I buzz myself in with Marie's door code.
In the lobby, I find the girl whose melon-sized breasts and pouting lips aroused me last night as I watched through her window while she danced topless and alone. She smiles bashfully when I step aside to let her pass--and I feel a small prick of guilt for having violated her privacy. Then again, she must know, they all must know, that the hotel where I'm staying overlooks their windows from barely 20-feet across the courtyard.
Even without Marie's room number, I would have found her just by following the trail of notes from her cello through the labyrinth of impossibly dark and narrow corridors. She plays an old rock melody--Springsteen's "Jungle Land"--but with her own distinctive Jazz inflection. I can almost hear my flute picking up the melody line and reeling it back to her, the way we did across the courtyard a few hours earlier.
Not that it takes much to excite me in the first place, but the exotic girl-scents--perfume, shampoo, and even a hint of sexual musk--that waft through the dorm halls piques my libido. Ahead, a bathroom door slams shut, but not before I glimpse a steamy flash of naked thigh.
At Marie's room, I cling to my flute case like it's a life ring on the "Titanic."
Although I already share a more intimate connection with Marie than with anyone else in my life, I'm suddenly aware that aside from the squeal of orgasm, I don't even know the sound her voice.
There's a soft knock on the door and it takes a moment to realize that it's my own knuckles doing the rapping.
"It's open, come in..." she says and I'm inside her room before it hits me that Marie has spoken in English. American English.
She's wearing cutoff jeans and a form-fitting tank top, and she looks even younger, perhaps barely 18, than she did from across the courtyard. I try to wish away my gray flecks and the crow's feet.
"I wasn't sure you'd come," she says, reaching behind the curtains and snatching her note to me off the window glass. "I won't be needing this anymore, will I?"
I nod in agreement, but find myself utterly tongue-tied in the presence of this extraordinarily beautiful and gifted girl.
"Oh, I sorry!" she says switching to an almost perfectly accented Parisian French. (I can't speak it well, but I know a good French accent when I hear one.) "I'm being so rude. You don't understand a word I'm saying."
I do. I understand it all. But there's only one voice I can use that won't shatter the magnificent illusion that connects us. Instead of answering with words, I respond with music
At first, Marie looks bewildered. But when I play the same riff that we traded back and forth across the courtyard just before stepping naked into each other's view, she beams with a shy, almost child-like smile. Instinctively her cello responds, matching me note-for-note while adding just a hint of her own syncopation.
The magic comes flooding back. She leads and I follow. Almost without noticing how it happens, we trade places, and I toss out the melodies while she harmonizes.
At some point, I become aware of the details of her room. Aware of the framed photos of handsome boys--prom dates perhaps--and smiling parents posed in a suburban living room. Aware of the girl-things scattered about with abandon--cotton panties, a sheer bra, fluffy pink bunny slippers, a tortoise shell cosmetics compact, and white plastic disk of birth control pills.
Something about the sum of all these parts re-kindles my sexual longing. I look down to find an erection throbbing against my jeans. Marie sees it as well, and as she completes the last bar of the melody, she sets her cello aside.
Her pale blue eyes search mine for an instant. Then she grabs the hem of her tank top and eases it over her stomach, revealing the undercurve of her tiny breasts and her puffy pink nipples before it falls to the floor.
My fingers are already at work on the buttons of my shirt. Her eyes followed my every move.
Naked to the waist, we face each other and reach for the snaps on our jeans. The stillness in her room is fractured by the sound of two zippers unclasping in tandem. She has to wiggle her hips before her cutoffs slide to floor. My jeans fall straight to my ankles.
She wears no underwear.
Neither do I.
Free of restraint, my cock bounces like a demented yo-yo. She watches and unconsciously runs the tip of her tongue along the edge of glossy lips. An involuntary shiver courses down my spine, through my stomach, and into to my cock, which throbs with what feels like a mini-orgasm.
Then she catches me by surprise.
"You do it," she whispers.