THE MUSICIAN Written for Mrs—, in appreciation FP (NormLindsayadmirer) “This is ridiculous,” she thought. It was the fifth time she had checked the bedroom. Would he even notice the trouble she had taken. Don, her husband, would of course. And even though he knew that she knew his interest was only perfunctory he was always sweet enough to compliment her and kiss her on the cheek. A plain, pearl grey doona cover and pillow set; absorbent and ultra-soft cotton towels to match – “And ultra bloody expensive, too,” flashed through her mind – rolled ready and waiting. A selection of toys assembled on a matching hand towel on the bedside cabinet; the scent of sandalwood lingering in the air, the incense burned away and cleared from the room; it turned her on, “But would it…” She sighed… she liked it, and that would have to do. The woman turned to look in the mirror. She felt a flutter of nerves. The outside looked good. “Bloody good,” she whispered to herself. Long straight dress to the floor, rich black, split to the thigh. The neckline dipped in a sharp V to midway between diaphragm and navel, revealing a hint of deep scarlet push-up bra accentuating the swell of full, ivory tinted breasts. But she was nervous. The clothes had to come off sometime, she was fast approaching 50 and a little heavier than she would wish. Don loved her body, revelled in it, but she wondered what other men really thought when she caught them surreptitiously running their eyes over her curves. Walking down the street she would add a little extra flounce to the hips; seated in a restaurant she would lean forward, pressing shoulders inward and winking at Don, lips parted, to let him know she was being looked at. After such an encounter, their lovemaking would be particularly wild and abandoned. That’s how it had happened. * * * * They were in a small, intimate restaurant, new to both of them. Plain food, beautifully cooked, the drinks reasonably priced. On a tiny stage in a corner close to them, a young singer/guitarist was performing. His voice had attracted her: earthy, like the smell of the soil after a summer thunderstorm, and his small, seemingly delicate fingers plucked and pulled at the strings with surprising strength, eliciting responses that for some strange reason brought to mind her own reactions to Don’s lovemaking. She squirmed in her seat, imperceptibly she would have thought, but the musician’s eyes caught hers and held them, a half smile on his lips. Shit! She leaned forward and whispered to Don: “The singer thinks I’m coming on to him.” Her husband smiled. “I thought you were, too.” “I couldn’t help staring at him,” she answered. “The way he plays and sings – it’s as though he’s fucking the song and the guitar.” Don laughed. “A musical threesome.” Then: “Do you fancy him?” “No, of course not! Yes, I suppose so. Hell, Don, I don’t know. Anyway, I’ve got you and that keeps me happy.” “What if you could have both of us?” “You’re not serious?” The intake of breath was involuntary. They often shared – and lived out – their fantasies, but sex with others had never been mentioned. Her sister was fond of sharing her sexual exploits with them, knowing she was turning them on in the process, but this was a first. “Anyway, he’s not taking any notice now – probably realised I’m almost old enough to be his mum.” “Okay, fair enough.” They were just finishing their coffee when he stopped playing. She began to clap when Don, with no warning, gestured at the musician, pointing at the remains of a bottle of white in the ice-bucket. The young man took the few steps to their table, shyly it seems, though not so shy as to be afraid to run his eyes over her. “Would you like a drink? We brought the car ad don’t want to cop a breathalyser on the way home. Sit down and join us for ten minutes… we’ll be leaving soon.” And now, here she was a week later waiting for a knock on the door. Don – in the sitting room, lights low – would let him in and she would make, in Don’s words, ‘an entrance’. “If my knees don’t start shaking,” she had said. The doorbell rang and she heard Don’s voice welcoming their visitor. A deep breath, one last look around, and she was on her way to meet her guest. He was standing by the low table, holding a bunch of flowers. She saw his eyes move up and down her body as he stepped forward, offering the flowers. “Why thank you,” she said, sure that her voice was catching. Don looked at her knowingly, then with the hint of mischief she so loved in his voice: “I’ll go and hunt up some white.” As he left the room, the young man stepped towards her and, with no warning, traced the tips of his left-hand fingers up both sides of her cleavage. Her eyes widened – another man hadn’t touched her since before she was married. “Your fingertips, they feel rough,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady – without much success she thought. “Not unpleasant though,” she hastened to add, not wanting the sensation to stop. “Playing the guitar,” he said softly. It hardens and roughens them. “Feels good elsewhere, too, I’m told,” and he smiled a half smile. Then he dropped his other hand and dragged open palm and trailing fingers over her pubic mound and up to her navel. She thought her knees would give way. Then: “Here comes Don with the wine,” and he stepped back, still staring at her. * * * * The wine was finished and somehow she had been led into the bedroom. She felt as though she was in a dream: the scent of sandalwood lingered , the aroma always reminding her of her own heady woman smell when she was aroused. Do men notice it, she wondered. Dave never mentioned it, but she could always smell it – hell taste it, feel it. The musician put his hands on her shoulders and bent to kiss her, long moist and deep, his tongue flicking at hers, teasing probing. Then she felt Don at her back, hands running over her buttocks then around to her breasts as he pressed himself into her, tweaking her nipples as he did so. A long shiver ran up her spine, the musician’s hands were stroking her thighs with occasional forays to their inner surface, where the brushed the edge of her panties, slightly increasing the pressure as they did so. She sighed, pressing her pelvis against him, then pushing back with her bum against Don, feeling his hardening cock straining against his pants. She reached behind her, feeling for the head of his cock and squeezing, smiling inwardly as she heard him moan. She went to put a hand between the musician’s legs, but he moved back a step, delicate fingers tracing her cleavage and then, one by one, unfastening the buttons at the front of her dress. He seemed to be taking an eternity. “Get a move on, damn you,” she voiced silently. “Get a move on.” Four buttons down now, and he moved forward, sliding a hand into her bra and feeling for a nipple. She was aware of Don’s cock pressing at her behind, the musician’s roughened left fingers rolling a nipple, and her inner Goddess began to rise. She thought she could hear herself panting, but it must have been internal. No-one else was noticing. The musician had started on the buttons again and Don was running his finger up and down the cleft of her buttocks. “Hell,” she gave a little gasp. “He must be turned on, he’s always liked my arse but he’s never done that before. Then the gasp became a sudden intake of breath. The musician had her dress open and thumb and forefinger were inside her panties. In just seconds he had found her clitoris, and she almost squealed as she felt the guitar roughened fingertips stroking the little Goddess, tempting her out of her bower. Her knees began to shake as she felt her breasts swell and harden. The musician dropped to his knees, dragging her panties with him and before she was even aware of what he had done she felt his face thrust into her cunny, tongue probing, teeth gently nibbling and tugging at her labia. Don was getting aroused – he was thrusting his cock against her and had her breasts free of the bra, rolling nipples and nibbling at the side of her neck. She wasn’t sure which way to push, forward or back, the sensations were so strong she wasn’t even sure which was front and which was back – she was aware, too, of the sounds coming from between her legs. He was sucking hard at her and her cunny was responding in kind, kissing him and anointing him with the Goddess nectar that patient lovers sup,. Aloud this time: “Ohhhh fuuuuck.” He stopped and rose to his feet. “You bastard,” she thought. Her cunny was aching – literally. It yearned, longed, demanded more attention. The musician glanced over her shoulder at her husband and nodded in the direction of the bed. They each took a hand and led her to its edge. Releasing her, the musician rolled back the doona and lay the towels out over them. Stepping back, he began to undress, slowly, almost as skilled as a stripper. She couldn’t take her eyes from him – Don was already naked, and rampant, the end of his cock gleaming with precome. She was just about to beckon him over when the musician’s underpants hit the floor. Involuntarily she licked her lips. “Oh mother,” she whispered. “He is impossible.” Slender as he was, the musician was endowed with the sort of cock she had fantasised about for years. Long, thick, frightening yet at the same time fascinating. She couldn’t help herself – she unhooked her bra and slipped it off, staring defiantly at both of them she began to roll her breasts, her lips parted. The musician was hard now. With a wicked smile, he tensed his buttocks and the enormous cocked jerked upwards, taunting her. Then, gesturing to Don to follow his lead, he began to stroke her nipples with the wet head, tracing patterns around and over until her breasts were swollen and hard as melons, the nipples erect and taut. It was too much, she just had to feel that thing. She reached out and stroked its length – hard and yet yielding, and this man was using it like a magic wand, not a weapon, stroking her breasts, pushing against them. Her hand barely closed around the base, let alone the thickest part of the shaft. She jerked at it almost savagely. “Hell,” she thought, “I want to feel that in me at some stage; go easy girl.” She grabbed Don, he was dripping. She looked at him, smiling as she licked the sticky fluid from her palm. Don was following cues almost automatically now. The took a hand each and lifted her to her feet. “Strip, you gorgeous thing” the musician whispered. She didn’t have to be asked twice. Naked, she stared at them. “What now,” she whispered. For answer the musician gently pushed her backwards onto the bed, asking her to turn lengthways. Then as she watched, he walked around the foot of the bed, massive cock swinging with every step, and knelt beside her on the bed. Don knelt on the other side. Grasping his cock with one hand, he used the other to guide her hand to it. Don followed suit. She squirmed in delight as a cock stroked each cheek, her hand following, leaving a trail behind. Then over her eyelids. The sensation was riveting and her legs moved and her belly undulated with pleasure. Eyelids, lips, chin, throat, breasts, navel; the cocks drew patterns of adoration on skin that was now burning with lust. She was consumed by sensations, tongues thrusting and licking at every fold of skin, at her eyes, ears, cunny, nipples, navel. She felt hands and fingers stroking fondling and probing and her body seemed enveloped in precum – but she was loving it. At one stage she thought Don was tickling her arse with his but she was so overwhelmed by sensations she wasn’t sure. Then she felt a cock slide into her mouth, probing and testing seeking the libation of her tongue. Don – she knew. She wasn’t sure the other one would fit. Suddenly her legs were over the musician’s shoulders and she felt a pillow being slid under her buttocks. Almost before she was aware what was happening she felt that thing, now purple headed and thick veined with lust, pushing into her. Her legs shot into the air, toes stretched tight pulling his arse towards her – what self control she had was vanishing fast. Her breath came in short, rasping gasps. She growled and almost snarled and reached out to grab Don’s cock, holding it hard as though it might stop her slipping into an abyss of absolute sensation from which there was no return. His cock was so deep inside her when he came that she could feel his cum on her cervix, filling her it seemed. Her nails dug into his back and the other hand squeezed Don’s cock. She pushed the musician off her and almost yelled at her husband: “Now Don, now. Fuck me. And you,” she grbbed the panting musician’s cock, “in my mouth.” Don was almost beside himself. She rose to meet him as he thrust at her, all the while dragging the musician’s flaccid cock deeper into her mouth as she clutched and squeezed his balls. Her breathing was deeper now as her stomach convulsed and quivered as she came – again – and again. Then Don was spent. Covered in sweat, he and the musician lay beside her, sated. “You’re not finished yet,” she said, a new sense of power and control washing over her. “There is a large cream pie to eat and then you can lick me clean all over.” She sighed, and lay back on the bed, legs apart, cunny purple and swollen, breasts now soft and compliant, a half-smile on her serene features.