Maestro

Natasha slides the borrowed key into the front door's lock. It enters without resistance, feeling so smooth, so natural--almost welcoming--that she hesitates on the small, concrete porch. She admires the orange colours of fallen leaves gathered cozily into the corners of the porch and dismisses the urge to crunch them under her foot, noting that she herself feels as capricious tonight as the cloudy grey sky. This evening's cool, fall air is refreshing and without bite, but the twilight sky feels undecided, like it could at any moment slip into a tempestuous mood and threaten a storm.

With a shiver, Natasha turns the knob and pushes through the doorway. The warmth of her teacher's empty home embraces her immediately--Hollister left a few small lights on, and the herbaceous scent of what was likely a roast chicken dinner fills the air. He said he'd prepare a portion for her, but Natasha knew she wouldn't be feeling hungry.

After removing her bag, coat, and shoes, she glides her stocking feet in ballerina-like arcs down the hardwood floor of the hall, twirling her black skirt gracefully until she finds herself at the threshold of the living room. Being alone here for the first time, she takes in the dim space with new eyes.

The fireplace at the other end of the room is lit and crackles quietly; Hollister assured her the heat would last until he returned later. The couch in front of the wide picture window to the right is clear except for a couple of small cushions, unlike the coffee table before it which is covered in magazines, old symphony CDs, and loose sheet music. On the opposite side of the room stands Hollister's upright piano; the key lid was thoughtfully left open.

Stepping into the room, Natasha anxiously approaches the impressively large mantel, convincing herself it's to snoop around and look at Hollister's photos on display. In one of them, her teacher stands in front of London's Royal Albert Hall on a trip she's heard about several times. In another, Hollister sits on his own living room couch with two children, presumably his nephews, with his sister on the armrest.

Finally, she drifts along to the most commanding object, the one that really drew her here: a life-size bust of Beethoven, a replica of that sculpture by Hagen. Every time she's played in this room, his presence was felt. And now she stands before him, unself-conscious in her solitude, with head tilted back slightly to gaze up at the master composer. Brow furrowed, he stares ahead, eyes filled with purpose and alive with brooding passion.

Natasha fingers the thick, ribbed weavings of her earthy green turtleneck and wonders what fuels him. As if lifted by the rising heat of the fire before her, she reaches up to strokes his wide, stately lapel in turn. As her eyes trace its jagged edges, a pop from the fire snaps her out of her trance, and she remembers her official reason for being here. Withdrawing her touch, she steps away to fish her music from her bag.

At the piano, Natasha spreads her book on the music rack, clicks on the small lamp above, and lays her fingers on the keys. Tonight, she'll start with Chopin's Nouvelle étude no. 1. After a quick look back over her shoulder at the bust, she begins to play without a warmup.

The étude is as enchanting as it is haunting, and the opening chromatic pattern played by a lone right hand easily gets Natasha into character. She savours the moment, recalling, as her left hand flows in with sweeping arpeggios, the moody evening sky and blustery fall weather for which her music is a perfect soundtrack.

As she approaches the middle sections, she anticipates the bars that usually trip her up, somewhere around thirty-six. Though she plays alone, she still feels like someone is listening and hopes not to disappoint. Reaching with her left for that satisfyingly low B flat while simultaneously preparing for a climb up to a high C flat with her right, she misses and strikes two rumbly, dissonant bass notes together.

Sensing the error even before she heard it, Natasha stops immediately and quickly glances over her shoulder to observe the master from the corner of her eye. He looks straight ahead, as stern and determined as ever. Shivers wriggle down her spine.

Determined to succeed, she takes a breath and recalls Hollister's advice thanks to the small markings and notes on her music. He always made careful, deliberate markings with a well-sharpened pencil, leaning in close to do so.

Natasha straightens her back, smooths her long skirt, flicks her dark hair over her shoulder, and retakes the passage. This time, she impresses herself with the fluidity of her motion and the rolling beauty of her lines; Hollister would no doubt be bubbling and complimentary. Cracking a little smile, she nearly levitates with this brief injection of pride, and it carries her through the next thirty minutes of more detailed practice with Chopin.

Having earned a small break, Natasha rises from the piano bench and wanders out from the warmth of the living room into the dim kitchen. Flicking on the light, she notices a small paper note left on the counter.

"Natasha," it reads, "if you're hungry, I've prepared a plate for you. It's in the fridge. Happy practicing! See you later."

Hollister possesses a seemingly bottomless well of kindnesses to bestow upon her. Though she has been careful not to accept too many of his generous offerings, she did accept his invitation to use his piano tonight to practice for her upcoming recital. Part of her decision came down to his being out for most of the evening, and Natasha intends, likely to his dismay, to be gone before he returns.

Instead of eating, she pours herself a glass of water and leans against the counter. In an odd way, she finds herself appreciating the dull, white noise provided by the humming refrigerator. It's a welcome contrast to the intensity of her music and emotions, a little respite.

Hydrated, Natasha sits back at the piano and considers her next move. She's had enough of her Chopin étude for the evening and is feeling a bit wild and free, alone in a home that isn't her own. She considers launching into a cheeky rendition of Fur Elise or indulging in the first movement of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, but abandons this latter idea, feeling a little embarrassed that she isn't yet able to get through the third.

Instead, she spins herself around on the bench and approaches the mantel again, acknowledging in herself the other reason she decided to come here tonight.

The statue stares on unfazed even as she gropes around near the bust's base, gauging the best point of purchase and grip. When she finds it--she hopes--Natasha lifts very carefully, straining to bring it over the edge of the mantel and down safely into her arms. Though heavy, she manages to lean it into her chest and step over to the coffee table.

Realizing there's very little room there, and that she's running out of strength, she quickly sweeps her foot across a portion of the tabletop to clear a space, sending papers, pencils, coasters, and CD cases to the floor. Nearly losing her balance, Natasha brings the bust down onto the coffee table with a little too much force and falls back on her butt with a huff. Her chest heaves with a few full breaths as she leans back, propping herself up with her hands.

When her breathing slows, she sits up on her knees and straightens out the bust so that it faces forward. It's in this moment that she truly locks eyes with him for the first time. His gaze is even more intense than she thought, brimming with an intoxicating mix of fervor, fury, and agony. It makes his presence here even more puzzling.

Despite the carefully curated romantic aesthetic of Hollister's living and working space--with its warm amber lighting, large fireplace, lavish rug, classically inspired furniture, and so on--his demeanor and, more importantly his playing, remain ultimately rather dry. Natasha has always admired his technical mastery, but when prompted to discuss what might inspire the phrasing choices the greats may have made, Hollister often reverts to spouting the same lines about posture, repetition, and economy of movement.

Nonetheless, he clearly admires their passion, owning and displaying such an impressive bust in his home. She wonders if he admires in Beethoven the same fire that she believes lives in her. Maybe Hollister hopes to absorb something from all these things with which he surrounds himself, to grasp them and let them enter him--or he to enter them.

With a little shake of her head, Natasha releases these last thoughts. It's just her and the master now.

Carefully, she reaches forward to stroke his lapels with both hands, watching closely as she goes. All these textures and forms invite her touch, and the stone is smooth and almost warm, having been resting above the fire. Tracing now the lapels' points and angles, she works her way down to the one little button at the top of his vest. She pinches it gently between her forefinger and thumb, appreciating its charm. Finally, she crawls her hand up the center of his chest to get a feel for that elegant, silky cravat with the pads of her fingers.

Inching herself a little closer, Natasha brushes his cheek with the back of her fingers affectionately, still observing closely every detail her touch meets to confirm and retain exactly what it reads. Having worked her way so close to his eyes, she glances up at them shyly through her eyelashes, wondering if he would have liked her playing.

With their faces now only inches apart, she softly takes his face in both hands and leans in for a kiss. Their noses brush past each other as her warm lips press into his; though unmoving, they feel alive, electric. Natasha hopes her kiss communicates what she feels. She wants to please him, to ease for a while whatever may burden his mind and heart, to show him that she carries burdens too, and that they can cast them aside together in trust, in understanding, for a few moments of pleasure and relief.

She pulls away to search his eyes for a response, stroking his wavy locks. He stares back exactly as before.

Natasha dives in to kiss him more passionately, trying to pull away and into her mouth his lower lip so that she can suck on it, nibble at it. She kisses the corner of his mouth, his cheek, his chin. She runs the tip of her nose along the underside of his jawline and then up across his forehead to kiss his rigid brow.

Possessed by a new idea, she wraps the statue in her arms and pulls it down off the table, onto the rug to join her. Then, with heart pounding, she throws herself back, leaning again on her palms, staring back at her partner. Would such a distinguished older man crave the sight of a young woman's body?

With that thought, she draws her heels back, raising her knees, then slowly spreads them apart. A quick tug at her draping skirt reveals her bare thighs and black panties clinging to supple flesh--does he like her darkness? While holding his stony gaze, she rebalances herself on one right hand behind her back, and with the other starts stroking the soft, thin cotton that hugs her vulva. Will he crack? She enjoys the game.

"Come now, Maestro. Surely something stirs within you?" she teases.

Natasha supports herself with both hands, leaving her panties on full display, to raise a leg and stroke his chest with the ball of her foot and first toe. Her black nylon stocking slides enticingly over the smooth stone, and the sensation it produces on her skin seems to have a greater effect on her than on him. She bites the inside of her lower lip.

"It won't be long before you break," she thinks with a mischievous smirk.

She glides her toe over his brow, around the wide socket of his eye, over his cheekbone, then ever-so-gently down over his straight, stoic lips.

"You don't have to hide yourself from me, darling," she croons softly with the top of her toe propping his chin. "We understand each other."

The glow of the slowly waning fire flickers across the statue's pupils; they burn for her, but his expression remains the same.

Up for a challenge, Natasha turns herself over onto her front with the side of her face to the rug, knees bent, ass in the air. Under the cover of her long, flowing skirt, she wriggles her panties down to her knees, then makes a performance of her reveal. As she pulls back on her skirt with a calculated pace, the hem rises from the back of her knees, up across the length of her thighs until, she estimates, her bare labia are on the verge of peeking out. Looking back over her shoulder, Natasha can see that he glares at her ass, seething with sexual frustration, but still unwilling to give in.

"I know you're strong, but it's only a matter of time."

On that note, she continues the show, putting her naked pussy on full display. As the open air meets her with a slight coolness, she realizes she's gotten a little wet.

"Does the glint catch your eye, sir?" she asks, using a finger to spread her labia to one side. "You could enter me if you'd like."

Using her fingers to massage her pubic mound at the edge of her clit, Natasha watches his face closely.

"Show me your passion, Maestro. Let me be your pupil," she continues with increasing pressure on herself. "I have so much to learn."

"Or maybe I'll only let you watch. Would that frustrate you, sir?" Natasha inches closer to her clit, hungry for more direct stimulation. "Maybe it's you who could learn from me," she says with insolence.

Her increasing wetness begs for contact. Natasha strokes her cleft and coats her finger before bringing it to her face for a taste. With the finger in her mouth, tongue swirling around it, she appreciates her own flavour.

"Care for a taste, my darling?" she asks as large rain drops begin to tap on the window.

Natasha's expression disappears with a sudden thought. Would she dare? She glances at the small pendulum clock hanging on the wall. There's time, she concludes.

Quickly wiping her fingers on her skirt, she turns over and sits facing the bust once again. A distant flash of lightning briefly casts him in shadow.

"Breaking your composure has certainly been a challenge, Master. If you won't crack, I'll be forced to resort to more drastic measures." She smiles, but her eyes betray a little nervousness. "Don't worry; I'll make sure you're comfortable."

Natasha stands, letting her panties fall to the floor, and steps over to the couch to grab a cushion which she places on the rug. To the sound of rumbling thunder, she pulls the bust over to the pillow and lays its head on it. Facing the dying fire, she kneels, straddling the statue and pulling her skirt back, tucking it behind her so as not to cover his face.

"Please, Master. Make me sing," she says, looking down into his eyes as she presses herself against him.

Natasha sighs, her plump labia softly colliding with his marble lips. She grasps his hair, fingers finding the lines and crevices of his locks. Then she begins to rock her pelvis lightly, sliding her lips across his, spreading her warm fluid over them.

"Is the taste to your liking, Master?" She imagines his tongue exploring her, savouring her as she gazes into the glowing coals.

Natasha grinds with a downward, back-stroking motion, dragging herself across his mouth, bumping her clit against the hard, round tip of his nose on the upstroke.

"Don't hold back. Take me." With one hand, she grabs her ass cheek and presses into it with her fingertips just enough to hurt.

The storm moves closer, nearly overhead. Bright flashes of lightning illuminate the room for a fraction of a second at a time.

Natasha anchors her mound against his nose and increases her pace, lips brushing lips, clit rubbing hard against his nose and upper lip.

"Oh, yes," she moans quietly, nearly inaudible to herself as the rain loudly pelts the roof, the window.

By this point, with eyes closed, she's lost herself. Her strokes thrust the statue down into the cushion. She squeezes his head with her thighs as her skirt, with all the agitation, drifts back down to veil his eyes. In depraved darkness, her idol devours her--she smothers him. Fingernails scrape his head, dig into her own flesh. Thunder crashes overhead.

Natasha's spine curls harshly, nearly bringing their foreheads together, as she cums on his stony face. When her grinding stops, she let's the pleasure run through her body while simply resting her wet, pulsating pussy against his coated mouth and chin.

Finally, lightheaded, she let's herself collapse to the rug beside him. After a few breaths, she shifts down to his level and lays a hand on his still clothed chest as her heart continues to thump in her own. With hot, lazy lips, Natasha kisses his cheek and nuzzles into his collar. The rain eases up.

A few minutes later, she's packing her music into her bag, having already replaced the bust and cushion--Hollister will be back soon. Stifling her embarrassment to focus on the task at hand, Natasha quickly wipes the statue's mouth with a tissue, then heads for the front door.

As she's slipping on her backpack, the sound of Hollister's key in the lock of the back door ignites her senses with a spark of urgency. And it's in that moment, with the clarity of purpose it brings, that she realizes that her black panties still lay on the living room rug.

Natasha rushes back to the living room, falls to her knees, and gropes around in the near darkness until she finally feels the underwear under her fingers. The back door swings open. As quickly and quietly as possible, Natasha makes her way back to the front door.

"Natasha, are you still here?" Hollister calls out as he steps into the kitchen. "I brought some cookies back from the gala."

Hoping she wasn't heard, Natasha carefully opens the front door and steps out.

"They're ginger molasses cookies. You said they were your fav--"

With the door closed, Natasha springs off the porch and down the street.

"Hello?"

Hollister would have liked to come in from the storm, after a long evening of dull conversation with too many people, to see her youthful, enigmatic face. But now, accepting that she's no longer there, Hollister takes off his jacket and shoes, and dumps his things on the kitchen counter. There he sees the glass with Natasha's lip faintly printed on its rim. Opening the fridge, he notes with a sigh that she didn't eat.

In the living room, he takes in the scent of Natasha's recent presence. Her subtle, but familiar perfume lingers in the air, and he wonders why tonight it's infinitely more enchanting than usual, carrying another, more foreign element.

He imagines her seated at the piano. Having studied it well, he pictures the elegant curve in her lower back, the way at times her shoulders lean in and her spine arcs for extra leverage. Her fingers dance hypnotically, hanging from graceful yet powerful wrists, gliding over and sliding purposefully between the thin black keys.

Breaking momentarily from his dream, Hollister steps over to the fireplace and adds a couple small logs to the embers. There, addresses his bust of Beethoven.

"Looks like it's just you and me tonight, Maestro," he says with a slight, wistful smile.

On the couch, Hollister gets comfortable with a cushion wedged behind his back and his feet carelessly up on the crowded coffee table. With eyes closed, he draws a long breath through his nose, and unzips his pants.