Melted Music

*Author's Note: The usual "this story's mine" and "only sample if you're old enough/ it is lawful"copyrights and warnings apply. This story came out of a short flash that had much more chocolate and was even more incoherent than this piece of fancy is. This is what happens when I succumb to my flowery literary impulses. Enjoy, and feel free to drop me a line.* This story has also been posted by the wonderful and charming Simon over at the EMCSA.

Does he know I'm here in his house, getting melty on his stash? His speakers, anyway. The stuff they spout is far more potent than from my mp3 player, I don't know why. I twist and the world shutters sideways like the click of a camera and I'm off a frame...I sway back in, I giggle. Where is he, anyway? Usually when the music tells me to come here, he's already waiting. He's usually got something planned. Did I do something wrong?

I watch me slip my hand back up, closer to my mouth; I take a full chomp of my chocolate bar. Melty *god tear it out of me!* and slick, mmm! "I never used to take such big bites before," I thought. I never used to spend whole afternoons getting lost in the flow and fucking before either, but everyone goes through those little changes and transition periods. "Such an explosion of flavor this way; allegro, allegro!"

Hee, a tempo with the tone...

I twist again and spin and the mirror really does go away this time; I fell off the stool. Clatter clatter, pots and pans and papers falling all around me like a fluttering, silvery-white snow. It's not like him not to clean up before my visit; usually it's spotless so we have room to play, or so I have room to play and he has room to watch, or, you know, whatever else happens here. I'm not so sure all the time. Some records let me remember, and some force me to forget. Some make me forget I forgot, but others let me remember that I did. So confusing, so *forgetting's not good, get out, get ou--* so totally worth it because he's such a wonderful guy and a sweet master with a voice to make a girl cum out her ears or wherever he wants her to...I'd do anything for him. Hee, I might have anyway with how cute he is. His snake charmer voice, leaves me without a choice...

I barely remember how I got here, or the words that slipped into my nose and ears and mouth on the way, filling me up past bursting until I leak and leak and leak, spill and spill and spill to the sound, slide to the sharps and fall before the flats. Programming, yes, but pleasant.

As if he thought I wouldn't find this playlist, ha! Well, actually, I made it. I made it, built it, filled it with all the songs that make me fuzzy and gooey and melty. They're *my* triggers, so why shouldn't I use them unsupervised? Yum, they make me yummy and dance, twist with my ear-timbrel, no drum, ear*drum*, pounded into shape and dance to the drum, tumble with tune, moan with melody, writhe with rhythm, oh, I still know all the notes! Numbing notes that make me tickle under my skin, melt me from within...

Sometimes there are words, too: some singer's voice, or his...They say and I know and I do, even if I don't remember. Sing my melody, master, and make me your own! *Master? Wait a second, I--* I recall the first time, at least. The time he called into my radio show with a request I couldn't fulfill, and offered to bring me the songs...

So I dance and sing, sing the scales and roll to the repeats, stagger for every second ending, triumph every third, oh, I'm just a minor third! I try not to get snared in the strings of the staff, the spider's web where notes close in on me, rush into me and make me glow, and flow, and oh! Drink my essence live, not blood but nectar, not pain but breathless ecstasy! Momma G, don't let them C, just let me B a dancing D for master, it makes me feel such E, such ecstasy, and I have to *run, no, run, don't--* have to be A singing girl for master or F, I'll fail! Fail and fall off the scale, so I'm just a little clef, a little cleft, oozy and warm and here to be used, slick and singing little cleft dancing my drained mind away, writhing out of something, is it my clothes? My mind?

My fingers dance and sway, down my sides, time to play! Each tap of the metronome is a tap of my finger, makes me click deep inside. His speakers gush forth the magical, irresistible sound *that oh god won't stop why did I turn them on* as I gush forth my own sticky influence. Tongue licks lips as hands dance, conducted deep inside, scales in and up and so far, grasp the end of every bar and swing, pulsing and pushing and pulling. I don't even know where my jeans went or how I got them off in my falsetto fever, but I think they're up on the couch, somewhere next to the tumbled stool in this cramped apartment, kitchen running into living room like my memory running into my mind into my programming into my compulsions into my cumpulsions into my hand reaching over to turn the volume up and arching my back against the cool tile.

My mind flies back to myself at hand in hand under his hand, his invisible absent conducting hand like the wand in my mouth, foot tapping a beat on my folds, tongue counting rests in me, oh, the arias of pleasure! I don't understand it, it's so beyond me, but the emotion is pure cuntfelt tone and it sings through every vacuole and vein.

Building, building, every red blood cell has abandoned oxygen for notes, carrying them through my arteries and up to my heart, shocking it silent. I've become music, melted into the melody as my hands play the counter strain of my little death, eyes bulging up at his ceiling. The notes fly thick and fast in the air, winging like flocks of birds come back from winter to nestle on my writhing frame, perch and tease with feathery wings breathing cool air over vibrato skin. Shiver, shudder, shake, and snap! I'm pure tone pure moan pure groan, pleasured out and prone...

He sounded cute, so when he invited me over to his house to listen to some records, I went. He even offered to lend me a couple to play on-air; so thoughtful. So thought*less*, but that was just me a couple hours later, drooling and sighing and writhing and singing along, singing to the subliminal words that only I could hear, that were so much more poignant than the lyrics but complimented them in such a fundamental way.

And now I'm *marcato*, marked; accented by his hands, his words, his music.

*DC al fine*.

My hand slides back into the steaming song that is my sex, the fuckable fugue that is my focus of attention. Damn, that feels like home. I've spent so much time inside there lately, it might as well be. *His* home, too. Let's all just make ourselves at home in my---ohhh, there's the fantasy and a change in dynamics and my eyes shut against my will, close me into the hallucination...

*There I am, shooting my mouth off in the station, stretched out languidly with my feet up next to the soundboard. I smooth down my skirt, I adjust my garters. I stretch out one pale arm and push up a slider on the board, reach a toe up to the CD player and let the music run. Simultaneously, he appears in the door behind me. I can feel his presence, his taking precedence to everything...He doesn't even need to speak as the intro ends, just takes two steps into the booth and pulls me out of the chair. He spins me around and shoves me, I have to grab the sides of the board so I don't mess up the sliders. As the music jacks up in intensity, he flips up my skirt and grinds against me, making me feel his zipper before he pulls it down, before he pulls out that glorious conducting cock. He strokes one finger down my spine and I arch my back with the shiver, half impaling myself. He brings himself in the rest of the way and the music starts to build, build as he pushes himself in and out, in and out, as he flicks his finger over my clit like a flutist's tongue flicks her notes. In and out, in and out as he slides his hands over my body like a jazz drummer's brush slides over the drumhead every cool beat. In and in, higher and higher, up and up and--* crack! My climax crescendos unexpectedly, bringing me back to the cool reality of the floor and the empty, aching *morendo*, dying away in tone and time, *morendo, morendo*...

*DC al fine*.

I kind of want to cry; another cum alone. Not a soul but me at home and I might have sold my soul sometime back. Shiver shudder shake. Will this ache ever be slaked? *Not as long as the music's on, turn it off, turn it—not up! No!* And again, there I go. My hands pick delicate chords up and down my sides, over my nipples burning through each bar, over my skin sweating with each successive *stringendo*, pressing and accelerating, *stringendo, stringendo!* I swear when I sweat, but bad girl!

My hands move faster, down and down because it's my undoing, I must be *dolce*, sweet and delicate for him, I am but a *diminuendo* and I *decrescendo* daily...

The music works itself back into my mind and the guitar strings wrap their way around my neurons, they have become my dendrites and only they decide what I hear, what I remember, oh so hot! This is a memory wipe, this is your resistance swept away in a fury of *fortissimo*, a rush of red-hot *ritard* and your brain's going nowhere for a while, doing no heavy lifting for the foreseeable future. My breath is coming in gasps, my hands are running up and down my body, twisting my nipples, squeezing my tits because they need to be hurt just a little, clenching my muscles and pumping in and out of my tight little music-maker, my moan-maker, moaning because it made me, because he made me, because the notes are rising and drowning me in a tide of, a tide of, a tide of ohwhitehotlove!

*DC al fine*.

I try to raise a hand, but it drops back to the floor. I feel empty, lightheaded, satisfied. Heavy chested, heaving chested and burning lungs, I need a rest...but the music is still playing, calls no slinking off to sleep. The chocolate bar lies half melted just beyond my reach. A silent tear rises to my eye and falls slowly off my face. The rush feels so good every time, but there's never a quiet moment. There's only volume, rising louder until I scream with it in pain, can't stop, repeat, first ending, second ending, third ending, never ending! No double bars in sight but they're all around me, taunting, must, must continue on into the night! My hands attempt to play, legs spread askew on his kitchen floor, moaning and shuddering, hands shaking chords in the air I can't play, can't play, can't...play...can't...pl...

..."--at are you doing?!" he yelled as he ran at me, slamming the door, dropping his books. The volume of my wailing cunny sinks to a low moan. Still throbbing, still needy. But he, he takes precedence over the music. He's talking, waving his hands, strong and lightly calloused for hitting my high notes...hands, scrabbling? Pulling, pulling out...wires? He's talking, pleading, sobbing indistinct words too fuzzy to hear, pulling and—the speakers go dead.

My world explodes in white light and the silence is the most beautiful noise I've ever heard.

"*dance*..." he breathes into my ear through the mist. Into my ear, into my mind. Spiderweb fault-lines appear. A squeak escapes my vocal cords and I twitch...and calm. I'm in his arms, cradled in his arms. Cleaned, fully clothed, wrapped in him. In his love? Maybe he'll sing me a lullaby.

"*sing*..." he rasps into my ear, into my mind. Sound as penetration, imagination, impregnation; piercing. So much powerful than visuals could ever be, that's how he was able to reach me...The chasms yawn. My puzzled eyes peer up at my protector, my comforter, my torturer, my...friend? I snuggle into his arms and chest, soaking up comfort from the rhythm of his heartbeat.

"*love*..." he commands, and the world shatters in a blinding calliope kaleidescope of symphonies and shock rock.

Music as my lifeline. Mp3's as meds, earbuds as Iv's.

The confusion clears and soft music pulses lightly in my ears. I tense—but nothing. No compulsions, no reflexes, no instructions. No nothing.

I don't bother to open my eyes; I can feel the radiance of his smile on my skin answering the spread of my own joy across my face. I'm plugged in, buds in my ears but...the wires stretch only lightly, out to my hand. He's given me back to myself.