Page 37 of Crescendo

“It’s an instrument you play sitting down,” I said, as if that explained why I was just about shoving her onto the couch.

“Ah—right,” she said, as if I’d explained anything.

I turned, picking up the cello by the door, and I knelt in front of her, one hand on the endpin. With me kneeling on the floor in front of where Ella was sitting, she looked wide-eyed down at me, and I saw her swallow, before I showed her the endpin. “We adjust this to the right height,” I said.

“Right, okay.” She was not looking at the cello. I didn’t want her to.

“Hold the end,” I said, tilting the fretboard for her to take it, and when she did, I placed my hands on her knees, pressing lightly to open them.

“Oh—Lydia—”

“You hold it between your legs,” I said. She blushed hard, one hand over her mouth, as she nodded, letting me guide her legs open wider.

And wasn’t that a perfect sight? Ella looked absolutely perfect from this angle. I gave myself just a second longer than needed to appreciate the sight before I moved the base of the cello, positioning it between her legs, and I adjusted the tilt of the body and where it met her thighs, allowing myself a little brush here and there on her thighs as I did. I could feel her breathing coming quicker, shallower, wide eyes watching me raptly the whole time.

I adjusted the endpin length, making sure it sat at the right height, and once I was sure it did, I stopped, looking Ella over.

“You’re going to slouch in that posture,” I said.

“Like this?” She sat up taller, and I moved closer to her, moving the cello out from between her legs again, and she let out a small gasp when I put my hands on her hips, pulling her towards me. “Oh—god—”

“Sit close to the front of the seat. It’ll naturally give you an active posture.”

“Lydia,” she breathed, a quiet plea, her face flushed hot as she grasped a hand over her mouth. I took my time adjustingher posture—moving her legs, making sure her feet were planted flatly, at the right angle, and that she had her legs open wide enough, before I moved the cello back between her legs and sat on the couch next to her, adjusting the positioning once I was there andaccidentallybrushing a little touch along the top of her thigh as I did. The little movements in her hips, the tiny quiver in her body, said she was enjoying this as much as I was, which was absolutely lovely to see.

I laid three fingers on the center of her collar, tracing slowly down until I met her sternum, and I said, “Here. Let the cello body rest against your sternum, right here. Not too hard. Just a light touch.”

She obeyed wordlessly, shifting the cello to rest against her. Her breasts were just alittleon the big side for it to rest neatly against her sternum. Shame.

“Don’t slouch,” I said, putting my hand on her back, guiding her into an elegantly raised posture. “You want to curve back a little bit… with the shape of the cello… a little curve right along here,” I breathed, tracing my fingertips slowly up the center of her back. She wasn’t even trying to pretend anymore that she wasn’t turned on, arching her back at the touch and gripping the fingerboard tightly, breathing hard, and she let me adjust her shoulders too before I stood up, handing her the bow.

And—Jesus Christ, the look she gave me. She looked outraged, indignant, while burning red and visibly breathing hard, like she was an inch away from demanding I get back on the couch and put my hands back on her body. As if I hadn’t already been planning it.

“Take the bow,” I said.

“Lydia,” she pleaded. I held it out to her.

“Take the bow, Ella.”

The more commanding tone worked. She gulped, taking the bow, and I adjusted her hold before I let go.

“Hold it against the strings.”

She did as I asked. Her posture was almost right. Still needed a little correcting, thankfully. I slid onto the couch, and without hesitating a beat, I shifted myself behind her on the seat, pressing my front against her back, my legs wide around her, and I put my arms on hers. She arched against me with a quiet gasp, her fingertips clenching tighter into the fingerboard and the bow, and I slid my hands down to hold hers, adjusting her positioning, and I whispered in her ear.

“That’s perfect, Ella. Just like that.”

“Oh, god, Lydia. Please…”

I slipped my hand up along hers to press her index finger down onto a string, and I held her other hand on the bow, guiding it to draw across the string. She was so shaky that the sound came out wobbly, and I let out a low murmur in her ear.

“You’re playing. Try to relax…”

“I-I can’t.”

I bit my lip into a smile. “Then instead of trying to relax, try to… hand all control over to me. And just observe what I have you do.”

“Oh my god.” But it worked, what do you know—she softened her body, resting her head back against my collar as her arms relaxed, and this time, when I shifted to a different note, she let me do as I liked, pulling out a simple but beautiful long A2, low and haunting, resonating through my body and, from the way her chest rose and fell against the cello body, I think hers too.

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