The Record Store
We met at a local record shop. I’m searching through the Choral Classical section looking for a copy of Hildegard Von Bingen: Ego Sum Homo recorded by the Tiburtina Ensemble for a project I am working on. We begin discussing some of our favorites, and as the nerd I am, I begin to get almost manic, bouncing from title to title, smiling and touching your arms and shoulders, visibly excited by this topic. I bore you to death over the nuances of Erik Satie’s 3 Gymnopedies: No. 1 its simplistic beauty of minimalist quarter notes that seem to answer each other like the ebb and flow of waves on the sea, and his 1893 Gnossienne composition of which the first is my favorite as well, Debussy’s Claire de Lune, Beethoven’s Sonata No. 14 the Moonlight Sonata, Chopin’s complete discography, the sheer emotion of Enrico Caruso’s Una Furtiva Lagrima from Donizetti’s L’elisir d’amore in its original recordings through Victor with the pops and scratches that seem to accentuate the gritty passion palpable in his voice, and of course Yo-Yo Ma’s rendition of Bach’s Cello Suite No.1 in G Major as well as anything by Jacqueline du pre since the Cello is my absolute favorite instrument. At this point of our talk, I become visibly affected, you see waves of pink flush across my chest and neck and cheeks as my friendly grin morphs into a curious smile.
You ask, what is it? Why are you so embarrassed?After a moment of consideration, behind contemplative eyes, I look into yours, touch lightly upon your shoulder, and say, I’m not embarrassed, leaning in further with confidential lips, just an inch from your ear and say, I am aroused, not embarrassed. Your head tilts and an expression of bewilderment washes over your face in clear confusion as to what we are actually talking about. I smile, wrap my arm in yours and walk you over to the listening booths as I regale you with the missing pieces of the puzzle.
I tell you that I love classical music so much that it is my preferred genre for all things intimate whether that be a bath, candle lit dinner, or romantic embrace, I explain that while lyrics are great, instrumentals may move us without benefit of them, the notes stir, they fall over us, I can feel the cello in my breast, the violin in my ears, even choral in a dead language like latin works much the same as it seems almost melodically ritualistic, but the instrumental summons us, moves our bodies, without force, we barely recognize it in the moment.
But our hands, hips, lips all float on the notes, it gets into our subconscious, in the background and drives our encounters and it’s beautiful, like poetry personified a lover’s hand moving across my breasts as a bow draws the strings across a cello, or the protean shift from a tender caress into a clutching embrace as the procession builds then crashes, the tips of lips and fingers twinkling over each other bodies. It takes a primal, carnal act, and exalts it to an angelic form of worship. It gives rhythm and pace and can wholly transcend us to another plane. That once I have climaxed to a particular piece of music, everytime I hear it I am left with the phantom feelings of that embrace. It leaves me with longing, each note just out of reach, just close enough to make my passions stir. It is this aspect I love the most, the longing the anticipation, the slow burn in all things, Lust is strong, it is formidable, but it fades, we may miss the electricity of this encounter, the skin to skin connection of a lover’s rendezvous but it does not last, Longing, however, is desire, or at least its mirrored twin, Lust is powerful yes, but longing lasts the whole night, wraps us in its sticky embrace as it stays with us and becomes the impetus for forging other deep connections.
Like now I say, as I grab your hand in mine with an assuring smile and lead you into the booth. I close the door and draw the curtain, placing the chair in front of the handle. I pause for just a moment, the tension thick in your throat as to what happens next. I turn softly around meeting your eyes with mine and once more brushing my hand up your right arm to your shoulder as I pull you close to my lips, and whisper in your ear that I want to make you feel, everything, all, at, once, I want, to, be, together, in, this, moment, with only, you, in a slow sensuous drawn out cadence.
Replacing my lips with headphones I put on the album of Satie’s Trois Gymnopedie no. 1 I grabbed while talking with you and begin kissing you on the lips only to pull back and raise a finger to my own before silently tracing the tip of my tongue down your neck, a suck on your shoulder, a kiss across your chest as I unbutton you, down, across your abdomen, under, your navel, a hover, over your straining bulge as you feel the notes resonate within you, my slender, pale, delicate fingers dancing across your body like piano keys merging your inner and outer worlds into a waking dream. You feel the heat of my breath heavy above your erection with every exhale, as I free you from your denim restraints, my fingers, coiling, my tongue, lashing, my lips, parting, taking you in slow as the notes float through the ether of your mind.
Feel my lips, spread and glide over the ridges of your head, closing in again, around your length, the warm wet of my mouth coating you as your tip reaches the back of my throat, the cool air of the air conditioned booth chilling your base as I slide back up to the top of your cock. My hands, a mediator, flashing loosley up and down your shaft moving the warmth of my mouth along your skin, I stroke you, above my face now, my tongue on your balls, your slick cock across my pretty little face, I feel your erection, steel in my hands, as I look up at you with a half starved look of desperation on my face betraying the smile on my lips.
Standing, silent, I remove my underwear, fold them neatly, and place them in your pocket with a wink before turning around and bending over the chair. You feel me tremble in anticipation under your hand as it slides up my ass and over my hip grabbing firm and holding me in place as you move into position. Feel my lips part, caressing the contours of your cock as you cross my threshold and enter the velvet heart of my femininity, my honey rushing out to meet the cool air of the booth as it is displaced by every inch of you sliding into me. As the space between our bodies slowly disappears you bend down and kiss my exposed shoulder, converging at two points, our circuit complete, the electricity races up my spine causing the hairs on my neck to stand at attention and my walls slightly spasm around the heat of your hard cock. Your weight descending, you press into me, covering me, interlocked.
You run your fingers through my auburn hair before slowly twisting your hand making my long curls into makeshift reins, your other palming the callipygous mounds of my heart shaped bottom. Moving inside me to the rhythm of the piece, I can feel the music through your movements, the slow thrusts of the notes filling me as you enjoy every aspect of my being, thoroughly, tenderly, and with a feral yet achingly slow decadence that leaves me whimpering lowly under breath. I feel you, all of you, airtight and completely, I feel you, all of you, as your withdrawal leaves me hollow and yearning to be refilled, pulling away then pushing into you as we crest and fall like waves breaking across the rocky shoreline, the soft slap of skin as you meet my center and drive your steel home pulling back on your reins as my fleshy curves compress under impact. It isn’t long before I can feel you, your proximity, the rapidity of your breath, the urgency in your rhythm, tightening of your grip and increasing rigidity, a few more focused thrusts and I feel you ready to explode as you try to withdraw and finish, but I need all of you, with me, inside me, I push back off the chair pinning you to the wall just inches behind you and locking my arms against the chair in front of me I fully sheath you in my womanhood with a moan you can hear over the headphones as you begin to twitch and throb inside, planting your seed deep within me. After a moment I let you withdraw and before you can speak I turn and kneel cleaning you with my mouth before tucking you back into your jeans and buttoning your shirt. I stand and whisper in your ear that I come here most Saturdays and that you can keep the panties as a souvenir before leaving the booth to let you finish the album.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/uvmyjo/the_record_store