Between my legs, I squeeze you gently, milking each deep melodic whimper. Your wood marks me; I’m yours, thighs indented, your imprint left on my skin. Mashing against my breasts, your resonant dominance overwhelms my senses. My sliding fingers rise and fall smoothly in weighted clarity.
Rocking in rhythm, arms embrace, horsehair hits, crescendo lashes, my thumb grazes your pulsating neck. Holding my breath, my eyes dilate as silky vocal vibrations resound, penetrating as we reach higher, bursts of passion flow forth from you. I exhale and sing.
We cellists like to fuck when we play.
