Microfiction: The Muse’s Music by Michael M. Jones

“The Muse’s Music”
by Michael M. Jones

Ask Diana what her favorite instrument is, and the answer might surprise you. After a few thousand years, she’s heard them all, from the pan pipes to the theremin, from the harp to the saxophone. Mastered them, too. The one-time muse of music, the once-called Euterpe, who now owns a club named for her and plays at being human. But of all the many instruments she loves the piano most of all. The feel of the keys, the range of harmony, the energy. (Ask her about Billy Joel, about Liberace, about Chopin, about Thelonious Monk. Diana has enjoyed many identities over the years. Music calls to her, not specific bodies.)

The piano has a way of seducing Diana even now. After-hours at Club Euterpe, it’s just her and her latest protege, a passionate, elfin young woman studying at the Puxhill Conservatory of Music, who’s learned more from playing for Diana than she’ll ever get from the school. With the doors locked, the lights dimmed, everything neat and tidy and ready for the next night, the club becomes shadows and stillness. A single spotlight shines on the vintage Bösendorfer piano in its place of honor on the edge of the stage. Dressed all in black and grey, Mariana plays, all intense and focused while Diana… basks in the center of the room, on the deserted dance floor. She closes her eyes and feels the music wash over her. She slowly disrobes, each piece of clothing falling to the ground in a heap, until she stands naked in the center of the room, the center of her temple, and she remembers what she once was. Light plays off bare skin, teasing her curves, granting her a silver glow. She becomes radiant, otherworldly, like her old self.

Diana touches herself as Mariana touches the piano keys. Caresses herself to the interplay of black and white ivory, strokes herself to the slow melodies. She gasps when Mariana hits a faster tempo, and groans when she finds the right run of notes.

Every time Mariana plays for her is a unique experience. Every song is new, fresh, original, never to be repeated. Offerings to the lost goddess.

And then Diana comes to Mariana, draws her away from the piano, kisses her deeply. There’s a sharing of power and passion which transports the two to a new level of understanding. Hands over breasts. Lips on skin. Soft moans become louder gasps. And when Diana goes down on Mariana, tasting the warmth and wetness of her depths, it’s the most intimate of blessings. By fucking her mortal lover, Diana conveys her appreciation, her approval. Each flick of the tongue, each thrust of the fingers, each nibble is another note in a song that ends in a crescendo of whimpers and screams.

Afterwards, Mariana returns the favor, pleasing her with mouth and hands and clever mortal ingenuity, pushing her to her own orgasms, and Diana finds her own unique melodies.

Diana has never told Mariana her true name, but when the other woman is crying out in ecstasy, she somehow knows it anyway. And thus the once muse of music renews herself, time and again.

Michael M. Jones lives in southwest Virginia with too many books, just enough cats, and a wife who knows where the bodies are buried. His stories have appeared in numerous Circlet anthologies, including Superlative Speculative Erotica. If this story intrigues you, please check out his collection, Puxhill by Night, or visit him at www.michaelmjones.com

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