Our Song

Our Song
Literary Fiction
by Lord Malinov

I hadn’t played for months, that night, when I picked up my guitar and without a thought, began to play. I didn’t know why I was playing any more than I knew why I hadn’t been playing but the stars aligned and I was soaring. There’s freedom in forgetting.

My lady wandered into the room, drawn perhaps by my sound and sat on the arm of the sofa, smiling. Since I wasn’t really playing anything in particular, the sight of her translated into music and I played things that reminded me of her, things I knew she would like. She jumped off the sofa’s arm and started to move her hips to the beat of my strum.

She twirled around and around, hippie chick that she was, her arms in the air, her skirt billowing around and I kept the circle going and going until we broke things back down and she grabbed hold of the hem of her linen gown. My notes became playful and she teased me with lifts to expose her bare bottom and the flash of black curls that almost made me lose the beat.

Sometimes I forget how pretty she is. Sometimes I forget to even look at her. I’m too absorbed in what I do, I know and she has things to do too. Our lives are nearby but even so we hardly connect, once in a while, never often enough but there are things to do, people to meet, events to arrange.

As she danced, a gleam in her eye betrayed the same thought as I had about her, the reawakening of our affection, the recreation of that first wonderful delight of discovery. I’ll show you mine, please please show me yours. I played one of her favorites, one she knew was just for her. She licked her lips and danced.

Her breasts are like fruit. Her hips are succulence. Her ass is round and tempts me down to indulge in the depths of desire. As I played, she let me look, let me drink it in, her body, her lust, her hunger for me. I went up three octaves, slid a sloppy mockery  back down. She spread her luscious pussy wide, pushed and pulled her juicy labia in circles matching the measures of my song.

My cock grew hard, distracted my play, made my fingers start to forget. My gaze transfixed, I tried to keep the rhythm going but with each twisting strain of her naked body toward mine, I lost my place, my note, my mind. I stopped the song and put my guitar down.

And she kept on. Our song, the song we hadn’t played in months, wasn’t close to done.

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, fiction, literature, personal, reading, short stories, writing and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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