Blog uživatele Unquenchable

WHAT THE FOURTH VIOLINIST SEES

He sees the pale face of a beautiful man, not much older than himself, who sits watching in the window of the listening room. These is something odd about the slightly disjointed way the beautiful man nods his head to the music.

Two white breasts seem to float towards the young man. A woman, older, her hair loose, torso poured into a corset, pushes her breasts towards his face. He takes one fully into his mouth. The fourth violinist sees the long nipple disappearing into the young man’s full lips. In and out. Again the fourth violinist misses his cue.

WHAT MRS POPE FEELS

Teeth around the nipple teasing slightly, biting, circling with his tongue as the nipple hardens, then slowly sucking. Quicker, quicker. He takes the other breast, pulling harder, rolling the nipple between his town fingers. He plays my body, he play my breast. He is a … am a mother with a cunt. Red threads run from my nipple to my navel, a lattice of pleasure, I want him to touch my sex. I move forward but he holds me at a distance. He knows what he is doing and he’s in no hurry.

WHAT THE SILENT YOUNG MAN FEELS

Skin. Skin you can press your fingers into, sinking, sinking. Skin like sweet warm milk. The blue veins run like water just below the surface. Breasts that run in a perfect semi-circle below the nipple, large, unmistakable. Her raised areola tastes like plums. Bruised plums with a slight tang of sea salt. I want her to take me like a young siren, Medusa lashed to the deck. And all around the churning sea.

WHAT THE HUSBAND IS THINKING

You tell me my wife is in the audience. I know that already, I feel it. There is a symbiosis between even warring couples. Comprenez-vous? Not that I don’t love my wife. Its just that she is so different. For her life is still dramatic. The pathos she generates throws everything up into a sharper focus. That’s why I love her, she wakes me up. And there’s only two things that wake me up. Fellatio and Mozart.

WHAT THE FOURTH VIOLINIST SEES

He lifts her up and pulls her onto his lap. The fourth violinist falters for a moment as the woman clutches at the man’s cock. Even in the shadows he can see the length and thickness clearly, a thick conquering phallus that makes a frail silhouette of the rest of his body. He breasts pour over his glans, he plunges into her cleavage. The fourth violinist glanches at the third violinist, instrument poised in mid-air, his face flushed. He too stares in the direction of the listening room.

WHAT MRS POPE FEELS

The taste of him is youth, slightly pungent, the aroma of almonds and hot testicles. Velvet, heavy in the palm, pushing against my belly. The blind beast that splits the peach. What could I do? I dropped to my knees and tasted him.

He seeps a droplet of the ocean, and I suck. I swallow him. Feeling him quivering under my tongue, this makes me master. Waves of red and white spirals interlace with the music and press against my eyes.

He pushes against the back of my throat, his urgency becomes mine. Faster, faster, I press my clit against the back of my heel, running against the soft leather. Faster faster, louder, the music, the salt, the chorus of male voices, the pulse of his seed, of my wet sex. He pulls away and turns me around. Parting my buttocks, he plunges in, drawing me down onto his lap. Into the sphere of his chest, his smell. Tongue in my ear, one hand holding me apart, the other squeezing my breast, as if he is trying to feel all flesh at once. And I am big. I am bursting with juice. And he plunges and rises, guiding me over the tip, then slowly down onto the shaft. Fast, faster, faster still. All is wet. The walls of Jericho have tumbled down.

WHAT THE SILENT YOUNG MAN FEELS

All I know is her flesh, the tone of her voice and her scent, her fingers wiser than mine. They don’t hesitate. Her cunt is a tight veil. I draw it across my face, my lips, over the skin of my body until she is welded to my belly. I want to fill every hole, her arse, her cunt, her ear, her mouth. To fuck you and the strangerness inside you. Her breasts fill my hands, they are flesh at the end of a tight wet canal. We are riding the waves, and the ceiling drips song.

When I fuck you I am fucking your husband. I shut my eyes and it is his hands grasping the baton. The jerking stick, my cock, your music. Your moaning under our breath. This is what I feel.

HER

He’s lifting me up onto the broad window sill, the hot air of the auditorium warms my buttocks. He parts my lips and buries his mouth, finding my clit, playing with me with his tongue. I moan. My body trembles under his fingers. Just the tip, just the tip, then as I grow he takes all of me and sucks. It is as if he is inside all of me, as if my pleasure is his.

THE SILENT YOUNG MAN

The smell of her, the taste of her. The flesh quivers, a tiny penis, she is close to cumming. I am pulling her to her feet, I am wrapping her legs around my hips. I press her against the wall and cut into her like a hot knife going through butter.

THE HUSBAND

Up over the waist, bring in drums, that’s it! That’s it! Nail the rhythm into the guts, into the very core of being! Faster! Faster! Faster! And Cut! Now the death, now the silence rushing in.

HER

Ahhhhhh!

THE SILENT YOUNG MAN

Ahhhhhh!

THE HUSBAND

Screams pierce the silence between crescendo and applause. I swing around, furious. A couple lie satiated, half naked, hanging out of the window of the listening room.

It is an image from my worse nightmare. It is not real. Her long red hair cascading down the wall. The older members of the orchestra start to cough, to avert their eyes. The younger members grin openly. It is a phantasm. The young man pulls himself out of my wife and smiles slowly. He takes a bow.

The whole auditorium is shaking with laughter.

There is no applause.