The Cellist

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It was late when I had made it to my off-campus apartment from a wild birthday party for one of my fellow professors. I had managed to crawl between the covers before passing out. The endless beers and jello shots had pasted a number on my head and I fell into the weirdest set of dreams. Sometime during my fitful sleep I was roused by the loud sounds of bumping and thumping, not the next-door neighbors humping, as they often liked to do on Saturday mornings, since the sound was coming from the apartment on the other side, right next to my bedroom. As I rolled over and grumbled and tried to muffle the noise by hiding beneath the covers I remembered that this neighboring apartment had been empty for over a month and figured that someone had picked this morning-of all mornings-to move in.

Despite my most earnest attempts at falling back to sleep for the next hour or more, the sounds of the voices, deep rumbling guy voices mixed with a bright giggling girl’s voice, kept me awake. Of course, by the time I finally roused myself from the bed, brewed a pot of coffee, and retrieved the newspaper, they had finished moving the furniture in and I looked out to see the rental van pulling away.

“Shit!” I swore as I snapped the blinds shut and carried my piping hot cup of coffee back to the bedroom. I slumped on the bed, opened up the newspaper, and began to scan the headlines. It didn’t take long for my eyelids to grow heavy and in spite of the slight caffeine buzz I drifted off to a peaceful sleep. I entered a warm erotic dream, the vision of a sweet blonde woman teasing me, her lithe young body and joyous laugh were taunting me, arousing me. And there was music. Lovely symphonic music and the sweet sonorous sound of a stringed instrument, deeper than a violin or viola … a cello.

Suddenly I awoke from the dream, blinking my eyes at the bright afternoon sunlight flowing into the room. I could still see the image of the girl in my dreams, feel her body pressing against me, and hear her voice calling to me. The huge hard on between my legs told me just what kind of dream it had been. And the music … I could still hear the music. I turned my head and I could still hear the cello being played, but it didn’t have anything to do with my dream, it was coming from the next apartment. No fucking wonder, I chuckled to myself as I rolled over and climbed from the bed.

I stripped off my rumpled clothes and fished out my running togs, light blue running shorts and a favorite old basketball shirt. While dressing, I listened to the music from next door. It was a long piece, and very … very … very sensual. I laced up my running shoes and stepped out onto the balcony to check the weather. The music was louder and I realized that the musician must be out on their private balcony as well. I leaned out over the rail to look next door but they were out of sight.

Smiling, I moved back through my apartment, grabbed a bottle of water, and left for my run. I had a couple of different routes that I would follow depending on my mood. Being still a bit distracted by my wild dream I ended up taking a longer route than I normally would with a thick hangover. As I ran back toward the complex, I decided to take a short cut along the back of the building instead of going all the way around to the front entrance.

I slowed as I neared the building, dousing myself with the last of my fresh water. Then I heard the sound of the music again and looked up in the direction it was coming from. Moving back from the building I could see the balcony of my new neighbor and the sight that greeted my eyes stopped me in my tracks. Seated at a chair holding a beautiful instrument was an equally beautiful young woman, honey blonde hair, blue-eyes, a pert little upturned nose, full pouty lips, with lovely trim arms and finely shaped legs cradling her cello as she played. Then I was struck by the look of her sitting there. She was the girl from my dream, almost exactly!

There was something so sensual about the scene before me, the lush sound of the music, the look of intensity in her eyes, the precise flowing way her fingers moved up and down the neck of the instrument, tweaking little nuances of vibrato from the strings, the way her other hand drew the bow back and forth languidly. I stood for several minutes more, listening to the music and watching the awesome sight before my eyes, my body responding strangely to the sound. The player seemed to be unaware of anything but the music, her head swaying from side to side as she played. Finally with a great flourish, she finished the piece and leaned her body against the instrument, her left arm curling around the neck of the instrument. Caught up in the moment, I began to clap my hands.

“Bravo!” I shouted up with a smile.

The girl looked at me quite startled by my response. A blush of embarrassment filled her cheeks for a moment.

“Wonderful!” I shouted up. “You play beautifully!”

She mouthed a little “thank you,” Escort Eryaman and held her instrument close to her, as if hiding behind it. As I looked closer I could see why. It looked as though she was wearing only a bathing suit-no, check that, just her bra and panties, and a skimpy sexy little pink ensemble at that. I could see just behind the body of the cello the pale curve of her breast held in place by a delicate pink lace bra. Talk about your awkward moments! I wasn’t sure what to say to a cellist in her underwear, especially one who just so happens to be your new next-door neighbor, and also happens to be stunningly beautiful.

“Just got back from my daily run,” I remarked pointing toward my apartment next to hers. “By the way, I’m Chase, your next-door neighbor.”

“Hi, I’m Kirsten,” she replied shyly but with a pretty smile. “Kirsten Montgomery.”

“Nice to meet you,” I called out and saw her nod her pretty head. “Most people call me Professor since I teach English over at the University.” Still hot and sweaty from my run, I realized that I must have been a sorry sight, mussed up hair, sweaty running togs and a two days’ growth of beard. “Say, if you aren’t doing anything right now, I’ll clean up and stop by and give you a proper welcome.”

“Umm, okay,” she said glancing around nervously.

“Give me about ten minutes,” I said. With a wave, I walked toward the rear entrance to the building and let myself in. I stripped off my sweaty running clothes and stood underneath the shower, letting the hot water rush over my tall trim body, invigorating the firm muscles of my chest and arms. As I quickly washed my body, the stiffness of my cock was undeniable; it felt thicker than usual and very sensitive, almost begging to be stroked. Was it an after effect of my sexy dream, or listening to Kirsten play her cello, or was it something else that aroused me in such a way?

Stepping out of the shower and toweling off, I slipped into a pair of silk boxers and khaki slacks with a favorite golf shirt pulled on top. I brushed my sandy brown hair and gave myself a quick look over. There was a sparkle to my blue eyes and a warm grin on my face. I spritzed on a bit of cologne and then went to the kitchen to rummage for a suitable welcoming gift. I found it on the wine rack, a favorite bottle of bottle of McGuigan Simeon Merlot. Clutching the bottle I went next door and knocked. I heard her call out, “Coming! Just a minute!” A minute later, the door opened and Kirsten greeted me. She was dressed in a light blue summer dress that clung to her shapely body like a glove.

“Hi, Chase,” she said cordially. “Ermm, Professor! Come on in!” She waved me inside her apartment. It was the mirror image of mine, a one-bedroom unit with an open floor plan that gave the place a spacious feel.

“Thanks,” I said and then held out the bottle of wine as I stepped inside. “Here, this is for you. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

“Thank you,” she replied, closing the door and accepting the wine bottle. She read the label and smiled. “Very nice. Reminds me of home.” It was then that I recognized her accent.

“You’re from down under, just like the wine, eh?” I asked, adoring the lilt of her accent. She nodded. “I can easily see that some of the sweetest things in this world come from there!”

“Yes, I am, Brisbane in fact … on the coast,” she answered sweetly. “So, umm, would you like me to open this now or …?” she asked.

“Up to you. I wouldn’t mind sharing a glass if you’d like,” I ventured.

She agreed and asked me to do the honors, which I gladly did. It was such a nice afternoon, we took our glasses of wine and used a couple of packing crates as chairs out on her balcony.

“So what brings you to Ann Arbor?” I asked.

“I’m going to be studying at the University for the summer and one of the other students turned me on to this place,” she said, taking a dainty sip of wine. “Better than a dorm or a motel.”

“A lot of my students live here in The Quad, as they call it. It’s close to the campus and the rent is reasonable,” I remarked. “Plus if you’re lucky, you get a nice private view,” I said gesturing toward the lush woods that ran along the back of the building, providing a calm peaceful feeling.

“Then I guess I’m lucky,” Kirsten replied with a lovely glowing smile.

And our conversation just seemed to flow after that. I told her about teaching at the University, she spoke of her study of music and language. Despite the obvious difference in our ages, we freely moved on to other topics beyond music and literature, discovering a number of common interests in art and movies and books, in physical activities and sports, shared likes and dislikes in food and wine. By the time the wine was nearly finished, I felt as if we had quickly become good friends, not hindered at all by the fact that I was considerably older. I was very taken by the mature way she talked and carried herself. But the way she sat Eryaman Escort in the chair, legs uncrossed, the hem of her dress riding up her thighs was like the music she had played earlier, very sensual. I had to rein in my glances, making sure that I didn’t stare too long at her long lovely legs, the swell of her hips, the curves of her proud firm breasts.

“So do you always practice the cello in your undies?” I ventured, emboldened by one last swig of wine. Her face blushed sweetly.

“Well most times I wear a nightgown or maybe panties and a t-shirt,” she said, recovering nicely. “Kind of a hangover from when I would practice as a kid before bed. But today, well, I was going to jump in the shower, when I saw my cello and I just had to start playing.” A terrific laugh escaped her pretty mouth.

“I was very impressed,” I remarked with a grin. “I mean with your music. You play beautifully. Not that the rest of you isn’t impressive, because it is.”

“Professor!” she said, her eyes gazing intently at mine. “Are you trying to hit on me?”

“Trying?” I said. “Trying? I thought I wasn’t just ‘trying’ but doing a pretty good job of doing the real thing.”

“Well, you do have my attention,” she replied.

“Then what about dinner?” I asked. “Would you care to join me?”

“Um, sure,” she replied, hesitant at first. But as she took her last sip of wine, her expression brightened. “I’d love to!”

The rest of the afternoon faded into evening and we enjoyed a wonderful time. We walked downtown to a great spot for dinner. As we walked I took her hand in mine and felt her long fingers curl around my hand. During dinner we sat across from each other and I again had to keep myself from staring at her lovely young body that was so beautifully sheathed by her dress. And she knew that I was checking her out and seemed to encourage it. When she excused herself to the restroom, she made certain that I was able to see the sway of her ass as she walked away. And when she returned, she bent down to whisper in my ear, “Miss me?” knowing that it would give me a terrific view of her firm young breasts as she leaned forward.

After dinner, we walked hand in hand along Main Street, talking about everything and nothing. It was a gorgeous early summer evening and I could feel the effect that the wine and her company were having on me. As we neared a streetlight, I slowed and took her hand, pulling her toward me. She looked up into my eyes quizzically, yet fell lightly against my body. I rested my hand on her cheek and leaned forward to kiss her, a light brushing little kiss on her soft damp lips. I could feel her respond as she returned the kiss, her hand rising to curl behind my neck, pulling me close to her, her nails raking through the hair on the back of my neck.

Since we lived in a university town and public displays of affection are commonplace, and few passersby took notice of our romantic interlude, even if it was between a well-respected English professor and a summer music student. We walked back toward our building, hand in hand and our conversation quieted. As we stepped through the entrance, she turned to me and reached for my neck again, pulling me toward her for another kiss. This one was not like the first, but a crushing kiss of passion. I felt her flow into my arms, my hands touching her for the first time, feeling the warmth of her body beneath the thin fabric of her dress.

“So, Professor,” she said hoarsely when our kiss broke off. “I had a great time. Thanks so much for welcoming me to the neighborhood.”

“My pleasure,” I replied and escorted her up the stairs. We paused outside her door and kissed again. “Sleep warm.”

“Thank you Professor,” she returned.

Then her door opened and she slipped through and was gone. With the sweet taste of her kiss still on my lips I happily returned to my place. Pouring myself a glass of wine, I opened the door to my balcony and sat outside with my book. Moments later I was greeted by the sensual strains of Kirsten’s cello. “I think I’m going to enjoy having Miss Montgomery for a neighbor,” I said softly to myself. “Yes, indeed.”


Monday evening is my night for doing chores. Clean the apartment. Do the wash. Grocery shopping. Any odd errand that needs to be done. I figure the rest of the week I have to myself to do whatever else I feel like. This one rainy Monday evening in mid summer was no different. I gathered up my overflowing laundry basket and trudged down to the basement to run my dirties through the communal laundry. I could see that the light was already turned on and figured that one of the other tenants had the same idea. But when I stepped up to the doorway, I was stopped in my tracks. Kirsten was standing in front of one of the two washing machines, her back to the door, and an empty laundry basket at her feet. She had just stripped her top off and was tossing it into the machine. She was naked to the waist and wearing just a little Eryaman Escort Bayan pair of shorts, which she quickly skimmed down her long legs and tossed into the machine as well, leaving her dressed in just a simple purple thong that left little to my fertile imagination.

Talk about instant schwing! Seeing this slim shapely young girl nearly naked tweaked my under worked manhood greatly. I didn’t want to make a sound and disturb her, for surely she’d think I was some sort of perv. On the other hand I didn’t want to just stand and gape at her, but I couldn’t help it. She was gorgeous, a beautiful all over tan, flawless creamy skin, and an incredible shape, especially her perfect, firm round buns. Then there was the split between her legs, the window I think photographers call it, wide enough to fit maybe three fingers through. She reached for a long bulky white t-shirt lying on the dryer next to her and pulled it on over her head. The hem fell to just past her perfect buns. I cleared my voice and entered the room.

“Whoa! Hi!” I said, trying to sound startled but wasn’t sure that it sounded too sincere.

“Chase! Professor! Oh my god! You startled me!” she exclaimed placing her hand over her mouth. The flush of embarrassment reddened her cheeks.

“Just the old professor doing a little spot of laundry on a drizzly evening,” I said setting my basket next to an unused washing machine.

“Did … did you see … when did you get here?” she asked with a nervous excitement.

“Just this moment,” I lied and was sure she could see it in my face. “Why?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said eyeing me suspiciously. “Just that if you were a bit earlier … oh, never mind.”


“Nothing. Never mind.”

Although she was saying never mind, I knew what she must be thinking and I didn’t want to let one what I had seen. Yet, I couldn’t chase the image of her nearly naked body from my mind. She poured the little box of soap into the machine, closed the lid and started it up. She definitely seemed flustered as I began to dump my things into the machine next to hers.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing … I just …” she said hesitantly. “Just something … impulsive … nothing really.”

“Whatever do you mean?” I said tossing the darks into the last machine. “You look like the cat caught in the cookie jar.”

“I’m not … I mean I didn’t … oh it doesn’t really matter,” she said with a bit of exasperation. “I mean if you just came in as you said, it doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, it wouldn’t matter if let’s say, oh, I don’t know … maybe if I saw you stripping down in the laundry room?” I said, hoping for a cool matter of factness, but standing beside her, having seen almost all of her beautiful body, was stunting my acting job.

“So you were spying on me,” she said turning toward me.

“What? Me? Spying?”

“You were, weren’t you!” she said taking a few steps toward me, wagging her finger in my face. “You nasty man! Wait till I tell the Dean!”

For a second I thought she was really angry with me, but the subtle hints of a smile appeared at the corners of her mouth, matching a sexy little flicker in her eyes.

“Tell him what, that I stumbled onto you getting naked in public? This is a university town. Not much news in that.”

“So just what did you see?”

“Let’s see … it’s such a blur … you … a skimpy top … a pair of shorts … a purple thong …”

“So you were watching-spying on me! You are perverted!”

“I’m sorry, but when a beautiful young woman gets naked, I’m going to look,” I said with an apologetic tone to my voice.

“Even if she doesn’t know it? Isn’t that peeping?”

“Not in a public place,” I replied.

She thought about it for a moment.

“You’re not mad at me, are you?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“No, just a bit embarrassed.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, you have an incredible body, very, very sexy.”

“Thank you,” she said softly. The blush of embarrassment crept over her cheeks. We spent the rest of the hour hanging around the laundry room. We talked awkwardly at first and she sat with her legs crossed and her arms folded over her chest. But as we talked about school and other things, she began to relax and grow comfortable, leaned back casually on the top of the washing machines and let her legs uncross. I tried not to look but her purple thong kept peeking at me from between her legs, the thin panel of silk sheer enough to show the split of her sex. But soon enough our loads of laundry were finishing up.

“I know why you’re hanging around,” she said with a giggle as I watched her pull some of her lingerie from the machine. “You just want to check out my laundry.”

“Not me,” I said in mock innocence. “That would make me some sort of creepy weirdo … although I have to admit that I’d love to see how sexy you look in that little black bra and panties in your hand.”

“Eeek! You are a pervert!” she squealed good-naturedly. Then she laughed. “But I shouldn’t talk. I’m sort of curious about what you’d look like in these.” She reached over and grabbed a pair of my low-rise briefs and waved them in the air. “How do you fit all of your masculinity in these sexy little panties!”

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