The Unresolved Chord

Hello, my love lies. I'm Roxy Callahan and welcome to My Erotic Whispers, the podcast where we celebrate the pleasure and passion of women's sexual joy. This includes long romantic buildups to amazing love making in a soft bed and getting fucked by three guys in a dorm room for no other reason than that's what you want. This week's episode is definitely about finally getting what you want, but it's about working through your fears to get it. In this case, it's two musicians that I've worked together for years and don't want to risk their creative tension with attention of a relationship. But who says these things are mutually exclusive? And on a personal level, this is one of the very few times I've actually cried at the end of an erotic romance. So kudos to this week's stars, Mara and Rand. Please now, but this podcast is intended for adult listeners. The humming starts at exactly six two am. It's the same four bar loop he's been obsessed with for a week, and it's drilling a hole in my skull. God, Ash, must you I snap? My voice rough with sleep? My ass is already numb. From the passenger seat, and we're not even out of Pennsylvania. Seven hours of this, seven hours in this subrew that smells like old guitar cases, stale coffee, and him he just grins, not looking away from the gray ribbon of the highway. It's a hook tour. It's catchy. If you can't get it out of your head, it's a good thing. I can't get it out of my head because you've been constantly humming the damn thing. He sighs, a dramatic, long suffering sound. I know by heart. He's been my creative partner, my work husband, my other musical half for six years. And I know this sigh. It's the Toria is being prickly. Syh Well, I am prickly her driving seven hours on no notice to fill in for a band that got COVID all for a gigt some tiny club in East Village that probably won't even cover gas. But it's New York. I can't be that mad. Despite what Toy says. It's a damn good hook, it's memorable. She's just grumpy. She hasn't had her second coffee yet, you know, the one that actually makes her human. Besides, she always gets like this before a big gig, tense coiled, ready to fight. But she's right, it is just a hook. It needs something more, It needs her that discordant, minor, ky thing she does that somehow makes everything makes sense. I call it her grit, which either annoys her or pleases her, depending on whether she likes what she came up with. I glance over at her. She's all restless energy, her dark hair already escaping its messy bun, her legs tucked up on the seat. She looks like a beautiful, pissed off bird. I hum the notes again and glance at to her. She turns and glares at me. Hey, it smiles better than your sad girl Shred's playlist. If I have to listen to that one more time, I'll drive this car directly into the media, and I mean it. I see the corner of her mouth twitch. Anyway, I'm pulling off the next exit. You want your usual, my usual, he knows. I want a large black coffee with one row sugar and a pack of peanut M and ms. He knows that's my I'm stressed but also creative snack. The fact that he just knows it's so easy it's why this whole thing works, why we're a duo and not in a band or solo artists. My last boyfriend, Dave spent six months bringing me Carme Lantes. No matter how many times I told him I hated sweet coffee, he never really listened. Ash listens to the things I don't even say. I feel a familiar pang of deep affection and file it immediately under He's a good partner only if you promise not to steal all the m and ms before we had Jersey, I say, and you're paying. You lost the bet on the last song. The bet was whether I could write a bridge for Flicker in under ten minutes. She knows I threw it. I let her win. She needs the wind when she's this wound up. It's just part of managing the creative process, managing her. I pay for the coffee and snacks at the gas station and toss the M and ms into her lap. When I get back in, the car is quiet for a while, just the sound of the road and her tearing the crinkling yellow package. I watch her out of the corner of my eye. She's staring out the window, but her right hand is tapping a rhythm on her knee, a fast, complicated, syncopated rhythm. I heard instantly. It's in seven eight. She's fighting the four or four time of my hook. Okay, what's that the tapping? That's the grit. You found the grit, didn't you? He heard that from my knee. This, this is what no one else gets. My ex boyfriends would call it fidgeting. Ash doesn't just listen. He hears the music in my head, even when it's just a ghost of a rhythm on my fingertips. A thrill, sharp and bright as a plucked string, runs through me. It's the thrill of creation, of being truly, deeply understood, and the only way that matters. This is our magic. Maybe I can't help but smile. Reach back and grab my guitar, not the gibson, the beat up acoustic. I'm not sure you noticed, but I'm driving. You have longer arms than me, and I don't want to spill my coffee. Hash shakes his head as he reaches into the back. His arm bushes my shoulder as he expertly maneuvers the worn case between the seats. Okay, I tune the lower east string, sing your hook he starts to hum. No, vocalize it but in minor. Now what if I hear? Instead of resolving to the major, we just hang let the vocal carry it like this. I sing the note, a high, bluesy sound that bends and hangs in the air, full of tension and longing. The next hour is a blur, the exit ramp, the bad coffee, the shitty gig, It all dissolves. It's just us. We're shouting, harmonizing, scribbling lyrics on the back of a gas receipt. It's electric. She's found the dissonance, the dark, aching chord that my simple melody needed, and now it's ours when we find it. When the song finally clicks into place, the car falls silent. The air is still vibrating with the echo of the last chord. I look over at her. Her face is flushed with victory. Her eyes are bright, and she's completely unaware of how fucking incredible she looks. I'm wave of something, a powerful, protective warmth. I don't know whatever it is. It washes over me. It's an intensity that scares me. It feels different, it feels bigger than just the song. I immediately crank the radio blasting a random classic rock station. It's our mutual signal for resetting the boundary. That's it, I say, my voice a little too loud. That's the song. Holy shit, toy. We're not just good, we're geniuses. We did it. It's perfect. The creative high is better than any drug, better than any orgasm I've ever had. I look at Ash. He's bobbing his head to the radio, his easy grin back in place. He's a great partner, a great creative partner. But that moment, our voice is blending. The way he looked at me when I surprised him and harmonized. When he hit that high note, it felt like more. I immediately forcefully pushed the thought down. No, stop it. That's the partnership. We're a duo, and that's the magic. You mess with that, you lose everything. It's not worth it. It's just the stress of the gig. Okay, it's good, I say, finally, relaxing back into my seat. AN empty bag of M and m's in my lap. But we're not geniuses until they cheer. Now, put on my playlist. You're going to love this sad girl. I put on her playlist and to be honest. Although I would never tell her this, I really like it. The last chord of East River, the song we wrote in the car, rings out. For one agonizing second, the world is pure silence. There's just the hum of the amplifiers and the thud of my own heart in my ears. I can't feel my fingers, my throat is raw, and I'm completely totally empty. And then the sound hits us. It's not just applause. It's a roar, a wave of sounds so big and unexpected. It feels like a physical force pushing me back a step. I look at Ash. He's trunched in sweat, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, his face split by a grin of pure, unadulterated shock. He looks fairal, he looks beautiful. He catches my eye through the blinding purple and blue lights and gives me a single, triumphant nod. We did it. That song we wrote on a fucking gas station receipt just killed. I step up to the mic. My leg's shaking with adrenaline. Thank you, New York, You've been incredible. We're Tori and Ash. Good night. My heart is trying to hammer its way out of my chest. The noise is still ringing in my ears. The energy of a thousand people fee back into us. I've never felt anything like it. I stumble off the tiny stage and into the grimy, exhilarating darkness of the backstage hallway, and Tory stumbles in right behind me, laughing and completely out of breath. Who are fucking geniuses? I pant, leaning against this cinder block wall. She turns, her face flushed and glowing, her eyes bright as spotlights. She doesn't say anything. She just launches herself at me, throwing her arms around my neck, her body light and sweaty, and she buries her face in my shoulder. I hold her. My arm's instinctively wrapping tight around her waist. I can feel her heart hammering against my chest. Or maybe that's just mine. I can't tell where one of us ends and the other begins. For this one perfect, unguarded second. We're not Torrey and Ash, we're not partners, We're just us. It's the most terrifyingly perfect feeling I've ever had. She pulls back, her hands still resting on my shoulders, her smiles so wide and unguarded it punches air from my lungs. We are, and just like that, the moment breaks. She drops her hands, a flicker of something, awareness, fear, passing through her eyes. His arms were so strong, his body was so warm. For one insane second, I just wanted to stay there. I wanted to pull his face down to mine and kiss him right there, in the smell of sweat and stale beer and victory. The thought is so loud, so visceral, it terrifies me. That's the adrenaline, I tell myself, stepping back, forcing a laugh that sounds too high. That's all it is. It's the show, okay, I say, running a hand through my damp hair. I need a shower. I feel dis disgusting. Yeah, me too. He's looking at me with an unreadable expression. Seriously, tor that was that was amazing. I'm not sure if he's referring to us holding each other or the show. Damn it, Tory, of course he's talking about the show. It was, I finally answer, grabbing my bag, I walk to my dressing room and he walks to his. The door clicks shut between us, a small, definitive sound. The boundary is back in place. Worse safe, I'm half dressed, talon water for my hair. When my phone buzz is on the counter. It's our manager Ben. The text is all caps. Where are you need? You? Both? Front of house? Now? Shit? Did we run long? Is the club on our pisted? I pull on a clean T shirt. My HeartMate kicking up for a whole new reason. I text Tory, Ben needs us now meeting the hall. I pressend and step out. She's already there, her hair damp, her face pale and worried. What did we do? No idea, I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. Let's go find out. We walk back into the main room. It's mostly empty now and the staff clearing glasses. Ben is standing near the entrance, and he's vibrating with an energy I've never seen, like he just drank a gallon of espresso. He's with two other people, a guy in an expensive looking blazer who looks like he owns things, and a woman. She's tall, with an intense, kind face and slightly quirky glasses. She looks familiar Ash Tory. This is Paul Vance and this is Credit Gerwig. Sorry what my brain ish short circuits? Credit Gerwig. Here at our tiny film gig in the East Village. I must be hallucinating. I look at Ash. His mouth is literally hanging open. I'm pretty sure mine is too. Greta Gerwig smiles, a warm, genuine smile. That was just extraordinary. She says, her voice exactly like it is in interviews. Your sound, the way you two. She gestures between Ash and me, a little wave of her hand, the interplay of joy and pain. It's exactly what we've been looking for. The man in the Blazer. Paul steps forward. We're in post production on Greta's new picture. It's an intimate story, a complicated one, and we need a song for the credits. A song that is the relationship, what we just saw on that stage. That's the exact thing we're looking for. This isn't real. I'm still asleep in the subaru. This is a stress dream, Greta. Leen's in her eyes, focused and serious. We'd love for you to write it. The words just hang in the air. A credit Gerwig movie. A theme song. This isn't just a big break, miss the break, the one that changes your life forever. Yes, Ash blurts out, finding his voice before I. Can what my client means. Ben says, jumping in and smoothing his tie. Is that we are extremely interested in discussing this opportunity. Paul hands Benecarte as they turn to leave. I'm completely frozen. My entire future just tilted on its axis. I look over at Ash. He's looking at me, his eyes wide with the same terrifying, exhilarating, universe ending thought. Holy shit, the stakes just went from making rent to making history. Is it strange that in that exact moment all I wanted to do was sterritory and see her full of joy, that all the work, all the sacrifices, and all of her genius has paid off. You deserve this so much, I think, as she turns to me and smiles. The screening room in Los Angeles is small, dark and freezing. It's just me, Ash and the producer, Paul, who's scrolling through his phone, already looking bored. My heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest. This is it, this is real. I'm sitting so close to Ash I can feel the warmth radiating off his arm. His knee is a scant inch from mine. I've spent six years in his personal space in cramped vans on tiny stages and shared rehearsal rooms. But this feels different. The darkness and quiet makes it intimate charged. The movie starts. It's not a comedy. It's definitely not Barbie. It's a raw, quiet, devastating film about a long term relationship. The two main characters are musicians. My breath catches. I'm watching a scene where they're in the apartment bickering. It's not a louder fight, it's a quiet, intimate one full of shared history. He's annoyed that she keeps leaving our tea bags in the sink. She's annoyed that he's humming a melody that's not quite right. It's so real, so us it makes my skin crawl. Then the scene shifts. They haven't resolved to fight, but he sits down at an old, upright piano and starts to play a simple, searching melody. She stands by the door, her back to him, her arms crossed. Then, almost against her will, she turns, walks over and starts to sing, her voice fitting into the spaces of his melody, correcting it, elevating it. The music is their apology. It's their entire relationship played out in chords and harmony, A jolt, sharp and electric goes through me. Holy shit, that's that's us. That's the song we wrote in the car. That's him hearing the rhythm. I was tapping on my knee. That's our telepathy. I risk a glance at Ash and the flickering light of the screen. His face is pale, his eyes fixed on the couple. He isn't just watching a movie. He's watching us, and I know with a terrifying absolute certainty that he sees it too. I'm trying to be professional. I'm trying to focus on the vibe, the tone. That's what Paul said, get the vibe, but it's impossible. All I can think about is that Torre is sitting so close to me that I can smell her perfume, that faint, familiar scent of vanilla, and something I can only describe as her. I'm trying to take notes, but then that scene hits me. The bickering, it's so us. It's her snapping at me about a chord progression and me sniping back about her sad girl playlist. It's the shorthand the brutal honesty, the way they communicate in a language, and no one else understands, and then they make up, not with words, with music. I feel a jolt of recognition so strong it's like a physical blow. My god, that's us, that's our magic. That's what we do. That's what no one, not my excol friends, no my family has ever understood about us. It's this, this secret language. I look over at her. Her eyes are wide locked on the screen. She knows she sees it too, And suddenly this isn't about a song anymore. This is about us. Our one protected, sacred space, our creative partnership has just been exposed, held up to a mirror, and it's reflecting back something I'm not sure I'm ready to face. When the lights come up, Paul is typing on his phone, So that's the vibe. He looks up. We need a song that feels like that, like a whole relationship in three minutes. You guys can do that, right. Her throat is dry. I look at Tory. She looks completely shell shocked. Yes, absolutely, We're back in Pittsburgh, Ash's home studio. It's two in the morning, the floor littered with empty coffee cups, crumpetable lyric sheets, and attention is so thick. I feel like I'm breathing water. This should be easy. We just saw the movie. We are the movie. This song should be writing itself. But it's not. It's hollow. It's empty. Ashes at the keyboard playing a progression. It's fine, it's technically good. It sounds on the surface like a Tory and Ash song. But as I said, it's empty. He's hiding behind it. He finishes the loop and looks at me, waiting for me to add my special part, to bring the grit. I can't. I just shake my head, my arms crossed tight over my chest. What his voice is already defensive. That's a solid start tour. It's it's not ash, it's not honest. I see him flinch, a tiny, almost imperceptible tightening in his jaw. Honest, I can see him thinking, what does that even mean? It's our sound. He's retreating. He saw what I saw in that theater, and now he's pretending he didn't. He's giving me the same safe, easy progression we can right in our sleep, but now it feels like a lie. It's not honest. It's a CG, a minor F progression tour. It's the foundation of half our songs. It's what works. Why are you overthinking this? She's pushing, She's pushing right at the boundary, the one we've never ever touched. Why why now? This is Greta Gerwig. This is our entire career. This is the one time we cannot afford to get weird. We have to be Tory and Ash. We have to be the pros, the two headed monster, the creative telepaths. But she's trying to make it personal. She's trying to make it about us. You're overthinking it. I stand up from the keyboard, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. We don't need to reinvent ourselves just because it's a movie. We just need to deliver our sound. Why are you trying to make this so complicated? Why can't we just stick to what works? Why are you pushing this? I'm screaming internally. Why are you trying to break the one thing that's perfect? He thinks it's perfect, denying to himself that it's not that he's high behind a lie, that it's incomplete. He's yelling. He never yells. The tension in the room is suffocating. It's all the unspoken words from the plane ride back, all the subtext from the movie, all the sexual energy from six years of forced blotonic partnership, and it's all boiling over disguised as a fight about a fucking chord progression. He's demanding to know why I'm making it complicated, because it is complicated. I look at him, because what works isn't working anymore. Ash, New York wasn't an accident. And I'm not talking about the show in Greta, Gerwig. I'm talking about the song we wrote. We wrote it differently. I don't know if it was the stress, the lack of sleep, or something else, but things changed and it changed us for the better. Can't you see that? I can't sit here and write a song about a telepathic, intimate, all consuming, creative love with you and pretend and pretend that all it needs is a chord progression. I'm shaking, my fist clenched. He's staring at me, his chest heaving, waiting for me to back down, to be the cool girl, to just write the damn song, because Ash, it's not honest. You're not being honest with me, with yourself, I say in my head. He just stares at me. I can't do this. I can't write a lie. I grab my jacket from the back of the amp. My movement sharp and jerky, Tori de haunt. I can't, I can't write to this. I walk out and slam the studio door behind me. The sound is final. I half expect him to follow, to grab my arm. I stand in the hallway, the silence of his house ringing in my ears, and I have no idea if I just destroyed our song, our career, or the most important relationship in my life. The studio is a morgue. It's been twenty four hours since she slammed the door, and the silence is so total it has a sound. It's the sound of failure, of a promise broken. I'm staring at the keyboard, at the empty chair where she's supposed to be. The song is dead, the entire project is dead. And I know, with a clarity that feels like a shard of glass in my gut, that she was right. The music was hollow because I was being a hollow. I was the one being dishonest. I saw us on that screen, our magic, our secret language, and I got scared. I ran right back to the one thing I thought was safe, our old dynamic. I tried to hide us from our elves, and in doing so, I've broken the one thing I was trying to protect. I can't write this song without her. I can't imagine writing any song without her. My fingers are shaking. As I pull out my phone, my thumb hovers over her name. This is it. This is either the end of us or at the beginning of something terrifying. I text, you were right, it's hollow. I was scared. Can we try again your way? I hit sen and feel like I'm going to be sick. I'm curled up on my sofa, buried under a blanket, convinced I've just detonated my entire life, my career, my friendship, the one relationship that mattered. I'm crying not because he was an asshole, but because I wanted him to be one. I wanted him to follow me to Yell, to prove to me that what we had was worth that he saw what I saw in the movie theater, But he just let me go. And that silence confirms my worst fear. When I felt in that theater, that earth tilting recognition, I felt it alone. My phone buzzes on the coffee table. I slowly reached for it, terrified it will be ash, Desperate it will be ash. It's him. You were right, it's hollow. I was scared. Can we try again your way? I read the text once twice. My tears are for a different reason now, a dizzy and terrifying wave of relief. Your way. He knows what that means. It's not just about a different chord progression. It's about honesty. It's about facing the thing we saw in that screening room. It's about the mirror. This is scarier than the fight, but I can't run from it. I text him back, I'm on my way. When she walks back into the studio, the air is electric. The anger is gone, but the tension is still there, humming between us, low and dangerous. She's wary, her arms crossed over her chest. I don't blame her. I've rearranged the room. The keyboards, the computers, the amps, they're all off. I've just put two simple stools in the middle of the floor, facing each other. The acoustic is in my hands. A single notebook is on the floor. No technology, no hiding. Okay, my voice sounds rough in the quiet. No more hiding. You said I was dishonest. You were right. I was trying to hide. But that's not what the song is. I look her right in the eye, forcing myself to be as brave as she was. Forget the movie. She tilts her, not knowing where I'm going. I hold up my hand. Just trust me. She nods, We're not going to write about the couple in the movie. He's terrified. I can see it in the way he's gripping the neck of the guitar. His knuckle's white. But he's not running. He's here, open and vulnerable in a way I've never seen. This is the ash from the car. This is the man who hears the music in my head. My fear gives way to a strange sharp focus. He's right, this isn't about the movie, okay, ash. I walk over and take my stool. The two feet of space between us feels like a canyon and no space at all. If we're not going to write about the couple. In the movie. I take a breath. The most dangerous question of my life is forming on my lips. And it's dangerous because I already know the answer. Who are we going to write about. She's asking me a question, but I know it's actually an invitation. I put my fingers on the strings. I don't play our old progression. I play something new, a minor chord. The hearken, questioning and full of tension. I look up at her, holding her gaze, and I sing the first line. It comes, a rough flow confession. Was it a promise or a secret? Or a line we couldn't cross? Her eyes? Got her eyes. She doesn't look away, she doesn't flinch. She's right there with me. She's in the fire. The chord vibrates through my chest. He's not hiding, he's confessing. The music is our shield, our permission slip. My mind is erasing, and I find the harmony, almost without thinking. My voice breathy, fitting into the space he loved for me, six years of silence, afraid of the cost, is locked on his This isn't a song. This is our conversation, the one we should have had five years ago. His eyes are so intense it feels like a physical touch. He's not just harmonizing. He's answering me. He's answering the question we both asked over and over again but never heard. He strums again, a little harder, the tempo pushing. I read the book of you, memorized every page, but we stay. In character, stuck on the stage. I sing back the lyric of painful, honest truth. He strums harder. The music swells. The lyrics are pouring out of us now, a torrent of every unspoken, forbidden thought. It comes so easy. I've always wanted to. He sings, his voice, cracking with raw e motion. That's not performance. Just see what's in your eyes. I've always wondered. My voice trembles. What it feels like when you I stop. I can't finish the line. The hair is too thick, the admission is too real. My eyes dropped to my hands, my hair falling forward like a curtain. She stops singing. The music hangs in the silence, an unresolved chord. The only sound in the rooms are breathing, shallow and fast. She's hiding her face, but I can see the pulse hammering in her throat. This is it, this is the honesty, this is the song. I have to know. I have to see her. I slowly, silently put the guitar down on the floor. She's in her chair. I'm in mine. I lean forward, bridging the small agonizing gap between us Tory Tory. She looks up, her eyes are wide, her lips parted. She's not my partner, she's not my friend. She's the only person in the world. I'm an inch away. I can feel the warmth of our skin, the soft exhale of her breath. My entire universe narrows to this one point, this one inevitable, terrifying second. He's leaning in. It's happening. After six years. He's going to kiss me. He's finally going to kiss me. My entire body is a single, screaming nerve, and it's all shouting yes. But as his lips are an inch from mine, a cold, sharp, panic, familiar in gutting, cuts through the heat, the music, the song Greta. If we do this, if we cross this line for real, and if it goes wrong, it's over everything. This magic, this telepathy, this thing that makes us us, it will shatter. It will be replaced by failure, by resentment, by awkwardness, by the ghost of what we had. It will be destroyed. Just as his lips are about to touch mine, I turn my head. The motion, jerky, agonizing ash. If we can't. Please don't listen to me, Please ignore me, Please just do it. Her words hit me like a physical blow. We can't. I freeze. My body is locked an inch from her face. I can see the tears welling in her eyes, the agony of her decision, and it all crashes down on me. I know she's right, She's always been the one to protect us. I pull back and the space between our chairs feels like a thousand mile chasm. The rejection is a cold, sharp ache in my chest. Yeah, uh, you're right. The partnership, it's everything. I look away from her, at the guitar on the floor. We did it, We wrote the song. It's perfect, it's honest. It's the best thing we've ever done, and it has cost us everything. I stumble out of Ashes studio, wondering if I made the greatest mistake of my life. Did I protect us or did I ruin us? It's been a full day since she walked out, and the silence is absolute, a heavy, suffocating blanket. The song is sitting right there on the hard drive, ninety percent finished, brilliant and completely unsavable. It's missing the ending, it's missing its resolution. I'm staring at the empty stool where she always sits. Her coffee cup ring's still on the side table. I've spent the last twenty four hours in a self imposed hell, coming to a single, gunt wrenching conclusion. She was right. I was the one who broke it, and I know that's what she felt before she left my studio. I can't write this song without her. The thought is so clear, so final, that it stops my breath. It's not even a creative admission, it's a fact. I can't write any song without her. I can't imagine my life without her. My fingers are shaking as I pull out my phone. My thumb hovers over her name. This is it, This is the last chord. It's either the end of us, or it's the beginning of something else, some new song, something terrifying. I text her, you were wrong. The song's not finished. I hit send and feel the blood drained from my face. I'm on my couch, wrapped in the blanket. I don't deserve convinced I've just committed career suicide or worse. I didn't just walk out on a song. I walked out on Greta Gerwig. I walked out on Ash. I walked out on us. My phone buzz is on the coffee table. This sounds so violent it makes me jump. I lunged for it. It's Ash. He's telling me I'm wrong that the song's not finished. I fread the text once twice. My tears start again, but this time there for a different reason, a dizzying, terrifying wave of hope. He's not talking about the song, not really. He's talking about us. And this is scarier than the fight. This is the surrender. I text back, I'm on my way. When she walks back into the studio, the air is so thick with unspoken words it's barely breathable. I crossed the studio in two strides. I'm standing in front of her. She smells like tory, like vanilla and guitar strings and safety and all those things that are her. My hand comes up. I tangle my fingers in her soft hair and tilt her head back. My other hand finds her waist. I pull her flush against me and feel her sharp, sudden inhale. I kiss her. It's not a kiss, it's six years of unspoken, repressed, agonizing want. My mouth is desperate, hungry, claiming hers. This isn't my buddy, this isn't my partner. This is the other half of my soul, and I've been starving. My tongue tastes her lips, and then her tongue, and it's no longer a kiss, It's a song. She moans into my mouth, her body melting against me, her hand's grabbing my shirt. He's finally, finally kissing me. And it's a million times better than my dreams. It's raw, and it's him. It's ash, but it's an ash I've never known, unleashed and full of a dark, demanding passion that I'm meeting with my own. His taste is intoxicating, his mouth devouring me, I moan, pressing myself closer, needing to feel all of him. And oh, my god, do I feel him his cock, which I've dreamt about, And although I would never have admitted it to myself, I've fantasized about his pressing against me. He pulls back just enough to look at me, his lips open, his eyes black with desire. He lifts me as if I weigh nothing. My leg's instinctively wrapping around his waist, and he sits me on the edge of his workstation, scattering lyric sheets across the floor. He's standing between my spread legs. His hands slide up my thighs. I can feel how hot his palms are, even through the material of my jeans. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of my jeans, his keys locked on mine. I've been dreaming about this. He doesn't rip my jeans off. He unbuttons them slowly, his eyes never leaving mine, and he pulls the zipper down with an agonizingly slow zip. As he slowly undresses me, I whisper, so have I. He tugs my jeans and panties down my legs in one motion. He tosses them aside, and then kneels. My heart stops. He looks at my pussy, exposed and glistening in the dim studio light. The smell of my arousal, sharp and sweet, fills the air between us. He looks up at me, and his smile is the smile of hundreds of nights and hundreds of stages, a smile of us knowing, connecting on stage. It purss my heart. But then he buries his face in me. She's so wet, the taste of her is a revelation, musky, sweet and absolutely addictive. I try to be gentle, but I'm ravenous. I want to taste all of her immediately. I'm making up for years. I need to touch every part of her with my tongue. I lightly flick it against her clit, and it's a perfect hard pearl. I circle it, then suck it. My hand's gripping her thighs, holding her open for me. I can feel her body tense, her fingers twist in my hair, pulling me closer. It's not just pleasure, it's music. I'm setting a rhythm, a driving, relentless beat. I'm playing her body, and she's screaming my name. His mouth is electric, His tongue is a baseline, a perfect driving beat against my clit. It's making my vision go white. I'm close, too close, It's too fast. I can feel the orgasm building, a wave of heat that's about to crash ash. I cry out a plea. He pulls back, leaving me suspended, panting on the very edge. He stands up, his cock straining against the fly of his jeans, his mouth slick with my juices. He kisses me again, and I taste myself on him. It's the most decadent, intimate flavor in the world. He rips his own shirt off over his head, then works at the button of his jeans. I'm too impatient. I push forward, grab his hands away, and unfasten them myself. I pull down his zipper and he's free. He's hard and hot and real. I wrap my hand around his cock, and it's like my hand was made to hold him. I stroke him once, and a low grown tears from his throat. I push him back and slide down the kneel in front of him. I take his cock in my hand and just lose myself and the feeling of it. It's so hard and yet so soft. I rub the head of his cock against my lips, against my cheeks. I slide it all over my face, wanting to just feel it everywhere the head, and then take him inside my mouth. Hash moans as I slide him in and out, and my orgasm again builds as he takes my hair in his hands and starts to thrust slowly into my mouth. He's gentle, and not so much fucking my mouth as exploring it with his cock. I love the feel of her tongue the feel of her lips. I've watched those lips move for years, producing the most extraordinary music that made my heart hurt at its beauty, and now they are making my heart beat fast with pleasure. I slowly pull out, and she looks up at me. We are so connected and so in tune that I know what those eyes are saying. They're saying, fuck me, and I realize it's the only thing I've ever truly needed. I slide down to my knees to face her. His hand is against the back of my head as we kiss. As he leans forward, he is slowly lwering me to the floor. I lie back and stretch and spread my legs. He's kneeling between them, his hard caught glistening in the soft lights of the studio. He leans forward and I close my eyes, taking it all in. This is the stage. I enter her slowly, and it's like every nerve is connected to her in some way. The pure pleasure of feeling her pussy pressed around me. As I slide deeper and deeper, It's a feeling of completion, of a cord finally resolving. She's warm and wet and unbelievably tight. Clutching me, her body welcoming me home. I watch her face as I slide deep into her. Her eyes are closed, her lips parted, her expression one of pure agonizing bliss. I pull out almost all the way, just to feel the exquisite torture of pushing back in. She gasps, this is our rhythm. I start to move, slow, deliberate. I'm setting the tempo. I feel every delicious moment of him slowly sliding into me. It's all I can feel. He's purposefully focusing all of our pleasure on just that, his cock, slowly sliding in and out. He's setting the tempo, and I follow without thinking. Our bodies like our voices, just know. He speeds up, and my hips are already there, meeting his thrusts. He changes the angle, and I'm already arching into him. This isn't just sex. We're composing. He leans down and his mouth finds my breast, sucking my nipple in perfect time with his thrusts. His hand reaches down and finds my clit, his thumbs starting its own relentless rhythm, cock mouth thumb. He's twisted above me and playing me like he plays the guitar with a virtuosity that's breathtaking. It's a three part harmony, and I'm coming apart. He's pounding into me now, a drive in powerful beat. He's fucking me hard, and it's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard. I can feel her every breath, I can feel the tensing of every muscle. It's like her body is mine. Her orgasm is building, her pussy is squeezing my cock. She's screaming my name, and it's the only lyric, the only note that matters. It pushes me over the edge. I feel my own release building, a tidal wave of six years of waiting. I come with a deep shout, emptying myself into her, and just as my muscle's pulse, my cock throbbing inside her, I feel her own orgasm, sees my cock tightening around me as her body convulses around mine. It's the final perfect harmony. Collapse, a tangle, panting, sweaty mess on the studio floor, surrounded by our instruments, amplifiers and soundproofed walls. I smile, Thank God for soundproofed walls. He's lying on his back, his arm heavy and perfect across my waist. The moment is too perfect. I don't want to ruin it, and am too terrified to speak. So now what he whispers? The old fear, just a tiny, fading echo. I hear the question, did we just ruin everything? I lift my head, my hair a wild, damp mess, my body aching in the most wonderful way. I look at him and his beautiful, worried face. I finally realize something important. There's nothing to ruin. We are exactly where we want to be. A slow, incredibly happy smile spreads across my face. But I don't care. And as I say the words I don't care, an unbidden thought enters my mind. It's a perfect harmony of lyrics and music. It's so clear, it's right there. I scramble to my feet, naked and glorious in the dim studio light. I just watch her. My heart's so full, I think it might burst. She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. But then she scrambles to her feet, and I'm terrified that she's having regrets and will rush out of the room, leaving me. She doesn't rush out of the room. She walks over to the guitar stand, her body still glistening and naked and picks up my acoustic She slings the worn leather strap over her shoulder, the dark wood of the guitar barely covering her breasts. I just stare you naked playing my guitar. Out a shaky laugh that is, without a doubt, the single hottest thing I've ever seen. She smiles and strums a single, perfect, resolved C major chord. It rings out in the quiet room. We need an ending for the song, Ash, and I found it. I look at her, this incredibly sexy woman standing there playing a guitar, completely naked, and as she turns to me, this perfect joining of us, our music, our desire, our love, al laid bare. Just for me, she says, we found it. The theater is vast and dark, the air hushed. I should be watching the movie, this film that has consumed our lives for the past six months, but I can't. I'm watching Ash. He's sitting next to me in a suit that I know he hates, his eyes fixed on the screen, his profile lit by the flickering images. My hand is in his, our fingers laced together on the plush velvet armrest. I feel the steady, reassuring tap of his thumb against my finger. The whirlwinds since that day in the studio has been insane, a framptic, joyful blur of recording sessions, meetings with lawyers, and a new record deal. We finished the song, the real song, the honest version, in a single breathless take, but it all feels secondary, like noise happening in another room. The only thing that has felt truly real is this his hand in mine. I'm pretending to watch the movie, but all my senses are tuned to her. The scent of her perfume, the soft sound of her breathing, the way her hand feels small and warm, anchored to mine. My mind flashes back to that moment on the studio floor, the raw, terrifying honesty, the way she looked, naked and holding my guitar, the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. The song that came from that moment. It was the best, most honest thing we've ever written. It was the truth. Now the movie is ending, The final heartbreaking scene fades to black, the theater is suspended in a moment of perfect, respectful silence, and then I hear it, the sound of my own acoustic guitar, The simple minor chord we found in my studio fills the vast dark room. Our song begins, MY voice, breathing and vulnerable, weaves with his, our harmonies as interlocked as our fingers. It sounds perfect. It's the sound of our sixty years of silence, of our fear, of our final explosive surrender. It's the sound of us. The credits role, I see our names appear on the screen, a line of white text that changes everything. Original song written and performed by Torrian Ash. A tear slips down my cheek. I'm overwhelmed, not by the screen, but by the hand the titans on mine. I turn to look at him. I feel her turn and I look away from the screen. In the dim glow of the credits, I see her face, the tears on her cheeks, the smile that's just for me. The song might be a hit that might win awards, it might change our entire career. But as I look at her, I know, with an absolute certainty that settles deep in my bones that it really doesn't matter, None of it does. All that matters is her is us, And at that moment I feel it. She's tapping her finger onto the back of my hand A sinkle pated beat. She's writing a song. Is the credits roll? I squeeze her a hand. I know that song. It's the one that will never end. Thanks so much for listening to my podcast. I'm Roxy Callahan and my Erotic Whispers are brought to you by tenth Muse Studio.