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Kalodin's Violin

Come over here with me, together we'll watch this vignette from Mrs. M.'s life. Don't be concerned if we don't want to be seen, well then she can't see us. After all this is imagination; right? I promise you won't be sorry. Mrs. M's life is going to become very, what shall I say, stimulated?

Okay, now there she is. Certainly lovely and excellent, don't you think? Good genes. Mrs. M's body is the body of a woman in the prime of her matronly years. She is probably 10 pounds heavier than when she was a high school senior; just enough to round out the curve of her inviting ass and tits. But Mrs. M's are not the massive udders of the grotesque things in porno pix. Outwardly an attractive picture of today's woman, she enjoys visiting friends. She exercises, although without fierce commitment, being most athletic in bed. She attends ladies group luncheons and hosts a couple of parties a year for Mr. M's office colleagues and others for family, neighborhood and club friends. Oh yes, and church too; does her Sunday services and a bit of volunteering for this and that.

But... Do you know what "but" means? It means forget all that I just told you. Now I am going to tell you about what Mrs. M is inwardly, privately, intimately. Mrs. M has enhanced sex drive. It's plain what you're thinking, that she certainly doesn't look like a hottie. How does a woman who loves her sex look? Oh no my friend, you cannot tell how deep the river runs by gazing at the surface.

Mrs. M and her husband have no children so they are free to give each other their full attention at home. He does yeoman service selflessly seeking to keep her gratified; recognizing that it is not just all about his needs. Mind you Mrs. M is not an out of control nymphomaniac. But she urgently needs regular and thorough gratification which she means to have. And she is not above having her bits and pieces attended in non-penile ways. She welcomes hands, her own or others, fingers (again no discrimination), lips, tongues, and phallic surrogates with or without a partner as her needs arise. There's more, the photo sessions and all that; we'll come back to that another time.

Let's go to the next clip in our imaginary film library. Back a few days, ok here we are. That is the somewhat mysterious older couple that just leased the residence next door that has been vacant for a couple of months. Now pan around to the back, down the path to the secluded pergola. That's the man (husband?) of the couple. Yes, the M's live in a very nice neighborhood; large lots, deep setbacks, plenty of privacy. It is the sort of neighborhood one would expect to find doctors, attorneys and successful business men.

It is difficult to judge the new neighbor's age; strong features, large hands, thick black hair streaked with grey; prominent nose, wrinkles and intriguing but intimidating eyes. Something earthy about him, he is attractive to women although he would not be called handsome; much closer to the Charles Bronson end of the scale than, let's say, the Tab Hunter end. Arrived in a big black limo; thank you very much. So what, maybe he's in his sixties; seventies?

What is that he has now? Let's get closer. Ok I can see it now. It looks like a violin. Something a bit off about it; definitely a stringed instrument and there's a bow as well. But what do I know from anything about violins? He's adjusting the strings; I believe he's going to play. Kalodin (of course that's who it is) begins and the notes cascade off the strings. A slight breeze catches them and the sound passes through Mrs. M's open window. She is at her desk engaged in the most mundane of tasks, drawing up a grocery list. By habit her free hand is tucked between her thighs. It is mid-morning but she is still in her short pajamas.

This is not ordinary music. It is at once melodic and rhythmic but with visceral and sensual undertones. Music, as you would imagine, is not heard by everyone in the same way; so in a sense every piece of music is personal. Now what do you feel? Are you having a sensual reaction? No? That's because this music is special in a way only for certain women. These women, whether they know it or not, carry a DNA fragment that traces back for many, many generations. Mrs. M is one of those women.

Now that's interesting; do you see how the notes are gathering around her? The music has attracted her attention. Look, a note and another, and yet another caress her cheeks. What is she doing? Ah, okay; going to the French doors. The music is fetching her. Some of the notes have formed a bar sash that has slipped around her waist. Say, some of those naughty notes have made a chord and slipped over her bottom playing on her robust cheeks. She feels no impulse to push them away.

Mrs. M steps onto the balcony. Notes, visible to us voyeurs of the imagination, have encircled her and caress her. She seats herself on a chaise and reclines, knees drawn up and apart. Notes swirl around her gently touching and fondling her flushed cheeks; a chord lingers at her lips and they part. Her tongue licks out. Her behavior looks very much like she is hungrily French kissing an invisible lover. She grips the arms of the chaise.

Let's get closer. Some of the notes have lifted her teddy and are fondling both breasts and her nipples have grown quite erect. Each passing note causes warmth to wash down into her groin making her squirm. Her bowels feel watery and loose. Saliva rises in her mouth. Beads of perspiration form on her upper lip and beneath her breasts. Look at those nipples, as erect and stiff as a palace sentry. She move her hand to fondle one. She mutters a throaty "Ahhh" as her nipple radiates pleasure.

The music continues to seduce her relentlessly. Some of the notes have caressed and kissed her toes and continued up her legs, stroking the inside of her thighs. But they pass over her anxious pussy although she thrusts her crotch upward in an explicit but momentarily futile invitation. Instead the notes apply themselves to her belly. The soft flesh palpitates as though invisible hands and lips were fondling and kissing her tummy.

Mrs. M has never had such an eerie and intense experience. A small part of her thinks she should be alarmed but the pleasure overwhelms any fear. She has thrown her legs wide now. She makes sounds of carnal urgency in her throat, grunts and sighs and breathy whispers, "kiss me, kiss me, kiss me." We know where she wants those melodic kisses don't we?

Her pussy has not yet felt the notes directly. But it has been fully aroused by the cascade of pleasure coming from other parts of her body. Her outer labia are swollen and drawn back; her inner labial flutes protrude. The little man in the boat stands up twitching with anticipation. Mrs. M's enflamed sex secretes copious coital fluids. The juice leaks down her perineum and over her anus. A musky odor mingles with the music enveloping her.

The music changes; the notes take on a driving, aggressive intensity. Mrs. M is startled almost upright as the first of these warm thick notes plunges up the commodious leg of her short pajama pants. Then another and another sweep up the flesh of her inner thighs; now joined by others they gather in her crotch. She feels the warmth and pressure as though an unseen hand has gently but firmly begun to massage her pussy. A tongue-like feeling flicks her enflamed clit. There, another flick and again. Mrs. M thrusts her broad hips up in eager response and quite suddenly gasps as she is shot through with a quick soft orgasm.

But it is only the overture. Mrs. M's petit four orgasm is a morsel. A carnal banquet follows. The music draws aside the loose fitting fabric of one leg and we marvel at the wanton display of her engorged and sodden grotto; pubic hair clotted with viscous quim. The music engages her in a swirling slurping roundel of cunnilingus.

Is it me or has it warmed up in here? Oh, she's writhing and squirming about now; as though trying to escape the torturous pleasure building in her pussy but then also thrusting up to meet her assailant. Now the music takes up a new passage that causes Mrs. M to cry out. It is as though tongues have simultaneously enfolded both her nipples to squeeze and suck them. Other notes settle like lips between her thighs to suck her clitoris. But the massage of her vulva does not abate. And there is music fondling and massaging her sphincter. This causes her to jerk upward which heightens even more the agonizing pleasure filling her groin.

In an al forte passage, ta dum ta Dum TA DUM, she cums three times each more intense than the latter. She is bathed in sweat now and has slipped down in the chaise and her heels are high above her head with her thighs spread wide. Now pianissimo; the music subsides and attenuates its assault on her senses. But surcease is false. The music takes a diving, twisting fury that pours through Mrs. M ascending, ascending, and yet ascending to a crescendo. Orgasm slams through Mrs. M's sex. It suffuses her. Is it possible that only in the imagination even her ovaries and uterus are engorged with pleasure? Her vagina remains un-penetrated but that has not diminished the ecstasy of the magnificent paroxysm that rocked Mrs. M to her soul. Mercifully the music diminishes to a light air. Mrs. M is gasping and shaken.

Look, I just have to get junior out and get the five sisters to tend to him. If you want to, go ahead too. That vignette has left me reeling. But I'll be darned; it doesn't look like this is finished. The music has rather remarkably led Mrs. M to turn over. Now she's on her knees and down come the pajama bottoms. She's getting on her elbows and her bum is elevated knees apart. Is that a vision of true bliss? Mrs. M's hot pussy yawns open between her thighs. She leaks pussy juice; a dollop plops out when her vagina contracts from another frisson. The atmosphere around the chaise is suffused with the smell of her rut.

Lean closer, she's mumbling something. Did you catch it, what she's saying is, "Fuck me, fuck me, please music fuck me!" And the music obliges. This passage cannot be adequately described. Think of Ravel's Bolero meets Gypsy Rose bump and grind in a night at the bordello. It is music to fuck and be fucked by.

Bars of notes race from the strings of Kalodin's obscene instrument and gather in a drumming cloud overshadowing the eager form before them. They descend in a warm flow like honey drooling down over her bum. The outliers fondle and caress her plump white cheeks while a rhythmic phalanx settles upon her wet crevasse. No cock ever came with a glans that felt like the clot of pulsing notes that now thrust as a unitary cock-but-not-a-cock into the grip of that lady's hungry vagina. I don't know how to spell it but Mrs. M says something like, "Gaaaaaaahhh, uk!" as the music fills her pussy.

Push and pull, push and pull. Bar clefs filled with thick fingers of notes slip under Mrs. M and gently settle in to massage around the base of her now super sensitive clit. That little boatman twitches and pulses, clearly enjoying the attention made all the more titillating but the eerie notion of a pussy being thoroughly humped by the music of Kalodin's strange not-a-violin.

At her nipples outriders of notes caress and gently nip and squeeze. The music is not limited to two hands or one mouth and that is manifest as it massages Mrs. M's tummy, and continues to caress her face and touch her lips; simultaneously it seems to be pulling her hips back to meet the pulsing cock tune. Not forgotten is that rear orifice still wet with coital discharge. Mrs. M twitches, groans and throws herself back on the magical cock humming inside her and a bar of notes rolls into a serviceable digit that fondles her asshole until it puckers and yields then plunges itself up her.

The music is gathering in intensity and the rhythm quickens. Mrs. M can feel another orgasm growing like a bubble. Although the fucking she is taking has her focused thoroughly on her epicenter a stray thought slips into her consciousness. "My god, I am going to need a pessary to keep everything in place after this." It makes her momentarily giddy but that is quickly swept away in the increasing proximity of an orgasm that is bearing down like a runaway locomotive. The music has quickened its rhythm. Faster and faster and harder the music ruts upon Mrs. M until a thrust that bounces her head against the back of the chaise. Too much, too much, oh God, oh God this has got to stop. No, don't, ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh! OH! OH!

Well, you get the idea. Mrs. M collapses onto the chaise. Diminishing orgasms pulse through her like a flat stone skipping across the waves. She jerks and twitches and squeezes her thighs tightly until finally the tsunami that has inundated her senses subsides.

In the pergola the old woman continues to suck on her husband's cock, as she has done so many times before, until he spurts the last flood of his orgasm into her throat. As his orgasm subsides he saws the bow a final time to draw out the final note of the nameless and timeless ancient music of his people. The old woman, on her knees, shudders with her own orgasm, reluctantly drawing her fingers out of her own damp pussy in order to use both hands to hold his now flaccid penis while she slurps it clean and wipes it with the tail of her shawl.

"There is a woman very near who carries our blood," the old man says.

When M arrives home about two hours later he finds Mrs. M sleeping on the chaise with her pajama panties on the floor nearby. They are obviously damp and he readily recognizes the redolent odor of vigorous sex. Her naked bum faces him. He can see drying quim where it had run down her thighs.

He squats beside her and touches her cheek. "Hey Sleeping Beauty," he says quietly. "Are you okay?"

Mrs. M slowly opens her eyes. She smiles at M. "Hello darling. Do you want to hear about the absolutely weird and fabulous wet dream I had?" M allows that he does. He grows hard erect as she describes her vivid dream. She dwells on each salacious detail. The raw intensity of her story sets a thick stew of lust bubbling in her man. When he pulls his erection out of his pants and begins to stroke it she puts her hand on his. "Here," Mrs. M says, "Let me do that for you." And he does.

End

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