1. In the darkroom
Introit
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 as many orgasms as you require 
, But I can assure you that I had any hook.
Sentia advancing hands down her back, while dancing. Hands hesitant, gentle touch of the fingertips on her goose bumps. They were not your partner, firmly seated on his buttocks, pressure of the owner who feels safe. He wondered if he was going to realize that someone else was playing it, putting their nerves raw. He, as usual, was not aware of anything.
The truth is that at the dance hall, almost dark, all moved by touch. It was one of the graces of filtered light that room, in which couples come to hugging, caressing himself in a twilight accomplice. The hands had begun in the middle of his back, and rising gently to his neck.
They surrounded the neck of the sweater, and settled in the soft flesh whence the hair, throwing a chill through his 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 place him in that ballroom, where all couples are played while trying to avoid. Inadvertently sought the hands of the other couples, trying to find who was at that time stroking his neck, who fell a gentle 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 pubic bone, 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, who belong imagine those long fingers like 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 into the court of the Rajah. 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 his hands cut off so that no one, anymore, I could hear the music they had invented for him.
link to the next if you want to continue with a man
link to the next if you want to continue with a woman
Tags: darkroom
June 6th, 2009 at 16:31
[...] Link to the previous [...]
June 7th, 2009 at 17:19
[...] [...] Link to Chapter 1