The Beauty of Music

Special thanks to my brother for the concept, because without his guitar knowledge, I would be at a complete loss for words This story is the first in what will hopefully be a long chain of good times. Comments and constructive criticism is always welcome..

"You're a true beauty, my dear," Mike cooed as he stroked the slender neck of his latest love. Mike had always worked at the music exchange for as long as he was able to hold down even a part-time job. He had a passion for music, in sort of the same way that some men have a passion for power tools (Only those men probably never dreamt about their compound miter saw in a sweaty sleep).

The only misgiving that Mike had ever felt about his many loves were that they could never love him back. Sure, they could put out melodious or even tortured sounds when he worked them over, but they were inanimate. Yes. Mike Nimitz truly loved his guitars. Especially in his imagination.

On one severely boring night in particular, Mike found himself alone, as usual, in the darkened shop, stocking the walls with new guitars. The slender neck that he had been preoccupied with belonged to the first of the new mainstream models.

The shop had stocked only cheap-o knock off models for as long as he could remember, and Mike hoped that the new influx of guitars would bring in customers. As it was, the shop was always a ghost town, which left Mike free to fantasize about what might be lurking inside the fine mahoganies and basswood bodies.

"Shit, this thing is an artifact! A Gibson Goldtop Les Paul Classic, with...a fifties neck!"

Mike began to get a heady feeling in the air, realizing just how spectacular this piece of art was. This thing was made before he was born, but he felt such a connection with it, and was so enamored, that he failed to notice when the heady air zoned him out into his imagination...

Mike awoke with a start and off his stool, relieved that he was still in the guitar shop. But, something was amiss.

"Hammett's Left Hand! The Guitar," Mike screamed. He looked around the area, expecting (but dreading) to find it in splinters on the floor. "But how? It's vanished," Mike asked no one in particular. But, to his surprise, someone did answer. And, in one of the sweetest and sultriest voices he had ever heard:

"Whaddaya mean, kid? I'm right here."

Her voice was dark and rich, and seemed to reverberate forever inside Mike's head. It made him freeze in his tracks. After finding what shred of courage he hadn't just lost, he turned to find a stunning blonde woman of about 35 years standing solidly next to his abandoned stool, wearing a rather small, golden sun dress.

"Oh, thank God," Mike sighed, "Did you catch the Goldtop? I was just sitting right..." letting his voice trail off uselessly as the woman advanced on him, swinging her full breasts and ass in a rhythmic dance. Mike was entranced as she came way inside his personal space (not that he minded terribly, this would be the first woman to show any interest in him since his college days).

"Why are you so worried? I'm very much intact, check me out if you like," she teased, as she abruptly backed up and sat, no, posed on the stool, causing Mike to nearly fall over in his effort to follow her.

"You expect me to believe that guitars can turn into women? I mean, I know guitars are beautiful, but this is ridiculous," rambled Mike, as he slumped down into another chair, and probably insanity.

It was at this point that Mike's mind shifted from worry to his natural instincts. From his oblique angle, Mike could see her curves in full relief. Her ass was pushed up by the hard wood of the stool, and her arms closed the cavernous cleavage between her (at least) D cup breasts. "But, what the hell," Mike said, playing along with his sexy psychosis, "if this is insanity, I guess it's not so bad, eh? What's your name, gorgeous," he asked with a flick of an eyebrow.

"Paula," she answered, returning his eyebrow flick with one of her own, "But, do you want to bullshit all night, or do you want to try out the merchandise," she quizzed, stretching out said merchandise. Mike could only stare, as any one of us would, at the most full and curvaceous body he had ever seen. The small dress left little to the imagination, allowing him to examine her with the scrutiny of a merchant.

"This belongs in a museum," he remarked sarcastically, attempting his best Indiana Jones imitation. "But, what do you mean examine the merchandise? I thought you were fine," Mike continued coldly, stepping towards his new object of lust.

"Well," said Paula, "I'm in one piece, but I believe my keys could use some tuning." At this, the top of her dress was flipped down, loosing a full compliment of tits into Mike's hungry eyes. At this point, Mike could no longer feign apathy.

"And what tuning suits this perfect rack best?" chuckled Mike, as he took her round, heavy tits into his hands for the first time, making her flinch slightly.

After a moment, Paula responded, "you're the player, boy. Depends on what song you're gonna play, right?"

Mike thought for a second, "well, I guess I'll just play around till I find standard tuning." With that, he took her left nipple in his mouth, chewing ever so slightly whilst servicing it with his tongue. "give me an E," he said jokingly between sucks, and she moaned with overwhelming sensation.

The longer he sucked, the closer her moans got to that base note he had tuned to so many times before. When she reached a perfect (enough) E, he moved onto the right mound, and found to be just as enjoyable as the last. Paula's nipples cried just the slightest hint of milk, and what there was tasted incredibly good. Mike wasn't sure if it was just the situation that made him taste it, but, real or not, it was rich and fulfilling.

After working this nipple over just as much as the left, he decided to attempt both at once. He squeezed her tits together, and popped both tips into his mouth. To Mike's surprise, what escaped Paula's lips was a combination of the two moans he had been hearing. "Paula, I think you're moaning in power chords," he informed her.

Quickly, she responded, "Fan-frikkin-tastic, kid, I guess I'm tuned up. Now, how bout I show that cock of yours what a solid-body can do, looks like it's about ready."

"Why yes," said Mike, "I do seem to be experiencing some...Gain." Paula groaned at the corny joke, and, several bad guitar puns later, Mike had his proudly erect dick nestled gently between her soft pouting lips. She slid him in and out, letting her tongue slide up and down his length, as Mike involuntarily bucked his hips, fucking her mouth. Her flowing blonde hair flooded her face as she picked up her pace, the tension in his cock becoming evident.

With Paula's mouth otherwise occupied, Mike felt he could get away with another pun with impunity. "I'm getting close here, Paula," he said, "good thing you were so eager, I was never any good at... Pickup lines."

Just as Paula was about to roll her eyes, she felt the cum rising through his shaft. This was it. She could reprimand him later. As Mike shot his load, he came in bursts, each hitting the back of her tongue, before disappearing down her hungry throat. "Well, that was gratifying," said Paula between heavy breaths, "thanks, kid. I think I'm finally ready for the shelf. Had to make sure the plug fit in the jack," she joked, getting up off the stool.

"Hold on there Paula, the set's not over just yet," said Mike, supporting his now weak legs on the stool.

"Oh yes it is," said Paula, "You'll just have to wait until your next shift. Besides... There are plenty of other guitars in the shop. See you around," she said. With a warm smile and a wave, Paula made a jump for the wall, and clung to the pegs there inlaid.

"Wait! Paula," yelled Mike, running to catch her. He ran to the wall, as Paula curled up on the pegs, and one cliché poof of smoke later, and Mike hit the wall hard. He looked up to see only the innocent shimmer of the Goldtop Les Paul, resting on the pegs of the wall where Paula had just clung. He looked into the body's gloss, and saw his own reflection soon replaced by Paula's which gave him a telling smile and wink, and promptly vanished. He heard her last message whispered through the air as the AC clicked off:

"...Besides... There are plenty of other guitars in the shop..."

"Well," said Mike, growing louder and more ecstatic with each word, his grin ripping his head in two, "Thank God I work nights!"

Mike whirled around in dizzying circles, taking in all the possibilities, all the pristine bodies: Gibson, Fender, Ibanez, Rickenbacker... Each were beautiful, and each in their own charming and individual way. Mike had always loved these guitars, and now it seems that they can finally, finally return the favor.