Al had never felt so inspired as when he played with Deidre. Somehow, even as they bowed and fingered their instruments, he felt that she was making love to him. With her beside me, he mused, I really could be great. For once the dream did not seem completely ridiculous to him.
He noticed gratefully that she was being especially kind to Harvey. His brother seemed more comfortable, too, less flustered and more serene. Probably he had grown out of his crush on Deidre, and could now relate to her as a colleague instead of an object of desire. The fact that their rehearsals were going so well had probably helped, too. Harv could be a worrier sometimes.
When the chips were down, though, you could always depend on him. After all, it was Harvey who had found Deidre. Al would have to remember to thank him someday, when the time came for Al and Deidre to share their secret with him.
Harvey couldn’t believe how good he felt. With Deidre’s morning visits, he should have been exhausted, but in fact he’d never had more energy. Not bad for an old geezer of fifty-two, he thought, as he tried on his tuxedo in preparation for the concert. The formal costume fitted him well. He looked taller, thinner, more distinguished than he remembered.
What will Deidre wear? he wondered. He could imagine her showing up in black leather or see-through lace. But she was a professional, as surely as he and Al were. He trusted her to understand what was appropriate for a gathering of politicos and international dignitaries.
Over the last few days, rehearsals had gone so well, he had suggested they all take a day off before the gig. They were going to lunch in SoHo and then to visit the Cloisters, one of Harvey’s favourite places. He couldn’t wait to see Deidre’s flaming hair and graceful form against the backdrop of medieval stone and stained glass.
They’d have to work hard to make sure that Al didn’t feel left out. Harvey understood that his brother thought of himself as something of a lady’s man. It would be a real blow to Al’s ego to discover that Deidre had chosen Harvey as her lover.
He’d have to figure out some way to break the news gently. After the concert, of course, nothing could interfere with the return of the Goldberg Trio to the musical scene. The New Goldberg Trio, he corrected himself mentally, imagining Deidre naked with her cello between her legs.
Wouldn’t Richard have been surprised?
The concert was a triumph.
In some sense, the trio was just sophisticated background music for the Mayor’s party. When Al led them into the first movement of the Beethoven C Minor, though, the murmur of voices and tinkling of glass died away. The guests, cultured, urbane, even jaded, stood enchanted by the trio’s magic.
Deidre, resplendent in a classic black velvet gown, laid bare the passion hidden under Beethoven’s intellectual facade. Al’s playing was so pure and perfect it literally brought tears to Harvey’s eyes. Meanwhile, his viola seemed unreal, unnecessary. Surely the music flowed from his heart, through his fingers, and out to the world, without the mediation of any physical mechanism.
At one point he caught Deidre’s eye, and felt the connection, as tangible as a physical caress. The intimacy of that look sent shivers up his spine. Al glanced at him, and then at Deidre, a beatific expression making his narrow features glow. The music swelled around them, moving them, changing them.
Harvey forgot about the audience. He was aware only of the music and of his fellow players. He could sense their heartbeats driving the melody, feel their breathing in his own lungs. The strands of music wound around them, binding them together, closer, and closer still.
During the interlude, Harvey wandered among the glitterati, sipping champagne. Deidre was surrounded by eager admirers. He couldn’t get near her. Their eyes met across the room, though, kindling a familiar fire in his belly.
The music critic from the
Times
, the one who had covered Richard’s funeral, strolled by. Harvey nodded to him amiably. No one could deny that tonight belonged to the New Goldberg Trio.
It was after two when the limousine deposited them back at the house. Still in their coats, the three of them collapsed into the overstuffed living room chairs.
After a moment, Deidre pulled a bottle out from under her cloak. “A toast!” she exclaimed. “ To the Goldbergs!”
“Deidre!” Harvey sounded shocked. “You didn’t filch that champagne from the Mayor, did you?”
“Consider it to be part of our compensation,” she said with mock dignity. “They can hardly claim to have paid us what we are worth.”
She shrugged off her cape and began to wrestle with the cork. Al brought glasses from the corner cupboard.
Although she had consumed at least two glasses of champagne at the reception, she didn’t feel even slightly tipsy. With the first sip from this bottle, though, the alcohol hit her full force. She giggled like a girl of seventeen.
“To us,” she intoned, raising her glass.
The two brothers were both staring at her. “To us,” Harvey repeated softly.
“To us,” echoed Al. “And to many more successes together.”
“Together, yes, definitely.” Deidre drank deeply before setting her glass down. “I want to thank you both for giving me the chance to experience what I felt tonight. Thank you for welcoming me into your midst. Thanks for putting up with my quirks.”
“Hey,” said Al, deliberately offhand. “You put up with us.”
Harvey was looking uncomfortable.
“No, seriously. I will always cherish tonight’s memory, our first performance together.” She reached across the table and took Harvey’s hand in her own. Al’s face darkened until she held out her other hand and he accepted it.
“I told you when I met you that I was looking for a special kind of community. A union that was more than the sum of its parts.”
She looked from one man to the other: lanky, angular Albert, sharp as the high C on his own violin, hiding his vulnerability under a veneer of cynicism; pudgy, self-effacing Harvey, the sensible worrywart with the soul of a passionate romantic.
“That is what we are, the three of us. A communion of music. A family.”
Her voice broke. For a moment she was on the verge of tears. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you both.” She bowed her head for a moment. Al and Harvey looked at each other, equally unprepared to handle a weeping woman.
When she looked up again, though, her face was bright. “Well, it has been quite a night. I think it’s time for bed. Don’t you agree, Albert?”
Before he could answer, she sealed his mouth with her own. His palms cupped her breasts; hers snaked down to cradle the growing bulk in his crotch.
She heard Harvey stand up, shuffling his feet. Afraid that he would flee, she broke away from Albert and hastened to erase the horror and pain on Harvey’s face with an equally passionate embrace.
“What the hell? Deidre, what’s going on?” Al sputtered in disbelief.
“I’m inviting you into my bed,” she responded, when she and Harvey finally came up for air. “Both of you.”
“Both of us?” Harvey looked shocked and incredulous. “You can’t . . . we can’t . . .”
“Why not?” She put her hands on her hips in mock exasperation. “Don’t you think I can handle you?”
“Yes, but . . . he’s my brother,” said Al carefully, trying to work out the implications.
“Would you rather that Harvey and I just go off by ourselves, then?”
“No, of course not . . .”
“Well, then, come along, Albert.”
“But, Deidre . . .” Harvey began.
“Yes?”
“Well, I . . . you know that I love you . . .”
“And I love you, silly boy. But I also love Albert. So the two of you will just have to share me.”
She headed up the stairs, the velvet train of her gown trailing behind her. The two men remained where they were, each unable to take that first fateful step.
Halfway up, she turned to look over her shoulder. “Please,” she said, “don’t disappoint me. Remember our music. Remember what it’s like when we play together. And imagine the possibilities, the improvisations. The infinite variations.”
Al and Harvey stood there in the darkened living room, staring at the floor, for at least sixty seconds.
Harvey sighed, finally, and turned towards the stairway. “Last one up,” he said wryly, “is a rotten egg.”
The Gift
Saskia Walker
Lowering my eyelids, I wait with bated breath for Chloe’s instructions. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, naked and ready. More than ready – my body is desperate with longing, my nipples growing hard as she approaches. As soon as she says my name, I look up at her, her willing doll as she applies my mascara.
That’s when Mac walks in.
“Don’t mind me,” he says, nonchalantly. He struts across the room – wearing a black T-shirt, leather jeans and boots – carrying three glasses of wine. His presence multiplies the tension in the room tenfold. I was already struggling to retain my composure, but now he is here and the seal is on the deal. We’re going to do it, the three of us.
I’d picked up the whispers at work.
They’re swingers. They like to find a new playmate once in a while.
When I heard that, it all fell into place. As a couple they intrigued me. Mac watched on while Chloe was the social butterfly, chattering, hugging and kissing her friends. The people who whispered had no clue that it would heighten my interest. It turned me on. Being bi, it was bound to. Besides, I’d had a crush on Chloe since the day I met her. Once I met her boyfriend I couldn’t get the pictures out of my head – erotic images of them together, and me getting in on the act. When Chloe asked me to come round to their place to prepare for club night with them, my libido and my imagination knew no bounds.
Mac sets one of the glasses down on the dressing table next to Chloe and then hands me the other. I swig from it gratefully, my blood pumping fast. He looks down at me, his eyes possessive as he surveys my naked body. Chloe undressed me while blithely informing me I was going to wear something of hers.
“Does Mac being here bother you?” She asks the question casually, but I know this is about my consent, consent to whatever follows.
I smile his way. “No, he doesn’t bother me. Not in a bad way, at any rate.”
Mac lifts his glass in my direction, apparently pleased by that. A sense of expectation exudes from him tonight. His eyes are hawk-like, not missing a thing, and his dark hair has been closely cropped, making him look even more mercenary than he normally does.
“Wonderful.” Chloe inserts the mascara wand back in its shiny silver tube, and then runs her fingers through my shoulder-length hair. “Are you ready to get dressed?” Her kohl-lined eyes are bright and simmering with suggestion. “I always think the right clothing can make you feel even more
undressed
,” she adds, suggestively.
I nod. I am
so ready
. Ready for it all. I want to touch her, hold her and taste her. I want to have her man climbing the walls because of what I’m doing to her.
Mac is pleased. “It’s like a ritual for you women, getting dressed up to go out.”
“I guess it is.” If this was a ritual, was I the sacrifice?
Chloe chuckles. “He likes the way I get turned on about dressing up.”
“That’s understandable,” I murmur, and Mac nods at me, silently exchanging the knowledge that we have in common.
Chloe walks to the wardrobe and opens the double doors with a flourish, the sleeves on her red silk kimono sliding against her beautiful pale skin. Chloe is all about fabrics: silks, velvets and leather. Their bedroom is a palace, decadent with sensual fabrics. Erotic prints punctuate the walls, offering suggestions for sex, everywhere. With one hand, she runs her black-lacquered fingernails over the club gear lined up at one end of the wardrobe. Her sleek black bob looks good with the red silk kimono, turning her into a 1930s silver screen diva. The kimono swings open and the soft pale skin of her cleavage, abdomen and bare pussy is revealed to me. It makes me want her more with every passing moment.
I watch as she flicks through the clothes, apparently deciding what to dress me in. We are near enough the same size, although I am not as luscious as Chloe. Mac moves and rests on the bed behind me, up against the headboard, while I sit naked between him and his girlfriend. I feel his gaze on me; hear the creak of his leather jeans at my back.
After some deliberation Chloe pulls out an outfit, clutching it against her, stroking the shiny surface to her breasts, her eyelids drop as she revels in the feeling of the luxurious, soft leather corset. “What’s the golden rule?” she asks.
“Boots first, then corset.” My naked skin tingles as I say the words. It was one of the first things she ever said to me, when I admired her boots on her first day in the office.
Chloe nods, grabs another hanger and steps over to the bed with them. She places the chosen items next to me. I stare down at them as she goes back to the wardrobe. Two black, boned corsets. One laces at the front, the other at the back. Mac makes a sound behind me when I stroke the leather, a sort of approving growl. My skin tingles with anticipation. Looking at Chloe I see that she is bending over, rooting about amongst the many pairs of boots piled at the bottom of the wardrobe. The red silk dips between her buttocks and thighs, gravitating into the heat there. I want to walk over, kneel down and rest my tongue against her pussy through the fabric, to wet and darken it with my mouth, making it stick to her groove. I could just picture how the damp silk would look clinging to her there.
She stands and walks back, carrying two pairs of boots. “You first,” she says and drops one pair, unzipping the other pair one by one. “Left foot.”
Resting my hands fl at on the bed either side of my thighs, I lift my left foot, obediently watching as my damson-painted toenails disappear into the boot. When she puts on the second boot, she gestures at me and I stand. Turning me around, she instructs me. “Bend over, and I’ll do them up for you.”
I’m facing Mac now, and he looks like a dark master lazing nonchalantly against the pillows. I can’t help noticing the bulge at his groin. I bend over, hands fl at to the bed so that she can zip the boots up the back of my legs, all the way to my thighs. The sense of vulnerability I experience makes me dizzy. My bottom is facing Chloe, my breasts on display to the man of the house. I feel like Chloe’s doll, and it’s incredibly arousing. I drop my head, my hair trailing over my face.