Devil's Thrill Sonata

Tsovinar could hear the older woman's voice begin to build in rapture, like a tsunami crashing into the shore, Semajaza erupted, her blood-engorged pussy churning on his fingers, milk of the gods, as his hand was covered suddenly in brilliance. His mouth sucked in everything she had to offer, lapping at her to taste up her cum as she undulated madly under him, her poor muscles distraught as they released their tension, a vast gush. She growled as her body shook again with less force this time, releasing his back from her thigh's grip as she shook again, again, again in ever diminishing convulsions.

Suddenly, with the loud snap of a string, the incantation was broken. The orchestra, unable now to proceed, stopped in utter confusion, a loud groan of release rose up from a thousand throats. Then the whole concert hall rose in sudden horror, as the cellist dropped her instrument with a crash upon the platform, stared wildly around, clasped a hand to her breasts and with a strangled cry, fell to the ground, writhing in ecstasy.

For weeks the Armenian cellist lay, veiled between life and death, a sunny land where no judging eye could spy upon her, far away from morality and all its hideous implications. Finally, one day, the breathing world reasserted itself, she got out of bed. But it was long, very long, before she could again appear in the concert hall, while the queer, mysterious cello never again played its strange, mysterious influence upon her. It had been hopelessly spent, shattered, in the climax of that last night's performance, which had almost been fatal to Tsovinar as well.