The needle drops. Following the scratch, the record pops as the first track plays. A matchstick strikes against the edge of the box, and a flame screams as it swallows up all the air in its immediate vicinity. Its flame ignites the candles’ wicks, and then is shaken free, reduced to a trailing smoke that lingers for a moment, desperately fighting to survive for one final second before it dissipates into nothing. We exchange meaningless words. Then we disrobe.

The record pops as the first track ends and the second begins.

I urge him to the bed, easing back the golden, microsuede, downfilled, comforter that tops my sheets. My beckoning is his command. He finds the spot beneath my outstretched arm and curls in like a cub preparing for winter. I pet his mane and he caresses my flesh. His fingertips are soft. His flesh is warm, and smooth. Mine is too. The tiniest of hairs raise up from my forearms and the nape of my neck with the slightest hint of his touch. As his touch intensifies from a slight hint into a full on grope, far more noticeable aspects of my anatomy raise up in response to his actions. I purr. He moans. We harmonize.

The record pops as the second track ends and the third begins.

He’s looking into me. His eyes are moist and blue, somewhat entrancing in their gaze. Our lips collide. They war softly and without strategy. He tastes of chocolate dessert and espresso, a lingering residue left from the precursory date we’d endured in an effort to reach the moment we shared now – the moment we had each sought from the beginning of the evening.

The record pops as the third track ends, and the fourth begins.

His cock is a tower, alive with swollen vessels. I’m swallowing him, as he’s swallowing me. The comforter is comforting our nude forms as we writhe beneath it, our sides wrinkling the sheets and our misaligned forms struggling to align in the center. I’m lapping at the precum flowing from his engorged shaft like nectar from the vine. He’s doing the same for me. He tastes like salty strawberries drenched in flat champagne. I want to be drunk off him. He urges me to stop. I won’t abide. I want to taste him more. I want to taste him all.

The record pops as the fourth track ends and the fifth begins.

We’re turned; he’s in me. The sheets are bunching between my fingers. His cock is a magic wand, casting spells inside me. Taking me away from this room and spiriting me off to another world - where setting is meaningless so long as the right characters are present. There’s nothing but us now. He and I alone together. Him filling me up. Me begging to be filled more. There is strength and sinew in his shoulder. My back raises from the sheets, only to be thrust back down again.

The record pops as the fifth track ends and the sixth begins.

His wand waves freely throughout me. I’m humming inside. He’s humming too. The comforter’s gone now. Cast to the floor to give our forms a freedom of range and the soothing rush of the room’s cool air. His hand is on my cock, stroking me like a violinist commands his bow. His cock and hand are synchronized, performing in concert. I am his symphony. He conducts himself within me with a precision