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This hypnosis/Mind-control story is not to be read by persons under
the age of 18 years.  If you enjoy it please let me know. - Mesmer
				"Hypno- Saxophones" (c) by Mesmer
Chapter I
				
                               *
He was a self-made man, feeling his own construction in the many
moments of his aloneness, in his own company, or alone in a crowded
room. Carrying the weight of that loneliness did not show through to
those who did not know him personally. They only saw the outer,
beneath which the inner man resided, strong and silent in his own pain
of life's hurts and anguish. His hopes, and, sometimes, seemingly
unattainable dreams always there, inside, always searching, quietly
optimistic for a future without the heavy weight of known times past.
Of uncertain times ahead, he was simply uncaring, not anxious, knowing
whatever was to happen would happen, when, where, and how it wanted
to. Why, just wasn't important anymore. They were all simply not worth
knowing, or even trying to know or anticipate, and were accepted
without malice, because that's just the way it was and is, and will
most probably be again. There was only himself in his life to help
carry the burden, ease the sometimes heavy load, himself and one other
... his sax ... his friend ... his lover. None had compared to her ...
yet.

			       **
				The velvet darkness was there, in
front of him, behind him, above and all around him. Then the light
came, but only one, thin and narrow, tubular in tapering origin,
tunnelling through the pitch-black to find a floodlit home at his feet
as he walked forward, then to stop, to gaze again into the shadows
from within the beam, to see, yet knowing nothing would be
distinguished of those who were there, waiting, hoping, sensing,
wondering if they had come to the right place, at the right time. He
knew they had ... and maybe this time, so had she, somewhere, out
there ... in the invisible horizon.

     The subdued lighting of the room, along with the one single
spotlight shining onto the stage gave the impression of a surreal
figure standing there, alone once again in a crowded room with his
moment of now. A solitaire in the centre of the stage he stood, a
tall, athletic man, clothes all of deep, blue colouring. Hanging from
a thin brown strap around his neck, held lovingly within his hands and
fingers like a woman caressed rested a shining gold tenor saxophone.

     The slow-burning energy of the crowd that watched him simmered
barely noticeable throughout his nervous system. The faces of the men
and women of all ages he could not see in the darkness, yet he knew
they were there; the heat and the press of their bodies sitting
closely together, waiting for the beginning to just happen; their
voices heard, whispered, high in quiet anticipation; the shushing of
stocking-clad legs and trousered thighs, crossing and uncrossing.
Perfumed skin, alluring and beckoning, tainted the air he breathed
slowly in through his nostrils.

     His eyelids closed gently down. With one single finger he traced
the sensual, curving shape and unique form of her, from shapely
curving bottom to deep warm mouth, touching, stroking, awakening. The
shining gold-plate gleamed and sparkled, smooth in texture, her skin;
perfect, waiting to be kindled and ignited from without. He lifted her
to rest, her touch familiar and warm against his lower belly and
groin, sliding his lips sensually over the warm reed and feeling a
familiar sensation in his loins. But he knew she was only resting,
waiting for his touch to light her fire, to begin her slow burn, but
she was not sleeping, only waiting impatiently for his strong and
sensitive touch to bring her deep channel to life. Then her moans and
screams would be heard, along with her wails and sadness through
happier times ahead in the coming few hours, until finally she would
beg ... but first needs were to be gentle, to tempt her, to arouse
them; the small, barely inaudible gasps of wondrous surprise as his
exploration of her form and sensual depth commenced and then climaxed,
slowly, intimately.

     Somewhere out there, sitting leisurely amongst them in faceless
darkness maybe this time she sat, yet he saw her not, knew her not,
but only not as yet. Maybe she was there, as maybe she was always
there, envious of the other whom he held between gentle, knowing
fingers of feather and firmness; and maybe she would see, and hear,
and feel, and then maybe she would come to him; different of form and
features each time, yet always the same, but still, maybe she would
come this time to be held and caressed as will be the other.

     A gentle tensing of his fingers began the sound softly to the
slow, repetitious, gently- thrusting rhythm of the almost-silent
Mississippi blues coming out of the darkness from the invisible band
to his left and right, and behind where he stood almost unmoving. Her
voice moved leisurely from the depths within and beneath the keys
beneath his fingers, to emerge as her silken and sultry voice; notes
of music from her golden warm and sensuous deep throat, floating
through her strong, warm tunnel of accord. Feather-touch caresses of
his fingertips touched warming, gold extremities; moistened the skins
of them, the watchers, unknowingly, yet feelingly, even now, at the
very beginning of her arrival within their sensations. Her single-note
voice birthed slow-wailing Mississippi melodies, sending them forth,
homing to ears that willed and wanted to listen, to hear, kissing them
softly, provocatively, like tiny tongues of heated affection, touching
their nerve-endings, sliding deeply, yet noticed into their intimate
and very private places.

     Carefully her rich, golden velvet voice touched the curves and
shapes and forms of all, kissing their outlines sensually,
tantalisingly. Flirting and promiscuous he was being with her now,
tempting her extremities, moistening her mouth, her golden cave
becoming humid, warming to his elegant embrace and touching.

     The warming form of her bottom he cradled, his mind with hers
beneath his gentle coaxing fingers beheld in both, she who maybe had
now come again, to listen and to hear, and to feel for the very first
time, naked beneath the outer, her nipples stiffening to his unseeing
eyes of simmering fire at dusk. Her centre, pooling its energies in
readiness for the knowing, the embracing deep red blush, cascading
over her smooth warm skin, gathering in the hidden depth of her navel,
hurrying urgently to the lush plumage between her thighs. And so maybe
this time, the meeting, together again, for the very first time.

     They who watched and listened felt her sounding touch against
their flesh, warming and exciting, promising so much more in the
fullness of her time with them, arousing that which had lain dormant
before their arrival amongst her sensual beauty. They opened to her
now and were keen. All were waiting, and they were ready. His senses
told him so, born of her many lessons on the effect she had on the
minds and bodies of all who came. Without trying he heard her softly
moan, ready and alluring, charming him towards she who maybe was
there, even more intimately; mouth moistening, lips and thighs parted,
beckoning him on. The slow-writhing quiet and deadly violence wound
tightly in his loins, warmed under his skin.

     He stroked her smouldering fire deliberately to a slow burn,
knowing and sensing the tension was real now. They strained forward
unseen in the seats, narrowing their eyes, tensing their muscles. The
glistening of his brow cooled instantly in the perfumed air of her
presence, knowing, maybe this time she was there, yet unaware of her
presence, even if she was, in his beginning moment of now, with her.
He felt them all begin their slow burn, felt them coming closer to
him, and closer to her and what she had to say to them, had to give to
them to justify her unique and exquisitely sensual and surreal
existence. He felt their unspoken lust and was firm with her now. On
purpose, in a slowness that agonised all eyes, ears and bodies he
lengthened her moans, then paused on spontaneous impulse, longer than
last time. They waited with him. He felt their presence, and maybe
hers, suspended, anticipating in silent minds the next note, the next
sound, the next part of the puzzle, the next warming, physical
sensation.

     As always, her ache for him, and him alone, he could feel,
becoming the wild animal, the polished jewel-shaft that trembled and
grew at his feather-touch, crying softly in its pulsing impatience to
live its life in the fullness of the moment of now. Then he knew the
rage and the violence, the blood-lust that pawed her warm, golden
keys. With strong wet lips and mouth, tongue duelling with hers,
dancing sensuously, darting and diving; soft and firm strokes of his
fingertips, slow then fast, then agonisingly slow again, and then fast
again, to cause her to cry and wail, reducing hardened hearts to tears
of joy and ecstasy he began to squeeze, attacking hungrily, harder and
faster, faster and harder. Their bodies swayed, thighs and buttocks
gently thrusting, squeezing unconsciously against the brushed velvet
of the seats beneath them.

     And as always he felt her longing for him escalating and swelling
now, the surges throbbing and expanding. Hot air, thick and consuming
suddenly became asphyxiating. He knew it, could feel the warmth and
nearness of their bodies, maybe of her body, eager and excited,
straining for release. He deepened her vibrato, lengthened her wail,
made real her tears of frustration and wanting him, set loose the
arousing thrusting rhythm. It washed through them, around them, inside
of them, erupting and swelling.

     Their enraptured, pre-orgasmic elation of suspense, fluttered on
the edge, close, so very close. Their concealed hysteria, and maybe
hers. Moments arrested in unconscious awareness as he caressed and
explored with fury all and within with his hands, again and again,
arousing and igniting the flames of all. Ambushed in the adrenalin
high, rock-hard, he knew he could play forever, could fondle her
forevermore.
     Then, at long last, the absolute eruption, the explosion, the
savage, primitive, high- pitched wail of her supernova as she came
with a vengeance, the electrifying seizure of tone and fierceness at
her flaming peak, until finally, after several unending moments in
time and absolute silence except for her, he was spent. He lowered his
sax with shaking hands, heart thumping wildly against his ribs, pulse
pounding inside his temples, breath rushing, replaced by the cool,
quickly, often. It was over.

     Gazing downwards at her, he knew he'd felt again the
highly-polished warm gold of the keys as he would the soft, naked
flesh of his maybe woman. Maybe she was there, this time. Maybe she'd
heard, and felt, as they all had, as he had. He had wielded his
fingers like the stinging trail of a whip, scoring her flesh and each
and every non-chosen note into a frenzied sonata of passionate and
sensual wailing blues. 

     When the music had ended and he had first looked down, he almost
expected to see her keys transformed into bruised flesh. He knew he'd
again discovered the secret, had used it well, when it began, as he
expected, as it always did, slowly at first, and then in earnest.  The
secret of how to unlock the passion and the lust from her keys, how to
create that soaring, searing, orgasmic frenzy. Then, and only then did
he allow himself to smile as his strong hands affectionately caressed
and gently squeezed her warm bottom and long, slender throat.

     As the last thrilling echoes spiralled away, they, the audience
remained dazed and mute, utterly drained. Slowly they roused
themselves, as maybe did she who had come for the very first time to
see, to hear, and to feel. The applause, erratic and confused at
first, quickly increased to as deafening clamour. They were possessive
now, passionate for more ...  of her.

			     * * * 
				In the far back row, in the darkest of
dark places before him, breathless and hearing her own unconscious
applause thundering in time with others, feeling his strength, the
power over him of her, who now rested quietly against his heart and
loins in the golden glow of her aftermath, his victory over them who
had listened. She who had heard, had felt, and been touched
intimately, virginally, in that incredibly private and sensual way for
the first time, she who had been one of them had also peaked her own
summit with his golden lover, along with them.

     "My god!" she exhaled silently, shakily, all of a sudden acutely
aware of the flooding warmth, the dampness. Nervously, she looked
around, slow and easy, casually, left and right, and then smiled
softly, completely astounded. She had always had a soft spot for the
Mississippi blues.

			    * * * * 
			   Chapter II
				
                              *  
She stopped her car outside the beautiful country house, the address
given her by his agent.  Opening the door, she slid out, looking
around. Then she saw him. He was leaning against a tall, thick tree
which reached up into the blue day sky with its massive, old gnarled
trunk, showering its tentacles of green willow omnidirectional, the
green fingertips of each touching the ground in several places around
its arc. She walked through the open gate towards him, annoyed with
the incessant thumping of her heart against her ribs as she drew close
to him, feeling his powerful gaze upon her, leading her as if she had
no choice in the direction she now moved, except to go directly to
where he waited. His face was serious, arms hanging loosely by his
sides, hands buried deep in the pockets of loose, dark trousers.

     She inhaled her own marvellous fragrance wafting around her face
as she walked towards him. Her thoughts felt instantly the reason she
chose that particular perfume. It swelled her two additional mounds of
pleasure, and between their plump golden contours quivered the already
pulsing thread of her moist crease. That he might eat away at them and
their precious content was a dream she dared not dream. It was a
vision she feared was all wishful conjecture. Between her thighs lay
the supreme haven, the final home from which all her restless thoughts
and desires were born, and she wanted him ... there.

     "Miss Devlin." He said, as a formal introduction of confirmation
of whom she was, but did not extend his hand to her.  With secret
rapture he gazed at the pattern of physical womanhood who stood before
him, the notion of latent sensuality so tremendous that it could
almost take his breath away astounded him.

     His voice was beautiful, a deep, flowing baritone, articulating
and musically controlled. It was a voice that could tempt nuns to
immorality or attract sinners to excellence.  She felt a sudden rush
of warmth, low down, and wondered if he knew the capability of that
voice, knew how it caressed her ears, and other places on her body.

     The physical bearing was conflicting to what she had expected
from her memories of him on stage, standing in the spotlight almost a
week ago, the eyes deeper set, the mouth fuller, more sensual. And his
eyes were more commanding by far than she remembered, a dazzling blue
that seemed to knife beneath the skin and search her mind.

     "I'm here to listen." He said. "Would you like to follow me?" He
motioned her towards the front entrance of the large home. It had not
escaped him that her gaze had subtly caressed his body from head to
toe, yet, in his innocent and vulnerable naivety would he not have
expected any hidden purpose behind her attentions, other than the
stated reasons for her visit. He knew his own thoughts had already
delivered to his mind and sensations her sensual form locked in his
strong hands as he penetrated her rushing junction.

     "Yes." She answered, swallowing thickly. Her mouth felt dry when
she became aware she had been staring. She followed him silently into
the foyer of the old-fashioned, but elegant house. Once inside, the
sound of her heels clacking on the tiled floor echoed in her ears.
Wrong shoes for this floor, she thought grimly. Her eyes travelled
quickly, left and right, noticing the abundance of freshly cut
beautiful flowers, carefully arranged in displays all around the
walls.

     He opened a large wooden door and stepped aside, gesturing for
her to enter. It was a large room, again the lovely flowers
everywhere, all around the walls and on the small tables sitting
around the floor on the plush carpet. Paintings of abstract design
adorned the walls.  Along one wall was a large sound system, in front
of which stood a long, thick microphone pointing downwards at an angle
of about forty-five degrees, as if waiting to rise, resting in its
shining silver grip, and set to the height of a tenor saxophone bell.

     Walking over to the sound system he pressed one of the buttons.
Her heart jumped for no known reason when the rich, soft sounds of a
tenor sax filtered soulfully from the large speakers, to then drift
leisurely through the still, flower-scented air of the room. It was
her, and the sound was the tape she had sent him. She had recorded it
just for today, just to be here, just for him to listen to so she
might be here. She waited nervously, awkwardly, gazing at him as if in
a dream while he stood there without moving, listening to her tape.
She allowed her own music to help relax her, calm her jangling nerves
in his presence.

     "You recorded this just for me." He said to her. It was a
statement, not a question.  The melody was too similar to his own
style to be her original work. Yet one day she might deliver
uniqueness, as he had delivered in the fullness of his own time and
discoveries.

     "Yes." She replied, calmed somewhat to hear her voice sounding
clear and calm, no sign of the turmoil going on inside her mind and
stomach, yet very aware of the heat emanating from her furry cushion,
her nest where eagles of men would soar on the strongest currents of
the winds of emotion to locate, gain entrance and make home for long
nights.  Yet, none ever find, a secret place, a hidden abyss, reserved
for the one to come, the chosen one. But always was the nest ready and
waiting to be made a home.

     The short tape ended. He played it again. And then he played it a
third time. All the while she waited while he stood silent, head
bowed, listening intently. She knew what he was doing.

     "Let's have a coffee." He said, surprising her completely, and
leading the way for her to follow.

     She stood caught by surprise, then hurried to catch up with him,
her footsteps once again echoing when she left the carpet of the room
and stepped quickly onto the tiled floor. It seemed as if she'd been
there for hours, when in fact, it had only been less than one. He had
made time somehow seem meaningless in his presence.

     After asking her how she liked her coffee he showed her to the
lounge room and then left her there. She wondered if he had considered
the thought that she might not have liked coffee at all. She did. But
she wondered anyway as he returned and placed her steaming cup before
her on the small occasional table. He remained silent while they
sipped their hot drinks, except for mentioning only the weather.

     His lack of conversation disappointed her a little, wanting to
hear his voice speak, just to feel that rich, powerful quality again.
Her eyes kept coming back again and again to his hands. His fingers
seemed long, shapely and elegant, offering no clue to his majesty when
it came to him playing his instrument, bringing it to a living life in
the incredibly sensual manner he did.

     His hands moved with the unconscious, precise coordination of a
true musician, idly bracing the heavy silver coffee tray as though
testing the weight of a sax. With his thumb and forefinger he traced
the gentle curves of his beautiful china cup in a repeated stroke of
light caress, again and again in a hypnotic, almost erotic
appreciation of the fine contours of its shape.

     He looked at her thoughtfully. Unaccustomed to the company of
strangers inside his house, he was mildly amazed to find her an almost
acceptable companion to have coffee with. Hers was not the sweet
silence of others who had been here with him, still, it seemed she had
some awareness of sound and didn't seek to litter the air mindlessly
with lifeless chatter about absolutely nothing.

     She toyed with her coffee cup, conscious of feeling a little
light-headed. Her eyes wanted to return again and again to his
electric blue eyes and strong hands with their long, slender fingers.
She felt as if she could sit there and just gaze at them for hours on
end, appreciating them, their talents, the majesty they could weave.

     He watched her unnoticeably, objectively admiring her face, the
pale skin, the unusual, slanting eyebrows. She was beautiful in her
own right. He wondered about her life, the private intimate details
that could never be found in normal conversation with her, or from
observations in the way she presented herself.

     "Have you ever considered the relationship between master and
pupil?" he asked, deliberately, right out of left field.

     For a moment she couldn't believe she had heard him correctly,
but the words refused to disappear. Then, while she considered her
confused state he spoke again.

     "I used to sometimes wonder if my teachers had." He said without
looking at her, draining the last of his coffee from the
elegant-looking cup. Then he looked at her with those drilling eyes
and continued. 

     "It rests on power." He went on, his eyes piercing beneath every
shield and every thought she might have been having. "But it rests on
power that is simply not imposed. It must be a relationship in which
the pupil is willing to trust the teacher's instinct, give him or
herself over to the dominance of greater experience. It's a
relationship like that between parent and child, but more intimate
than that of lovers."

     Across the small table his eyes were fixed on hers. She felt
drawn by them, unable to look away.

     "If," he paused then, drawing out the silence, "if by some chance
you were to interest me sufficiently, I might be willing to teach
you." He heard himself say the words with some surprise. "But you
should understand the relationship. You would have to be willing to
suspend your critical values at first, and obey me without question."

     He lounged back in his chair, speculating whether he was actually
considering teaching her, or merely fooling with the idea to please
some hidden agenda within himself.

     "You are an innocent." He said. "That virginal tape you sent for
me to listen to is showing a desired direction, but not a result.
You're still playing the melody, the notes, in an exceptional manner,
I agree, but you are not a channel for your music as yet."

     "Virginal?" she repeated, confused. "What do you mean?"

     "Music begins bottomless within you. It's not commanded by the
mind, by slavish attachment to the written notes. It is a crude,
prehistoric urge, or intuition, buried in the bottoms of your soul.
From there it flows out, amplifies to your heart, your breast, down to
your groin, comprising of your most sensual imaginings. You become the
saxophone and it becomes you. It's a completion, a realisation, a
joining and sharing of your most intimate and private essence." He
stopped then, before he said too much, aware he had come too close to
baring the mystery that had fed his own genius.

     If she had spoken then, even a single word, he would have left
the room, and her in it, alone, and wiped her from his memory. But she
said nothing, sitting calm, head bowed, inclining dark brows drawn
together in thought. When she finally lifted her head, her eyes were
bright with unshed tears.

     "It was the last section of the tape. Wasn't it?" she accepted
softly.

     He nodded, stunned a little by her awareness, disarmed by her
tears now flowing unheeded down her cheeks. She hardly seemed
conscious that she was crying. Quietly he rose from his chair and
stood behind her. 

     "A trial, perhaps," he said softly, as though to himself. "Why
not? We'll audition your instrument, see if it has any resonance in
your hands at all. Put your hands on your breasts."

     "What?" she asked, astonished, and felt his hands on her
shoulders, balanced and waiting.

     "Trust me. Do as I say." The attitude of his command was
unmistakable, edging the dark honey of his voice.

     He compelled a willing submission to his dominance, a blind faith
in his genius, obedience without question. She was intensely aware of
the heat of his hands on her shoulders, acutely aware of the rigid
pillar of his body standing behind her, could almost feel the power
waves of intensity vibrating from him. To be so near to such musical
artistry, to find it aligned with such a sensual charisma was
stimulating, and in that moment she knew, this was a man who could do
anything with her, that she would bow blindly to his voice, his hands.

     "Yes." She murmured, slowly lifting her hands to her breasts,
unsurprised to feel them trembling.

     "Good." He said more softly. "You must be in tune with your body,
in touch with your real instrument. Focus on the idea that your body
is a saxophone, your fingers the keys.  Every instrument has its
vibrator and resonator. The keys are the saxophone's vibrator. Make
your nipples the keys of your body." 

     And so she brushed her hands against her nipples, feeling them
tighten against the black silk of her blouse. 

     "Good." He approved. "Touch them up and down, feel them."

     She felt the glow rising in her face, felt the tingling sensation
that flowed from her fingers to her breasts, felt his hands gently cup
the back of her neck, then search through her hair and come to rest at
her temples.

     "Don't stop until I tell you, you may." He said.

     Closing her eyes she brushed her nipples with her thumbs, up and
down as he had commanded, feeling the softness of the silk like an
irritation. Sensitised to touch now, her nipples were erect, pulsing
with life. There was something intensely carnal in touching herself,
exciting herself as he stood behind her, his long fingers cushioning
her head. He must be watching, she thought rousingly, seeing how her
nipples were standing out solidly, confidently, daring him to warm and
suck them.

     Standing behind her, he could feel the revealing pulse at her
temples, sense her awakening.

     "Tell me what you feel."

     "Fire." She answered immediately, softly. And she was hot, aflame
almost. The most delicious, burning heat, rising through her body,
knowing that he was watching her, his eyes fixed on her hands, her
breasts.

     "Harder," he said. "Press and squeeze the keys, fast and slowly.
And then fast and hard.

     Harder, faster, squeezing, pressing, rolling between fingers and
thumbs. She tightened her fingers, pinching her nipples as firmly,
tabbing the keys of her saxophone fiercely. She felt the electric jolt
ripple through her body, radiating from her breasts to her groin.

     "Again." He said, his hands moving gently to her shoulders.

     Her nipples felt like duplicate coils of flame, hot and
unbearably carnal, her breasts heavy and distended. Closing her eyes,
she leaned back in her chair, resting her head gently against his
belly. Through the silk, her nipples were extending, enlarging, and
without his urging she pinched them harder, rolling them between her
fingers and thumbs. She felt the growing damp between her legs, the
enlarging of her lower lips, the first, avaricious awaking of her
clitoris. Caught in the emotions coursing through her she twisted in
the chair, would have turned to face him, but he locked his grip on
her shoulders, compelling her to stay still.

     "Tell me."

     "Still hot," she breathed, "but fuller now."

     "And moist." He suggested, feathering her ear with his breath as
he leaned forward and down.

     "Yes, wet." She felt the lips between her legs growing warm and
swollen, imitating her nipples, the hot wet fluid of arousal dousing
her groin.

     "Liquid music," he said softly. "Think drenched and liquid, you
are the keys. Play your own music." She felt his hands slip from her
shoulders to cup the arc of her breasts, bracing the abundant fullness
that her fingers had tabbed to swollen warmth.

     "Lower." He said softly. 

     Almost gratefully she slid her hands downwards over his,
delighting in the pliant restraint and authority, the slow burn of
both their hands enfolding her bosom.

     "Now find your right keys, by instinct. Touch yourself wherever
you feel your keys to be. You are the golden bell. Make it vibrate."

     Caught by his voice, hypnotised deeply by the sound of it, the
deepness of it, the richness of it, the power of it, her hands
delayed. And then she gasped as his fingers fastened just a fraction
on her breasts, causing a flame of quivering ecstasy.

     "Your hand," she whispered, and then felt it dawdling gently down
to her abdomen.  Every nerve ending in her body tightened, fluttered
in accelerating suspense. She saw herself as a harp now, as well as
saxophone, meant to be plucked and played, and felt herself dampen,
growing hotter and more liquid. Through the silk she felt the warmth
of his hands gently inciting her pubic hair. She gasped, feeling the
nectar seeping out of her, knew that she was now not moist, not wet,
but drenched, immersing the gossamer cloth panties she wore. She was
deluging in a blush-pink tide, flooding and honeyed like Niagra Falls.

     "Yes." He prompted.

     "Tides." She said, the term coming from nowhere. She felt
strangely possessed, fuzzy, conscious now only of a leisurely fiery
excitement stealing over her body. Her breasts were full and hot, and
she felt her clitoris disturbed like her nipples, wanting to be
fondled, plucked and sucked. Beneath the silk she was grilling,
sweating, felt the beads trickling down her neck, the middle of her
back. The air was closer now, like velvet.

     "Receding tides. Tell me. " He said, fascinated, as he felt her
pressure against his hands. Watching her from behind hooded eyes, he
saw the crimsoned cheeks, her lashes fanning them, breasts rising and
falling. Her ready desire astonished him. He meant only to challenge
her a little, find her deepness, watch the flames lick like a slow
procession and then dry her tears, but already this girl was
accelerating to the verge.

     Deliberately he slowed the movement of his hand, and extending a
finger, felt for her clitoris through the silk, brushing gently,
feather-soft, searching between the folds of fabric to find the erect
little core.

     "Flowers bloom in spring and bloom with their own heat from
below." She murmured, forgetting his words of tides. She felt his
finger harden, press firmly against her aperture. She'd used the very
words she associated with an orgasm brought about when a man's face
was engulfed between her thighs, licking, sucking, sampling and
teasing.

     He was caught off guard with her uttering of the strange phrase.
He felt himself hardening. 

     "Enough." He said, releasing his hands instantly from her and
turning away.

     "But why ... what?" Bewildered, disorientated, she opened her
eyes.

     "Enough. You're losing the flow. Music made by your body isn't
spring flowers." He stood with his back to her, apparently intent on
contemplating a painting on the wall in front of him.

     Dumbly she gaped at him, feeling the unfulfilled palpitation
between her legs like a second heartbeat, hearing his words from far
away. She felt dissociated from her body, as if her mind and body were
in two distinctly different places. It felt real, as if she'd been
left stranded somewhere, taken back too soon, but not all of her came.

     "So, have you learned anything? One can learn even from an
audition. Especially from an audition, in fact." He said casually.

     Frantically she hurled her mind back, struggling to find
something that made sense, words he'd said only moments before,
anguishing to appease the aching void left by the inscription of his
hands and fingers between her trembling upper thighs. She was losing
him before she had even begun. No, she thought desperately. She can't.

     "My body is the saxophone." She said breathlessly.

     "And your hands?"

     Her mind raced. She had to get him back, knowing in her soul he
would one day realise his teaching of her would be worth it. Then she
knew the answer he wanted, knew also it wasn't the right one. It had
been his hands touching her, plucking her, tabbing her that became the
keys; his hands made her the saxophone.  

     "Hands are the tabs." She said, concealing a little. He nodded,
apparently satisfied.  She thought furiously then. What did that have
to do with the receding tides of her body, that wet hot flood denied
release? Wasn't that what he said when she was feeling so close? So
close.

     "Hands are the tabs, body is the saxophone, my tides come and go
from within my body's own music." She replied finally, letting some
other part of her mind talk for her.  She'd given up. And the words
had just appeared.

     "Yes." He said quickly, offhandedly. I'll make my decision
tonight. You should go home now and go to bed, get some sleep. If you
want to know what my decision is, you may come back tomorrow, if you
wish."

     "But I ....." she managed, but too late. He'd already gone. Still
breathing heavily, her lung-rhythm shaky and unsettled she rose
unsteadily to her feet, clasping the table for assistance. Her body
felt disarranged, confused, still not yet together. The waves of
emotion that had flooded through her so violently only moments before
were easing now, leaving her very drained, but strangely elated.

     Cautiously she walked across the room into the entrance area,
felt for the handrail for its welcome support and stepped down the few
steps to the green grass and onwards to her car. Driving was the
farthest thing from her mind. She drove unsurely and very cautiously
home to her small rented townhouse. It seemed terribly far away, all
the long drive back, until finally she reached it, closed her front
door with trembling fingers, and collapsed on the bed in tears of
anticipated failure of her dearest wishes and dreams, and her sheer
physical frustration of release not arrived, not taken, and not
delighted in. 
				
			      * * 
			  Chapter III
                               * 
Was she asleep? No, not exactly asleep. Dreaming perhaps? She had
woken, she thought, saw him looming over her, this god dressed in deep
blue, but then everything swam out of focus again. And now she was
naked, nude. She'd felt the whisper of her nightdress leaving her
skin, the cool air caressing her body, felt exposed somehow as the
silk drifted down her arms, her breasts, soft swathes pooling along
her belly, settling momentarily in the juncture of her thighs, then
whisked along her legs. And then hands, strong hands were spreading
her legs, opening her thighs. She should be embarrassed, naked as she
was in front of him, but she knew her skin was as white as the driven
snow, knew herself to be as sensuous and voluptuous and open as the
goddess of love who lived in her tortured soul. Then the clouds
wrapped their soft white arms around her, carrying her away into the
ever-dark.

     Was she awake? Yes. Not fully, but almost. No! Not yet! Please!
Her eyes were open, body shining with glistening dream-sweat, loins
aching, unfulfilled, breasts full and heavy, untouched, un-kissed,
nipples building, stinging, throbbing. Her mind searched and found
again the dream, eyes closed once more to go back, yet found no
entrance to heaven beneath her closed lids. Fingers and thighs
trembled, lips above opened in yearning for the lost pathway to there.
Lips below quivering to accept that which had not yet arrived, in
dream or in life's real days or lonely nights. Lungs sighing the
futility of stillborn stinging tears of lust and longing, of passion
and love and cherishment in his arms, not yet to be, even in dream-
time. Her eyes opened, blinked away her stillborn pain. 

     Was she awake? Yes. She was awake, of that there was now no
doubt. There was the pain of longing, the hurt of missing that which
had never really been, except in the same dream incomplete, not
finished, and not really begun. Yes. She was awake, wishing for some
other place, some other life, in some other's arms but her own. Yes.
She was awake. And it hurt to be that way.

			      * * 
Fed and exercised, mind and body tense with anxieties and fears of
unknown knowledge yet to come later in the morning she shrugged off
her sweated tracksuit and ran to water in the long tub, adjusting the
water temperature to acceptable for her mood of blue depression and
pessimism. Filled to three-quarter's full she fitted the adjustable
showerhead with its long flexible hose to the tap outlet and stepped
into the hot water, drawing quick breath and moaning silently,
pinching eyelids tightly closed as the stinging ferocious heat
assaulted the tender skin of her souls, feet and ankles. And then it
passed. 

     The damage had been done, the warming commenced. Her slow burn
had begun, to cleanse her mind, to wash clean the negativity of the
dream and replace with optimism, hope, the confidence of the dreams of
yesteryear and yesterday, so far away. To be reborn again to face the
day anew, to live again in hope and trust in the ever-arriving moments
of now as her future arrived at her feet. 

     Not too cold, not too hot. Just hot enough to cleanse, and to
arouse. Oh, God, yes.  Bliss, flowing around her. Taking the
showerhead and turning on the taps she sighed and closed her eyes, and
she warmed from the inside out. Underwater, warm pulsing jets of
rushing fluid within a body of fluid. Moving leisurely, slowly,
starting from her knees, tracing the nerves of her inner thighs, then
pressing against her apex, pulsing, wave after warm-flowing waves,
swirling, dancing with her lips, her labia, flirting with her
clitoris.  Again and again the path was repeated, sometimes slowly,
sometimes in sharp little thrilling bursts. Her centre arched towards
the showerhead, tried to capture it, summon it to the centre of her
pleasure like a sea creature caught in the tide, ebbing and flowing.

     She was at the mercy of the flowing jets of warm water, lapping
the junction of her thighs, teasing, pressuring, forcing open her lips
with warm, wet kisses of liquid heat within heat. She was ready. Her
skin sensed it, the rocking of her hips, questing towards the jets
spurting from the showerhead held in her hand. Her body almost
completely submerged, only the tips of her breasts peaking above the
water. She felt the tension in her wrist, positioned the showerhead
between her thighs, waving it gently up and down, round and around,
back and forth, fanning it across her red pubic hair.

     It was humming. She could feel it, hear it, sense it humming like
a bee coming to drink the honey of her juices from her hive. Warm wet
waves, pulsing towards her, stirring her hair, ruffling through the
tender skin beneath. Her groin felt heavy, as though all her blood was
rushing and coursing to settle between her legs. Under the hypnotic
rhythm of that fanning warm tide, her lips were growing, engorging,
plump and red and slick. Her clitoris was stirring, hard and greedy,
desperate to reach that humming, pulsing jet. It had caught the
rhythm, was humming and pulsing too, pushing through the swollen folds
of her labia. The tides were ebbing and flowing in earnest now,
washing against the insides of her thighs, now swirling through her
hair, tantalising her clitoris with the faintest of watery caresses.

     She was poised on the crest of her own tidal wave of passion and
lust released alone in her moment of solitary comfort. Her breathing
deepened, the warm water lapping at her lips and cheeks as her rocking
hips and thighs set the waving motion, tidaling the ivory ceramic
tub's waves back and forth the length of her watery bed. She felt the
wave arrive and then recede. Moaning, she rocked towards it, followed
it, the thrumming symphony of sensation she needed between her legs.
Her clitoris was quivering, trembling with need, suffused with aching,
her swollen lips encircling it, again and again. Throbbing, aching,
pulsing, all of her, every part. Drowning, submerging in the warm wet
want, her toes were her clitorises, her clitorises her toes, ten, no,
eleven erect little mounds, all palpitating, pulsing for release to
prolong to infinity, to turn greed to need to desire, so that the
final explosion was nothing less than a brilliant, mind-warping
shuddering supernova.

     Her breath was coming faster and faster. She could feel the salty
sweat of the sea on her brow. The waves were crashing against her
clitoris, crashing closer and closer. Then she placed the warm jets
hard against her lower lips and turned on the taps full force, crying
out into the humid air of her bathroom as she did so. Tense, straining
for release so long denied, with the streaming jets thrashing her
clitoris she came in a rushing, screaming frenzy, a torrent of
suppressed sensation, a fury of ecstasy unlike anything she had ever
experienced.  Her skin flushed instantly all over, both from the
warmth of her water and the sheer force of her fiery underwater
orgasm. 

			     * * * 
Breathing coming in ragged gasps, she calmed slowly, her milky breasts
still heaving, floating above and below, her calf-muscles still
trembling beneath the quietly surging waves, the tidal flow lapping
the insides of the tub slowly evening out, now that the tide had
passed its ebb and flow, settling gradually, calming on the change of
moods of the current beneath.  She drew a deep breath and sighed, then
allowed her full form from head to toe to sink slowly from head to toe
beneath the warm water until her entire form lay submerged beneath the
now gentle swell. Tiny bubbles floating gently upwards burst forth at
the surface of the warm water above her submerged form, sighing the
release of her tension and the arrival of her calm into the still
above the gentle warm waves.

     Her clean, blush-pink feet. Her cleansed emotions, her glowing,
tension-free body surfaced slowly like a glistening deep-pink mermaid,
a siren from the deep, her mind a clean slate, ready for fresh
scribblings, new discoveries, different conclusions and fulfilled
dreams, wishes and heart's desires.
			    * * * *
			    The End
                               *
		       (To be continued) (Thank you for reading.
Please email your comments or criticisms to me. Mesmer)



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