Conversations 03

Copyright SleeperyJim 2018

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons. All characters engaging in sexual relationships or activities are 18 years old or older.

Once again, despite the unfortunate titling of the series (my bad) this is not a sequel, prequel or any other quel. This is a stand-alone story in a series of stand-alone stories about the conversations between husbands and wives on the edge of disaster. Please don't take the time to point out any unrealistic parts. It's a story, it's only real in my head.

Sad to say, there is no sex in this one, but I'm still putting it where I placed the others in the series. Fair warning.

I stood in the darkness, my stomach feeling like a clenched fist, and listened and waited.

Yes, I know that this sounds like that cliché of the husband coming home early and listening to his wife fuck some strange in their bedroom, but you'd be wrong.

So, I stood in the darkness, my stomach feeling like a clenched fist, and listened and waited. For the right moment. Then I pressed the button. No, nothing blew up! Leave it!

With a smooth whir of machinery, aided by compressed gas boosters, my wife descended down in front of me, her legs wide.

When she saw me loom from the darkness, she opened her mouth to scream. I clapped my hand over it and whispered in her ear.

"Shh, the audience will hear you."

"What the hell are you doing? You can't do this! This is... this is..."

"A forced conversation!" I said grimly. "You were determined you weren't going to talk about what needed to be discussed. So I've forced the issue."

"Get me back up there, you lunatic!" she shouted in a whisper.

"Relax, you have twenty eight bars before you play again. I can get you back up in one second. And down again. I would advise you not to move off your seat, because if you do I'll drop open the trap and when you fall through I'll just have to try and catch you. Or maybe not. But either way, I won't be able to put you back up on stage again, so you'll have to sit out the rest of the concert down here with me. I don't think your boyfriend would like that."

"Oh for fuck's sake, are you still going on about that? He's not trying to fuck me!"

"Yep, I'm still on about that, and with all the reason in the world. You and him. Sleeping together. That's what this is about."

In my head I had been counting the bars, and pressed the button. The trap promptly put her back in the orchestra on stage. It had taken some doing, shifting the podium and all the chairs on stage exactly four inches to the left, so that my wife's chair, as first cello, would be square on the little lift. Normally it was used for magic acts and scene changes where heavy things had to be lifted into place quickly. Now, it was so my wife, Rosa Vicarrio-Evans, and I, James Evans, could have a conversation in peace.

Above me, I could hear her slide the cello into the music with a long, stretched note on one string, becoming an almost unheard presence in the music, before coming to the fore, and bringing the drama to the piece that highlighted this movement. Man, I loved that cello. I loved her too. And I wasn't going to let that fucking cunt-hound get a piece of her. Unless he already had, and then... hasta la vista baby. I wasn't in the mood to forgive again.

At last the crescendo came to a close, for the long piece featuring the flutes and cor anglais. I pressed the button. Down she came.

She was ready for me this time. "I never slept with Umberto!"

Umberto Fostellini, the maestro. The honoured guest-conductor of this farce, and the dog who was sniffing around my wife's back-end.

"This is an intervention," I said calmly. "You were about to fall off the wagon... again."

She went strangely still, the cello between her knees, her arms resting on it. I could see she wanted to ignore that remark, but she was ever the curious little kitty, was Rosa.

"What do you mean, again?"

"I mean I know all about Richard Arsehole-of-the-month Tate. And what you did with him a week before our wedding. That was the previous time you fell off the wagon."

She went pale, and then blushed bright red. In the incomplete darkness of the under stage I could actually see the glow.

For four bars we sat in silence.

"Why didn't you say anything?" she said at last.

"Oh, I thought about what I should say, what I should shout, what I should scream," I replied, still calm. "Dump you at the altar, and tell our parents and all the wedding guests what a cheating slut you'd been. I thought long and hard about that. I really wanted to."

She put her hand to her mouth as the emotional lock I'd put on my feelings showed through in my voice.

"But I already knew you were a slut, the word was out far and wide that you were the musical bicycle. One ring on your little bell and you were off to the races, with every cock you could find. When I met you, I was quite prepared to simply fuck you, get my end away and move on. Like all the other guys. At that time you were nowhere near the wagon but were still fucking all the passengers by the sound of it.

"But, at the same time, I was curious why one of the best musicians in the university, possibly in the whole history of the university, needed ... yes, needed ... to fuck herself into complete humiliation in order to get by.

"I was doing psych as a minor and you were interesting. And then you fucked up all my plans by making me fall in love with you. Oops, hang on!"

This part of the concerto was just background fill for her, and in a few minutes I brought her back down again.

"I stopped slutting around for you! I went on the wagon, as you put it" she said, leaning forward to try and take my hand. I moved it away and she looked so sad. "I didn't realise someone had said that about me."

"Oh my God! You're kidding! I was informed about your proclivities by three different people - all strangers to me - within 60 seconds of setting eyes on you for the first time. That nobody, absolutely nobody, loved cock more than you. And I know you stopped doing that, for me. But I knew what you were like, so I watched you for a year. Didn't you wonder why it took so long for me to ask you to marry me?"

"I just thought you didn't want to settle down."

"Well, I didn't want to settle down with a slut. At least not one who slutted around with other guys while married to me."

"I wouldn't have done that!" she protested.

"Aaand that brings us back to Dick Tate. Tate comes from the French Tete, meaning head. Dick Head. Hah! He got you all hot and bothered, didn't he? I saw all the signs I'd seen while watching you before we officially met. The mood swings, the high-pitched laugh, a couple of little zits popping up on your jaw-line, the loss of appetite - those were the symptoms every time you were going slut-hunting. So everything about you grassed you up, and said you were going to fuck somebody new or some people new, and cheat on me. And you did. I couldn't step in because my idiot brother-in-law thought it so funny to handcuff me naked to a lamppost in the middle of town on my bachelor's night out, while you spent the night with Dickhead. I always wondered if you asked your brother to do that, or suggest it somehow, so you could sneak off."

She shook her head vehemently. I pressed the button and listened to her short solo.

I had no idea how this was going down with the orchestra or the audience, but it was actually working quite well for me. It was giving me a chance to calm down again when I got too worked up.

Yes, I imagine that some of you will be quite disgusted and already writing letters of complaint to the press. She had cheated on me while we were engaged, therefore I should kick her to the dogs and hope they tear her apart. I didn't. But I had my reasons. I did what was best for me. Not her. Not you. For me.

After the solo she descended with tears in her eyes.

"I never realised you knew," she whispered. "I didn't ask Philip to handcuff you - and he is an idiot. I would have felt a lot safer if you were with me, and would have stayed by your side. And it wasn't the whole night, it was just five minutes, I think. Five minutes which changed my world view. We'd been together for a year, and I would be married to the man I loved and lusted non-stop for in just a week. And I risked all that for him? So he could jump on me and squirt his nasty stuff all over me. I was a fucking idiot. And I never cheated again. I'm sorry I did that. I really am. I'm not sorry you found out. I deserved to be beaten and kicked out, shamed and humiliated for what I did. But I thought you never knew. Why didn't you do that to me? You should have."

"I've thought about that many times over the years since we married," I said. "I raged and swore, thought about topping myself and went on a violent bender, destroying stuff that I valued and which meant a lot to me - records, books, my computer. And I think it was that that helped me make up my mind. In the end I realised one thing. All that righteous indignation would just break yet another thing I loved and wanted. I loved you and wanted you, so if I kicked you out, what did I get out of it? Just a salve on my pride. Although I did kick that bastard in the balls later though. I didn't have any problem with destroying those."

I made a balance with my hands. "Pride here, and a future with all the love I could ask for from the woman I loved on this side. It weighed pretty heavy on that side. So I simply watched you. Trust, but verify is a good motto. I made it mine. Except the trust part.

"But don't get me wrong, ignoring and putting aside your little affair - five minutes or a whole night - did come with a price, because that balanced the scales again. Anything else from you and the scales would tip, and you would be out of my life faster than a piece of well-squeezed wet soap."

The button was pressed for the end of the first movement.

When the last note died away, I heard her high heel shoe knocking on the trap as pages on the musicians' scores and the pages of the audience's programmes were turned. I pressed the button once more.

She descended, leaning sideways to get a look at me as soon as possible.

"I didn't sleep with Umberto."

"You were about to, and that's possibly just as bad. Intent and deed are very close together in legal terms."

I pressed the button once again to send her back up. This movement started with a fast, rollicking piece that would gradually slow to lead into the tragedy of the final movement, making the counterpoint.

At last she got to take a break for a good couple of minutes for the first violin to emote as best he could, after which the piano would take over.

"I was not about to!" Rosa said, leading with that as she came into view. "And we need to stop doing this, Umberto is giving me the stink-eye. He's furious."

"Good. And no matter what you say, you were about to sleep with that wrinkled old creep." I gave an exaggerated shudder to show my thoughts of even touching him, just to rub it in a little.

"How can you even say that? While we've been married I have never been unfaithful to you!"

"I know," I said. "I made it my job to check up on you, remember?"

"But..."

"Exactly! But!" I continued over her. "Let's take a look at a few things here. Zits? Yep, I can see two right now that even that amount of make-up can't hide. Appetite? Gone. You haven't had breakfast in a week. Two more weeks of this and schools could use you to show what can happen when very bad people get into power. That laugh of yours is beautiful - it makes me feel warm and happy inside. It makes my heart sing in harmony. But right now that laugh could crack crystal.

"And God! Don't get me started on the mood swings. You downright refused to talk to me at all about this - about my fears and doubts of where you were going with him. You simply ignored or pooh-poohed all my warnings that Umberto was trying to get more than just a good performance out of you. Which is why we're here now, and the audience out there is wondering why the first cello is pretending to be a prairie dog.

"Look at what you're wearing. That little black dress is so sexy it makes my balls ache just to look at it. But you're a cellist and have to spread those wonderful legs really wide to play it. So you're showing you're knickers - and they aren't granny panties by any means - to half the audience and teasing all the hetero members of the orchestra. And I can't help thinking that the main target of that beckoning pussy is the man that stands right in front on stage - Mr Conductor Man.

"Another thing. You have played for over nine years on the best stages in the whole world, and yet Umberto for some reason needs to spend two evenings coaching you through a piece you could play in your sleep. And needs to hang over you from behind to actually move your hands over the strings and bow. Really? You believed he was helping you somehow? Oh I know he didn't get anything more than an 'accidental' feel of your tits while he was doing it. But he was getting you all nicely warmed up as the main course, wasn't he. Ready for tonight's party, where he and you received an invitation and I didn't - where all his hard work would pay off and he would finally get his chance to fuck you."

"Now go away."

I pressed the button. She wasn't needed to play for another two minutes but I'd had enough.

Soon she was thumping on the trap with her heel again. I sighed and pressed the button.

"I owe you an apology," was the first thing she said. "I didn't see it from inside me, but you had it right all the time. The bastard got to me. Without realising it, I was getting ready to fuck him. He asked me to wear this dress for him. Actually I think he wanted to tell me to leave my knickers off, but that would have broken his spell. And he did cop a feel of my tits, but immediately backed off and apologised and told me it was accidental. I let him overwhelm me with his great reputation as the world's best conductor..."

"Not the best anymore," I interjected. "Greg, Paulo and Boris Ivanovitch are all better than he is."

"You really think so," she said thoughtfully. "I must admit Paulo's handling of that Brahms evening was absolutely masterful and got every drop of blood that he could out of the Berlin Philharmonic..."

"Nice as this little discussion is, could we table it until later, and get back to the subject?"

She pounced on that like a cat with a slow hamster. "Later. Yes. Later is good. Later is wonderful if it means you want to see me later. I'm so sorry I screwed up again. I just don't seem to see clearly when it's right in front of me. Every time I went to a party in university, hungry and with zits on my neck I'd be surprised at how things turned out. Every single time. I don't seem to be able to learn from my mistakes. I'm so sorry. I love you, but I'm bad for you and that breaks my heart. You would be better off without me."

"I guess," I sighed. "But the thing about you is, I know I can't trust you to control yourself. I've always known that. That's why I travel with you to every concert you play. And, I must admit you've done surprisingly well for nine years. There were temptations, but you managed to pull back from the abyss as it tried to stare into you. So do I go on the events of one week and its likely outcome, or nine years of good behaviour? Back to the fucking balance. Did you fuck up, or did I not do my job properly? Because you are work, Rosa. Hard work. You're beautiful and talented and you fuck like an absolute angel. And that means every man on this planet wants to get between your legs."

She nodded sadly, and I couldn't help smiling. No false modesty from my Rosa.

"Up you go," I said, and she disappeared up into the ceiling. Within seconds, the deep harmonics of that beautiful cello I'd bought her for her twenty fifth birthday were resounding through the hall. It even made something in the under stage vibrate annoyingly, until I discovered the source and made it stop.

She didn't know it, but I'd written this part especially for her. In my mind it was named after Shakespeare's Love's Labour's Lost. I found my hands forming the balance again, and made up my mind.

Yes, I'd written the concerto, in the same way I'd written dozens of classical pieces, as well as some number one pop songs, film scores and - to my secret shame - several award winning jingles. Hey, we all have to start somewhere. Music with a minor in psychology makes an interesting mix, especially when you can understand what it is about music that makes people love it so much. That's why nine years of travelling with Rosa had been no problem. We both went where the music was. And while there, I watched her carefully.

So why had Umberto been different? I had an idea about that.

My Lost Labours of Love - my private name for it which was simply named Storm in the programme - rose to its dramatic finale and I lost myself in the music, only to be startled out of my reverie when the audience rose as one, only to be mystified when the pretty lady with the cello ignored the conductor's offered hand to come and take a bow, and stamped on the floor instead. And then disappeared through it again.

"Please can I stay married to you," she asked. "I love playing, but I don't think it would really be much fun without you in the wings encouraging me, supporting me, watching over me... and loving me?"

"No, I've had enough of travelling. I've enjoyed being with you for nine years, but now I want a wife who is with me at our home, caring for me for a change - me and our babies."

She was crying now. "You never said anything about babies."

"No, but now I want some. I want to burst out of my study to moan at children who can't stop happily shouting in the garden. I want a wife to interrupt me at the most vital and intense part of a composition to ask if I'd like a cup of tea. I want a woman who will ignore my protests that I have to finish a piece on schedule to take me up to bed and fuck the stuffing out of me."

"I could have done all that," she cried.

"So apply for the position," I said.

We were lucky she didn't break the lift mechanism when she launched herself out of her chair at me. Somehow she managed to straddle my hips and take me down onto my back with her glued to my front. Luckily some opera scenery softened my landing. Bugger opera, I never really liked it anyway. Not enough music and too much screeching in most of them. Old doesn't always mean good.

The way her hips were turned, that sexy black dress was now bunched up around her waist, and the sexy black panties were fully on view as she rubbed them across the strategic part of my trousers, causing an uncomfortable lump to form. She giggled in delight as she felt it.

"I hereby formally apply for the position," she announced.

"And I hereby accept said application and reappoint you to the position of wife."

"Reappoint?" she said, with a nervous laugh. "It had got that far?"

I nodded. "Remember that, think of the balance and always keep within my sight. Okay?"

Her lovely brown eyes big and round with alarm, she nodded vigorously and leaned down to kiss me. The applause from the audience felt appropriate.

When it died and general conversation created a buzz in the audience to take its place, a voice called through the open trap.

"Excuse me, if you are finished doing stupid things, I need my leading soloist. There are important interviews with the press and television that the two of us need to attend together. And I'm sure we will be talking very seriously with the sponsors and producers of tonight's performance about that very unprofessional stunt you pulled with the stage. I did not appreciate that schoolboy prank. I won't have it in my concerts, and I really think you will need to be barred from future performances. I can't have you upsetting my musicians." Umberto's voice sounded cocksure. His words seemed to hint at how he was more important to my wife - and the rest of the world - than I was. I hated that guy.