Anton had always wanted to play a woman. 

A talented cellist, he had occupied principal chair in the city’s symphony for the past three years. Music was his life, but this, his douleur exquise, was a burning tattoo on his soul. An unrequited craving that created a bottomless ache in him that he tried to satisfy with his cello but never could. Play her like a musical instrument. Bring exquisite music from her, wringing sensual notes of ecstasy from her body. Play her like he played his cello, the bow an extension  of his own fervid, carnal desires. She, surrenders and becomes the cello. And then, only then does the real music begin, con fantasia, with imagination.

Chloe had become Anton’s protégé; this reckless, slightly wounded young woman who was immensely talented. Possessing a street urchin-like beauty, for some reason Anton often pictured her as though a character from Oliver Twist, cheek smudged with coal dust. In fact she had a bright, fresh complexion and wore cosmetics only sparingly.  She had a natural grace and affinity with the cello despite a complete lack of formal lessons.  Joining the symphony on a special mentoring program, she had filled one of a very few coveted spots.

Springing from a hardscrabble farm in South Dakota and self-taught, Chloe was an unlikely choice. Most of the orchestra had convinced themselves she had been hired for her photogenic qualities rather than any innate talent. Lacking formal musical education she was often the target of snide gossip, a favourite activity amongst symphony musicians. Anton felt sorry for her although she handled it all with considerable grace. To his amusement he had caught her more than once firing a middle digit at the backs of one or more of her tormentors. He began to like her immensely.

They spent long hours at his home, a rambling old brick house that had a huge open space on the second floor he used as a music studio and teaching space. The natural echo and reverb was sublime.  Chloe was technically proficient, the only sign of challenge a light furrow in her forehead that only appeared during the most difficult and intricate fingerings. There was only one thing he could really help her with. To fully connect emotionally to the piece, to pour her soul into the cello.

He’d already seen her play with deep emotion, where she was truly lost in the music but it was sporadic, like stolen moments, not something she could consistently achieve.  Hopefully he could help her find that magical, effortless place where the music becomes everything yet seems to exist on its own. Anton had been his own rising star once, at forty-three years of age he thought he knew just what it would take for his young protégé to climb the highest rung.  With her incredible natural talent Chloe had potential far beyond his own.

As the weeks passed their musical world became their emotional world too. They had both had troubled childhoods and grew up in meagre circumstances; once that commonality was shared they quickly became close. Frequently, long conversations interspersed her lessons and sometime went for long hours afterward. He loved music and the cello but he soon found himself looking forward to her visits for reasons beyond the notes that danced around them. He had been mentoring her for nearly three months before he admitted to himself that he was falling in love. The thought both thrilled him and filled him with a certain alarm.

Born in Europe, Anton possessed an Old World romanticism, seeming archaic in others, somehow, in him it was endearing, a natural part of his eccentric charm. At twenty-four she was nearly twenty years younger and while affairs between the symphony musicians were not prohibited they were certainly frowned upon with great vigour.  He had no wish to subject her to the further gossip of the orchestra. Still, he found her irresistible; knew, eventually, he would try to seduce her. She was difficult to read, she kept largely within herself giving very little away of her dreams and desires. Her taut young body entranced him. He wanted to play with her. He wanted to play. Her. 

It was a brisk Thursday afternoon in early December, Anton stood at the second floor window of his teaching studio, gazing aimlessly along his street. Huge cottony white snowflakes floated down among the bare trees, the first snowfall of the season.  Condensation blurred the window, an effect he appreciated as he waited for her arrival.  Her entrance into his home always seemed to provide a sudden burst of energetic beauty and colour that filled every room. The blurred view allowed him to savour the full impact when opening his front door.

As he watched, Chloe pulled up in her battered Volkswagen, a combination of faded blue paint and rust. Anton smiled as she battled the car for possession of her cello, an Ivan Dunov Superior, finally pulling the huge instrument case free from her car. The sight of her struggling with her cello before each lesson never failed to amuse him. At some point her diminutive form always disappeared behind the cello case. Often he had thought of being more gallant and assisting her. Instead, before each session, he would stand watching the tiny beauty fight with her cello and the car; the wrestling match never failed to bring a smile to his rugged face. She always won in the end. It was an interesting juxtaposition against the grace with which she played. He hurried to the door.

Just as he had anticipated she seemed to fill the room, infuse his senses the moment he opened the door to the smiling young cellist. Her hair was up which he loved, her long caramel hair held in place with a simple wooden hairpin, wisps of hair catching golden highlights as she stepped inside. Taking her coat a gentle tease of cinnamon and vanilla suffused his olfactory senses. The red wool dress that clung to her slender curves was incendiary, yet somehow also looked quietly elegant. Her hazel eyes were sparkling green, signalling her bubbling excitement.

She held what looked to be a rather heavy bag in one arm. She handed it to Anton. “Merry Christmas!” He looked in the bag to see dozens of small bundles of tissue paper in a wild variety of colours. “Open them.”

Anton reached into the bag pulling out a bundle wrapped in bright blue. Slowly he unwrapped the weight in his hand revealing a violinist sculptured from horseshoe nails, sitting about three inches in height. He loved it. “Open the rest.” She was practically vibrating she was so filled with nervous excitement.

One by one Anton unwrapped the small bundles. Soon an entire orchestra adorned his kitchen table, all fashioned in three inch sculptures of horseshoe nails. She knew the moment he noticed. “No cellos,” she said with mock sadness. He turned to look at her. She was smiling, a feline grin, holding two last packages toward him both wrapped in pale yellow. There were two cellists, one clearly female. The set was rather stunning and completely unique. Anton was deeply touched.

“Thank you,” he said softly. ”This is incredible. I love it!”

“I wanted to show my appreciation for everything you’ve done for me, mentoring me here and also at the symphony. You’ve been very kind to me.” Chloe looked immensely pleased, clearly delighted by Anton’s reaction.

“You’re extraordinarily talented and a pleasure to play with. I also got you something but you’ll have to wait until closer to Christmas.“

She stamped a foot theatrically.  “I want it now.”

“Not now. Santa isn’t sure if you’re naughty or nice yet.”

“Of course I’m nice.” She protested huffily, her playful elfin glare making him laugh. She was absolutely adorable. 

“That may be but you’re still waiting until Christmas Eve. It’s time for practice.”   

At the end of every session they always played together, it was Anton’s secret pleasure. When their notes sighed through the airy room, wavering in the atmosphere, the music seemed to expand beyond the available space. Studying her, watching her tiny hands, the concentration in her expressions, he always knew when she was playing her best. Easily determined by his trained ear, even if he were deaf he would have known. With each small movement, each tilt of her head, the sawing bow, tiny body pressed against the wood, notes rising and falling around her; in her finest moments Chloe looked like she was having sex with her cello.

Today was different. Perhaps it was the afterglow of her thoughtful gift or only the influence of the Christmas season but as soon as they began their eyes met, they both felt it. They had effortlessly fallen into a synchronicity, not simply the notes but the emotion, the texture of the music. As the mournful notes soared around the room he lost himself in his thoughts of her, longing to pull her into bed and recreate that same expression with her. He tried to shake the clamouring thoughts from his head. It was impossible.

Darkness had fallen as Chloe packed away her instrument. Anton shuffled around busily; wanting to delay his decision if only for a few seconds more.

“I can’t do this anymore. Play with you I mean.”

She looked crestfallen. “Why?”

“It’s too distracting; when I’m playing all I can think about is you.” She blushed, a hint of colour blossoming on her cheeks.

She sat silently, her hazel eyes brimming. Anton, crushed by the forlorn look on her face, leaned forward, kissing her mouth gently, lingering just a moment before pulling away.

She stared at him with a painful softness in her eyes. Anton experienced a strange mix of emotions; it was as though in kissing her he had committed an act of betrayal but she had known all along that he would. Anton could sense she was almost disappointed in him. There was something else though. She wanted it too, at least a part of her did. And so much more. He knew. She wanted to surrender. She looked at him silently for a long moment, as though the inevitability of this moment had been long etched in stone. Something changed in her, it wasn’t visible exactly, it was as though she was revealing a more emotional self. She pulled the wooden pin from her hair shaking her head into a golden cascade of soft waves.

“Kiss me again please.” This time it was Chloe who leaned forward.

Their mouths sought each other’s, impulsively ravenous for more. Exploring tongues swirled together, their bodies pushed hard against the other. Anton was erect immediately. He was sliding her wool-knit dress up over her hips as she began unbuttoning his soft cotton shirt. She only stopped when she raised her arms over her head to help him pull the dress completely off. The emerald green bra and panty set she was wearing was stunning. The shade matched her shimmering eyes perfectly.

She slowly slid down his torso her mouth scorching against his skin. As she helped him push free of his pants and boxers her mouth engulfed him. Chloe took nearly his entire length then slowly rose back up, her tongue flickering at the underside of his cock. As he watched raptly she circled his raging erection with one hand, stroking slowly, as she began to bob up and down.  Chloe eagerly hollowed her cheeks, the resultant suction and insistent pressure of her lips left Anton feeling like he was wielding an enormous sword.

She stopped and looked up only once, to ask for his cum. “Please. I want to taste you.”

As she took him back into the torrid pleasure of her mouth he came almost immediately, her words thrusting him over the edge. He could feel her swallow as he emptied himself into her sultry young mouth. It had been years since he had cum this hard. When she finally released him he drew her to her feet, kissed her fiercely and led her into the bedroom.

They barely spoke a word, he rolled onto the bed pulling her after him. Their lips collided hungrily, his hands slinking over her body, gliding, exploring, teasing.  When his hands reached the clasp of her bra she felt a steamy relief, wanting her bra off, wanting his hands, his tongue, his mouth on her bared breasts. Between her legs. In her sex. The moment her breasts were free his tongue flickered between his lips, its tip like fire as he teased it over her erect nipple.  He sucked her taut peak into his mouth, lips crushing together in a sudden sweet ache of pain. She felt a rush of wet heat between her legs.

His hungry mouth kissed and feathered across her small breasts, she felt the brushing heat of his hand sliding along her hip bone, just beneath the edge of her silky emerald panties.  She had constructed a convenient rationalization, thought the red dress and lingerie seasonally festive as she had dressed herself earlier. She knew it was a lie, she had dressed this way for him. She had wanted this, wanted to be unwrapped, accepted as a gift. Taken. 

She willed his hand lower, wanting his touch, his delving fingers. Had she been less aroused she might have been embarrassed by her incendiary need. Her poverty-stricken slit craved his invasion of her, she wanted, needed to be penetrated. Fucked. She moaned softly as his fingertip found her clit, grazing across its throbbing nub as his hand sought her core. The sudden intrusion of two fingers arched her back, her gasping need hissing between her lips. Anton curled his long powerful digits, stroking her inner wall. He teased her relentlessly, bringing her close to the edge several times, each occasion leaving her momentarily bereft before her orgasm started to build again.

When she thought she could take no more Anton rolled over pulling her sex onto his mouth, roughly jerking her sodden panties to her ankles. He wanted to taste her when he finally let her cum. His probing tongue darted in and out, devouring her, taking larcenous possession of her soaking eloquence. Soft, whimpering cries murmured off the walls as he bathed her, feverishly swallowing her flavours. He could feel her quaking beneath him as she came, the powerful spasms slowly easing to a brief stillness.

She pushed him down, quickly straddling him, his rampant erection clutched in her small hand. With impressive dexterity she slid his cock into her steaming pussy, lean thighs tensing as she lowered herself on to his throbbing ache.  She bent forward, tasting herself in a searing kiss that left Anton nearly breathless. She began to ride him, short slow strokes to begin that quickly became more urgent, then desperate as Chloe sought a second orgasm. Her lover’s hands snaked along her taut thighs, over her hip bones then cupped each small round breast as he thumbed her stiffened peaks. She was plunging frantically now, Anton rising from the bed to meet each thrust, impaling her. They came moments apart, Anton’s orgasm the detonation to her own. Chloe collapsed against his chest, her eyes searching his. For the first time since they had met she looked quietly content.  

The line between them had been obliterated. Anton’s thoughts tumbled about. Exhausted pleasure mixed with his one fear. He had been afraid to start because he knew one thing she did not. Once it had begun he may be unable to stop.

Their affair rapidly progressed, the sex becoming more adventurous as days passed. Certain music seemed to have a dramatic effect on her willingness to explore; Shostakovich’s Cello Concerto No 1 was a particular favourite. Anton almost immediately discovered she enjoyed being restrained and his predilection for light BDSM proved to be aphrodisiacal. She always looked so eager. They still practiced diligently but every session now ended in a tangle of roiled sheets, aching moans and whispered, greedy demands for more. Most of all he wanted to play her.

Everything speeds toward conclusion yet there are moments, ticking moments that linger in infinite, excruciating detail. A candle gutters out, the light softer, muting the contrast of age and raw, fresh, aching necessity. The sheen of moisture, tiny yellow diamonds on her smooth skin. The ball in her tongue. The soft creak as she arches upward then is slammed back down against the mattress, limbs straining against hemp. Her damp softness as she falls asleep in his arms.

There had been a moment of question, not even question; just the merest hesitation. She had said nothing. She knew. His need to possess, to have control of her, to have her at his mercy, to love her. He knew too. Knew what she longed for. Her unquenchable thirst. He was confident he could satisfy or at least dull her craving. It was never gone entirely. She was phosphorus burn. Her need a welcome acid against his skin, torching his soul into full combustion.  Fresh winter days passed in oblivion as they devoured each other, each mad coupling preceeded by their passion for the music.

It was a quiet, lazy Sunday, late morning of Christmas Eve. Theirs had been a late night, the symphony’s annual Christmas party the night before. Chloe and Anton had left early, more interested in each other than their fellow musicians and wealthy benefactors. The two had exhausted each other, their lovemaking had gone on for hours. Drowsily Chloe tumbled awake, her dreamy slumber interrupted by the unfamiliar notes of what must be Anton playing. She threw one of Anton’s shirts over her bare shoulders and padded barefoot into the studio.  

Dust motes pirouetted in weak, dappled sunlight.  Anton sat in on a long wooden bench, his navy cashmere bathrobe casually untied as he played a piece of his own creation. She sat on simple wooden chair, facing him, a look of fierce concentration on her face as she watched his fluid hands. He meets her eyes, only once in a long stare filled with heat. The piece is for her, is her. She knows it instinctively, feels herself riding the melancholy lament. There’s a music between the notes that only they can hear. Now. Here. Mournful notes echo, lonely, hanging endlessly in the air. Her eyes luminous green fire, he can feel his concentration on the music slipping. She senses the subtle change in him and lightly places three fingertips atop his bow hand. It’s enough. It’s too much. He lowers the bow, it’s her he wants in his hands, not his cello.  

He leads her to stand in front of his practice chair, a broad custom made leather chair with a firm seat and thick, sturdy legs. Kissing her softly he knelt at her feet. She looked down, surprised to find him rummaging beneath the chair. Moments later she was even more disconcerted to find him fastening her ankles to the feet of the chair with cuffs of creamy pale yellow leather. The cuffs matched the chair perfectly. Caught off guard she had allowed him to shackle her ankles without question or an ounce of resistance.

A part of her wondered if she should scream, a darker, louder part of her felt that beginning tendril of electric thrill. It took her a moment to notice he held a second set of cuffs, dangling from one hand. They had played bondage games before, tying wrists with his silk ties or the belt from her robe. This was different. Despite the generous coverage of Anton’s shirt she had never felt so naked. She eyed the second pair of cuffs warily.

“Your wrists please. Now.” He spoke firmly leaving no doubt he expected compliance. She wavered a moment, caught between a wild desire to simply surrender and a trembling anticipation. She held out her wrists in front of her, Anton’s borrowed shirt gaping open immodestly. He smiled and shook his head. She had known what he wanted but felt a need to show at least some token resistance. He stepped closer to her, she could smell him, an earthy musk overlaid by the lingering scents of their mixed passion. “Trust me.” He kissed her mouth softly.

She felt the cuff circle her left wrist. He gently pushed her arms behind her back. As her second wrist was enclosed by the soft leather cuff she shivered in trepidation.  She did trust Anton but she knew, this time, she was going to experience something completely new. He tightened the cuffs ensuring they were secure. Finally he stepped back, a warm smile as he admired her taut body. “You are so beautiful.”

Then he stepped behind her, lowering his lean frame into his chair, while directing Chloe into his lap. Hands slide the unbuttoned shirt from her shoulders into a heap around her wrists. She can feel his erection pressing against her ass and the small of her back. His left arm circles her narrow torso, capturing her. The warmth of his body as he leans her back against his chest reassures her. Her head rests against his shoulder, he wants, needs, to see the expressions on her face.

She senses him reaching for something beside the chair. A bow for his cello, the pernambuco wood shining in the weak sunlight. Her brow furrows, somewhat perplexed. Then he whispers, only inches from her ear, “Today my love, you are the cello.”

With long, slow strokes he applied a small amount of golden Pirastro rosin to the horsehair of the bow. It was the rosin, made from conifer sap, that caused the bow to ‘stick’ to the cello strings. The rosin he carefully applied to the horsehair would increase the friction or ‘bite’ of the strings. It was that friction that brought the notes to life.

Anton knew the rosin would intensify the friction of the horsehair as it thrummed across her creamy smooth skin. The contemplation alone electrified him, his cock stirring aggressively. Their eyes met, he could see her apprehension. He waited. Slowly it came. She wanted it, needed his touch, his cruel use of her. She craved it. It was there now, alone, her eyes pleading. Need. Surrender.

He tapped the wooden floor with the end of the bow, tick, tick, tick; a conductor signalling the orchestra. It was time to begin.

She trembled as he drew the bow strings across her abdomen, testing his new erotic instrument. Anton’s heart accelerated at the first sighing moan that he had ached so long to hear, the opening notes of this sensual concerto. The dark wood of the pernambuco handle gleamed with lacquer. Chloe felt the gentlest tug against her flesh, the horsehair eliciting a long sigh as it danced against her smooth skin.  In a moment she understands; today, she will lose herself to the instrument. 

He draws the bow back and forth resonant to the silent notes of his thoughts. Across her lower torso, her thighs, her bared shoulders, her throat, slowly, gently, tempting her into submission. Her eyes are green fire, a flicker of fear, often lost behind desire. Want. Need. Demand. He wonders briefly if she truly enjoys this; her submission, surrendering her complete trust. The thought fragments, like so many others when he looks at her. Her need is fire, hot burning fire that scorches everything away until there is almost nothing left. Just the blue flame of them. Her. The rosin leaves thin streaks of gold painted on her skin.

He dropped his bow lower, the strings fluttering over her ribs. He wondered if her trembling would set off sympathetic resonance in his own Dunov Superior now leaning against the wall, only inches from the chair. The bow dropped again, her abdomen zephyred beneath the touch. He rolled the bow over, the smooth pernambuco wood handle sliding across her body to her hips. Eyes glittering he raised the bow from her body. Slowly he lowered the bow between her legs. The gleaming wood hovered almost imperceptibly above her clit, she could almost feel its touch it was so close. She pushed her sex toward it hungrily. Pulling the bow away from her urgent want, he ran the horsehair along her inner thighs, finally the soft hollow where the legs meet at the hip. His fingertips rose from the bow, pizzicato, to pluck, to strum across her swollen nub. Slender frame shuddering against his bare skin, Chloe’s sharp gasp told him it was time.

“The prelude,” he said huskily, “Now it’s time to really play.” She leaned back, her feverish eyes meeting his own mad, fiery look.

He regarded her deliberately, momentarily composed.

“Did you know a cello has f-holes?” She nodded. “A cello has two f-holes. How many do you have?”

A deep satisfying blush suffused her cheeks. “Two.”

“Two?” he asked mockingly. “Are you sure?”

The moment stretched between them.

“Three,” she whispered.

He smiled approvingly. “Yes. You have three f-holes. Three. Perhaps this afternoon I’ll use them all.” He pressed his lips against the small hollow beneath her ear. “You said you wanted to find another level in your playing. This time, my enchanting little kitten, there will be no intermission.”

Anton stood, moving off the chair, a sudden coolness breezed over Chloe’s naked back. As he moved before her he shrugged from his robe, thick veined cock at rigid attention. Bow dangling from his hand he reached out, fingertips caressing her cheek, thumb dragging her bottom lip downward. Without a word, Chloe’s gaze burned into his own shining eyes as she opened her mouth. Sitting cuffed to the practice chair her head was at the perfect height.

Anton pushed his cock between her generous lips and on to her waiting tongue as he drew the bow across her narrow back. He replicated each extended note in his head with both his bow and the slow rhythm with which he invaded her mouth. The composition left new, thin gold streaks trailing across the dust of freckles on her shoulders. Staccato, over her ribs, horsehair trailing down her spine to the swell of her tight derriere. As the tempo rose Anton slid the bow between their bodies, alternating strokes that grazed across her tiny breasts with emphatic fingertips that pinched her nipples to an agonizing hardness. As his own pace increased his excitement accelerated. With each tiny bite of friction, she moaned around his cock. He erupted, embarrassingly quickly, her cries of anguished pleasure rushing him over the edge.

Hurrying, sliding behind Chloe on the chair once again, Anton’s hand circled her throat. He felt her alarm as she stiffened.

“Trust me. Trust yourself.” He whispered in her ear.

Anton didn’t wait for her to relax; he wanted her body taut as a string for the final movement. His grip was firm around her neck although he was careful to minimize any compression. He knew, even the slightest increase in pressure would send every one of Chloe’s senses skyrocketing in sensitivity. He tapped the back of her upper thighs with the bow, the intent provoking the desired elevation as she rose, her sopping cunt poised above his still raging erection. Hand on the curve of her hip Anton eased Chloe onto his cock. In one infinitely slow motion she took him to the hilt, exhaling a long, enduring hiss.

He began again, improvvisato, as he sought his way back to the core elements of the music. The bow danced over Chloe’s slender form, steadied by Anton’s hand on her ballerina neck. Along her collar bones, the low swell of her breasts, long extended strokes across each pencil eraser nipple. He is back within the composition, the bow descending, over her ribs, her sides, along the outside of each leg. He keeps time, each thrust of his cock metronomic.  She writhes against him in pleasure, rubbing like a cat, breath rising to a human purr.

Anton traces a return path to her abdomen, it tremors beneath the touch. The bow slides up, up, momentarily slowed by the round of her breasts then pushing over her areolae. As he bows across her taut nipples her murmurs dissolve into incomprehensible warbles of expletives. The tempo increases, the bow gliding over her gold dust skin, caressing the inside of her thighs. He reverses the bow, smooth pernambuco gliding closer to her desperate hole. She wants more, covets a closer touch, then Anton  shudders the bow along the outside of her labia con bravura, boldly.  

The bow reaches its apex then falls, diving between the drenched lips of her sex. The ankle cuffs rattle abruptly against the chair legs as Chloe’s soles arch, only her pretty toes remaining on the floor. The music continues, the bow drawing, wrenching the melody from the centre of her tremulous form.

Anton whispers a single prolonged word, stained with accent and emotion, almost lost in the fog of sensations trilling through Chloe’s straining body.

“Expressivo.”

The word barely registers as the bow floats around her clitoris. Her keening wails align perfectly with the cello in his head. She’s riding his cock now, hips rising and falling with the music, thrusting herself on to his cock, reaching for crescendo. Her tightness squeezes around his cock, a clenching liquid heat that causes a momentary creep of blackness in his vision.

She was moaning incoherently as the bow slid against her clit, his pulsating  member buried in her dripping cunt. He could tell she was close, a low wavering moan quivered from her parted lips. There! His last desire. Glissando. Her cry the perfect glide, from one note to the next. Anton’s world dissolved to fragments and then there was only Chloe.  Finally, vibrato, the bow singing against her swollen bud, he pinched one nipple, exquisitely hard and she exploded, her feral mews an echo of the notes. Almost instantly Anton filled her hole, crying out in orgasm, clutching her desperately, a man dying, not dying, living, floating among the diamond brilliance of a billion stars. He thought he cried out her name but couldn’t be sure, he had become…untethered.

It took several minutes for Anton to gather the energy to release her ankles and wrists.

“You hurt me,” she murmured softly, the shine of tears still captured in her lost eyes.

“Yes, because I love you.”

“I…”

“Shhhhhhh,” he placed a single finger softly to her lips.

He pulled his cello over to the chair, placing it between her legs, the sight itself deliciously erotic. Sliding behind her he placed another bow in her hand, the twin to the instrument of her own defilement; as she took it he covered his hand with hers. He sat directly behind her, his body against hers, the waning sunlight brushing over their bare skin.

“Now. Play.”

“I can’t,” she replied. “I’m shaking too much.” Indeed she was, trembling against him, streaked and smudged with shimmering gold, Anton’s erotic precious jewel. He swept her caramel hair aside, kissing her softly; leaving a sting of fire like a fresh tattoo on the back of her neck.

“Now,” he repeated tenderly. “Play.”

“I don’t know what to play.”

“Play the sound that you feel inside you, from your soul.”

She drew the bow across the strings, experimenting with her touch. The first notes tumbled around the room incoherently, as though seeking escape.

He covered her hand. “No, no. Not like that. Play the sound that’s in your deepest, most intimate soul;  empty yourself into the music. Con affetto. Appassionato. Luminoso.”

Chloe began to play again and suddenly Anton heard it. The sweetest sorrow of emotion; love pouring from the cello, notes soaring, colliding in sympathy, carrying emptiness, hope, despair, dreams, everything, nothing, a melancholy landscape resonating with sentimental harmonics. He knew it must be her own composition, it was in the emotion of her playing. It was her. Her authentic soul was in every precious note.

“Don’t stop. So beautiful. Captivating.”

He kissed her neck again, this time holding his warm lips against her skin, where her neck curved into her bare shoulder. She felt his heat, radiant on her back, when he exhaled, his breath shivered along her spine. Slowly she sank deeper into the music, her emotions streaming into the bow, the strings, the wood. He knew she was crying. She played on and on, he could feel the heat of his own tears as her soul poured from the cello then in turn filled the room.  Harder, faster, then soft again. Finally the bow was destroyed, only a few threads of horsehair remained. She drew out one last note that seemed to hang in the air, a low vibrato, ethereal, haunting. He wasn’t even sure if the note was sustaining in the room or only inside his own thoughts. He felt her body slump against his, bow clattering to the floor as it dropped from her hand.

He carefully took the cello from between her trembling legs, placing the instrument against the wall. Cupping her chin, he turned her gently. He could see she was exhausted. Elegantly dishevelled, hair a tangled caramel mane, her face and body glistened with tiny droplets of gold perspiration. He kissed her tenderly, there was nothing else left.

He swept her shaking body into his arms, carrying her to the bedroom. Slowly he lowered her to the bed, their lips lingering together, as though imperative they remain joined. His arms circled around her firmly, pulling her to rest in the hollow of his shoulder, the shallow dip a caress against her cheek. He pulled the rich cotton sheet and duvet over them. She looked at him then; a rivalry of hurt, love, sorrow, happiness and confusion danced across the delicate beauty of her face.

“I’ve never played that well,” she whispered, voice quavering with emotion.

“No,” he replied softly. “But now you know you can.”