Another great picture full of inspiration and possibilities
And sorry for posting late, I hope you find time to read.
Word Limit: 170-190
Key Words: compose, propose
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“So, are you going to fuck me?”
“No; and get off my piano.”
She sat up and pouted, spreading her legs to show me she was
ready.
“Why not?”
“Because” I pressed her knees together, “I’m not supposed
to.”
“Says who?”
"I don’t know, God, my wife, your husband, my attorney, especially
my attorney."
She leaned forward, spreading her thighs wide again.
“I want you to compose a masterpiece and play me like you
play the keys.”
“Cliché much?” I asked.
Her heels fell to the keyboard, playing a discordant chord
at both ends of the keyboard.
“How about a taste then?”
“I’ve had that meal before,” I sneered, “it always leaves a
bitter taste in my mouth.”
She leaned back, placing her hands inside the instrument,
fouling the strings, spreading wide, all subtlety gone.
“Don’t you want me?”
“That is entirely irrelevant.”
“Then I propose a compromise,” she whispered, slithering to
the floor, placing her mouth on my zipper. She rubbed her chin on my hard cock and smiled
up at me.
I smiled down, stroked her cheek, stood up, and walked away.
“Thanks for getting off my piano!” (190)
Empty, abandoned, deserted, forsaken, a perfectly preserved
specimen of the over-indulgent party leadership.
The floorboards squeak and moan as I walk the grand hallway and
into the parlor. Out the windows I see loss, forgotten hope, wasted time and energy. It saddens me.
I examine the floor, and, finding no danger, remove my boots,
socks, jeans, t-shirt, panties, and bra.
The stale air of the house envelops me, mortifies, me,
arouses me.
I wonder what decadent deeds happened in these halls,
trysts, affairs, rapes, rituals, mundane moments, murders, and mock trials,
sincere longing, orgies, and orgasms.
Walking naked among the ruins, I see the piano, its keyboard
intact. I open the top and inspect the strings, most gone, some strung, all out
of tune. I shiver at the find and wonder
what rapture was composed on the dead and missing strings.
I tap out the notes to an old song, once played by the lover
who taught me to love the abandoned life. I think of the day he proposed, and
the day he left.
My fingers find their lonely home and replay an old familiar
tune of their own. (190)
