The Pick

  It was a quiet Wednesday evening. You were sitting on a bed in the basement/recording studio watching him practice. You were drowsy, but not yet tired, and the sound of his guitar kept you from becoming so.
He kept a bed down there for those long nights he spent playing, re-playing, and writing new music. There were many times he didn't lay his head down until after sunrise, and even then it was only because his body would not physically allow him to stay awake any longer.
One of your favorite things to do while he played was watch his hands. The way he melded with his guitar. The way he slid his hand along the frets. The way he held his pick...
You hadn't noticed him watching you, but he was. You were in your own land of fantasy, and he noticed. He kept glancing at you, lingering side-eyed glances. Waiting to see how long it would take you to snap out of it, or just to notice his attention. Your line of vision finally drifted up and came to rest on his face, where you became suddenly aware of your gawking. You blushed, but fought the urge to turn away, as he held your eye contact steady. He did not smile. No, there was no humor there. Nor was there anger. But it was powerful. Enough to jumpstart your heart.
There is silence. He has stopped playing. Your eyes flick to his guitar, where his hands are still firmly in position to strum a chord.
"Tell me," he says quietly.
You swallow. "Tell you what?"
"What's on your mind. What you're thinking."
Could you? No, you could never tell him just how badly you wanted to be his guitar. And why.
He idly plucked a couple strings while he waited for you to answer. It didn't take him long before he decided he had, or had not, heard enough.
"We're gonna write a song, you and me," he announced, holding his pick in his mouth while he removed his guitar and placed it on its stand.
"Write a song? Right now?" his statement baffles you, as you have never participated, or been asked to participate, in his music making.
"Right now. Just you and me." He turns his pick over between his fingers a few times after removing it from between his lips. He makes his way to you and crawls onto the bed, seating himself behind you.
"What... I don't understand. I'm not singing, if that's what you want. And how are you going to write a song without an instrument? You left your guitar over there..."
He chuckles quietly behind you. "Baby I don't have my guitar, but I have you."
You blink. He can't possibly mean what you think he means.
His right arm wraps around and he hooks his thumb into the waistband of your lounge pants. When you look down, you realize: the pick is still in his hand, between his index and middle finger. His left hand has already lifted the hem of your shirt up a few inches to expose part of your abdomen.
"Are... are you going to..." nerves begin to spike adrenaline into your blood and you find yourself unable to ask the question.
"You said it yourself, I can't write without an instrument." He begins just barely scraping the tip of the pick up and down that section of exposed skin below your belly button and you wiggle. It tickles. "Gotta warm up," he laughs softly into your shoulder.
You start to breathe faster, the mere thought of what is about to happen getting you more worked up than you have been in a very long time.
He slides his right hand down now, under the waistband, until it disappears. You gasp. He lets out a satisfied "Mmm".
"Don't even need to be tuned," he purrs into your ear.
His hand slowly comes back up, only to descend again, only this time it is flesh-on-flesh as he reaches beneath the confines of your panties. It's like an electric shock, and you instinctively press yourself backwards against his chest, your heart rate almost doubling. You feel his fingers make a few preliminary strokes, slow and deliberate, and your eyes flutter closed as your head falls back against his shoulder.
"Perfect," he whispers, and you wonder if he even realizes he said it out loud.
A sudden short scream tears out of your throat and your eyes shoot open. The pick. Good god, he's still got it.
"Relax now," he says, bringing his left hand up to grip your shoulder and keep you from moving.
Your mind becomes foggy as he begins a slow, sinful pattern with that damn pick. He is legitimately strumming you. And in turn, you are making sound, just as he intended.
"No need to be rough on the strings," he murmurs into your ear.
You find yourself panting and moaning in a pattern that matches his "strumming". He keeps you that way for a while, reveling in the sound he's creating. You feel his grip tighten on your shoulder and he whispers, "Chorus."
The pick changes course, tiny little circles around and around where you need it most. You can't help but scream a few times as your body fights against his insisting grip. After a few moments he returns to his original pattern, leaving you frustrated and breathless. You whine. He's whispering tiny little things you can't even hear.
You don't know how long it's been, but he has taken you through three "choruses" and is apparently on "verse" 4. You know this can't go on much longer, partly because that's not how long his songs usually are, but mostly because you don't think you can handle much more.
"Do you like guitar solos?" he asks, his voice sounding exceptionally velvety.
"Oh my god..." is all you can manage before his entire demeanor changes. His left arm wraps around the front of your body and holds you in a vice. You can feel his breath hot against your neck as he breathes faster and harder. Then he goes off. The pick is twirling, strumming, circling, everything all at once. Your gasps and screams are getting louder and closer together. Soon you begin to scream his name, begging, praying, desperately seeking release from this torturous game you've been playing. Your back tries to arch beneath his steady grip but to no avail. With one final, drawn-out screech, your vision goes black and you feel yourself come apart. Unraveled. Completely given over to him and his desires. He draws it out, slowing his motions to a crawl as you temporarily leave your body behind. The aftershocks race through you as you begin to come back down, and he lets you ride them out. It is another full minute before he finally stills the pick and eases his hand back out from beneath your clothes, quickly placing the piece of plastic on the side table.
You are spent, laying limp against him. Now you most certainly are tired.
"Might have to make me an entire record of those," he muses, helping you settle under the blankets. "But don't worry, I'll never release it."