Anyone for Cello?

The cellist's hands are strong, deft, and nimble. They move along the neck of her instrument with surety, and the cello answers lowing with the rhythm of her bow. I look at you, your face entranced, your mind full of her and the music. You want her, I know. She is beautiful in ways that I am not; her long hair red over her shoulders, her long legs wrapped around her cello in a firm embrace. She and I share a delicacy of face and feature, and our eyes are green to your brown. I imagine my eyes reflected in hers, two pools merging.

The concert ends and you rush us back stage to try and get closer, to get her name on a piece of paper to remember this night by. Your sincere praise and knowledge of her catalog gets us to her dressing room, and you stop before knocking, looking down at me. Your nervous smile brings me up and out of the music's thrall, and I smile back and nod. We're here together, your love for her has no bearing on me. I love that you feel this passion for such a person, moved first by the sounds she creates with her talent, second by the beauty of her self. I smile, and I raise my own small fist and knock.

She answers the door herself, and you begin to gush and flatter, talking of how wonderful her performance was, how many times you've listened to her recordings. Her smile is soft, and her eyes when they flicker to me are pleased. I realize she is aware of how you look at her, and is not offended. her smile to me is welcoming and inclusive. She asks us in, closes the door, gestures to chairs. Her place is beside her cello, resting in an open case, the wood glowing in the dim light. Leaning back in her seat, she asks lilting pleasantries, thanks us for coming. We talk of her tour, her recent stops abroad. She speaks of loving the shows, the sharing of music helping her to create new recordings-- but her pauses grow longer, and I begin to think we've overstayed our welcome. I ask her when last she was home, how often she got to see her family. Her beautiful face clouds, her hair a curtain of red falling around her. She is lonely, and lovely, and I am up and out of my chair, my arms going around her shoulders. In her softly accented voice she apologizes, but leans into me, her head on my chest. Her shoulders shake with a single tremor, and she looks up at me. Those long fingers press into my sides. I had not even felt her arms rise. her eyes ask me questions, her hands brush answers along my ribs, my spine. Her face is pale like mine, but her eyes are deeper green and I lean down to bring our faces together. Our noses brush and her breath on mine is warm and coming quickly. We blush together, the whiteness of our cheeks flaming. her lips are fuller than mine, i think, and then they are.

Her kiss is soft, and tentative, and ends too soon. A sound from you breaks us apart, but then she smiles. I turn to see you stretched back in your chair, your hand moving discretely on your lap, your eyes veiled with your thick lashes. I turn back to her, and take her beautiful hands in mine between our breasts. She is fuller there too, and I relish the softness of her. I open my legs to straddle her lap and she lets my hands loose, her smile changing, sharpening. Her fingers grasp my hips, her callouses catching on my dress, easing it upward and off, over my head. I am suddenly cold, my small breasts unencumbered by a bra, and my nipple stretch and harden. Pulling me forward, her tongue stretches out between her lips, lapping softly at me, drawing my nipples into her warm mouth. My head goes back as she suckles, and I moan.

She stops, laughing a little, and looks up at me-- and then over at you. Something is exchanged in the gaze between you, and she spins me around to face you. Your mouth is open slightly, your fingers kneading the bulge in your trousers. i love your cock, and my hands reach toward you as if to touch you from across the small room. You smile, and unbutton and unzip and free yourself to my eyes. She catches her breath, and I know we are both watching you, admiring you. Her hands on my hips on my hips press me down onto her lap, opening my thighs. You asked me not to wear panties, and I am spread open on her knees, my pussy exposed to you. Your eyes make me wet, and her breath on my neck makes me shake my breasts and arch into her. Her shoulders shift, her breasts soft against my back with a thin layer of silk between us. I push back against her again, a question, and I can hear her smile. Her hands leave my hips and I feel her unbuttoning her blouse, unhooking her bra, pulling both aside and dropping them to the floor beside the cello.

Her hands are gone too long, and my fingers reach to stroke my breasts and squeeze my nipples. I watch you, your cock hard in your hand, and wonder what she and I look like. Her fingers return to me and I gasp at the softness of them. She has rosined her fingertips, and they glide over me like the strings of her instrument. Her right hand reaches out and I watch her raise the bow to my nipples, the strings both soft and sharp. Her left hand traces its soft path along my breast, down my side and the curve of my belly, and she begins a fingering of my pussy. Her lips are along my neck, and she moans something low and soft. I answer, and we sigh together, with you across the room moaning a harmony. You stroke yourself in a rhythm with her fingers on my cunt. Her long, lithe fingers reach up and inside me, and I feel a new movement begin, my moans rising in pitch and hers deepening, lengthening. I am beautiful and open to you both, and I know you can feel us both from across the room . Your breath comes faster, and I know we're reaching a crescendo. She plays my pussy and your cock together, her eyes over my shoulder and her fingers flying inside me. We sing out together, your cock gushing over your hands, my cum filling her palm, her sighs in my ears.