I stop playing, the grand piano’s notes ringing out across the studio practice space in my home. So engrossed in her performance, Melody’s clarinet part continues solo for a good bar after.

She tails off and raises an eyebrow, plucking the reed from her plump, natural lips.

“What now?”

“Can you not hear us drifting apart? Rimskij-Korsakow would be sorely disappointed.”

She sets her instrument down on the music stand ahead of her. “Well yeah, but I thought you’d catch up.”

“I can. But please try and make the accompanist’s job easier. Especially if you want to sparkle.”

She puts a hand on one shapely hip between the knot of her crop top and cutoff denim shorts and rakes the free hand through her mane of blonde hair.

“You think I won’t sparkle anyway? Seriously, have you heard the others?”

“Well, I—”

“It’s painful. Half of them can’t even tell if their instruments are in tune. I’ve never heard so many microtonal variants of Concert A.”

“Harsh. But this is about you, not them.”

She sighs. “Fine. What do you suggest? The concert’s Wednesday and I want to be perfect.”

I rearrange the sheet music ahead of me. “It’s probably just focus. You seem a little… distracted.”

Her stare transforms into a cheeky smirk. “Well golly gosh, Steven. I wonder why.”

Despite the cool air circling the room from the open windows, my cheeks warm. I look away. “That was a mistake. Unprofessional of me. I’ve apologised.”

When I return to glance at her, she’s still staring. “It didn’t feel like a mistake.”

“Well it was,” I snap. “Now, unless you need a quick break, can we get back to the piece?”

She pouts. “Fine.”

I flit my attention up and down the floorboards that run the length of the room, settling on her feet. No nail polish. She always plays barefoot. Says it’s her thing; that it grounds her performances. “How about you move across a bit?” I point. “So we can make better eye contact.”

Melody chews her lip. “Won’t that run the risk of further, y’know, mistakes? What if you try to,” she twirls a lock of hair around her fingertip, “kiss me again?”

“I won’t. I’m married.”

“Mmm. You were married last week and it didn’t bother you then.”

“That’s unfair.”

She slides the music stand a few degrees to her left where I indicated. “Is it? What about me? What if I want it?”

“Want what?”

“Another kiss. For starters.”

“No.”

“Your wife’s not in.”

“Melody Becksdale!”

“Oooh.” She gives a theatrical shiver. “Use my full name again like that. It makes me…” she switches to a harsh whisper. “Tingle.”

“Stop it. Pick up your instrument.” She does as she’s told for a change. “Shall we go from bar 17?”

“My age!” She nods. Flashes that playful smile I know is going to get her into real trouble in later life. Slipping the mouthpiece between her delicate lips, she clamps it with her teeth to seal it. Lifts a fraction, taking a breath and preparing, then nods. I begin playing. She joins in two bars later.

It’s better. Much better. The simple act of being closer and at a more acute angle makes it easier for us to communicate and stay in sync. Don’t know why I didn’t insist upon it from the start. Probably because I was afraid of getting too close in case we, as she put it, made another mistake. Maybe something more than just a kiss. And that scares me.

Once could be dismissed as a judgement error. Twice, well, that’s on purpose.

I let the fragmented memory replay. ‘Just a kiss’ didn’t do it justice. We’d finished playing her recital, almost note perfect. She was packing her instrument away alongside me while I shuffled the sheet music at the piano. I don’t particularly like her using my instrument lid as a table, but let it slide because she was elated.

Her bare thigh brushed mine in my shorts, and we both paused. Our eyes met. There’s no denying she’s pretty. The tiny gap between her front teeth reinforces her effortless youth.

Well, I say youth. She’s only a handful of years younger than me; maybe ten. With a promising musical career ahead of her, helped in part by being accepted at the prestigious Royal Northern College of Music, she didn’t need the overhead of my indiscretion.

In many ways, she reminds me of Lisa. Same vivacious attitude. Same shimmering blonde mane. Similar figure, albeit my wife has sumptuously wider hips. It’s no excuse for my behaviour, but perhaps that’s how my brain rationalised the need to kiss her.

We’ve been working on this piece a few weeks. I was recommended by her music teacher and, with the summer concert looming and what she called a personality clash with the school accompanist, I was happy to step in. Her parents willingly paid the uplift. Anything for their precious only child.

Over the sessions, we’d kept emotion at bay. But in that moment, something changed. She wasn’t the gangly schoolgirl and I wasn’t the supposed music professional. We were equals. Two people dancing around the intellectual attraction of a mutual interest, and riding the high of a rousing performance.

There’s something about music when it’s played well, when its expression comes from the soul. Not just commanding your fingers to press the right notes or keep time or use the correct amount of breath. Any of that can be taught or learned, and the music would be technically accurate, yet lifeless. I have plenty of plink, plonk, next track students.

Real music isn’t like that. Real music is born. Innate. It grows, like an extension of one’s soul. Flows outward and wraps itself around the listener, beguiling them. Enthralling them. It’s the difference between a recital and a performance. And Melody has that. Her parents must have known, to have named her as such.

And so, like a prelude to every movie love scene ever, eyes locked on one another’s, music swelling, our heads drifted together. Magnetic, as if no opposing force on Earth could interrupt the pull. She tilted her chin up, the world faded away and our lips brushed.

I wasn’t expecting the jolt. Not physically, but emotionally. It was as if someone had switched a neon sign on in my head; one that probably spelled the word Taboo or Idiot, but I ignored the warning. Before I could even make sense of the moment, our tongues slid across the union and I was committed to the kiss.

She tasted of hell yes. Nothing artificial, because that would impede her playing or damage the instrument. A natural sweetness, with echoes of mint toothpaste, and wood. Or maybe I thought of wood because of the reaction in my shorts, stirring, rising, straining and nudging her thigh. She must have felt it, because her mouth shape changed. A faint smile inside the kiss. And I swear she traced the outline of my dick with a fingertip before I came to my senses and pulled back.

Wiping my mouth, as if that would erase the infidelity, I looked away. “Sorry, I… that was wrong.”

I knew she was staring, but couldn’t bring myself to look at her in case I did it all over again. There were no guarantees. No absolutes. My foundation on which I thought was solid turned out to be quicksand. One more taste and I’d be a lost cause. Drown in her. Denial seemed the only appropriate defence.

Lost in the reverie of the previous week, I fail to notice she’s stopped playing, and tail off, my turn to raise an eyebrow.

She wipes her reed. “What’s with the bum notes?”

“I didn’t… what?”

She smiles, that gap taunting me, leans in close enough that I catch the overtones of her perfume, and points at my score. “What’s that?”

I blink. “G natural.”

“Mmhmm. You played a sharp.”

“No I didn’t… uhh, did I?”

She nods. “And here.”

“So sorry. Must have fogged on the key signature.”

She tilts her head. “You’re distracted aren’t you?” My shaky denial must have been unconvincing. “You’re thinking about us.”

“No, I—”

“Shhh, it’s okay. I’m thinking about us too.”

“Melody…”

“Careful. I already warned you it makes me tingle… unless. Unless that’s what you want.” Her lips curl into a gentle smile. “Is that what you want, Steven? Do you want me to tingle? Do you,” she leans in, breath hot in my ear, “want me?”

“We just,” I exhale. “Can’t.”

“Of course we can.”

“Alright. We shouldn’t.”

She glances down at my shorts. Suppresses a giggle. “Your D flat appears to be sharpening.”

I shuffle on the piano stool. Risk a flit of her body and centre on her breasts. “So are your B flats.”

She swats my arm. “Cheeky.” Tracing fingertips up her sides, she cups her mounds. Squeezes. Draws my attention lower by drifting to the knot below them. “Perhaps a break would help after all. Release some of this,” she deftly undoes the top and her breasts wobble beneath the stretched white fabric, “tension? Maybe then we’ll be able to focus.”

“I somehow doubt that will help.”

“Isn’t it worth a try?”

“Definitely not. There’s too much at stake.”

She toys with the dangling straps, her boobs swaying in sync beneath the taut material. “But don’t you want me to perform at my best? Wow the audience.”

“Of course I do. But there has to be another way to develop muscle memory. More practice. More fluidity. More—”

She silences me by lifting the top clean off and dropping it on the piano board, her naked breasts jiggling. I gawp at her flawless chest, save for a sole freckle on the lower left of one orb. Pastel pink nipples firm in the breeze and she captures both between thumb and forefinger to give a little pinch.

“Melo… put your,” I gulp, “put your clothes back on.”

She does a pirouette and giggles, strutting away to the back of the piano and turning to face me. Biting her lip, she puts her hands on her waist, traces them inward, bringing them together at the front and pauses.

Even without being able to see over the polished black top of the grand, I know she’s unbuttoning her shorts. And know when they’re open enough because she gives a little shimmy and they flop to the floor. Carrying on the wiggle, she returns to her hips, hooks thumbs in the waistband, tugs down and I swallow as her panties fall next.

I don’t know where panic ends and anticipation begins. There’s now a naked teenager in my house, my wife could return from work at any time, and I genuinely don’t know what to do.

The sensible half of me wants to walk away before events escalate further. The rest of me—primarily my midsection—is enthralled. Moreso when she stoops, retrieves her underwear, places the garment on the piano and whizzes it across the top towards me. The parcel plops onto the keys alongside her crop top and I stare as if they might melt a hole through the keyboard. There’s a definite wet spot.

She half whispers. “Touch them.”

“I ca.. can’t.”

“Of course you can. Don’t you like your gift?”

“I… Yes, I...”

“Then touch them.”

With my right hand, usually so confident on the keyboard, I tentatively reach towards the parcel of material. Close the gap. Five inches. Two. One.

I stop. Shake my head. Pull away.

Melody regards me. Smiles. “Aww too much too soon? Mmm, you’re right. All good sonatas need an introduction.”

Lifting one knee, she swings it onto the piano and clambers on. It’s far from graceful, and I want to admonish her for misusing my instrument, but the reprimand dies in my throat when she begins to sway and approach on all fours. “The compositional greats knew the importance of a good build up. To set the tone. Introduce the theme.”

I gulp. All I can see beyond her head is the rhythmic undulation of her bum as she crawls, her reflection in the mirror over the dresser on the far wall providing delicious glimpses between her legs. She slows to a pause. Swishes her hair. Levels her gaze with mine and restarts. The piano has never felt so expansive.

Each inch elevates the anticipation. Makes me harden further. When she reaches the front, she sits and swings both legs together over the edge, feet hovering the keyboard. Her tits jiggle and settle. “Once the introduction is established, you know what comes next don’t you?”

I swallow again. Nod.

With tantalising slowness, she parts her thighs. Her sticky folds separate with the tiniest of clicks and I’m mesmerised by the shape of her bare lips glimmering in the snatches of sunlight through the waving blinds. She breathes out. “Exposition.” Her legs quiver at the strain of keeping them afloat. “Setting the stage for the thematic material to be explored.”

The discordant clang of notes when she drops her heels onto the keys, four octaves apart, startles me.

She giggles. “Oops. I made some bum notes too. I’ll need more practice.”

As the cacophony rings out across the room, she eases her knees wider. The juicy oval of her pussy lips forms a mouthwatering frame.

Running her hands down the hourglass of her figure, she continues along her thighs to rest on her knees, breasts swaying slightly. “What do you think of this theme, Steven? Does it need more development to whet the audience’s appetite before the recapitulation? The finale?”

All I can do is whimper.

“I shaved in the bath last night, all for you. Thought of you while I was doing it. Thought of you afterwards, too. When I let my fingers explore. Do you know what I imagined?”

My mind is a jumbled mess, focus solely between her legs, heart thumping, and I merely shake my head.

“It began with your tongue. Right about here.” She drags fingertips back along her inner thighs and points at her emerging clit. “My fingers mimicked your fluttering tongue as I circled and breathed out.” A breathy sigh escapes to reinforce the point. “I couldn’t imagine what your stubble would feel like as you became bolder and licked more of me, easing your tongue inside then smearing juices over my naked slit. But I want to find out.”

The tip of one digit slithers down to her entrance and she gasps as she dips it inside, presses deeper and withdraws, coated in glimmering wetness. She lifts it as an offering. Wags it to and fro under my nose. My throat tightens as her scent filters in. So fresh. So exciting.

She dabs my nose, making me blink. Then pulls her hand back, a silvery string of arousal stretching and snapping against my face. I moan softly. Say nothing, even though I know I should stop this.

“I imagined you getting more and more lost in my wetness. Isn’t that something you’d like? Buried face first in my teenage juices? I taste so good.”

She guides two fingers inside her snatch and withdraws, lifting them to her mouth and licking the webbed strings from between them.

“Mmmm. You’d love this. So sweet. Hours in the making.”

“I swallow. You… you planned this?”

“100%. I’ve been a distracted mess all morning thinking about how you’d react.” She removes her right foot from the keyboard and places it in my lap, massaging the prominent bulge. “And it seems your staff is in tune with me.”

The ball of her foot toys with my hardness, which swells beneath her toes and the fabric of my shorts. She rubs the full length and I sigh. 

Replacing her heel on the keyboard, the discordant low notes reverberate. She puts her still sticky fingers in front of her lips and giggles. “Oops, more bum notes. We’ll have to work hard if we’re to make sweet music together.”

Juices seem to trickle freely now, rivulets sneaking down into the shadows just where her bottom meets the polished veneer of the instrument. A few drips land, pool and stick to her skin as she shifts slightly. 

“Speaking of bum notes.” She scissors her fingers down the length of her soaked entrance. “Which is your preferred clef? Treble?” She carries on down to massage wetness into her crinkled hole. “Or bass?”

“Melody…”

“Yes? Steven.”

“Please stop this.”

“Or?”

I don’t have an answer for that.

“Oooh, or else? Is that it? Else you might have to lean in and lick me? Haul me off your piano and spank me? Fuck me?”

“No! My wife could walk in any minute.” I nod to the glass-panelled door leading to the lounge.

Melody skates fingers back to her pussy and splays it. “Then you’d better hurry up and accompany me. Make me cum, for the sake of my craft.” She tilts her head. “Or maybe it’s time for my solo?” Her finger pad drifts and circles her clit, eliciting a gasp. “Either is a win for me. One involves more cleanup of your precious piano.”

I’m torn. I could so easily lean forward a handful of degrees and run my tongue through her folds. Feast on her. On everything she represents. Heat. Sass. Infidelity. Or I could be the better man. Run away. Leave her short of an accompanist for the concert. Or, at least, with someone less capable who won’t help her shine.

Or there’s option three: stay put. Watch from between her thighs as she masturbates, soaked pussy inches from me, and getting wetter by the stroke. Passive resistance. Not participating, but complicit. If I’m ever found out, Lisa would demand: Have you been unfaithful? And I’d be able to say, hand on heart, no. Because watching isn’t the same as touching, which isn’t the same as sex, is it?

Is it?

She seems hellbent on whatever trajectory this is, and I’m not going to be able to sway her. The safest course is to ride it out, so-to-speak. Enjoy the performance.

So I watch. Take in her beauty as she conducts her arousal. Brings herself progressively closer to orgasm. I marvel at the way her mouth changes shape when a particular touch lands. Her little exhalations and whimpers. How her eyelids flutter if she skims her clit left to right. 

And my plan works well, maintaining my distance, fidelity intact.

Until she stops. Leans forward, undoes and unzips my shorts and fishes my boner out. We both observe the way it bobs. Engorges.

She sits back up, brings her feet together in my lap to rest along the edges of my hardness, makes a diamond shape with her legs and wanks me along with her touches.

I groan. Her soles massage and stroke my length and each passing moment elevates our arousal. Now I’m conflicted. Does this constitute infidelity? I’m not the one in charge but I’m allowing it to continue. How would I truthfully answer Lisa now?

Melody exhales. “Oooh that’s good isn’t it, Steven?” She synchronises her motions with the foot job. “Look, I’m a multi-instrumentalist.”

The sensation escalates, her soles providing friction to ripple the skin up and down my rigid shaft. I try not to gasp but it’s impossible, biting my lip to stifle the moan that follows.

She giggles. “You have a lovely baton. Conducting myself is amazing. But I want you to do it.” Her instep sweeps up and glides back down the length coated in pre-cum, and she whispers, “From the inside.”

Openly masturbating, her fingers penetrate the slick hole ahead of me in a steady beat. “Will you do that for me? Hmmm? Fill me. Fuck me. Right here over your piano.”

I can only groan, the excitement of her brazen display and the attention to my stiff cock eclipsing the power of speech.

“God, Andante is amazing. But sometimes a girl needs Allegro. The final movement.” She alters the rhythm, picking up the pace on us both, a series of breathy moans escaping. “Ohh yess. So close.” Her eyes bore into mine. “Touch my tits and I’ll cum. Please.”

My dick swells beneath her shuffling toes. She’s not the only one who’s close and she detects the change. “Ohh yeah, cum on my feet. Paint them with spunk and I’ll feed it to you, toe by toe, then kiss it from your lips. Share it.”

I grit my teeth. Try to regain control. Lift my hands to her body… and plant them on her knees. Scrape the stool back out of reach. She glances down at the glistening tip of my shaft and chuckles. “A noble effort, maestro. But this piece isn’t over. You can’t leave an audience hanging. Music needs to deliver. Intensify. Reach a crescendo, a… climax and finish on a perfect cadence. To leave everyone satisfied.”

“Melody, we…”

She leans and puts her wet fingertip to my lips. “Hush.”

Slithering forward, her feet land on the floor either side of mine at the same moment her naked bottom plays a dirge of notes around middle C. She giggles, pirouettes and plonks herself in my lap, grinding her naked, soaked slit against my raging erection.

Her perfect rear deforms against me with each swing of her hips. Although her pussy lips merely glide back and forth along my dick, anyone spotting us would assume I’d penetrated her. She’s huffing in time with the gyrations. “Oh that’s so fucking good. Your big dick against my little, wet pussy. Slip it inside.”

Settling back against me, I have to fight not to topple backwards off the stool. She claps her palm over her bare mons and draws rough circles against her clit. “Grab my tits, Steven. Squeeze them. Pinch my nipples. Shove your cock inside me and I’ll cum around it. So good. Finish this piece.”

Her rocking intensifies. Before I can even resist she lets go of her pussy, grabs both my hands and slaps them against her chest then slides down to tend to her clit again. “Squeeze. Harder.”

Almost on autopilot my fingers dig in and I clutch her palmsize tits. She hisses. “Yesss. Like that. More. Pinch!”

Lewd squelches fill the room as I slide back and forth between her bare pussy lips. There’s almost no friction any more, she’s that wet. My shorts absorb some of it.

Her hair cascades my shoulder and chest, and I find my mouth alongside her neck, hot breath fogging her skin. Instinct draws my lips to her delicate flesh and she groans deeply at the contact. “Ohh fffuck yeah. Bite me. Mark me.”

I’m virtually inanimate. Frozen out of fear or the fact I’m seconds away from losing control. Her pussy grinds. Leaks over me. My thumbs and forefingers seek out the caps of her nipples and exert pressure. She jerks. Freezes. Lets out a sustained groan that percolates from a growl deep in her chest.

And she cums.

Her moans ring out in the studio space, pulsing pussy crushed against my unyielding hardness. My groans in turn are muffled by her neck as waves of euphoria surge up my shaft and spray against her naked slit. Spurt upon spurt fire and cling to her dripping cunt, up into the crack of her perfect peach, and drip between us, smeared by her rocking hips.

The rush is incredible. Our skin glows with perspiration and exertion. The room seems to be leaving space for our syncopated breaths to fill the silence, creating our own finished symphony that gradually slows as I release my grip on her breasts and she sighs.

We drift for a few moments, savouring the release. My lips nuzzle her skin, its softness welcoming despite the forbidden nature of our performance.

She begins to shift in my lap, sticky globs cooling in the breeze from the window. Slithering to the floor between my legs, she turns to face me and runs kisses from my knee, up over my shorts, and hovers over the remnants of my erection. Her tongue peeks out and begins to dance and flutter along my cock, collecting spunk in her mouth as she nibbles and coos contentedly. 

Her eyes find mine. “All good sonatas finish with a coda, right?”

I watch, still mesmerised as this musical prodigy plays my dick as if it’s her own instrument. Like everyone, I’ve heard the rumours that clarinet players make amazing cock suckers but always dismissed it as hear say.

Nope. It’s true. Melody’s phenomenal. If I hadn’t so recently cum, her lips wrapped around the ridge, sucking and lapping and slurping would have had me solid and raring to blow in no time. The way she uses her tongue to flutter the underside and swirl the head gives me goosebumps. She vacuums up stray drops of cum, pooling in her mouth as she moves from stain to stain on my shorts.

About halfway through the cleanup, she sits. Stands. Leans in and presses her mouth to mine, slipping her cum-coated tongue between our lips. I’ve never shared a snowball kiss and the tartness surprises me. But there are flashes of sweetness, which I presume are her juices, that light up my tastebuds.

She snakes a hand down between us to jack my half-shaft, then plucks free of the kiss and kneels again to collect the remainder. Her tongue and lips explore, taking their time on my shorts and protruding manhood to thoroughly cleanse me.

When I think she’s done, Melody sits back, opens her mouth and makes a show of swallowing before leaning forward to engulf my flaccid cock again. I flap impotently for the stool handles and grip as she begins a voracious assault to reinvigorate me.

“Melody! What the…”

She pops me free and grins, stroking my dripping shaft. “The audience demands.”

The warmth of her mouth descends to the base and she sucks hard in long strokes, making a theatrical pop as the head exits on each swoop.

“I… there’s nothing more for you.” But even as the words leave, I know I’m facing a losing battle. She’s driven. Utterly determined to milk me, and as her sucking deepens and she begins to hum appreciation, flicking hungry gazes up at me between bouts of devouring my cock, blood starts to resurge.

Within a couple of minutes I’m somehow fully hard again, and nudging her throat on the downstroke. I’ve never recovered so fast in my life. She sucks and lewdly gurps, ploughing her lips to the base on a steady beat, then pulling back and letting her fist take over as she gasps and murmurs words of encouragement while nibbling the head.

She’s incredible. Less than thirty seconds later, she’s back at it, encasing my dick with her wet mouth and cramming her nose into my pubes each time she bottoms out. Being a woodwind player she seems able to perform that circular breathing trick, snorting in even with her mouth stuffed full of my meat.

My knuckles whiten as I hold on and let her edge me closer and closer to painting her hot mouth with spunk.

She pops free and wanks my spit-soaked shaft. “Come on, Steven. Give me more tasty cum.”

Cupping her chest and lacing her fingers, she slips my length between her tits, my dick tip brushing her throat each time she sinks. On the upstrokes, she again whispers for me to cum, cock sliding back and forth in her heavenly cleavage. The need rises, crests and then we both hear it and freeze. A car pulling into the driveway, just inches the other side of the gently flapping blind.

Melody lets go, drops her mouth to swallow my dick whole and there’s nothing I can do but stifle a moan and clutch her head as I pulse into her throat. A handful of powerful spurts fill her and she coughs around me. My heart thunders, both from the exertion of climax and the adrenaline knowing we have about ninety seconds until my wife puts the car in the garage and enters the house.

Even as the final lash is oozing from my tip, I tug Melody away. Spunk dribbles onto her chin and she scoops it up, standing and racing to the far end of the piano. She yanks her shorts on as I try to wrestle my throbbing knob into mine, still peppered with wet cum and juice splotches from earlier.

I grab her top and slide it across the piano to her and she hauls it over her head, fumbling the ties to secure it. It’s too late for her panties, so I grab them and stuff them in my pocket, reposition the stool and shakily start playing from bar 17. The two bar rest before her part comes in gives her enough time to race towards me, grab her instrument and put it to her lips.

We’re at bar 25 when my wife appears at the glass between the studio and lounge and waves. I nod acknowledgement, heart still thumping, and it barely recovers while Lisa continues to watch our performance.

We play the piece flawlessly, sharing guilty glances throughout, and both taking a bow at Lisa’s applause. She opens the door and I half twist away so she can’t see the mess in my shorts. “You two make beautiful music together. You’re a very confident player, Melody. You’ll go far.”

“Thank you, Mrs Kennedy, but it’s also the quality of the pianist.” I swear she deliberately shortens the word to sound like penis, and I flash her a stare. “He’s very hands-on and works me to the bone, don’t you, Steven?”

“I… yes.”

My wife smiles and turns to leave. “Well keep it up.”

Melody grins at me. “Oh we will.” Slides her gaze to my crotch and my pulse spikes again. “We will.”