The Violin

Written by a man.
By PHILIP

"What's that?" I asked, Intrigued.

Danielle looked up and smiled. It was an appealing smile, beautiful, and maybe just a little shy, as if she were suddenly uncertain that she were doing the right thing.

"This?" She held up two red sticks for me to see, one slightly fatter and longer than the other with a little curved lip added to one end which made it look like a strange spoon.

"You want to know what this is?"

I nodded. "Do you rub them together to make fire?"

She laughed at my, admittedly, feeble joke; but her laugh wasn't forced; in fact I wasn't sure if she was laughing at my joke or rather something else, the irony of which only she understood. When she had finished (with a subtle snort) she shot me a direct look with those amazing hazel eyes and, confident now, replied, "Yes, In a way."

My living room was growing dim from the approaching summer evening, but even in the pleasant gloom I could tell that she was blushing slightly. The delicious scent came through the open French windows from my garden and the song of a solitary bird hung in the air. We had enjoyed a meal and a bottle of red wine and I felt good. One of those brief moments in time that we all live for, hope for. Over the main course she said she was a musician, but wouldn't reveal what instrument she played. "Just wait." she said, smiling "Later." When she smiled a little crease appeared in the corner of her right mouth, which I found charming. I looked at the sticks again, they were both smooth, a metal strip ran the length of the shorter one. I couldn't make out whether they were made from metal or plastic, and what was that lip for?

"So," I said, foolishly attempting another joke, "you play the sticks."

She laughed. "No, silly, it's a violin."

I took another look, didn't look much like any violin I'd ever seen before. "A violin?"

She nodded. Her short red hair bounced. "An electric one."

"Oh!" I said. "Of course."

"Hold on a minute while I..." She bent down and when she straightened she was holding out a jack plug.

"Where's your hi-fi?"

I didn't need to tell her, she saw the system hiding beside the TV. Carrying a small box with her she walked to the hi-fi, pulled it out and began fiddling with the connections at the back. I enjoyed watching her work, bent over the device. She was average height, her body slim, but still full of subtle curves. I like subtlety in a woman, straight lines that turn out not to be straight after all, a thin waist that gradually leads the eyes up to small breasts and a slender neck. Her moderate hips stretching the material of her thin black trousers. When she turned my eyes dipped quickly to her breasts, they were high and slight under her shirt, I could imagine them under the fabric of her blouse, like two tiny, horizontal mount Fujis. A strange likening, I know, but as it turned out an accurate one. She caught me looking, the crease appeared in the corner of her mouth. I quickly turned my gaze to the hi-fi, a little ashamed.

"That's it." She smiled at my confused expression. "No wires, whatever I play is transmitted via the box to the amplifier." She waved her hand. "Through the air. Like magic."

I nodded dumbly, technical stuff was not my strong point. Instead of returning to the sofa she pulled a high-backed wooden chair over into the middle of the room. From her handbag she produced a series of coloured wires, each ending with a little flat bulb of clear plastic. She talked as she plugged the wires into the black box. "I don't own it." She paused briefly and I saw that she was looking inwards. A second passed and she shook her head slightly and went back to work.

"The violin?"

She fitted a red wire. "Yes. A friend of mine dabbled in a bit of inventing. He was a bit of a boffin, I suppose you could say. He was interested in electrodermal activity."

"Pardon?"

The green wire followed the blue. "Something to do with polygraph tests. To you and me that's lie detectors, which are apparently wildly inaccurate. He didn't go into a great deal of detail but he constructed machines that were operated by the body, by their uncontrollable electrical reactions." She looked at me over her shoulder. "He told me that the body never lies."

I smiled. "Like the camera?"

She shook her head. "The camera always lies." With the last wire attached she began pressing the flat bulbs against her skin, smearing the areas of her skin first with a clear gel from a small tube. "These pick up the electrodermal reactions of my skin." She pressed one against each of her palms, she kicked off her shoes and connected another two to the soles of her feet, followed by her temples. She undid the first two buttons on her blouse, enough for me to see the top of her white bra, pushing the last two onto the white skin of her upper chest. "I'm all connected up now."

Careful not to tug the wires she sat down on the chair. She sat straight, spine resting against the wood, placed the longer stick against her neck, the spoon supporting her chin, very much like a violin. With her right hand she gracefully brought up the thinner rod, the bow, and rested it on the smooth surface of the thicker rod, on the metal strip. I sat back in the sofa with a sort of half-smile on my face, feeling a bit embarrassed, I'm not sure for whom. Her face was suddenly immobile, like a mask, concentration on the task in hand. Very slowly she drew the short stick back and the most haunting sound I have ever heard burrowed its way into my head. The sound came from my hi-fi, I knew that, yet the sound seemed to come from everywhere at once. Inside my head, inside my heart, inside my stomach, over my skin like the tingling of a slight electrical current. The sound was definitely that of a violin, but it constantly shifted, now a violin, then an organ, maybe even the haunting whistle of a flute. The shift was so smooth and subtle that unless I concentrated I wouldn't have thought there had been a change at all. Again I looked at Danielle's face, and this time I saw she was in pain, but not physical pain. Her mouth was pressed tightly shut, her lips two straight lines, her eyes closed, forehead creased, but the bow moved with grace across the red cylinder. My initial curiosity vanished as the music begun to effect me. The melody was haunting and sad, the saddest thing I had ever heard. This was pure emotion converted into the textures and shades of music. I could not compare it with anything I had ever heard before: it was neither classical nor new age, this sound was utterly personal and unique to this young woman who played on the strange instrument. I drifted away... ...and saw my father. He waved goodbye to me from the gate, the briefcase clutched in his right hand, rolled up newspaper in his left. I was twelve and the images of that morning came back with such strength and clarity I could have sworn I was standing there, looking over my child-self's shoulder, feeling the cool breeze touching the back of my neck. My younger self waved daddy goodbye, nothing special, almost dismissively. Today was just like every other day. He would leave for work, wave me goodbye and at seven he would be back home again, like clockwork, hungry, but he always had time to talk to me, to help me with my homework. Sometimes we went out and played football out on the common at the back of our house, and as I waved I remembered that he had promised me a kick-about when he got home. I waved goodbye, too. That day he did not come home at seven. One moment he was there for me, the next moment he was gone. How is it that you only appreciate something when it has gone, taken away? In some strange way I felt angry at him for breaking his promise to me. How dare he leave me like that, so suddenly. How dare he die!

The music had stopped. I opened my eyes and saw that Danielle was smiling at me, but a sad smile. The violin rested on her lap. Her eyes were swollen and red, the damp courses of her tears marked out against her cheeks. She sniffed. Then I tasted salt. I put a hand up to my own cheek and felt my own tears. There was a tightness at the back of my throat and my nose had been running, too. I felt astonishment. "I've been crying?" I said in amazement. Normally I wouldn't have let anyone see me weep, straining to keep my eyes dry, my temper composed. Usually I would grin and laugh to myself while watching a sad movie, one of many tactics to delay tears. I didn't want to show weakness, I didn't like to. But now I didn't feel weak, nor ashamed. In fact I felt relived, as if this emotion had been trapped within me all those years and now released. It felt good and terrible, all at the same time.

"What was that?" I asked.

"A requiem. The man who made this machine... he was my lover. We shared three wonderful years together, and then he was..." She looked away from me. "Just when I needed him most." She let her tears flow, as if wiping them away would be a violation to her lover's memory. I felt I should say something, but could not think of the right thing to, so I remained quiet. After a moment she patted the violin. "He left me this. He said it would remind me of him."

"Does it?"

"Only when I play the tune you've just heard. I wrote it for him." She shook her head. "He is in the past now, still with me, but still the past." Her tears had stopped. "I don't live in the past."

"It was very moving," I said gently. "Beautiful."

"Yes, but I know more than one tune." Her eyes locked on mine. "Would you like to hear my favourite melody?"

Not understanding, I nodded. She lifted her head and again rested the violin against her chin. The bow was brought up and put across the rod. Her eyes were open, she stared down the length on the violin to where her fingers curled around the end. No grimace, no furrowed forehead. This time she did not draw the bow back slowly, but attacked suddenly. The sound that burst from the speakers was loud and vibrant. Deep, rich, throbbing. The bow moved in a blur. Back and forth, up and down. Drawn across the violin's invisible strings with such vigour that I'm sure a normal violin's strings would have snapped from the force of her passion. Her face grew tense, dark as the music rose and fell like the crashing of the waves against her rock. At first I could not discern the melody, the sound seemed to be one seething mass of discordant notes, musical chaos that swirled, tumbled about me. But as I listened the music reached out to me and drew me in. At first I resisted, but there was no way to hold out against this appeal. I fell under the spell of madness. My heart quickened with the music's beat and the tightness returned to my throat, but this time brought on by a very different emotion. She reached out and took hold. Oh my God, I was burning up, my face and chest felt so hot, so tense, like a thermometer dropped in lava. My penis was painfully erect, it pushed against the fly. As the sound throbbed so did it, throbbed with each beat of my strained heart. It felt like my heart was about to burst through my ribs, its sound filled my ears, its rhythm mirrored in a hundred places around my body, in my neck, in my temple... I felt dizzy and sick. Light headed. My whole body shook. Each note from the violin made a different part of my anatomy tremble. Her hand, made out of solid music, as real as if she had reached out herself, caressed my tremble. Gently, delicately, her musical fingers whispered along the soft skin of my sex. They reached the tip, which had pushed itself from the skin and began to encircle it. Round and round, teasing, tempting. Tugging ever so gently. Unable to resist the call I stood on shaking legs. The three steps over to her side could have been miles. I spanned the world. She didn't look up at me. Her face was hard with concentration, but I noticed that her chest rose and fell rapidly, heavily. Her legs were slightly apart and moved as cursed by some irritation. The bow was thrusting in a frenzied imitation of the sex act. Reaching down I undid my belt and unzipped. It was an unconscious reaction. I shed my clothes and hurled them across the room. I didn't care where they fell. My penis stood erect, the purple gland pointing up at an incredible angle. A single drop of semen had emerged from the end, it slipped down the shaft. I wanted to explode. I wanted to come. But the music wouldn't allow me that luxury. The melody I failed to recognise at first now cut through me like a hot knife through butter. It was her, Danielle. In there I could hear the beating of her heart, the passion in her soul, the pure strength of her life straining against the restrictions of the world. She wanted me, she wanted me to touch her, to move my hand across her skin and to touch her in the places where only those special to her could go. I was invited, I was impelled in to her. Avoiding her arms -- still filled with the violence of her need. I bent down and felt her knees through the fabric of her trousers. Even though my head swam with the volatile music, I still heard her moan. I undid the single button fastening her trousers and pulled them down gently. She lifted herself slightly and wiggled her hips. The music wasn't interrupted, nor did it even slow as I worked her trousers down her legs and pulled them off gently, accidentally pulling the electrodes from the soles of her feet at the same time. It didn't seem to make a difference. I threw the clothing over my shoulder and moved my attention down. She wore white panties and I could see that the cloth was damp between her legs, sticking to her reddened skin. A few rogue hairs protruded from the lining around her quivering legs. I reached out and touched her pubes. She moaned again and the music increased. Slowly I pushed and felt her wetness seep through to my fingers. Without thinking I drew my fingers back and sniffed them, I smiled and licked the liquid from my fingertips. Oh, I recognised her scent, it was so strong, it surrounded me in a cloud. She lifted herself again and I took the opportunity to remove her panties. The first thing I saw was that she was red, so swollen and wet. Her opening glistened. The two lips apart, both crimson and inviting. She pushed her cunt forward. I no longer heard the music, I was in there with her, part of her music. I danced along the staves, ran along the bars, skipped from the octaves. I slid one hand up her blouse, under her lose bra and found her nipple, both soft and hard at the same time. I took the bud between my fingers and gently squeezed it. Her breath shuddered though her lungs. My right hand combed her pubic hair and them dived between her cleft. She was dripping. My fingers found her clitoris and rubbed. Now and then I slipped two fingers deep into her vagina, withdrew them, massaged her burning clitoris again. She was so hot, I could feel her heat radiating against my skin. She dictated my actions with her rhythm and I followed willingly, all my control surrendered to that strange machine. She moved her hips is a slow gyrating pattern and I rubbed her pussy and then pushed my fingers into her again, they slipped in smoothly, helped by her wetness. I felt inside her vagina. Her pubic hair hung together in clumps, bound together, almost dripping. I bend my neck and brought my mouth to her hair. I took the damp strands in my mouth and tasted her. I tugged gently at her hair as my two hands worked at her breast and clitoris simultaneously. Her breaths were becoming uneven, ragged. The tune changed and I changed too. I withdrew my hand and burrowed my mouth between her legs. My tongue flicked against her clit and ran along the side of her lips. She slouched down in the chair and her legs jerked wider still, once, twice; roughly, like her muscles were clumsy from the draining strength of her passion. I pressed my mouth full against her and pushed my tongue in deep. Deeper. Swept along by the rhythm I played her, an instrument played by another more powerful instrument. We played each other. I wanted to play her. I wanted to be inside her. She shifted her body and her melody. She raised her right leg back, turning her body away so that I could get close to her without stopping her frantic playing. A thought passed through my head: how could she keep up this level of intensity? It felt like hours, and seconds. I did not care. I stopped kissing her and straightened, bending back slightly. My penis wanted, demanded to be inside of her. I would have died if she had refused me now. With relief, with lust, with my last remaining strength, I entered her. My penis slipped into her wet cunt easily. Once there I paused slightly, enjoying the sensation of being inside. The way her skin pressed on mine, her muscles kept on contracting and then relaxing, like an internal hand was masturbating me. Her playing had not abated, even from her contorted position. Carefully I drew back and then pressed in. Her mouth was open, her ragged breath audible as she began a arpeggio. We climbed together the scales together, up and up. I thrust, thrust, thrust, and she played on. The bow was hardly visible, it flew from side to side, pacing me. I felt the anguish in me reaching its breaking point. I don't usually cry out, but this time I could not help myself. I shouted out and she joined me, our chorus joining, merging with the harsh, gentle, impending music. She hit the top of the scale, the screech almost inaudible, but deafening to us both the same. Our cries mingled together as the tension rippled through our bodies, up from our genitals, expanding out up our trunks, along out legs, along our arms, our fingers, sweeping up to stiffen our necks. I felt faint and almost lost consciousness. My come erupted into her. My penis throbbed with the new rhythm that surged along it, each one shooting more come into her, she was milking me. She threw her arms wide, one stick held in each and I collapsed into her embrace. I held myself in her long after it had softened. We held each other close, enjoying the release, the companionship, the shared pleasure. In that moment I loved all of her, not just her beauty and her personality, her intellect and her humour, but every part. I loved the valves that pumped the blood through her veins. I blessed them. Her lungs which still harshly drew in the air. I blessed them. Her bones. Her kidneys. Her anus. The stuff that made up her brain and the nerves that send the information to every part of her body. I looked into her hazel eyes but I saw beyond the clear white and the warm fibres of her iris, saw into the very cornea. I loved her.

We remained in each others embrace for a long time. When I finally withdrew I saw that my penis was covered with my sperm. I wondered how much I had shot into her, the top of the chair fairy swam with our mingled liquids. Exhausted we returned to the sofa -- she placed the violin to one side and peeled the electrodes from her skin -- we lay together, her head resting against my chest. We slept for a long time. I dreamed of her and her violin, playing the song that makes every other song seem listless. She played against the mountains and the sound came back to me in echoes. Over the years this dream would come back to me again and again. When I awoke her head was still pressed against me. I didn't have the heart to rouse her, so I lay there, looked up at the ceiling, caressed her hair and listened to her relaxed breathing. I ached, and I knew she would too. Every service requires payment and ours would demand several days of sore limbs and stiff backs. I smiled to myself. I was willing to pay that fine.