A Stringed Instrument Ch. 05

"'Sabrina'. That was my favourite."

"Ah, you can thank Sophie for suggesting that one. But I did second it, so I'll take partial credit."

"Sounds fair. Remind me some time to tell you what that song does to me."

And then we hushed, for it was time for the much-vaunted Jane Lamont. For some reason I'd expected a petite Guitar Chick and so I was quite unprepared for the solidly-built lady who strode out from the wings looking like she was ready to go five rounds with the world. There was indeed a guitar, but there was also a real live set of bagpipes ("livin' the Scots stereotype") and a tambourine, all in support of a voice best described as 'memorable'. Take the power of an operatic soprano, combine with the vocabulary and accent of a Glasgow fishwife, and you're pretty close.

She was good, too. Although folk's not really my thing, I could see why the room was packed. The music was rough around the edges — it was rough all through the middle, come to that — but it had soul and enough energy to start a riot, had she wanted. It was probably a good thing that Janey seemed to like everybody. (At least, everybody in the room. When it came to politics she had views, and wasn't afraid to share them.)

There was a lot of singing along and a fair bit of dancing. Phoebe and I swayed and bounced together, more or less in time, hip to hip. Once I slid my hand up her back, meaning to rest it on her shoulder, but she caught it, steered it back down to her waist, and held my fingers there. Less visible to bystanders, I suppose, but still a pleasant sort of contact for all that.

It was an excellent performance. All the same, it was crowded and getting very stuffy — hot summer's night and a couple of hundred people packed into a confined space — and it went on long enough that I was a little relieved when Jane brought things to a close, promising that she'd be back.

Phoebe and I sheltered against the wall until the crowd had thinned to manageable levels. Then she pulled me over to her bandmates, convened near the bar. "Guys, this is my friend Yvonne." She let go of my hand and waved at her comrades. "Derek, Marty, Sophie."

We said hello, chatted briefly about the performance, and then Derek started to yawn. "Sorry to pike, but I have to work tomorrow. Pheebs, if I'm giving you a lift, it'd better be soon."

So we loaded Phoebe's cello into the back of Derek's new-old station wagon and headed north. Phoebe and I sat side by side in the back seat; she and Derek spent the whole journey talking about the gig, but whenever his attention was on the road our hands skirmished in the buffer zone between us.

It was a short trip, and soon enough Derek dropped us outside Phoebe's place. The lights were off in the main house. "Better not wake them," Phoebe said, "they go to bed early, get cranky about noise after ten." So we picked our way along the darkened side lane, trying not to bang the cello case into anything.

It was very dark in the shadow at the side of the house, and I muttered: "Wait a moment." Putting down my bag.

Phoebe stopped, looked back at me. "What is it?"

Wham. Me against her, her against the wall, and a little surprised "whuff" from her lungs. Hips against hips, my hands all over, touching, demanding. A startled moment before she responded, mouth yielding to mine, one arm embracing me (the other still holding her cello). A hard thump in my chest, feeling outrageously alive.

I whispered in her ear. "I'm feeling much better tonight."

"I... noticed." She was breathing heavily. My hands on her, tugging at the ribbon on her bodice, might have had something to do with it. "So what does that involve?"

"Well, straight girl." I yanked her bodice open, pale breasts exposed in the dim light, until my hands covered them. Skin warm in the night air, tacky with sweat. Squirming under my touch, twisting from side to side as I mauled her. "It involves you doing things that straight girls don't do." I paused, slid one hand up to frame her face, thumb under her chin lifting to face me. "Tell me, do you do those things, straight girl?" And I leant forward to nip at her earlobe, kissing down the side of her neck.

"I told you, I'm straight." A hiss of breath from her as I licked a wet stripe across her breast, cooling quickly in the breeze. "But if you made me do them, I wouldn't have a choice, would I?"

"Put that down." She obeyed, leaning the cello against a drainpipe, and then I caught her hand and pulled it to my belt buckle. "Get to it." I gave her nipple a meaningful twist, and she pulled the belt tongue loose, and those graceful fingers dimpled my belly as she unbuttoned my slacks. Then I wound my fingers in her hair and pushed her down to her knees.

Guys have it easy. They want a little impromptu action, they just have to open their flies and whip it out. Me, I had to shimmy my pants down to my ankles, get my knees apart (muscles still a-twinge from yesterday's adventure), and maintain some sort of authority over the situation whilst trying not to lose my balance. I just hoped the darkness would help protect me from absurdity.

But when her cheeks touched my thighs, when her tongue lapped at my vulva, I stopped feeling self-conscious. Her hands curled around behind my thighs and steadied me, pulling me against her, breasts squashing against my knees. I ground my hips, gasping as a lick of her tongue sent a flicker of electricity through my pelvis, purring as her fingernails dug into my buttocks. Oh, I could get used to this.

I tugged her hair and she flicked her tongue between my thighs. But it wasn't quite working: although shorter than me she was still a little too tall for the position, and just to make contact at all she had to bend and twist in a very uncomfortable way. Before long she had to pull back, whispering "Sorry... not THAT flexible, sweets!"

The best I could manage was to yank my left foot (still shod) free of my slacks, hook my leg over her shoulder, and lean forward, propping myself with one against the drainpipe. Well, against the cello case propped against the drainpipe.

That worked. It was a stretch, and any pervert with night-vision binoculars would probably have been laughing himself silly at the position I was in, but it was far less cramped for her and it oriented us... just... right. Contact, slick and hot. Her tongue found its groove, and I whimpered with need.

She pulled back, just enough to speak. "Gotta be quiet."

I bit my lip and thrust against her, my left hand at the back of her neck imploring, and she redoubled her efforts. Rippling against me, warm wet spasms flickering and dying, but each one lasting a little longer and running a little deeper, and a steady heat building underneath. In the middle of the crowd at the Black Sow, I'd wanted her so badly. I wondered how many others there had seen her beauty, wanted her, daydreamed of taking her home... and alone in the dark, I had her, and it was sweeter than any of them could have guessed.

I was already on the way when she started stroking my arse, catching me unawares, and it sent me tumbling over the edge of orgasm with a yelp, quickly suppressed. And a start.

And a crash, as I knocked the cello over. Phoebe jerking back in fright. My body pulsing as a window squeaked open above us.

"Who's there?" A quavering female voice. Mercifully, no light. Me, still coming, trying to pull my pants back on over my shoe as Phoebe stumbled to her feet.

"Hi, just me!" One hand across her chest, trying to cover herself, as she stooped. "I dropped my cello, sorry!"

"Do you want the side light on?"

Panic. I grabbed my bag with one hand, pulled my pants up with the other, and started shambling for cover as quietly as I could.

"No thanks! I'm okay, just tripped. Sorry to wake you."

"Goodnight then, Phoebe!" And the window closed with a heavy thump.

Phoebe was shaking with barely-suppressed laughter. "Oh god, we... oh!" We made for her flat as quickly as we could — she clutching her bodice, me holding up my pants — and I looked nervously toward the house as she fumbled with the key, taking three tries to get the door open.

We tumbled inside, I yanked the door closed, and both of us dissolved into fits of giggles.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Yvonne. But the way you hopped when she mentioned the light!"

"Huh. You jumped a mile... um, I hope your cello's okay?"

"That's what the case is for. You know how many times I've knocked her over by accident?" But she lost no time in opening the case and looking it over. "Yeah, she's fine."

"Oh good." I walked across the room to the bed — my body was still buzzing — and sat down facing her. She was in a very fetching state of dishabille with her dress rumpled, neatly-coiled hair beginning to come undone, and her face still flushed from our previous efforts. It seemed a shame to disrupt it, but...

"Phoebe?"

"Yes?"

"Undress."

She opened her mouth, then thought better of it, and brought her hands up to her throat, pulling off the scarf. After that she finished the work I'd started, unlacing the bodice altogether; then she shrugged off the shoulders one by one, leaving her naked to the waist, and looked up at me uncertainly.

"You're utterly gorgeous."

She smiled — I'm not sure she believed me entirely, but enough to smile — and stooped, unlacing her boots and slipping them off her feet. Then she straightened and reached behind her, never taking her eyes off me, and unfastened the hooks at her back. Her dress slid to the floor, pooling around her feet, and she stepped out of it wearing only briefs and stockings.

"Go on."

She stooped again, shed the last of her trappings, and stood before me. I remember how she looked: the lines of her neck, the curve of her shoulders, the subtle strength and grace of arms that could master a sheer wall or a musical instrument. The human imperfections: a gravel-scarred knee, a touch of fat at her belly, two moles on her hip, a slight asymmetry in her breasts. The anxiety in her eyes, slight tension in her hands — did she want to fold them, cover her chest and the black curls between her hips? — and I wondered what she saw when she looked in the mirror.

"Come here. Please. I want to kiss you."

Phoebe came to the bed and I pulled her down into my embrace. Kissed her mouth, clasped her to me and ran my hands over the smoothness of her back as she lay atop me. "I had a lovely evening. And I don't just mean after we got home."

She propped herself up on one elbow, peered down at me through a veil of hair. "You're an odd sort, Yvonne. Why are you interested in me?"

I reached up and brushed the hair out of her face. "I had no choice in it. A wizard waved a wand at me."

"...a wizard?"

"Must have been. Can't think of any other reason why I'd be interested in someone who's smart, fun to talk to, good-hearted, and sexy as hell." I was stroking her behind the ears, a spot that made her half-close her eyes with pleasure.

"Hmm." And the discussion trailed off as we kissed again, bodies twining, skin sliding against skin, shedding my clothes. There was no hurry about it; she'd taken the edge off for me already, and although I felt like returning the favour at some point, we had all night. Well, I had an exam the next day, but I probably didn't need sleep for that. Still, there was something that nagged at me...

"Phoebe?"

"Mmph?" She was suckling on my breast, with a delicious hint of teeth, and I didn't really want to interrupt that. But...

"Did you need to call your grandma?"

"Oh, shit, yes! Thanks. Sorry, I got distracted."

"No problem." As she rolled over and reached for the phone on her bedside cabinet I tickled her arse, and she swatted my hand away. "Be good."

I blinked, mustering my most convincing innocent expression as Phoebe, still stark naked, selected the number and put the phone to her ear. Ring, ring... ring, ring...

A voice on the far end, and Phoebe replied. "Yeia sou, Yaya! ... Yes, very well! I just got home." Which was stretching the truth a bit, but some things you don't tell your grandmother.

I didn't want her to feel like she had to hurry the call, so I snuggled up against her back, arms wrapped around her chest.

"No, no, Luke wasn't there. Really, we're... yes, I know... no. No... I know, Grandma, and it's sweet of you, but I'm the one that broke it off. I'm doing okay, I just don't feel like talking about it now."

I could feel her tensing up, and I gave her ribs a soft squeeze and felt her relax again. There was a patch of silence, and then Yaya asked something else.

"We don't have another gig booked yet, Derek's working on it. But I'm expecting the teaching to pick up once the school holidays end... oh, that's sweet, but I should be okay."

The conversation went on for a while, partly in Greek and partly in English. From what I could hear Grandma was worried about Phoebe's finances, and Phoebe was trying to reassure her. I wasn't sure I believed her myself; it didn't sound as if teaching was bringing in enough to pay the bills.

Phoebe was getting prickly again — clearly this wasn't her favourite topic — and I decided that I might as well be a helpful guest. I began to work on soothing her, stroking her hair, rubbing her shoulders like I'd done on the morning after the party, scratching up and down her back.

She arched backward, pressing into my fingernails, and tried a diversionary tactic. "But enough about me, Yaya, what mischief have you been up to?"

I grazed my fingernails over her hips, nuzzled at her wrist.

"Oh, that's good. Still playing bocce?"

I pulled her over onto her back, perched astride her, stroking her breasts — I adored the way they flattened against her chest — and smiled down at her as she smiled up at me, face adrift in a black curly sea, phone pressed to her ear. Yaya's voice, telling some lengthy story.

"Well, that's a shame. If it isn't getting any better, you should see a doctor. Or a physio."

I drew back until I was sitting upright, forefingers circling her nipples: gramophone needles measuring out a song you wouldn't hear on the radio. Let her read my lips: I want you.

Her lips parted, and she closed her eyes as I leaned forward again and covered her breasts with my hands, her bush tickling my thighs. But her multi-tasking abilities were impressive. "No, no, you don't know that, Grandma. There might be something they can help with."

I sank down on her, my breasts pancaked against hers, Yaya at one ear and me at the other. Caught her earlobe in my teeth, traced the whorls of her ear, felt her breathing shift. Her free hand came around to rest lightly in the small of my back.

"Well, remember when I did my shoulder? ... yes, but the physio really helped."

I squeezed my hand between us, compressed between my belly and hers, sliding southwards. Phoebe's eyes opened abruptly, legs squeezing together, and she held the phone away and pressed it into the pillow as she hissed into my ear: "Bad girl! Bad!"

I whispered back: "Open your legs." Tightened my grip on her nipples, then added: "Or I won't fuck you."

A tiny 'oh' sound and she yielded to my hand, let me run my fingers down between her labia, bumping over her nub. My knees sank between hers, and she brought the phone back to her ear. "Sorry, I didn't hear that... say again?"

Yaya, loud enough that I could make out the odd word: something about an elderly friend.

Me, whispering at the same time: "I want to feel you come. Want to make you squeak."

Phoebe, shuddering, as I worked two fingers into her. Just to the first knuckle. Trying to concentrate, she was.

"Oh... poor thing... yes, of course. I'm sure he'd love that. You're not... sweet on him, are you, Yaya! I won't tell if you are!" Or perhaps it was "ah!", for I'd just slipped my fingers in deeper, and begun to rub around her clit with my thumb.

A chuckle from the phone, and something I didn't catch. But Phoebe did: "Oh, Yaya, I very much doubt that."

Hips beginning to rock against my hand. I whispered: "Want to fuck you," and her hand tightened at my back.

Then I slid down her body, friction touching off a thousand nerve endings, fingers still inside her. Lowered my mouth and met her, swimming in her musk and the salt-sweat of the day, fingers curling, feeling her smother a gasp as she spoke some words of encouragement. To me or to Yaya? I wasn't sure and I didn't care.

I lashed her with my tongue and fingers, tossing her about like a lifeboat in a storm, feeling her muscles begin to flutter, the boat closer and closer to capsizing. But I needed to see her. And so, at the last I pulled back, sat upright between her knees, watched her as I played her with both hands, inside and out. Watched her face, eyes imploring me, cheeks flushed. Watched her body heaving silently, breasts rolling, her free hand clawing the pillow as I strummed her. Until at the last she let the phone clatter to the floor and turned sideways, smothering her cries in the pillow.

"oh! oh! fuck! oh..."

Eventually she came down enough to retrieve the handset — "Sorry, Yaya! I banged my funny-bone and dropped the phone!" — but she wasn't quite done, and I made her gasp and whimper a few more times while they talked. At last when Phoebe's body had nothing left to give, I lay down beside her, pushed the phone aside, kissed her deeply. My muscles were starting to remember how sore they still were, but it didn't seem to matter much.

She hugged me to her, then turned aside, back to the phone. "Yes, that'd be lovely. I'm planning to come down for Easter, so you can show me then. But I really should get some sleep now, it's been a busy day." She squeezed my arse. "Yes, I will. Love you too, Yaya."

Then she put the phone away, and whispered to me: "You are a very bad influence."

"And you're a temptation."

"Mmm."

We fell asleep in one another's arms.