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The tour bus rattled along the Italian highway, the low rumble of the engine the only steady noise cutting through the sound of the tires on the road. It was past three in the e morning in the summer of 2022, and the rest of the band had finally gone to bed after the Milan show. You’d stayed up with Cristina, talking nonsense about shitty horror movies and her collection of stupid cat memes she kept showing you on her phone. One thing led to another — her hand on your thigh, your fingers brushing her dark hair — and now here you were, tucked into the narrow lounge at the very back of the bus, legs spread over her shoulders.
Cristina Scabbia, 50 and still as magnetic, still as mischievous, still able to rile the arenas into raptures, knelt between your thighs with all the time in the world. Her dark eyes darted up at you with amusement and hunger, the fine lines at the corners of her mouth crinkling. Her dark eyes flicked up at you, amused and hungry, the faint lines at the corners crinkling as the smile crept up her cheeks.
“Shhh, amore,” she whispered, voice low and warm, that faint Italian accent wrapping around the words like velvet. “You’re going to wake the whole bus if you keep making those pretty sounds.”
You bit your lip hard, hips twitching as her mouth returned to you. She was relentless in the best way. Older, experienced, calm and completely unhurried. Her tongue traced slow, broad strokes along your folds before flicking sharply over your clit, then dipping lower to taste you deeper. One of her hands pressed your thigh wider, the other slid up your stomach, fingers splaying possessively over your ribs. She hummed in appreciation when you dripped onto her tongue, the vibration shooting straight through you.
“Fuck, Cri —” you gasped, one hand fisting in her hair. She was so warm, so soft, the faint scent of her vanilla shampoo and stage sweat mixing with the unmistakable musk of sex in the cramped space. At fifty she moved with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how to treat you. No frantic rushing like girlfriends your own age; she fucking savored it. She licked and sucked with deliberate precision, alternating between gentle laps that had you trembling and firmer pressure that made your back arch off the thin cushion.
“That’s it,” she murmured between long, wet drags of her tongue. “Let me have you. Been thinking about these pretty thighs all night.” Her voice had that dorky little lilt even now, half teasing, half worshipful. She nuzzled her face deeper, nose brushing your clit while her tongue pushed inside you, fucking you in shallow thrusts that made your toes curl.
You were dripping down her chin. The wet sounds of her mouth on you filled the back lounge, cum and saliva mixing. She brought two fingers to your entrance, sliding them in easily, curling them just right against that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. Her free hand reached up, pinching your nipple through your thin tank top, rolling it between thumb and forefinger.
“Cristina! Oh my god —” Your thighs started to shake. She didn’t speed up; she just kept that steady, devastating rhythm, sucking your clit between her lips while her fingers clung deeper, crooking, stroking. She was older, seasoned, experienced, guiding you through it like she’d learned every secret your body could offer and intended to use them all.
“Cum for me, baby,” she coaxed, voice husky. “Right now, sì… or I won’t let you for the rest of the night.”
The orgasm hit you like a wave crashing over the bus. You clamped a hand over your own mouth to muffle the broken cry, hips jerking against her face as pleasure tore through you in long, shuddering pulses. Cristina moaned softly, licking you through every aftershock, gentling her touches but not stopping until you were twitching and oversensitive, pushing weakly at her head.
She finally pulled back, lips shiny, hair messy from your fingers, and looking stupidly proud of herself. “Mm. Good girl,” she murmured, pressing a little kiss to your inner thigh. Cristina wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and crawled up your body, moving to kiss your mouth. “You’re so pretty when you finish,” she whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw. “My favorite thing in the world.”
You both stayed tangled for a minute, breathing hard, trading lazy kisses. Then Cristina glanced at her phone face down on the floor. “Cazzo… it’s almost five already.”
You laughed breathlessly. “We should try to sleep before soundcheck later.”
She helped you up on shaky legs, adjusting your shorts and her own tank top. The two of you padded quietly toward the front of the bus, fingers brushing. The lounge area lights were dim, but someone was already up. Marco was nursing a coffee at the small table, scrolling on his phone. He looked up, blinked once at your flushed faces and messy hair, then raised an eyebrow.
“Uh… morning?” he said, voice slurred with sleep and suspicion.
Cristina froze for half a second, then flashed that signature grin, the one that made her look ten years younger despite the silver in her hair that she tried to hide. “Buongiorno! Just, uh, getting some water. Hydration is very important after shows, you know?”
You wanted to fucking die. Your thighs were still slick, your legs unsteady, and you were pretty sure your neck had a fresh bruise starting. Marco stared for another moment, then shook his head with a tired chuckle. “Whatever the hell is going on back there, keep it down next time. Some of us are trying to sleep through the noise.”
“Sorry,” you mumbled, mortified but still buzzing.
Cristina just winked at him, grabbed two water bottles from the fridge like nothing happened, and tugged you back toward the bunks. “Night, Maki!”
Once you were safely in her narrow bunk, curtain pulled, the reality of how little sleep you were actually going to get settled in. The space was tight (barely enough room for both of you) but Cristina didn’t seem to mind. She pulled you close, spooning you from behind, one arm draped over your waist. Her body was warm and solid against yours, breasts pressing softly into your back through her thin shirt.
“Mm, you’re still shaking,” she murmured against your neck, pressing a slow kiss there. Then another. Her lips trailed up to your ear, teeth grazing the lobe. “Did I make you cum that hard, baby?”
You shivered hard, pressing back into her. “You know you did.”
Her hand slipped under your tank top, palm gliding over your stomach, fingertips tracing lazy circles just under your breasts but never quite touching where you wanted. She kissed the back of your neck again, open mouthed and slow, then sucked gently on the skin there. Great, more marks.
“I love the way you taste. Could stay between your legs for hours.”
“Cri…” you whispered, half warning, half plea. Your thighs were already crossed again, heat pooling low despite the exhaustion.
She chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through you. She had perfected the art of making you feel warm even with how playful she could get.
“I’m not going to fuck you again right now,” she promised, even as her fingers danced higher, brushing the underside of your breast. “We do need some sleep. But I like teasing you ‘til you get wet too.”
Another kiss, slower this time, her tongue tracing the shell of your ear. Her hips rocked gently against your ass, a subtle grind that made you bite back a whimper. She was enjoying this.
“You’re evil,” you muttered, but you tilted your head to give her better access.
“I’m generous,” she corrected with a grin you could feel against your skin. She kissed your jaw, then your lips when you turned halfway toward her. The kiss was deep and unworried, her tongue sliding against yours with the same patience she’d shown earlier. When she pulled back, her eyes were soft in the low light filtering through the curtain.
“But you like it… all flushed and needy in my bed.” She huffed hotly into your ear.
Her hand finally cupped your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple in slow circles. Not enough pressure. Just enough to keep you aching. She kissed you again, softer this time, then tucked her face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in.
“Try to sleep, baby,” she whispered, but her lips kept brushing your skin, tiny kisses, little nips with her teeth, the occasional lick like she couldn’t stop tasting you. Her fingers continued their lazy path under your shirt, mapping your body wherever they happened to go. Every so often her hips would press forward again, reminding you she was right there wanting, but choosing to wait.
The bus moved on. Marco’s quiet snoring eventually stopped from the front. You lay there in the tight bunk, heart still racing from her mouth and her hands and her voice, while she (a woman who easily commanded thousands on stage) held you like you were married and teased you like you were her favorite.
You weren’t sure you’d sleep at all.