and every time he plays with her body it’s a new kind of tune, like something climbing up out of the depths, ancient and old but utterly new and wonderful. he feels her skin across his own like some harmony that reverberates back and forth through time and shakes the cobwebs off his eyes. and when he reveals her pussy the scent of her fills him up, hardens him and urges him, demands of him to inspect this fruit even closer, to ripen it, to open it, to taste it, to quell his hunger and sate her own. and when she takes his prick and massages it he feels an excitement that is at once illicit and natural, as if they were always meant to be like this, hand and mouth on cock, hand and mouth on cunt, eternally. and the chords strike even harder, sharper when she eases his dick inside her, where the sound gets lost in her throat but just escapes and the music plays havoc with him as he becomes lost to their rhythm. until he cums or she cums or they cum, it doesn’t matter, something gets lost in the translation, some thing gets translated between them, some satisfaction that is primal and comforting, staying within her, her staying with him, their bodies still close, breathing in one another. and it isn’t as if he can ever have enough of her, the ghost echoes of desire shoot through him in the night, in his sleep when he believed he already had his fill, finds himself wanting again, wanting to play again a tune that starts from within him and all too soon ends within her.