Dear Reader,

This story was written in collaboration with my friend CuriousAnnie, who is currently not active on StoriesOnline, but whose stories may be found elsewhere on the internet.

Grusha

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.”