Thanks for the feedback about classical music from my story, Byrd & the Bees. With your encouragement I've tried another nerdy music-themed tale. Please enjoy! A comment or a vote is more than welcome, as always.
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Great Scott woman, you have God's greatest gift to Man between your legs, and all you can do is scratch it!
These words were allegedly shouted in the middle of rehearsal by Sir Thomas Beecham, to a young lady in a festival orchestra (not a regular one), who was leading the cellos.
Is it true? Who knows; conductors pick up stories as they go along, a bit like medals or stickers on caravans. Beecham said a few provocative things, and he was rich so he could say what he liked. So, maybe it is true.
I remember as I started to learn the cello, I didn't get the joke. I remember the moment I did, the exact time...
Middle high school, Practice Room 4, one Spring afternoon. I was practising after school, a new, quite challenging piece. My teacher thought I had promise, so she had given me extra work. When she first brought it up it had felt like a punishment for being good, which didn't make me happy. In fairness to her, she also dropped a couple of easy pieces and had not gone hard on the orchestra parts, for the section I was supposed to be leading.
It was Spring. There was something in the air. Here in Australia, one of the first plants to come out for the warmer weather is the Golden Wattle (our national flower). Any piece of native bushland will have bushes or small trees of wattle. As Spring approaches, all at once, the dark green bushland sprouts thousands of bright yellow pom-poms, only thumbnail-sized, but with so many the countryside looks splashed with yellow paint. There's a creamy caramel sort of scent in the air. It's quite unmistakeable. It lifts your mood.
The girls at school had had their moods lifted, as they chatted incessantly. The talk was even more about boys; who was nice, who not so much, who were the creeps. Of course, the talk turned about what they wanted (only one thing), what that was like, it's painful/boring/a necessary evil to keep them happy, etc. I knew the mechanics of "doing it" but it had never seemed remotely attractive to me, and was full of risk it seemed. If the word "intercourse" wasn't enough to put you off, monthly period pains (mine weren't too bad thankfully) just seemed to make the whole sex thing a kind of cruel joke. And no one had shown me much interest. I only ever half-listened in.
But the talk about boys, the new warmth and the scent of wattle in the air, the new piece, they all came together that afternoon.
The piece was Bach's 1st Cello Suite. My teacher played it with her whole body, as the exquisite music dipped low then high, then danced at the top of the range while the deep notes supported the melody. I fell in love with it at first sight. But Bach is deceptive. It took hours and hours to get the big jumping arpeggios sounding even close to decent. I struggled.
So there I was, in Practice Room 4, with a strange sense of expectancy after the school day. a gust of pollen-laden air came over me just as I closed the door. I thought briefly of boys and the one thing on their minds.
Bach was smiling. The piece soared. My cello and I were one, almost singing to each other as my fingers danced over the heavy strings. I could hear tiny overtones ringing high above the notes I played. I was going so well I felt tears coming as I leant forward, playing with my whole body. My panties seemed to catch something in my skirt or somewhere.
I felt a wonderful hot tingling sensation, starting from my pussy but washing over my whole body. I remember my eyes widening, a warm flush on my face, my fingers and the bow still producing the beautiful music. I couldn't stop playing as erotic feelings shimmered in me. I rolled my hips as I played; it became part of the performance.
I've had a good vibrato technique from early on, rolling my fingertips on the strings for a sweeter sound, but now my legs were joining in. Perhaps it should be mentioned here that a cello is played sitting on the edge of your seat with your legs wide apart. I had an awareness of my body opened up and willing.
(To this day I can not hear any of the Cello Suites without recalling that discovery of unity of physical sense and spirit and joy.)
The music ended with its bright flourish and I was left panting. I carefully put the cello down and turned to the wall. Like in many music rooms there was a long mirror there, for checking posture and technique.
In the mirror I saw my legs, still wide apart. The school skirt had ridden up, as it sometimes does when playing. I slid it up to show myself my pale blue panties. One hand slid up my thigh into my special place. I watched the fingers stroke the gusset and I felt the warmth and sense of dampness. my pussy sent more tingles through me. It seemed to urge the fingers on and in, stroking up, down and separating my labia through the cotton, caressing my inner thighs. I gulped.
Hurriedly I pulled off the panties and stuffed them into my schoolbag. I couldn't hear any sound of people nearby, so I blindly hoped no one would disturb me. I had to finish.
In the mirror I watched my fingers play in my pubic hair. They pushed up and down the sides of my slit - I noticed my labia getting larger and softer. A sweet smell was coming out. I opened my vulva wide and was a bit surprised at how pink it had all become. But it kept urging me on. My fingertips found the entrance to my vagina.
One finger went in; it brought my moisture up to rub over my clitoris. Over and over, as my breath shortened. Then two fingers, running either side of my little white button. I think it was bobbing slightly.
Something animal took over. I could only watch as two fingers or three pushed into me and smeared my fluids over my hairs, my labia, my clit. My vagina stretched then sucked. I felt painful twinges tumbling with flashes of ecstasy. I saw ripples in the flesh on my thighs. It all condensed into a simple action of two fingers in and out of my hole then frantically brushing my clit. I couldn't breathe for whole stretches.
My body went rigid. My fingers moved too fast to make out. Then a great "AAAaaah!" escaped me as I came with shudders throughout my body. I leant back on the chair and noticed how dark-pink my vulva was. My smell changed. I could feel the heat in my face. Warmth flowed through me as I calmed down, and came down.
My mind was reeling in confusion. Relief and a softness from the best orgasm I'd ever had (out of not many I should say); the joy of the music was still there with my inspired playing; guilt at fingering myself in a school practice room (but it was part of the playing!); tiny shudders and twinges in my thighs and between them.
I noticed on one of my fingers a smear of blood. Had I torn my own hymen? That might have been the stinging I felt. A strange kind of shame rose up in me, choking me. Slut slut slut slut, a vicious whisper started in my head. I covered my face with my hands - but then I could smell my cum. In confusion I put the tackiest hand down and sat, hunched over, desolate.
For what seemed ages, I didn't want to move. I didn't want to see anyone ever again, least of all my family waiting at home for my after-school practice to finish.
The guilt of leaving them wondering finally moved me. I found a tissue and wiped my fingers up. I put my underpants back on, straightened my skirt and fixed up my blouse. I picked up the bow and the cello. I saw myself in the mirror.
I held the cello by the neck. I sat on the edge of the chair with my back nice and straight and rested the beautiful scroll of the cello up near my head. I put the bow on the strings, ready to play. I could play. I could play well, if I practised. I had just played Bach's Cello Suite no. 1, and it had sounded wonderful. That looks so boastful written down, but a musician knows when it was good, or just average. I bowed a long, low note.
