The Soloist
As he entered, he could see she was already there. She was always there before him. He was never able to catch her in the act of getting ready. The auditorium was nearly dark. Empty and vast, the only lights were the three shining down on the stage. A lonely chair, with her in it, sat in the middle of the wooden floor. Her instrument pressed between her legs.
He could see that she was wearing her usual outfit. Dark stockings, black heels and a black demi-bra. That was all he could see. He often wondered were she kept the rest of her outfit, but never really cared to disturb their unspoken arrangement by searching out. The cello blocked most of her body from view. All he could see were her perfectly toned, muscular legs pressing against the sides of the large wooden instrument. Her arms hung down the side, the right hand holding the bow, almost aloof. Her head was down, so he was unable to see her face. Her hair wild, yet almost seemingly put in place. One strand of her dark brown curly hair hung down touching the cello, seeming to sap her energy.
After what seemed to be a few minutes, as if she was waiting for her unseen audience to become comfortable, her right arm raised. Her left hand placed it self on the long neck of the cello; her lithe fingers tense at the ready. Her head was still down, her eyes closed, as if in a deep sleep about to be disturbed. He shifted nervously. He had seen her ten times now, but always he awaited with bated breath the inevitable.
The bow arched closer to the strings. Her arm tense, as if she was about to stab at the instrument. Then, suddenly, in a flash of a second, her arm moved. The first note floated up into the night. Her body jerked alive, like it had never been truly moved before. The notes kept coming, slowly at first, almost as she was dreading their departure from her being.
He was now entranced. He realized his coming every month at the same time to the same spot was almost like that of a junkie. He was addicted to her, her music. The speed of her arm picked up and her fingers seemed like a blur. He noticed her eyes were still closed but her head was up. It seemed like she knew he was there and where he was. The music stirred her body. Her legs gripped the cello tighter. He could see the sweat on her brow begin to bead up. Her bra strap on her right shoulder slid off onto her arm, letting her breast seem fuller. He noticed the sweat glisten on it, and could feel himself lose control.
The music kept getting faster, as if she was playing with a certain determination. Her mouth was now slightly open. Her breathing seemed more shallow. Her breasts heaved, the lights making the sweat glisten as if she was in a holy light. He knew what was coming.
The music hit a crescendo that seemed to fill the enormous hall with beautiful sound. Her body was swaying with the motion of the cello. He could see all her muscles tense up and without warning the music stopped. Her legs relaxed, and her bow dropped in a clatter to the floor.
There on that stage, with the half risen setting of last nights play up in the background, she sat. Leaning against her cello, it seemed as she did not want to let it go. It was as if she needed its heat and energy to stay conscious.
She slowly started to get up. His eyes strained to look at her. Her entire body covered in sweat. Her upper body glistened in the light and her muscles seemed finally relaxed. As his eyes moved down her body, he noticed, for the first time, the tattoo of a music note on the right side of her pelvis. He slumped against the wall, spent of all his energy. His soul lifted by the music, playing with the notes up above in the painted ceiling of the auditorium. Her lack of undergarments toyed with his imagination. Her body a temple to his love of music.
She slowly walked stage left, her body swaying as if the music was still wafting in the air. He watched her until he could no longer see her. His mind not able to forget the soloist and her performance for one.
He waited for 15 minutes and started to walk home.
He could not wait to make love to her until the sun chased the music away.
(my lover wrote this today... )
As he entered, he could see she was already there. She was always there before him. He was never able to catch her in the act of getting ready. The auditorium was nearly dark. Empty and vast, the only lights were the three shining down on the stage. A lonely chair, with her in it, sat in the middle of the wooden floor. Her instrument pressed between her legs.
He could see that she was wearing her usual outfit. Dark stockings, black heels and a black demi-bra. That was all he could see. He often wondered were she kept the rest of her outfit, but never really cared to disturb their unspoken arrangement by searching out. The cello blocked most of her body from view. All he could see were her perfectly toned, muscular legs pressing against the sides of the large wooden instrument. Her arms hung down the side, the right hand holding the bow, almost aloof. Her head was down, so he was unable to see her face. Her hair wild, yet almost seemingly put in place. One strand of her dark brown curly hair hung down touching the cello, seeming to sap her energy.
After what seemed to be a few minutes, as if she was waiting for her unseen audience to become comfortable, her right arm raised. Her left hand placed it self on the long neck of the cello; her lithe fingers tense at the ready. Her head was still down, her eyes closed, as if in a deep sleep about to be disturbed. He shifted nervously. He had seen her ten times now, but always he awaited with bated breath the inevitable.
The bow arched closer to the strings. Her arm tense, as if she was about to stab at the instrument. Then, suddenly, in a flash of a second, her arm moved. The first note floated up into the night. Her body jerked alive, like it had never been truly moved before. The notes kept coming, slowly at first, almost as she was dreading their departure from her being.
He was now entranced. He realized his coming every month at the same time to the same spot was almost like that of a junkie. He was addicted to her, her music. The speed of her arm picked up and her fingers seemed like a blur. He noticed her eyes were still closed but her head was up. It seemed like she knew he was there and where he was. The music stirred her body. Her legs gripped the cello tighter. He could see the sweat on her brow begin to bead up. Her bra strap on her right shoulder slid off onto her arm, letting her breast seem fuller. He noticed the sweat glisten on it, and could feel himself lose control.
The music kept getting faster, as if she was playing with a certain determination. Her mouth was now slightly open. Her breathing seemed more shallow. Her breasts heaved, the lights making the sweat glisten as if she was in a holy light. He knew what was coming.
The music hit a crescendo that seemed to fill the enormous hall with beautiful sound. Her body was swaying with the motion of the cello. He could see all her muscles tense up and without warning the music stopped. Her legs relaxed, and her bow dropped in a clatter to the floor.
There on that stage, with the half risen setting of last nights play up in the background, she sat. Leaning against her cello, it seemed as she did not want to let it go. It was as if she needed its heat and energy to stay conscious.
She slowly started to get up. His eyes strained to look at her. Her entire body covered in sweat. Her upper body glistened in the light and her muscles seemed finally relaxed. As his eyes moved down her body, he noticed, for the first time, the tattoo of a music note on the right side of her pelvis. He slumped against the wall, spent of all his energy. His soul lifted by the music, playing with the notes up above in the painted ceiling of the auditorium. Her lack of undergarments toyed with his imagination. Her body a temple to his love of music.
She slowly walked stage left, her body swaying as if the music was still wafting in the air. He watched her until he could no longer see her. His mind not able to forget the soloist and her performance for one.
He waited for 15 minutes and started to walk home.
He could not wait to make love to her until the sun chased the music away.
(my lover wrote this today... )
VIEW 13 of 13 COMMENTS
josephene:
Where are you, beautiful? 
tangledupinblue:
Your comment in my journal made me really very happy for quite a long while. You have the high rockosity cooking.