On the wings of music

Her fingers skim the keys again. The piano still feels the same under her hands, the cool ivory, the weight of memory. Back then she was barely old enough to know why her breath caught every time the teacher leaned over her shoulder, the heat of his cologne curling around her. Practice was supposed to be scales and arpeggios. Instead her thighs pressed tight on the bench, her young cunt aching and wet by the time the lesson ended. Now she sits alone. Blonde hair loose down her back, legs spread wide on the stool, skirt bunched at her hips. One hand keeps a slow chord sounding while the other slides between her bare thighs. She circles her clit with practiced ease, eyes half-closed, breath quickening. The music falters when she sinks two fingers inside, a wet sound mixing with the soft resonance of the last note. She works herself faster, hips rolling, chasing the same forbidden heat she felt when she was younger. The fantasy of that older man never faded; it only sharpened. She comes with a soft moan, legs trembling, the piano still humming under her free hand.