The Trumpet Player

He was dark skinned, smelt like sweet chocolate. Startling white teeth flashing with a glint in his eye. She was loud, obnoxious, often drunk. The band was loose, psychedelic – a slow grind followed by an impossibly long crescendo. Exhausted, they would pack up their instruments.

She met him for the first time at an audition, he the trumpet player… she the strumpet. He turned up with his harassed wife in tow, some story about a visa/arranged marriage, clearly the wife didn’t agree.

His bullshit didn’t bother her. She was a bored singer in a dead-end band. Any distraction would do.

The day he turned up at her door was inevitable. Rehearsals had got more and more electric. Every time he played his trumpet she imagined it was his lips on her.

He sat down, she offered him coffee.

“I don’t drink caffeine.”

“How about a drink?”

“I only drink wine.”

“Well I only drink hard liquor,” she replied reaching for the whiskey bottle.

He sat politely on the couch and they talked about his ‘home’. Stories from a distant land where clearly his heart still lay. The fabric of his clothes was hypnotising, swirls and swatches of bright, vibrant colours. She could feel his mood was sombre.

“So why are you here,” she asked.

“I’m new to this town. Back home I am a celebrated musician, but here I can’t even get a job. Besides, there’s nothing to return home to.”

“Why’s that,” she replied, curious as to the tone in his voice.

“My baby mama cheated, now I’m here with my new wife.”

“Do you love her?”

“I do what I need to do”.

With his last comment, the singer noticed a catch in his voice. His pain was evident and it resonated in the lonely, aching cavity of her heart.

“Well what now.” She asked, assuming he would leave.

He put his hand on her thigh. “My day is free.”

“So is mine.”

Going against her screaming instinct, telling her to stop, she pulled him upstairs to her room.

No words, just a slow, steady ascend up the carpeted stairwell.

Silently they undressed, keeping their eyes on each other.

Standing there naked before each other, they felt harmony in their souls. She reached for his smooth, black cock, feeling the silky wetness at the tip.

Reclining on the bed, she spread her thighs, caressing her clitoris until her pussy was wet and moist. Then he sucked on each nipple of her big, soft tits, her nipples becoming erect as a moan escaped her.

As she lay back on the cool sheets, he entered her slowly, she writhing in pleasure. Looking down, she watched the dark, taut skin of his black, hard cock, entering the folds of her pleasure delta. Eager. Hungry. Plunging in again and again.

Roaring like a lion, he came inside her. Her back arching, she accepted him and felt her aching vagina spasm in pleasure. Panting, they lay together.

In the blinking light of the darkening room, suddenly his phone started to ring, the incessant electronic bleating breaking the spell.

He reached for his phone, quickly silencing it, but they both knew who it was.

Her heart tightened as he withdrew from her, his cum spilling onto the bed.

“I suppose you better go,” she mused with gravel in her voice.

“Got to pick up my trumpet.”

“See you at the show.”

He left with a soft click of the door.

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