The air was pristine. It had a certain fragrance I can only describe as clean as I tasted it through a smile. The acoustic room was cool, though just warm enough to keep the women in formalwear comfortable. I was in the nicest dress I’d ever worn, a black number that hugged my ribs then flared out beautifully, the full skirt ending just above my knees, my hair in perfect dark waves. You were my equal in a sharp tux, your collared shirt and tie as pitch as my dress.
Your smile matched the white marble of the pillars lining the room. I wasn’t sure if I’d enjoy going, but you knew I would. I wanted to slap your smug face. Or ride it. I couldn’t decide.
A hush fell over the atmosphere, the murmur of conversation dwindling to silence by some invisible cue. The lights went down. Hundreds of theatre seats faced the stage, and on it, the prepared orchestra. Made up of nearly a hundred musicians, they were each as finely dressed as the last, a piece of their identity in their hands. Inexperienced as I’d been, I could tell who the maestro was.
He raised his arms, and what resulted was magic.
A multitude of tones intertwined with familiarity, each note, each sound coming together like old friends, a manifestation of kismet. Something meant to be. I was hooked. Minutes passed as I stared at the display, giving each performer my attention in turn, transfixed by the way they portrayed their souls to anyone who would listen. I’d never seen anything more beautiful.
The pictureless story slowed to something profound but subtle, and when it did, I felt your hand on my knee. Your fingertips danced on my skin in time with the sweet song, the combination complimenting each other.
Your hand moved up. I glanced around. Every concert goer’s focus was on the assembly and not my rising skirt, but I still turned to you with question. You put your lips by my ear.
As an onlooker, your gesture would have been innocent; a nudge to your date; a whispered comment on the duality of the music. Naive to the filth you actually spoke.
I’ll never forget what you said. The molten words made me blush as I never had before -- or will again.
With no argument in my silence, your warmth caressed my smooth thigh, leaving fingerprint kisses. Slipping into the niche of my softness. Grazing the silk. The classical heartbeat continued to play, and you played me in time with it. I was your instrument as your fingers teased and excited my flesh. I sighed, my nonchalance imperative for our stealth. I couldn't imagine the look we’d garner from the gray-haired gentleman to my left if he noticed the private symphony beside him.
As the arrangement gained momentum, you pushed into me. My teeth nearly drew blood from my lower lip. With the ministration of a violinist, your fingers fluttered and worked, eliciting pulsing notes of pleasure from my center. I wanted to sing in moans. My nails dug into your pressed sleeve, feeling the confident muscle beneath it, the flexing of your firm arm as I silently rode your hand.