Hot Jazz

She places the album on the turntable. What an awesome find at the yard sale today! she had owned one as a teenager and still preferred the slightly scratchy sound it produced as the needle ran along the edges of the magical groves rather than the blemish free notes the slid like silk from heGirl and record playerr ipod. No. Tonight, she wanted a slightly rougher sound, more primal. HE was coming tonight. HE was primal. She’d chosen the music for HIM – a rare album featuring Jazz drummer Gene Krupa. She’d dressed for HIM. Sexy, black lingerie that begged to be taken off bit by bit. HE liked that – to focus on one area at a time. HE would begin with the bra, removing it, sucking on her nipples then moving on to biting perhaps, maybe, if she was lucky, adding clamps or clothes pins. Then, the stockings, unrolling each one, kissing her white flesh as HE exposed it, using the discarded stockings to bind her legs, spread eagle perhaps, or maybe one to secure her wrists and the other her ankles together. Finally, HE would remove the panties, unless she was spread eagle, then HE would cut them off. HE might fill her mouth with the panties, gagging her so only the sound of hot Jazz would fill the air. She turned, hearing the knock, smiled, and opened her door, welcoming HIM home .

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