Guitar

Guitar
Literary Erotica
by Lord Malinov

There’s an old guitar on my wall that isn’t really mine. I’m holding it for a friend, or something. It’s a pretty guitar, well made, has a great sound. I’m sure the lady who left it with me would be glad to get it back.

I met her in the park. She was sitting under a tree, playing her guitar. She looked a bit like a hippie but there was nothing three-chord about her music. Elaborate, trained, ethereal, transcendent, intoxicating. I stopped to listen with no awareness that I had done so. I stood still, stopped in my tracks, mesmerized by the angelic sounds evoked by her nimble fingers. I’d never heard anything like it.

She stopped playing, looked over at me and shouted, “Hey, you.”

“Me?”

“Come over here.”

“That was beautiful,” I said as I approached. “You’re incredible.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I needed to hear that.”

“No, really. Don’t let me stop you playing. I’d love to hear more.”

“Not now. I need a break. Sit down.”

It was a beautiful summer day in the shade of a big oak near the edge of a field of grass, wildflowers and weeds. As two young, bored, rather attractive people, our light conversation was overstuffed with innuendo and suggestive turns of phrase. In the background, I’m thinking, should I ask her out, can I get her to my place, can I get her alone, is she going to go cold and walk away.

“Have any weed?” she asked.

I smiled with a joy of a boy scout prepared. “Sure do.”

“Can we smoke some?”

“Maybe if we go back in the bushes, where no one can see us.”

“Let’s go,” she said, grabbed her guitar and scurried behind some thick bushes behind us. I broke out the smoke, loaded a pipe and we took turns hitting it, coughing and laughing with each progressive billowing cloud. The weed was good. We were righteously stoned. We settled into talking psychedelic bullshit, infinity and eternity and the healing power of love.

“Can I see your cock?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said and pushed down my faded jeans. My cock jumped up, already happy with the idea of attention.

“Let me suck it?” Before I had a chance to answer, she was licking and sucking on my raging hard dick. Stoned and in heaven, I went mad with pleasure. I put my arm on her back and ranged it down to her big bottom hidden under a loose linen skirt. My cock in her mouth, she reached back, lifted her skirt and pushed down her pants so my fingers could slide between her wet labia. Then I thought, I don’t have a condom and before I could try to search for an answer to that problem, it became irrelevant.

“Ivy,” a deep voice shouted. “Ivy, where are you?”

“Shit,” Ivy said, letting my cock fall from her mouth as it suddenly went limp. “Stay here,” she said, jumping up and past me around the bushes.

“Over here,” she shouted.

“Where’d you go?”

“I had to pee,” she said, loudly at first and softer as she finished.

There was mumbling and shuffling and then nothing. I waited and waiting, sitting on the ground behind the bushes next to a beautiful guitar. Finally, I got up and looked around. No one was there. No one was anywhere. Eventually, I picked up her guitar and went home.

Of course, I’d give it back to her if I knew who she was or where I could find her. I do go to the park regularly and I keep an eye out for her. But she vanished. I hope she has a new guitar.

 

About Lord Malinov

Lord Malinov, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in books, erotica, fiction, literature, literotica, personal, short stories, writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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