You, my dear, are made of flesh and bone and hopes and dreams just like the rest of us; you are no automaton, no cyborg. A mere tuning fork has more metal in it than you.
But I’ll still make you sing, my dear, my mouth coaxing soft moaning melodies from your lips. These songs are lovely, lustful little testaments to the intensity of my longing, they echo off your bouts and reverberate about your waist.
Staccato gasps and a gentle crescendo of your moans follow as I bow my tongue along your neck, plucking at your curves and ******* your lengths.
I’m no archer but I see a quiver in front of me as I pull at a string.
My chin piece is the bottom of your *** and together we play a masterpiece, your breath’s ragged cadence accompanying a mezzo-piano scream. We go on like this repeatedly, each dal segno al coda pulling one more riff out of you. Eventually my strokes and your moans harmonize and we crescendo, fortissimo,