With the concert hall’s stage lights flooding over her sunset colored dredlocks and the ascetic lines of her face hewn in rich tones of rosewood, Zoya was breathtaking. The violin’s bow in her hands stroked the instrument, making it sing. Even beneath the other instruments—cello, harp, flute, piano—I could still hear her. A silken noise of breath and movement, spirit and flesh.
During her solo, my thighs trembled as I watched her fingers slide over the violin’s strings, imagining them on me, inside me. In the sea of dark clothes and pale faces, she stood out in her tuxedo, elegant and ramrod straight in her chair, her mouth hard with concentration. When the show ended, her features softened and became human again.
I’d seen her before. Once, at a party in New York. Back then her hair was shorter and she hadn’t yet made it as far as the Philharmonic. I had been too intimidated by her striking looks to even so much as introduce myself. That night I was content to drift around the room, watching her. And now she was here in my sleepy Florida town, quaking my insides just like she did five years ago.
* * *
After the concert, I left. I walked out of the symphony hall and left my friends behind, pleading an early morning appointment. The truth was that I wanted a moment alone to savor Zoya’s beautiful music that was still singing in my head. It didn’t matter that it was raining and I hadn’t brought a thing to cover myself with. My short Afro wouldn’t wilt in the rain.
* * *
After my friends drove off, I stood on the rain-splashed steps of the symphony hall staring at the misted cityscape, remembering the tilt of Zoya’s head under the house lights, the smiling curve of her mouth when the applause came.
“Are you waiting for someone?”
She appeared around the soaring Roman column, her fingers trailing along its textured surface. When our eyes met, her hand stilled on the marble. She was smiling. Rain fell around her like diamonds, splashing against her tuxedo jacket.
“I saw you in the audience.” She stepped closer, pulling her hair free of its black silk ribbon. The thick mass of dreds spilled down her shoulders and back in a cascade of reds, browns, and golds. She slid the ribbon into her pocket. “I’m Zoya.”
“Rhiannon.” I offered my hand to shake but she kissed it instead, brushing her mouth lightly across my knuckles. A slow, steady pulse began to drum between my thighs.
“So, Rhiannon, what are you doing all alone out here in the rain?” Her voice was low and deep. “Isn’t it dangerous for you to be hanging outside this place so late at night?”
“Not at all. The most dangerous thing that could happen to me around here would be a drive-by flower delivery. Meadowlark is a peaceful town.” I shrugged. “Anyway, the music inside was so perfect, I didn’t want to ruin it by going off somewhere noisy and spoil my afterglow. ”
Zoya chuckled. “You definitely wouldn’t want to do that.”
She was still as charming as ever, just as desirable. Only this time I was the one being watched—my face, my neck, the tightening of my nipples against the red silk blouse in the warm August night. Her eyes searched my face again.
“Would you like to come back into the hall and share a meal with me? To prolong your musical experience?”
Although I’d already eaten dinner barely two hours before, I didn’t have to think about it. My body loosened in response to her words, saying yes for me. “Of course. It would be a pleasure.”
She swept her hand before her, inviting me to walk ahead.
“I don’t know where I’m going,” I said.
“There’s a back door straight ahead and to the left.”
As I walked in front of her I could feel her eyes on me, following the shift of my ass under the black skirt. At the door, we stopped for her to put in an electronic code. Her arm brushed my breast and her scent, of sandalwood and lavender, overwhelmed me. In the cool hallway, she pointed out the small treasures that the symphony hall had on its wood-lined walls. Black-and-white photos of the Alvin Ailey Dance troupe, of Marion Anderson and Maria Tallchief, the Osage ballerina. An antique Stradivarius violin gleamed in the light from its thick glass case mounted high on the wall, beautiful and untouchable.
“There’s an old picture of the Philharmonic somewhere around here too,” she said with a dismissive wave.
The hallway spilled us into a thinning crowd of musicians. Some looked up as Zoya walked past, greeting her with wide smiles and the echo of her name among the clamor of them packing up to leave. I knew that they would be back tomorrow evening for a final performance before leaving Meadowlark for Sarasota and another crowd of impressionable, seducible women. We soon left the crowd behind for another hallway, one that was not as brightly lit, or as impressive, as the first.
“This is it.”
Zoya led me into a small room. It was quiet, acoustically sound with bare walls and a smooth ceiling. In one corner next to a thin, iron-worked chair sat a violin, its wood glowing a deep cherry in the silk-lined case. A long fold of burgundy velvet was draped over a tall oval shape in the opposite corner and in the center of the room a covered dish waited. Beside it was an unopened bottle of water.
She gestured toward the dish. “My lonely meal that I would love for you to share with me.”
Zoya took off her shoes and set them in the corner by the violin. I did the same. We sat on the floor, facing each other over her dinner—a bowl of chilled fruit and curried chicken salad sprinkled with cranberries and almond slivers. There was only one fork.
“Please, help yourself to whatever you want,” she said, picking up the fork. “Although I would be more than happy to feed you.”
I bit into a strawberry to hide my smile. We ate quietly together, exchanging long, flirtatious glances. She forked the exotically spiced salad into her mouth with an economy of movement, intent yet elegant.
“I’ve seen you before,” she said after her more immediate hunger was satisfied.
“Yes, you have. New York. Five years ago. Mandla and Kai’s party in the Village.”
“Ah, I knew it. That was a long time ago. I’m surprised that you remember me.”
I smiled around a bite of fruit. “You’re not the forgettable type.”
“Thank you.” She smiled.
“You don’t have anything to thank me for. Yet.”
Her eyes widened in surprise, but she said nothing.
“Was that too bold of me?” I asked.
“Not at all, I like a woman who’s not afraid to set the tone for the evening.” She took a deep swallow of her water. “Can I tie you up?”
My skin quivered at her unexpected words. As I opened my mouth to answer, she held up her hand and laughed softly. “No, don’t answer that.”
I linked my fingers with hers. “But I want to.” Her hand was hot and hard against mine.
A smile of surprised pleasure curved her mouth. Zoya pulled me against her. “Then allow me to thank you in advance.”
She tasted of curry and cranberries, spice and tartness that seduced my tongue and made my pussy tingle. After a long moment, she released me and stood up. I pushed our unfinished meal to the side then turned as I heard the sound of the door being locked.
“Just in case,” she said, dropping the key near her violin.
On the other side of the room, she dragged the thick swells of velvet away from the long oval shape it hid. It was a mirror.
“I don’t like to see myself while I play, but for you I’ll make an exception.” She spread the fabric on the floor.
“Clothes on or off?” I asked, already with a hand on the top button of my blouse.
Her voice dropped lower. “Off, please.”
I stripped off my blouse, allowing it to drag over my already hard nipples. The skirt followed next, falling gracefully from my bare hips with the sound of a whisper.
A low noise came from Zoya. “Very nice.” She cleared her throat. “On your knees for me, love. Now lean back on your elbows. Spread your legs. Wider, please.” Zoya bit her bottom lip and smiled. “Perfect.
She pulled the black silk ribbon from her pocket. Up close I noticed that it wasn’t silk but rather a piece of softened leather. She tied my wrists together then bound them to my ankles. The bonds were tight when I tried them, but not painful. In the mirror I could see myself curled backwards on the burgundy velvet like a bow, breasts lifted and taut, body spread out like a prize for her, cunt hairs already wet.
“Comfortable?” Her face was beginning to harden, becoming that mask of concentration that I’d seen earlier on the stage. I knew a rhetorical question when I heard one. She brushed my belly with her fingertips.
“I’m sure you already know how beautiful you are,” she said. “How fuckable. Your breasts, that sweet pussy that’s wide open to me. I had no idea I’d be this lucky, not here, not with you.” She took off her jacket and jerked her bowtie loose. “I do remember you from that party. Thought about that mousy little dress you had on, wondering what was hidden under all that cotton. Did you have panties on then? Could I have reached under your dress and touched your naked cunt? Maybe even invited you to a dark corner so I could fuck you with the dick I was packing? You seemed out of place there, and fresh. I wanted to get my hands on you then, wanted to do this.”
Zoya touched my face, the trembling lips and throat with its faint dusting of perfumed talc and sweat. The mirror reflected back my body-shaking sigh of pleasure, the greedy widening of my legs. When it became too much to hold my head up, I let my neck fall back and drowned in the sensations she stirred in me. Her fingers drifted over my breasts, barely touching the aching peaks that begged for fuller contact. With a soft teasing laugh she licked my nipples. Her long pink tongue enfolded them, wet them, making me squirm against the velvet. She pulled my nipples deep into her mouth. Each suck sent a current of electricity bolting to my cunt.
“I like the noise you just made,” she said.
Her fingers slid over my hip, down to cup my ass, then slipped between. “But I like that one even better. I love to see you spread out like that for me. I wish you could see yourself, dripping and wet, pink like a conch shell. Do you know what you taste like?” She slid two fingers inside me. “Here, taste.” The fingers hovered above my mouth, glistening.
I stretched my neck to lick her fingers. She touched my clit, rubbed it in slow circles. Already I was breathless, hot. I sucked her fingers into my mouth, its salt, its wet, its link to her other fingers pressing against and into me, fucking deep shuddering gasps from my body. Her mouth fed on my breasts again, suckling and licking in rhythm to her fingers inside me. My belly trembled and clenched.
“Not yet.” She pulled away. My body hummed with frustration, tingling in her absence. “Don’t worry. I won’t leave you wanting.”
Zoya quickly undressed then folded her clothes neatly over the chair near the violin. She wore white thong panties. Her body was well made, strong with smooth rippling muscles in her belly, small dark tipped breasts like up-turned teacups, and long runner’s legs.
She dropped to her knees in front of me. “I’ve wanted a taste of you all night.” Her hands cupped my hips. “Arch your back for me, baby. Put that pussy in my face.”
She devoured me, her tongue sliding quickly and deeply inside, as if intent on licking every ounce of moisture from my cunt. I pushed myself against her face, trembling, wishing I could bury my hands in her hair and pull her closer and harder against me.
In the mirror I could see us, her head bent, lapping hungrily between my thighs, the high curve of her ass, her fingers slipping past the string of her white thongs to fuck her own drenched pussy. She moaned against me, fucking me with her tongue. Her fingers squeezed and pulled at my nipple. Sweat dripped in hot rivulets down my breasts and throat.
The sounds of our playing were amplified in the room—the lap and slurp of her mouth on my pussy, my panting gasps, the muffled sound of her moans, even the wet slide of her fingers in her own cunt. They tilted me over the edge. I gasped her name, straining against the leather ties, jerking against her mouth. Still she wouldn’t release me, instead licked and sucked at my twitching pussy until she came in loud, breathless gasps.
Zoya slowly raised her head and began to kiss her way up my body, triggering delicious aftershocks all over my skin. While her deft fingers released my bonds she tasted my mouth again, sharing the flavor of my cunt. I groaned as my body uncurled from its awkward position and needles of returning sensation slid through me.
“Sorry.” She kissed me again and lowered us to the velvet. “Is now the proper time to thank you?”
I laughed, stretching my body against the cloth. Lassitude invaded my limbs, making it difficult to move. “Absolutely. Play something for me.”
“Of course.” Zoya smiled and stood up to retrieve her instrument. She sat beside me with her legs tucked under her, beautifully naked with her long, varicolored dreds tumbling down her broad, powerful back. She leaned into the violin, her cheek caressing the glowing cherry wood like an attentive lover. Her fingers touched the bow, the bow touched the violin, and a little night music began to play.