Arpeggio

Arpeggio

By Piper Sargasso

Disclaimer: Characters within belong to
CC and the gang. No infringement

intended.

 

Author's Note: I'd like to dedicate this to all my
listmates at IWTB. You've all

been incredibly supportive in all my endeavors, and for that, I'm forever

grateful. Special thanks to Sallie, for the great beta and to Gail, for all
your

helpful suggestions.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

How long since I’ve run my hands over the smooth, cool maple, admired the

glossy surface and the fine grain of the wood? I’d almost forgotten the
delicate

arch of the bridge, the exquisite craftsmanship and the weight of it, resting

between my thighs.

I trace the swirl of the scroll and delicately finger the pegs in preparation
of

tuning the fine instrument. I’ve so missed the graceful flare of its body, the

delicious curve of its ribs. If a cello were a woman, she’d have a beautiful

hourglass figure, waist small and hips gently curving out. Sensuous and full-
guregured, melancholy and bright all at once.

My hands lower to lightly feel of the belly, taking their time stroking it and

absorbing the cool sensation as if exploring a lover’s body for the very first

time. Tracing a languid finger over the F-holes and the cut out hearts of the

bridge, I feel something strangely akin to a homecom I’v I’ve stayed away far

too long.

I admire the elegant neck, wrapping my fingers around its solid grace before

laying it against my own. It feels cool and good against my heated skin.

Bending down, I lift it gently and adjust the tail spike to the appropriate
length,

then return it to its former position. My bared inner thighs elicit a small
shiver

as I reacquaint myself with an old friend. I pluck at the strings tenderly,

listening with great care to the sound each one emits and twist the ebony

tuning pegs accordingly.

Once satisfied, I lean over to retrieve the bow, tightening the screw to bring
it

to a taut arch. The bar of rosin slides slowly to coat the hairs, and I savor
the

familiar smell of it as it greets my nostrils. The slight weight of the bow
settles

into my hand as if it remembers its old home.

Bringing my left hand to the fingerboard, I tentatively place my fingers atop

the strings and bring the bow to rest above the blonde bridge. The first, slow

pull of the bow across the strings draws the most beautiful sound. We share a

few moments of awkwardness. It has been years since I’ve uncovered this

treasure from the back of my closet, years since it has been removed from its

e, be, black case. No frets and over a decade of neglect make the journey

difficult, but I feel an urgency propelling me forward. Rosin flakes and settles


onto the richly colored wood as I play, slowly remembering the notes and

finger placement, recalling the exact method of wrenching a deep melody from

the extraordinary body.

I close my eyes and allow myself to become possessed by it. Bach’s Air,

adjusted to alto. I was never talented enoug pla play professionally, like
Ellen,

but I played well in college. My fingers slide up and down the length of the

fingerboard as the bow flies across the tightly pulled strings. The rich, full-

bodied sounds pouring from the hollowed belly echoes inside my own body, a

tingling gathering low in me that can’t, won’t be denied.

I play on, perched at the edge of my chair, skirt hiked around my hips and just


let it flow from the depths of my soul. It has complete and utter control over

me now. I’m powerless to stop it and wouldn’t want to. The sweet, exquisite

sounds of Locke’s Suite No.2 in B-Flat Major wail from the strings and I feel a


warm, wet kiss on my sensitive neck. It feels right and perfect and I slow the

tempo. The music takes me to a tranquil, deeper place while the warmth nips

and tugs at my earlobe, dragging the tenderness of it down my neck once more.

A,C,D,G. Each string pours its heart out in an enchanting vibrato, depositing

them inside me as I register a large, splayed hand reaching inside my half-

unbuttoned blouse, tenderly rubbing an open palm across my peaked and

sensitized nipple. I hum in synchrony with the trembling, wooden body

captured between my legs, allowing the sensations to overwhelm and

overpower me.

The hand removes itself from inside my lacy bra and trails delicately over my

clavicles, tracing the line of my jaw. I soften under the touch. It makes its
slow

journey down my neck and arms, caressing the flesh of my exposed thighs

wrapped around the instrument. I jump at the sensation. My nerve endings

dance throughout my fevered body, the music growing ever frantic in response.

We are one and the same.

I shift ever so slightly, allowing access to the exploring wanderer kneeling

behind me. Thumb tracing circles on my inner thigh, hand snaking into my

shirt once again, rolling my nipple with practiced dexterity. The sudden shock

of fingers tickling inside my panties makes me jump. My hands pause.

“Don’t stop, Scully. Play.”

His fingers move from my tight curls, sliding deftly into my warmth. I gasp

softly, pulling the bow fervently across the strings. Higher and higher I
climb,

welcoming the possession of body and soul. A submission I’m succumbing to

with an eagerness I’ve never felt before. It excites me.

The notes became choppy, discordant as I clutch at the vibrating neck, the

effort to grasp it and the bow becoming ever difficult with my sweaty and

trembling hands. Lightheaded with dizzying intoxication as he plays me, the

music guides me to crescendo. My back arches and the bow drops from my lax

hands to clatter to the floor.

He withdraws his hand from my shirt and walks to the front of me, admiring

the sight of my legs, dropped carelessly open beneath the gathered fabric of
the

skirt I wore to work today and the flush of skin above my unbuttoned blouse.

My breasts heave with the effort of my ragged breathing, my cheeks hot and

pink. Desire, boiling and dark, bubbles within my belly. I feel it radiate with
an

insatiable need from every ounce of my being.

With a predatory stare, he jerks the instrument away from my body and shoves

it to the side, dropping on the floor to kneel before my spread legs like a
pious

man before his deity. Impatiently, he pulls my panties over my hips and down

my legs, depositing them on the floor. I can’t move. He locks hungry hazel

eyes with mine and presses a kiss between my thighs, passionately proving the

intensity of his love for me. I wind my fingers into his dark hair, throwing my


head back in pure surrender as he takes me beyond any place I’er ber been

before. I’m flying, being torn asunder while the staccato of my beating heart

pumps furiously against my eardrums. My body has a melody all its own,

rising and falling as I pull him closer to me.

A perfect symphony.

 

~ The End ~