Sonata

A lakeside duet of touch and sound

Sonata — she listens with her skin, waiting for the first note to find her.

CW: Adult, explicit sexuality; consensual power dynamics; graphic descriptions; anal play; strong language.

The cottage keeps the lake like a secret. Mornings, the water is a sheet of brushed steel; by noon it’s a mirror that lies. I’ve learned the sound the wind makes when it comes across it—small hands smoothing a dress, then tugging, then letting go. He says the lake tells time better than clocks. He says it like a man who learned daylight by ear.

I arrive before the housekeeper, before deliveries, before anyone who might need something he can’t give. My keys dent the quiet. I unlatch the alarm and fill the kettle. And still the cottage holds its breath for the first note.

He’s already at the piano when I wheel the tray in. He finds it the way birds find north: not by looking. His fingers rest on the fallboard as if listening through it.

“Good morning, Eli.”

“Is it?” He tilts his head. “What does the water say?”

“West wind. Cat’s paws. You’ve got an hour before the sun warms the glass.”

He smiles, turned a few degrees to the left of me, the way he aims at voices. “Then we should be efficient.”

The piano is a black animal sleeping in the corner. When he opens it and lifts the lid, the room sheds its skin. The first chord is an inhale, the second a decision. I stop mid-sip and don’t set the cup down because the porcelain would clap against the saucer and I can’t bear to put applause where there should be silence.

He’s handsome in the way of men who never had to practice it. Sharp jaw softened by sleep, a mouth with a private joke in it. There’s a small scar by his eyebrow. I don’t ask how. I think maybe he found a doorframe with his face the way he finds most obstacles—too late, then forever cataloged.

He practices scales to wake his hands, but he plays them like they matter: not drills, but ladders. C to C, and each rung is a different sky. His blinds are open though he isn’t, and the lake throws knives of light at the ceiling. The whole room flickers as if we’re underwater. He modulates. The floorboards keep time. Somewhere, a loon calls out, a single note with a soft hinge.

I was hired to help. Aide, they said in the listing, not nurse. Tasks: medication, meal prep, errands, schedule coordination, light housekeeping, ability to read small print. They didn’t list what music does to the body that’s trying to behave. They didn’t list the heat of listening. They didn’t list that when he reaches for a suspended fourth and lets it resolve, my spine resolves with it.

He pauses long enough to find his glass of water; long enough for me to tuck the hair behind my ear like I’m not eavesdropping on something private. I say, “Do you want your morning meds before the fugue?”

“In seven minutes,” he says. “That’s how long the throat can forgive neglect.”

He begins the fugue like a secret shared and immediately denied. Subject, answer, the weaving of lines like threads between us. I should make the bed. I should reply to the texts from the agency. Instead, I stand closer than yesterday. He wouldn’t know. Or he would, by the shift in air I carry with me, my small weather front.

He hears me smile sometimes. He says it has a sound. He also hears when I stop pretending I’m not counting the stretch of his reach, the architecture of his knuckles. Once, early on, I brushed his wrist by accident and my name fell apart in my mouth for the rest of the day.

He never asks for pity. He asks for descriptions. The kind that hurt a little.

“What color is the morning?” he says now, somewhere inside the development section.

“Lemon behind silver. The shore weeds look like combed hair.”

“And you?”

“I’m coffee and lake air.”

He laughs once, clean, then pulls the theme back home. He is amazing in the way of men who’ve built their own doorways into rooms other people live in. People come from the city on weekends just to sit on the lawn and hear him rehearse, pretending they’re walking the path for exercise, pretending they aren’t waiting for sound to catch them by the sleeve. I watch their faces through the picture window and catch my own reflection there, a ghost with a clipboard.

By the time the kettle goes quiet, he’s gliding back down from where he keeps the thunder. The final cadence lands lightly, as if to say: we could have crashed, but we didn’t. He rests his hands on his knees the way he likes to, palms open, as if ready for rain.

“Seven minutes,” I remind him.

He nods, turns his face toward the pill organizer. I bring it to him and feel ridiculous for how careful I am with the plastic, like it’s bone. His fingers find mine when I pass him the glass. Not on purpose, or maybe on purpose. The contact is a bell struck once. It rings through me long after the swallow.

“Thank you,” he says. “You move like you don’t want the room to notice.”

“I don’t.”

“The room notices,” he says. “It’s jealous.”

The afternoon is errands and emails—the tannin of Twinings on my tongue and the solvent sting of receipt ink on my fingers. He has a lesson over speakerphone with a student who says her arpeggios feel like socks on a floor. He says, Try stepping over them. He says, Try barefoot. After, we take the path down to the dock. He holds the cane but mostly he holds my sleeve. The lake takes the sun and breaks it into pieces we can carry.

“Describe the sky,” he says.

“It’s flat blue with one gull and the impatience of August.”

“Are we impatient?”

“You are,” I say. “I’m professional.”

He smiles like he’s tuning me, a peg turning in his mind. “Professionally impatient, then.”

We sit on the dock. A dragonfly pins the air and then lets it up again. He dips his fingertips into the water and listens to the small slap against his skin. “This is what E flat feels like,” he says, and I can hear it.

At night I go back to my apartment and try not to replay his hands, but my cheap ceiling fan ticks like a metronome and my mind keeps the beat. I make rules for myself—no lingering, no brushing past, no extra descriptions he doesn’t ask for. I break them like soft bread.

The next morning the house is cooler. The first geese have practiced flying crooked V’s over the inlet. He’s at the piano before me, hands on the lid like a priest at an altar. I set the tray down and the silverware trembles with the smallest chime. He tilts toward it.

“You’re sad,” he says, as if it’s a taste in the air.

“I’m not.”

“You are.” He doesn’t play yet. “Is it the geese?”

“It’s the word ‘temporary.’ It’s everywhere.”

“I prefer ‘movement,’” he says. “Nothing stays. It sings.”

The room feels too small for how much I want. Not only him—the shape of his mouth, the way his lashes cast small shadows on his cheeks when he laughs—but the act of being seen by someone who can’t see and somehow does anyway. I want to be the instrument he warms his hands on. I want to be—ridiculous, dangerous—sheet music.

He lowers his fingers. The first notes are exploratory, like footfalls in a strange house that will soon be familiar. He’s writing something new in the air, and I feel the draft it makes.

I step closer. The lake, the clock, the geese—everything narrows to the distance between his hand and the key, between his breath and the next measure. My own breath takes its cue. I rest my palm on the smooth lacquer of the piano, a polite trespass.

The chord he plays doesn’t resolve. It hangs there, a question with the spine of an answer. He turns his face toward me. He doesn’t need to, but he does.

“Eli,” I say, and my voice belongs to someone braver.

He waits.

“Play me.”

The silence after my words stretched, a fermata holding the entire room in its grasp. The air itself seemed to press against my skin, charged and waiting. Eli didn’t move, his beautiful, unseeing eyes fixed in my direction, his head tilted as if listening to the shape of my audacity.

Then, a soft, knowing curve touched his lips. “A new composition,” he murmured, his voice a low cello note in the morning quiet. “Every instrument has its own topography. Its own tuning. Tell me where forte is acceptable. Tell me where pianissimo becomes a request to stop.”

His language, so characteristically his, was the most explicit consent check I could have imagined. It wasn’t just about yes or no; it was about the entire dynamic landscape of my desire.

“The piece has no limits,” I breathed, my own voice unfamiliar. “Play it all.”

A slow nod. He shifted on the bench, his shoulder angling toward the space I occupied. “Key of A major,” he announced, as if to himself. “Bright. A little sharp with anticipation.” His right hand lifted, not to the keys, but into the space between us, his fingers searching the air until they found the cool, polished rim of the piano. “Your hand. Place it here.”

I obeyed, laying my palm flat on the lacquered wood beside his. The surface was smooth and cool, a stark contrast to the sudden fever in my blood.

“The opening,” he whispered.

His index finger traced a line from the heel of my hand, over the delicate bones of my wrist, a slow, ascending scale of touch. My skin woke up under that single point of contact, a line of fire following his path. He paused at the inside of my elbow, pressing gently into the soft flesh there. A brief rest. Then his touch resumed its journey, a glissando up my bicep, over the thin cotton of my sleeve, to the curve of my shoulder.

“Your pulse is in 6/8 time,” he noted, his voice a bare hum. “A quick, dancing rhythm.”

He let his fingers drift higher, skating along the column of my neck, mapping the frantic beat there. I couldn’t suppress the sharp intake of air. He smiled, a private, triumphant thing. His fingertips found my jawline, traced it with a reverence that felt obscene, and finally, finally, came to rest on my parted lips.

“The theme,” he said, and his thumb brushed my lower lip, a whisper-soft caress. I felt the slight callus on its pad, the musician’s mark, and a jolt went straight to my cunt, a deep, aching throb that demanded attention. My tongue darted out, a reflexive, desperate motion, and tasted the salt of his skin.

He made a soft, approving sound. “Molto espressivo.”

His hand left my face, and the loss was a physical pain. But he was only turning back to the keyboard. His left hand settled over the lower register. “Bass note,” he said, and depressed a deep, resonant C-sharp. The vibration hummed through the piano’s frame and into the wood beneath my palm, a tremor I felt in my very bones.

His right hand returned to me, not with hesitation, but with purpose. It slid behind my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair, and he drew me down. My forehead came to rest against his, our breath mingling, hot and quick. The scent of him—lake air, slept-in cotton, and the faint, clean smell of rosin—filled my lungs.

“Now,” he breathed against my mouth, “we play together.”

He brought his other hand to my breast, palming me through my shirt. My nipple hardened instantly into a tight peak against his touch, and a low, ragged sound escaped me. “Eli…”

“Forte,” he commanded softly, and he squeezed, his fingers learning the shape and weight of me, rolling the aching bud between his thumb and forefinger until I was writhing against the piano, the edge digging into my hip. He dipped his head and his mouth found my throat, his tongue laving a hot, wet path up to my ear. He took the lobe between his teeth, biting down just enough to make my knees buckle. I gripped his shoulders, holding on as the room tilted.

“I want to feel that mouth on my cock,” he growled, the vulgar words a shocking, beautiful contrast to his musical metaphors. “I want to hear what you sound like with my fucking dick sliding over your tongue.”

The explicit desire, voiced in that low, cultured tone, undid me. I sank to my knees before him on the woven rug, my hands going to his belt buckle with a clumsiness I didn’t recognize in myself. He helped me, his fingers deft and sure, and then his trousers were open. He wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

His cock sprang free, thick and already fully hard, the head dark and flushed. I could see a single bead of moisture pearl at the tip. The musky, masculine scent of him hit me, and my mouth watered. I didn’t hesitate. I leaned forward and licked a slow, firm stripe from the base to the tip, tasting his essence, clean and sharp.

He gasped, a sharp, staccato inhale, and his hands fisted in my hair. “Yes. Just like that. Your tongue on me… it’s a perfect legato.”

I took him into my mouth, sliding my lips down his length as far as I could, my tongue pressing hard against the pulsing vein underneath. He was big, stretching my lips, filling my throat. I relaxed my jaw and took him deeper, my nose pressing into the crisp hair at his base. His hips gave a minute thrust, a helpless, tiny movement.

“God, your fucking mouth,” he groaned, his head falling back. “So hot. So wet for me.” His grip in my hair tightened, not painful, but possessive, guiding my rhythm. “Suck me. Just like that. Use your tongue—right there—oh, fuck.”

I obeyed, hollowing my cheeks, sucking him hard, reveling in the heavy weight of him, the way his body tensed and shook under my ministrations. I could feel the tension coiling in him, the promise of his release. I slid a hand between my own legs, pressing the heel of my palm against my clit through my jeans. The pressure was a maddening echo of the need he was stoking in me.

He suddenly stilled my head, his touch gentling. “Enough,” he breathed, his voice ragged. “I want to be inside you when I come. I want to feel that tight cunt grip me.”

He pulled me up, my lips swollen and wet, and kissed me, deep and searching, tasting himself on my tongue. His hands went to the button of my jeans, popping it open, dragging the zipper down. He shoved them, along with my panties, down over my hips in one swift, impatient motion. The cool lake air hit my wet flesh, and I shuddered.

He turned me around, bending me over the cool, gleaming surface of the piano. The keys let out a discordant, beautiful jangle beneath my weight. He positioned himself behind me, one hand spreading me open, the other guiding the broad head of his cock to my entrance. I was dripping, aching, more than ready.

“Tell me,” he demanded, his voice raw with need. “Tell me you want this.”

“I want it,” I panted, pushing back against him. “I want your cock, Eli. Fuck me. Please.”

With a single, powerful thrust, he buried himself inside me to the hilt. I cried out, a sound swallowed by the polished wood, my body stretching to accommodate his glorious, fucking fullness. He held himself there for a moment, both of us trembling, joined in the most intimate way possible.

Then he began to move.
The rhythm found us first—adagio at the edges, then a gathering allegro my breath fell into.

His hips drew back in a slow, aching withdrawal that made every nerve in my body scream for him to return. The cool air of the room felt like a violation against my wet, stretched flesh. He paused, buried only by the tip, a silent question hanging between the press of our bodies.

“The tempo,” he breathed, his voice rough against my ear. “Do you want it adagio? Or do you want me to fuck you prestissimo?”

“Faster,” I pleaded, the word scraping out of my throat. “Forte. Forteissimo, Eli.”

His answer was a single, sharp thrust that slammed me into the keyboard, a jarring, glorious chord of sound and sensation that shook through the piano and into my bones. He set a ruthless, driving rhythm, each powerful surge of his hips punctuated by the discordant cry of the keys beneath my chest. My fingers splayed against the slick lacquer, scrambling for purchase.

His hands were everywhere, orchestrating me. One arm wrapped around my waist, anchoring me, his palm flat against my lower belly, holding me firm for his deep, fucking strokes. The other hand slid from my hip, over the curve of my ass, his fingers digging into my flesh as he drove into me. This is the rhythm, I thought wildly, this is the time signature of us.

He leaned over me, his chest to my back, his mouth at my neck. “Tell me what you feel.”

“Your cock,” I gasped, the words broken by his relentless pace. “So deep. Stretching me. I can feel you… God, I can feel every fucking inch.”

“Where?” The command was a hot breath against my skin.

“Inside,” I moaned, pushing back against him, meeting his thrusts. “My cunt is so full of you. I feel you in my stomach. In my throat.” The piano groaned beneath us, a sympathetic instrument to our movement.

His hand on my belly slid lower, his fingers finding my clit with unerring accuracy. The contact was electric, a sharp, bright note against the deep, pounding bass of his thrusts. I cried out, a sound lost in the cacophony we were creating.

“Crescendo,” he growled, and his fingers began to move in a tight, rapid circle, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, more urgent. The double sensation was too much, an overwhelming symphony of pleasure building from two points, threatening to shatter me.

The lake wind chose that moment to sweep through the open window, cooling the sweat on my skin, carrying the scent of water and pine into the room of heat and sex. A shaft of light, reflected off the water, danced across the ceiling above us, a frantic strobe light keeping time with our bodies.

His fingers, slick and precise, trailed lower, and I gasped as one brushed against the tight ring of muscle there. I tensed instinctively, but his voice was a low, steady command in my ear. “Relax. Let me in.”

The pressure was insistent but controlled, his fingertip circling before pressing just enough to make me shiver. I arched into him, my body betraying my mind’s hesitation. He didn’t rush, easing the tip of his finger past the resistance, the stretch sharp and electric. My breath hitched, and I buried my face against the piano, the cool lacquer a contrast to the heat building inside me.

“Breathe,” he murmured, his voice dark with promise. He worked his finger deeper, curling it slightly, and I cried out, the sensation a shocking, forbidden thrill. His cock still pounded into me, relentless and deep, but now there was this—a new layer of intensity that made my head swim. Every thrust drove his finger deeper, and I felt split open, claimed in ways I hadn’t dared imagine.

“God, Eli,” I moaned, my voice trembling. “It’s… it’s too much.”

“It’s not enough,” he countered, his voice rough. His free hand tightened on my hip, holding me in place as he fucked me harder, his finger moving in time with his cock. The dual sensation was overwhelming, a symphony of pleasure and pain that coiled tighter and tighter in my belly. I could feel the moment my body surrendered, the tension melting into a heady, liquid heat.

I was close. The pressure was a coiled spring in my core, winding tighter with every stroke of his fingers, every deep drive of his cock. My sounds were no longer words, just raw, open-mouthed gasps and muffled cries against the piano.

“I can taste your climax in the air,” he rasped, his own control fraying. His rhythm stuttered, becoming less polished, more desperate. “It’s sweet. It’s sharp. Let me hear it. Let it go.”

His words were the final permission I needed. The spring snapped. My orgasm tore through me, a violent, seismic wave of pure sensation that clenched around his cock, milking him, pulling a guttural roar from his throat. My vision whited out, the flickering light on the ceiling dissolving into a brilliant, endless static. I convulsed against the piano, my body seizing in his grip, my cunt gripping him like a fist.

He followed me over the edge, his own release a final, shuddering fortissimo. He buried himself to the hilt, his body tensing and shaking against mine as he emptied himself inside me with a low, continuous groan that was the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard.

For a long moment, our ragged breathing braided with the lake’s light flickering across the ceiling and the faint, sympathetic vibration of the piano strings. The last chord we’d struck faded into a soft, lingering sustain.

Slowly, carefully, he withdrew, his hands gentling on my body. He turned me around, my limbs loose and boneless, and gathered me against his chest. My cheek found the damp cotton of his shirt, and I could feel the frantic, slowing beat of his heart beneath my ear. We stood there, leaning against the piano, entwined in the quiet aftermath.

The lake outside continued its patient, timeless work. A loon called, its lonely note a perfect punctuation.

He finally broke the silence, his voice hoarse but clear. He lowered his hand and tapped two notes on the keys—A, then E—bright as glass. “Lake Sonata,” I said. “In A.”

I tilted my head back to look at his face, though he couldn’t see me. “Is there a second movement?”

A slow, wicked smile spread across his lips, the scar by his eyebrow lifting slightly. He brought a hand up, his fingers tracing the shell of my ear.

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