Tonight's concert was one of our better performances, I think. Most importantly, I didn't totally screw-up my solos. French horn is a notoriously difficult instrument; since I was slacking off the past few weeks not practicing every day, my approach to the concert was walking a tightrope without a net. There were a couple of bobbles, but thankfully nobody had to pick my carcass up off the stage floor.
This concert it was necessary to board the dog so Cyan could attend. He's been needy of late and we didn't trust him around the house during our three-hour absence. Taking advantage of the overnight break, we booked a room at a nice hotel nearby for
us
time. Maybe some playtime, too.
Although she's
seriously
up there in years, Cyan has managed to keep her slender Scandinavian physique, breathtaking curves and all. Her long blonde tresses have turned platinum. She turns heads.
Cyan's couture for the evening is a figure-flattering black leatherette miniskirt and matching tapered short jacket with asymmetrical zipper over a black tee. For the concert she also wore black leggings with calf-high boots. It's a dynamite look. We were gearing-up for a sexy night out.
After checking-in to the hotel we drop our luggage off in the room. Our earlier agreement about her outfit was that she would lose the leggings and T-shirt at the hotel and roll the miniskirt waistband to raise the hemline a totally immodest four inches.
In the elevator on the way down to the bar, I reach under the vestigial skirt to fondle her naked ass, then reach up to unzip the jacket to just below her breasts, spreading the lapels. Her breasts are small, so there's no danger of falling out. It's just a nice and very sexy look.
"Haven't seen you guys in a while," Jim, the usual bartender, muses.
"Spent most of the summer up at our cabin," I answer.
"Oh. Having fun?"
"Yeah. You know about her boyfriends, right?"
"You've mentioned them."
"Added one this year. Nice guy."
"There's a story, I guess."
