Message-ID: <14410eli$9808151845@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: jellybean101@my-dejanews.com Subject: NOBODY CRIED FOR BACH by Rythmic Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <6qjhdr$jo7$1@nnrp1.dejanews.com> NOBODY CRIED FOR BACH by Rythmic Copyright by Rythmic, 1998. _____Part 1 - Prelude_____ On a chill December morning, a young red haired woman strolled out through the hotel lobby with a satchel and a long black case slung over her shoulder. As she trudged on the powdery snow towards a bus stop, she shuffled through some forwarded mail which had been left at the front desk for Yvette Gillen. Recognizing the name on one of the return addresses, Yvette stopped in her tracks, and stood there, staring at the envelope with a blank gaze. Then, the woman let the envelope fall to the ground and continued towards the bus stop. The number four bus came around the corner, as punctual as it had been four years ago, when she rode it as a college student. The bus pulled to a halt in front of her, but she paused to look back at the spot where she had dropped the piece of mail. Yvette turned around and retraced her steps, while the driver closed the hydraulic doors with a shrug and stepped on the gas. Yvette found the envelope, covered but undamaged by the dry snow. She dusted it off with her gloves and walked into a nearby cafe. Within the toasty confines of the cafe, Yvette set her instrument case on a table and opened it to warm up her viola, a larger version of the violin. Overhead lights shined off of the polished wood in a deep, resonating hue, and covering the strings was an orange cloth, stained and worn with time. "Say, aren't you Miss Gillen, the famous soloist they hired to play at the special Christmas concert downtown?" asked a waiter who stopped at her table. "Yes, I am, but I wouldn't say that I'm famous," said Yvette in surprise The waiter continued, "Oh yeah, my nephew's a real fan! He plays in the orchestra, and he gave some tickets and pamphlets to the whole family as a gift." "Well, I know your family will enjoy the concert - there'll be some really fun music and special effects." Yvette smiled. "But in the meantime, how about a cup of hot chocolate so I can warm my poor fingers." "Back in a flash!" said the waiter, and ambled off towards the kitchen. Yvette pulled her gloves off, and then opened the envelope with the name "Laurel D." printed across the top. She slowly pulled out two sheets of thick stationary, on which someone had written in distinct, flowing cursive... _____Part 2 - Allemande _____ My dearest friend Yvette, I pray that you do not discard my letter, even as you recognize my handwriting now. Should you cast this paper to the floor and walk away, I beg you to read at least the following line... and know that I am sorry. I am so sorry for overstepping the bounds, for the betrayal of a rare bond now irreparable. We may never meet again, but the weight of my guilt lessens with the thought that you have seen these words... I can barely read my own writing in the dimness of the recital hall, while I huddle in a goose feather jacket among the empty seats. This is the same recital hall, my dear, where you and I once moved the audience to tears, where the beauty of our music melded into one voice with a smoldering ardor that defied the blizzards howling outside. Someone on stage is masterfully rehearsing Suite No. 2 on the cello... I think it is Professor Wayans, preparing for tonight's Bach Festival. Bach can be so many emotions in his simple complexity, but the only thing I feel as I hear him played in this room is the bitterness of a love revealed too eagerly, and too late. [Yvette dug out a walkman and a cassette from her satchel. After positioning the earphones on her head, she checked for the label "Pablo Casals" before sliding in the cassette, then continued reading as Bach reverberated in her ears.] Our last night still burns in my mind. It is a knife I cannot remove from my heart, though I relive it constantly.... Two months before graduation, I was in my usual practice room, working on my senior programme. Do you remember how you barged into my room and how I swore at you for disrupting me? Then, I saw the tears pouring from your eyes, and I felt so bad for yelling, Yvette. I have to admit, you're at your most irresistible during those mercurial mood swings. When you grow agitated, your pale cheeks take on a slight rosiness to match your auburn tresses; when you cry, as you did so easily during a fervent performance (I loved you for that) or after one of our especially intense practice sessions, your eyes redden slightly and puff up. I suppose you've realized by now... those times I cuddled you on my bed as a confidante and wiped your tears away during one of your bohemian depressions... they were not without the guilty pleasure of cradling such beauty as was evoked by your misery. When I saw you crying that night I almost dropped my violin to embrace you and comfort you. I wanted to cling to you, to taste the flush of your melancholy, to tell you it would be alright and that I loved you. Instead, I stood there like a fool and asked what had happened, while you so obviously needed a friend's solace without words. But I was stupid then, and if I met you again I would wrap my arms so tightly around you they would need crowbars to pry us apart. In a voice wracked by sobbing, you told me how Dr. Kzotsky had assigned Bach's Suite Number Two as your competition piece for the Bach Festival scholarship, and how you had pleaded with him after one look at the music to assign you something more technical for your finale at La Conservatoire. The two of you had argued for almost twenty minutes: he insisted that you needed to prove your musical depth, but you called the suite a "meaningless sequence of simple notes leading nowhere." Dr. Kzotsky then threatened to withdraw your name from the competition, and you stormed out of his office, slamming the door shut without even picking up your viola. I've never seen anybody angry enough to forget a ten thousand dollar instrument and drive off. We chose a life of self-expression, I know, but why did you have to be so temperamental sometimes? Maybe that's why I loved you. _____Part 3 - Courante _____ By the time you finished your story, you were bawling, so I put the violin down and then you did put your head on my shoulder and cry away into my dark brown hair. Your face felt wet against my neck. At that moment, something crumbled inside of me. I couldn't hide it much longer. When I cast around for something with which to dry your eyes, all I saw was the rag in my violin case. [Tenderly, Yvette lifted the orange fabric off of her viola, and held it to her nose. Its rich aroma of polish, varnish, and sweat brought nostalgic tears to her eyes. Yes, admittedly, she cried too often, but she didn't see anything wrong with that.] I was dabbing the edges of your eyes, and when I looked up into those shining green irises, I could hardly breathe. Couldn't you see? Couldn't you read my face? Oh, Yvette! After all the time we'd spent together, couldn't you tell I loved you? There was nothing I wouldn't do for you. Even though we were competitors, I unlocked the closet without a second thought and withdrew my own viola and a copy of the Six Suites. "Yvette," I said, "You know, maybe Kzotsky was onto something. I mean, the Bach Suites are pretty straightforward pieces, but they're always telling us the hardest ones are the simplest ones." "You... you bitch! I can't believe what I'm hearing, Laurel! You're taking sides with Dr. Kzotsky?" you exclaimed. "What kind of friend are you? "Look, we both know you need this scholarship if you're going to study at the Institute next year, and I just think that maybe you might feel differently after you've heard the music. It's really not that bad. Just give it a chance, okay?" "It's not like he left me with any other choices," you sighed. I laid the book on top of the grand piano and opened it to the seventh page. I raised the viola to my shoulder and posed with the bow. Inhaling deeply, I brought the horsehair crashing down across the strings, and that was the first time you heard those clean, vibrant notes. While I demonstrated the prelude, I recited a lecture given to me such a long time ago: "When you play the solo Suites, you must be willing to bare yourself to inspection, because there is no accompaniment to hide your mistakes, no chords or vibrato to mask a badly played note. Just you, your audience, and the plainest of melodies. In the hands of a beginner, it sounds like one bland phrase after another, but the difficulty lies in finding and revealing Bach's underlying tension. Emphasize the hidden melody within the melody with every breath, and create conflict out of that handful of significant notes. Make it joyful, tormented, meditative, or humorous. There are so many ways..." You nodded at my words, hearing a glimmer of the patterns in my melody, but I had more than just music in mind. I had realized that this was our last year together, and that I would lose my chance then and forever if I didn't act. _____Part 4 - Sarabande _____ "Yvette, why don't you stand behind me and lay your right arm over mine. That way, you'll appreciate the weight of the notes and how I shape the phrasing with my bow." Hesitantly, you approached from behind and loosely clasped my right wrist with your fingers. You didn't know it, but I shivered at the feathery pulse of your breath on the back of my neck. It was everything I could do to resist leaning back into you, thawing into your trusting innocence. I resumed the music with exaggerated movements of the bow to demonstrate the various themes, and each time my right arm arched to draw the bow across the lower strings, I tugged you a little closer. Nearer and nearer I drew you, until you were draped across my shoulders, looking over me at the pages in rapt attention, while your hand unconsciously wrapped around my waist for balance, just below the swell of my chest. I felt your breasts burning into my spine, your tip-toed legs molded onto the back of my thighs, and I murmured, "Yvette, breath with me, feel the rising and falling... yes, inhale...huhhhhh... now exhale.... ahhhhhhh. Yes, just follow the second melody!" Although I was supposedly exaggerating the music to illustrate Bach's buried turmoil, I tell you now that the passionate melody you heard was a typhoon of emotions escaping from a widening crack in the barriers of my own heart. Fingers entwined with fingers, heart against heart, we rode the suite's movements together, with straining muscles in unison, past the prelude, the allemande, and the courante. When I felt your eyelashes blink wetly against my cheek with a teardrop, I knew you understood. By the time we reached the slow intensity of the sarabande, I was trembling, fighting for control over myself and the instrument. The bow skittered along the strings, and I finally stopped before the last three movements. "Why'd you stop, Laurel?" you asked, but I didn't reply. With your body still wrapped around me like a living cloak, I placed the instrument onto top of the piano and wrapped your bow arm around my waist. We stood there in silence, while you contemplated the echoing strains of music in your head. On the other hand, I felt light-headed from the mingling of our natural scents, wafting off the sweat of our exertions. Did you feel my heart pounding, Yvette? Could you smell the scorched musk of my excitement? You weren't expecting me to break the rules... As I swivelled my head back to face you, our cheeks brushed before my lips met yours, and you tried to pull away with surprised eyes. I clasped your arms tightly against me to imprison you in our first kiss; my teeth latched on your lower lip and I felt a shiver run through your body. Yes, you tried to break away, but I wouldn't let you twist out of my grasp... Do you still regret it, sweet Yvette... should I have released you? Still locked onto your mouth, I stepped backwards, trapping you against a tall bookshelf. You were still feebly struggling to escape my grip, but the relentless siege of my tongue and lips had you flustered, didn't it? When I had you trapped between the shelves and my body, your clenched jaws finally opened for me, and our tongues strived to own your mouth. You moaned into me, but I don't know if it was out of anger or confusion. I led your right hand up under my blouse to cup my bosom, paralyzing your fingers with the soft weight of those globes. Gripping your other wrist, I pushed our hands inexorably beneath the denim, ever so slowly towards the yearning between my legs and ignoring your muffled sobs of protest. I remember thinking that I would finally make you know and recognize the simmering desire with which your presence torments me. "Yvette, this is how much I love you," I whispered. "Laurel," you pleaded, "we can't do this! Please, oh please, not like this... I'll never forgive you if you don't let go this very instant! Laurel? Please? You know I can't... I can't fight you..." I merely whimpered as I clutched you against my most private places, as I had touched myself so many times with thoughts of you in my head, only this time, it was your hands I was using. I ground my rump into your lap, and felt your lips begin to relax against mine. At some point, some point, you must have realized the hopelessness of your situation. I poured all my passion into your lips, wagering that you wouldn't be able to restrain your own body's natural reactions. Gradually, our embrace grew more ardent, and fueled by the sensations of our intimacy, your reluctance flared into smoldering lust. Inside the suffocating furnace of my tight jeans, I felt your fingers glide through my hair, and I mewled as they closed reflexively over my pouting lips. You spread me open with your fingers, while we nuzzled each other. I must have groaned and squirmed like such a harlot as you played across the outer folds of my moist flower with a virtuoso's deftness. Now I wonder if your blithe innocence was just a mask, if you had been someone else before we ever met, because I suddenly found myself longer the captor, but the captured instead. Suddenly, I was a marionette writhing at the mercy of your manipulations, creaming onto your fingers as you conducted the craving blaze of my body towards higher and higher notes tension of ecstacy. Our lips separated when I became too weak from pleasure to even stand upright, and when my knees buckled, we slid down to the floor, still propped up against the bookshelf. Your hands unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans, and you lowered them to my ankles with a tug, dragging the panties halfway down as well. I moaned at the chill of open air on my damp skin, and leaned back onto your knees with splayed thighs. I had never felt so debauched in my life, with garments and undergarments tangled around my feet, limbs brazenly spread for all the world to see my glistening sex, and your breasts squashed against my spine like two fleshy pillows. While my head lolled listlessly to one side, I massaged my nipples, and thrust one out to feel the ticklish caress of your breath over my shoulder. Reaching from behind, your hands spread my legs wider and cupped the tuft of silky brown hair. Two dextrous fingers held my slick lips open, while a third entered, teasingly rubbing my inner walls until it reached the warm pool of juices. There, you swirled and drew the oils out to coat my clenched well. I bucked against your hands and cried out, but you removed your finger and held it up in front of our eyes. Your words burned into my mind, and I'll never forget the wounded, weeping voice that asked, "Is this what you wanted, Laurel? All those times we held each other, while I confessed my deepest fears and secrets, you were just using me to get some play, to make yourself wet... you horrible slut!" You never gave me the chance to answer, Yvette! I wanted to tell you that our friendship was real, that my feelings for you were the purest emotions I had ever felt! But you shoved your finger into my mouth, and rolled it around so that I could taste the incriminating fragrance of my lust, while your other hand mashed against my hard little nub. I fought so hard to pull your finger out of my mouth so I could deny your accusations, but your fury had made you too strong. I thrashed and moaned, trying to free myself... then you thrust two slender fingers deep into my pumping crotch, curling them inwards to rub vigorously along the upper walls deep inside with firm strokes. Finally, I freed your finger from my mouth using both hands, and gasped, "Please, Yvette, don't do this to me... I don't want this anymore, okay? Just let me explain! I didn't mean this to happen! Just stop for a second and listen, I can explain everything..." However, your fingers continued lunging at me without mercy. I dug my heels into the carpet and arched backwards, pinning you against the bookshelf in agonizing rapture, as your thumb bore down hard onto my hidden nub. I didn't want to come, Yvette, I didn't want to complete the deed which would consummate my betrayal of our friendship; but then, you inserted a third finger, and your bow hand began to ravage my sex in a quivering blur. In the recesses of my mind, I knew I had lost you forever. When you angrily bit down into the tense flesh at nape of my neck, I finally relinquished control of my convulsing body. I came violently and loudly, with regretful tears streaming down my cheeks. You wouldn't let up, wouldn't let my guilt and ecstasy die away, until I was prying away at your hands, and begging incoherently in your ear. It must have gone on for a full minute, the most electrifying single minute of my life, when tidal pleasure flooded my mind in waves. There is also nothing I wish more than to erase that moment in which you looked down onto my frenzied visage and witnessed the bare, uninhibited carnality that had severed the most beautiful bond I have ever known with another. When the quakes subsided, you pulled me to my feet, yanked my panties up and buttoned my jeans without a word. I'll never forget the coldness in your face, as you packed my music and viola and deposited them outside the practice room. "Laurel," you said with a trembling voice, "I hope you got what you want, and that you're hurting as much as I am. I don't know if I'll ever want to speak to you again, but you can leave your viola and the book with me until the competition... that's the least you could do for me right now." I nodded numbly, picked up my things, and walked out on shaky legs. The door closed behind me with a soft click, but through it I heard the first phrases of the prelude. Many weeks later, I caught your recital from backstage. I searched for you afterwards, but all I found was my instrument, its case tucked behind the curtains. Even though years have passed, I want to congratulate you on your winning performance, and say that I have not heard an equally gut-wrenching interpretation ever since. I know you have made a name for yourself in the professional circles, but should you ever drop by our old alma mater, look on the faculty list for my room number, and visit an old friend who still misses you. My door will always be open and waiting... In love and friendship, Laurel D. ____Epilogue - Menuetto and Gigue _____ Yvette stared down at the signature with reddening eyes. A teardrop splashed onto it, diffusing the ink into blue spider webs. She latched the viola case shut, left the cafe with it slung over her shoulders again. This time, a bus was loading a line of passengers, and she joined them in the crowded vehicle. She couldn't contain her tears, but in this climate, her sniffling could easily be contributed to a bad cold. Several minutes later, she pulled the cord and stepped off of the bus in front of some towering brick structures. Yvette took in the snow-covered campus with shining eyes, and trudged down the walkway towards the buildings. ***************************************************************************** Copyright by Rythmic, 8/3/98, jellybean101@my-dejanews.com All rights reserved. Not to be reproduced without the express written permission from the author. A free dose of quality from Goodshit Productions. Stay tuned. -----== Posted via Deja News, The Leader in Internet Discussion ==----- http://www.dejanews.com/rg_mkgrp.xp Create Your Own Free Member Forum -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----