Music for Lovers: Finger F*ckin' to the Music

Like most people, Tomek and Venecia liked music.   So why not mix some music with their luvin'?   They'd already played music in the bedroom sometimes while they were making love.   But now they decided to take it further.

They would make an artform of this.   Venecia would lie out on the couch, and Tomek would turn on a playlist of some of their favorite music.   Carefully chosen music.    Music to love by.  Music to fuck by.

It might start off kind of slow and romantic, the music.  They'd sit on the couch kissing.   He'd strip her of her vestments and she'd fall onto her back.  He kisses her naked body from head to toe while he kneels upon the floor beside her couch.

She was like some lovely Goddess, sprawled out naked across the couch, slowly writhing to the music, as his tongue and fingers adored and loved every inch of her, to the rhythm of the music.

Yes, including a lot of passings through her nether parts.   And when she was wet and ready, he'd jab a finger or two up her love tunnel.  Do it to the beat of the music.   In and out, as if his finger was the drummer's baton.   Or perhaps, the conductor’s wand in an orchestra.   

He'd orchestrate the whole thing, so that every heavy in and out jabbing of his finger, matched the heavy beat of the music they were hearing, in surround sound.   

Their sessions like this would last for many hours, as they went through lists of all their favorite love music.  Music that made her 'dance her hips' and made him jab his finger just so, until the music beat was beating on her insides.   Until she 'came' to the beat of the music.   

And then the next tune would start, and they'd start all over again.   Not every tune got an orgasm, mind you.   Some tunes were more like 'interludes' between the hard hitting love beat tunes.  But still, one song after another, she came so many times on that couch, sprawled out writhing and moaning and dancing to the music.   

Sometimes he did a song Karaoke style, where he was the one singing to her.   Because if you love and adore a girl and her body, you're gonna want to sing to her.   While she's sprawled out naked on the couch, awaiting your song. Go ahead, you don't need a great voice.  It just has to be real.

So the music, the drum beats and bass, his singing, his tonguing, his finger jabs, and her moans, — they all melded together as part of the song.
Now some songs she didn't like.  She'd say: "Stop! Not this one!  I can't get into it!", and so he'd switch to the next tune.  They learned to tweak and improve their playlist over time.   Which songs 'work' for her.   Which rhythms get his finger baton really pounding her insides like he meant it.    He was the conductor with the conductor's wand who knew how to make her body groove and sing.   

Every kind of music elicits a different kind of lovemaking.    You've got to try out every genre.   Now that shows the true love of music.  Or music of love.   
Which song is 'your' song? Which gets you off?
Lads & Lasses:  Get the music on.  Get the groove on.  
~
They went through a lot of songs those evenings.  And a lot of orgasms.   You don’t even count them anymore, when it goes on all evening like this.   
Ahh!, the feminazis of Urbe, say that men are evil pigs who denigrate women.   But a woman sprawled out like a naked Goddess on the couch, whilst her man sings and loves and kisses and licks and fingers and adores her for hours, knows what is real.

And never once does he try to put his cock in.  It just kept thumping, down there on the floor, waiting.  
You say, young man, that your gal doesn't like sex? Treat her to a 'musical evening' on the couch like this, and she'll be begging you for it.  

You say, young man, that you can't last 2 minutes in a gal?  Treat her to an evening on the couch like this, and she won't even care.   When you finally jump in, she's already come more than some wives ever do.    For that's the 'magic' of fingers.  They don't go limp.   If the music is good, and the girl is good, you can last all night.   Giving her the finger.   

And when it's late and you feel its time to wrap this up, she'll be all too glad to drop to her knees and drain your crown jewels as ne'er before.   Or better yet, raise her legs and let you bone her like you own her.   ‘Cause now you do.    
And a nice little fringe benefit: after hours of finger f*ckin’ her on the couch, — a man can usually last longer than usual, when he finally does jump in!
~
That couch got a lot of use.   Her love juices were impregnated into it everywhere.   In fact, one day Miss Prim Polly, the local schoolteacher, came by visiting, as part of a ‘welcoming committee', and to ask if they were planning any kids.  They offered her tea as she sat on the couch talking.  Then she suddenly stopped:  "you know, this couch reeks!", she squeaked.  "It reeks... of... of... cunt!"