Guitar Heartbeats in Velvet

The rain hammered against the windows of the penthouse, a relentless, insistent rhythm mirroring the insistent throb in my own body. 1985. The year the scent of leather and sweat clung to my skin after those late-night gigs with the band, "Crimson Static." We were just a handful of girls, a melting pot of rock ‘n’ roll rebellion, fueled by cheap beer and the shared desire to shake up the status quo. One night, after a particularly electrifying performance, my husband, Mark, found me backstage, guitar cradled in my lap, the strings humming with residual energy. He’d kissed me then, a slow, deliberate exploration of my lips, and whispered, “You play that thing like a weapon. It excites me just watching you.” The thought, so raw and unexpected, planted a seed. A seed that bloomed into an idea, a promise of a different kind of heat.

Back at our opulent apartment overlooking Central Park, I transformed. Not for anyone else, but for myself. I slipped into a crimson corset bra, the steel wires biting into my skin, and a pair of silky, black lace panties that clung to every curve. My vintage Gibson, a cherry-red beauty named “Ruby,” rested on my lap. The familiar weight of the instrument was grounding, a comforting presence in the growing anticipation that filled the room. Mark arrived, the scent of his expensive cologne a potent invitation. The look on his face when he saw me, bathed in the soft glow of the bedroom lamps, was a primal explosion of desire. There was no preamble, no awkward small talk. He simply moved, a slow, deliberate advance that spoke volumes.

His hands, calloused from years of working construction, found their way to my breasts, pulling me closer with a possessive grip. The corset strained against my skin as he traced the lines of my body with his fingertips, each touch igniting a fire beneath my ribs. The guitar slipped from my lap, clattering onto the plush rug as I arched into his embrace. The world narrowed to the feel of his muscles against mine, the heat radiating from his body, the desperate need to lose myself in this moment.

His kisses were rough, demanding, tasting of whiskey and something wilder, something untamed. He didn't just want to possess me; he wanted to consume me, to obliterate the boundaries between us. His thrusts were powerful, insistent, each one sending shivers of pleasure down my spine. The room filled with the sounds of our frantic breathing, the rustle of silk, and the distant rumble of thunder. It was a symphony of lust, a crescendo of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

As the first wave of heat washed over me, fireworks erupted in my mind – flashes of neon lights, distorted guitars, and the raw energy of the stage. It felt as though every memory, every sensation, was amplified, intensified, merging into a single, overwhelming experience. My body responded instinctively, muscles contracting, breathing accelerating, until I could no longer hold back. The climax arrived in a torrent of sensation, a volcanic eruption of pleasure that left me gasping for air.

Mark, fueled by the release, continued his assault, his movements growing even more frantic, more desperate. He gripped my hips, pulling me deeper into his embrace, his hands exploring every inch of my body. I moaned, a primal sound of pure ecstasy, lost in the depths of the moment. His arousal was palpable, radiating outwards, a wave of heat that threatened to overwhelm me.

As the intensity subsided, he softened, his touch becoming gentler, more intimate. He kissed my chest, tracing the contours of my breasts, and then moved to my neck, his tongue tracing the delicate curve of my collarbone. The lingering heat still throbbed within me, a delicious reminder of the pleasure we had shared.

He shifted position, rolling onto his back, his eyes locked on mine. He noticed the sweat glistening on my skin, the way my body arched slightly, still trembling from the release. He reached out, his fingers brushing against my wetness, a silent acknowledgment of my arousal. I leaned into his touch, allowing myself to sink into the depths of his embrace, the scent of his skin mingling with the lingering aroma of my own.

The rain continued its relentless drumming, a steady soundtrack to our shared intimacy. We whispered words of adoration, each syllable a testament to our desire. He ran his hand down my spine, feeling the ridges of my muscles, finding new points of pleasure with every stroke. The world faded away, leaving only the two of us, lost in the intoxicating embrace of our bodies.

As the initial wave of passion waned, we began to explore each other with a renewed sense of tenderness. He gently massaged my back, working out the knots in my muscles, while I responded with soft sighs and murmurs of pleasure. The air crackled with unspoken desires, a silent conversation between our bodies.

He pulled me closer, wrapping his arms around my waist, his head resting on my shoulder. I leaned into his warmth, feeling the tension drain from my muscles, the exhaustion melting away. The rhythmic beat of his heart echoed in my ears, a comforting reminder of his presence.

“That was incredible,” he whispered, his breath warm against my ear. “You really know how to make a girl feel alive.”

“You too,” I replied, my voice husky with pleasure. “You made me feel like a goddess.”

We remained like that for a long time, lost in our own private world, the rain a distant murmur outside the window. The clock on the nightstand ticked relentlessly, marking the passage of time, but we were oblivious to its passage. In that moment, there was only us, our bodies intertwined, our souls intertwined, lost in the exquisite pleasure of our lovemaking.

Suddenly, the insistent beep of the alarm clock shattered the spell. 4:35 AM. The realization of the passing hours struck me with a jolt, pulling me back to reality. The memory of the previous night, the heat, the passion, the connection, threatened to fade away as I struggled to focus.

I looked across the room, expecting to find Mark still asleep, but he was already stirring, stretching languidly in the dim light. He sat up, his eyes meeting mine, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

“Can’t sleep either?” he asked, his voice still thick with sleep.

“Apparently not,” I responded, a small smile tugging at my lips. “I thought you were so sexy when you played your guitar on stage. But when you played it wearing your bra and panties, my gosh! Now, everytime I see you play I’ll think of this night.”

He caressed my hair then kissed my forehead. Prompting me to rest my head against his chest, he gently kissed my head again and stroked me.

We pillow talked a little longer, nuzzling and kissing between words. I brushed his back with my fingertips while kissing his chest and collar-bone. After gliding down my cheek, the back of his fingers slid along my back. What started out as gentle and sweet, started to get passionate. One thing lead to another, and we got ready to have sex again.

I rolled on my back, getting a good look at his sexy body as his hardness entered my wetness again. My hands explored his back and he shuddered slightly as he thrust. I caressed him as we shared beautiful, erotic kisses.

It didn’t take long for me to climax again. He thrust a little harder as I clutched him while tilting my head back in abandon. My husband gently felt my breast and kissed my chin area while I moaned softly in orgasmic bliss.

He was still fondling my breast as he came close to the edge. Then he jerked inside me, grunting loudly. Once our orgasms faded, my husband kissed my neck then rested his head on my shoulder, as exhausted and sweaty as I was.

It was good that we made love again. We fell back to sleep immediately!

The rain continued to fall, washing away the remnants of the night, leaving behind only the lingering scent of desire and the sweet memory of our shared pleasure. As I drifted back to sleep, I knew that the thought of Mark, his touch, his voice, his heat, would remain etched in my mind, a constant reminder of the electrifying connection we had forged. The crimson corset, the silk panties, the vintage guitar – they were all symbols of that unforgettable night, a night that had redefined my understanding of pleasure and desire. And as I drifted off to sleep, I couldn’t help but smile, knowing that the seed had been sown, and the harvest would be bountiful indeed.

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