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A New Song

By: AMoveableBeast



The way she carried the case, people would have thought it was full of lead, or an anchor perhaps. Something heavy. It drooped her shoulders and threw off what would otherwise have been a beautiful walk. She had a body for grace, built like a woman in a Modigliani, with long limbs and a willowy neck offset by angular features and large, almond eyes. Burdened with the case, she looked more like a wounded elk, bullet stung, staggering off to die somewhere past the Starbucks and Hank's Hardware.

Wounded was how she felt - like a part of her had been chopped off, her favorite part, perhaps. Here she was left without it, left to stumble forward on phantom limbs, dragging the past with her as she went. Looking down at the case, her eyes narrowed. Heavy though it might be, she would not leave it. Never. This elk had not taken her hunter's bullets and limped into the forest not to take her weighty prize with her. 

When she arrived at her destination, she frowned slightly. The music store was little more than a shack with a glass storefront to show off the collection of instruments. Inside, a younger man, dressed in a shirt that had the sleeves ripped off in a way that left them frayed and chaotic, exposing well-muscled arms generously covered in tattoos, sat and plucked away at a cherry Les Paul in front of a child of no more than thirteen who sat across from him dressed in all black, who did his best to mimic the movements on a purple, wicked looking Ibanez.

The woman felt suddenly very old and very foolish. This had been a mistake. She should have just sold it. It was worth a damned fortune. She wasn't some kid with rockstar dreams, just a middle-aged divorcee trying to...did she even know? What exactly would this prove? 

She was turning to go when the man looked up and caught her gaze. His left eyebrow was pierced with a hoop and his eyes were friendly as he nodded at her over the machinations of his fingers. The eyes were warm, inviting, but also something else. Something familiar.

Before she thought to question it much further, her hand had acted of its own accord and she was beyond the glass door, standing in the shop listening as the notes washed over her. The man kept his gaze on her as he continued, some kind of scale, each note sharp and clean. When he was done, the boy, who was obviously excited by the prospect of an audience, judging by the way he had perked up since her arrival, took a turn. He struggled to hold the strings down with his smaller fingers, and the man, sticking his tongue out against his lips, had to lean forward and press one of his own digits over the boy's so that he could get a crisp sound. The kid blushed at this, but the teacher patted his shoulder and said, "No worries, Joe Joe. You're a hell of a lot better than I was at your age. Those ninja turtles better watch out."

"Why?" the boy asked tentatively. 

The man smiled broadly before answering. "'Cause you gonna be the shredder, partner." Blushing even deeper, the boy also smiled broadly at the compliment and looked over at the woman to make sure that she had also heard. Awkwardly holding her own guitar case before her like a child carrying books on the first day of school, she did her best to feign enthusiasm, and was surprised to find herself succeeding with a more genuine grin than she intended. 

After deftly spinning his guitar in his left hand so that the body rotated a half a dozen times, the instructor stood and, after popping a pick from the fingers of his right hand and catching it in his mouth, stood, wiped his hand on his worn-out blue jeans and offered his now sweat free hand and said between the pick in his teeth, "Greetings prospective student, I am Adam Stetler, Lord of the Dance, singer of songs, and master of my chosen weapon, the deadly, electric ax." When the woman just stood there nervously, feeling incredibly overdressed in her suit jacket and matching skirt. He took a peek over his left shoulder at a messy desk upon which sat a cash register, a large binder, and a collection of poorly organized tablature sheets. "And you must be Ms...Mrs. Vaughn." 

Her expression grew darker and she corrected him. "It's Ms.Sutton, actually."

"Really? I only have one more appointment today besides Mr. Balmer who comes by in an hour, for a Mrs. Vaughn who paid in advance over the phone with a card."

"I am she," she said stiffly. "At least I was. I re-took my maiden name. Haven't gotten around to adjusting the cards yet.

"Oh, got it. No matter, the gods of rock care not for names, only for the fury of the sou!l" His voice took on a suddenly serious tone. "I warn you, the musical odyssey you begin today will not be fraughtless, nor easy, but if you hold true to yourself and the music, you may one day find yourself standing atop the Mt. Olympus of metal, a pile of boybands smote upon the mountain from your ascent." Her eyes, darting once again to the door, announced her lack of commitment. "You know," he said with a laugh. "This usually kills with the kids. I'm sorry. I don't get to talk to a lot of adults at work. It's all 'literally' melting faces off and totes blowing the doors off the joint. My name is Adam, and I can teach you to play the guitar."

The woman finally took his hand. "Susan. A pleasure."

The boy, who was now beaming like mad at the awkwardness displayed by the adults, had finished packing his guitar in the vinyl bag in which he carried it, and stood ready to be dismissed. Adam took the pick from his mouth and placed it in his pocket, then pointed his finger and pursed his lips before moving his hand in swooshing motions as if checking off things on a list. "Dashing good looks? Check. Future guitar-god talent? Check. A give 'em hell attitude? Check. Pants that look like they should be on a girl?" He made his hand flat and held it up for the boy. "I'm just messing with you, Jolene. Those skinnies look good on you, bro."

With a roll of his eyes, the boy smacked the hand and headed out the door with a "later, teach," and darted down the street. 

Alone with him for the first time, Susan felt free to study the man who was going to instruct her. 

He was older than she had first thought, thirties not twenties. She could tell by the hands, strong and well used, with veins bulging from hours of time spent on the strings and up the neck. She could see the tendons in his fingers even in this relaxed state. Something about the muscles excited her. The thought of those fingers slowly inching across her neck entered her mind unbidden.

"Shall we open you up, then?"

"What?" she asked, startled by the question. 

"Your case? Let's see what you got under the hood, so to speak." 

She laid the treated leather of the case against the ground gently, so gently, just as her ex-husband Bill had always done. Be purposeful in all you do. State your desires and show your purpose, and your purpose will become your desires and your desires will become your purpose. She popped the latches like she was taking off a man's belt. In some ways, she was This was Bill's prize, his manhood, and she had taken it. It was all she could hold on to when he left. When her desires had ceased to be his purpose. When her purpose no longer served his desires.

When the sunlight through the front windows hit the instrument Adam let out a long breathless whistle.

She was entitled to half, but only asked for this. Still Bill refused. It wasn't until the lawyers told him what a wise decision it was that he accepted. Even then, he ran to catch up with her after the meeting and grabbed her roughly by the elbow and looked into her eyes with that stare of his and said, "You will send it back. You will come to me dragging it by the handle with your teeth, and maybe I will touch you one last time." Susan looked at him, shaking inside but keeping her voice somehow steady, and said, "I don't take your orders anymore, and I don't need your touch." That night she cried, sobbed until she thought her soul would come out of her mouth, but she kept it. 

It was hers. His guitar. His baby. 

She brought it from its case like she was drawing a baby from the river, one hand under the neck, the other cupping under the body, both upturned and open in reverence. With the voice of a disciple she told of its holy composition. "Martin, acoustic. 1920. 00-45. German spruce top with French-polished Brazilian Rosewood back and sides. Ivoroid-bound body and headstock. Abalone Pearl top, back and side purfling, additional snowflake inlays on a genuine ebony fingerboard. Martin torch inlay and multi-ring rosette is also Abalone Pearl." Susan paused. "Her name is Sway, and she's worth more than my car. And, and, I have absolutely no idea how to play her." A small, distressed noise leap from her mouth and committed suicide on the store floor and she thought once more about how foolish this had all been.

"Well, damn," Adam said. "Better get the flat top. I was really kind of hoping you were a thrasher." Without much thought, he walked over, placed his electric on one of the shelves that lined the side of the store and swapped it for a worn-out looking Gibson Jumbo with a hole dug almost clear through under the pickguard. 

When he returned Susan stared at him incredulously. "Wait. Do you know what this is?"

He gave her a look. "Yep. It's a guitar. Let's see if you know what it is." He took a seat and patted the seat across from him. When she didn't move he fished his pick from his pocket and lobbed it perfectly into the open portion of her right hand. "Come on."

Susan sat, the Martin held in front of her like a shield. And stared. He motioned for her to proceed. She stared. Adam raised his pierced eyebrow. "Uh oh," he said.

"Yeah," she said. "Yeah. That's pretty much the size of it...Well, I'm sorry for wasting your time. You may keep the payment for your effort. Thank you for humoring my fantas-" She went to rise and was shocked when he leaned forward and placed his hand on her shoulder, pushing her gently, but firmly, back down to her seat. Her heart pounded at that simple contact.

"You paid for a lesson, Susan. You should get one." There was nothing in his voice or in his demeanor to suggest he meant anything else, that he knew how those words danced across the back of her neck and left footprints, like needle pricks on her vertebrae. "Try this." He rolled his fingers across the top string, and plucked the string with a second pick that had suddenly appeared in his hand, no doubt previously hidden somewhere on his person.

Susan did, but the sound was muted. 

"Arch your fingers more, and press harder."

She did, pressing as hard as she could and arching her fingers so that the muscles under her thumb ached a bit. Her roll was mistimed, but the tones were clear. She smiled.

"Watch out, Jimmie, we're coming for your ass." He grinned at her. "Now this." He reversed direction. "The first was called a hammer-on. This is a hammer-off. Try it."

The movement was less natural this time. No matter how she tried, she couldn't get it right.

"Keep trying."

After a half dozen attempts, she gave up and went back to the hammer-on. "I like this one," she said. "Can't we just do this one?"

"No!" Reaching out with picking hand, he slapped her fingers on the fretboard. 

It was just the slightest pang, the feeling of the wood and metal against the inside of her fingers, but it elicited a gasp and then, embarrassingly, a moan. Susan's mouth hung open and her pick fell to the floor.

Adam's eyes widen and he held his hand up in apology. "I'm sorry. I'm just so used to the kids." He bent over and retrieved her pick, balancing his guitar on his lap as he did, and handed it back to her.

"Don't be," she didn't quite blurt. When she took the pick, her hand closed over his and she held it tightly. She didn't mean to, didn't want to, but she couldn't let go, even when he looked at her and laughed uncomfortably. 

"Shall we try again?" 

She let go and replaced her hand on the neck of the guitar, strangling the wood. Once more, she rolled her fingers, which now shook, she hoped not visibly. It was even worse than before. "I can't do this." She went to get up again.

This time he placed his hand at the back of her neck, where it seemed to both of them to suddenly fit so easily. Susan almost melted back into the seat. "You can. You can." Adam too was shaking slightly now, and his easygoing manner from earlier had morphed into a kind of nervous sincerity. "Let's try something different."

Seemingly in slow motion, he stood and set his guitar on the ground against his chair. Then, moving so that she could see him at all times, carefully made his way around behind her, where he bent over her. His hands found hers, the callouses of his fingers rough against the smoothness of her skin. The broadness of his chest pushed against her back and the stubble of his face pressed against her cheek. When he spoke, it was in a steady whisper directly into her ear. "Try again."

She did. Still clumsy. His hand separated from hers and returned with a slap. Susan bit her lip.

"Again."

Again. Another slap. 

"Almost." His voice was still unsteady, but growing more confident and huskier by the minute. 

Sour notes and the sound of flesh on flesh sang out in the small room. A few minutes in, Susan's hand was lined by the strings and frets. She watched the marks form, savored the redness. Her breathing came quickly, and she was vaguely aware of a gathering wetness beneath the cover of her skirt. 

Then, something unexpected happened; she got it right. Both Susan and Adam were so surprised that they didn't know what to do, and each sat in the echo of the perfect notes, unsure of how to proceed. 

Finally, with hoarseness plain in his voice, Adam said, "Good. *ahem* Good. That's very good. I'll go back to my seat and we'll work on something else."

"No!" Susan didn't mean to shout. She played it again. Horribly, beyond horribly. "I don't have it. Really. That was more luck than anything. I don't. I mean, listen."

Adam laughed in her ear, a rich throaty thing that she wanted to turn into and allow to swallow her. "I think you may be right. Should we work on something else, though? Something more...complicated?" To emphasis the last word, he took his hand from the one that she was picking with and moved it to the inside of her thigh. 

"Yes, yes," Susan nodded, beyond eager. "Let's do something sooo complicated."

Manipulating her left hand with his own, he set it in a pattern, each finger a certain place, her pinky stretched to an uncomfortable point that already bordered on pain. "This is D flat. It's kind of a bitch, even for more experienced players. Do you think you can do it?"

"Yes! I know I can." 

"Yes?"

"Yes, sir." The words dripped out of her thick and sweet and smooth as clover honey. Susan closed her eyes and fell into the lesson.

"Begin."

She dug her fingers tightly, as tightly as she could, until the steel strings nearly cut into her, and strummed over the soundhole. The first two were right, but after that all she could hear were the thuds of dead string. Adam said nothing. Instead, he dug his fingers into the soft flesh of her thighs like talons. 

Susan's pussy was now almost throbbing. She needed this, had always needed this, and it had been so very long since she had gotten anything she needed. 

A chorus of more bad strings caused her teacher to grab up another handful of pale skin. He was now truly her instructor, and she was learning. God in heaven was she learning. Again she strummed. This time, a spank proceeded the squeezing. A gasp escaped her lips and she sunk into her chair. With each slap, he was moving up her leg toward her sex. Each mistake brought her a little bit closer to salvation.

Adam too was clearly affected, and she could hear his breath ragged and excited in her ear. She was surprised when he spoke. "Who named the guitar?"

"What?" She punctuated the question with a strum of the strings, which earned her the hardest slap yet and a squeeze that left her thigh numb for a brief moment and caused her to dampen her panties to the point that she could feel them clinging to her. 

"The guitar. Who named it? Not you. It doesn't feel like you. I can feel you." He squeezed low and slow and painfully. "And it doesn't feel like you."

"My ex-husband." It was hard for her to speak between her moans and gasps. She needed to cum. She needed to hurt. She needed this sweet, terrible affection. "It was-uhhhh!-his. He loved it! More than-oh fuck-more that anything. He wouldn't even let me touch it, but he taught me everything about it. I know where it was made. I know who has owned-God, your hands-it. It was his baby. I was just his toy."

He fished his hand under her blouse and pulled one of her small, still perky tits free. Rolling the nipple between his fingers, he pinched it, then released, then pulled ever so slightly, then more tautly with each note she continued to miss. "It's yours now. You should rename it." 

It was hers. The thought occurred to her for the first time, caught in that vice of pleasure. She had been so concerned with taking what was his that she hadn't realized what was hers. An odd kind of power filled Susan, a strange music that mixed with elation and her building arousal. 

The first of his spanks connected with her pussy. Even through the panties it was like electric. "Oh my God!" She was strumming her guitar chaotically now and was convulsing so strongly that only Adam's hand on her breast and the pressure of his chest against her kept her and the Martin trapped in the chair. 

Susan could hear the slaps, like percussion to the suffocated, desperate call of her guitar, tinged with wetness and the softness of cotton, and above all of it, her tortured, euphoric vocals. "More, more, more!"

Her hands and cunt ached, and her arm burned from the rigors of her spastic strumming. She was close. God, so close. The slaps, furious against her painties and, past that, the swollen lips of her sex marched her on. 

It went on, become a chorus, an anthem, the last dirge for an old life that had outstayed its spotlight. But above all, it was a debut, a duet, and for the first time in a long time, she was getting a solo. The dam in her yielded to the pressure of Adam's hand, and she was singing, long and hard, in waves seemingly without end. In this, at least, she was a prodigy. When she could no longer hold it, her left hand fell free from the guitar and the strings were all open, fiercely, unapologetically open. Everything was so open.

When it was finally over, Susan lay supine on the chair, cradled into a ball by Adam's supportive arms, so that when she opened her eyes she was facing the exposed windows of the store, which she had forgotten in her excitement. "The windows...I forgot..."

"I didn't." 

"Oh my God! Adam! Someone is at the door!"

"Yep...Mr. Balmer. He showed up about six minutes ago for his six o'clock."

Susan sprang out of her ball, and did her best to straighten her outfit, her face scarlet from sex and shame. Still, small part of her perked up, much as the young boy had done earlier. Everyone musician liked an audience.

She hurriedly packed away her prize, careful, as before, but looser in her motions. When she had relatched the case, she headed for the door. 

Adam called to her before she reached it. "When's your next lesson. I'd hate to lose you. It's hard to find...talent like yours."

She paused, hand on the door knob, separated by the wide-eyed, wrinkled face of the geriatric Mr. Balmer only by the thinnest of glass. Taking up the guitar? At his age? Maybe she wasn't too old for this. "You know what, charge me for the whole month. I'll be back next week."

"Excellent. And Susan, you should really rename that guitar. It's a beautiful instrument not to have a proper name."


A New Song



She turned, her smile as fresh as a new tune. "Liberty." 

And with that she off, like a deer across a country road, her guitar case swinging at her side like another limb.

After several minutes of staring blankly down the street after her, Mr. Balmer walked into the music shop and looked at his instructor questioningly. When all Adam gave as an answer was a shrug of his shoulders, Mr. Balmer thought for a second and said, "I want you to teach me whatever song you played for her."