In an Orangery



Copyright © 2014 Kings Woman

This is a sort of prose poem. It came out of an idle chit-chat with my friend Jeff, who is also a Literotica writer. Sometimes we do the online equivalent of meeting each other by the water cooler. Since our business is writing erotica, we exchange smutty comments and dirty thoughts to turn into stories. Serendipitously I was turning one such thought over in my mind, when I realised the Nude Day Contest was coming up.

He stands nude in the rain looking through the glass walls of the orangery at her nude.

The glass is old and has flowed down the panes over the years. It's hardly possible to tell whether the rain sliding down the panes makes for a wavery view or is that the wavery character of the old glass.

The rain drops fall big and soft on his naked skin.

She stands holding her cello in one hand staring vaguely. Her breasts hang pale globes in the damp warmth of the orangery. Oranges hang bright in the dark green leaves of the miniature trees planted in the row of big terracotta pots behind her.

They are standing separated by the opaque glass: she in the moist warm air, he in the gentle rain.

His eye runs over the curve of the dark polished cello, the curve of her pale buff hip flowing out from her waist. The belly of the cello echoes the curving belly of the woman, bellying down to where the endpin rests in a crack in the tiled orangery floor, her belly curving down to the crack in her legs where a dark bush springs.

With an inaudible sigh, she sets her shoulders back, lifts her head. He takes a half step forward. Rain falls on his shoulders as he leans towards the wavery glass through which he discerns the brown curves of the cello, the pale curves of her body.

She seats herself in a fluid set of movements. Her fingers settle into place about the neck of the cello holding it firmly, gently; fingertips splayed out across the strings as lightly as if she were holding his cock, below the nut in which the strings are cradled.

Her globular breasts quiver like fruit in a breeze before his eyes before they are hidden by the big-bellied cello coming between her legs. His eyes move over the tailpiece standing proud above the endpin between her calves, the f holes between her open thighs. Her hand with the bow in it comes up, poised like a bird, the bow alights on the cello's strings.

She sits with the wood between her legs.

As she starts to play, he relaxes and smiles although he knew she would start soon. The rain falls in his hair, on his shoulders, his naked back, trickling over his buttocks clenched in the fresh air.

The sonorous deep notes resonate in his chest and in the glass. One note she plays will make the old glass loose in the cracked putty vibrate and sing in out of key duet. He is listening -- intently, waiting. Will she ...?

With a half-wince, half-laugh he acknowledges her hitting that same old wrong note. Her eyes roll briefly upwards, then modestly down as she sinks into rhythm again. She plays with verve, moving with the instrument, her head tilting. Sometimes a half smile dances like a butterfly on her mouth. Her forte is expression rather than technique, although she does not completely lose herself in the music, she remains occasionally aware of Other Things which would distract her if they could.

But he is lost. Lost in the poorly played music full of expression, lost in the vision, vaguely seen through the rain and old glass, of a naked woman in an orangery playing the big-bellied cello with its long swan neck.

Ah. It's the final few bars. They bring him slowly out of the lush moist prospect before him to stand in the falling rain with a cock rock-hard.

She sits, her arms draped about the warm brown shoulders of the cello, her head drooping sleepily. She stands.

She stands nude in the warm moist air of the orangery looking through the glass at him nude. A little smile. She walks slowly out, carrying her cello. Her buttocks quiver like oranges in a breeze. He smiles to watch the line of the back, curving hips, round buttocks moving away before he walks away, nude in the falling rain.