She’s sex-on-legs; so, of course, she plays the cello. It’s all about that hourglass shape. Add the facial ecstasy, the poise, the curl of the back, the lunge – and bingo. After all, music critics think with their dicks.

Jade’s pretty. That luscious body and those dark glinting eyes had me drooling the first time I saw her at Royal College. Even then a serious player; her whole body, arms, shoulders, hips, seemingly brought to bear on making love to that cello. And the instrument responded, singing out in pleasure.

And now she’s betrothed, to our God-like conductor, Humberto. A prodigy, him not her; well, so the press said.

And me? Viola – the instrument I mean. My name’s Jennie!

Yes, the fucking viola. None of the violin’s sparkling tintinnabulation; nor the cello’s dark, noble, robust body. The viola’s gruff, poised between light and dark, lurking in the shadows, emerging when you least expect it. But beautifully introspective, mellow; the orchestra’s Cinderella.

I am used to the viola jokes, usually just grin and bear it. But hearing Jade buy into the stereotype during today’s rehearsal did my head in. After all, we had history. She still had a shred of decency though, looking embarrassed on realizing it was me who’d overheard her sneer to Humberto, “The violas…!”

She stopped in mid-sentence, but the damage was done. He already knew what she was implying. So did I.

Bad timing though.

The prodigy wanted Elgar’s Cello Concerto on our programme. Fabulous music obviously, but, seriously, as if dipping his cock into an ambitious cellist had nothing to do with it.

So, our rehearsal had been going okay, until the last movement, where that strange galumphing tune – bum, bum, bum-titty bum-titty – gets passed back and forth between soloist and string section, and we all had an oh shit moment. The prodigy called for a break.

I was riled by Jade’s comment. She had previous, so to speak. Dissing the work of her only serious challenger to the Jacqueline du Pré String Prize at college had done her no favours. I had come to the conclusion then that the only reliable way of curbing her inclination to say dumb shit was pressing my pussy onto her face.

She normally would have been astonished to see a mere third-desk viola player invade her soloist sanctum. But of course, when I confronted her in her dressing-room, a blast from her past, I didn’t even have to ask.

“Covering my arse,” she volunteered.

“Surprise, surprise. You’re a great musician, but today you fucked up the second movement. Didn’t properly recover. That’s not the violas’ fault.”

“It’s not about the violas. It’s about a certain viola player.”

“Come on! Blaming me again. What was it last time? Ah yes, I remember. ‘Scurrying to the safety of a thatched cottage and the two point four kids…’”

“Find your fund manager?”

Involuntarily, I nodded. “Though I’ve never walked in on him sucking conductor cock.”

“Come on, Jennie. I explained that. You knew I would have to suck a shitload of dicks to get where I am.”

“Worth it?” I sneered.

“Well, The Times did call me the second coming of Jacqueline du Pré.”

“Not Tina Turner!”

“What?”

“You. Her song.”

“Simply the Best?”

“No. What’s Love Got to Do With It!”

Her bottom lip trembled. That was adorable at college; now it just reeked of her playing my heartstrings for sympathy. “You’ve fucked your way to the top. How can you possibly look down on us rank-and-file?”

“I don’t, especially not you… Oh God, don’t tell Humberto.”

“Tell him what?” I scoffed. “That you serve boys for career but girls for pleasure.”

“Not that! I was so nervous at the Proms, Jennie.”

“You played brilliantly.”

“Only because I got myself off before going on stage.”

“Par for the course with you.”

“God Jennie, the only time I’ve felt really good about myself was on my knees worshipping your pussy.”

“You gave me up, remember.”

“Never have; you ran off to Sevenoaks looking for a fund manager. I still cum thinking of you. If I hadn’t closed my eyes and imagined licking your pussy, I wouldn’t have played like that at the Albert Hall.”

She grabbed my hand and guided it under her skirt, across her inner thigh, and pressed my fingers against her knickers. They were sopping. “So wet, Jade.”

“Your fault. These damp knickers are so distracting.”

“For me too, now.”

Jade’s eyes locked onto a speck of dust on the floor. “You’re still better than I deserve.”

My fingertips traced her slit, pressing the sodden material against her folds. “Tell me.”

She glanced up at me. “You’ve always been intense, deep, so talented. Beautiful too, Miss. Still are.”

Inwardly I smiled: no one had called me ‘Miss’ for a while.

“You got clean ones, sweetie?

“Yeah; I knew you’d be here. And that I’d leak.”

“Take the wet ones off for me, baby.”

“Yes, Miss.” Her smile would have melted ice.

Holding her knickers against my nose, I inhaled. “You still smell good, you know.”

“Thanks …. Fuckkkkkk, Miss.” It was me suddenly twisting two fingers into her, my knuckles stretching her slick pussy walls, that caused that whimper.

Embedded, my fingers slowly scissoring, I whispered, “Look at me, baby.”

Her eyes met mine; nervous but needy.

“You are going to cum for me, sweetie. And you know what Miss Jennie wants.”

“What?” She whimpered as my fingers tapped her spot.

“You nail that concerto. No excuses baby. You can do it and you know how I will reward you.”

“How?”

“I will be here, knickers off, after rehearsal. Play like Jackie, and you get to feed on my cunt, sweetie.”

“Oh, God.”

Twisting. Pounding. My fingers, sticky with her honey, took her squishy pussy with deep hard thrusts. And simultaneously my thumb battered her clit. Whimpers turned into moans as she bucked her slit against my hand, juices dribbling down her thighs.

My other hand went over her mouth, which was just as well. She’s always been a screamer, and the moan that accompanied her release would likely have caught the prodigy’s ear as it echoed throughout the building.

After she stopped shuddering, I licked my fingers, tasting her. “Still yummy, baby.”

“So happy. Let me, Miss.”

She suckled my fingers reverently, cleaning them of every trace of her cum-honey. And, having cleaned up her pussy as best she could and slipped clean knickers on, she said, “Presentable?”

“Well, you don’t look like a concerto soloist freshly fucked by a third-desk viola player.”

She giggled. “Thank you, Miss. Let’s go make music.”

So we did. And we were good. The violas tight and precise, the strings melded beautifully.

She was better; confident and absolutely in control. Her opening chords were noble and passionate – just the right balance of lateral movement with pressure, so her tone was warm amidst the tragic tired post-War lamentation of the first movement. Her spiccato semiquavers in the second movement flew off the bow like sparks, like butterflies, like fireworks. The last movement didn’t galumph, but danced with exuberance and joy. And when those triple- and quadruple-stops came back at the end, they seemed to embrace the whole world; transformed by the intervening movements, every shred of emotion and meaning in Elgar’s hymn to loss revealed, embraced, made love to.

And when she finished, we all smiled, and foot-shuffled; we had done it, soloist, conductor, orchestra and composer finding the oneness that is the beauty of all great music.

Quarter of an hour later, in her dressing room, I’m rewarding her, sitting on her face.

At first, she seems to understand what I want, eating her opening cadenza into my cunt, broad noble strokes splayed laterally across my wet lips. Then a playful ad lib on my clit and an excruciatingly exquisite hairpin diminuendo, leaving me gagging for more. I cannot help but hum her part as she plays me like a maestra.

But then she goes too fast. “No Jade,” I insist, unable to resist quoting the prodigy. “Moderato, nine-eight, pianissimo; like it’s written.”

That’s the great thing I remember about fucking Jade, she gets rhythm. Jade holds back, adjusting herself into a swaying compound triple time, downbeat descending through the moist pink space between my inner lips, second curling upwards around the outside, the upbeat graced with a touch of tenuto – just as Humberto likes it – as the tip of her tongue tickles my quivering clit.

“Eat me, baby, eat me,” I warble to that tune, as she gets into the metre. And by the time, twenty-four bars later, she reaches that perfectly timed poco allargando, I am ready to scream. The crescendo overtakes me, and I cum “F-F”, my honey oozing all over her pretty face.

The hubby’s not bad, but, shit, he’s a fund manager, and it shows. Musicians fuck as they play; that’s why they’re the best. By the end of the second movement, my cunt is semiquavered out, her face smeared in my goo, eyes shining brightly.

Now all I want to do is to play her, giving her the slow movement in B-flat on her pretty pussy, a gorgeous adagio in three-eight for old time’s sake, swirling my tongue through her saturated folds, scooping honey and smearing it on her clit. A reminder – oh God! – a reminder of how we once loved each other. She soon gushes her cum into my mouth, moaning my name. Tears cloud my eyes. It always used to feel this good; how did we go so wrong?

We’re not quite finished though, instinctively knowing we need a final allegro for old times’ sake. In a sixty-nine; rolling, curling, lunging like true Jackies both, our inhibitions released by Elgar so that all that matters is our ensemble, our unison. Tongues feverishly strum each other’s folds. This was how it used to be; except we’re better now. Better, despite the men we fucked to get us the life we wanted, despite the men we have used, much better.

Tattooing on our clits a hymn to the love we once had, we soon burst, together, soaking each other in cum-goo.

Coming down from our final sforzando, we wallow in that glorious Nachklang, where the moment is full of eternity, silence is full of sound, and post-coition is full of the ghosts of every ecstatic touch we have ever shared.

I’ve so missed this.

An impatient knock reverberates through our moment of tranquillity.

“Jade. You ready?” the prodigy calls through the door.

“Sorry, love. Uh…. Not feeling the best; period. I’ll just go back to mine and have an early night. Okay? See ya tomorrow.”

As Humberto’s desultory footsteps echo down the corridor, she looks at me meaningfully. “Another chance at being yours? Come home with me, Miss. You don’t need the thatched cottage in Sevenoaks, the fund manager and the two point four.”

“Oh God, Jade…” She kisses me, her redolent saliva tasting of my sex. And my tongue tangles with hers.

I know I’m not playing safe…