Commonality; it binds us, as strangers, to one another on a habitual level. The same six people drawn to the same godforsaken city, residing in the same trendy overpriced converted warehouse, meeting like clockwork at the same lift every morning and evening. No one speaking a single word—good, bad or indifferent and only accidentally making eye contact, but never for more than a nanosecond; a second longer and a gesture may have invited a skittish nod or an awkward ‘hello’. No, they preferred an equitable presumption of civility. They were content to simply be in from the cold inky blackness of night —safe in their commonality.


The dark haired librarian who always seemed to be running late is the last to join the circle at the elevator. She took her place beside the older Jewish gentleman who pretended to not speak English, which secretly annoyed the blond middle-aged secretary in the sensible shoes. Nearest the doors stood the tall green eyed physician whose general aloofness triggered yipping from the genetically ambiguous spinster’s lapdog which only drove the shy ebony cellist deeper into thought.


Per modus operandi, the physician entered the lift first; dutifully sacrificing himself to any would be assassins awaiting their hapless band. They filed in one after another and the doors closed and encapsulated them in thick comfortable silence. Their eyes averted away and scarcely acknowledged the others’ existence; choosing instead to study the shiny metal walls, the blinking red numerals of passing floors, or their own blurred reflection on the lift’s doors.


The door opened onto the fourth floor. A whiff of oregano scented air swept in and carried out the spinster and her dog. The doors closed, everyone shifted to the left, knowing the dark haired secretary’s floor was the next stop. She hastily excused herself and the doors closed once more. They wouldn’t open again until the seventh floor where the physician and cellist took their leave. Where the others lived was unknown.


The cellist walked two steps behind the physician: this was their ritual. He was a good looking man by all accounts, tall, six foot three and athletic, dark hair and gleaming eyes. However, there was also an air of control about him: his clothing, his hair, and his calculated walk reflected his need to maintain a certain image. What he made of the cellist’s meek disposition one can only imagine. For all their years of living directly across the hall from one another they’d never exchanged a single word publicly. They never made eye contact. The only intimacy anyone witnessed between them was the cellist placing a piece of misdirected mail at his threshold.


They passed the four other residences and deafened their ears against the insipid piece of detritus spilling from the inhabitant’s lives. At the end of the hallway cul-de-sac, just before the fire exit, were their flats.


Her door opened, then his.


Hers shut tightly, then his.


She was off to cook and clean, and he was off to read. Their similar solitude indulged their anti-social behavior. Neither rarely summoned much interest nor invested much time in friends. Yet here in their tiny cul-de-sac loneliness hadn’t taken root.


Chores and reading aside, she sat on her suede chaise lounge beneath the window, ate dinner and looked out onto the dark and busy street, watching cars hurry along their way; their headlights casting momentary beams of light on her face—while he reheated leftovers and channel surfed.


As the evening waned to a close, he sat and listened to her play Bach´s Cello Suites as she’d done for years. He imagined the cold wood of her cello resting against her shoulder, warmed by her slender quivering fingers moving effortlessly over the strings, the bow moving analogously in fashion producing every melodic note with delicate bravado. Quietly, he closed his eyes and followed her hands through the slow, emotionally riveting movements exploring the very depth and range of the instrument nestled between her thighs; as if it were, itself, an extension of her—each languishing note a fiber of her being spilling forth, licking clean the rivulets that pooled in her feminine crevices.


The steep hills and infinitesimal dells of the sarabande were her foot steps behind him in the hall. The contrapuntal compositions of the fugue cascaded harmoniously down her curved waist....gracefully flowing carrying him to the next more demanding chords of her body with ease. Six movements within the suite, each more compelling than its predecessor. All of them reminiscent of her, as he imagined, more complicated and captivating as her somber layers gave way to light.


In his mind’s eye, he saw the silvery white hairs of her bow glistening over the string—her tossing poetic license aside and playing as Bach himself envisioned: with technically challenging reaches and finger extensions, the difficult flowing quaver movements and impossible chord shifting and string crossings. One after another the suites pushed her musical ability to the limit until the ethereal virtuosic passage sending them both tumbling, entangled and reaching for the orgasmic pinnacle of the finale.


He imagined her playing left her as mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted as it left him. He pictured her silent tears giving meaning to their invisible stillness.



It was close to midnight when the traffic lights began flashing red into her bedroom window and she heard her front door creak open and close. A quiet peace washed over her as she waited. He entered her bedroom silently disrobed and slipped beneath the sheets beside her. They curled into one another as if it were the most natural thing in the world.


She felt his confident hands swaddle her thighs, telling an elliptic narrative of what was to come. His fingertips traced her undulating curves, traveling up the fleshy slopes of her breast, paying firefly attention to her nipples. His balmy breath caressed skin on the nape of her neck, his fingers turned her chin towards him.


She faced him. All of him.


The dim streetlight seeped through a crack in the curtain illuminated their faces just enough to see there was no incomplete utterances or doubts on either’s part. She watched breathlessly as he brought her fingers, the calloused and worn fingers whose musical dexterity entranced him daily, to his lips and kissed them gently. One by one, his supple tongue paid pious reverence her digits as if tender absolution rest at the end of her fingertips. He kissed her palm and wrist--bringing her ever closer to him.


Only a sliver of space and silence between them, he stopped and they gazed at one another. Slowly she traced the outline of his lips and the soft tip of his tongue. She gasped sharply when she felt his hand massage up her thighs. A slight pant escaped her lips when it was clear there was no turning back. She sucked her bottom lip anticipating his touch.


“Ooohhh,” she moaned when he found her clit and merely brushed past it before taking possession of her mouth. Their tongues and lips swirled in an invisible shroud of passion. The heat of her wetness beneath his palm beckoned him in shuddering tongues for recognition but he heeded its call—her intoxicating kiss held his spellbound. Her hands in his hair, his stiffening arousal pressed against her belly. She broke their kiss and attempted to catch her breath. His lips moved to her neck, her hands still in his hair.


His mouth kissed her everywhere: the dip of her neck, the swell of her breast, the tip of her nipples. He cupped her in his hands and suckled carefully until her legs parted and welcomed him inside. She was miles away from him; wandering lost in his transcendental netherworld. She reached down…down below her waist and found his face and traced the curve of his brow just as she felt his breath shimmer across her clit.


As much as he wanted to taste her clit, he chose to kiss her glistening labia. He licked and sucked. He gripped her thighs and pulled her towards his eagerly awaiting mouth. Silent but for his the wet-slick slurps, he felt himself coming undone; he couldn’t get enough of her. She twisted and trembled slightly in his hold; effectively his for the taking. And taking he did—over and over and over again until she clung to the sheets and begged for mercy.


“Oh God!” she cried out when he cradled her clitoris on his tongue and began rocking back and forth, sucking until tears streamed from her eyes.


He gave her clit a long lick as he came up for air. “Quiet damn it or I’ll gag you.” He warned lovingly. Gently, he parted her lips with his tongue and inserted one finger and then another, gradually increasing their depth and reach as she had during her playing. It was his turn to demonstrate his prowess with the instrument nestled between her thighs.


His were no half gestures; no short cuts—he was nothing short of magnificent. Like the traditional movements of Bach’s suite, his oral melody had its pitches, and tension; its release, and continuity, structured sequences and improvisational marksmanship. His dawdling tongue licked recurring phonetics on her pussy and caused linear motives to form high above her. She panted and blinked up at the ceiling. Try as she might, she was unable to follow its arrangement. Where there should have been kisses, there were licks. Where there promised to be licks, there were sucks and flicks. Where there should have been cells, small isolations of rhythm, there was oral freestyle. She placed one hand on his head, and the other over her own mouth and rode the undulating wave of his overture to its thunderous orgasmic finale.


He pressed his lips to her inner thigh and eased her tremors, and brought her back to reality. The flashing red traffic light danced off her espresso tinted skin as her chest rose and fell. She, his café au lait princess, was the most beautiful creature he’d laid eyes on. The light revealed a hint of wetness near the bridge of her nose which she quickly wiped away.


“Why are you crying?” he asked quietly from his kneeling position. When no response came he aligned himself with her. “Why are you crying?” he repeated.


She gave a shy confident smile and he knew instantly the reason behind her tears.


His emerald eyes offered his reaction. He thoughtfully held her head in the palms of his hands and kissed her with all the passion he could muster. He rolled onto his back bringing her on top and they continued devouring one another; her chest warm against his, he pushed the tight curls on her hair away from her face and in that split second, his devotion to her took a richer, deeper hue.


She pecked his lips and moved down neck and chest, lingered at his nipples, and softly kissed the sensitive skin on his sides. His moan resembled more of a purring sigh—he knew what was coming. He need but lie there and allow her to feast.


Chastely at first, at the base of his cock, she moved her face up to the tip of his cock, letting her lips trail lightly over his skin. Her lips kissed the head of his cock. He inhaled sharply and lifted his hips, straining to be in her mouth. Still, she teased a little longer and licked around his bulbous tip before taking him into her mouth; effortlessly, she found his spot—his favorite spot, the one on the back side of his head.


“Fuck,” his hands slowly gripped the sheets as her kitten-soft tongue tempted him toward eruption. The dim light shone on her lips sliding down his slippery wet shaft. He watched her mouth slide up and down; she lapped and swallowed him deeper and deeper until most of his length was covered in mix of his pre-cum and her saliva.


Up and down she stirred; concentrating wholly on his archaically feral melody of appreciation entangled with her own. This is what she hears as she plays—the soft guttural sounds of their love making: his primal calls, her altruistic slurps, the thrusting and sucking and twirling sounds her lips make around his cock. This is her song, she knows it by heart; part supplicant obedience, part lustful indiscretion—but always for him.


He lifted her head slightly and moved his hips up and down, ever so carefully fucking her face. He watched his cock upward strokes meet his love slick lips; without words he begged her, commanded her, and implored her to take more, to suck faster, to swallow all of him—every drop of him.


She worshipped his body as he worshipped hers and did as she was told. She sucked and swallowed, licked and gathered. His pleasure was hers.


His cock still throbbed between her lips; she gazed up at him and waited patiently for him to find his traction.


“How do you want me?” she asked when his breathing slowed to a less murderous pace. “On my hands and knees?”


He looked down and thumbed her cheek. “No, not tonight. Come here.”


She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and lay beside him. He topped her and she settled beneath his weight.


He kissed the tip of her nose. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you more beautiful.”


She smiled. “Thanks, to you.”


He leaned and kissed her neck and spread her thighs further. With neither welcome nor warning, he entered the sweet fertile delta of her freshly shaven pussy. She threw her arms around his powerful neck. He pushed her to capacity; the siren song between her legs grew louder and louder—more complex then any he’d previously composed and sent both of their orgasms cascading over the edge of ecstasy.




The next morning she awoke to a empty bed and cold sheets and, without much thought, readied herself for her workday. She took a long hot shower, checked the weather and slipped into heavy winter gear….a quick bite and she was out the door with her cello on her back. She locked her door and waited to hear his door open.


It didn’t. Nor was he waiting at the lift.


The doors opened and she piled on with the others lonely faces. They all pretended his, tall green eyed physician who always stood nearest the lift’s door, presence wasn’t missed. All secretly hoped that he would reappear by the evening and retake his post as their protector against the would be lift assassins.


To their disappointment he had returned—they were on their own. They stood, all in their places, waiting for the lift in silence. The shy cellist shifted from foot to foot and studied the floor for new cracks.


“Excuse me,” she heard a familiar voice say, pushing passed her left. She needn’t look up.


Per modus operandi, the physician entered the lift first; dutifully sacrificing himself to any would be assassins awaiting their hapless band. They filed in one after another and the doors closed and encapsulated them in thick comfortable silence. Their eyes averted away and scarcely acknowledged the others’ existence; choosing instead to study the shiny metal walls, the blinking red numerals of passing floors, or their own blurred reflection on the lift’s doors.


Through the tightly knit bodies, she felt his arm encircle her waist. She inhaled deeply and did not resist. She was not afraid. She trusted him


…..and their commonality.





                       THE END