Maxie awoke in silk sheets that smelled like champagne and figs. Her mouth was still sticky with syrup, and the faint sound of harp music drifted through the open French windows. Somewhere in the manor, someone was moaning in a minor key.
Bliss appeared in the doorway, wearing a robe woven from what appeared to be actual sighs.
"Darling, you're late for your acoustic awakening."
"My what?" Maxie croaked, sitting up. A fig rolled off her chest.
"Step fifteen." Bliss glided into the room. "We're discovering your moan tone today."
Maxie blinked. "Is that… like vocal training?"
"Exactly," Bliss said, pulling out a crystal tuning fork. "But sexier."
She was ushered into a lavish sound studio—plush carpets, velvet soundproof walls, and what looked suspiciously like a grand piano made entirely from molded chocolate. Several guests lounged around wearing headphones and moaning in various harmonics.
Pierre stood at the center, his shirt unbuttoned to the navel, gesturing like a maestro. "The body," he declared, "is an instrument of pleasure. And you, my sweet, are out of tune."
Maxie was handed a glass of prosecco laced with something probably banned in most sports. She took a sip. Her ears tingled.
"Now," Pierre said, gesturing her forward. "Let's find your resonance."
Bliss handed her a sheet labeled: The Twelve Erotic Notes. Each note had a name—"Whimperella," "Thrustic Major," "Clitissimo."
"Try Whimperella first," Bliss encouraged.
Maxie made a tentative sound.
"No no," Pierre said, shaking his head. "That's a grocery-store moan. Give me opera."
Maxie inhaled, thought about the fig, and let out a rich, soulful sound that made the chandeliers vibrate.
"Yes!" Bliss clapped. "She's a mezzo-sensuala!"
Encouraged, Maxie explored the rest of the scale. Each note triggered something strange—hidden compartments in the walls opening to reveal erotic snacks, steam jets bursting from floor grates, a man in silk falling to his knees and crying "At last!"
Pierre guided her toward a booth labeled The Moan Chamber. "Now we isolate the tone," he said. "You'll wear this."
He handed her a moan-monitoring headset rigged with feathers, crystals, and suspiciously phallic sensors. Inside the chamber, her voice was played back in real time—layered with orchestral accompaniment.
Maxie giggled, then moaned. The walls shimmered. She tried again. This time, the lights dimmed, and she felt her spine melt into a puddle of musical arousal.
Outside, guests were trying to mimic her moan tone. One fell backward into a harp. Another ascended emotionally.
Bliss was weeping.
"She's the chosen soprano," she whispered.
After an hour of acoustic exploration, Pierre handed her a certificate:
Certified in Level One Moan Toning – Mezzo-Sensuala: Piercing Yet Playful
Maxie looked at it, dazed. "What's Level Two?"
Pierre grinned. "Group harmony."
Maxie's toes curled. Her voice had found its power. And apparently, its own fanbase.
Outside, a crowd gathered just to hear her sigh.
"Brunch?" Pierre asked.
She nodded. "But only if there's yodeling."
Journal Entry:
> Step Fifteen: I discovered that my moan has octaves. Like a symphony. A horny, off-Broadway musical of me.
I hit a high C and cracked a champagne flute.
PS: I think I accidentally joined a sensual a cappella group. Our name is The G-String Quartet.