Today's piano tuner is a remarkably focused young man, with long, strong fingers. As he leaned over to adjust the strings, I noticed the fine beads of sweat on the nape of his neck and the taut lines of his back muscles beneath his shirt. It reminded me of last night in the music room—pinning him against the smooth lid of the Steinway, the discordant cluster of notes he struck in his fluster serving as the overture to our 'duet.' His breathing was ragged, a stark contrast to my calm. I merely adjusted my position, allowing his cock to enter my soaked cunt at the perfect angle, then took control of the rhythm, slow and deep, until he let out a stifled, whimpering cry like a snapping string. He came inside me as I gazed at the ornate plasterwork on the ceiling. Afterwards, he trembled but continued his work, while I sipped my tea, listening to the scales he tuned—now sounding exceptionally pure and precise. A tool, whether for art or procreation, ultimately finds its value in how precisely it fulfills the user's purpose.