I write short stories to practice my writing for a longer project. I really appreciate comments, suggestions and corrections. Thank you for reading!
# ~~~ A Cello Fantasy ~~~
Dear journal,
You know my deepest desires and secrets, but what I am about to tell you will undoubtedly surprise you. I am even surprised at myself for being so daring in satisfying my sexual appetites.
I have spent the better part of the day reading and studying old poems. You know as well as me that I cannot live without them. Poetry is my refuge, a sacred space to elope the pedestrian reality of my life. My mom could never lose an opportunity to serve me one of her famous admonitions against the “peril of reading”. By that, she meant books could prevent me from living a full life, which for her meant appearing well adjusted in society.
She decided that we were to go out tonight, just the two of us, to a concert at the philharmonic hall. I cannot say I am particularly fond of either classical music or concerts in general, but my mom loved to dress up like she was some kind of aristocratic dame and greet acquaintances as long-time friends.
Before we went, she came into my room to make sure I was going to wear something proper. She suggested a blue floral dress, I negotiated for something more wintery: a long pink skirt and white turtleneck. My mom wanted to make me one of the clichéd Western make up she always liked. I don’t think it suits my Asian face, at all; so, I opted for a more natural look. I added a little winged eyeliner to make it look a bit bolder. I found that gave a more winsome and playful air.
When we arrived at the concert, the ambience was surprisingly animated, with guests mingling and chatting in the corridors. I was so happy when the bell rang to announce the imminent start of the concert to get away from all the triteness of those conversations.
The concert was featuring a young cellist from China, whose virtuosity and talent were applauded around the world. Well, at least that is what the program said. When he came on stage, it was neither his virtuosity nor his talent that took me aback, but his looks.
He was tall and slender, yet very muscular. He was wearing casual clothes, in contrast to most of the audience and the orchestra: a tight tee-shirt through which the contour of his muscles was perceivable, slightly scratched jeans, and a pair of oversized black glasses. A classy scarf completed his look. It is so rare to see someone with such an improbable – yet perfect – sense of style.
I was barely able to listen to his music, he seemed to shine in the dimmed light of the theatre. His bow dancing on the instrument, his other hand applying strong, confident, precise, and vibrant pressure on the strings. His facial expression kept changing with the music; sometimes looking up, divinely inspired, sometimes looking down in a serious frown.
I never thought music could look so sensual. I soon felt almost uncomfortable looking at this beautiful man making love to his cello under the gaze of such a large crowd. I was looking so intensely at him that the rest of the orchestra vanished from my vision. There was only him, sitting in the limelight, dust unsettled by his brusque movements. Soon my imagination substituted the cello with my body. Oh, how I longed for his touch! I imagined myself completely abandoned in his arms. With every long vibrato, he would stimulate my clitoris. With every short rhythmic bow movement, his penis would get deeper and deeper in me.
I think I forgot to breathe, or blink; well in any case I almost passed out thinking about this. I needed to get out of this room to regain some countenance. I whispered to my mom that I was feeling ill, and quickly left for the bathroom.
I walked fast in the marbled corridors, each step echoing in the empty space. I reached the lady’s room situated in the basement. It was not as fancy as the rest of the building, although it was clean. I looked at myself in the mirror. My cheeks were red and I felt like I was running a fever. I realized those clothes were not that flattering. In fact, I looked flatter than ever wearing this. I wished I had worn something less ingenuous… I tried to replace my boobs so I would look a bit sexier. Perhaps he would glance at me during the intermission?
I took my hairbrush out of my handbag, hoping to make my hair behave. Looking at it, an idea came to my mind. I was way too aroused to go back to the concert like this, so why not get myself off in the meantime? After all, I was completely alone down here.
My hands became sweaty and I felt very cold from all the excitement. I went into a stall. My clothes felt so restrictive like I was burning inside them… I thought about a poem I read that same morning, Dunne, speaking to his mistress was telling her “as souls unbodied, bodies uncloth’d must be, To taste whole joys”. I decided to get naked, completely. After making sure the door was locked, I took off my turtleneck, my shoes, my skirt.
I was standing there in the small cabin, slightly out of breath, freezing and burning at the same time. I felt my nipples harden under my bralette as I was feeling my breasts, imagining it was the cellist’s powerful hands on my body. I could still hear him play from the hall, his music making my whole self crave more touching.
What followed happened very quickly. I got out of my bralette and my panties. Finally, “uncloth’d” I was. I pressed my forehead against the door and grabbed the top for more stability. My right hand found my pussy, which had gotten very wet with all this built-up tension. I had no time for slow exploration like I usually do in my room at night. I wanted the itch gone, I wanted to get it over with. I wanted him taking me passionately against that bathroom door.
The hairbrush wasn’t far, I thought, so I searched for it hastily in my bag. When I found it, I quickly got back in position. I was definitely not used to penetration. In general, I prefer more external stimulation. Some fingers do feel good inside from time to time. But today, I wanted more. Soon, my body was undulating under the rhythmic pulsation of the conjoined movements of the music and my brush handle.
“Plough then, man of my heart”, I muttered to myself, quoting some salacious Babylonian hymn for a strange ceremony. I felt as the Goddess Inanna must have felt, standing there in the nude, more beautiful than ever, telling the king to plough her “open field”. Yes, I was as such a goddess: “she wants the bed, she wants it”. I wanted it, surely, more than anything. “I want you my king, your bough raised, you belong in this house”, I continued reciting as my makeshift toy was frantically going in and out of me.
Soon the ecstasy came to me in successive waves, the first one almost sent me to the ground as my knees weakened. The second hit me as I tried to regain my balance. The brush was still inside me and it hit the right spot, instantly sending shivers all around my body.
I heard a buzzing sound from far away. I realized it was people clapping after the first part of the concert. “Shit”, I need to get dressed before people arrive. My clothes finally on, right before the bathroom got overtaken by all the other concertgoers, I went out. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My face was completely flushed, my hair more dishevelled than ever. “I’ll tell mom I was sick”, I thought to myself. I laughed, realizing my mother would never suspect what her guileless daughter was doing just minutes before.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/mtq43k/confession_2_a_cello_fantasy_19f_masturbation