My First Musical Score

(Note: The following is dream based, and might contain certain scenarios and/or observations that may be confusing to some readers. Reader discretion is advised.)

I can distinctly feel the winter chill penetrate my thin woolen gloves, which cling pleadingly to the near empty coffee tin. I am hunched over in a fetal position hugging my knees close to my chest to keep warm. A handsome middle-aged man sporting a dark trench coat exits the pub, his gaze instantly lowering to meet mine. I can't help but fixate on the distinguishing crevices framing his features. He extends his hand with great certainty; confident he has properly assessed my degree of desperation. I do not hesitate for even a moment to accept. My nipples shrivel at his mere touch, but I reason that it is from the cold breeze wafting through my tattered shirt as he pulls me to my feet.

He drives us to a desolate mall plaza, and unlocks the door to what appears to be a music store or recording studio. It is at this moment when the burning desire to pee overwhelms me. I begin to beeline towards the bathroom, but he abruptly cuts me off, blocking my path. I reason that the idea of a warm nights sleep and a possible meal aren't worth the struggle despite my aching bladder. I want to ask him what I can do to persuade him to let me past, but I am either mute or speak a foreign language.

As though reading my mind, he gestures downwards to the buttons on my shirt, instructing me with his eyes. I quickly comply and strip down. There is a full-length mirror nearby which reflects a young, petite Asian girl with a swollen belly. My racial transformation doesn't seem to intrigue me nearly as much as the prospect of looking at least 5 months pregnant. I have long, thin, raven tresses and am astonishingly beautiful.

After absorbing my features for a moment, he motions me towards a mini-bar and proceeds to pour us drinks. I spot a tub filled with ice, beer, and pickled eggs. The temptation becomes almost too much to bare, and I reach hungrily into the barrel for one of the eggs. He quickly seizes my wrist and glares at me, daring me to be so bold again.

With my arm still firmly in his grip, the man thrusts me onto a bar stool and gently pries my thigh apart with his free hand. He seems quite pleased with the shimmering tuft presented before him and instinctively reaches down for a stroke with his fingertips. A sudden moment of shyness overcomes me and I flinch away, angering him enough to plant a firm smack on the sensitive flesh. I let out a small gasp. He smirks.

Finally releasing my wrist, he plucks a red carnation from a nearby vase and breaks off most of the stem. He cups it in his hand and proceeds to trace the soft petals gently against my neck, breasts, and belly. I become very relaxed and still, allowing him to venture back down between my thighs. As I let out a contented sigh, he presses the flower into my mound and then draws it up to his nostrils, inhaling its sweet aroma. He then plucks one of the moist petals and feeds it to me.

The man senses my embarrassment and places my palm on the bulge of his pants to show that I am not alone in my arousal. I reach in for his zipper, but he smacks my hand away and nods his head in the direction of the bathroom. I have decided the pressure on my bladder is heightening my every sensation, and I do not want to leave his side for even one second. I shake my head and remain where I am.

He leads me over to a guitar amp, and has me sit on it, positioning my legs so that they straddle it as though I am mounting a horse. There are a series of wind instruments hanging on the wall, of which he carefully admires before finally selecting the clarinet and handing it to me. I wet my lips and blow. A loud squeak reverberates across the room and I see him smile for the first time. He takes the clarinet from me and kneels, placing the end at the base of my mound. His hot breath warms my labia through the tunnel, quickly followed by another high-pitched squeal.

I shudder and laugh nervously. He offers up a wink and flips the instrument around, shallowly penetrating me with the mouthpiece and reed before drawing it to his lips again. This time the note is lower, and he grinds it deeper into my sex so that it tickles the surrounding flesh as he blows. The heated air through the tunnel causes me to tense and thrust forward, my hungry thighs urging him to continue his melody.

Rising to his feet, he leans downwards and lifts my chin to meet his gaze. I close my eyes in profound anticipation of a kiss, but instead I feel the black knitted scarf from his neck encircle mine. Twisting it around at the back, he ties my arms in a manner that forces my head upward and breasts forward.

I can't see much with my neck tilted back in this position, so he makes a point of presenting me with the silver "y" shaped pronged device that he is suddenly holding. He taps it with a fingernail, and I watch it wiggle wildly. I recall seeing pictures of it before in some magazine, and know it has something to do with tuning instruments.

The room grows silent for a moment before I feel the coldness of the metal press against a nipple. He flicks it, and a surge of pleasure courses through my veins, causing the tiny hairs on my arms to stand on end. He repeats the procedure between my thighs, and I am suddenly very aware of my full bladder once again. I want to go to the bathroom, but I am so close to orgasm.

Footsteps echo across the otherwise silent room. I hear a click and static vibrates below me, followed by the distinct ‘twang' of a guitar cord tauntingly massaging my inner hunger. Though I am unable to see anything beyond the water-stained ceiling tiles, I can feel his stare penetrate through me. I am embarrassed by the idea of coming in front of this mysterious stranger, and annoyed at my lack of self-control.

The room grows awkwardly quiet yet again, save for the steady hum of the amplifier. I can feel him place the strap around my neck and position the instrument on my lap as he moves behind me. He straddles the amp in a crouching stance, and leans in close to rest his chin on my shoulder, wrapping his arms around me to regain control of the guitar.

As he strums an unfamiliar melody, the pressure of the instrument pressing against my swollen belly combined with the tingle of the vibrations below cause me to wriggle intensely. One of his hands drifts downwards, and he begins alternating between notes and manipulating me with his fingers…

(Insert building fire alarm sound here, along with a very irate and sexually frustrated Helene.)