His Instrument

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
Sometimes you just get so lost in your own world when you're playing an instrument that it can become the most pleasureable feeling in the world..

Not about anyone in particular, but I had someone in mind.

Submitted: December 12, 2011

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Submitted: December 12, 2011

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Holding the guitar that was strapped around his neck, he caressed the smooth body with all four fingers, watching his movements carefully with squinted eyes. The way that his fingers would shift slightly once it went over the main body like a gentle watery wave made the shape of his instrument more real. His other hand gripped the fret board near the top, fingers lightly placed on a non-existent chord as he was transfixed with the rest of it. The strings were shining strikingly in the gaze of the overhead lights that beamed down on them, bathing them in their luminous light and showing him in fine detail what he was holding. Tightly wrapping his fingers around the fret board and releasing them to their default position again, he could feel just how hard the guitar really was. It wasn’t until he had a hold of it that he remembered how strong and indestructible it appeared to be against his touch.

Shifting his torso slightly to the right, he fished around in his back pocket for his yellow plectrum that he always had stored away in that same pocket; no matter what jeans he wore, it would always be in the back right pocket. It was a matter of routine rather than a conscious action. The keys to his apartment would go in the front left pocket, his phone in the pocket adjacent, and the back left pocket was usually empty unless he received a foreign object, like a really nice letter from someone who appreciated him; well, appreciated his music. However, without his guitar, how many people would appreciate him? How many people would take notice of him? Had he not picked up, played, studied and mastered the art of the guitar, how many people would care about him as much as they did at that moment? He realised that some people would still regard his existence as beautiful and irreplaceable, but the number of people who thought so would certainly drop, no doubt about it. It was the guitar, the sweet...sweet sound of the guitar that had helped him to achieve as much as he had. It wasn’t just that it was beautiful; it omitted a very captivating melody.

Once he had found the plectrum, he pulled it out of his pocket. After looking at it, almost like exchanging pleasantries with the inanimate object, he brought it towards the strings and played, and played...and played.

Once that pick had hit the hard metal strings of his beloved, a wave of emotion took over his entire being. He was no longer rehearsing onstage, he was in a world filled entirely with beautiful things. Once he was in the process of playing, he was instantaneously transported to heaven. Most people didn’t experience true heaven until they reached orgasm, fell in love or died (if they so believed in such an afterlife), but he felt it every single time he picked the guitar up and played. It was a world that he was very reluctant to leave, which made it extremely difficult for him to cease playing once he had already begun. Waves and waves of pleasure ripped through his body from his fingertips, pulsating around every inch of him. He was almost certain that anyone looking at him would witness a gold eruption of light escaping around him, a release of energy that accompanied his heaven.

He wanted to be closer, even closer than he already was. The body of the guitar was pressed close against his groin, sweeping slightly against the material of the jeans with each rough stroke that he gave the instrument. The fingers that gripped the plectrum gripped even harder and, in turn, he strummed the strings even harder too. Opening his mouth and twisting it into an aggressive smile, teeth bared and nose wrinkled, he went deeper. His eyes were pressed closed and his upper half was hunched over the guitar, as if it were a newborn child or a long-term lover that he never wanted to let free from his arms. His teeth bit down harshly on his bottom lip but he paid no heed to the pain that must have been consuming the soft skin. His body, his mind, his soul, everything was focused on the guitar.

How could a mere instrument, something that people were capable of purchasing in music shops and the like, be that moving, that captivating...that special? It was like something out of this world. It was a feeling that money couldn’t buy.

He got louder and louder, stronger and stronger, and so fast that he felt that his hand would disappear from strumming too intensely, yet it still managed to hit the right strings at the right time. His other hand pressed on the strings with such force that the skin on his fingertips has begun to break slightly, stinging with blood and perspiration. He ignored all of it; he could barely even feel it. He began to pant forcefully and curl into his guitar even further, taking in everything that he could feel and every sound that he could hear. He was close, he just needed a little bit more...

Collapsing heavily to his knees, still cradling it and playing harder than he could ever remember, he leant back slightly as if he were showing everyone else how great his guitar was, as if he were holding it out on display, allowing anyone who could see to see how masterful and wonderful it was. His head rolled back and his mouth opened slightly to form a crescent shape as if his head had lost all of its function; yet he still played. To strum that hard and that fast for that long, he was bound to get tired faster than he usually would. If the playing were consistent and only hard when it needed to be, he could last for hours on end; he needed to last hours on end in a band like that. One weak member and the whole group would be affected.

He could feel it building up. He rapidly shredded the notes until the sounds all blended into one and he found it hard to distinguish between each one, they all became one fantastic blur of energy.

A burst of light, a scream, the release...it was over. His hands dropped to their sides and he sat there, head still hung back weakly. He was shaking slightly and exhaling loudly. He uttered a shaky laugh: it was over; that blissful euphoric wave of pleasure was over.

Until the next time that he picked up his instrument.

A/N: At first, this was literally just about playing guitar but then it went sexual and I just let it.


© Copyright 2017 sticksothy. All rights reserved.

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