4 comments/ 10723 views/ 2 favorites A La Recherche Du Temps Perdu By: EmeliaBell He leaned, carelessly, against the wall at the top of the stairs. From here he had a view of the whole room and everyone in it. "Boring." He thought, not for the first time that evening. The party, like every other party he'd been to that year, was boring and the people were, with only a couple of exceptions, all the same people who'd been to those parties. Slicked down waiters circled with plates of canapés and fizzy white wine pretending to be champagne, some kind of subtle classical music was being played by an abstracted looking quintet and the faint scent of stale cigarettes and too much perfume clouded the air. Frustrated by the dull pointlessness of it all he pulled his bow-tie loose so he could undo his top button, then ran his hand over his hair. He took a drink off a passing waiter and finally felt comfortable. God knows why it was necessary to go through all this kind of shindig just for the opening of a film -- and a pretty shitty film, too. Still. Always important to see and be seen; networking was key in this kind of industry. Not what you know, but who... he mused, knocking back the slightly sour wine. He'd done the rounds, shaken the hands and now he could loiter in the shadows until it was an acceptable time to leave. "Fuck it." He muttered out loud, startling a portly lady near by. "Not you, you fat old trout," he said, though not loudly enough for her to hear properly. Grabbing his dinner jacket from where he'd draped it over the balcony railing he slung it over his shoulder and made for the exit. Fighting his way past a slow stream of late arrivals who seemed determined to get in his way, he'd just reached the foyer of the hotel when his bowtie slid from round his neck and landed on the floor. He knelt down to pick it up, draping it back 'round his neck before standing up again. From his lowly position on the floor he was perfectly placed to see the high high heels and slender ankles now descending the stairs. The deep dark blue velvet of her dress was split to just above the knee and he followed it with his eyes over her shapely legs, up to her gently rounded stomach and curved hips. Lingeringly he traced the dip of her waist and the swell and cleft of her breasts to her face... where he froze, struck immobile by something he saw there. "Hello Andrew." She said. ***** Slowly he got up and looked at her. She stood on the stairs, holding onto the arm of a dark haired man with broad shoulders who looked at Andrew through narrowed eyes, wondering who this stranger was who'd caused his date to dig her fingernails suddenly and painfully into his arm. "Hi." Said Andrew, shortly, his body still frozen in shock at this ghost from the past finding him in his new and shiny life. He'd spent years working his arse off to get to this point. Now he was standing on the brink of the success he had craved, only to be faced with the woman who had been the catalyst to his transformation. "This is Eduardo." She said, introducing the swarthy man at her side. "Nice to meet you," Andrew said, sliding automatically into meet-and-greet mode. He'd managed to place the man now: some bright young thing in the film production circuit known as much in the media for his brooding macho thing as his talent for creating innovative documentaries. Andrew hated him for his smooth confidence, seemingly effortless success and most of all for the fact that Eva was on his arm, but you never knew who could give you a helping hand and he was too used to 'making nice' to stop now. He hadn't seen Eva for nearly five years but she had changed very little. Her skin was still milk-white and unblemished and her hair, though cut shorter so it swung round her cheeks, was still dark and lustrous. Time had added only a gloss of sophistication and confidence and chiselled the fine bones of her face; accentuating her beauty. The passing years had made a greater mark on Andrew. Large amounts of time spent filming outdoors had weathered his skin to a rich, nutty brown and aged it prematurely. The tan set off the blue of his eyes and the crinkles that had formed at the corners gave him an amiable air and a rugged attractiveness. He'd shaken off the sweet-faced boy and looked like a man who had had some experiences and come through the other side. Eva narrowed her eyes as she looked him up and down, noting all the details, big and small, that had changed since she saw him last. Uncomfortably he made polite small talk with Eduardo, or the Italian Stallion as Andrew began to think of him sneeringly, fully aware that she was scrutinising him as he exchanged thoughts on the industry and a brief CV. She couldn't help but feel a frisson of attraction to the rough, confident man standing in front of her. There was a notable difference between Eduardo's smug arrogance and self-satisfaction and Andrew's quiet containment and certainty. Yes, he'd changed a little and the changes intrigued her, but there was still, somewhere, an element of the relationship they had had. The passion and intensity they had shared, the things they had been through and the love they had felt for each other. It was funny, she mused, but she couldn't remember now why they had broken up. Presumably there had been good reasons at the time, but she couldn't think what they were now. The conversation between the two men had haltingly ground to a stop and Eva knew she had to make a decision. "Ed, that critic you wanted to talk to is hovering over there, why don't you go and speak to him -- you said you wanted to get him on side before your next project. No no, I'll be fine by myself -- I need a drink anyway and I'm sure Andrew can take care of me till you get back..." Her voice trailed off as she said this. Eduardo had already glided off in pursuit of his prey and it was just her and Andrew now, looking at each other. He looked a question at her, not believing that she had just handed herself over to his care; still doubting even as she took his arm lightly and he felt a jolt running through his body from the point of contact. For a while they walked; drinking the cheap wine, exchanging life stories from the intervening years, carefully sounding each other out. Gradually they impinged more and more on each other's personal space, breathing in the scent of the other and sensing the heat from their body. The attraction between them created a massive magnetic force which drew them closer together whilst explicitly excluding all others. Eduardo had looked over at one point and, with a small flicker of disgust shrugged off his disappointment and made friends with some minor starlet of the blonde and busty variety. Now it was just Eva and Andrew, stunned into a nostalgic feeling of closeness by all the things that were the same, yet powerfully fascinated by all that had changed. The world seemed to tip a little on its axis when Andrew casually brushed her arm with his fingers. She was shocked by the course roughness of his fingertips and the unbidden vision of how it would feel to have him touch other parts of her body with them. He was overcome by the cool silkiness of her skin and the sudden recollection of how her body felt like velvet against his: always cool and so remarkably smooth. Very little was being said now, for all communication was exchanged by way of long, lingering looks, seemingly accidental touches and the ever decreasing space between their bodies. Andrew only realised he had been staring at her mouth when the tip of her pink tongue darted out and wetted her upper lip. He closed his eyes and reeled as he was struck by images of her mouth wrapped around his flesh, her tongue caressing him as her long fingers stroked and squeezed... Abruptly he turned away from her, putting his hand across his eyes as he unconsciously tried to shut out the memories and imaginings that were assailing him. "Eva, I can't do this," he said in an undertone, his voice wretched with lust and distress. She moved towards him, but paused as he said this. She realised that too much had happened in the past and they had both changed so much in the interim that it would be almost impossible for them to be happy together now. Even so she couldn't resist this opportunity to recreate one of the happiest times in her life. Softly she put her hand on Andrew's chest, looking up into his eyes as she stood in front of him. "We have very different lives now and we are so different ourselves from what we were. I think we both know that we won't be able to have a relationship, but Andrew, I've missed you and I want you." She cringed as she heard the clichés coming out of her mouth, but there didn't seem to be any way of expressing herself that didn't sound trite. "Could we not be together just for one night? I..." she fumbled for the words she needed to persuade him. She had hurt him in the past and he was resisting her, wanting to avoid the pain of losing her again. She put the cool palm of her hand against his cheek, feeling the slight bristle of stubble and the hot skin of his face. She looked into his eyes and saw how much he wanted her too. She tried to say that she wouldn't hurt him again, that she needed to be loved again the way he'd loved her and that she didn't know how they could make it work, but she wanted them to have at least this night together. All Andrew saw was love and lust and anguish. He couldn't bear to be so close to her and look into her eyes like that, so he closed his: shutting her out. Then he felt her lips on his, just lightly, as if she was kissing him goodbye. Having her mouth against his, the slight tackiness of her lip-gloss sticking to his lips, her breath hot against his face -- he crumbled. He wanted her so much and his strength of will was dissolved by her tender gesture in the face of rejection. His arm went around her waist, his other hand cupped the back of her head, his fingers tangled in her hair. He opened his eyes to be confronted by her look of shock and the traces of tears in her eyes and then he pressed his mouth firmly against hers. She tried to resist as he forced his tongue between her lips, but her heart wasn't in it and she opened her mouth, twining her tongue with his. She tasted of the cheap sour wine, the sweet artificial berry flavour of her lip-gloss and the faintest trace of mint from her toothpaste. The kiss was passionate and extraordinary as only reunion kisses can be: all the lust and intensity of a first kiss, but with the intrinsic knowledge of how to kiss each other so that all desires were met. Eventually the kiss drew to a close. Their bodies were pressed together and their arms encircled each other. Both of them were breathing heavily with the exertion of such kissing and the need to be together fully. "I have a room booked here..." Andrew said tentatively, his voice husky. "Ok." She said, meeting his look with a small smile. Hurriedly they straightened their clothes, then stepped out of the shadowy alcove they'd been standing in and walked towards the foyer again. ***** The lift was spacious and dimly lit, with a mirror on the back wall. The two of them stood on opposite sides, leaning against the hip-height rail that ran round the walls, waiting for the three bulky men in dull grey suits to get out. Even with the other people in the lift and nearly five feet of space between them, the sexual tension was palpable. Andrew leaned oh-so-casually, his right leg crossed in front of his left, his arms folded in front of him, just his fixed look and tense expression betraying him. Eva was more transparent. Her arms stretched out to either side, her hands gripping onto the railing, making her knuckles whiten. The position she stood in thrust her torso forwards, highlighting the prominent curves of her breasts. Her lower lip was caught up in her teeth as she bit it viciously and her cheeks were deeply flushed. She looked like some wanton figurehead, lush and ripe to be taken. Both of them started when the lift went 'bing' as it reached their floor. Andrew quickly gathered himself and strode towards the door, standing there and holding it back while Eva recalled herself and slowly walked out; moving as if she was suspended in treacle. Still in silence and maintaining a rigid distance of a couple of feet between them the couple walked to Andrew's room, went in, shut the door and stood stock still in the centre of the room facing one another like two stags about to lock antlers. Seconds ticked past and still nothing happened -- it was as if neither wanted to make the first move lest they were rejected. Cautiously Andrew reached up to his neck and pulled on one end of the bow-tie. It made a shushing noise as it slid past his collar, then came free with a snap. He threw it lightly into the space between them and she watched as it came to rest on the floor. She looked back up at his face and smiled before casually lobbing her clutch bag towards the crumpled bow-tie. I'll show you mine, if you show me yours was now the game being played. Andrew shucked off his expensive dinner jacket and added it to the small pile in the centre, then Eva dropped in the slippery, silken shawl she had round her shoulders. All the low stake pieces had gone now; any more additions would start to reveal hidden flesh. Palpable heat flowed between them and that tantalising question -- "will we, won't we?"- heightened anticipation and stilled the breath. Andrew stepped forward and reached for Eva, but she had stepped back; almost in synch. Again he moved towards her and again she moved back; locked in a passionate tango of advance and retreat. Their dance only stopped as Eva fetched up against the solid bulk of the bed-frame which caught her behind the knees. Andrew breached the gap between them and stood just a breath's distance away from her, his arms by his sides, deliberately not touching her. She had closed her eyes, expecting to be kissed and when he made no move to do so, she opened them again confusedly. She tilted her head to one side and looked at him, then touched her fingers lightly to her lips. Her head rocked back as she traced a fragile line down her cheek, over her jaw, along the contours of her long throat, past her collar bone: Andrew's eyes following it all the way. Unconsciously he licked his lips, his eyes flickering as her fingertips caressed the creamy skin of her décolletage, slid under the strap of her dress and flicked it off her shoulder; the thick, heavy strap drooping down her arm, exposing the slender shadow of her bra strap. More firmly next she ran the flat of her hand over the round of her breast, cupping and squeezing -- savouring the rich prickle of the fabric's nap as she stroked against it. Smiling fractionally she reached around to her left side and pulled down the concealed zipper there, the gentle whisper of the mechanism loud in the silent room. She pushed the other strap off her shoulder. The heavy dress hung on her lush body for a fractional moment before slithering into a concertinaed puddle about her feet. Mesmerised Andrew took in every detail of her almost-naked body. The soft roundness of her belly as it tapered down into the hollow below her navel. The way her breasts had grown more voluptuous since he'd seen them last and were held in a glossy satin bra of a deep aubergine colour that emphasised the creamy paleness of her skin. The flare of her hips accentuated by the slightly old-fashioned cut of her matching French knickers which fluttered around the top of her thighs, promising a glimpse of the treasures beneath. Her shapely legs were shaded in by the sheer, black, silky stockings that encircled her thighs at the top with a band of black lace and the narrow strip of bare flesh between the stockings and knickers seemed even more tantalisingly naked. She held herself carefully poised, allowing him to look freely at her; displaying herself to her best advantage. She worried, naturally, that he'd notice all the little flaws and imperfections that had developed since the last time he'd seen her naked and, somehow, it was so very important that he didn't. She needn't have worried. Andrew saw her through the glamour of lost love and she was made glorious by it. Hesitantly he reached up to his collar and undid the button there, fumbling his way down his shirt front with fingers made awkward by nerves. Roughly he thrust the shirt off his shoulders, forgetting to remove his cufflinks first so his hands were trapped. For a second he flailed ineffectively before mutely turning round and proffering his arms for Eva to free. He hung his head as she liberated him from his shirt sleeves, but his face cracked into a reluctant smile as he heard a muffled giggle from behind him. The tension was broken now and as she spun him round she let her hands linger on his waist and leant in to kiss him. Softly her hands ran over his chest, exploring the new definition, the smattering of blond hairs, the way the skin grew softer at the sides. Still kissing they both reached for the catch of Andrew's trousers. Time felt as though it had been stripped away as they kissed and giggled alternately, pulling away the layers of clothing, exploring bare flesh with hands and lips. Playfully he pushed her back onto the bed and leant forwards over her, laying feather-light kisses over her face, breasts and belly. She sighed and pulled her stomach in as he moved lower and lower down her body. Sex was never the problem with them, it was always good, always hot -- especially this bit. His fingers ran up the inside of her thighs as his mouth moved down her stomach and she waited and waited for them to meet in the middle. She held her breath as his lips skipped a bit and kissed the hollow at the very top of the inside of her thigh. She remembered how much he liked to tease -- promising bliss and giving only frustration for long long minutes before delivering her to the very brink of pleasure and taking it away again. He did that now, flicking at her lips with his tongue, tickling and teasing; promising sensations for a second then going back a step, darting into the wet, pink folds of her sex and tasting the sweet-tart liquor seeping from her. He lost himself in licking and pleasuring her, the beauty of her pussy astounding him yet again as it always had: the most perfect example of the feminine he had ever seen. She squirmed and writhed under his eager tongue, only partially restrained by the hands which firmly held her hips. In ever-growing circles he caressed her clit, bringing her to the edge of orgasm, then licking back down to her quivering vulva where he dipped his tongue repeatedly, stimulating the sensitive entrance to her. She was thrusting up against him now, the bucking of her body overpowering his grip. As her breath came faster and she started to moan he reluctantly drew away from the lush, moist folds of her and stretched out so that he could kiss her mouth. She loved the taste of herself on his lips; the musky, over-sweet scent like the intense base notes of a jasmine flower clinging to his skin. He held himself over her now, his weight on his arms, her arms about his neck as they kissed passionately; each trying to penetrate the other more completely. All the excitement of a new partner was present, but mixed in with the heart-breaking intimacy of an established couple. Like the tide slowly progressing up a beach, the intensity of their kisses waxed and waned, each time reaching a little further, getting a little stronger. They were kisses of loss and longing; seeking for love and reassurance and finding only memories wetted with the salt taste of tears. Slowly, with the inevitability of time marching on, they came together, his cock finding its way to the hot, liquid heart of her, stroking in and in and in; the union of their bodies a desperate attempt to wrest back the past, regain the emotional bond they had once shared so entirely. A La Recherche Du Temps Perdu A violinist remembers events from her past during a performance. Note: I was inspired to write this little diversion during a live performance by a mature female violinist. She was playing a beautiful piece of music, and it occurred to me to wonder what she thinks about as she plays. For instance, does she ever think of herself as a ten-year old girl learning to play? Of course, a professional is intently concentrated on her playing, but with a piece that she knows well, I'll bet that her mind wanders, just a bit. Understandably, these mental wanderings would only take split seconds of time each time—like snapshots, with each story built upon many such lapses over time. Let us explore her thoughts some, during such a performance ... kind of stringing them all together. Here goes: ~ ~ ~ How did I get to this enviable place? I am center stage before a very large crowd. Actually, I am on a raised platform and playing from the orchestra pit. I am playing this lovely music as a soloist, with the orchestra behind me. I am the associate concertmaster (second violinist) for a local opera company, and reviewers and critics consider me one of the top violinists in the Midwest. I get to play something tonight, which is arguably the most beautiful piece of music ever written; it is Méditation. It is an entr'acte for violin and orchestra, meaning that it is music usually played between the scenes or the acts. In this case, it occurs between scenes two and three, of Act II in the opera Thaïs by Jules Massenet. It is a very ethereal piece that I know well, and can play in me sleep. Musically, I suppose you might call it an 'orchestral intermezzo.' This opera describes the conversion of Thaïs, a worldly courtesan, who leaves her life of pleasure, to live one of devotion and contemplation. Méditation is played after she meditates on her wasted life. The curtain closes and no singers on stage and I am the center of the universe; well my own little universe anyway. After I finish, and the applause from my performance dies down, the action in the opera will continue for the rest of Acts II, and III. The monk who converted Thaïs is himself, enticed into the life of pleasure she once enjoyed. She dies a saintly woman, as he lives on in shame grief. Opera plots! Right? Not exactly, the familiar boy meets girl theme of most operas, but as operas go this one is very lovely. Anton is conducting this run of the opera, and is looking directly at me with an imperious smile as I play. God, I hate that he has seen me naked! Anton is a supremely accomplished musician in his own right, but as most opera and concertgoers know, the basic job of a conductor is as a human metronome—he just keeps the beat for the musicians! Actually, the conductor is responsible for what people hear, the feeling ... the passion ... the sheer musicality. If all goes well or very well, he gets the praise. If it does not, the critics will roast him alive in their columns the next morning. I dated Anton a few times; he can be very seductive with just the sheer force of his personality and his good looks. He is tall and handsome for fifty-five, and has a very distinguished greying at the temples. He is also a tyrant and a bully during rehearsals. If I am a quarter of a beat too early or too late, I receive a disapproving glare from him. He as even interrupted the orchestra to berate and embarrass a poor and unsuspecting musician ... even to tears. Last week Janice—an oboe player—became so angry with Anton's criticism that with tears in her eyes she grabbed her instrument, kicked her music stand over, and stormed out with sheet music fluttering to the floor, as a string of shouted invectives trailed her out the door. She could play anywhere in the world and for any orchestra, but this is where her family is and she loves this area. I think Anton has seen Janice naked as well, but I have no real proof of that. So right now, I have Anton's one hundred percent attention as his conducting is encouraging a very sensitive interpretation from me of this very fragile piece of music. My bowing has never been better as I display my mature and disciplined playing. I am dressed in a full-length flat-black concert dress, with a pretty turned out collar trimmed in white. I turn my attractive and still shapely thirty-seven year old body toward the orchestra more as I play off them for a moment. Mon Dieu! Has it been thirty-two years already since I first picked up a violin? As I play, the vision of a shy and introverted ten-year old girl comes to mind. Actually, I think of that clumsy nearsighted waif often as I play. I am five years into violin lessons, and skinny as a rail. So funny to think of myself then ... so different from the accomplished professional I have become, with international awards to my credit. God, I was a geek! My glasses kept sliding down my nose as I played for Professor Kinski—my teacher. "Ve must hold zee bow correctly, meine liebe! Zee vingers must be curled, mitt der thumb unter-neath." He used to say. I had all I could do to keep from cracking up! A few of us young female students used to giggle as we each tried to imitate his broken English while waiting for him to arrive for our lessons. "Germglish" we used to call his insistence on combining German and English words into fractured sentences. If we did not use the correct hand positions with the bow or on the fingerboard, we felt the sharp sting of the ruler he always carried. I went home many times with bloody knuckles, but I owe my perfect technique to his pedagogy. He used to keep an old Brazilwood bow around for some of his more recalcitrant (meaning bratty and disrespectful) girl students, whom he bent over his desk for a more 'traditional' form of correction ... but modestly over clothing. "Ouch!" I can still feel those bow strokes on my bottom, and the red welts they left! So here I stand, playing this lovely and ethereal piece to perfection in front of an appreciative audience, with my ex-lover conducting me. Anton was far from my first, of course. I those honors go to Henry Cunningham, when both of us were eighteen. Henry was a French horn player, and we were at band camp the summer before our senior year in high school. Between the girl's and boy's cabins was a private grassy knoll, and if you kept to the margins near the trees, a couple might find a little boy/girl privacy. I didn't exactly intend to give myself to him, it just sort of happened one night. In retrospect, I have to say that Henry was as good a candidate as anyone was to claim my cherished virginity. He was slight, with blond curly hair, handsome, and cute in a sort of "shy little boy" way. I liked him, and though I still wore glasses (and still had to slide them back up my nose) I had filled out a little in all the right places, and was becoming sort of pretty. Henry would look over at me when he though I wasn't noticing, and he would look away quickly when I turned in his direction. In the orchestra, he was around the bend to my left, and a couple of rows back. Back then, I was the lead violin, and sat in the first seat in the first row, right at the conductor's left hand. I so wanted Henry to like me, and I made my move one night after supper. I knew instinctively that the girl needs to make the first move, or nothing will happen. I was walking along with a few of other girl violinists and when we saw Henry coming one of the other girls, my best friend, turned to me and said, "Look Angela, it is your boyfriend! It's Henry! C'mon girls let's leave Angela and her boyfriend alone for some loving!" "Shush Rebecca, he is not so my boyfriend, he is just ... just ... Henry!" "Well girlfriend, I see the way you look at him in rehearsals, so—" "Stop it Becky! I mean it!" I interrupted my bratty friend. "Come on girls let's leave Angie and her boyfriend alone." The girls giggled, and disappeared in the direction of the lake. "Hi Henry uh, nice night isn't it?" "Oh, hi Angela. Yah, I-I guess so. Um yah ... nice!" "He was so cute and he is a very talented horn player ... so what, if he was not exactly articulate!" I thought to myself. "Um Henry, would you like to walk to the meadow with me, I just want to see the moon and stuff, um a little." "Okay, I guess so." I took the initiative right away as I grabbed his hand leading him to a semi-shady part of the knoll, where the moonlight would not betray us. Henry looked so handsome that night, and I needed to be alone with him to get a better sense of him. We sat in the soft grass and talked for a long while. My family, his family, how we each came to be in the orchestra, likes and dislikes, just that kind of puppy love sort of, shit. I was surprised when Henry took the lead away from me, as he leaned over and kissed me on the lips. My first real kiss with a boy, since being an intense young violinist does not leave much time for play or a social life. His kiss was soft and warm ... very nice. I pulled him toward me by his shirt, and smashed my lips against his, taking my initiative back. Before I knew it, we were lying on the grass with him sort of over me, kissing me and nervously fumbling with my blouse buttons. I opened enough of them to allow him to reach into the cups of my bra, and surround my pert breasts with his soft warm hands. I remember as if it was yesterday, just how wonderful that first touch felt. My heart started beating faster as we kissed and fumbled with each other. Neither of us knew what in the hell we were doing, but soon I felt a hand rising up the inside of my thigh under my skirt and headed toward my cotton panties. Before Henry could get to the gold, I moved his hand away. I did not allow Henry a "home run" that night, and not for several nights afterward, but I did allow him some "second and third-base" kind of stuff after that first night. It was the second to the last night of the camp, when Henry again slid his hand up my thigh as I lay beneath him in the grass. As his hands neared my panties, I opened my thighs a little, and he rubbed my young vulva over the cotton material. It felt so good; I couldn't make myself stop him. Before I knew it with our kisses and fondling, his fingers were on the waistband of my panties. I instinctively lifted my butt a little, as he slid them over my little eighteen-year old butt, down my legs and off completely. Lying there for the first time with a boy, so completely exposed, I felt nervous and could not stop myself from jittering; I was hoping that he would not notice my nervousness. I was not on the pill or anything else back then, and we never considered carrying condoms, but I spread my legs for him anyway and I softly said between kisses, "Oh, Henry!" He took that as his cue to unzip his trousers, and with a shift of position, I could feel the tip of his penis touching the lips of my little cunny. I breathed in sharply as he slid it ... just a little ... into my now very moist and most virginal place. He pushed it in a little further and I bit my lip as I could feel some amount of initial pain as he pushed through. Then it became very nice, very quickly. His breaking through my hymen did not cause much bleeding, but it did pinch a little. Henry slid into me as far as he could and was soon stroking in and out of me with a nice rhythm. He was very quiet, but I uttered a succession of soft groans with each stroke. The feeling of a boy's penis sliding into my body for the first time is one I have trouble putting into words—as articulate as I am. I remember that it was a kind of ticking sensation inside me, but very warm. He got close very quickly, and I could feel him pull out and come on my belly. Although I didn't climax, it was very pleasant experience. I quietly sat up; put my panties back on and over my come-covered stomach as much as possible. Henry folded himself back into his pants, and zipped up. He kissed me on the lips a little, and stood to walk me back to the no-man's land area between our cabins. Back in my bunk, I pulled my panties down to mid-thigh; spread Henry's come on my stomach a little as I teased my little nub to a very nice, but very quiet little orgasm. I licked Henry's come off my fingers. It tasted like nothing, really ... a little salty ... sticky. Henry and I dated a little after we were back at school, and through our senior prom, but then sort of drifted away and into other relationships. Henry deflowered me in that grassy moonlit knoll, and I will never forget him. He will always be my first love. I look up from my reveries to see Anton gesturing to me indicating a change in tempo at a particularly emotional part of the music marked as poco piu appassionato (a little more passion). I respond quickly as he nods to me approvingly with a smile. Anton may be a tyrant and a dick, but he is one of the best, and a maestro with an international reputation, fluent in several languages. I still get a little sexual twinge whenever he narrows his electric-blue eyes at me. I tired of his demanding nature, and his trying to 'conduct' me in bed so I ended it. Anton is not someone to whom it is easy to say no! "Henry Cunningham!" I thought as I changed the position of my bow over the top of the strings, "Where are you now, m'love?" We lost contact after high school, and since we were no longer dating, I guess it doesn't really matter ... although I have thought about him often over the years. He did not have very large, um, equipment back then, but his lips were soft and gave me chills whenever he kissed me. That is what I will always remember about my dear sweet Henry! Well, little Angela ... that skinny-as-a-rail little ten-year old turned into a pretty teenager with soft curves, and ample breasts. I changed from glasses to contacts during my first year at the music conservatory. This conservatory offers a bachelor's degree in music, and my concentration was of course; the violin. I found myself craving sex to relieve the tension of exhausting rehearsals, and dealing with a succession of demanding teachers and technique coaches. I was not slutty or anything like that, but a girl has needs, y'know? Since my friend Rebecca was my roommate, we did experiment a little. Although her touches and kisses felt nice, it is something we eventually decided was not for us. I learned a lot about the way I like touching, and being touched through my amateur fumbling with Becky. Terrance was a very patient bowing coach, and we dated through most of my years at the conservatory. He was tall and slender, dark-haired and bearded, and what you might consider as intellectual looking. Terrance knew what I was thinking before I did, most times. He is very bright, and a brilliant violinist with many offers from orchestras around the world. Before I graduated, he accepted one in Hamburg as their youngest concertmaster (first violinist) ever. Terry was a very sensitive lover, and taught me many things. Let's just say that my bowing is not the only technique he taught me, to perfection! "My dear Terry," I thought as the piece pressed on toward its passionate conclusion, "I miss hearing about Hamburg. Please write again soon!" Rebecca and I are members of the same opera company, but she occupies fifth stand. She is a very able violinist, but I will be concertmaster someday, and she will not. I am still single, and Becky and I have spent some of our off time clubbing and dating a little. I will not have sex with anyone I meet at a club, but Becky has done that a time or two. She did that a couple of nights ago; I just looked at her and said, "Well, you two have fun, I'm going home. Becky, remember we have an seven-thirty call tomorrow morning." "Don't worry Ang, I'll make it!" "Yah, right!" I thought to myself as I climbed into my car. It is always up in the air if Becky will make it in on time or not, since she was been late twice, just in the past couple of weeks. In our company, you are docked pay for being late. Too many times, and your position will go to some hungry musician on our waiting list. That next morning she was five minutes late and in addition to the loss of pay, the conductor sternly reminded her of the tenuousness of her position with the orchestra. This piece is nearing its completion, and I will replay the main theme twice, to the conclusion. My concentration returns to the music, and to Anton's conducting. The accepted technique for playing the latter part is to use a full bow, and a rather singing tone, but each artist has his or her own interpretation. I go with the standard technique to keep it from becoming overly ornamented. I am in full concentration as the piece nears the end, which from my part is very expressive and singing, and then slows to the ending on a very high A, which must be crystal clear. I tilt my bow down to finish on the E (highest pitched) string, holding the final note as long as Anton indicates, and no longer. I pull my instrument from under my chin, and relax the bow as the audience rises from their seats, and erupts in thunderous applause, with some sporadic shouts of "Brava! Brava!" I look around at Rebecca who is in tears, and tapping her violin with the bow as applause, and the rest of the orchestra rises and taps their instruments, showing their appreciation for my sensitive interpretation. I bow to the audience with tears in my own eyes, and turn to my colleagues with a smile of appreciation. This piece usually goes to the concertmaster but Anton insisted that I preform it tonight. He is standing on the podium like a music god, and gives me another arrogant smile with a slight nod of approval. I mouth the words, "Thank you!" to Anton ... my appreciation for his putting me in the spotlight. The opera continues, and I rejoin the rest of the orchestra playing off the score for the remainder of the second and on through the third and final act. After the applause for the singers dies down, and the audience starts to file out, I am gathering my music, and putting my instrument back into its case. Rebecca is jabbering to me about something, but I am too excited to listen to her. Then parts of it come through as I hear her talking about drinks at the Wellington afterward. I just say, "Yah, okay honey." I turn to see Anton back from the stage after taking his bows with the singers, and I run right into him. He is still smiling at me like some tall handsome crocodile in a tuxedo. He pulls me toward him, and plants a kiss on my lips, as his hands travel down my back with one of them sliding down further onto my ass. "I knew you could do it Angela!" he says still wearing his million-dollar smile. "Thank you, Anton. I really appreciated your giving me the chance." "Let's have lunch tomorrow, mon amour!" "That sounds delightful, Anton." He gives me a pat on the rear, and disappears into the crowd of his friends, fans and admirers to receive his love from them. I watch the all too familiar show, and shake my head. Normally, no one gives a damn about a second violinist, but since I became a star in tonight's show, there are fans and opera hangers-on there to shake my hand or to give me their congratulations. I even signed a few programs! I am looking through the crowd and I spot a familiar face. A face that is now almost twenty years older than the last time I saw it. I smile sweetly; cover my mouth with my hand in surprise, then softly say, "Henry!" END A La Recherche Du Temps Perdu They held each other closely, eyes locked, kissing every so often to reaffirm that this was not just a fuck, was not going to be done and then forgotten. Both of them felt that invisible thread that had always run from one heart to the other tighten and strengthen as they reached the inevitable moment of climax. Some part of themselves streamed out and met a reciprocal fragment of soul coming in to replace it and both faces were wet with tears as bodies shuddered and rocked, hungrily trying to consume each other. They lay, entwined, their bodies still, their breath slowing; joined at the lips and at the hips. He grew soft inside her and still they didn't move; neither daring to break this connection just as neither had dared to initiate it. The sweat on his back chilled his skin and her breathing was hindered by the weight of him on top of her and eventually the discomfort of it forced them to move apart. As soon as the contact between them broke, the thread of intimacy shattered and the connection was lost. They avoided each other's gaze as they dressed, moving with heavy limbs. Eva went into the luxurious marble bathroom to smooth her hair and tidy her makeup while Andrew sat disconsolately on the bed. Life was so much harder to direct. He had no script and no idea what to do next. He waited for Eva to come out, waited for her to tell him what would happen next. He knew what would happen next when he saw her face. It had lost the dreamy, post-coital glow and was drawn tight. What they had experienced was the brief flicker and flare of a love long since extinguished, there was nothing left for them to build a life upon. She walked over to the bed and placed a gentle hand against his cheek which he leant into for a brief moment before she took it away and walked out of the room. She pressed the button for the lift and waited quietly until it went 'bing,' then she walked in and watched the door swish shut. Only now could she let herself cry and her face crumpled as she fought back the sobs. People turned to look at her as she got out of the lift in the foyer, but she was oblivious and stumbled past them to get out into the night air which cooled the tears on her cheeks until only sticky salt tracks were left. She looked left and right, waiting for a break in the traffic, then took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and stepped forwards.