We're only the support act but the way we have the small audience jumping, it's like we're the main event. The basement bar is tiny, cramped, industrial, sweaty. The kind of place cockroaches would wipe their feet to enter.

My pounding beat that drives Christian’s grungy guitar licks, Matt’s booming bass, and Trent’s throaty vocal pings off the exposed pipework overhead, spreading the wall of sound to the 200-strong crowd headbanging in front of me; praying to the gods of rhythm. Praying to us in our kilowatts of glory.

Everyone in a band always thinks they're the glue. The most important cog, without whom the band would collapse. I'm no exception. I hold us together. Keep the metronome in my head ticking through tight beats and playful fills so the others can do their stuff. But we all know Trent leads.

He orchestrates. Gestures with flicks of his wrist or outright commands, often with arms outstretched like he's on a crucifix, his back to the audience. His actions are ones we've learned from practice upon practice, gig upon gig. He operates as interface between the crowd and us, feeding off them and giving us signals. When to slow a fraction. When to extend the thrashing end to a track. When to pick up the pace and turn them into a frenzied pack, baying for more.

And we're damn good at it.

As usual, I'm dressed to kill. Or thrill. Part show, part functional to cope with the oppressive heat of this London basement venue.

Snug black choker. Black cami top. Black cotton underwear.

That's it.

No shoes so I have a connection to the music through the kick and cymbal stack pedals. No bra so my rack bounces with every snare smash or tom roll. Doesn't hurt sales.

I thrash my blonde mane in time to the beat. Sweat flings off me. The stage is so shallow, the puppy-eyed men on the fringes of the moshpit are practically bathing in it. And yet they all want me, even in this state.

My hair’s a mess, strands plastered to my neck and face. Eyeliner is on the verge of collapse, despite bold claims by the manufacturer. My pendant necklace swings ferociously with every beat. The cami clings like it owes me rent, and my panties are drenched against the leather drum stool; a sump for sweat, piss drops and pussy juice after the day’s travel from last night's bigger, bawdier venue in Liverpool.

Every one of the sad fucks look up to me like I'm High Priestess, Goddess of the drumskins. The answer to their unvoiced prayers. Yeah I can bash the kit as well as anyone, but I've been able to do that since I was seven. Twenty years on, it's more than that: I'm their wet dream. Single? Married? Doesn't matter. I'm hot as fuck—figuratively and physically—I’m in band, and I represent everything they can't get. The rush of playing and thrill that every one of them craves Lottie Powers adds to the mess in my knickers.

It's a power trip. Pure and simple. I adore performing. Showing off. Flaunting. Probably got it from gramps. Drumming skipped a generation and I landed the talent. Not complaining.

As Trent draws the penultimate number to a close with a flourishing gesture like he's a Toreador and we're the bull, I clamp the crash cymbal’s tail between my fingertips, the lights go black and the crowd go wild.

I'm panting. Actually fucking panting, and use the tiny break to chug half the remaining litre bottle of water by the bass drum head. It's lukewarm already, only half-hour after I pulled it from the fridge backstage. But I don't care. It's cooler than I am. I put it back down. Shake out my hair. Finger comb it and twirl the beater alongside my skull. Ready.

As the crowd’s cheer fades to a low buzz in the darkness, it ramps again to a roar when a single spotlight blazes from behind, casting me and Trent in halo. With his back to the crowd. arms diagonally outstretched above him, almost touching the low ceiling, he holds the pose. Lifts his chin. I loft both beaters. Await his nod. Slam them down at his command, accompanied by choppy guitar chugs. Lift. Wait. Then again.

The third thrash is timed perfectly as he lets himself fall backwards onto a sea of hands, the lights blaze and the track kicks off. Our signature tune.

The crowd know the song. Trent rolls across their skyward hands during the intro then undulates back towards the stage, roughly shoved upright just before the vocals start. He's wearing that stupid grin. The one he reserves for when he knows we’ll get a return booking. Or when someone suggests lighting a blunt on the tour bus.

Peeling his curtains aside and flicking back his hair, he launches into the song. The crowd sing along, raucous. Delirious. Beer flowing or spilling depending how close they are to the moshpit. He holds the mic out towards the audience and 200 voices chant the words back at him.

It's beautiful chaos. And yet, throughout the entire gig, hundreds of pairs of eyes are on me. Well, my tits mainly, as they jiggle and bounce, threatening to eject from the lingerie’s confines. Maybe the men holding their phones up are waiting for that moment, praying to capture their escape and spread it on socials. Or take the footage home and jerk off to it later. Not fussy which.

Shyness is overrated. And being desired is such a fucking turn on. I drum for me, but also to earn their admiration. To watch them all ogling and dancing and shoving in the snatches of strobe light as my tits wobble against the taut fabric.

Every man wants me. I could have any of them and they’d be fucking grateful. But it's always on my terms. They can take all the photos and videos they like. Scream my name. Profess true love. Whatever. None of them can have me tonight.

Except him.

Second row. Left of the stage. He's different. Watches me carefully, clearly enjoying the music but more my performance. He stares, like he's been doing all night. Not in a creepy way but with a collected intensity that makes me shiver. Like he knows a secret about me I don't. Like he wants to share, and it'd be the most tragic case of FOMO if I didn't listen.

He's a little older than the usual demographic we attract. Maybe early forties. Clearly here for the main event but somehow surprised by how good the support are. Obviously smitten by me; by the way I command the rhythm. Probably also by my tits because he hasn't seen his wife's in years.

He's dancing. If it can be called that. More bopping like a geography teacher at a school disco. Into the music, but self-conscious about expressing himself. Perhaps if it had been 90s dance music, he'd let go a bit. He looks the type.

As the track builds through the middle-eight, Trent signals to extend it. Christian improvs a solo, barges off the stage and the crowd fan out to give him space to shred, phones held high. Matt holsters his bass for the spectacle and I keep time. Absorb the atmosphere through the pores that aren't oozing sweat.

It's hotter than Satan's armpit, yet I shudder. He's still watching. Gazing with a combination of rapture and need. I wonder what he's thinking. Maybe he wants me to dominate him in this flimsy get-up. Press my feet to his face. Inhale me in all my dirty glory. Grind my slit on his body, getting myself all worked up before yanking his shorts off and sinking onto his prick.

Or maybe he wants to peel my drenched underwear down, bend me over the kit and deliver a staccato beat of slaps with his palms; or my drumsticks. Fuck. Spanked by my own beaters, criss-cross lines forming on my upturned arse from wood on curvy flesh. What a vision.

I stare back as I thrash the skins. Challenge him. It's impossible to tell if he wants to give or receive. Perhaps that's his allure. That ambiguity.

Christian barrels back onto the stage, I provide a skip fill and we bring the track home, with the chorus. Repeat it at Trent’s signal, before he winds the shredding and gradual slowing of the drums to a close with a stamp and a deep bow just as the lights go out.

To rapturous, thunderous applause.

I sit and breathe hard. Bask in the glow of the reaction. We've played bigger venues but the noise at this intimate one-off pop-up gig, announced only two weeks ago, rivals them. They're hollering and stomping their feet and whistling, chanting for more. It's flattering, but we have to clear the stage. No encore for the support. That's the rules.

The end of a show draws a familiar, strange emotion. I'm exhausted yet wired. Many performers turn to drink or drugs to help them sleep. I prefer to masturbate. Pack up, retreat to the hotel, and my hands are in my knickers before the bag hits the floor. I cum against the door, shower, cum under the spray, flop on the bed still wet, jam my fingers against my invigorated clit and bring myself off again. And again. Hard. Panting. Needy. Then drift off in a sea of serotonin.

It's the life I've chosen. The path that called to me. And I'm living it to the max. Party hard or go home, right?

There's a lively buzz in the venue as the house lights raise. I drain the last mouthful of water. Peel my thighs off the stool and begin to dismantle the kit I brought.

The crowd thins. Many hit the bar. A few stand around chatting or watching us thread between the headline roadies as we make way for them to take the stage and sound check.

I look up. He’s still there. Watching as I'm leaning forward to unscrew the crash cymbal, revealing ample cleavage in his direction. I flash a smile, turn and bend to pick up my skin bag. Not like a good girl. No. From the waist. When I catch sight of him again, he hasn't flinched.

Determined to break him, I crouch to bag some XLR cables that Trent hands me. Knees spread, I shove two in then snap my head up.

Gotcha.

His gaze has wandered up past the three little hearts tattooed on my inner thigh, and rests squarely on my soaked panties.

But if I expect him to squirm at being caught, I'm dead wrong. When he's had his fill of my display, he glides his attention to my stare. Meets it head-on. And licks his lips. Licks his fucking lips, like I'm a foregone conclusion. Like I'm dish of the day on the specials board.

What’s his game? Why is he not melting in my charms like everyone else? He should be a puddle on the floor mixed with spilled beer and dashed dreams. A pile of man-goo, desperate for Princess Lottie to toss the beaters his way, blow him a kiss and have him practically cum in his shorts right there at the edge of the stage.

My neck hairs rise. That alone should make me run. But my traiterous body has other ideas. Mystery and desire and pure need clash, swords slicing and clanging like a deleted scene from 300.

So you know what I do? When I get to the door that leads to backstage, I turn. Make eye contact. Tip my chin up. Just once. An invitation. Take it or leave it. Come on, motherfucker, money where your mouth is.

He doesn't move straight away. Just stands, unwavering before threading his way towards me. I don't wait. My heart thumps as I traipse the corridor and turn at the end, his footfall a way behind me.

I forge into the changing room, leaving the door open. One of the perks of being the only girl in the band is I get my own space, even if it is often a glorified cupboard like this. Shelves of kit, my rucksack on one of them.

Dragging it free, the bag swings to the floor and I bend to unzip it. Whirl when I detect his presence in the doorway. All of a sudden it doesn't seem like such a good idea. Trapped. A stranger blocking the only exit. But I stand firm. “What's your deal?”

He says nothing. Appraises me like an art critic in front of a Monet.

I don't mean to turn hysterical but his silence drives me to it. “I’m serious. Why have you been staring at me all night?” My voice has adopted that whiny quality that pisses me off.

The guy smiles. And just when I think he's not going to say anything, he does. “You're captivating. Truly.”

With my body gearing up for a fight, that knocks me back. “Oh. Umm...” Come on, Lottie. Don't go all shy on me now. “Uhh, thank you?”

He nods. Assured. “I mean it. And not just the obvious.” He waves his hand in my direction. “You have this… gravitas.” His voice is baritone. Smooth. Somehow sexy, despite his decade or so on me. “And your innate sense of rhythm is inspirational.”

My eyes widen. “Oh I get it. This is where you tell me you're from EMI and you think I'll go far but I have to leave the band?”

His smile spreads. Almost patronising but also… predatory. My pulse spikes. I wait, fists clenching the strap of my rucksack. Wait more.

“The only label I have is one that says New Fan.”

I stare him down, confidence returning. Surging. “Okay Mr New Fan. What's the play? Hmm? You one of those guys who likes to take charge? Wanna step in and show me why I wear a choker?”

He remains impassive, blocking the door.

“Or are you one of those puppies? The type that wants to kneel for me?”

His lips part. The first tell. Got him.

“Ohhh, that's it isn't it?” I let go of the bag and take a step towards him. “One night of freedom and you wanna live it, right? What is it? Porn not doing it for you any more? Wife not paying you enough attention?”

His expression softens. “My wife can't drum like you.”

The breath explodes in a burst. “Ha! That's the truth. Nobody drums like Lottie Powers.”

“That your real name?”

I shake my head. “Not entirely.”

“Then all I want is your real name. And phone number.”

My eyebrow arches almost involuntarily. “And why would I give you that?”

“Because I see you for who you are.”

“Which is?”

“A soul seeking a connection in this callous world.”

“And you got that from my drumming? Or a fortune cookie?”

He smiles. “And the way you carry yourself. Present yourself. I bet after each gig, you go back to the hotel room and lose yourself in rapture. Fingers. Toys. Nobody can ever live up to Lottie Powers, so why bother? How am I doing?”

I blink. “Alright Mystic Meg. And how will giving you my number change that? If you're so fucking clairvoyant, you probably already know it.”

His smirk like he's already won pisses me off almost before he answers. “I'm your shortcut. Before the headline starts.” He glances back the way we came towards the stage as if to emphasise time ticking away. “Right here. Now. You do your dominatrix thing. Get yourself off. I get your phone number so if we ever want to do it again, we can.”

“And you think that's what I want?”

“It's what you need. The release after the performance. You're wound up. I can help.”

He's not wrong there. My body is craving the hit. It was a brutal gig.

“It’ll cost you.”

“Whatever it takes.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

My skin is slick beneath hands that I place on my hips. “You think you can handle all of me?”

He nods. Fast. Decisive. Right before I reach out and grab his shirt, tugging him into my space. I flick the door shut behind him. Shove him against it. Our mouths are close. He carries a similar scent to me; of being in a confined space full of sweaty bodies. “You want to worship me? Hmm?”

He nods again. Eyes wide. The first sign of fear, like I'm more of a force than he expected.

Clutching the front of his shirt, I tug him down. “Then worship me. Get on the ground.”

If the concrete floor bothers his knees, he doesn't show it.

“Yess, that's it. Look up at me.”

He swivels his gaze. Needy. I draw a line down his cheek. “Good boy. But you're only halfway there.”

His eyes widen. But his compliance follows and he slithers to the floor onto his back.

“That's better.”

I lift my foot. Place it on his chest. Glide up, bunching his shirt with it. His stomach is tense. My big toe brushes his neck. His chin, working up his cheek. My sole inches towards his nose and mouth. “This is how I can drum so well. I never wear shoes so I feel the music. When I'm out there, it's part of me.” My foot smooshes his lips. “Can you feel that? The energy?”

His eyes briefly flutter closed as he inhales. Nods.

“Does your wife know you're such a naughty boy? Stepping out on her with a stranger.” He shakes his head. Flicks his tongue out, tentatively sampling my foot. “Does she not take charge in the bedroom?” He shakes again and I pluck my foot away.

“So she hasn't ever straddled you like this?”

Stepping over his head, I wave my hips. Without even waiting for a response, I crouch, knees spread.

“Then she won't have lowered herself to within an inch of your face like this?”

I stand. Wait. Crouch, swooping like a Death Star strafing run, then arcing up. Away.

He whimpers. My stomach flutters. The familiar stirring. That power drug surging.

“Oh you like that, my dirty boy? Like when Lottie teases you with her dirty pussy?”

I drop again. Pause, maybe an inch from his nose. Wait for him to breathe in, then stand. Glancing over my shoulder, his shorts are tenting.

“You filthy boy. Look at you getting hard at the scent of my—” I drop...