Vox

I thirst for your music. As a parched throat sighs at the first drops of soothing water, my ears rejoice at the first syllables that pass your lips as you begin to speak. Their rich, deep timbre traces serpentine pathways along my skin, bringing every nerve to rapt attention. Spiced wine in winter could not warm me better. Your words are drenched in male resonance, deliciously weighted, like the press of a lover’s body against mine. It’s driving me mad. Wondrously, frighteningly, beautifully mad. Exquisite.

Would that I could return the favor—perhaps with a song. Let my voice, my words touch you, tease you, tempt you, in kind. But though my voice is fine and better than fine, my touch is still better. Gifted with piano fingers long-boned and supple, I can play a willing back with as much skill, coaxing music from the bellows within as sweet—if not more. Spoken or sung, moaned or murmured, all is music to me. How low can you go, below middle C? Hmm? I would give much to find out.

My curiosity quakes within me; I long to touch you, to know you. To know the sound of your pleasure, the taste of your darknesses. To know the scent of your body, the blaze in your impassioned brown eyes. To know the feel of your weight upon me, and the delicious scratching of your mustache upon my softest skin. What is the ransom for such knowledge? With what coin or riches, with what most precious thing must I pay? Do tell. For I would pay; and pay again; and pay still once more: it’s the third time that counts. Then would I sing my Siren Song for you, its melody haunting and hungry, a darkly sweet spell woven within the words to bring you to me...