The Cellist

"Hey!" I shouted and reached over to grab them. "I'm a guy. They're briefs. Guys don't wear panties!"

"But they're hardly any bigger than what I wear so they must be panties."

"They're briefs, now give them here!"

We wrestled about for a moment or two until her body, actually her breasts, pressed up against me, and it felt as if my freshly laundered underwear was about to rip in two. Then she let go of the briefs but didn't move her body away from mine right away, letting the sharp points of her nipples rake against my chest. Then without another word, we went back to tending our laundry, putting some things in the dryers and saving the rest to air dry. Since she had started her laundry before me, by the time she was finished, I was still folding my t-shirts and Levis. She grabbed her laundry basket and edged toward the door.

"Well, have a good night," she said.

"Thanks. You too. You certainly made this a fun laundry night."

"Yeah. You too. We should do this again sometime."

"Yeah," I nodded.

"Bye, Professor."

"See ya!"

By the time I returned to my apartment, I could hear her playing the cello. Prokofiev I thought, but wasn't sure. Whoever the composer, it was a languid beautiful piece and she was playing it wonderfully. I sat and listened to every sensuous note emanate from her apartment for the better part of an hour. For obvious reasons, I pictured her still wearing the t-shirt and purple thong and that she was playing just for me. What a sexy image that drew in my head that followed me all the way into my dreams that night!

~~~~~

Over the next couple of weeks I saw Kirsten several times around town and on campus. I heard her playing the cello nearly every day, sometimes in the morning, but most often in the evening. I found her music to be absolutely soothing, the aural equivalent of a long hot bath. It was maybe a week later when I had come home late from a faculty meeting. A stout glass of bourbon found one hand and my reading book found the other while my ass found the seat of my favorite easy chair. Between the bourbon and the comfort of my chair, I was soon relaxed and enjoying Arthur Golden's delightful, Memoirs of a Geisha, a book I had wanted to read for some time and was enjoying immensely.

A few pages into my reading session I heard noises next door at Kirsten's apartment, her voice and one that sounded definitely masculine. So Kirsten has found herself a boyfriend, I thought. I took a sip of bourbon and felt my heart sink a little at the thought. I guess for some farfetched reason I had always fashioned myself as her lover and the pangs of jealousy and reality began to bite. I had been probably the first one to meet her around here. Yet, it was bound to happen sooner or later given what a cutie she was. I shifted position and tried to concentrate on the book, but the sounds of her sexy little giggles distracted me.

Funny thing how you can never hear distinctly your neighbor's words in the apartment next door, but you know what's being said. It sounded like they were chatting for a while, a little flirting, some leading comments, a bit of teasing, followed by her sexy giggles and his turned-on laugh. The thought that she was making out with some guy drove me from my chair and into the kitchen away from the echoes of their encounter.

I sat at the table for a while reading and sipping my drink. The book was certainly drawing my interest. I had always been fascinated by other cultures and Japan before WWII was near the top of the list. But despite my interest in the progress of the book, my curiosity was soon getting the best of me and I returned to my living room in the hopes of catching up on how Kirsten's evening with her guy was coming along. Man, how low can a guy sink, I asked myself sadly, as I listened. But when I heard the sound of the guy's voice, an image popped directly into my head. He was moaning and grunting like ... like ... like she was giving him head. The image of her crouched between his knees, her pretty blonde head bobbing up and down on his cock captivated my mind. I'd hear her voice cooing briefly then his voice grunting and growling. Man, from the sound of him, she must be pretty damned good!

"Oh, fuck it! This is stupid!" I said aloud and returned to the kitchen. It wasn't long until even the extra distance the kitchen afforded me was overcome by the sound of them having sex, their muffled moans and cries and the insistent squeaking of her bedstead indisputable proof. Then came her voice, loud and urgent, sharp and clear at first and then muffled. For some reason I pictured her on all fours on the bed with her lover having her from behind. Her sighs and moans and screams punctuated by the loud creak of her bed. Then, just as she was really getting into it, the sounds reached a heady climax and suddenly ceased.

Quickly she was asking him something and his voice sounded contrite, apologetic even. Her tone was definitely accusatory and demanding. Then his voice grew loud and defiant. This went back and forth for a few minutes, their voices growing louder until I definitely heard her say, "Well, what the fuck?" followed by his, "Fuck you, bitch!" and the sound of her front door slamming shut.

Whoa! Was this guy an insensitive minuteman or what? Or did he just have a piss-poor attitude? Either way I felt sorry for Kirsten. I returned to my living room and leaned close to the wall. It was none of my fucking business whom she was fucking but I wondered what was going on with her. The answer came a moment later when I faintly heard her sniffling through the apartment wall. Poor kid! The guy must have been a complete asshole. Didn't matter who he was, I hated the guy.

Then I heard the sound of her cello. It was a loud furious piece of unfamiliar music. The tone was a mixture of sadness and anger, for obvious reasons, almost enough to bring a tear to my eye. I went to the kitchen and refilled my glass of bourbon and stepped out onto my balcony. Her door must have been partly opened since the music was louder. I stood in the moonlight and sipped my bourbon and listened to pretty little Kirsten play her cello. Slowly the tenor of the music changed, the melody became lighter, dancing over the balmy summer night air, bringing a grin to my face. Then it grew slow and sensual. I stood in the moonlight and closed my eyes letting the beauty of her music wash over me. It cast a dreamy state over me and I relaxed, letting my mind wander freely.

I was stirred from my reverie when the music ceased. Then I heard the sound of her balcony door close and the lock snap tight. It was late and the thought of heading off to bed seemed best. I stripped down to my shorts and slipped onto the sheets. It was warm enough that I didn't need any covers. I just lay there and thought of Kirsten next door, dear sweet Kirsten who was so far from home and who knows, disappointed, disillusioned from her abortive encounter with some guy-some fucking Yankee idiot. Why are some guys like that anyway?

Then I heard her, ever so faintly through the apartment wall, softly sighing, breathing in and out in the excited pattern of ... of ... of someone masturbating. If the insensitive Mr. Wonderful she had dated tonight couldn't be bothered to get her off, she was going to do it herself. And from what I could tell, she seemed to be doing a good job of that too. So good that from the faint echoes of her moans and sighs I felt my own body respond. I pictured her sprawled across her bed, long legs spread apart, her panties pulled aside, and her long fingers plying the tender folds of her sex.

My erection grew painful and urgently needy so I lowered my shorts and began to stroke my long stiff cock. Listening to her voice, I imagined us together; my hands became her hands and her mouth and her pussy; and next door her hands were becoming my hands and my tongue and my cock. The result was sensational. Listening to her and imagining her lifted me to a heightened plateaus of increased sensation. The sound of her voice growing louder as she neared her orgasm brought me to the crest as well.

"Oh! Oh! Oh! Fuck!" she cried out loudly enough for me to hear clearly. In my aroused state she sounded as if she were in the same room with me. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" she screamed.

Hearing her voice in the throes of a splendid orgasm pushed me over the edge and I erupted, shooting thick streams of cum into the air, the hot sticky semen splashing wildly onto my belly and thighs and the sheets. A heavy deep growl rumbled from between my lips as I pumped myself dry. Tremendous tingles reverberated through my body as I lay there panting and fully spent. I heard Kirsten's bed lurch and squeak once more and then silence fell over our respective apartments. Had she cum as magnificently as I had? Was she lying in bed as sweaty and spent as I was? I reached for some tissues and mopped myself up. I felt strangely alone, but my last thoughts of the day turned to the lovely girl next door and how much I wished to have her fall asleep in my arms.

~~~~~

One fine Saturday afternoon, I stepped out onto my balcony and leant on the railing feeling the warmth of the summer sun splash over my face and chest. I could hear the sound of-what else-classical music playing next door and looked over. When Kirsten appeared I greeted her.

"Great afternoon," I said.

"I know," she said. "I've been sunbathing most of the afternoon."

She stepped toward her railing fully into my line of sight and leaned forward to mirror my pose. She was wearing a skimpy little t-shirt and tiny bikini bottoms, Actually from the amount of ass cheek visible they were very little more than a v-string thong. Her breasts looked spectacular stretching against the thin fabric of her t-shirt.

"Any plans for tonight?" I asked.

"Actually no," she said. "You?"

I shook my head. "Not at the moment, but that could change."

"Oh," Kirsten said, a clear look of disappointment filling her pretty face. "Waiting on friends?"

"Actually I was waiting to ask if you wanted to do something."

"Then ask me."

"You want to do something?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Dinner, a long walk along the river, drop into the Nectarine for last call."

"We haven't done that in a while," she said with a big smile. "Are you asking me or just hinting around."

"Ah, I'm asking you," I replied. "Definitely asking you out. Yes."

"All right. Give me an hour to get all squeaky clean, ok?"

"Sounds great!"

I met Kirsten at the door to her place and she looked stunning. She had pulled her long blonde hair back and pinned it to the back of her head, leaving some sexy tendrils to frame her pretty face. She was dressed in a light pastel yellow print halter dress that framed her breasts exquisitely and sheathed her slender body alluringly.

"Wow! You look good enough to eat!" I remarked, wishing to come up with more than a well-worn cliché, but feeling completely at a loss for words because of her striking beauty.

"Well, thank you," she replied, treating me to a little spin around that lifted the hem of her dress for a moment showing off her shapely thighs. "And you look quite handsome in your seasoned professorial way."

The evening went smashing, as Kirsten might have put it. We found a great table outside and settled in to enjoy the balmy summer air and the al fresco ambience. Dinner was superb and the excellent food and delicious wine served to stimulate our other senses. Afterwards, we strolled along Main Street and up Liberty and dropped into the Nectarine Ballroom to catch a set of the live band, a favorite local group who had the place hopping. Bopping to the irrepressible beat on the dance floor with Kirsten was great fun. She impressed me with her stamina and I managed to keep up with her and avoided squashing her toes. Later, when we stepped out into the pleasant and refreshing night air, I felt invigorated as I haven't felt in years.

"So what's your pleasure?" I asked as I took her hand and we strolled along Liberty headed back toward our apartment complex.

"Wouldn't you like to know," she teased with a sexy grin. "Besides, you've been letting me pick everything tonight. What would you like to do?"

"Sure you want to hear?" I asked. "Who knows, I might want to commit some sort of weird depraved sexual act upon your delightfully sexy body."

"So now we're talking about sex are we?" she laughed.

"Now that you've brought it up," I began with a lecherously leering glint in my eyes. Kirsten smacked me on the arm. I took hold of her hand and paused under the glow of a streetlight, taking her into my arms face to face. "Actually, what I would really like to do is take you back to your place ..."

"And?"

"And have you perform for me."

"A long slow sexy strip tease?"

"No."

"A sensual and erotic lap dance?"

"Hey, who's talking about sex now?"

"You brought it up first."

"And you've kept it up," I said, feeling the thick length of my manhood press against her belly. "But in all seriousness, what I would really like is ..."

"Yes?" she said looking up into my eyes expectantly.

"What I would really like is for you to play your cello for me."

"Really? But you hear me all the time."

"Yes, but I'm always next door. I want to watch you as you play."

"You sure?"

"I can't think of a better way to cap off our evening."

"Okay, if that's what you want."

"I do. Very much."

Beneath the amber glow of the streetlight we kissed softly and tenderly. Her body felt so warm in my arms, I didn't want the kiss to ever end. But it did and we continued home to her apartment. Although her place laid out similar, it hardly resembled mine at all. Whereas mine was cluttered with books and papers and magazines, hers was clean and neat, well except for a pair of red satin panties tossed over the bedroom door handle that I couldn't help but notice, especially when she snatched them away and tossed them out of sight, her cheeks flush with embarrassment.

"Can I get you something to drink?" she asked.

"Sure Kirsty."

"Beer, wine, whiskey?"

"Glass of wine would be great."

While she poured the wine, I found my way into her living room. There was a small sofa and an end chair and of course her cello and music stand. I ran my fingers down over the neck of her instrument, feeling how smoothly the motion of her hand had polished the fine wood over the years. I couldn't resist plucking one of the strings and hearing an appropriate thump. She handed me a glass of wine, took a sip of hers and sat on the stool beside her cello.

"So what would you like to hear?" she asked.

"Whatever you want. I don't know your entire repertoire, but something lush and romantic, like what you usually play."

"Hmm, lush and romantic ... I have so many favorites, Granados, Fauré, Debussy, Pergolesi, Saint-Saëns?"

"I know Debussy and Saint-Saëns ... it doesn't matter. Something you know and like and think I would enjoy."

"Okay, let's see ..."

Kirsten ran her bow lightly over the strings, checking the tune and then she paused in thought. I waited a few moments and took a seat across the room from her and watched as her expression brightened and she assumed her playing position. Then she closed her eyes and began to play a sonorous and sensual melody that I didn't recognize, but it was lovely. With every note she seemed to draw me into a dream. The confines of her living room faded and I began to picture a lovely meadow and a stream in the French countryside, songbirds flitting about, a pair of lovers sharing a picnic luncheon, the sun filtering down through the shade of the trees, a pungent fertile smell of damp earth and green grass.

I was strangely relaxed by her playing, but at the same time, I felt deeply aroused by the languid seductive sound of her instrument. In my mind, I could easily see the two of us as the lovers sprawled across the blanket in the meadow. The expression on Kirsten's face was beatific. Her eyes were closed and her head and body swayed as she stroked her bow back and forth over the strings, her fingers moving from position to position with ease. I was entirely captivated. Her blonde hair tumbled and splashed over her shoulders. As she drew her bow back and forth over the strings, I became aware of her breasts, held snuggly in the halter of her dress, the outline of her erect nipples plainly visible through the silky fabric.

I took a final sip of wine and set the glass down on the table beside my chair. For some reason I stood up and drifted aimlessly around the room. The tone of her instrument changed a bit with each step I took, the reflection of the sound off the walls coloring the music delightfully. I ended up standing behind Kirsten, having watched her from all angles. It felt as if her music was reaching inside me, caressing me inside and out. I took a step closer toward her, standing now just behind and to the side of her. I reached out and touched her hair as it cascaded down over her shoulders and over her golden tanned back.

Kirsten tilted her head slightly to acknowledge my touch but didn't miss a single note, not that I would have known anyway. Her music seemed to pick up depth and intensity, as if building up to a climax. My fingers combed through the hair on her back and brushed against her skin. I moved them up gently to her shoulder and let my other hand fall lightly to her other shoulders. She seemed to lean back into my hands as I touched her, caressing her soft smooth skin. She sighed when my hands trailed slowly down over her shoulders, following the drape of her halter. I felt as if the music was moving me, was begging me to reach out to her, and she didn't seem to mind in the slightest. In fact she appeared to enjoy my touch and it flavored her playing with an erotic taste.

When my wandering hands reached her breasts, Kirsten tilted her head back, eyes still closed, an expression of sheer bliss on her pretty face. While she continued to play, I let my fingertips dance lightly over the supple curves of her breasts, tracing lazy circles around her puckered aureoles. She swayed her head side to side in time with the music, baring for a moment the clasp of her halter behind her neck. I brought my hands up to the clasp and snapped it free, letting the straps fall down over her chest. Running my hands back down over her chest, I brushed her dress down to bare her breasts to my touch and felt the swell of her soft but firm flesh ease into my hands.

I stood behind her, cupping her breasts, strumming my fingers lightly over her taut erect nipples while she continued to play, her music becoming as overheated as our moment of passion. I bent forward and kissed her on the top of her head, drawing in the scent of her hair. With one hand, I brushed her hair over to one side of her neck, giving me clear access to her neck. I leaned further forward to kiss her on the neck just below the ear. She shuddered and sighed deeply when my hand rejoined its brother in scooping up her breasts and squeezing them ever so gently.

Kirsten let the bow fall away from the strings and her cello fell silent. She turned her head toward me and we met in a kiss, a tender brushing of the lips that quickly became wet and as deep as our tongues. It grew thoroughly heated, full of mashing lips and flickering tongues and nibbling teeth. I felt the heat of our breathing wash over my cheeks as Kirsten set her instrument aside and stood up into the fullness of my waiting embrace. Her hands went to the back of my neck, raking through my hair. My hands ran down along her back from her shoulders to the firm cheeks of her ass as she pressed her body tightly against mine. When my kisses returned toward her neck, she turned in my arms and leaned back against me, rubbing the firm cheeks of her ass against my thickening cock. My hands sought out the lushness of her breasts again, cupping them and squeezing them together.