1. Moanin'


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

    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 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. You fell in love with her jazz. Her presence is overwhelming. She holds blazing beauty, a seismic grace. Her body flows like a river of melting stones, her hair an avalanche of dark sand. Legends say the women of Guadeloupe are forged in earth by fire, quenched in perfection by salt water. She is a masterpiece from the volcanoes of her land. Black eyes on black skin on black soul. A wild witch born from a sulfur pit. A barren moon in the Parisian night. Her nudity is a dance, a mad trance. Your eyes waltz from her shoulders to the gorge between her breasts. Breathless, you climb her polished skin. Her erect nipples are gems of jet stone. From their sharp edges you fall past her belly into her hairless pubis. You stumble on a powerful Rift, the cleft of her sex. Her fiery red cunt is gushing wet, a fresh cascade runs down to her knees. “Keep playing, please.” That voice. That growling, rolling spell. You surrender. Hit a stride. Pianissimo. “Off with the fucking felt! ...
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