Melody's Final Melody?

From the moment I first met her, her voice captivated me. To hear her talk in even just a standard, everyday conversation was the near-flawless equivalent of a magical, golden, talking harp. Each syllable escaping her lips was perfectly formed, perfectly tuned, even on the rare occasions when she would stammer while trying desperately to find the right words for a given situation.

There was indeed a reason her parents had named her Melody. Somehow, even before she was born, they must have known that their little girl would have such an exquisite, captivating, enchanting voice.

She and I would sit and simply chat for hours, pausing only to sip our tea. Melody would typically handle the vast majority of the conversation... not that I would ever mind!!! Melody would talk – about the latest political news, recent independent and foreign films, her young nephew and nieces, the newest developments at work – and I would listen with rapt attention, my ears absorbing every delicate sound.

Everyone who heard her speak even a single one-syllable word instantly fell in love with her voice, and I was certainly no exception. Although I had never (knowingly) met an angel, I knew deep in my soul: She had the voice of an angel, with a body to match.

Her wavy blonde hair fell upon chalk-white shoulders, framing a face which never required make-up to attract the eyes of others, be they male or female. Her own eyes were blue, and they were always sparkling, always hinting at the unfathomable well of energy constantly bubbling within her. Her frame was small, contrasting with her incessant liveliness, but somehow quite fitting of her physical and aural beauty. All that was missing were a glowing golden halo hovering over her head and a pair of powerful snow-white wings sprouting from her upper back as she stepped from the locker room shower when I had first met her.

Now, she is curled up in my lap, her arms wrapped snuggly around my neck. All she wears now is a skimpy thong, made in the same shade of blue as her captivating eyes. Her high, proud breasts press tightly against me, her hardened nipples practically punching holes in my thick flannel shirt. I hold her tightly in the near-total darkness of the living room, enjoying how she writhes constantly against me.

...and how she sounds, for Melody's voice creates yet another pure, pristine, fresh, unadulterated melody. A pair of vibrating eggs rumble inside her, constantly bumping into each other and thus increasing the sensations she is experiencing. Her body continually translates these vibrations into a nonstop squirming motion in my lap, and also into a near-constant prattle that is soft, incoherent, lusty, and melodic. She moans and gasps and whimpers and squeals softly, seductively, her joyful tears falling upon my shoulder, her voice calling to me with the song of the fabled sirens. Yet this siren is very real, clutching the back of my head tightly as her body deposits its love upon my jeans.

I know my sweet angel is trying desperately to wait, to hold off the impending sexual rush until the very last possible moment. Her proverbial finger is in the proverbial dike, preventing the tidal wave from breaking through the bulging barrier, but eventually the pressure of the powerful wave will force her finger from the hole, and she will be crushed, nearly obliterated, by her own pleasure.

Those screams of crushing pleasure are the sounds I most enjoy hearing from her. As the twin eggs vibrate incessantly inside her, I can tell by the force of her hold upon me that the dike is about to burst, that she will scream for what may be the final time in her life.

...for tomorrow, Melody may no longer be able to produce a melody. At 9:00 tomorrow morning, the much-needed surgery is scheduled to begin, and even the best experts in the country are uncertain whether Melody will still have a voice when she awakens following the delicate, intricate procedure.

Every recording device we own or have been able to borrow – old cassette recorders, camcorders, and even our laptops – surround the recliner, capturing what could well be Melody's final melody, a powerful song not even Grizabella could ever hope to match.

We are recording this beautiful, intimate event so her melody need never be just a memory.

I have almost always shunned my own pleasure in deference to hers, but tonight, her pleasure is the ONLY thing that matters, for her pleasure will inherently produce that powerful song which may well be Melody's final melody.