The Absence of Movement.

…and the rocking of my fingers upon the strings is like the rocking of her hips, the curve and the width of flesh tucked and drawn, and moving.

Always moving.

The ragged breath of notes will never fill me, though I might taste the salt of her upon my tongue. She hovers beneath my will, a lusty vibrato moaning against my chin, daring me to break her.

But she is moving.

Always moving.

Until I break upon her.

And then there is no movement at all…

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