Bad enough that the minx playing Lola was meltingly hot as she slinked and cooed across the stage in our community theater production of Damn Yankees! Tonight, the final performance of our two-weekend run, Tanya, the music director with the incredible jugs, showed up with a neckline that plunged to her navel.
We were nowhere near the end of the first act and I was lubricating. It wasn’t easy being a female bass player, stuck in the back of the pit, with the best view in the house—the onstage vamp with the long legs and devouring eyes, and the music director with the oversized bosom and too many curves.
At intermission, I was rubbing into my bass book like it was my clit—I wished it were my clit—as I erased my penciled notes. Tanya, standing barely ten feet away at the podium, was doing the same thing. It’s a last-performance ritual. This way, the next set of suckers don’t have to read our notes. No, pit orchestras don’t get paid.
The eraser slipped out of my hand. I’m in pit black, a geeky shirt buttoned to the throat (not much to see, alas, even if it was halfway unbuttoned) and silk pants that showed off my best attribute.
I slid off my stool and leaned over to pick it up, giving Tanya an unrestricted view of my tight, curvy ass. Desperate? Maybe. But it’s the final show. It’s now or never. Getting back to my seat, I saw Tanya avert her eyes.
Throughout the second act, I’m paying less attention to Lola and more attention to Tanya. And, I’m getting wetter.
Applause, bows, exit music, baton down, the house lights went up. The show has ended. “Any volunteers to help tear down the pit?” Tanya asked as the twelve-member orchestra packed up. I waved my hand.
I folded chairs, collected music stands, put the stand lights in a box and helped Tanya put away the black fabric curtain, waist-high, that separated the orchestra from the audience. Her hands kept touching mine as we folded.
Five minutes later, it was just Tanya and me. The rest of the orchestra had gone home, and the cast would come back in the morning to tear down the set. As I leaned over to pick up my gig bag, the nylon behemoth that houses my double bass, I sensed Tanya approach.
Her hand went to my ass, enveloping my right cheek. It was a perfect fit. I stood and turned, and she pulled me in. “See anything you like?” she said, breasts heaving, and kissed me, hard.
I yanked down her dress and freed her tits. My agile fingers found her nipples and twisted and squeezed. I buried my face in the heavy warmth of her magnificent bosom. Tanya moaned as her other hand found my left cheek. She nearly lifted me off the floor.
“Where?” She sounded desperate.
“Here,” I said, kicking my gig bag open—it’s fully five feet long and nearly as wide, and fully padded to protect my twenty thousand dollar instrument, propped in a nearby corner. I pulled Tanya down next to me.
I divided my attention between her two perfectly rounded domes. Her nipples, perky and creased, swelled as I coated them with my saliva, spreading it out with my tongue, her brown buds hard against my lips.
I sucked and swirled my tongue, manipulating her nipples to solid black bullets—little titty hard-ons. With her large areolas and erect nipples, the tips of her breasts were about the size of one of my small (but perky!) tits.
As I made love to her with my mouth, my hands caressed her incredible mounds. I marveled at their size, rolling and kneading their massiveness in my palms. Tanya whimpered as I pushed my knee between her legs, spreading her open for me.
I attacked her cunt with my middle finger as she lay in the middle of my black gig bag, splayed like a whore. She was soaked, just like me. Her clit was distended, standing at attention. I slid farther down her wet folds and slipped one, and then two fingers into her cave of wonders.
I went crazy. I had been watching this over-endowed diva for three weeks, if you include rehearsals, as she waved her baton and leaned forward to turn the pages of her score, revealing her charms. Now, she was responding to my rhythms, my beat. I was setting the tempo.
Her pussy muscles clenched against my fingers and she came, her torso jerking violently as wave after wave of sexual energy jolted through her frame. I buried my tongue into her mouth, muffling her frantic moans as I furiously fucked her with my hand, oblivious to her crashing orgasms.
Girl cum ran down my wrist in streams. I grabbed a cotton cloth I used to wipe the rosin off my bass strings and soaked up the watery spunk. My nostrils filled with the smell of pussy musk and Tanya’s hormonal reek.
Her breathing slowed as the tension inside her let go. I pulled up on her shoulder and reached around, undoing her bra and pulling off her top. Tanya lifted her hips and wiggled as I tugged her skirt and thong down past her knees. She was essentially nude, prostrate in the middle of the auditorium. Her cunt was red, wet and swollen, an open wound.
I peeled off my shirt and bra, then shimmied out of my pants and bikini bottoms. Planting myself over Tanya’s face, I spread my knees and lowered my gaping pussy to her face.
“Any last words?”
“Are you available for Little Women? Rehearsals start next month.”
“Civil War lesbian incest? You bet. Eat me!”