Musical Mornings

It is early enough in the morning to confuse.

The air is cool and slightly damp due to the warped wooden frame surrounding the large window in their flat, preventing a solid seal when the pane is closed. It seems as if the usually merry birds outside have transformed during the darkest hours into something slightly sinister - their pitch a little more shrill than average, their tune a little slower. The reluctance of the daylight to rise from it's earthly bed casts everything in various shades grey, still, unmoving as if the scene was nothing more than a black and white photograph rather than the residence of a pair in love.

It is early enough to confuse, but this is her favorite time to play.

The dark haired woman sits on a metal folding chair - the cheap kind, rusty and abused. It is her custom to perch on the seat's edge, her feet flat on the floor, knees spread wide. She is still wearing his shirt, unbuttoned, the one she had put on the night before and spent her sleepy hours tousling the sheets in. She pushes the sleeves up her forearms, catching the cuffs around her elbows, not even noticing her level of nudity as she reaches to her side, and picks up her instrument.

Her cello sinks into it's usual place, perfectly propped between her splayed legs with it's neck grazing her chest and left shoulder. She quickly tunes it, pizzicato, adjusting the knobs of the C and G strings as is usually the case - they are always flat. She takes up her bow, tightens the hair, and sets it on the strings.

She knows perfectly well that he will wake up when she begins, but this has become their usual custom. Often, he pretends he is still asleep, or he rolls onto his back, hands behind his head, listening. Sometimes, if he has a class to get to or somewhere to be, he will get up and stretch his entire body, completely naked, completely perfect, before setting about his morning tasks. He never asks her to stop, or if he does she never notices because as soon as she begins to play, the outside world tends to melt away, giving itself over to her music.

She warms into a new song, one he has never heard her play, one she has to read the music for. It is an emotional song with a slower tempo and employing the use of the lower register which he knows will rank it among her favorites.

He watches her play for a few moments, noticing the shaft of morning light that is just beginning to push its way through the window behind her, dramatically backlighting her, causing her features to appear invisible. As he looks at her now, noticing the detail of her dips and valleys, the tendons in her hands and forearms peeking out then fading away behind the thin cover of her flesh as she moves, he finds himself instantly aware of the fact that beneath the shirt she is wearing, there is nothing more than her bare skin.

He stands up, ignoring his own nudity, and walks over to her. He doubts she even notices his actions, he knows how involved she tends to get with her playing. He moves around to her back, noticing her perfectly straight posture, the arch of her back, the way her messy hair is falling almost to her shoulder blades. She is sitting in her usual position near the front of her seat, leaving just enough space for him to--

He lifts his left leg and slides onto the chair behind her before she even has the opportunity to refuse him. He gently trails his hands down her back, allowing his fingers to conform to the contours of her waist, and down to her asscheeks. He grabs a hold of the shirt she is wearing and lifts it up, tucking his own skin right up to hers.

He lowers his lips to her right shoulder, shucking the shirt down a little to expose the flesh there. He kisses her. His hands slide around to the front of her body, dancing over her belly and up the texture of her ribs, slowly, one at a time until they find the soft mounds on her chest. He feels her nipples instantly harden in response to his touch, but only takes a moment to enjoy the fact because he can feel his own excitement rising.

He allows his hands to wander back down her length until they come to rest on the top of her thighs. He rubs down their open length once, down to her knees and back up the inside where he comes into contact with her pubic hair.

Because he doesn't know the song she is playing, he can't really tell if she falters when he dips his finger greedily inside of her. He is met with a warm gush as he flattens his palm and it comes into contact with her clit. He groans a little, deep and guttural as he kisses her neck, sucking the skin into his mouth gently, possibly leaving a mark. He takes a moment to utilize his left hand, spreading her lips open to allow his right easier access inside of her, but that doesn't last long. His hand becomes instantly soaked, and because it is almost instinctive for him, the desire is so strong, he moves it around her body and onto his stiff cock, spreading her juices all over himself.

His hand begins to slide up and down himself in a rhythmical way, coated with her moisture. His breaths begin to come ragged. His fingers, pumping in and out of her, are becoming desperate. He wants to fuck her.

He lets go of himself, and moves both hands to her waist, preparing to lift her up, to abandon her playing and carry her back to the bed where he can stuff her so full with his need she won't have the opportunity to complain about he disruption.

But just as he does, just as he's about to stand up, she shoots off the chair and walks away, giggling, her silhouetted ass causing the shirt she has on to rise and fall with each step.

"I have to go, my Love," she says, "I am going to be late." And she begins to get dressed.