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The night has come to a quiet end. The hostess tastefully turned off the bright chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Only the city of Lights bathes the room now, brushing the thick Persian carpets in soft forgiving shadows.The little silver box in your jacket pocket feels heavy. Thoughtless, you grab a blonde, keep it hanging on your lips. In the dark, the tiny spark of the match is a blinding blaze. You fill your lungs with delightful death. The blueish volutes draw illusive shapes in the air. The curve of a neck, the sudden arching of her back, strands of hair floating in the night… Evanescent beauty. In the silence, you can hear the shredded tobacco wrinkling into embers. You smother the smoke in the copper ashtray on the Steinway. The old beast has grown cold. You shuffle on the keys, mimic a few strides. Nothing too fancy, nice caresses, feeling the ivory under the your fingertips. Easy and soundless. You danced them to hell this evening. Boogies and swings, shaking them to the core.You take a last sip from your crystal glass. Lacrima di morro d’Alba. The wine throws a sword in your gut and twists with a smile. Tastes like a horde of nubians charging in the desert, like emperors dying on cold marble stones. You drink down to almanbahis the last delicious tear of blood.The night is over and you should leave. Your tiny flat is too far away to linger long. At this hour, there is nothing the pianist can do for those still awake.Yet, a shiver springs from your spine. In the air, you feel the soft caress of velvet on bare skin. A dress is brushed off delicate shoulders, you hear it slip to the floor in a whisper. A soft stride of kisses and tongues searching for each other. The crawl of a hand between offered legs.Music of sex.The two lovers play in an alcove, skillfully veiled by a bastard architect. You smile in the dark. Clench the sourdine of the Steinway. Your wrists fly over the keyboard. Let’s dance again, please. One Two. Eight fingers hit eight keys. Eight hammers hit eight strings through their cover of felt. A moan, too slowly smothered, pierces the night. Fear and anger whistling between closed nails. Un soupir. One crotchet of rest and an exalted cry rises in perfect rhythm. Is that so? You play the next few notes and she moans again, faster and softer. Behind the thin curtain, a skilled interpret plays a sensible instrument. A naughty little jam session. The girl growls in anger. She struggles, almanbahis yeni giriş tries to escape. The musician corrals her into sweet pleasure, blissful submission. Such skilled fingers.Moanin’ is easy, just a series of kinky motifs, playful little bitches. You grind against them again and again. For you, tiny caresses on the keyboard. In the alcove, much more arduous plays. Even blind, you can feel the ferocious scrapping on her chords. Scratching and pinching, tensing and releasing. Fire floods her nerves and her clitoris. The struggle of a maestro.With each stride, the moans are sharper, more desperate. Insidious passion fills her body. You follow the pace as the Steinway warms up under your fingers. The hammers keep hitting felt over the tensed strings. Like the woman, the beast is in chains, gagged, moanin’ when it wants to shout.Well… Jazz is not so easy to contain. Fun motifs and little thrilling trills are not enough. Your fingers fly over the ivory. The cute moans become an unstoppable flow. Roars and profanity. “Fuck me, oh…Fuck me !” But still the bliss finds syncopes and interstices to swirl pleasure into the music. The instrument obeys now, craves for more.You pound the keys, the hammers pound the almanbahis giriş felt. The Steinway shouts through its gag. A beast howling and gnawing its restrains. Behind the curtains, you can hear the sound of a tongue pushed inside raging, horny lips. The suction of it deep in a gushing little pussy.In a quaver the music devolves. Just a shouting instrument and endless trills. You play your lick, your impossible trick, faster and faster, tearing your hands apart. All complex games forgotten into a mad crescendo. You follow the runaway stride. Simple, mindless relief leading the girl into of an extravagant orgasm.A final shout tears the night apart. The room falls back in sudden, heavy silence. You stay still in the dark. Sweating, your hands trembling, you wait. Staring at the alcove. The curtain slides, a little mouse slips by and hops away. Not her ! A fiery shadow follows, brushes against the silk. Here is the maestro.”I should have known it was you.””Of course.”The virtuoso. You play piano, she plays men and women. Wood and steel. You first saw her years ago, in the church of Saint-Eustache. Her petite frame fearlessly facing the giant, the most powerful instrument of the land. A furious battle of mights, her tiny body and titan soul pit against the machine. Sweating and punching and kicking, she tamed the organ. Four keyboards and eight thousand tubes. She rode it in a crazy tune, Bebop from out of this world. Forcing new tricks on the oldest of them all.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32