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Music Therapy

by Pete Symes 6 months ago in nsfw
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Muse Music

Music Therapy
Photo by Roberta Sorge on Unsplash

I was editing a television commercial for a wine import company. Minutes before the owner of said “Import Export Company” was to arrive in Edit Suite One two men in expensive suits, with obvious weapon induced bulges under their suit jackets gave the room the once over twice before boss-man was allowed to amble in.

We play the commercial for the boss and get the no response other than the obligatory “play it again”. It may only be thirty seconds long but it is a hard working thirty with much to absorb. We repeat play. Stone faced, the boss-man says, “Where’d get dat music? A porno movie?” Room freezes. Knee Breakers imperceptibly seem to reach for their suit coat bulges. Boss man laughs out loud, nods towards the door, knuckle draggers head to hallway. Boss-man says, “Great stuff” and exits room. Sweaty brows of all others in attendance are wiped and a collective creative sigh ensues.

All the agency toadies, Empty suits, Creative Directors, Art Directors, Producers, even a Writer for a picture and music commercial only are patting each other on the back as they exit. The sycophant parade leaves the building.

Fooled another one just like the other one I confide to my assistant Cathy who will spend a good part of her evening running masters, sub-masters , and dubs to meet the air date which as usual comes right on the heels of this session. All projects fill every last second of time allotted for any endeavor.

As dubs are running and I practice the archaic ritual of edit decision list management. Few of us chickens remain at the office roost as the business day closed for most long ago. Cheryl comes into the edit suite, locks the door to the outer hallway and says, “I hear you have a porno music track going. Wanna act one out?”

I love the way she thinks.

I remember when Cheryl worked for one of the big time advertising agencies on Michigan Avenue. She was all business power suits, high heels, and even higher hair in those days. Now making the much more casual post production scene her daily wear was blue jeans, sandals, and a white button down shirt, always tucked in to accent her upper endowments, slim waist, luscious hips, and bottom highlighted in aforementioned very tight blue jeans

Since this edit suite was designed to be face to face, as the editor I sat in what was a sort of thunder-dome pit surrounded by monitors, keyboards, switchers, and audio mixers. Clients were above with but a single monitor to limit distractions and focus of their little budgie brains on the business at hand. As Cheryl stood elevated by raised platform, her five foot ten inch height, and her feminine presence towered before me in a sublime offering. She had my undivided attention.

I watched in rapture as her hands started to unbutton her white blouse slowly revealing her holy hallowed cleavage. Cheryl had timeless tits for the ages and I would bask in their ethereal presence once more. As the music plays on a loop and the screen flashes, wine bottles and wine pour beauty shots over and over. Cheryl’s hips sway to the music as the white shirt tucked into her tight blue jeans offers up their buried treasures one button at a time. White ruffled brassier over ultra thin waist, rounded belly with a just a crumb of muffin top, her wide hips now grinding the air as her shirt drops hanging from the wide belt of her blue jeans. I just watch, taking in the show as her arms reach behind her and bra clasps are quickly dispatched. I give thanks to gravity as the straps slide down Cheryl’s arms revealing round gravity defying boobs now swaying to the music in sonorous syncopation to her hips.

Finally her arms reach out simultaneously squeezing her majestic breasts together while the index finger of her right hand beckons me in a righteous come hither waggle. In a trance I mount the small riser while I watch her unbuckle her belt, pop the metal button and pull the zipper down to tease me with the revealed white frilly panties below. I approach her offered breasts appreciatively but her arms arrest me at my shirt buttons which she rips open. No shirt of mine ever survived a brush with Cheryl as it crumples to the polished wood floor behind me. She then pulls me close by my belt buckle, crushing her glorious breasts into my naked chest. Skin to skin contact made, I am awash in her body heat while she hastily releases my buckled belt, ripping my trousers open and pulling them to mid thigh with my boxers. She looks approvingly at my raging hard on and says, “Just a peek at my tits and someone looks primed to fuck. Me too.” Breathy and moist those last two words fill the moment.

The client work space and angled surface beyond was the perfect stage for Cheryl’s deluxe ass to be placed, her long legs spreading as she luxuriously rested her back on the forty degree angled work space perfect for her repose. The ridge of the console was cushioned right where it needed to be for her to rest her head as her amazing tangle of long brown hair, which normally framed her deluxe rear when she was upstanding and exiting, now spread out on the console creating a curly brown mattress for her white fulsome body and large dark brown nipples. She offered up her long languid legs to heaven so I could pull her jeans and panties off and spread her raised knees for wide open access.

Stiff shaft in hand my throbbing helmet splits her flowing ravine and finds her throbbing bud. A bit of helmet to helmet interaction ensues. “No time for that.” she hisses as her long sharp nails rake my chest. “Now fuck that pussy.” Her head raises up looking past her tits now lusciously lolling on either side of her chest. “I want to watch that cock enter me nice and slow.” Her nails again punctuate that demand, this time on my shoulders that she grabs to gain purchase with leverage up for a better view of my throbbing knobs shaft inch by inch introduction into her now slobbering nethers. “That’s the ticket.” Cheryl moans low.

Geometrical bliss for a man of my height even with my pants around my ankles I thrust vigorously into Cheryl’s fiery pink satin lined oven. My assistant Cathy makes a brief appearance at the machine room door, assesses the situation, pokes a necessary button on the video switcher, turns on her heels and beats a hasty retreat. She has witnessed this tableau before, though in a much more participatory role.

Now Cheryl has taken up her usual limited sex talk script of, “Fuck that pussy.” repeated like a mantra in hisses and trills and tremulous guttural explosive expectoration. Her ass is lifting and then slapping down on the clients counsel with a satisfying slap each time I bring the hammer down deep into her tight silky lining.

As usual Cheryl fucks me to within an inch of my life making a zen garden of my ass cheeks with her nails as she tries to claw me deeper and deeper with each bounce of her butt. “Fuck that pussy!” she shrieks as she climaxes full tilt sprawled on the clients perch. I watch a red wine pouring into an elegant glass for the umpteenth time on the client monitor.

While my spasming balls are still filling her cunt with my fiery spunk she whispers in my ear, “I’m going to make hubby eat me out when I get home so fill me up good with your leavings.”

Oh Cheryl.


About the author

Pete Symes

A scenario manifests. A scenario disassembles. I participate intensively for the duration.

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