Chords

My cock is throbbing in her, threatening to answer of its own accord. She smiles, and puts a little girl finger in her mouth, coquettish and knowing. Then she slithers back, and my cock disengages from her pussy, only to end up in her mouth as she squats across my ankles, pinning my legs under her body. Both hands stroke her long hair behind her ears, a futile gesture, since the curtain of dark black falls around her face and my body again at once. She holds it back on one side, and steadies her glasses in place. Then she pounds her mouth down on my cock, eating me raw, barely drawing breath except to murmur contentedly.

I'm barely able to move. I can just reach her head with my hands, and I lay my palms on the back of her head and feel her moving up and down. There's a 4/4 drum beat, snare and tambourine, machined guitars down the mix, and she bobs her head on the offbeat, and sucks me so hard I'm arching my back and grinding my teeth in a few seconds.

She swallows every drop, gulping quickly, swirling her tongue around my pulsing cock, swirling my cock around inside her warm, wet mouth. She continues to suck and suckle long after there is no more of me to draw out, which is so ineffably erotic I feel like I'm going to have some second orgasm in my head or in my heart. When she is finally sated - and I am long past so - she crawls up my body and lies in my arms, her head on my chest, her hair across my throat like a scarf. The angle of her glasses digs into my collar bone. We lie still in the tiny flat. There is silence now, except for a faint mains hum. Diodes flicker and light the ceiling. We are warmed just by each other and the heat from her amps.

I can feel wounds stinging, my heart thumping. I'm clear, but unfocussed. I think about firing Peter Gray from a label that didn't deserve him; I think about how bad Razz wants my job - he can have it. I think about the unfamiliar music I have heard tonight. Outside in the night, the city is humming like the amp, and traffic lights in the road outside wash the ceiling over our head in their constant rite of red, amber and green. "Chords" plays in my head. Geena is supplying all the words.

Geena's hand is on my cock, stroking and coaxing. She is lying so still she could be wanking me in her sleep, for all I can tell, but then I feel her lips curl against my chest, and I know she is smiling. My erection fills her slender palm.

She looks up, longing in her eyes, her lips wet. "Own me," she begs.

From behind. Painful longing, expressed in an increasing tempo. Sixties rock and roll; chords on a Stratocaster, snare and high-hat, deep bass, harmonica. I play out my fantasies on her body, fuck her deep and hard and greedily, her pussy open as she tilts her hips and lets me fill her. We crawl across the futon, pulling ourselves together, bodies tight. We gasp and moan in harmony, and I soak her pussy with hot semen, gasping with ache and requited lust. We kiss so hard afterwards, I start bleeding again. She licks it from my lips while I stir fingers inside her pussy and her arse.

"Please, please..." she cries out. "Own me, make me yours."

It'll never work, not as it worked for Peter Gray; I'll never make my own music, or make Geena famous. But we tumble into each other's arms again twice before dawn, and I listen to everything she has ever recorded, every loop, every mix, every song. We're still fucking and listening by the time a day has passed and night comes around again.