1. In the darkroom
Friday, June 5th, 2009Introit
This is a participatory exercise. As in dark rooms do not know what happens, the story begins in this chapter, and has two possible developments. At the end of this chapter there are two links, the reader can choose the one you like. I try to make the stories can be closed, ie they are used all the chapters (finally, a fiction fit in as many orgasms as you require 
, But I can assure you that I left one off the hook.
Felt hands moving down her back as she danced. Hands hesitant, gentle touch of the fingertips on her goose bumps. Were not those of your partner, firmly seated on his buttocks, pressure the owner feels safe. He wondered if he would realize that someone else was playing it, putting their nerves to the skin. He, as usual, did not realize anything.
The truth is that in that ballroom, almost dark, all moved by touch. It was one of the graces of filtered light that room, in which couples were coming to hugging, fondling her in a twilight accomplice. The hands had started in the middle of his back, and stood her neck gently.
They surrounded the neck of the sweater, and settled in the soft flesh whence the hair, throwing a chill through your body. Not understand how he could not realize the whole body suddenly put under tension, pull on their chests, the sudden force of his belly, stretched toward him. The dance took them, a slow dance, a "tightwad tile" to understand, a soft bolero that, once started ... "painter, you paint churches ..." and was followed by the collective subconscious.
"A painter, you paint churches, paint me black angels ...." So spoke the song. She tried to locate him, in that ballroom, where all couples touched while trying to avoid. Sought inadvertently hands of the other couples, trying to locate who was at that time stroking his neck, he gently lowered her hand on his arm, who went back to the soft warmth of her armpit, the fingertips of those who, finally moved through the crease of her breasts. No, he was imprisoned by the vertex of the body, not his stomach, leaning against the pubis, the center of his desire, that touch was unknown, disembodied, just fingers, hands that played like no other, ever, had touched. 
Who could be dreamed, whom I imagined those fingers belong long as a pianist. For a long time I had read a story of horror, haunted hands of a musician, kidnapped by Saladin's troops and taken to India, where he had been accepted in the court of Raja. And there had adapted the lute music he knew so well to the complex tones of Indian music, inventing the sitar. But the Raja, on his deathbed, had ordered him to cut off hands and no one, anymore, I could hear the music they had invented for him.
