1. Moanin'


    Date: 9/27/2016, Categories: Voyeur, Author: LeCygneNoir, Rating: 7, Source: LushStories

    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 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, 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 ...
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