Sensual Melodies

With lithe, talented fingers, he made her sing.

Every touch was like magic. The soft, suppleness of her called to him, she knew, as she lay motionless under his delicate ministrations. She wanted to feel him stroke her. Every caress sent blissful tremors through her body.

So she waited, night after night, waited for him to come to her. When he did, she stood silent, in awe of his powerful arms and anxious fingers. She wanted him, needed him, to touch her so intimately. Only for him did she open her most sensitive areas, relishing the feel of his calloused fingertips against her hidden spots.

She longed for the magical hour of the night, nine o’clock on the dot, when he set aside his meal and his paper to come for her. For two, delicious hours, he would satisfy the cravings that had gnawed an unyielding void in her core since the night before. It ended all too soon, but she could feel the shuddering reminders of his enchanting talent long into the night.

The plate was pushed aside, the paper dropped to the table. Now he came to her with unrestrained worship. His careful hands exposed her fully, and he took her in with a renewed sense of awe.

She made only the sounds she knew would bring more of that beautiful, loving touch. With every soprano cry and baritone moan, she spurred him on. She was his goddess for those two hours, and his delicate worshipping shifted to desire filled fervor as the clock ticked toward eleven o’clock. His adoration never faltered; each night, he knew her better than the last and caused her to praise his talents in even more exotic melodies.

Then it came. Their time was up.

Her singing lulled into a pleasured whisper. His promises came through the sounds of rustling papers.

”Tomorrow, love. I’ll come back tomorrow.” His fingers ran the length of her, feather-light and lingering, for a few stolen seconds. He sighed and touched her one last time, protectively, covering her delicate ivory body with a heavy, wooden lid.