Concerto Appassionato

For the lovers of music, and the music of lovers.

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Her hands ached. She had been at it for three hours at least, practicing scales, arpeggios, and passage work on her viola, her nimble fingers now worn and protesting. She glanced at her watch – 11:45 p.m. – and verified her three-hour estimate. She knew it was late, and that she should have been in bed awhile back, but she also knew that this was when she liked to practice most. Late at night, the rooms and corridors empty of people, of noise – just her, the viola, and the notes flying from her fingers. It had become a nightly ritual for her, and her sanctuary. A time that was just for her, a time for music.

She packed up, dusting the rosin from the polished, grained wood of the viola's body, loosening the alabaster hairs of the bow. She laid the viola securely in its bed of velvet, gently fastened the bow into place, and placed her music back into its pouch. She ran her fingers up the C-string, stroking from the fingerboard to the bridge. She loved this string; the lowest in pitch, it was what gave her viola the dark, hauntingly mellow tone that was its voice. When she played, she could feel the vibrations through her shoulder and running down her spine every time she stroked the bow across the string, as if her body was an extension of the instrument. With one last loving caress, she shut the lid of her case and zipped it, and, placing the strap over her shoulder, flipped off the light and stepped out into the dark hallway.

A moment's passage told her she was not alone. She heard the sounds of someone playing a piano. She was in the basement, where the practice rooms were, but the sounds were floating down from above, from the concert hall, she thought. She turned and began walking down the dark corridor towards the stairs. With each step the music grew in volume – it seemed whoever was playing was warming up. By the time she reached the top of the stairs, behind the door that opened up into the backstage area, the air was practically vibrating with the voice of the piano. She stood there, wanting so much to open that door, sit down backstage, and just listen. But to be standing there, even hidden safely behind the door, was an invasion upon the solitude of practicing, as she well knew.

There she stood, torn between staying and going. She should leave, she decided – but she was transfixed. Whoever was playing was slowly mesmerizing her, seducing her senses with the stroke of a finger. She heard the beginnings of an A minor scale, the player so slowly and so painfully milking the piano, each note seeping from the instrument as if in deep lament. She decided that she had to know who was doing this, to see who it was that held this power over the piano so as to make it weep.

She placed her hand on the cool doorknob, turning it slowly to keep it from squeaking in its old age. She had worked up the nerve to push the door open about an inch, when the turning doorknob gave a loud squeak of protest on its return to its original position. The scale abruptly came to an end, and the sudden silence hung in the air like an ethereal humidity. She stood as still as a statue, terrified that she had unwittingly made her presence known. A minute passed, then two, and still she didn't move, her hand retaining its grip on the treacherous doorknob. She realized that she was holding her breath, and she let it out as silently as she could, sure that her pounding heart would betray her. The silence refused to retreat, and though there was a thick red velvet curtain separating her from front stage where the piano sat, she still felt completely exposed.

She looked across the stage and saw the red glow of the exit sign. If she could make it across the stage and out that door, she would be fine. But she did not want to move – who was on the other side of that curtain? She lifted her right foot to take a reluctant step towards the exit, and as her foot touched the stage, a monstrous chord shook the concert hall, the shock of which nearly sent her to her knees.

Before the tidal wave of the first chord even had time to fade, it was followed by another, then another, in rapid succession. She recognized the opening of the Grieg Piano Concerto – a piece so passionate she could feel it in every nerve of her body, and one she knew well. It had been her favorite piece for quite some time, and she was amazed at what the song did to her body, the power it held over her. She could feel the pulsing chords from the ends of her hair straight down to between her legs. Her apprehension leaving her, she set her viola down next to the wall and slipped along the wall on the side of the stage. She stood just behind the heavy curtain, a sliver of light illuminating one of her blue eyes. And she saw him.

He sat behind the gleaming, black grand piano, his eyes closed, mouth set in a grimace of desire. She felt somewhat relieved, seeing how immersed he was in the music – he probably had not heard the door squeak. She had seen him around the music building, and knew him well – he was the piano professor. He was in his early forties, it seemed, his smooth brown hair graying slightly at the temples. Sometimes he wore glasses, other times contacts. Tonight he wore no glasses, the tiny lines around his eyes furrowing with the passage of notes. Occasionally his lips would part, and she heard his sharp intake of breath, as if he were breathing life into the music.

The lid of the piano was raised, the notes of the concerto pouring copiously from it. She watched him through the gap between the piano and lid, saw him swaying, the expression on his face moving from passion to pain to the lightness of raised eyebrows. Just below his chin, down his long neck, was a black bow tie set atop a white shirt. Her eyes followed the round black buttons of his shirt down the front of his slim body, disappearing into the folds of a black silk cummerbund. A glance below the body of the piano revealed his black pants, striped down the side with black ribbon, and his shining black shoes. His black tuxedo jacket was strewn across the top of the piano. She figured he must have just come from some sort of performance. Never did his eyes open. Were he to do so, he would be looking directly at her. The foot of the piano was closest to her, the instrument and curtain the only barriers between them. Her eyes bored into his face, daring him to look at her. She was captivated. His eyes remained closed.

She wanted to be closer to him, to be enveloped in his sphere of magic. Leaving her post, she padded across the stage behind the curtain, approaching the spot she knew he was occupying. She stood there, facing him; the pounding concerto was now louder than ever, having reached the peak of the first movement. She was so close to him, she could sense his heat, yet separated by a barrier of velvet - she needed to be even closer.

She dropped silently to her knees, fingers toying with the hem of the crimson curtain; feeling along it, taking care not to move it, she found the slit in the middle. She could see the far piano leg through the crack, the curtains slightly agape. She slithered like a cat along the stage floor, slowly – so slowly – penetrating the velvet, moving millimeter by millimeter so as not to move the curtains more than necessary; they were made up such heavy sensual material, they barely rippled as her body passed between the cleavage. She could feel the weight of the curtain trailing across her shoulders, down the curve of her back, up over her bottom, tickling down her thighs. The concerto never ceased.

She completed her passage through the curtains and looked up. She was underneath the piano, at the foot. She looked back at the velvet. Not a stir. She slowly turned her head and gazed straight ahead… just in front of her, a few feet away, was the professor. His shiny shoes played across the pedals of the piano, eliciting long moans from the instrument. Eyes gliding up his long legs, her gaze fell on where they met. Her position afforded her a perfect view of the middle seam of his pants, and what it covered, tightly.

Unconsciously licking her lips, she crept forward on all fours, like an animal stalking its prey… closer… closer, her knees slipping along the slick stage floor. She reached him, close enough to lick his knee if she so chose. The position of the notes pouring from the piano told her the first movement was almost halfway over. She knew the upcoming part well, remembering how it only grew in passion, and moaned to herself. Pure perfection. Just enough time.

Rising up on her knees as much as she could, she lifted them over the pedals and his working feet, positioning herself directly between his legs, simultaneously running a finger up his right pantleg, touching his smoldering skin for the first time. A dissonant howl sprang from the piano, and though it was part of the concerto, it seemed to have more bite. She looked up to find herself locked in the stare of his brown eyes, his mouth slightly open.

"Keep playing, Professor. Do not stop until you have played the entire concerto," she commanded.

His hands obediently continued their dance across the keys, but his eyes did not move from her, kneeling between his legs. She felt the muscles of his legs working on either side of her body, alternately pushing and releasing the pedals. Her eyes followed the contour of his thigh, and she reached up to trace the ribbon of his pants with her finger as the concerto traced its way around the concert hall. The end of her gaze's journey was the apex of his thighs; the thin material of his tuxedo pants seemed to be struggling to contain what could only be a lengthening, thickening cock. She wondered what he was thinking, having this girl kneeling before him, stoking the fire of the most passionate concerto known.

She pushed forward, increasing the intimate contact even more; he opened his legs a little more, allowing her more room. The strings of his shoes became her next target; lifting his foot from the pedal, she slowly tugged the lace and slid the shoe off one foot, then the other. His socks were her next focus, and soon joined his shoes under the piano bench. Starting at his ankles, she slid her fingers up his long legs, past his knees, up his thighs, her eyes remaining on the prize between. Her hands met in the middle, tickling the hardness she found there, moving up his zipper line, exploring the silky smoothness of his cummerbund, and reaching for the clasp in back that held it loosely to his hips. It unfastened easily and took its place next to his left thigh on the black piano bench. He leaned forward as her nimble fingers found the hook of his pants, as if asking her to continue; she would continue, as long as he did not stop playing. His pants unsnapped easily, the zipper begging to release his bulging excitement.

"Stand up, Professor," came her next command, and he obeyed, knowing he was to continue playing.

He rose to his feet, allowing her to slide his pants down around his hips. She guided them deftly down his legs and laid them aside. Returning her gaze to his cock, she saw damp spots soaking the front panel of his white briefs. She reached up to touch them, feeling their wetness and receiving a gasp as response. These, too, she slid down his long legs, revealing to her hungry eyes the thick, dark patch of curls nestling his now-full erection. A slick drop of pre-cum oozed from the engorged head, and he moaned as she captured it with her tongue.

"Sit," she said. He complied.

Once again his long thighs embraced her. His mind reeled even more quickly than his fingers with the sensations she was giving him. He had seen her around the music building many times, carrying her viola and a leather backpack, a pencil sometimes woven up through her long dark locks. He had always been intrigued by her – she had this way of smiling at him when they passed in the hallways, so quiet, so alluring… and now she was here, with him, taking him in her mouth, her ministrations promising to be more explosive than even the concerto that he was now more feverishly pounding out on the piano. Her commands thrilled him – she knew what she wanted from him, this quiet mistress, and he was more than happy to give her whatever she desired

The piano's moan reverberated powerfully above her as she slid her hands up the inside of his pale thighs, spreading them even further. Her fingers closed around the base of his hard cock, tipping it down, and she caught another drop of his essence as his manhood shivered again. She felt his eyes on her, the concerto such a familiar pathway across the keys that he did not even need music; his fingers caressed the ivory keys as a hand would travel along the curves of a familiar lover. She looked up at him as she licked her pulsing lips, and gazed fully into his brown eyes as she pressed the head of his cock to her lips. She considered opening her mouth and closing it around him, but she chose to have him penetrate her lips instead. Her ripe lips wet with his slippery pre-cum, she pressed her head forward, urging his cock to slip tightly between.

He and the piano shared a groan as the head of his cock found its place between her lips, slipping past the firm, lush entrance she had formed. She toyed with him a bit, alternately sucking and releasing the head of his cock, seeking his sexy salty drops as she probed his tiny slit for more. Her hands remained looped around his thighs, grasping him, feeling his skin begin to moisten with sweat. She slid her left knee over so that she was positioned over his right foot, and she pressed against him, her short skirt and lack of panties allowing him to feel her wetness. In one fluid motion, his hands slid up the keys, and her body moved up his leg in time as her mouth engulfed his cock. Another of his drops was her reward as she held him deeply in her mouth, and he straightened his leg beneath her as a groan played off his lips. She held him deeply, firmly in her mouth, allowing him the pleasure of the feeling created by her lips placed wetly around the base of his manhood. Her hips made slow undulations against his leg, now wet with her excitement, as he held it firmly between her legs, stimulating her as she stimulated him.

Her lips made a hot, wet withdrawal back to the head of his cock and then slowly made the return trip, her nose returning to his thick, dark curls, taking in the scent of his arousal, feeling the increasing heat of his skin on her face. She wondered what he was thinking, having his entire cock engulfed between her lips, and under her orders, unable to relent his attack on the piano. Her lips made their journey just as unrelentingly, eliciting moans every time her mouth traveled over his sensitive spots near the base of his cock. She never moved her hands from his thighs, choosing instead to please him entirely with her mouth.

His playing, though now somewhat frenzied and wilder, was nonetheless exquisite, and she recognized the fury of the last cadenza. Taking her cue from the groaning of the wood and strings above her, she quickened her pace, sucking feverishly as the final notes flew from his fiery fingers. His cock shuddered between her slick, now-swollen lips, and his hips jerked his cock so deeply into her mouth, erupting as the last cord of the concerto bathed the hall in the mournful glory of A minor. Spurt after thick spurt of his reverberations filled her mouth, and she hungrily swallowed every drop of his hot, musky essence, very pleased that he had given her what she desired.

She waited until the room had ceased its vibration from the resounding cord, still holding him in her mouth, and feeling him begin to soften. She continued licking gently, giving him little aftershocks of pleasure. Finally his cock slipped from between her swollen lips, and she licked them as she looked up and beheld the master of the piano, sweaty, shaking. His chest heaved, and he looked down at her, a gaze of pleasure and desire so intense that it made her draw in her breath. She returned his stare, and the thought seemed to flow between them through their desire-darkened eyes… this was just the first movement.