Making Music

A dancer working with her composer, smoking weed and thinking sexy thoughts. This is living; this is life. – enjoy – Malinov

Making Music
by Lord Malinov

“Where’s the weed?”

“I have some in here but I think most of it’s in the kitchen.”

“Can I hit that?”

“Of course. Mi marijuana es su marijuana.”

“Thanks,” she said, entering the studio. “You still working on the score?”

“Need it by tomorrow.”

“That’s what Francis says but we both know he doesn’t need it for a week.”

“I’m sure they have their reasons.”

“This is all you have? I’ll go get you some from the kitchen.” The petite redhead turned on the ball of her foot and disappeared. Michael pushed his headphones back onto his ears and went back to the beginning. The melody took shape within his head and he began sorting through the instrument lines, waiting for the moment when he’d considered a change.

“Yeah, right there,” he said and began making alterations to the score.

“What?” Leesl asked as she rolled a joint. Michael finished the changes and turned to face her.

“What?” he asked.

“You said something.”

“Oh, I found the place I wanted to add the horns. Tee lee lee tum, you know.”

Leesl lit the joint, took a few small drags and finally drew in a hefty hit. Michael took the reefer and blew on the cherry before sucking in smoke.

“Did you think about the turns I want to do at bar nintety-two.”

“I did but I need to play with it. Here,” he said, handing her the joint to fiddle with his computer. “I’ll play the part and you do the turns so I can think it through.”

“I keep hearing bells,” Leesl said, placing the smoldering joint in the ashtray.

“Just do it. Here it comes. Five, six, seven, eight.”

Michael stared as she reached and began to turn, as the music played, trying to invent the orchestration that perfectly complimented her movements.”

“Again,” he said.

“Go back, let me work into the turns.”

“Sixty eight. Is that good?”


She thought bells. He considered in flashes of inner-audible voices, flutes and drums and trumpets and bassoons. Something high? Something low? She looked so pretty when she danced.


“Just start at the beginning.”

The music filled his head and he just watched her dance. She wasn’t wearing tights or a leotard, he realized, only a t-shirt. Her butt and pussy alternately stole his whole mind, a dancing cycle of naked lusty beauty and he forgot what he was doing. She stopped turning and the t-shirt fell to shroud her loins.



“Was that enough?’

“No, no, no, again, yes, again.”

“Are you all right?’

“You’re so beautiful.”

“I know that.”

Leesl started to dance and he tried to listen to the music but so quickly her motions revealed glimpses of her naked beauty and then the turns beat on him like a hammer of ambrosia, so delicious, so crushing to his ability to orchestrate.


He realized he could watch Leesl dance this way all day.

“I could watch you dance this way all day.”


Then he heard the bells in his head and they were transcendent.

“That’s enough,” he said, out of breath. He lit the joint and passed it to her.

“You like it?”

“I’m a genius and you are a muse.”

“Put it in, let me hear.”

Michael entered the changes and played the score. Leesl danced nakedly beautifully ethereally as the music lifted her, teased her and flaunted her. Michael melted with another hit of weed, his cock at full mast. Leesl touched him and they made music together.


About David Cain

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

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