just slow down.’

He began to massage them with a gentle squeezing motion, which sent waves of low-frequency excitement through her. Each one grew a little, moving Clemmy on a little further.

As Scotty continued to fondle her breasts, she reached between his legs. Her fingers wrapped around a firm lump, barely contained by his boxers. It twitched, and for a second she thought she had made him shoot. She relaxed her grip and was happy to feel he stayed hard.

Running her fingers to the top of his boxers, she slipped them inside, then drove down till the tips touched hard flesh. She stopped, still wary of causing an accident, letting him get used to her hand being there. Who knows, she could be the first woman to touch him down there!

She ran her nails down what felt like a good length, until she found the warm roundness of his testicles. They were tight and ready for action. After a few seconds of teasing and stroking, she twisted her wrist and dragged his boxers down to his thighs.

Sinking to the floor, she squatted on her haunches, balanced perfectly on her toes, stiletto heels inches off the ground – a position she had mastered years earlier while playing guitar solos in front of thousands of screaming fans. Now she was at eye-level with his erection, and she liked what she saw. He was as long as he had felt, with a slight upward curve.

Circling him with her fingers and giving his balls a squeeze, she looked up at him and licked her lips. His face was a picture of desire and pleading. For a second she enjoyed the power, but knew she should not tease him. Not for too long, anyway.

Poking out the tip of her tongue, she ran it over the swollen head. He shivered, closed his eyes and threw back his head. He looked down at her again, to make sure this was really happening. It was – and it was about to get even better.

Clemmy opened her mouth and allowed Scotty to slide in past her lips. Her fingers tightened around the base as she fed his weapon in, stopping when the glans was completely inside her mouth. She sucked in her cheeks and pursed her lips, hearing him groan in pleasure.

She swallowed another inch, and began bobbing back and forth. She relished the manly taste of a post-gig blow job. She had not given many, and only to boyfriends who were fellow musicians, but if there was a better way to unwind, she had yet to find it.

Right now, Scotty would certainly have agreed, but Clemmy had bigger plans for him. OK, he could take it, but couldn’t any boy? Could he give it out too?

Sliding him to the back of her throat a few times, she suddenly pulled him out. His hardness wagged before her eyes, and for a second she thought she was going to get a faceful, but he controlled himself. She stood, her right fist wrapped around his shaft. She kissed him and whispered in his ear: ‘That was my solo. Now it’s time for yours.’

He looked puzzled, but soon got her drift, as her hands went to the hem of her black leather mini and hauled it up over her hips. Then her fingers were in the waistband of her tiny red G-string, pushing it down her thighs, over her long leather boots, then, one by one, over the heels and pointed toes, and off completely, to land by her feet.

Finding a plastic chair against the wall, Clemmy dragged it into the centre of the room and sat on the edge, her thighs spread, the grey plastic cold under her bare bottom. She placed her fingertips on her outer labia and carefully drew her sex apart. Her eyes flashed a challenge to Scotty, who was rubbing his erection with his right hand. Don’t spoil it, thought Clemmy, hoping he would take the hint and get to work.

He did just that. Dropping to his knees, he put a hand on each thigh, just above the top of each boot. He leaned in, his face disappeared from her view, she felt his lips touch her sex and shivered at the first contact.

Clemmy shuffled forward, as Scotty’s lips sucked at her labia. She may or may not be the first to give him a blow job, but his experience of cunnilingus would certainly be limited, maybe non-existent. He would surely benefit from some encouragement.

‘Ooh! Yes! Use your tongue! Aaah!’ He obeyed enthusiastically, wiggling the tip between her labia. It made contact with her clitoris. ‘Oooh! Right there! Oh God, do it! Yesss!’

As a pupil Scotty had thrived on praise. His tongue moved harder and faster, getting almost as much enjoyment from Clemmy’s pleasure as she got herself.

‘Ooh!’ Her whole body stiffened, then locked for a few seconds. Then, from her toes and fingers inwards, it relaxed. She put her hands on Scotty’s head and pushed him back. He had carried on eating her after her orgasm, probably unsure if he was meant to stop, or even if she had come. ‘Well done!’ she whispered, smiling. ‘Done that before?’

‘First time,’ he said, wiping his fingers across his lips.

‘You have a gift for it, a very talented boy. And you’ve earned a reward. Stand up.’ He got to his feet, and Clemmy passed a hand over his hardness. ‘Top left pocket of my denim. You’ll find a packet of condoms,’ she said. ‘Yes, that means you’re going to fuck me,’ she added as his eyes widened.

She turned her back to him, hitching her leather skirt even higher, until it was nothing more than a belt, wiggling her bare bottom at him as she did so. She heard the breath catch in his throat, and she knew he was, for this moment, totally under her control.

He fumbled in her jacket, going through the wrong pocket first, finally pulling out the small foil packet. Clemmy looked over her shoulder, her hands on her hips, as his trembling fingers tore it open. She watched as he carefully took out the lubricated skin and rolled it down his penis, making sure it reached the root. So he was no virgin after all!

‘Good boy,’ she said. ‘I never go to a gig without a packet. I suggest you do the same from now on.’ Clemmy span the chair and leaned over the backrest, planting her feet on either side of its legs and bracing her knees. Her hands went palm downwards on the seat. She knew what a lewd exhibition she was giving Scotty, and she knew he would do just what she wanted him to do.

She felt his fingers dig into her hips. Her sex was nudged by the tip of his penis. Her hips were parted by his right knee and suddenly she enjoyed the feeling of being filled with a very hard, large cock.

She rocked back and forth, her heels tapping the tempo she wanted. He picked it up right away, tightening his grip, pumping in and out, his stomach slapping her cheeks.

‘Oh yes!’ Clemmy’s vocal was a throaty whisper, at the very lowest end of her register. ‘Fill me up! Show me what you’ve got! Oh God, yes!’

Scotty responded with a series of harder thrusts and grunts of his own, as the delicious friction he was generating grew. He stopped for a moment, but only long enough to lift his left leg, wrap it around Clemmy’s thigh and place his foot on the chair in front of her. His thrusts began again, as he used the extra leverage to push deeper. Neat trick, thought Clemmy.

‘Aaah!’ His slight change of angle meant he was stimulating her in just the right place. She dipped her body to get more of his sweet technique. His thrusts became shorter and more urgent.

Clemmy hoped he could hold on for a few more seconds. That was all she would need, but she was not sure he would make it. She bucked her own hips to try and speed things along for herself. It did the trick for both of them.

Just as her sex began to pulse, Scotty let out a long growl and pulled her onto him, as if he never wanted to let her go. She would also have been happy if that moment had lasted for ever, as a second orgasm took over her body.

Slowly the world came back into focus, and Clemmy heard the rasping pants of the young man still inside her. Her own breath was heavy and laboured. She reached between her legs and helped Scotty disengage, then stretched back to her feet, her legs shaking as she turned to face him. She sank onto the chair, her thighs parted, her sex pouting, as if in thanks for his maestro performance.

Scotty’s legs also gave way, and he dropped to his knees. He looked at Clemmy, still appearing not to believe what they had just done. She smiled.

‘Congratulations,’ she said. ‘Welcome to rock and roll! Now don’t just sit there – pour us another Jack Daniel’s!’