How High the Moon - Sex Stories

How High the Moon

... years of performing to pace her sets without the benefit of a watch, and now is the time to up the tempo and bring the set towards its climax. There is no need to announce the Brian Wilson song she has made her own, although she is wise enough not to emulate the vocals. But even as her piano sings over Tomasz’s joyful percussion, she mouths to herself: “Wouldn’t it be nice…” How nice would it be, Lynn wonders, to get married, to have children and live a Suburban life? One just like her daughter’s? A life of domestic settled bliss she fears it is already too late to know herself. On the other hand, would she have willingly exchanged all the sex and associated excitement for well-tended lawns and the local church? How many housewives have enjoyed as much cock as she has? She has heard about suburban orgies, but she can’t imagine that the huge drives and sidewalks are really home to more depravity than what she has already enjoyed. As she guides the trio towards her next number, Nardis , a Miles Davis opus naturally, that allows her to show off the skills earned from hours of practise, the erotic images that fill her mind feature rather less cock and lithe male muscle than a softly feminine intimacy. When was the last time she tasted the thick lips of another woman’s vagina? Not for a long time, but her memories are vivid and so too is her as yet unrealised resolution to taste more. That Brooklyn woman promises so much and not only was there desire hidden in her eyes, but a ...

... strange enthusiasm that Lynn is sure would make a night with her a night to remember. And maybe not just the one night. And wouldn’t a little reliable intimacy be welcome at this time in her life? Music melds mind and body together in a most strange way. And tonight the erotic frisson of Lynn’s speculation is taking her improvisations in a new direction. Her fingers caress the keyboard as she would make love to a naked body. The rhythm she maintains in her left hand expresses the carnality of desire, whilst her right hand guides a melody that hints at those deeper emotions that are most keenly felt in the throes of sexual ecstasy. And then Tomasz takes over the rhythm, pushed forward by the strum of Paul’s double bass. The three of them bring their improvisations together in one of those moments of mutual communication that are as ecstatic as any other kind. Paul’s grin threatens to split his face in two and Tomasz is as rhapsodic as he can ever be. And Lynn knows, although she has only ever seen it in photographs, that her own face is a broad, almost child-like, expression of rapture. One more number and the set will be over. Or not quite. The audience, and in particular the Brooklyn woman of Lynn’s fantasies, won’t let the trio off the stage. This is the last set of the night and there is no excuse that the audience will accept. “Well, thank you! Thank you! ” says Lynn, who is genuinely flattered by the applause. She smiles at the woman in the second row whom she senses must ...