The first time it happened, it was a mistake. I knew he had a live-in girlfriend already, I really should not have muddled with him. But he was so charming, a jazz pianist too — precisely what I had dreamt of becoming, but what I never had the guts to do in public. I wrote and practised my riffs at home like mad; some were pretty good, I felt, but I just never emerged as a jazz musician. Instead, I stayed in my comfort zone of playing accompaniment to women’s choirs and occasionally, singers for auditions.
His girlfriend was trying out for small roles at musicals and a few odd gigs in the neighborhood bars with live music. He preferred someone else coaching and playing for her, so a mutual friend gave him my contact number.
Gloria, his girlfriend, had a beautiful voice and a sweet, angelic complexion over a set of tempting curves; but she did not sing with her soul, she was merely a well-trained vocal pipe. Perhaps that was another reason why he did not consent accompanying her himself. But it was a steady source of income for me, so I was happy to follow her on her excursions.
Then, one night, to celebrate her landing on a minor role at a theatre for a month, he bought champagne and asked me over to drink. When dawn crept in through the curtains, he carried her drunken body into their bedroom, closed the door quietly, came back out to the living room, and offered me some weed. Usually, I don’t enjoy marijuana, but him offering it was completely different: to be puffing in and out from the same pipe and the same grass felt so intimate, I cherished it.
Before realizing what had happened, his strong fingers began caressing my body. His hands meandered over my breasts, as if each inch of my skin was a separate note on an extended keyboard that he could master and make sing. His finger tips were agile and sensitive, they glided over my nipples assuredly, flicking them, making me boil over with wanting him.
I sucked him relentlessly. His steely hardness thrust at my throat as he grunted, his cock engorging even more with each movement; he grabbed the hair at the back of my head, pushing me deeper onto him. “Fuck, you’re good,” he repeated over and over.
Knowing that Gloria was only two doors down the hallway added to the forbidden excitement; it was so wrong, but felt so good. When he slid on a neon green condom and I saw him throbbing dangerously before he entered my dripping pussy, I knew he would not last long. I wished he could fuck me for hours: it was exquisite clamping him inside me. He filled me up so fully it was almost painful; almost, but not. His wide girth pounded into me. He took me ferociously, and I relished being used like a whore that I was, letting him have his way with me, without reserve.
He came in an explosive shudder, gripping my ass, possibly bruising me in the process, but I did not care; he set me on fire, and I responded with fervor.
I half-expected him to shun me afterwards, but he did not. He was surprisingly gentle and cuddly, inspecting my body to see if he had marked me in any way. He kissed me softly, and kept me in his arms on his sofa for a long time. I dozed off briefly; when I awoke, he was asleep. I dressed, took my things and showed myself out.
Amazingly, he called me up to meet again. So, there was a second time, a third time, and more. I was so sure that the novelty of having me would wear off after some time, but no, he kept asking for me.
I am still Gloria’s accompanist; he is still fucking me.
There is no moral to the story. I don’t know where this leads, and I’m not sure I want to know. The more it goes on, the more attached I feel towards him. One day he may break my heart, but right now I think I am content. Contentment may not sound like much at first, but to feel peace with just the knowledge of someone wanting me, whether he is rightfully mine or not, brings a satisfaction like no other.
Enough retrospection already. I am wearing my new pink lingerie set, and getting ready to meet him. We’re squeezing in an afternoon together before my rehearsal with Gloria at six.