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We met at a cafe in Berkeley called the French Hotel. She was quietly experimenting with chords on the old upright piano by the bar, interesting, dissonant chords that reminded me of McCoy Tyner, stacked thirds and such. I was seated at a small table in the back with my 17" MacBook Pro, downloading, as fate would have it, some late-fifties Coltrane, and as a joke I fired up Sebelius and started mimicking some of the chords she was playing. She smiled at me, and prestissimo, thanks to my Mac the ice was broken. We ended up spending the afternoon together, then agreed to meet again the next day. Long story short, she invited me back to her apartment. She asked me if she could 'explore' my Mac, she promised to be real careful. Would I be willing to give her a 'tutorial' ? Of course, I said. We ended up lying on our stomachs on her bed (actually it was tatami mats with really comfortable quilts and pillows) and I guided her through the eye candy and other nifty features until she suddenly giggled and said, ''wow, I grok this, this is like so totally liberating...'
Then she was off on her own, creating wildly with a sense of liberating exhileration that only the Mac cognoscenti can truly understand. While she was exploring new chord forms and creating remarkable drum loops in Garage Band, I lifted the hem of her skirt and gently touched the back of her thigh with my fingertips. She sighed and lifted her rump, exposing violet underpants. Parting her legs, I couldn't fail to notice the dark wet spot in the center of the bandeau of her panties. While she continued to type, email, and surf the net, I tugged at the waistband of her underpants until her buttocks were bare. She sighed again as I parted her cheeks and lowered my face into her treasure trove. The heat of her anus radiated bliss and I kissed, then moistened her opening with my tongue until she groaned and began to grind herself against my face. Moments later, my cock was pressed into her crack and she cried out as my glans pressed against, and then past, her sphinctre. By now she had figured out how to use iTunes and was browsing my library, emitting astonished gasps of recognition at my unusual and admittedly elitist tastes. She lingered over a rare recording of Scriabine's Opus 32 in G as I began to thrust leisurely, my cock deep in her rectum. There was no need to rush, the music inspired our rhythms, and although it was difficult, I didn't come until she had had three shuddering anal climaxes, her fingers clawing at the bedlinens until I emptied myself deep inside her, somewhere behind her solar plexus. Then she kissed me and her mouth and tongue and breath tasted of coffee. The MacBook Pro whispered a Bach Cantata as she tripped off to the small bathroom and sat on the toilet with the door open, smiling radiantly as I listened to J.S. and the staccato music of her spermy farts.