She's all soft skin and sure hands, high notes and pounding beats. Her lips are dancing over your skin and her fingers are dancing inside you, and she's hitting all the right keys, stroking all the sensitive spots, and the rougher patches, and she's making you sing.
Your body is her instrument, and she knows just how to play you, just the right way to draw the purest notes from your throat. Your pleasure is music to her ears, and she knows her composition off by heart. You aren't too used to not being the musician, but her diligence and zeal still make you feel like you're the maestro, and you like that. A lot.
You like the way her tempo doesn't change much, allowing you to dance to her music easily. You like the way her lips and teeth work on your throat, allegretto, and her hand works between your legs, andante, and the orchestra of her body draws out high-pitched whimpers, and low moans, and all the various little cries in between. You like the satisfied smile on her face as she listens to the pretty music you two are making together.
She doesn't let you come for a long time, never speeding up when you need her to, because she enjoys hearing you plead and bed. When she finally speeds up, moderato, vivace, allegressimo, and brings you into that final crescendo, her eyes are screwed shut and she's listening, delighting in the mounting symphony of your voice.
When the aria is over and you're coming down, breath ragged, voice hoarse from being her prima donna, her fingers are fluttering over your stomach as she replays the music in her mind, and you move up to kiss her, and now it's your hands that are on her, and she's humming a different tune. Now it's your music that she's singing along to. (And you're a pretty good composer.)