Making a Porno (with Music)

Bright, clinical. It's a frigid breeze of silent stares.

Then I hear the stool screech against the floor. Dalia must have moved it because when she guides me back down, I have to stretch forward to reach the keys. I'm bent; my blouse drapes open; my scrunched down bra pulls my breasts upward at an uncanny angle.

Oh Dalia, she pries me open to straddle that block of wood. I feel the bare flesh of both my labias press into the cold wood finish. My unruly hairs mat this way and that. The string still splits me.

The film is now wet sex.

I find that blue staccato for the footsteps and play it against rolling waves of dusky yellow that crest and break against C4.

Brute Force Dalia rips apart the side strings of my panties. They fall, severed, and my sex is strung by floss.

She slowly draws my severed panties through my vulva and then the trench of my ass. That string's been dug in so far, and it burns across my holes. It especially digs into my perineum. Dalia doesn't ask if I like it. She doesn't need to. The lace prickles my asshole, journeys through the valley, then I feel the dangly end tickle the base of my spine as Dalia pulls it completely free.

I'm wholly naked from the waist down, and my front is exposed through the split in my blouse.

After the panties, I don't feel Dalia's hands on me anymore. She must be standing back, and the French ladies, too, they're still watching.

I slide my sex across the stool, back and forth. Every hump draws me forward just a little farther, right on time with my repeating crests that batter against C4. My vulva follows a trail of me, that lubrication that I gush. It feels like I'm beating against that octave myself.

If I arch my back and lean in, my nub will strike, and—Oh, torrential!

Slurps, slurps on the film. That's the sound of lips sucking on a hole. Swallow the leak. And the footsteps are all around those women. Off-beat syncopations. It's wrong. People are watching.

Then there's the laps, the ones that sound like a tongue poking at a water dish. The woman on film laps in the wet, too.

Lazy Pink cries out! A dissonant chord! That middle C and G.

I hump that stool. Short, jerky thrusts. I spread my legs to open my cheeks. I'm so deep now, even my asshole kisses the wood on every upstroke. The downstrokes are for my clit. And my vagina constantly mashes in the middle. Batter that fucking buoy.

My mind has a thought: I'm with clients. This is my career. And I'm stark naked, spread so wide that my hamstrings scream, and I'm humping a piano stool in front of them.

Somehow, that turns me on.

The ladies on the film moan. I can hear their tension rising. I try to find another level in my playing, but all I can think to do is open the tear in the buoy. There needs to be a—

The intercom crackles. "Cum for me, jolie petite."

The other woman chimes in. "Ah, less yourself go. Make a mess. Do it for me."

Dalia says nothing.

I masturbate. I masturbate in front of my clients. I mash my privates into the stool.

It's so wrong. It's so dirty. I shouldn't be doing this. On the film, it's still slurp, slurp, slurp as she sucks, and lap, lap, lap as she drinks.

This is it. This is the C4.

"Gush," Dalia blows a single word down the canal of my ear. She knows me.

I pick up the pace. I'm frantic. I'm just pounding the fucking keys, hammering the barrier of that octave. Dynamite falls into the lake. Explosions of—well, fucking everything blows the surface apart.

My hips jerk, my legs shake. I bang those fucking keys.

Dalia pulls my knees into my chest, my back into her breasts. She holds my ankles, opening me full. I jam two fingers into my raw cunt and rub my dirty clit with my thumb. There's a dribble of cum from my urethra.

I thrust a third finger inside me. Forget the clit. I obliterate my tender pussy as fast as my hand will fap. Wet squelches. Overlapping bursts of red. Flesh slaps green.

"Gush," she says again.

I do. I let go. I rip my hand out and let go of everything. I don't know if it's squirting. I don't know if it's pissing. But I spray that stool, and I don't even care if I get the piano. Fuck that hunk of junk. I just let go.

The orgasm rocks me. The warm dirty wet gushes out of my body, pitter patters against all the dark things I can't see, and I'm left huffing and puffing and dripping with my arms hanging limp.

Click. The movie stops.

It's quiet now.

I can only hear my breaths. I smell the dank musk of my sex—the only one who had any, the only one who was indecent. It's so strong, it burns my nose like salt.

Dalia sets my legs down. My bare feet splash into a warm puddle, mine. I can't move. I don't care. I let my feet linger.

I hear the whine of a heavy door on its hinge. The slap of a latch. Click-clack, click-clack. Two sets of what sounds like prim heels clack across the floor. My clients, they're in here, and they walk closer to me. Not a word is spoken, just click-clack, click-clack.

I can't see out, but they can see in. I sit in the dark—wet, naked, and quivering in a puddle. My legs are still spread, straddled around the piano stool. The bottom half of my overstimulated vulva mashes into the wood. The top half is open for all to see my intimacies.

I lean forward and clench the edge of the stool. It's soaked. My fingers sop through the muck. It drips off my knuckles. Drip, drip.

My weight pushes my asscheeks apart. It's spread, too. I clench up tightly and relax extra wide.

Click-clack. Click-clack. The French ladies stop in front of me. A delayed waft of their perfume smothers my musk.

Oh I'm sure they stand tall. I can feel their stares high above.

My nipples ache. They're sore from all Dalia's molestations, and they ache simply from being so goddamn hard, even still.

"You look like a small drowned mouse, ma jolie petite."

My cheeks are scalding.

They wait. They revel in that tension.

Dalia says nothing. She knows what I like, but still, I feel so isolated, like a dirty doll on a revolving display. The room is bright, meaning everything's exposed. It's clinical meaning all is bare.

"You are perfect. That was wonderful." That was Lazy Pink.

"Yes," Dusky Yellow chimes in, "wonderful jolie petite."

"We will call that scene well enough."

Dalia pats me on the shoulder. Her clumsy thumb rubs the side of my neck, me, her wet naked mouse. Jolie petite.

"Now," the dusky voice says, "for our next scene..."