The air was pristine. It had a certain fragrance I can only describe as clean as I tasted it through a smile. The acoustic room was cool, though just warm enough to keep the women in formalwear comfortable. I was in the nicest dress I’d ever worn, a black number that hugged my ribs then flared out beautifully, the full skirt ending just above my knees, my hair in perfect dark waves. You were my equal in a sharp tux, your collared shirt and tie as pitch as my dress.

Your smile matched the white marble of the pillars lining the room. I wasn’t sure if I’d enjoy going, but you knew I would. I wanted to slap your smug face. Or ride it. I couldn’t decide.

A hush fell over the atmosphere, the murmur of conversation dwindling to silence by some invisible cue. The lights went down. Hundreds of theatre seats faced the stage, and on it, the prepared orchestra. Made up of nearly a hundred musicians, they were each as finely dressed as the last, a piece of their identity in their hands. Inexperienced as I’d been, I could tell who the maestro was.

He raised his arms, and what resulted was magic.

A multitude of tones intertwined with familiarity, each note, each sound coming together like old friends, a manifestation of kismet. Something meant to be. I was hooked. Minutes passed as I stared at the display, giving each performer my attention in turn, transfixed by the way they portrayed their souls to anyone who would listen. I’d never seen anything more beautiful.

The pictureless story slowed to something profound but subtle, and when it did, I felt your hand on my knee. Your fingertips danced on my skin in time with the sweet song, the combination complimenting each other.

Your hand moved up. I glanced around. Every concert goer’s focus was on the assembly and not my rising skirt, but I still turned to you with question. You put your lips by my ear.

As an onlooker, your gesture would have been innocent; a nudge to your date; a whispered comment on the duality of the music. Naive to the filth you actually spoke.

I’ll never forget what you said. The molten words made me blush as I never had before -- or will again.

With no argument in my silence, your warmth caressed my smooth thigh, leaving fingerprint kisses. Slipping into the niche of my softness. Grazing the silk. The classical heartbeat continued to play, and you played me in time with it. I was your instrument as your fingers teased and excited my flesh. I sighed, my nonchalance imperative for our stealth. I couldn't imagine the look we’d garner from the gray-haired gentleman to my left if he noticed the private symphony beside him.

As the arrangement gained momentum, you pushed into me. My teeth nearly drew blood from my lower lip. With the ministration of a violinist, your fingers fluttered and worked, eliciting pulsing notes of pleasure from my center. I wanted to sing in moans. My nails dug into your pressed sleeve, feeling the confident muscle beneath it, the flexing of your firm arm as I silently rode your hand.

An extension of the act, your touch intensified the experience. The flutes would chirp and you'd flick my clit. The piano would ring and you'd circle my opening. The cellos would purr and you'd press on my g-spot. I desperately wanted to move my hips in time and make my own rhythm, instead forced to be the apparatus of your conduction.

In the dim light of that extravagant hall, surrounded by the predecessors of refinement and the kin of gentry, you filled my body with music as no one ever had, a different kind of musician, though just as skilled. Enamored by the melodic flurry of the symphony and your ceaseless hand, I became wet. So achingly wet, my pussy gripping your fingers as you moved them in and out.

You let nothing show. Attempting to pace my breath, I glanced at you, so casually focused on the score as you riddled my nerves with your expert touch. The thoughtful look on your face hid your dominance too well. I swallowed down a moan.

Keeping pace with the instrumental ballad, your hand moved faster as the piece inched toward its peak. I strangled your wrist with longing, the position of my hips trapping you as you orchestrated the apex of my thighs. The fluff of my skirt hid your arm well.

With the music surging around me, I found it increasingly difficult to hold still. I was grateful the audience was as restless as me, listening to the tangles of tones as it built higher. Your hand didn’t stop. It flexed viciously inside me, though I’ll always wonder how you kept your arm so still.

My insides matched pitch with the clash of a cymbal and the swell of the string section as it rippled in response to the conductor, my own climax a sonata on the verge of cresting.

The exposing phenomenon filling the room rose, and I rose with it, unable to slow my breath, and when the crescendo of the symphonic composition erupted, I came undone.

I leaned into your shoulder, your cheek amorously resting on my head as I came passionately around your capable extremity. Forced to absorb my inner outburst was more intense than I’d imagined it would be. I wanted to writhe beneath your touch, grind myself on your hand and spread my legs.

The fabric of your cuff balled up in my hand as I pulsed along with the highest note hit that night, and when the music softened, it took me with it, cradling me as I returned to myself.

The audience burst into applause. You took your hand away.

As we exited, you asked me what I thought.

“Life changing,” I said. You smiled.

“Wait until I take you to a rock show.”