The fugue ground to its close, the sound of the two cellos winding around each other in the small apartment.
“That's good,” said Peter. “We've got that one down. Just a little more work and I think it'll be downright orgasmic.” He put his bow on the floor and passed a knowing, caressing hand over the curves and planes of his cello before putting it next to the bow.
He always did that, thought Jane. He had said so many times - usually to the new female cellists in the orchestra, usually with the intention of getting into their pants - that the cello was like a woman. It was shaped like a woman, with a woman's temperament. You had to treat it right, he said to these wide-eyed newcomers, or it wouldn't respond.
Peter looked at her, his face flushed from the vigorous playing. He came over and stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders.
“Play,” he said.
She played something he didn't know. His hands moved over her body as she moved the bow. He found her breasts, caressing the nipples into hardness, moving to her waist, unzipping her skirt. The cello groaned into silence and sagged to one side as he dipped into her pussy and circled her clit until she came, shivering in his arms, never quite losing hold of the instrument.
They lay together, afterwards. “What was that you were playing?” he asked, curiously. “It was so passionate. Beautiful.”
She'd planned to tell him the next day, in a note left on the table. “Something I've been practicing with someone else,” she said.
He gathered up his clothes without looking at her. He ground her rosin into the carpet with his heel as he left.