Celia, The Cello, And Cigarettes

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Celia, The Cello, and Cigarettes

My name is Francis. I teach ballroom dancing.

Rock music never turned me on. I could listen to Metallica, Aerosmith, or The Who… It all sounded the same to me. Like noise. I was trained as a classical musician. I played woodwinds — the flute, clarinet, saxophone, even the bassoon. My father, who played violin, wanted to teach me the violin, but I hated it. My brother played the cello. He used to practice 6 hours a day. He auditioned for the symphony and didn’t make it. Finally he went crazy. Today he’s in a mental institution.

I played in concert bands, and orchestras. There are lots of women in an orchestra. When you’re a real musician, you don’t notice the women. But I was different, I looked at their legs. So I can’t consider myself a real musician. I had to find a job where I could hold a woman in my arms. I am a leg man. I love a woman’s thighs, especially her inner thigh where it’s most sensitive. That’s why I teach ballroom dancing.

My buddy, Larry, has a monument company. You know, grave markers, headstones, mausoleums, but not tombs. He asked me to help out. So, one summer I sold monuments, door to door. Don’t laugh. We scanned the obituaries every day, and Larry would give me list of recently deceased people, usually husbands who died of a heart attack, and I would call on the wife. Our receptionist was responsible for making appointments. I was a young, good looking guy, driving a new Cadillac, so no one ever slammed the door in my face.

Just so you know, I bought the Cadillac from the money I made in selling ballroom dance programs. But that’s another story.

It was a beautiful July day, not too hot. I had an appointment to call on a Mrs. Cassidy. She lived outside of Boston in one of the upscale suburbs, mostly trees and a few farms. She answered the door on my third ring, and I expected to see a grief stricken middle aged woman. But she looked about 45, with an hourglass figure, and two little boys hanging behind her legs. She had someone visiting her, a young pretty woman with a baby. She looked like a teenager. The teen was breast feeding the baby. The girl smiled at me. Haven’t you ever seen a woman nursing her baby before? I tried not to stare, and hoped my eyes would revert back to normal as soon a possible. Gloria’s breast looked like a giant cantalope. The baby was sucking almanbahis adres on a thick brown nipple.

I directed my attention back to my “customer”. She was very attractive in a housewife way. Nice figure but not openly displayed. She appeared to have a big ass, but I wasn’t sure. Her hair was dark brown, and hung to her waist.

“Mrs. Cassidy? My name is Francis, and …”

“Oh, I know” she interrupted smiling. “You want to talk about my husband’s marker.”

My heart sank. I was hoping to sell her a beautiful granite headstone, with two angels hovering over the edges. There wasn’t much commission in a marker.

“This is my daughter, Gloria. She lives next door, and had just dropped in. I told her you were coming and she wanted to meet you.”

I was surprised that both these women were waiting for me. “Actually your secretary told us you were very handsome and taught ballroom dancing. Is this true? You’re a dance instructor?” That was Mrs. Cassidy.

“Well, yes, but I didn’t come to talk about dancing.”

“I wish more men would learn to dance …”

“Mrs. Cassidy …”

“Please call me Celia …” she said. “My husband wasn’t much of a dancer,”she continued. “He used to say he had two left feet …” Then she added, “He was a chain smoker. I told him he had to smoke in the garage. He stunk up the house.”

We chatted for a while about nothing, just small talk. The baby sounded like it hadn’t eaten in a week, it was slurping and sucking so loud; it was nursing on Gloria’s big brown nipple, and it’s eyes were closed.

Gloria suddenly spoke. “Breast feeding makes me horny …” A deep thought.

Celia quickly agreed, “I loved nursing my boys. I was horny all the time. My useless husband didn’t notice. He was out in the garage most of the time. Smoking. Or looking at dirty magazines.”

Celia and Gloria were both on the sofa. Celia’s house dress had moved half way up her thighs. She was bare legged. Her skin was creamy and lightly tanned. I was trying to appear professional but my cock told me to forget about being professional. She had sent the kids out in the back yard to play.

In the course of our conversation she told me she had been a musician, a classical musician, and that she played the cello. “But when I got married, I had to raise a family, and …”

I guessed the rest of the story. But almanbahis yeni giriş then she said, “Now I can get back to playing again. “ My ears perked up. I could picture her playing the cello, her legs spread apart.

“Funny, I’m a musician too. I played the clarinet, actually first chair. I used to sit across from cello players. But they didn’t look like you …”

Celia blushed. Gloria glared at me, warning me not to try to flirt with her grieving mother. The baby was making a racket on that nipple.

“Is there a chance you’d play something for me?” I asked.

“Oh, sure … maybe something simple,” she replied, “ … like the cello solo from Swan Lake Ballet?” She suggested. “It’s very sensual.”

“Perfect,” I said. I didn’t want to appear too eager.

She went into the bedroom and came back with her cello. She pulled up a chair, and sat down. She pulled the cello between her legs. She had beautiful legs. I could almost see her crotch. Praise God …

She tuned the instrument, with open bowing, adjusting the cello pegs. My eyes were glued to her thighs. God, her thighs were lovely. A few minutes later, she was ready.

“OK, mom, I’m leaving now,” Gloria spoke up. “Baby’s full, and burped. I gotta get going …” She had buttoned up her blouse. The show was over.

“Nice to meet you, Gloria. Maybe you and your husband can drop by to our Friday night party, “ I said.

She left.

Celia began to play, her head tilted a bit, as she listened to the intonation. Her bowing was perfect, and my cock continued to swell. I wish I had worn black pants because with gray trousers my cock was working its way down my leg, looking more like a giant snake.

She knew this piece by heart, so she was watching my eyes. Or maybe my erection. The more I tried to maintain my composure, the more my cock expanded. Her eyes went down between my legs; she noticed my growing and embarrassing lump.

“Good God, Francis, does my playing really turn you on …”

“Yeah,” I mumbled. “Don’t stop playing …” My balls were starting to ache.

“I’ve played before lots of audiences but I’ve never seen anyone get an erection like that! “

But she played on, her eyes glued to my cock. I had no idea whether Ralph had fucked her recently, but with his being deceased, it couldn’t have been in the past week. She was turned on almanbahis giriş by the size of my cock. “It’s been so long, Francis … with my husband having a heart condition …”

“Celia, I’m so sorry. You’re so beautiful …”

“Oh, Francis … you’re making me wet … Are you like this with all your clients? “

“I really love Swan Lake!” I blurted. Did she believe me? Who cares.

I crawled across the rug to her legs. I could smell her sweet flesh. I kissed her thighs. She laid the cello aside, and opened her legs for me. No need for words. I saw her thin nylon panties were wet. There were some stray pubic hairs sticking out. I drew her panties down over her knees.

“Celia, let me just look at you.” She was totally aroused, her hips slowly undulating. Her vaginal area was soaked with the clear, heavy flow of her arousal. The dark hair around her pussy was matted and wet. The odor was a female scent, slightly musky, but not overpowering.

I pulled her hips forward, and began to lick her labia. I rolled my tongue between her shell like folds, and found her waiting clitoris. She was totally submissive and loved being worshipped. “My husband never did this to me. He’d rather smoke than lick me …” She put her hands on the back of my head and pulled me in. “Do it harder, Francis. Suck my clit…” Her juices were tricking out over her thighs.

The two boys came back into the kitchen from the yard. “Mom, we’re hungry.”

“Mommy is busy now. I’ll fix you a sandwich later …”

I’d been swallowing her juices, sucking on her pussy for about 30 minutes. She must have cum a lot. But she needed a breather.

“Francis, you poor dear. You must be suffering …”

“I like suffering, Celia. I was born for this. To suffer.” I just loved eating pussy. She had laid the cello aside. With a look of empathy she unbuttoned my fly and pulled out my thick, swollen cock. She stared at it, played with the foreskin, smearing the precum. Then she put her mouth over it. She sucked like she played the cello. I felt like my balls were being drained. I felt it coming up, and then I shot a blast of cum into her mouth, and over her cheeks. She tried to duck, but another squirt hit her in the forehead. She was squeezing my cock, still hanging on. Her hair was splattered.

After the last dribble, there was nothing more to say. Finally she looked at me with tenderness, and said, “Thank you, Francis, for making me feel like a cheap slut. I love the cello, but being a slut does give me more room for personal growth.”

She added, “Tell your boss I’ll come by soon and pick out a headstone …”

I hope I’ll get the commission.

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