She Plays the Mandolin

DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything.

Hands, large and warm and trembling, covered hers, coaxing her fingers into position. Behind her, she felt his muscles shift as his arms engulfed her, holding her as she held the mandolin. The round-bellied instrument rested low against her hips, its slender neck captured between her fingers. She could feel his breath on her neck, eager and quick, as unskilled fingers attempted to play a simple scale.

'Like this,' showing her, ever the guider, the teacher.

Notes, first discordant, then flowing and smooth, emerged, spinning a web of soft sound around them. Then, a kiss – his lips worshipping her, head held high as she accepted his tribute, fingers still plucking unceasingly at the strings of the mandolin.

His hands, larger than hers and stronger, covered hers again, stilling their movement. The mandolin, abandoned and forgotten now by him, was still in her mind, the music still wafting around her as he turned her in his arms. His worship continued, and as she reluctantly gave herself over to his veneration, the mandolin lay silent and abandoned on the floor.