The girl’s aroused body, still quivering beneath him, he slowly withdrew from her and lay down on his back. The stereo was broadcasting unknown classical music, the sound of the cello echoing through the empty room and pulling a string of trills across his heart. She liked to add a few notes to her lovemaking, but he wasn’t sure what kind of music she preferred at this time of night; perhaps she just wanted to fill the entire space, both inside and outside of her.
He asked the question, ‘Maybe it’s National Lampoon, I’m not that picky.’ She said. He loved Woodbine and he loved Bach, he loved Bach’s Air, but not when he was having sex, when he liked silence, quiet passion.
He tried playing Woodbine and she didn’t like it, ‘It’s messy, it makes me not be able to concentrate.’ She said. ‘Maybe change over to a march, then I can charge.’ He said. She laughed, ‘Nothing to do with that,’ she said, some slight beads of sweat on her nose: ‘I’m running out of breath.’ He didn’t know who she liked, and it certainly wasn’t Baja, ‘It’s too graceful, it makes me unable to concentrate.’ She said.
The girl rose and knelt at his side, carefully toweling his still-hard lower body, the candlelight filtering through from across the room, causing her to morph into a silhouette, or, more like prints, the light leaving a golden line, flickering and fading, on each puffy bump. She stroked down his foreskin skillfully, rhythmic on it with a few twists and turns of the musical note, humming ‘dang-dang-dang’ on one side.
He wondered what she was thinking about, sex or music? He was glad he hadn’t surrendered in the second movement, which was usually a slow one, and definitely not the place for orgasms; she would have been still crying in his arms in the second movement, and he remembered her mucus spreading on his fingers as the music slowly slowed to a halt, and the main theme changed in a disorganized way.
He shifted his position, braced her legs over his shoulders, and pushed forward, his lifted hips pushing the entirety of her hairy pussy in front of his eyes. It was blocked from view by his own shadow, and he couldn’t see the water that saturated the folds, but he was sure that the frenzied variations were a signal to orgasm.
She jerked impatiently, hairs brushing past his cheeks, the tip of his nose, again and again, and he noticed her rhythm, which didn’t match the rhythm of the piece, should have been more like a Negro’s rap, or maybe a Woodbine-esque cry, or maybe all she wanted was that one violin’s heavy rhythm again and again. He entered her, regularly pushing her step by step to the peak.
The girl turned back to him, he couldn’t read her expression as the candle flame drove the shadows of his lower body, casting them onto his chest then surrounded by deeper shadows. She placed the towel at the small of his back and leaned down, sniffing her own body odor.
The music has come to an end, the red dot of light on the stereo’s Power is blurring little by little, and the silence of the night is only filled with her gasping breaths. He remembers his girlfriend from long ago, the one who used to be in the tent in the darkness of the night, the one who deserted him, the one who used to be his love, the one who used to be his love, the one who used to be in love with him, the one who he thought he’d forgotten about…. Now, like an Icon clicked by a mouse, it instantly popped into his mind. He searched for the x at the top right of the screen, trying to remove her from the page, but he couldn’t, she was still at the bottom of the screen waiting for his next click.
The girl sat up and tilted her head back, letting her long hair fall behind her, both hands pressed against his knees, he felt his thick prick pressed to its limit, the girl moved her lower body, letting the prick dip into her bodily fluids once more, it was now a silent riff, he nodded at her at the bottom of the screen, making wild love to her.