The music room

The violin is still under my arm and I am speaking softly because the music room keeps sound like a secret. Edward is in the doorway. He is fifty-two, my lover, and he did not clap when I finished the phrase. He waited, which is the correct applause. Black dress, hair pinned, silver at my temples that he says he likes with his mouth, not as a courtesy. I told him to sit and listen to one more scale. Slow burn. He sat. I played eight notes and then lowered the instrument and said now you may tell me what you want.

He said he wanted to hear my speaking voice go uneven. He said he wanted to kneel under the dress and lick my cunt until I missed a breath, and then stop if I said stop. I said come here. I stayed standing. He gathered the skirt and kissed up my thigh, asking at the edge of my underwear. I said yes. His mouth on my cunt was unhurried in the way I had asked. He talked up into me. Your cunt tastes like the end of the piece. Breathe. I have all night. I held the violin out so it would not knock his head and eventually had to set it on the chair because my hand forgot its job. I came in a long quiet crest, fingers in his hair, telling him there, stay on my clit, you are perfect.

I drew him up and said I want you on the bench, and I want your voice while your cock fucks my cunt. He sat. I straddled him, dress bunched, and sank my cunt down on his cock. We barely moved at first. He told me I felt like heat and rosin and that my face was braver than the music. I rolled my hips until the second orgasm took me. I said cum, I want it, talk to me while you fuck me. He said he was there, said my name, and came with his forehead at my collarbone. The violin was safe. We were not respectable. I am leaving the dress on until the room goes cold.