Bach & Elgar's Happy Ending

Thanks for the feedback about classical music from my story, Byrd & the Bees. With your encouragement I've tried another nerdy music-themed tale. Please enjoy! A comment or a vote is more than welcome, as always.

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Great Scott woman, you have God's greatest gift to Man between your legs, and all you can do is scratch it!

These words were allegedly shouted in the middle of rehearsal by Sir Thomas Beecham, to a young lady in a festival orchestra (not a regular one), who was leading the cellos.

Is it true? Who knows; conductors pick up stories as they go along, a bit like medals or stickers on caravans. Beecham said a few provocative things, and he was rich so he could say what he liked. So, maybe it is true.

I remember as I started to learn the cello, I didn't get the joke. I remember the moment I did, the exact time...

Middle high school, Practice Room 4, one Spring afternoon. I was practising after school, a new, quite challenging piece. My teacher thought I had promise, so she had given me extra work. When she first brought it up it had felt like a punishment for being good, which didn't make me happy. In fairness to her, she also dropped a couple of easy pieces and had not gone hard on the orchestra parts, for the section I was supposed to be leading.

It was Spring. There was something in the air. Here in Australia, one of the first plants to come out for the warmer weather is the Golden Wattle (our national flower). Any piece of native bushland will have bushes or small trees of wattle. As Spring approaches, all at once, the dark green bushland sprouts thousands of bright yellow pom-poms, only thumbnail-sized, but with so many the countryside looks splashed with yellow paint. There's a creamy caramel sort of scent in the air. It's quite unmistakeable. It lifts your mood.

The girls at school had had their moods lifted, as they chatted incessantly. The talk was even more about boys; who was nice, who not so much, who were the creeps. Of course, the talk turned about what they wanted (only one thing), what that was like, it's painful/boring/a necessary evil to keep them happy, etc. I knew the mechanics of "doing it" but it had never seemed remotely attractive to me, and was full of risk it seemed. If the word "intercourse" wasn't enough to put you off, monthly period pains (mine weren't too bad thankfully) just seemed to make the whole sex thing a kind of cruel joke. And no one had shown me much interest. I only ever half-listened in.

But the talk about boys, the new warmth and the scent of wattle in the air, the new piece, they all came together that afternoon.

The piece was Bach's 1st Cello Suite. My teacher played it with her whole body, as the exquisite music dipped low then high, then danced at the top of the range while the deep notes supported the melody. I fell in love with it at first sight. But Bach is deceptive. It took hours and hours to get the big jumping arpeggios sounding even close to decent. I struggled.

So there I was, in Practice Room 4, with a strange sense of expectancy after the school day. a gust of pollen-laden air came over me just as I closed the door. I thought briefly of boys and the one thing on their minds.

Bach was smiling. The piece soared. My cello and I were one, almost singing to each other as my fingers danced over the heavy strings. I could hear tiny overtones ringing high above the notes I played. I was going so well I felt tears coming as I leant forward, playing with my whole body. My panties seemed to catch something in my skirt or somewhere.

I felt a wonderful hot tingling sensation, starting from my pussy but washing over my whole body. I remember my eyes widening, a warm flush on my face, my fingers and the bow still producing the beautiful music. I couldn't stop playing as erotic feelings shimmered in me. I rolled my hips as I played; it became part of the performance.

I've had a good vibrato technique from early on, rolling my fingertips on the strings for a sweeter sound, but now my legs were joining in. Perhaps it should be mentioned here that a cello is played sitting on the edge of your seat with your legs wide apart. I had an awareness of my body opened up and willing.

(To this day I can not hear any of the Cello Suites without recalling that discovery of unity of physical sense and spirit and joy.)

The music ended with its bright flourish and I was left panting. I carefully put the cello down and turned to the wall. Like in many music rooms there was a long mirror there, for checking posture and technique.

In the mirror I saw my legs, still wide apart. The school skirt had ridden up, as it sometimes does when playing. I slid it up to show myself my pale blue panties. One hand slid up my thigh into my special place. I watched the fingers stroke the gusset and I felt the warmth and sense of dampness. my pussy sent more tingles through me. It seemed to urge the fingers on and in, stroking up, down and separating my labia through the cotton, caressing my inner thighs. I gulped.

Hurriedly I pulled off the panties and stuffed them into my schoolbag. I couldn't hear any sound of people nearby, so I blindly hoped no one would disturb me. I had to finish.

In the mirror I watched my fingers play in my pubic hair. They pushed up and down the sides of my slit - I noticed my labia getting larger and softer. A sweet smell was coming out. I opened my vulva wide and was a bit surprised at how pink it had all become. But it kept urging me on. My fingertips found the entrance to my vagina.

One finger went in; it brought my moisture up to rub over my clitoris. Over and over, as my breath shortened. Then two fingers, running either side of my little white button. I think it was bobbing slightly.

Something animal took over. I could only watch as two fingers or three pushed into me and smeared my fluids over my hairs, my labia, my clit. My vagina stretched then sucked. I felt painful twinges tumbling with flashes of ecstasy. I saw ripples in the flesh on my thighs. It all condensed into a simple action of two fingers in and out of my hole then frantically brushing my clit. I couldn't breathe for whole stretches.

My body went rigid. My fingers moved too fast to make out. Then a great "AAAaaah!" escaped me as I came with shudders throughout my body. I leant back on the chair and noticed how dark-pink my vulva was. My smell changed. I could feel the heat in my face. Warmth flowed through me as I calmed down, and came down.

My mind was reeling in confusion. Relief and a softness from the best orgasm I'd ever had (out of not many I should say); the joy of the music was still there with my inspired playing; guilt at fingering myself in a school practice room (but it was part of the playing!); tiny shudders and twinges in my thighs and between them.

I noticed on one of my fingers a smear of blood. Had I torn my own hymen? That might have been the stinging I felt. A strange kind of shame rose up in me, choking me. Slut slut slut slut, a vicious whisper started in my head. I covered my face with my hands - but then I could smell my cum. In confusion I put the tackiest hand down and sat, hunched over, desolate.

For what seemed ages, I didn't want to move. I didn't want to see anyone ever again, least of all my family waiting at home for my after-school practice to finish.

The guilt of leaving them wondering finally moved me. I found a tissue and wiped my fingers up. I put my underpants back on, straightened my skirt and fixed up my blouse. I picked up the bow and the cello. I saw myself in the mirror.

I held the cello by the neck. I sat on the edge of the chair with my back nice and straight and rested the beautiful scroll of the cello up near my head. I put the bow on the strings, ready to play. I could play. I could play well, if I practised. I had just played Bach's Cello Suite no. 1, and it had sounded wonderful. That looks so boastful written down, but a musician knows when it was good, or just average. I bowed a long, low note.

Everything changed. I played a few of Bach's arpeggios slowly, carefully, sweetly. As the notes moved up and down I recalled the feeling of playing it so well. My body remembered it. Tears came as I found the joy and the connection of spirit and physical feeling. In the late afternoon light of that little room, I realised the unity of what I had felt. And I forgave myself.

As for Sir Thomas Beecham, I now understood the joke better. I had a gift between my legs, to use and to share, one day. The gift of music - especially the cello, can I say! - was another one, to use and to share. I also understood that poor cellist's humiliation, as well as a little of Beecham's frustration!

_________

Something was released in me. I was still wracked with teenage insecurities and doubts. I got teased and I didn't call out when I saw others getting served. Boys kept turning up in my thoughts. But I had this truth that I knew absolutely. Music, art, sex, my being, they were all linked. They could combine into something wonderful; like they did that afternoon.

That summer was a long research project. At the pool I studied everyone. Mainly boys (if they had a gift between their legs it wasn't very large), but also girls, men, women, toddlers. The attractive ones were the ones with a rhythm, an ease of movement. I didn't feel attracted to the "hot" bodies if there was no grace. I noticed a lot of people slouched.

I explored myself too. I had many more orgasms, but never matched that amazing one. It was probably best not to go there again, in case I really did my head in...

I found a tsunami of confusing messages on the internet. You should be shaved, or natural. One on one is best, or group sex. Try anal, or never do anal. Eat me, or not. You love sucking him off, or do it to please him. Cum inside me/on my tits/on my face (you just have to be joking with that last one). I saw too many pictures and videos. I found I could tell when someone was faking it - and most of them were. I tried to trust myself. I lurked on a few discussion groups but didn't have the courage to join in.

That was a few years ago. I was lucky enough to get a place in the cello section in a semi-professional orchestra, where I got glimpses of the wonder I felt with Bach. I became familiar with all of the suites. I got to know when the magic was working, but I saved no.1 for very special occasions.

Then we got a new cello in the orchestra. He sat beside me and immediately I found him intriguing. His name was simply Jack. He was very shy at first, and he had a couple of annoying habits, like spinning his cello on its spike. I realised later it was his shyness causing him to do a the silly things. When he relaxed he was easier to get along with, and played better.

He had reddish-brown hair, a bit long and needing a cut. He was fairly thin with long arms and fingers. What was most striking were his long eyelashes over dark brown eyes. It made for a stunning smile, a smile that made me feel a bit ticklish inside. He had a good posture when he played, and he made a good sound. When he was carried away with the music he had a dreamy, trance-like look. When we stopped he sometimes looked slightly confused and startled, as if he'd been caught daydreaming. After he had settled in he was always courteous and polite to me.

One evening he suddenly asked if I'd like a coffee after rehearsal. We were close to performing Beethoven's 9th Symphony, a huge, taxing work. We had been working on the last movement, really playing well. With no choir or soloists there, the conductor had sung all the parts, putting on silly accents and voices. Everyone on the stage was cheerful, even laughing. I felt great, so I said sure, why not.

The relief on his face surprised me. Suddenly I realised the effort he had made to overcome his shyness to "ask me out". I took it as a compliment. Actually it felt very, very nice.

I had a coffee and orange cake. He had a coffee and two cakes, plus a donut and the last serve of lasagne. "Where do you put all that food?" I asked. "In here," he said, pointing to his mouth. I made a face at him and he gave me his stunning smile.

I had been hoping for an early night, but we found ourselves chatting for hours. We had similar tastes in classical and popular music, except I had never heard of Progressive Metal.

"Are you making that up? It's not one of those over-distinctions, like funk-soul and soul-funk?"

"Come up to my place and I'll show you something special!"

The poor boy went white as a sheet, then bright red, when he realised what he'd said. He shook and stammered with embarrassment. He seemed to shrink in his seat.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean... I mean you're welcome... but not to... to just hear my... I've got a big, thing - collection-"

Impulsively I took his hand (before he knocked a plate on the floor). "It's OK. I'm not offended."

"Oh, thanks Lena. Sometimes I think really well, and sometimes I get very tongue-tied. You have some effect on me! Like when you play. I sneak a look over, and it's like you're in a trance. Normally you're so smart and together, and a beautiful sound. But when we're in a long section it's different. Your face goes really soft and gentle and, far away." His thumb was over my hand.

This caught me out. Partly his speaking for longer than I'd ever heard before, partly what he was saying. This was so close to what I saw in him it was disconcerting. I noticed he was looking at me intently. He looked down at our hands, still clasped. The tickling inside me was getting warmer.

The performance was a great success. We played well, the soloists were excellent, especially the baritone, and the choir sound was enormous and hearty. The entire audience gave us a standing ovation. Many choir members were from university choral societies: they regarded the whole experience as a giant party, with rousing songs backstage, drinking and cuddling of everyone. It affected the orchestra too and hugs were shared - even onstage. Jack shyly offered me a hug and we embraced.

Things went slightly strange at orchestra afterwards. We talked more, before and after, occasionally during rehearsals. This was not my habit and I surprised myself with this behaviour. We shared cheeky jokes and comments, and brought each other little treats. We were almost child-like in our simplicity.

Then one evening I was running late. I had showered and changed in a hurry. On the train to rehearsal I could feel my new briefs already starting to irritate me. The short walk to the hall confirmed what I feared: they were extremely uncomfortable. Sitting down was worse. The slightest movement made them chafe me more. It was unbearably distracting, but I could think of only one solution.

In the Ladies' I took them off. I always wore a full skirt so I could put my legs where I liked as I played. I hoped that would cover everything and no one would notice. And it almost worked - only one person did notice.

When I sat down again, Jack stared at me. He was puzzled. I smiled at him and carried on. He kept studying me. Then he started, blushing. He looked away, then at me, then away again. Finally he had to speak.

"Are you, are you, not wearing any... underpants?" he stammered.

I was caught out again, but something made me bolder. "Very good, Sherlock! How did you know?"

"You were fidgeting so much before that I was a bit worried. Then you suddenly stopped. I wondered if it was the chair, till I noticed - no elastic line!"

The skirt showed quite clearly there was no indent round my waist or thigh.

"Well, that's impressive you worked that out so easily. Your reward is... you have to do the same!"

I have no idea what made me say that. Jack wasn't expecting it and it made him blush again. I felt I had the upper hand now.

After the break he sat down again with a huge smirk on his face. I suspected he had actually taken my dare, so I was wondering how to respond, but that was taken care of. When he adjusted his position his eyes popped open. He grimaced with pain, moving forward and back with little gasps. He muttered through his teeth.

"You and your rewards! Now I've caught something in my zip- oww!"

I tried so hard not to giggle. The rest of the rehearsal was not very productive for either of us.

We got on even better after that. We felt a real care for each other, sharing news, highs and lows, almost whatever was in our minds.

Then we shared the most extraordinary thing.

I was arriving for rehearsal, in good time this time, when I saw him sitting in his car, head down. As I approached I could hear music coming out, a frantic orchestral finale. I almost recognised it as I tapped on the glass. He looked up.

Tears were streaming down Jack's face. He wasn't sobbing, just weeping quietly. Then I recognised the music. I hurried round the car and got in the passenger seat.

"That's Elgar, isn't it. His cello concerto." He nodded slightly.

"And that's, Jacqueline du Pré, isn't it." He nodded again.

She was a beautiful cellist, whose career and life was cut horribly short by MS. Her version of Elgar's cello concerto is one of the greatest recordings ever made - of any piece.

"It was on the radio. As I was getting ready." He had trouble speaking. "I've been listening as I've driven here, to the whole thing. I couldn't leave it. I'm sorry, this piece always breaks me up - I must look pretty lame, but I thought of her beautiful playing, and I thought of you-" I was quite moved.

"That's a nice thing to say," I mumbled awkwardly. "But we can't stay in the car park. Let's at least get into the hall."

I helped him get his cello out and led him inside, where I could see he was quite a mess. I took him down a corridor to a smaller room.

"Practice Room 4" read the sign and I almost stopped dead in my tracks. My head whirled with memories as I sat him in the quiet room.

Jack sat down with one hand across his face. Instinctively I came closer and put a hand around his head. He reached out and hugged me close.

His arm went around my hips. His hand came to rest on my full skirt, where my pantie elastic would be, except I wasn't wearing any.

I can't explain why I didn't put any on. It was a silly thing, which I'd only done once or twice before, never knowing why. It was to do with him, of course. I was secretly daring him, urging him to take another step, but he had been too polite.

Now here we were, alone in a room after hearing du Pré's Elgar. What would happen? A thrill ran through me, making my breath shorten. I hoped he wouldn't notice.

There was a pause. Then he brought his other hand up to my waist and gently turned me so I was facing him, just to one side of the chair. He put his head on my hip and hugged me tightly, breathing strongly. I suddenly realised he was breathing my scent, smelling the different intimate odours, of my clothes, my skin, my arousal. I rustled his hair.

He looked up into my face. He was looking for a sign - consent or disapproval. I was in a state of dizziness, just trying to stay standing.

Slowly he slid one hand down my dress to about my knee. Then up again, scrunching some of the fabric. I tried not to shudder. Slowly he went down then up, always looking into my face, asking, almost demanding I watch and be part of it.

He had worked his way to the front of my thighs. He was careful to stay on my legs and not move into my centre. My mind was thinking a thousand things, but my body said yes. More. I could feel my breathing change.

Jack's hand went down to my hem, then up, then down. His hand found its way under my dress and I gave a small gasp. I closed my eyes to his, but then I seemed to feel his roving hand even more.

Gradually, patiently, he moved higher up my thigh. I tried to hide my shivers of desire, but I knew he could sense them. I could sense his progress, sense my heat rising to meet him.