Lestate

Sunlight breaks through the living room window, and showers the room with a golden hue as Geneviève wraps her gentle fingers around the neck, and lifts her violin and bow from the case. Every movement she makes is graceful and sensual as the sunlight that illuminates her bright golden hair.

This has become our morning ritual since she moved in with me a few months ago. Her deep, chestnut eyes are the first thing I see each morning, and she smiles as she gently touches my face and kisses my nose. First order of the day is a n espresso, made just the way we both love it, and a pastry of some kind -- usually a croissant or scone, or maybe some fruit. Then it is time to greet the morning sun with what we have given our hearts into even before we shared them with each other. Geneviève is perfect, and I feel perfect when I'm with her.

With a slight nod to me -- my cue to began with my cello -- she begins a soft count: "Un, deux, trois, quatre..."

The first movement begins. My focus is on my timing at first, trying to make sure our motions are in sync. "L'estate" is my favourite piece, and I love playing it and hearing it, especially when Geneviève plays for me. I look over to her. Her expression is soft and gentle, her entire torso flowing with the movement of her bow on the strings of her violin. My mind drifts into a world spawned by our music, inspired by the emotions and the stream of my heart's passions and perturbations. I close my eyes and allow my hands to follow the course of my heart.

Sunlight bathes my soft skin as I walk through a foliate field of grass and flowers of pink and yellow, red and purple. It's so quiet and peaceful, with birds flying overhead, singing their love songs as they fly freely above. Then I see her -- Geneviève's glowing skin wrapped in a white sundress, her blonde hair cascading from underneath a straw sunhat. The sun shines from behind her, enveloping her in a bath of light. I see her, and my heart flutters as she smiles back to me.

I open my eyes just long enough to catch a glimpse of her smiling to me, her instrument resting underneath her small chin. I close my eyes again, returning to the world in my mind's eye. We're sitting at a café, laughing over our warm cups of tea and staring into each other's eyes. Love empties her quill into our very souls as we fall deep into the tides of ecstasy.

Geneviève kisses me, and my heart arrests. She lifts up my top and gently kisses the hot skin of my stomach, and creates a trail up to my sternum, to my neck. I feel my skin excitedly raise into a field of goosebumps when she nibbles and flicks the side of my neck with her velvet tongue. She steps back, and slowly tugs at the straps of her dress and pulls it down, letting it drop to the floor. Her skin glistens and smoothly flows around the shape of her body. Geneviève is a divinity, and every cell of me aches and pleads to worship every inch of her. I am forever lost in the sight of her.

She gently takes my hand, and leads me to the bed. I lie her down and run my fingers from her lips down to her inner thigh. She lets out a soft moan as I bend and kiss her thigh where my fingers led the way. I take out my silk rope, and begin to wrap her and tie my best knots. "Cherie, please....Be sweet, but not gentle" is all she can find words to say. I kiss her under her left breast softly and make my way to her hardening, pink nipple. My lips part, and my tongue pushes forward until it touches the silk of her areola, and slowly graze her nipple down the whole of my tongue.

My fingers slowly glide down to her center, and slip between the folds of her soaked, satin lips. She gasps, tantalized at the sensations in her sensitive nipple and clitoris. Her legs become restless, and she begins to bend and extend her legs back and forth, trying to get as much friction between them as she can. She is overcome by a frenzy, lifting her to face me and pleads, "Kiss me, Cherie....Please, I need more". I lean forward and our tongues meet before our lips, hungrily entwining as our lips press around them. My finger moves in small circles around her clit, soaking wet from the waves of lightning streaking through her body at my touch and my kiss. She breaks the kiss and screams while her entire body contracts and convulses from my finger igniting her fire inside.

I move down, and she wraps her thighs around my head as the flat of my tongue grazes between the lips of her core, and she screams louder than ever, her legs compulsively kicking outward from around my head. The pillows of her thighs squeeze my head while I lick and eat and suck her pussy. This is my heaven, my passion, my goddess: and I will show her how I worship her until she is left shaking and exhausted. With another scream, her hands do their best to hold my head even through the binding around her wrists as her legs quiver. Not being able to move much more than this, she lets down her legs from around my head and tries to lift herself up to get my face pressed hard against her as she arches her back, moaning and screaming like a wanton French goddess of pleasure.

Her whole body begins to convulse and pulsate as she tries to scream even louder, but sound doesn't escape her. I feel her body jerking as she gushes her wetness all over my chin, and my mind goes blank as her warmth covers the lower half of my face. We spend the whole night this way, me making her cum over and over for eight hours, with breaks only to catch breath and hydrate between. By morning she is left trembling and exhausted, unable to cum anymore without pain.

I open my eyes again, hot from the passions of my dream, inspired by our music. Geneviève is lost in the motions of her bow against the strings until the music of her violin fades into quiet.

Suddenly the tempo breaks into a heated tempo, tucking like clockwork on a countdown. I close my eyes and return to our life together, huddled and cuddling together on the couch in front of the television. Images of anger, shouting men and crowds of distempered protests flash across the screen. Fear and apprehension grip their hold on my throat as I turn to Geneviève, an expression of deep thought and worry written on her face. We look at each other, then turn our concerned eyes back to the TV. We see images of people holding up signs with hateful slogans on them. Why do they hate us so? How could anyone fear love?

The music slows again. Geneviève looks to me again. Her eyes are filling with tears as she gently rests her hand on my cheek. Her forehead wrinkles, and lips are stooped down. But as she looks at me, she smiles. I feel in my heart what she wants to say to me. That love will always win. Our love will continue on, no matter what happens in this world. My heart both lifts and breaks as she lifts my chin and leans to kiss me from behind her teary brown eyes. We will beat this.

The scene fades in my mind as Geneviève softens and slows her music to a halt. Then, she blasts another new sound into the air, furiously bombarding my mind with the violence that would eventually break out on the world we knew. A door flies open as men in armoured uniforms burst into a room once filled with love and passion. Now that room is filled with the sounds of blows against skin and bone, screaming and the yelling of orders. Two men are carried out of the room in their nakedness, and taken outside to join converging lines of people. The lines lead into large trucks, that carry the poor souls away. All over the country, people are beaten, murdered, thrown into prisons and camps until they are taken and never heard from again.

Geneviève's music shifts into another tempo. I open my eyes again, to be met with a look of fury. Her jaw is clenched, her eyebrows bore down, and her bow furiously sawing the strings while her fingers press into the neck of her violin faster than my eyes can keep up with.

I return to the vision as I struggle to keep up with the rage of her melody. I see Geneviève's sweet face, in the same expression I just saw, as she turns her head from me and deflects the punch of a soldier. She herself is in a camouflage uniform; though it looks different from her attacker. I try to scream, but no sound comes out; so instead I run to her aid, and together we overcome the man in uniform. As he reaches up while Geneviève is distracted, I pull a gun out from inside my jacket and shoot the soldier before his attack lands. I feel nothing except gratitude that she is safe. I've been hardened by years of battles in the resistance.

As the music quickly shifts and slows, I see victories of the resistance and their defeats in battle. As the smoke dissipates, victory is proclaimed for the resistance. A hush falls over the world. The war is won, but the cost makes the victory bittersweet. Such unimaginable horror, such destruction and violence seems so unnecessary. We all gather together, the remaining soldiers of the resistance, and remember those that were lost, from both sides. Why should hate and violence have such reign over this world, even for a time? Masses of soldiers and civilians embrace each other in tears. Families reunite and mourn their lost loved ones. Such senseless loss and grief overshadows a victory. War, violence, hate....May they never have such a grasp on us again.

I look to the resistance hero Geneviève, and she looks back to me, her eyes filling up with tears and a tender look of agonized love and deep affection on her face. We embrace each other and then kiss deeply. Love has survived. Love has endured. Love has won again.

With this thought still clinging to my heart, I open my eyes as Geneviève tearfully finished the final movement. We stare at each other for a moment, both of us dripping in our tears. The same worries and fears have overcome our hearts, and you could hear our common agony in every note, every rise and fall of the piece.

We watched the protests last night on the couch. We felt the fear as we listened to the hate shouted among the crowds. I don't know what will happen. But love? Love will endure. Love will overcome. Nothing can break this love we share. Nothing can break us. Our music will be our story. Our love will be our resistance.