…first chair cello

…first chair cello of the old wood resting lightly against the body. touching orogeny with each silent stroke touching the strings in harmony. With the pulse ticking intimately with every heart beat of the soul…breathlessly, erasing the boundaries between sex and cigarette, hauntingly, a seduction of sorts, though not of flesh but of the senses…echoing through the corridors of the mind flexing her fingers caught in the distilled shadow of Grand Marnier, cognac aging gracefully like an old dowager nymphomanic sipping a cum’s chowder dripping down in slow minuet with an intimate chaka savoring Crème brûlée wrapping her legs around the torso of the instrument, a slow arching of the back, pressing deeper into the soundpost…the bow whispering across the strings like silk against bare skin…vibrating through her thighs, as the viola section closed their eyes but her hands didn’t brush away the dampness…nor did she shift in her seat…when the conductor tapped his baton…the music halted…but the heat did not…

The conductor lowered his baton with deliberate slowness, his gaze never leaving hers—that unspoken understanding passing between them like a shared secret dipped in cognac. The heat wasn’t just in the air; it was in the way her thighs clung to the cello’s curves, in the damp press of her blouse against her lower back, in the quiet, almost imperceptible hitch of her breath as she held the last note suspended between them. The orchestra around them rustled, shifting in their seats, but she didn’t move. The conductor’s lips curled into a smile that wasn’t meant for the rest of the orchestra—just for her. He tilted his head slightly, as if listening to something only the two of them could hear, and then, without breaking eye contact, he raised the baton again. But this time, he didn’t signal the orchestra. Instead, he traced the tip of it along the edge of his music stand, a slow, deliberate drag that made the wood hum faintly. The sound was barely audible, but she felt it in her ribs, a vibration that matched the one still thrumming between her legs from the cello’s resonance.

…first chair cello of the old wood resting lightly against the body. His eyes never left hers as he stepped down from the podium, his polished shoes clicking against the stage with the precision of a metronome. The sound echoed, a staccato heartbeat syncing with the pulse she felt low in her belly. “Not now Susette!” she whispered to herself…”just one more cognac, “S’il vous plaît.”