Divya 8211 Ek Teacher Ki Sex Story 8211 Part 7
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Moanin' free porn video
The night has come to a quiet end. The hostess tastefully turned off the bright chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Only the city of Lights bathes the room now, brushing the thick Persian carpets in soft forgiving shadows.
The little silver box in your jacket pocket feels heavy. Thoughtless, you grab a blonde, keep it hanging on your lips. In the dark, the tiny spark of the match is a blinding blaze. You fill your lungs with delightful death. The blueish volutes draw illusive shapes in the air. The curve of a neck, the sudden arching of her back, strands of hair floating in the night... Evanescent beauty. In the silence, you can hear the shredded tobacco wrinkling into embers.
You smother the smoke in the copper ashtray on the Steinway. The old beast has grown cold. You shuffle on the keys, mimic a few strides. Nothing too fancy, nice caresses, feeling the ivory under the your fingertips. Easy and soundless. You danced them to hell this evening. Boogies and swings, shaking them to the core.
You take a last sip from your crystal glass. Lacrima di morro d'Alba. The wine throws a sword in your gut and twists with a smile. Tastes like a horde of nubians charging in the desert, like emperors dying on cold marble stones. You drink down to the last delicious tear of blood.
The night is over and you should leave. Your tiny flat is too far away to linger long. At this hour, there is nothing the pianist can do for those still awake.
Yet, a shiver springs from your spine. In the air, you feel the soft caress of velvet on bare skin. A dress is brushed off delicate shoulders, you hear it slip to the floor in a whisper. A soft stride of kisses and tongues searching for each other. The crawl of a hand between offered legs.
Music of sex.
The two lovers play in an alcove, skillfully veiled by a bastard architect. You smile in the dark. Clench the sourdine of the Steinway. Your wrists fly over the keyboard. Let's dance again, please. One Two. Eight fingers hit eight keys. Eight hammers hit eight strings through their cover of felt.
A moan, too slowly smothered, pierces the night. Fear and anger whistling between closed nails. Un soupir. One crotchet of rest and an exalted cry rises in perfect rhythm.
Is that so? You play the next few notes and she moans again, faster and softer. Behind the thin curtain, a skilled interpret plays a sensible instrument. A naughty little jam session. The girl growls in anger. She struggles, tries to escape. The musician corrals her into sweet pleasure, blissful submission. Such skilled fingers.
Moanin' is easy, just a series of kinky motifs, playful little bitches. You grind against them again and again. For you, tiny caresses on the keyboard. In the alcove, much more arduous plays. Even blind, you can feel the ferocious scrapping on her chords. Scratching and pinching, tensing and releasing. Fire floods her nerves and her clitoris. The struggle of a maestro.
With each stride, the moans are sharper, more desperate. Insidious passion fills her body. You follow the pace as the Steinway warms up under your fingers. The hammers keep hitting felt over the tensed strings. Like the woman, the beast is in chains, gagged, moanin' when it wants to shout.
Well...
Jazz is not so easy to contain. Fun motifs and little thrilling trills are not enough. Your fingers fly over the ivory. The cute moans become an unstoppable flow. Roars and profanity. "Fuck me, oh...Fuck me !" But still the bliss finds syncopes and interstices to swirl pleasure into the music. The instrument obeys now, craves for more.
You pound the keys, the hammers pound the felt. The Steinway shouts through its gag. A beast howling and gnawing its restrains. Behind the curtains, you can hear the sound of a tongue pushed inside raging, horny lips. The suction of it deep in a gushing little pussy.
In a quaver the music devolves. Just a shouting instrument and endless trills. You play your lick, your impossible trick, faster and faster, tearing your hands apart. All complex games forgotten into a mad crescendo. You follow the runaway stride. Simple, mindless relief leading the girl into of an extravagant orgasm.
A final shout tears the night apart. The room falls back in sudden, heavy silence. You stay still in the dark. Sweating, your hands trembling, you wait. Staring at the alcove. The curtain slides, a little mouse slips by and hops away. Not her ! A fiery shadow follows, brushes against the silk. Here is the maestro.
"I should have known it was you."
"Of course."
The virtuoso.
You play piano, she plays men and women. Wood and steel. You first saw her years ago, in the church of Saint-Eustache. Her petite frame fearlessly facing the giant, the most powerful instrument of the land. A furious battle of mights, her tiny body and titan soul pit against the machine. Sweating and punching and kicking, she tamed the organ. Four keyboards and eight thousand tubes. She rode it in a crazy tune, Bebop from out of this world. Forcing new tricks on the oldest of them all.
You fell in love with her jazz.
Her presence is overwhelming. She holds blazing beauty, a seismic grace. Her body flows like a river of melting stones, her hair an avalanche of dark sand.
Legends say the women of Guadeloupe are forged in earth by fire, quenched in perfection by salt water. She is a masterpiece from the volcanoes of her land. Black eyes on black skin on black soul. A wild witch born from a sulfur pit. A barren moon in the Parisian night.
Her nudity is a dance, a mad trance. Your eyes waltz from her shoulders to the gorge between her breasts. Breathless, you climb her polished skin. Her erect nipples are gems of jet stone. From their sharp edges you fall past her belly into her hairless pubis. You stumble on a powerful Rift, the cleft of her sex. Her fiery red cunt is gushing wet, a fresh cascade runs down to her knees.
“Keep playing, please.” That voice. That growling, rolling spell.
You surrender. Hit a stride. Pianissimo.
“Off with the fucking felt! Make it shout! Make it shout!”
Servile, you release the sourdine and the Steinway is free, untamed, ferocious again. She throws herself into your arms. In a beat, her legs split over yours, her knees set on the piano chair. Aroused, aflame, you do not need easing into the danger. As she rips your shirt off, your fingers start a free falling jazz. The pain of her teeth in your neck only bring you to the next key and the next one. And the next one. Your hands cross on the keyboard. Stylish play. So what if you only wanted her breasts against your skin ?
Her cold hands reaching inside your boxers clash with your fiery fingers, flying over the ivory. Your member is so hard you can't feel it, it's a pike hardened by fire that she pulls and admire. Her clit softly caress its head. Her juice drips along your shaft. Droplets of your sweat shine like diamonds on the keyboard.
Her teeth unclench, leaving her mark in your neck. She looks at you with unbearable need. Her legs split wider, ripping against the hard wood of the chair. She lets herself fall onto you. The hungry lips of her pussy devour your hard cock whole.
She raises herself and falls down again. Her claws scratch your shoulders, draw blood. She gets you deeper and deeper. She hunts, she fucks, she craves. It pains.
Her petite body feels a feather but her passion weights an anvil. Your member is a red hot sword, piercing her womb time and time again. Her juices do not quench the pulsing heat or the pleasure rising in your spine. You find the beat in the music. Crazy and irregular hammering.
Never have you played better.
She puts her forehead against yours. Her eyes wide open mirror your soul like two lakes in a moonless night. And as you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes back into you.
Nothing in her body betrays. No tension as she flows on and off your shoulders. No trace of pleasure on her perfect face. Statuesque, soundless she stays, as she uses your cock to fuck herself like a lowly whore. She dares! Passionate anger rises in your blood. It's a venom that fills your veins with dark desires.
You want the bitch to shout.
You want the witch to cry.
Your body arches, clawing on the keyboard. The piano shrieks under the pain, breaking the jazz. Oh, you poor sod. It was a battle lost. You erupt deep in her little pussy. A torrent of sticky cum pours out. It draws a river of pearls on her ebony skin.
She holds a gasp. Her mouth forms a cute little O. Surprise?
Through that tiny crack in the stone armor, you can see it at last. The ardent struggle for her pleasure, the decadent fight. Her body is a battlefield of nerves melting, her cunt impaled by a fantastic lance, her clit licked by pulsing cum. A silent war underneath. For the first time, she is so close. As the broken note turns into silence, she can feel the terrifying edge.
Anger boils your blood. Primal wrath and desire. You raise her tiny body and together crash on the Steinway. The beast explodes with an impossible roar. An unfathomable note. This is your last stand, a desperate last walk into the breach. On her face you admire the pain when the mad music breaks.
Her body erupts. Her nerves tearing themselves apart in frenzy, she squirts wet and cum on the ivory. The ashes of her soul blossom into orgasm. The vanquished witch vanishes in bliss.
A loud wordless moan escapes from the depths of her throat, dancing with the fading roar.
Jazz.
Beauty in chaos.
Bess
- 30.10.2021
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