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The house pulsates with a different kind of beat tonight. The young man's guitar playing is a cover for the real music happening elsewhere. His parents, locked in a heated embrace, are the true conductors, their moans the crescendo, their bodies the instruments. As he plays, he can't help but visualize their forbidden dance, his mind's eye painting a vivid picture of their naked bodies writhing together. His own body responds, his hand moving in time with the illicit melody, his breath hitching as he nears his own climax, a silent symphony to the parents' moans.