I buzz myself in with Marie's door code.
In the lobby, I find the girl whose melon-sized breasts and pouting lips aroused me last night as I watched through her window while she danced topless and alone. She smiles bashfully when I step aside to let her pass--and I feel a small prick of guilt for having violated her privacy. Then again, she must know, they all must know, that the hotel where I'm staying overlooks their windows from barely 20-feet across the courtyard.
Even without Marie's room number, I would have found her just by following the trail of notes from her cello through the labyrinth of impossibly dark and narrow corridors. She plays an old rock melody--Springsteen's "Jungle Land"--but with her own distinctive Jazz inflection. I can almost hear my flute picking up the melody line and reeling it back to her, the way we did across the courtyard a few hours earlier.
Not that it takes much to excite me in the first place, but the exotic girl-scents--perfume, shampoo, and even a hint of sexual musk--that waft through the dorm halls piques my libido. Ahead, a bathroom door slams shut, but not before I glimpse a steamy flash of naked thigh.
At Marie's room, I cling to my flute case like it's a life ring on the "Titanic."
Although I already share a more intimate connection with Marie than with anyone else in my life, I'm suddenly aware that aside from the squeal of orgasm, I don't even know the sound her voice.
There's a soft knock on the door and it takes a moment to realize that it's my own knuckles doing the rapping.
"It's open, come in..." she says and I'm inside her room before it hits me that Marie has spoken in English. American English.
She's wearing cutoff jeans and a form-fitting tank top, and she looks even younger, perhaps barely 18, than she did from across the courtyard. I try to wish away my gray flecks and the crow's feet.
"I wasn't sure you'd come," she says, reaching behind the curtains and snatching her note to me off the window glass. "I won't be needing this anymore, will I?"
I nod in agreement, but find myself utterly tongue-tied in the presence of this extraordinarily beautiful and gifted girl.
"Oh, I sorry!" she says switching to an almost perfectly accented Parisian French. (I can't speak it well, but I know a good French accent when I hear one.) "I'm being so rude. You don't understand a word I'm saying."
I do. I understand it all. But there's only one voice I can use that won't shatter the magnificent illusion that connects us. Instead of answering with words, I respond with music
At first, Marie looks bewildered. But when I play the same riff that we traded back and forth across the courtyard just before stepping naked into each other's view, she beams with a shy, almost child-like smile. Instinctively her cello responds, matching me note-for-note while adding just a hint of her own syncopation.
The magic comes flooding back. She leads and I follow. Almost without noticing how it happens, we trade places, and I toss out the melodies while she harmonizes.
At some point, I become aware of the details of her room. Aware of the framed photos of handsome boys--prom dates perhaps--and smiling parents posed in a suburban living room. Aware of the girl-things scattered about with abandon--cotton panties, a sheer bra, fluffy pink bunny slippers, a tortoise shell cosmetics compact, and white plastic disk of birth control pills.
Something about the sum of all these parts re-kindles my sexual longing. I look down to find an erection throbbing against my jeans. Marie sees it as well, and as she completes the last bar of the melody, she sets her cello aside.
Her pale blue eyes search mine for an instant. Then she grabs the hem of her tank top and eases it over her stomach, revealing the undercurve of her tiny breasts and her puffy pink nipples before it falls to the floor.
My fingers are already at work on the buttons of my shirt. Her eyes followed my every move.
Naked to the waist, we face each other and reach for the snaps on our jeans. The stillness in her room is fractured by the sound of two zippers unclasping in tandem. She has to wiggle her hips before her cutoffs slide to floor. My jeans fall straight to my ankles.
She wears no underwear.
Neither do I.
Free of restraint, my cock bounces like a demented yo-yo. She watches and unconsciously runs the tip of her tongue along the edge of glossy lips. An involuntary shiver courses down my spine, through my stomach, and into to my cock, which throbs with what feels like a mini-orgasm.
Then she catches me by surprise.
"You do it," she whispers. "And tell me when you're close. I'll take you the last little way." And with that, she hoists up her cello and begins to play.
It's a chamber music composition that starts with a long, languid passage before swelling into an up-tempo creshendo. Marie times it perfectly.
I stand barely two feet from her, torso arched, stroking myself closer and closer to orgasm. Her recital nears its climax just as I do.
On the edge of erupting across the floor and perhaps her cello as well, I force myself to stop. My slippery, mushroom-shaped cock tip is crimson red. The veins on my cock shaft are distended and pulsing.
Marie casts her cello aside and kneels before me. Her lips wrap around my cock head, sending waves of pleasure through every synaptic pathway in my body.
I expect her to pull me into the warm valley of her mouth. But again, Marie surprises me. Her mouth embraces only the tip, her tongue probing the entrance of my urethra.
But Marie's hot fingers enfold my cock and balls simultaneously. I feel a beautiful, agonizing pain as she grinds my balls while tiny fingers also flutter softly along my cock shaft with practiced precision.
I cum with a howl and her mouth completely envelops me and this time, instead of splattering into an empty courtyard, my ejaculate pumps against the back of her throat.
I make a weak attempt to pull away so she can swallow. But she refuses. If anything, her lips and throat clamp my cock even more fiercely, her eyes looking up and searching mine, not just for few seconds, but for an eternity until, at last, I begin to soften inside her mouth.
"Did you like it?" she whispers.
I answer by sweeping Marie into my arms and onto her bed. I use my advantage in weight and strength to force her legs apart and before she can respond my lips are locked onto the moist folds of her labia.
I suck and stretch them until she begins squirm. Then my tongue rides up and down her crease, forcing her open and releasing a flood of moisture. I drank it in, inhaling the aroma that is ripe with the overpowering scent of teenage hormones.
She gasps and grinds herself against my mouth. My tongue probes inside--hard and hot and wet. Then it turns soft for instant in order to slither up and down between pink, wet pussy lips. Marie twists and bucks and whimpers. I pinch her nipples and finally my left forefinger finds its way between her ass cheeks and slips inside.
She yelps and thrusts her hips toward me. At that instant, all at once I push my thumb against her clitoris and dart my tongue as deep inside her as it will go.
Her orgasm begins with a moan and escalates to a full throated scream.
I placed a hand over her mouth to muffle to sound. Her hips grind mercilessly against my mouth and wave after wave of contractions tug my tongue toward the depths of her womb.
When it's over, I enfold Marie in my arms. Her head nestles against my chest where she mews like a kitten.
Slowly she releases her grip on my waist and I was reach for my flute. It had been a long time since I had played Eric Satie's "Trois Gymnopedies," but after a rocky start, the notes begin to flow. Marie sighs, her eye lids flutter closed as her face snuggles tightly into my chest. Within minutes her breath is rising and falling with the regularity of a metronome.
Perhaps it's the aching beauty of Satie's composition, or the certain knowledge that this insane duet must, sooner or later, evolve into something else. Hot tears run stain my cheeks and splash onto the halo of her golden hair.
The final, haunting notes of "Trois Gymnopedies" are still fading when I tuck Marie's flawless, sleeping body under the sheets and place my flute alongside her as a souvenir. My hope is that Marie will want more than a memory.
When I get back to my room, I print a message in large block letters on a sheet of hotel stationary:
Cher Marie 4221/509 Jason
Then I tape it to my window where Marie will see it.
I imagine her awaking and looking across the courtyard for my message.
I don't know what will happen after that. I only hope it will be music to my ears.