It was the ponytail that did it for her. Or maybe the little-boy-lost personality, or maybe the piano playing, or the fact that he was married, or who he was married to.

Whatever it was, she could not resist him, especially when he was feeling threatened by the big world, and the big people, when he would escape to the piano and retreat into his jazz, to be the entertainment, to become the music itself, to make the people dance around him. Then she would hover as near as she could, to seem protective without being threatening.

She reveled in the nearness, imagined him nearer, without the clothes, but still at the piano bench, at least at first, before she led him to a convenient bed and took him in her mouth, watching the pleasure spread across his face, the same expression he wore while playing but from her, and even more intense, with that extra edge of sexual tension and impending orgasm.

She sat next to him in the midst of the party, ignoring his wife, ignoring her husband, watching him play, picturing his cock in her mouth, imagining him at the second just before he came when his cock like her husband's would tense in her mouth, tense and then jerk and then spurt his seed down her welcoming throat, sat with her hand in his lap on that very same cock, sat and imagined as he grew hard, sat and imagined as he played on, sat and imagined playing with his spent cock until he was hard again, sat and imagined lying back on the bed, guiding him into her, wrapping her legs around his back, sat and imagined him fucking her forever as the party, as his wife, as her husband, as the party danced around them, danced around them, danced around them to his jazz.