Between Reel and Reality (Lesbian Romance)

Chapter Eight: Renaissance

CIERRE

As the psychedelic mushrooms we ingested churn my stomach, I mimic Amel's slouched posture. The album's seamless melodies glide through the air, evoking a weightless sensation. With each musical note, any leftover heaviness from our earlier conversation ebbs.

The opening track sets the tone with somber guitar and rhythmic drum patterns. Empowering lyrics about triumphing amidst hardships and haters resonate deeply, prompting a nod from my soul. The last time I listened to their music, it embraced a refreshing Aaliyah-inspired sound, yet now, a relaxed rap quality adorns their vocals. Despite delving into two songs, celestial vocalizations are nowhere to be found.

Amel rap-sings along to the second track. Her neck tattoo, depicting her angelic parents playing trumpets, comes alive, dancing in sync with her bobbing head. I knock her out of her trance and ask, "Wait, are you out of your singing era?"

Don't get me wrong. So far, I love the shit-talking anthems, but Amel's euphonical vocals are too exceptional not to be flaunted on every track. I want to hear melodic runs, soaring falsettos, and mesmerizing vibratos.

"Damn, Ci, you can't wait?" she teases, smirking confidently. Right as she poses her mocking question, the third song begins. The irresistible modulations of the singer interrupt my thoughts, bringing my mental process to a halt. "That's what you wanted?" she asks cockily.

Watching me sit up on the cushions, Amel's lips twist with a hint of arrogant humor. I cross my legs like a dignified lady and shoo away their enduring glare. "Shut up. I'm trying to listen."

While laughing, she averts her gaze from me. An upsurge of heat rushes through my body. With explicit lyrics, the artist conveys a compelling desire to fuck someone else's partner. As their vibrato blesses my eardrums, my vision fades to black, taking in her magnificence. Whenever I heard Amel's music in public, I tuned them out. If I recognized their vocalizations during a commercial, I muted the television. If I couldn't find my annoying, elusive TV remote, I sang over them until I couldn't hear their inflections. But now, as I finally embrace what I've been avoiding for years, it melts me like lava.

I barely survive "Sneak," and after that, Amel presents "Closure." It's yet another sex song, but slower and majestic. The singer's voice resembles a siren's, luring and tempting me with enchanting vocals of sexual cravings. As the beat pulses behind my eyelids, sensual colors of violets and blues manifest in the blackness. Amel harmonizes with her recorded self, intensifying the appeal. My head tilts sideways as goosebumps rise onto my neck. When Stunna, her rap persona, makes an abrupt appearance, I lose my breath. Rapping amorously in a crisp whisper, they brag about their sexpertise without telling one lie. My thighs press tighter, trying to counter the thumping happening between them.

"You good?" Amel asks, a tinge of a laugh in their question. My eyelids open while the divine outro vocals ring through my ears. "You're lost in your own little world. Whatchu you thinking about?" Amel's tongue glides provocatively across their lips, eliminating their simper.

"Huh?" A dancey song plays next, and my foot wobbles to the energetic rhythm.

Amel, pupils dilated and shimmering, laughs and says, "I see them shrooms hitting."

"I'm cool," I giggle shakily. "Somehow, your voice has become even more incredible. It's been a while since I've allowed myself to listen to you. I'm trying to relish it if you'll let me." Eyeing their growing smirk, I add, "Don't get a more colossal head."

"I ain't gonna lie. You missed some bangers, but The Book of Amel is my magnum opus, so you're not too far behind."

"This album is a departure from your usual style; I can sense that you're simply enjoying yourself and being real while doing it," I say, basking in an infectious groove. "I love it so far."