by Dara Prisamt Murray
(01/19/05)

Music has charms to soothe a savage breast. I guess that's sometimes true, but not this sizzling music, not these breasts that are tingling with each glorious tinkle of the ivories. This music is so hot that rather than calming and soothing my soul, it boldly enters my body and blatantly arouses me. No matter what he plays, major or minor, andante or allegro, forte or pianissimo, I am helplessly seduced by his music. I drown in the sensuous waves of luscious sound that he massages from his instrument. I liquify and become one with his fluid creations.

I'm sitting as close as I can to the piano, on a high leather stool at the end of the bar. I'm leaning against the wall behind me, partly to rest my back, but mainly because this languorous pose makes me feel sexy, makes it easier for me to imagine that I'm in bed, reclining lazily against a soft pile of pillows. I love listening to him play while I'm in bed, when I'm naked, when I'm feeling horny.

Then I can luxuriate fully in the warm, liquid notes that flow all over my skin like slick, heated oil. His smooth melody lines drip from his practiced fingers onto my body like hot wax from a candle, titillating me with sweet, molten pain. When I'm stripped bare, spread naked and luxuriating in my bed, there are no unnecessary barriers separating me from his music, from his touch. I become his smooth, lusciously-curved grand piano, eager and primed for his masterful manipulation of my body.

But, then again, listening to him in person does have its advantages, too. Observing each swaying motion of his strong, manly torso, each deep expansion of that broad, solid chest of his is an erotic experience. His graceful hands lovingly caress each smooth ivory key in a most subtle form of foreplay. He works that instrument with such intensity and passion that I feel like a voyeur. He makes love to that piano with all the sincerity and sweetness of a skilled, devoted lover. Magically, I feel my flesh become his keyboard and I hear myself moan very softly from the deepest part of me.

I watch each subtle change of expression on his face as his lips softly purse in concentration or part in a meditative and distant smile. I marvel at the power of those big, hard arms and fantasize about being squeezed, contained, and held down by them. While his eyes are pressed shut in an intimate connection with a passionate passage, I lick my lips and slyly feast my hungry eyes on the bulge in his jeans.

Without warning, he looks up at me. I feel a hot flush and a guilty thrill as I'm caught in my naked lust. He holds my gaze seductively, for a shattering moment, until his music, his loving mistress, calls him back. At first I feel disappointed and saddened, rejected when he turns away from me. I almost begin to cry, so great is my sense of abandonment. But then his sure fingers brush fluently over the keys, and his music begins to have its way with me again. I'm back under his enchantment.

As his fingers fly impossibly fast up and down the keyboard, I feel phantom fingers doing the same sensuous dance on my warming skin. Delicious shivers ripple through my body. My nipples are tight and hard, my sex runs warm and juicy, my clit pulses and throbs so strong and sharp, it aches. I let out a long sigh when I realize that for moments I haven't been breathing. It's hard to remember to breathe while being stroked and petted so skillfully, so very perfectly.

I wish the wall weren't behind me. I wish I could lie right back and fall into his music, float in it and feel my breasts being lifted and rolled and kneaded. I wish I could feel his sweet, sensitive fingers fluttering lightly over my body in a delicate glissando. How exciting it would be to feel his nimble digits vibrating my taut nipples like tightly-wound piano strings.

I imagine how thrilling it would be to watch his trilling tongue lick a lush melody down the middle of my body. I can almost hear the sharp jarring note of a laugh at my pouting disappointment when he teasingly ignores my neediest parts and proceeds down, down in a playful multi-octave run till he reaches my feet.

He'd engulf my toes in a lush, wet harmony, sucking each one as thoroughly and slowly as a series of sonorous and sultry bass chords. With each wet pull he'd tighten the suction of his mouth, causing low blues moans of sexy discordance to rise in my parched throat.

I want him to touch my pussy. I need him to push me up and over the crest of that voluptuous tidal wave of music. I'm dying for him to deliver me to my climax. I've become a part of the piece he's playing, another responsive instrument in his gifted hands. My heart's a strange kind of metronome, one that follows his music, rather than leads. The beat quickens, and the pounding in my breasts, the percussion in my cunt, both swell and intensify.

A progression of major chords masterfully scales my legs, causing them to spread wide in grand jete form, to completely engulf his music. Now turning moody and minor, in contrast to my happy relief, the notes trilled by his fingers patter teasingly on my mound. I'm humming, jamming with him. Not merely my mouth, but all of me begins to perform in harmony with him. I purr a melody that his thrilling scherzo is drawing out of me. I writhe and squirm in a sinuous dance of impatient desire.

My body opens, wide and welcoming, to the percussive jab of stiff, insistent fingers. I draw my knees up to my chest and thrust back in an answering riff to the vigorous fingering, the rhythmic hammering into my hot, wet chamber. His long, smooth legato manipulation of my clit, in contrast with the sharp staccato of his fucking fingers, is coaxing more vibrato into my voice, raising the volume of my wordless, primitive singing.

Increased pressure on my clit, like on the piano pedals, draws out my sound, blends my notes together in a continuous swirling rush of air. His chords crash inside me, the crescendo builds, swelling to immense proportions in my cunt. This is too big, too much for a piano -- I'm an organ now. No -- I want an organ -- now! I need one! A great, stiff prick in my cunt. His, anyone's! At this point I don't care whose it is, or even what it is. I just want to get stretched and filled and fucked by something big and hard.

I quickly look around. Everyone in the bar is busy, occupied with something. Some are quietly talking, some are contemplating the drinks in front of them, some, like me, seem to be engrossed in taking in this hot man and his fiery music. No one is watching me. No one will notice if I slide my hand up on the stool just between my thighs and surreptitiously press myself against it. No one will see if I subtly squeeze the heel of my hand right into my cleft and rock back and forth in time to the music. Oh yes, this feels so good, this is that extra little bit that I need to get off. I so desperately need to come.

That's what he does to me. His touch becomes music and his music returns to thrilling, throbbing touch inside my body. He brings me right to the brink. I get so near...I grind my pussy into the stool, my inner muscles clench and release in time with the beat. I almost get there...almost. I.m nearly there. Just a little more music. Just a little more rhythmic pressure against my pulsing clit.

I rock harder against my hand and my weeping seam strives to open against my stiff finger despite the barrier of my jeans. Just one more brilliant break, just thirty more heart-stopping seconds of notes played so fast that his fingers are a blur before my glazed eyes, just one more glittering glissando, one more magical modulation. I want more -- more sharp, stabbing staccato jabs for me to envelop and swallow deep in my sopping-wet cunt.

But no -- damn -- it's over! His beautiful hands are still. He's finished playing. He's stopped making love to me. He's not moving inside my core, exciting and arousing me anymore. I sigh in uncontrolled disappointment, then catch myself and compose my expression, try to look calm and cool.

That's when I realize he's intently watching me. His eyes travel from my face to my crotch and back up to my face again as I unconsciously continue rhythmically rocking against my hand. Abashedly, I whip my hand up to my mouth and nervously nibble at my finger. He winks and breaks into a broad smile of affectionate complicity.

I look down, blush and giggle, then feel an irresistible urge to look back up at him. Our eyes lock. Despite my embarrassment, I can't help but smile back at him. Now it's clear that he knows just what he does to me. He knows everything. I have no secrets from him. I've been exposed. He's seen me naked and I realize that I'm glad he has.

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