Page 19 of Crescendo

I put my hands on her shoulders and walked her backwards, with a nervous little giggle that broke free from her lips as she tried not to fall backwards, until I sat her down on the couch, my hands on her shoulders, looking at where she stared up at me with those wide eyes.

“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 adjusting her 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 and accidentally brushing 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 a little on 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.

“Good,” I whispered. “You’re doing wonderfully. Don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” she breathed, and didn’t I like to hear that?

I guided her through the notes, one after the other, showing her through a melody—a motif she’d enjoyed playing yesterday during our practice session—and after a minute, I let go of her hands, letting her repeat the melody herself.

Shaky. But she was good. A quick study who knew what she was doing, once she got out of her way.

If this helped her get out of her way, I was happy to be of assistance.

I rested my face against the top of her head, gliding my hands slowly up her arms, over her shoulders, and down her sides.

I was afraid it would throw her off, but if anything, it emboldened her, made her relax—took her mind off the self-doubt—and her notes came out softer, warmer, smoother.

I slipped my hands to her hips, just above the band of her pants, and after a second holding her there like that, I dared to put one finger under her shirt on each side, touching soft skin.

She nodded against me, not stopping the music for a second, and I guess no surprise that turned me on.

I added one finger at a time up under her shirt until I had my hands on her soft skin, holding the gentle curve of her waist.

And she kept playing. Breathed hard, nodding me on, but she kept going, and if anything, the notes sounded better the further I went. I wondered how long she would keep playing.

I dipped two fingertips under the band of her pants on either side, just the tiniest bit, and she whispered my name, a silent plea. Slowly, I dragged one hand towards the center, feeling over the button of her pants, and of course—of course—that was the timing for the doorbell to ring again.

“Fuck off,” Ella groaned, letting her arm drop, the bow tip touching the floor. I found myself thinking the same thing, but—then again, maybe it was a good thing. Was I not supposed to be doing this?

I needed to talk to a mature adult. I needed to talk to Melinda and have her tell me not to do this with Ella.

I gave Ella’s hips a squeeze before I slid out from behind her, standing up. “Well, we can’t leave them waiting,” I said. “We must have stopped checking our phones again and gotten our friends worried.”

“Really, Lydia?” she said, giving me a look somewhere between wanting to kiss me and wanting to murder me.

“Take some break time from practice to let the lessons set in. Remember to keep thinking about what you’ve learned.”

She swallowed, hard, looking away, her blush deepening, a hand over her face. “Ah…”

She’d be thinking plenty about what she’d learned. Such a good student.