Chapter 1: Allegro
Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Heterosexual, .
Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 1: Allegro - A jaded older man is rescued from his despair by a passionate younger woman.
That day, I was tuning pianos. Sometimes it's an interesting job, sometimes not. On the morning I met her, it was.
I rang the doorbell sharply at nine. No one answered. Usually people are expecting me. After a time I rang again and then knocked. Again I waited. I was just about to leave when I heard motion behind the door.
Mostly middle aged women answer. Usually they're overweight and plain. This time it was different. The girl who answered the door looked to be in her late teens. She was barefoot and wearing a red terrycloth robe. She had dark hair, dark eyes and was slender and very attractive. She had a wild and sensual look about her, like she had just awakened from a beautiful erotic dream.
"Sleeping in?" I smirked.
"I'm so sorry." She replied. "I'm just the nanny, not the lady who made the appointment. I forgot you were coming."
"That's OK." I jokedi. "It's a nice day to wait outside."
I entered the foyer and glanced around to locate the piano. No use waiting to be shown. When I saw the piano, I was surprised again. It wasn't the typical beat up old spinet handed down from grandma, never played and rarely tuned. It was a beautiful old Steinway grand, worn, and a little rough on the exterior, but potentially a wonderful instrument. I dropped my bag next to it.
"This it?" I asked as I tried a few notes. It was terribly out of tune, and I made a sour face.
"Yes." She lamented. "None of the family that owns it plays. I'm really the one who wants it tuned. I'm in conservatory, and I'd really love to be able to use it. I can't stand it as it is now."
"You must really play well to get into a conservatory." I replied.
"Actually, I play violin." She answered modestly. "I just play the piano a little, mostly for study."
Usually I go straight to the tuning. Time is money. But, this girl was interesting. She was a musician. I always found that attractive. She was even prettier than I had first thought, and there was an alertness about her that spoke of intelligence. I wanted to talk to her, maybe draw her out and learn a little more about her. So I went on with the conversation.
"Violin? Do you have perfect pitch?"
"No, but a few people in my classes do."
"Just as well." I observed. "Perfect pitch is a pain. If you have it, you're either irritated with everyone else for being a little out of tune, or everyone else is angry with you for always pointing out their mistakes. Imagine going through life aware of all the little flaws in people and being unable to overlook those flaws or to control your urge to point them out." It was a lame observation, but she laughed.
She was bolder now. "You don't remember me do you?" She asked.
I didn't remember her.
"No, sorry. Have we met before?"
"You're some kind of concert pianist aren't you? You came to my house and played for my sister's wedding about six years ago. I was twelve then. You played Bach and it was so beautiful it made me cry."
This girl was different. Any twelve year old who could get emotional about Bach would have to have a screw loose, or else be very musically inclined. Either way, the possibilities were intriguing.
"Yeah, I used to perform a little. I don't do it anymore." There was more to the story, but I wasn't in the mood to make long explanations.
"Well, I heard you play in recital too. You played a Mozart sonata, and a couple of pieces by Scarlatti. The Scarlatti was so wild and passionate that all the women in the audience were swooning."
"Maybe. Anyway, I just play for myself now."
This conversation was going in the wrong direction, so I pulled out my tools and began to tune the piano. To change the subject, I observed that she'd grown up nicely in the past six years and that I should be forgiven for not recognizing her. She blushed appropriately and fell silent. She watched intently as I worked, but piano tuning is very boring, even for the musically inclined. Soon she left to do whatever nannys do around the house.
I worked on the piano for about 45 minutes, and as I was finishing, I heard her go into the kitchen and make busy sounds. I put away my tools, and tested the piano. The tone was rich and full and the touch was responsive. Usually I don't play after I finish tuning, but this piano deserved it. I began to play the adagio from Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, knowing in the back of my mind, that this piece always thrills young women.
As I played, she came into the room. She stood behind me, and I could feel the music drawing her in. The adagio, if played properly takes a little over six minutes. She moved closer as I played, and as I finished, she stood so close that I could feel the heat radiate from her body. She wore no perfume but her fresh scent surrounded me and thrilled me, causing me to consider trying to inhale her whole body into mine.
After the last chords died away, there was a period of silence. Then she spoke.
"That was beautiful." is all she said.
She was breathing fast shallow breaths, almost panting. She was silent for a few more seconds, then ran from the room shouting over her shoulder.
"I'll be right back. Do not move."
When she returned, she carried her violin, bow, and some sheet music. She placed the music on the piano and gave me an order. Her tone left no doubt that I had no option but to obey.
It was the Bach B minor sonata for violin and harpsichord. A piano would work for the harpsichord part. There are only a few people who can smoothly sight read an unfamiliar Bach work. I'm not one of them, but I'd played this piece many times before and was well familiar with it.
I began to play. The piece begins with just piano, then the violin enters in a hushed tone and long line which slowly increases in volume until it is an equal partner with the piano. I must have done a good job of tuning the piano, and she must have snuck off to tune her violin while I thought she was doing nanny things. We were in tune.
The intertwining of the instruments was erotic. The music is sad to the core and drew us into its complete melancholy. The musical allusion is to a defeat of the spirit and it is the task of the violin to struggle against it. Toward the end, the violin rises to a tremendous peak and then succumbs.
Her playing was not perfect, but her performance was astounding. She had immersed herself into the piece, plumbing the depths of human despair, but rising with pride against the doleful drone of the piano time and time again to finally accept a noble defeat.
I was stunned. The hair on the back of my neck was standing. I had never wanted a woman more in my life. I was completely seized by passion. I stood and turned to her. Her robe had fallen open to the waist, and there was a gloss of fine perspiration on her breasts, which were now mostly revealed to my sight. Light strands of hair were pasted to her temples. She stood, hands at her sides, violin in one, bow in the other. She was breathing heavily with her mouth slightly open, as if she had just completed a marathon. She was more beautiful than I had ever fantasized that a woman could be.
I gently took the violin and bow from her hands and placed them carefully aside. She made no move as I stood before her and drew open the belt on her robe. I pushed the robe from her shoulders, and it fell to the floor around her still bare feet. She stood naked and vulnerable before me. I could not resist her.
Touching her nowhere else, I kissed her lips softly. She responded with passion. My kisses grew more intense and I pulled her into my arms. As I kissed her neck and shoulders, she made a low moan and began to tear at the back of my shirt, attempting to remove it so as to gain flesh to flesh contact. I stepped back from her and removed my shirt while she fumbled with the snaps on my trousers. She knelt and drew my trousers down. I stepped away from them and kicked off my shoes. I knelt with her and we resumed our embrace, each smothering the other with wet, warm kisses. We lay on the floor in front of the old Steinway, amidst the piles of cast off clothing.
Our lovemaking started tenderly but with urgency. The raw sensuality grew as we became more accustomed to each other's bodies. There was nothing else, just her, just me; us. I forgot the world and all it's imperfections and immersed myself in her. She took me in with total feminine desire, accepting me, welcoming me, yielding totally to me.
It seemed like hours later as we lay, satisfied, limbs still intertwined. She finally spoke.
"You know, I was a little sharp in the final measures. It's very hard to get the pitch totally right that high up on the neck."
"Yes." I said. "I know. I have perfect pitch. But with you, today, for the first time in my life, it didn't seem to matter."
-- A Fugue on the First Interval --
It was a delicious dream. There was a man, older, handsome in a rough sort of way. We were together in a strange erotic combination that was both music and sex. He alternately pursued me and then guided me through beautiful fields and blooming orchards. We fell to the lush grass and I willingly yielded myself to him as the music rose to a crescendo of bells and drums. I loved him with the pure, intense love that only happens in dreams. He was perfect. I was so close.
The bells grew louder, and the drumming was more insistent. Slowly the fog of sleep lifted and I realized where I was. Waking was such a disappointment. Then the bells and drumming began again. Shit! Someone was at the door. I threw on my robe and stumbled down the stairs. When I opened the door there he was with the same piercing blue eyes: the man from my dream.
Then I remembered the piano. He must be the tuner. He looked familiar, and it wasn't just from the dream. He stood there smiling in his worn khaki trousers and faded polo shirt as I made my apologies. Then with a hint of impatience he strode directly to the piano. As he struck a few terribly out of tune notes, it hit me who he was. He was the pianist who had played at my sister's wedding long ago.
I'd had a terrible crush on him. He was so handsome and so much at ease in his Tuxedo. It wasn't a cheap rented tux like the rest of the men in the wedding party wore. I just knew he had a closet full of Tuxedos, and that was so sexy. He was mysterious and he played so beautifully. All the women at the wedding were eyeing him. I mooned after him for more than a year, wrangling rides and tickets or invitations to where ever he might be performing. I was his secret groupie, but I was so shy that I'm certain he never noticed me. Then, after a year, he disappeared. I figured that he must have moved on to bigger opportunities in some place like San Francisco or New York. I was heartbroken, but I was only thirteen and I soon forgot him. Until now.
"Do you have perfect pitch?" He asked?
I did, but I was ashamed of it. As far as I was concerned, it was like having six fingers on each hand. It was something I didn't need: a useless and inconvenient appendage. I didn't want to hear the inconsequential imperfections that would distract me from the raw but emotionally charged world of music around me. I ignored my perfect pitch and denied it to myself and to anyone who would question me about it.
So, I lied to him. It was a silly lie, but for some reason, afterwards I wanted to take it back. My gut told me that it was important to tell him the truth. Instead, to avoid the embarrassment a confession would entail, I changed the subject.
"You don't remember me do you?"
He looked a little confused and embarrassed, as if he felt he should have remembered me. I liked that I could embarrass him, even over something so inconsequential. It meant that he noticed me, and I really wanted him to notice me. The little girl in me was already screaming: "Pick me! Pick me!"
I wanted so much to talk to him, to know everything about him, but at the same time I knew I should be cool, to act grown up. He could never be interested in me if I acted my real age. I mentioned that I'd seen him play in concert, but he became more distant and turned to his work. I'd made a mistake by talking too much so I just sat quietly and watched him tune the piano. While I watched I tried to think of ways to keep him around, to draw him out, to let him see the real me and to know more of him. I made a plan.
When he'd tuned enough of the piano so that I knew that A would be a perfect 440, I snuck away to tune my violin. It struck me for a moment, how ironic it was that I had been using the perfect pitch that I had just denied. Would he catch my little lie? I didn't care. Now, in my mind, any ploy was fair, so long as it got him to think about me.
I heard him finish tuning and I was surprised and excited when he actually began to play. It was Beethoven's Moonlight. As a little girl, I had loved that piece. I thought that I'd outgrown it, but I was wrong. His playing drew me in. It was lyrical, yet precise, as if he had complete control over every dimension of every note and could command the music in any way he chose. He wasn't just playing the sonata, he was writing it to his own specifications. The grace and passion he wrung from every phrase thrilled me to the core. He played the music exactly as I wanted to hear it, even though I had not known before that it should be that way. I could not resist. I moved closer, then closer again. I fought the urge to caress his shoulders as he played. When he finished, I could hear my heart beating, and I knew I must be blushing.
"It was beautiful." was all that I could manage and I was immediately aware of how inadequate words can sometimes be. Now, or never, I thought to myself so I rushed to grab my violin and put my plan into action. I told him to stay, but I wasn't sure he would. My heart leapt when I saw him still sitting at the piano when I returned.
The music I placed on the piano was a piece I have loved since I first played it. The struggle of the violin against the inevitable despair of the piano has male and female elements about it that are highly erotic, and the burst of energy from the violin at the end is almost orgasmic. I hoped he would know the piece, but I knew that he was a good enough musician to play along in any case.
As he began to play, all doubts were erased. It was magnificent. His playing led me and then pursued me, just as the man in the dream had done. Never before had I ever meshed with another musician like this. I closed my eyes and let passion take me. It was the dream all over only more real, more intense, more perfect. I was in love, and the soaring power of the last resisting notes from my violin sealed my fate. I wanted him with an intensity I had not known possible. It was all I could do to stand, longing for him just to touch me.
He stood and turned to me. I was quivering as he took my violin and bow. Then he kissed me. Oh, what a kiss. It was so tender and gentle and such a contrast to the strong desires that were surging through every fiber of my being. I returned his kiss trying to contain the passion that was welling up within me. He kissed my neck and shoulders, and I was lost. I felt my robe fall to the floor, and then he took me in his arms. I could hold back no longer. I tore at him, trying to claw away his shirt so I could feel his skin against me. He stepped back to remove his clothing, and for the brief time I was denied his touch, I thought I would die.
We fell to the floor in front of the old Steinway piano and made the kind of love that I'd only read about in books. It was like falling into a dream.
Later, much later, as we lay together, arms and legs still entwined, I had the funniest notion that I had to confess to him that maybe my dream had caused us to come together so urgently and so passionately. Instead, I tested him with a smaller confession.
"You know," I said. "I was a little sharp in the final measures. It's very hard to get the pitch totally right that high up on the neck."
He told me that my little flaws didn't matter. I didn't understand what he meant when he said something about it being the first time in his life, but I would later.