Ava's Playlist

Ava was well-versed in utilizing creative resourcefulness to accommodate her peculiar sexual proclivities. She was sorely lacking, however, in the crucial areas of discretion and caution; chagrined, Ava berated herself as she straightened her skirt, silenced the radio, and wished she had tinted windows. She should have turned off the radio before things had escalated, but she hadn't had the willpower. Ava loved that song.

The green truck had parked beside her just as she was finishing, and Ava knew that the truck's elevation over her sedan had afforded the driver an eyeful. She could feel him watching still; he was sitting in his truck, blatantly staring, making no move to enter the convenience store they were parked outside of.

Mortified and avoiding eye contact, Ava exited the lot quickly, her panties in a crumpled ball at her feet. As she bypassed the truck, she noticed the Nevada plates; she hoped the driver was a traveler passing through town, rather than a neighbor she might encounter at the supermarket. She monitored the rear view for at least a mile, to be sure the creep in the truck hadn't decided to follow her. Of course, she could hardly fault him for staring; she had been masturbating in her car in a gas station parking lot, in broad daylight.

Ava possessed an unusual paraphilia known as Melolagnia: sexual arousal caused by music; specifically, sexual attraction to music or auditory stimulus itself. She had long ago abandoned any attempts at explaining her predilections; most people simply didn't understand.

Everyone had music they enjoyed, related to, and associated with mood and memories. The right music could so easily boost the romance and seduction potential of any setting. The impact of music on romantic and sexual experiences was undeniable.

But Ava's association with music had a different dynamic. Rather than accentuating a sensual encounter, for Ava, the music was the encounter. Certain songs, melodies, rhythms, even the sound of certain instruments appealed to her on a visceral level; she could feel the music as much as hear it, and her body responded as though caressed by a lover. The response varied depending on the song, ranging from barely discernible, like an innocuous shiver, a subconscious parting of the knees or licking of the lips, to more evident, insistent symptoms.

A great song would make Ava's nipples harden and her eyes darken, and would elicit a deep pull of yearning low in her belly. Songs Ava loved would render her intoxicated, swollen with desire, throbbing with urgent need for release. Which was how she ended up in the shamefully awkward scenario she had just escaped.

Ava only listened to talk radio when driving, having learned through experience the dangers of music in the car; she had enforced the regime before she inadvertently caused an accident. But her car had just been serviced, and the mechanic must have changed the station, because when she drove away from the garage, music was playing.

She hadn't registered the music at first. Songs were like human lovers in one respect: not all were created equal. A song Ava didn't respond to was just a song, and listening had no extraordinary effect on her.

However, the radio was a musical roulette. Ava couldn't predict what might play next, when a sneak attack might be launched by a soulful vocalist or titillating guitar riff. Which was exactly what happened, a mile from the garage. The benign, unnoticed song that was playing ended, making way for one of Ava's favorites.

The instant the sound filled her ears, she was hypnotized, lust pulsating in every cell of her body. She had pulled the car over at the first opportunity, and parked behind the gas station. Hidden behind the car wash, with no other cars nearby, Ava had thought she was reasonably safe. With the volume turned up and her eyes closed, Ava had been oblivious to everything but the music and her desperate need for release.

Skirt hitched up and panties discarded, Ava had stroked and rubbed herself, moaning with intense pleasure. She had strummed the bass line on her rock-hard clit, and matched the slow and steady drum beats with her first two fingers. She was copiously wet, her pussy open and eager as she slid her fingers in and out, in and out, exactly in time so it seemed the music truly was fucking her, the song itself filling her. Her pleasure built as the music built; when the song crescendoed, so did Ava, exploding in an orgasm so powerful it momentarily eradicated everything but the music rippling out of her body.

Ava returned to reality, still breathless from coming her brains out in her car, between the car wash and the dumpster of the HanDStop, to discover she had an audience.

She hadn't made this sort of slip up in a while, and Ava supposed she should count herself extremely lucky that it hadn't been a police car beside her. She was a bank manager, forty, single, and didn't need a reputation for being some kind of kinky exhibitionist.

Most of Ava's vacation time and discretionary income went toward music festivals and concerts, preferably out of town or in another state. The distance ensured anonymity, a great comfort to Ava when she found herself mindlessly fucking a complete stranger behind the portable toilets, then walking away without another word when the song ended. Gratification without accountability was liberating, and along with other provisions, enabled Ava to manage her situation.

In the privacy of her own home, Ava luxuriated in music to her heart and body's content. She had a massive collection, and a uniquely intimate relationship with every album she owned. She knew them by muscle memory. And when Ava craved the element of surprise, she opted for radio.

Lately, she was listening to the radio with ever-increasing fervor. Her favorite station had a new DJ, and his selections made her clit twitch and her toes curl. When he joined the station a few weeks prior, he had taken over the 8pm-midnight slot. The first set that Ava had listened to was so tantalizing, she thought it must be a fluke. But each time she heard his show, it consistently appealed to her. The majority of the songs this DJ-called Flynn-played, Ava would not be able to endure publicly, but reveled in indulgent communion with when alone.

Flynn possessed the uncanny ability to layer a playlist in precisely the right manner to captivate Ava. He initiated his sets with songs that tickled and teased, playfully nudging her libido like a first passionate kiss with a new lover. The songs then built in intensity and tempo, and grew in dominating sensual insistence, ultimately bringing Ava to her knees, momentarily shattering her into infinite fragments, drifting on the air like the musical notes themselves, before releasing her, deliciously destroyed, back down to reality.

Subsequently, Ava developed a bit of a fixation, and Flynn's segments became the primary focus of her weeknights. Once home from work in the evenings, Ava would shed the conservative suits and banker façade, light some candles and turn on the radio. The consistent quality of musical companionship Flynn provided her was so unerring, she grew dependent on him without fully realizing it.

Flynn's playlists were, in a sense, the most fulfilling sexual relationship Ava had experienced. Flynn had unknowingly granted her the reliable and steadfast capability of a lover who knew every inch of her body as well as his own. Ava was able to relax and relinquish control, knowing she was in good hands, confident that her needs would be tended to masterfully. This was a new and novel facet for Ava, and heightened every sensation.

Flynn himself was inconsequential to the interlude; in Ava's mind, he existed only as a vessel, caretaker and purveyor of auditory ambrosia. While she was undoubtedly grateful for Flynn's musical tastes and sensibilities, she never paused to speculate about him. She knew nothing of his age, appearance, personality, if Flynn was even his real name. For Ava, these details had no relevance to an affair that existed only in the airwaves. Flynn served as facilitator rather than active participant. He was the dealer, not the drug.

Gradually, Ava began to supplement her experience by emailing or calling in song requests; while the show didn't technically have a listener request format, Flynn manned the phones, station email and social media platforms during his shift. Frequently, Ava was denied the songs she requested, receiving instead the default response, "Sorry, the station doesn't have that one." She tried not to let it kill the mood and usually was able to reenter Nirvana within a few songs. Ava persisted, because when Flynn was able to grant her a seldom played or obscure musical gem, the result was a tantric earthquake.

Thanks to Flynn, Ava was having orgasms the likes of which she hadn't previously known existed; one particularly fierce guitar solo had yielded a pulled hamstring. Having such a reliably satisfying outlet for her bizarre sexual appetite, Ava hoped that the embarrassing accidents, dangerous mishaps, and impromptu detours to gas stations were behind her.

Ava had been listening to Flynn's show for about a month when it happened. It was Thursday, just before 10pm, and Ava had just emailed a request. Her laptop was open on the bed beside her, and she sighed when she saw the default email response. But once deleted, it was replaced by another message from the same sender:

Ava,

I apologize for my continued musical impotency. I regret that I can't fulfill more of your song requests. Please know that this is not a rejection of your musical preferences. I happen to think you have exquisite taste, but sadly am at the mercy of the many guidelines, restrictions, and budgetary deficiencies of a small-town radio station.

Having been in this industry for a while, I recognize when I encounter someone who is more than a typical music aficionado. The opportunity to cater to a genuine, extraordinary Lover of music is an honor.

I invite you to visit the station, tomorrow night at 11pm. Come alone, and knock twice on the back door. I understand if you are apprehensive, and will be disappointed but not offended if you choose not to come. I will be at the station until shortly after midnight anyway, and I assure you that you will be completely safe with me.

At Your Service,

Flynn

Ava read the message twice, her mind reeling. Her instincts were torn between paranoid, defensive caution, and intrigued speculation of Flynn's perceptions and motivations. He was a complete stranger, yet his message had conveyed a disconcerting tone of familiar understanding. His chosen verbiage was too apropos to be purely coincidental. His specific use of the word impotence was not lost on Ava, nor was the reference to herself as a Lover of music, capitalized.

Previous attempts to integrate Ava's melolagnia into actual human encounters had yielded results ranging from dissatisfactory to disastrous. Invariably, it was human nature to take offense at being chronically overshadowed and overlooked, in favor of background noise.

Ultimately, Ava had accepted the need for separation of Church and State. She recognized that her unusual sexual needs were a social handicap, and constituted a mark of Otherness best kept private and omitted from any human relationships.

Ava knew Flynn's cryptic invitation was a potential minefield. Whatever he had planned, she couldn't imagine it ending well for either of them. But there was the music to consider-she had developed an insatiable dependency on Flynn's playlists. And the salient fact was that Ava had already been trusting Flynn to direct this private ritual of hers for some time. He had delivered with impeccable accuracy, considering he was unaware of his role in their arrangement. Perhaps he had earned Ava's trust now, regarding whatever was behind his invitation.

Besides, Flynn surely wouldn't do anything to risk his job, so she would be fairly safe. Plus, she had mace. In her quest for authentic sexual gratification without ostracism or judgment, Flynn was the closest Ava had found to an answer in years. The temptation outweighed any reasons for or against accepting his invitation. She slept fitfully that night, uncomfortably excited in the knowledge that she was going to find out what Flynn had planned.

Friday evening, Ava closed the bank, drove home, poured some wine and ran a bath to calm her nerves. She dressed carefully, wanting to look her best and also needing distraction from the utter insanity of what she was doing. At 11pm, Ava parked in the radio station lot. As instructed, she knocked twice on the back door, then waited, feeling vaguely like a prostitute.

The night was warm, and Ava wore a floaty, purple sundress that grazed her knees; held up by ribbon straps, tied in loose bows at her shoulders. The door opened to reveal a tall, lean man with dark eyes, wearing jeans and a black t-shirt. Flynn.

Ava realized she had spoken his name aloud when she saw the answering smile in his eyes. "Ava," he replied, "I'm glad you came." Flynn ushered her inside the building, locking the door behind them. Ava's eyes slowly adjusted to the dim lighting; as she looked around, her surroundings came into focus: desks, chairs, computers, microphones and other apparatus filled the room.

She heard music playing from another part of the building, but saw no specific clues as to why she was there. Flynn directed her to a large desk with two chairs, a laptop open on the desk. When they were seated, Flynn said, "I made a playlist for you, Ava." He made a few jabs at the laptop and pulled up a file. "It's all the songs you requested that I couldn't play for you," he continued. "I put this together mostly from home, since we didn't have the tracks here. I hoped I could watch you listen to it."

Thus far, Ava had not spoken a word to Flynn, save for her accidental utterance of his name. She tried to mask her apprehension with sarcasm.

"Why? Do you do this for all your regular listeners?" Flynn leaned forward, moving closer to Ava and looking into her eyes.

"No, but there's nothing 'regular' about the way you listen, is there, Ava?" He watched the reactions parade across her face-surprise, fear, defiance, then cautious interest-but she said nothing, so he continued.

"I know about this," he said. "Not firsthand, and I wouldn't claim to understand...but I know enough."

"Enough for what, exactly?" Ava exhaled. She had to keep reminding herself to breathe, but Flynn just chuckled and replied, "Enough that I made you this playlist, enough to know how good it will make you feel, and enough to know that I would really, really like to see it. Professional interest, you understand."

That surprised a laugh out of Ava, and she felt herself warming to him. Then he started the playlist, and she ceased to focus on anything beyond the waves of sound that invaded her senses and flushed her skin. Eyes closed, she let it consume her, felt it dancing in every cell in her body, melting into warm honey that poured through her in tingling trickles.

After the first song, Ava was startled to find Flynn so near, watching her intently. Rather than making her self-conscious, his appreciation made her feel as though she had found an ally of sorts, someone who could share the experience, but without demands or expectations.

As the second song began, Ava reached for Flynn, gratified when he placed his hands in hers but made no further move to initiate contact. She simply held them for a moment, absorbing the music until she began to swell with it, then brought Flynn's hands to her body, using them to trace the rhythm across her breasts, her stomach...

Ava's bliss was shattered by the shrill ringing of a phone. Her eyes flew open as Flynn jumped up, swearing under his breath. Ignoring the phone, he yanked open the desk drawer and pulled out a pair of headphones. He leaned over Ava and placed them over her ears; they were heavy and extremely snug and for a moment, everything went silent. Then Flynn plugged the headphones into the laptop and pure, undiluted auditory ecstasy assaulted Ava.

She met his eyes before he could return to his chair, and obediently Flynn extended his hands to her again. Rather than take them, Ava let her head fall back and her arms drop to her sides, wordlessly imploring him to continue his ministrations without her direction. Inserting ear buds to hear the music, Flynn dropped to his knees in front of Ava's chair, and began running his hands over her legs, his fingertips playing the melody feather-light and fluttery across her skin, starting with her ankles and moving up, over her knees and increasing pressure as he spread the music across the tops of her thighs.

By the time Flynn made it to her hips, Ava was dizzy with lust and the playlist was well into the fourth track. He circled her hipbones with his thumbs, capturing the music perfectly, and Ava's thighs spread further apart by reflex. Even the act of removing her underwear, Flynn managed to incorporate into the music; taking longer than necessary to slide the scrap of fabric down the length of her legs, so that the moment it hit the floor at Ava's feet coincided exactly with the final drumbeat ending the song.

Two tracks later, Ava was ready to weep with gratitude; the way Flynn's long, steady fingers stroked the sound into her was like hearing each song for the first time. She had started to come the instant he slid them inside of her, his thumb smoothly assaulting her clit as though strumming a guitar. His other hand untied the ribbons at her shoulders so that her dress fell down to her ribcage, and Ava cupped her breasts, the pulsating rhythm coaxing her nipples to taut peaks.

Watching her, Flynn's eyes darkened, and Ava noticed the way the denim strained at the front of his pants. She was so accustomed to thinking of him as an impartial facilitator, that even in person she had neglected to acknowledge the man himself. Flynn obviously desired Ava; the trouble to which he had gone to instigate tonight was clearly indicative, as was the conspicuous bulge an inch away from her right thigh. She marveled at his self-restraint; not once had he sought any gratification or reciprocity from Ava, or touched her with any intent other than bringing the music to her body.

For all Ava's failed attempts with people who claimed to understand but didn't, she was amazed that this perfect stranger, who had blatantly admitted that he couldn't fully understand, seemed capable of being a surrogate for her true love. It therefore was entirely fitting that Flynn also be the beneficiary of Ava's appreciation; she could lavish his body with the passionate hunger she felt for her music.

Ava undid the button on his jeans, struggling against the strained denim to tug down the metal pull of his zipper. Flynn met her eyes questioningly; she responded with a mix of intoxication and predatory intent as she worked his jeans down to his thighs, wrapping her fingers around his liberated erection and stroking the length of it. Flynn closed his eyes and drew in a sharp breath, but otherwise remained still, and Ava knew he was fighting for control.

Loathe to lose the unpolluted sound quality the noise-canceling headphones provided, Ava nonetheless removed them, disconnecting them from the laptop to bring the music back into the room, prompting Flynn to open his eyes and meet hers. Holding his gaze, Ava brought her lips to his cock, circling the head with her tongue before taking him into her mouth. The music swelled around them, and Ava picked up the rhythm, running her hands up Flynn's thighs and over his hipbones, then gripped his hips for support as she lavished him with her tongue, taking him in as deeply as she could until she felt his hardness hit the back of her throat.