He loved the satin of skin under his touch, loved the sounds of desire, exertion and eventual satisfaction. It was a carefully crafted symphony in his hands. There had been pain, wounded pride, bruised skin, broken shards of a life falling to the floor, before she reached for him, before her hands had given him back life. So he honoured her, cherished her, served her with the very core of his being. 


Her mood was exuberant today, seductive in its joy, pure Rachmaninoff without the taste of darker desires coloured in by Puccini. He was more than willing to oblige that joy, answer that temptation with hands slipping under the gold silk of her evening dress, finding the sensation of velvet in her honey-kissed skin along the smoothness of her back. His arms circled her from behind, pulled her close, surrounded her with his touch, breathed in the scent of her hair, of her skin. His lips found her sensitive nape, the warmth of pleasure rising to the surface. In tune with the notes of the preludes in c minor, he nibbled his way along her neck, tasted the secrets of the hollow  of her vulnerable throat as he slowly turned her in his arms. The first crescendo was a bite to tease and anticipate, the second an invitation to find her mouth. 


Her lips were smooth under his, still closed to his taste, but softening under gentle stroke of his lips. With teasing bites he coaxed, with deliberate licks he cajoled until they fell open in a gasp, allowing entrance to a duel of sensation and touch. He loved that first sharp taste of pleasure, when the flavours of lovers had not yet mixed and the unique soupçon of femininity competed with the new taste of shared pleasure. Against his chest he felt her pebbled nipples, the pressure a tantalising promise through the thin silk. He enjoyed the shiver caressing her skin as stroking fingers first nudged one thin strap, and then the other,  over her shoulder. The swish of the light material added its own notes to the sonatas with its play of dissonance as it stroked over her sensitised nipples and tore a moan from her mouth. For a moment he hovered, taking in the utter beauty of her long lines and soft tones. She was a magnificent epos to humanity in form and nature.

The need to devour, to hold, to take, rose in him. This was far removed from the gentle, sophisticated seduction of Rachmaninoff. With the notes of Orff rose the need to possess, the passionate desire to claim her body and soul. It was not enough anymore to satisfy the physical need, he wanted to see her taken away by her own pleasure, wanted to own that moment of absolute abandon – wanted her to gift him with it. With the strength of the almost visceral chorus of Carmina Burana he lifted her in his arms, bedded her on the satin sheets, covered her body with his. He wanted her to feel the side of his body against her skin, feel the harder planes, the rougher texture as a counterpoint to her own sweetness. 


Her breasts were full and heavy against his hands. His fingers and mouth playing an intricate duet over them, the calluses of his fingers catching on the satin of her skin before the heat of his mouth soothed away the aggravation.  Her hips began to move in rhythm with melody and sensation, and it was hard not to answer the silent plea. But he wanted her pleasure in a homage, a gift presented by her hand. He spread her wide for him, opened her for his own pleasure and she understood the unspoken command, a plea of his own. 


Her hand found its way to her folds, stroking and teasing them both. Moisture glistened over her labia, was collected by her fingers and spread. Her clitoris, swollen and bared, called for the touch she withheld. As the music rose her stroking fingers came closer and closer, rubbing ever more frantically, as her back arched and her eyes closed in utter abandon. And as her body began to spasm in pleasure, his fingers pushed deep, his mouth joined hers to drink in the essence of her fervour. Her scream was music to his ears, her frenzied movements the rhythm to his life.


With the last note he faded away, his touch a memory in the hearts and minds, a reminder of pleasure shared, lost but not forgotten – until the next time a bow was put to string, a hand stroked over piano keys, a mouth opened under the ecstasy of his desire. He was music in its very essence, a companion to so many – a lover only to a precious few. 

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