“A couple years ago.” She takes a bite and closes her eyes giving this little moan I don’t think she knows she’s doing. It’s completely involuntary that sound. Completely sexual. When her eyes open again she looks a little dazed. “I was going through a dark time. Feeling very alone here so I posted online thinking maybe I would find another musician going through the same thing. It went viral on social media and then I had these followers asking for more.”
“You must have exceptional talent.”
She looks shy but of course she does. “There are so many talented musicians out there.”
“Then what sets you apart?” I ask half as a taunt and half because I truly want to know. I see something incredible in her something almost too sweet to be borne but that does not mean the world will see it. In fact the very opposite is usually true: the more rare and precious a gift the more easily the world will dismiss it.
A helpless shrug is my only answer.
And then I cannot wait any longer. The tagine is only half gone our plates almost empty but ready for second helpings but I have to see her in her element.
The first thing when I get to the website she tells me is a picture of her. It’s part of the header graphic a picture of her with her hair a wild halo the shadows falling dramatically around her her eyes closed in ecstasy. Climax my sex-ready mind supplies. That’s how she will look during climax.
Of course she isn’t having sex in the picture. As the photo fades to black I can see the lace of another high collar. And the barest hint of her hands in motion. She’s playing the piano. This has been sex for her. This is how a healthy young woman has managed to remain a virgin; not because she is sexless but because she found a different sensual outlet for her body.
It’s hard to tear my gaze away from that shot in the header. Distantly I recognize that it must have been taken by a professional photographer the focus is too clear the lighting too perfect for anything less. There’s a surprising streak of jealousy—that another man has been here photographing her admiring her but I push that aside. All of this looks completely professional. The name across the top isn’t hers not precisely. A stage name. Bea Sharp like the musical note. I have to blink once twice against the number of followers she has. This is more than an internet sensation. This is a real-life celebrity sitting beside me blushing profusely.
“It’s a little strange seeing someone look at it” the celebrity says her skin a pretty pink. “Normally I can just pretend like no one really sees me.”
Many thousands of people see her the numbers prove. Millions actually. “This is incredible. You do this from here. Where is the piano?”
She gestures toward the other side of the suite. “The second bedroom. It was always the music room but since the page has grown I have some lighting equipment and cameras.”
My finger hovers over one of the videos. “May I?”
“You don’t have to” she says which doesn’t answer the question.
“It’s rather embarrassing how much I want to. But only with your permission.”
She ducks her head in a picture of humble grace. My God this woman. She is from a different time period one with gowns and thrones. No wonder she lives at the top of the tower. So what would that make me? A court jester I suppose. Someone to amuse her.
The video expands on the screen focused on the piano. Only a little of her body is visible a deep velvet dress that ends halfway down her forearms. Her nails are unpolished neatly trimmed square-tipped but delicate strong and feminine. Her skin gleams in the bright light highlighting the freckles across her skin even there. I like to think that if I had seen this video first I would have recognized her by her hands alone both delicate and surprisingly strong.
On the screen she places her hands on the piano.
In real life she twines her fingers together anxious and anticipatory.
Both of the actions make a knot in my chest tight enough that it’s hard to breathe. I can’t take a breath until the first note reverberates through the air. Even through the pale phone speakers I can feel the depth of the sound. The undeniable rightness of them.
And then she plays bringing to life Sia’s Chandelier with a classical bent that I can only marvel at. I can feel her skill and her passion coming through every note. There is reckless abandon in the song fear and grief and hope. “Mon Dieu” I breathe.
From the corner of my eye in the single ounce of my body not focused wholly on the song being played I can see Bea’s fingers twitch in the same pattern they do on screen. She really is in her element with music. She’s a goddess.
I set the phone down letting it play between us.
The notes build something new between us a kind of foreplay. When she looks at me I can tell she feels it too. This time she isn’t afraid. It isn’t something to fear the music.
“Bea” I murmur. “Come here.”
She does not hesitate. In seconds she’s in my arms and I pull her firmly onto my lap. There’s only a slight squirm enough to make my cock throb while she wonders whether I can support her. Why do women worry about that? There’s nothing more fulfilling than holding her this way than feeling her soft and supple in my arms while I hold her still for a kiss.
My lips touch hers with barely held restraint. Don’t devour her.
The music is her tutor this time but it’s also mine. It teaches us the rhythm to use as I nip gently at her bottom lip as she shyly strokes her tongue against mine.
When she pulls back she’s breathing hard. Those pale green eyes are darker now with passion with confidence and I am close to bursting.
“Wow” she whispers.
It makes me laugh a little though it comes out unsteady. Mon Dieu indeed.
You might think that I must woo every client but most frequently it happens the other way around. Women tempt me and flatter me and please me even when they are paying for the privilege. I have been treated to the finest chefs and flown in private jets. They wear beautiful lingerie and compliment me as if I might walk out the door if they don’t.
Nothing has ever seduced me as much as this.
No one as much as her.
“Can we do it again?” she asks a little playful.
Why did I think I could be the court jester for her? I would be the peasant not even fit to set a foot in the same room. “I want to lick you” I tell her fervent and true. “Kneeling before you while you play this song for me.”
Her eyes widen because she does not mistake my meaning. “I’m sure I couldn’t keep playing.”
“You’ll have lots of practice first” I say and I don’t mean practice playing the piano.
I mean practice receiving pleasure from my tongue her legs spread wide for me her pussy wet and swollen from my caresses. I want her so well versed in this that she begs me with her subtle little moans barely audible above the song. It’s a physical pain imagining her hips jerk against me as she climaxes the singular vibration of the keys as she comes.
Her eyes have turned a beautiful shade of green darker than jade. It makes me think of a smooth lake lit by a full moon both opaque and luminescent.
“Again” I murmur.
Can we do it again? It’s startling how much I want that. Not only to kiss her but to hold her to see her. There’s a longing inside me to ask to see her again even though it shouldn’t matter if she books another Saturday night shouldn’t matter if it’s her or any other woman. It’s never mattered before.
This time she is the one to press her lips to mine and it’s that much sweeter. With her uncertainty and her eagerness. I have never experienced anything this wholesome. I certainly did not expect to find it in a client.
She does not move to open her mouth nor open mine. There’s only the press somehow made more erotic by the chasteness. I surrender to it surrender to her glorying in the sensation of plump lips and feather breaths. The sensation of her trembling body in my arms the shimmer of moonlight on water made real.
Her body shifts on my lap barely an inch to the side. Enough to brush against my hard cock. I suck in a breath shocked by the effort it takes not to come.
She barely touched me. She didn’t touch me not on purpose. There are so many layers of clothes between us but I’m ready to come like a teenager.
Her eyes meet mine wide and wondering. “Is that…”
“My cock. Say it. I want to hear you say the word.”
A blush. “Right now?”
“If you want it inside you you should be able to ask for it.”
“Cock” she whispers.
I’m moved by her shyness and by how much she wants me. Moved by the sweet curiosity in her trembling voice. But not enough to let her off the hook. “Say I want your cock.”
There’s a longer pause this time. “I want your cock.”
Jesus my cock throbs in response. It hears her. It wants her right back. “Say Make me come on your cock until my pretty little cunt can’t take any more.”
She sucks in a breath. “This is what you meant.”
“Haven’t you felt it before mon amie? Why did you call for me if not for desire?”
It’s a question she has dodged before her reasons. And she dodges it again. “Not like this. I wondered. I was curious but I never felt it like this.”
I force myself to observe her coolly from a distance instead of like the slavering beast I feel inside. “Breathing hard eyelids low. You’re warm all over. Yes this is what desire looks like. And I’m sure you’ll be wet when I touch you won’t you?”
She exhales a sound of acquiescence. “Make me come on your cock.”
“Until?” Perhaps it is cruel of me. The knowledge isn’t enough to make me stop. That’s how badly I want to hear those words from her petal-pink mouth.
“Until my pretty little pussy can’t take anymore.”
Hearing the words from her lips is too much. I have to kiss her and once I start I can’t stop. I’m tasting her licking her biting her. Her enthusiasm matches my own; she tugs at my shirt my collar trying to get closer. It’s not enough never enough.
There’s a moment of indecision when her knee comes up blocking us. It’s now that I should take us to the bedroom. Now that I should turn this frantic make-out session into a seduction. But my own need burns too hotly. I’m wild and untried as if her inexperience has become my own. So I yank her onto my lap harder fully against me. And then she straddles me her heat pressed right up against my cock. There’s no slowing this down. No stopping.
She moves her hips against me hesitant curious. “Is this okay?”
“It’s perfect. Do it again.”
When she does I’m the one who lets out a groan. Mon Dieu her body is heaven. I’m torn between the places I want to touch her—to cup her face and feel her hair curl around my hand. To feel her breasts maybe find the buttons hidden in the demure lace dress and bare her to me.
I decide on her hips the better to rock her pussy against my cock. I’m throbbing and hurting but all I want is for her to come. I show her the rhythm and there there she learns it.
Her frantic little breaths flutter against my neck like a butterfly. Every muscle in my body strains against the need to throw her onto the table the dishes and seduction be damned. There is self-control somewhere inside me I don’t feel it but it must be there because somehow I remain seated barely my whole body clenching hips already fucking into nothing.
When she comes I feel her ecstasy wash over me like a balm. It doesn’t feel good. That would be too ordinary for someone like Bea. It feels like I’ve been granted a reprieve.
I hold her against me as the tremors take her body one hand keeping her hips flush against me the other cradling her head against my shoulder.
Distantly I realize I’m muttering to her in Arabic. Strange that. It’s the language I used on the streets of Tangier. The one of familiarity and abandon. I’m alternately soothing her and cursing her though I’m sure she can understand neither.
Slowly she stills. Her breathing evens out.
When she lifts her head there’s a distinct echo of loss in my chest.
“Is this...okay?” Her pale green eyes are large now still hazy from sex but with some worry seeping in. Perhaps she senses that I’m not okay.
Perhaps because I’m clenching her ass hard enough to leave fingerprint bruises.
It’s an act of extreme hardship and heroism that I let go of her. I’m not entirely graceful as I shove her off my lap. Not entirely steady on my feet but mon Dieu. My cock is as hard as iron in my pants leaking against the black fabric ready to explode.
If this were an ordinary relationship I would take it out. Let her talented little fingers stroke me the way she plays the piano. Let her pretty lips taste me but this isn’t an ordinary relationship. I’ve had women blow me of course. Many clients wish to. Some even want me like this desperate and demanding. But they are experienced enough to ask for it. This woman she’s too innocent for the thoughts in my head. So I force myself to the bathroom.
I force out the words to say excuse me but I’m too far gone to be sure. They might be in English or French. Or in Arabic the street language the one I mumble in dreams.
Only in private do I lean my back against the door and pull down my zipper. There is infinite relief letting my heavy cock fall onto my palm.
It only takes two strokes remembering the spice on her tongue the softness of her lips. The sweetness of her body in my arms. And I’m coming spurting into my hand.
In the aftermath I can only stare at the gold-plated bathroom fixtures the tile that is probably imported from Paris itself with faded script and designs on every other piece.
I know I should not but I have never been very wise. And so my head turns to the side where I can see myself in the mirror. My hair is askew. My cheeks dark with passion. I look like a man who has been months without sex years without it.
Like a man who has only just discovered what it is.