Post by goldenmyst on Aug 13, 2018 23:07:05 GMT -6
Wild Cathedral Night
The church organ pipes are close enough to the floor to be touched. And so a wicked plan is hatched by the choirmaster lady. She tutors a young lady to recognize the music by vibration alone. The maiden sits at the foot of the pipes where the vibration is strong enough to tickle her passion for music. The lass is a music academy graduate who knows not where her gift will take her. So the choirmaster leads her into realms of melody undreamed of by her innocent heart.
With a single finger Agnes, teaches the new singer by note. Agnes puts her through the paces with the girl wearing earplugs such as are worn in loud factories so that the tonalities are only felt by her as vibrations. With deepening peals, the church shakes while the pupil’s voice runs the gamut from mezzo to soprano which resonates on the acoustics of the Cathedral.
Agnes knows that her acolyte is ready for the next step. For this, only a Baroque tune will do, and that music can only be Bach’s “Toccata and Fugue.” Agnes seizes the moment to have her student gather her skirt up and pull her panties down to her knees. Now her bare bottom feels the throb of the pipes as they blast her into a musical cosmos where ancient hunger drives her into sacred madness. The wildness of woman pressed into wood takes her into a far orbit of the harmonies of her derriere spheres. But her ears are muffled to protect her hearing. Yet her voice trebles in a dream from some Gothic concert in a Wagnerian Opera lost in the myth of Germany. With no one in the church, they make music together, Agnes playing the organ with her pupil making love in palpitations with the pipes.
Agnes strikes the keys like Vivaldi on LSD until you could swear smoke rises from the organ. Each rising note inspires a newly born moan from the girl. She screams like a banshee high on Brandenburg concertos. The heat of her bare skin against oak makes for a baroque bonfire. But she maintains her poise knowing this is a lesson she shall not soon forget.
When Agnes plays the “Four Seasons” her pupil knows there is no turning back. She squirms like the wood might form an erection and penetrate her at any moment. But the slickened shelf sends vibrations which are enough to take her where she needs to go. On that thought the girl lets the organ do its work on her. Vivaldi pounds into her womanhood with the ferocity of a man taking her with masculine roughness because he knows she needs something more than a vacation from reality. She needs this composer to demonstrate his manly might.
She wonders how much more she can take before she takes the plunge. But the beat on her derriere gives her a dizzying prospect of what lies beyond the threshold. She has saved her virginity until marriage. But here is this man straight out of history giving her an orgasm. Does a climax from a dead man count for losing virginity?
Both sets of her lips quiver in unison. Suddenly Agnes plunges her into Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries.” The centuries roll across her pudenda with keystrokes designed to put her in frenzy of pleasure until Tchaikovsky’s “1812 Overture” pushes her over the precipice.
The church organ pipes are close enough to the floor to be touched. And so a wicked plan is hatched by the choirmaster lady. She tutors a young lady to recognize the music by vibration alone. The maiden sits at the foot of the pipes where the vibration is strong enough to tickle her passion for music. The lass is a music academy graduate who knows not where her gift will take her. So the choirmaster leads her into realms of melody undreamed of by her innocent heart.
With a single finger Agnes, teaches the new singer by note. Agnes puts her through the paces with the girl wearing earplugs such as are worn in loud factories so that the tonalities are only felt by her as vibrations. With deepening peals, the church shakes while the pupil’s voice runs the gamut from mezzo to soprano which resonates on the acoustics of the Cathedral.
Agnes knows that her acolyte is ready for the next step. For this, only a Baroque tune will do, and that music can only be Bach’s “Toccata and Fugue.” Agnes seizes the moment to have her student gather her skirt up and pull her panties down to her knees. Now her bare bottom feels the throb of the pipes as they blast her into a musical cosmos where ancient hunger drives her into sacred madness. The wildness of woman pressed into wood takes her into a far orbit of the harmonies of her derriere spheres. But her ears are muffled to protect her hearing. Yet her voice trebles in a dream from some Gothic concert in a Wagnerian Opera lost in the myth of Germany. With no one in the church, they make music together, Agnes playing the organ with her pupil making love in palpitations with the pipes.
Agnes strikes the keys like Vivaldi on LSD until you could swear smoke rises from the organ. Each rising note inspires a newly born moan from the girl. She screams like a banshee high on Brandenburg concertos. The heat of her bare skin against oak makes for a baroque bonfire. But she maintains her poise knowing this is a lesson she shall not soon forget.
When Agnes plays the “Four Seasons” her pupil knows there is no turning back. She squirms like the wood might form an erection and penetrate her at any moment. But the slickened shelf sends vibrations which are enough to take her where she needs to go. On that thought the girl lets the organ do its work on her. Vivaldi pounds into her womanhood with the ferocity of a man taking her with masculine roughness because he knows she needs something more than a vacation from reality. She needs this composer to demonstrate his manly might.
She wonders how much more she can take before she takes the plunge. But the beat on her derriere gives her a dizzying prospect of what lies beyond the threshold. She has saved her virginity until marriage. But here is this man straight out of history giving her an orgasm. Does a climax from a dead man count for losing virginity?
Both sets of her lips quiver in unison. Suddenly Agnes plunges her into Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries.” The centuries roll across her pudenda with keystrokes designed to put her in frenzy of pleasure until Tchaikovsky’s “1812 Overture” pushes her over the precipice.
