Taut Strings

I feel like the strings of his guitar. Taut and yet, yielding. Music locked away deep inside, yearning to be set free by the hands of a man skilled in the art of desire.

The song begins, and from the first bars, I am transported. I look up to the ceiling. It feels as though he is playing just for me. I can feel his passion in every strum of the strings. When he begins to sing, I am already gone. Lost in my sweet imaginings.

I have no choice, I am drawn in. I allow myself to surrender.

I can feel his heat, his presence, beside me. The brush of his lips on my neck. The skill of his fingers directly on my moist and sensitive flesh.

He hasn’t touched me, yet I give myself to him freely. My hands are his. They slide over my tender skin, covering it in playful pinches and pulls, sparking my desire, bringing me closer to him. Closer to paradise.

My hips lift and twist to his rhythm. My chest rises and falls in sync with his skillful manipulations on the tense metal strings. Finally, my breath catches, and I erupt. Exaltations in tune with the triumphant crescendo.

Cries of ecstasy quiet to soft whimperings. I am spent. But not yet satisfied.

The album is on repeat, and I will surrender to him again and again before sleep takes me and I dream of delightful ravagings.

The End

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