My Pianist

I sit in the third row, the theatre dark, velvet cushion soft against the skin peeping through the open back of my dress. The thin silk cascades around my neck, down my shoulders, over my heaving breasts, and flows to the floor. It swishes with each privately gasped breath. The man on stage steals the air from my lungs, teasing it out with each crescendo, bottling it with each staccato clack of the piano's keys, robbing me of my sanity in measured time.

The music glides through the room, echoing all around the audience, enveloping every person, and suffocating me. Asphyxiation so sweet and tender!

My lover's long fingers dance across an ivory and black tile floor, treading softly, pounding lightly, expertly controlling the notes aloft on the breeze; his little minions pulling at me, pricking my skin, pinching, poking, demanding I scream! But I have no voice, no breath to draw with which to scream.

Eyes transfixed upon his hands, my vision tunnels, sharp clarity ringing through my brain. His passion plays up to the ceiling, crashing into everything, crests, then plummets down from above. Silence.

The apex of the piece peaks. The flood of emotion halts. He holds his listeners captive; they await his permission to breathe, I await the release of his hold over me.

Gently, as a river trickles from a stream, his fingers slide across the piano keys, releasing the audience and releasing me. The climax of the music brought forth my own and the fierce wetness flows between my legs as the air returns to my chest.

His soft ending, reminiscent of a hand caressing down my cheek after a night of heady romance, brings the audience to their feet. A standing ovation as only such art deserves.

He stands and turns, gifted hands clasped to his thighs, and bows. As he bends, our eyes meet, and I know our evening has only just begun.

I scream the loudest of his admirers, for only I know the true depth of the meaning behind the title: Romantic Prelude.