This is really more of a drabble on steroids - 400 words - but I couldn't do it in just 100, I apologize. I also didn't want to carry it out to 1,000. This is the (NSFW) picture that inspired it. This isn't the happiest piece I've ever written, but I still hope you enjoy.

-

She'd been gone for months. Two months, five days, nine hours, to be exact. Weeks of loneliness, months of missing her.

I'd never given her the words she deserved, never told her how deeply I loved her. Instead, she died perhaps not knowing just how fucking much I loved and needed her. How much her smile made my heart swell. How hearing her soft ooh as she came made me harder than I'd ever been.

Maybe I didn't even realize it until she was gone. What a fucking fool I was. I should have carried her away, flown her to foreign cities, skipped days of sleep to pleasure her.

Now, I saw her everywhere. Her face, her hair, her scent. I almost thought I could feel her at times. How did she permeate everything? Appear everywhere, but nowhere?

The sweater I kept in my bedroom closet clung to her scent. I would wear it, sniff it, feel wrapped in her still. Wrapped in her body, her hands, her legs, her love. It made the ache throb, made my whole body throb with need for her, but somehow eased the pain at the same time.

However, I missed her the most at my piano.

What had once been a place of torture for me as a child, turned into a source of income for me as a young adult, and then, when she showed up in my life, it became a place of debauchery for us together.

We'd fucked with her laying back on it, me standing between her legs, breasts bouncing for me. I'd buried my face between her thighs while she sat upright, toes tapping keys without her conscious permission. Her breasts had pressed against the cold wood as I carefully pushed into her from behind, my hands framing her soft hips.

I played carefully and slowly, then carelessly and wildly, letting my fingers bang the keys in ways I'd been warned not to. The music we'd created together, the songs I'd spent hours writing for her she'd never gotten a chance to hear, and the melancholy pieces I'd written once she left me.

Sitting on the bench now was cold and lonely, but I would close my eyes and imagine her there. Imagine her above me, comforting me, like an angel. She'd become my own personal angel and demon, weightless and haunting. Comforting and torturing. Giving and taking.