For more than one-hundred years, New Orleans had been a city shrouded with superstition and sensuality, and the soul of the city set in a swamp - Vieux Carre - had a strong, resilient heartbeat. Jonathan had relocated from London years earlier. He missed the lapping of the water against the banks of the Thames, the creaking rise of Tower Bridge to allow the passage of tall ships, the eternal passing of time faithfully announced by Big Ben, touchstones between the past and present. But he had discovered scenes of passion, humour, and pathos could be found on either side of the Atlantic. As a hopeful inventor, he felt his present home more open to new ideas than Victorian England.
As Jonathan walked to his French Quarter apartment, the moon rose, as golden as a glob of honey, camouflaged just slightly in a cradle of cirrus clouds. The breeze off the river caressed his face like a woman’s hands. He breathed deep and tasted its fragrance.
In this region of Louisiana, there was always that peculiar, portentous quality of something otherworldly about - something carried on the breeze from the city’s nooks and crannies, or from the above ground cemeteries, perhaps, a civilization born of heat and damp, its heaviness imparted to speech, energy, and time. But there was something passionate as well. From the fine ladies with their bonnets and bustles to the Cajuns with their gumbo and corncob pipes; from the ghosts and demons and angels lurking in dark alleyways and graveyards; from Catholics to Voodoo and everything in between; saints and sinners plied their transgressions in a wonderful mix of humanity. In the midst of the struggle between a burgeoning industrialism and fading glamour of the nineteenth century, Jonathan was convinced the city’s libertarian spirit would embrace the concept of his Musica.
Jonathan’s address hid behind a wrought-iron gate set in a garden wall. Fleur-de-lys ran across the top of the gate - a symbol linking the city to its French heritage. Beyond the gate was a courtyard nestled in ivy and kudzu and draped with wisteria vines. Obligatory ornate grillwork ran along the second floor units. The courtyard was dappled with shadows from an ancient live oak that dripped with tattered banners of dusty Spanish moss. A wind-chime hung on a branch among the grey beards. It tinkled in a faint breeze. Ghost music. “A serenade for the dead,” the superstitious contingent would have said.
Even in this age of silent air ships floating above the city and all manner of mobile inventions appearing on streets, the breeze brought with it the still sweet scent of magnolias. A brilliant glimpse of purple bougainvillea caught Jonathan’s eye. New Orleans could be such a strange and intoxicating place, just like the exotic mix of humanity which inhabited it. The elegant decadence of Mardi Gras was always in the air to accompany those feelings of other-worldliness and passion. Jonathan’s nostrils filled with the second scent of blooming jasmine. The smell sweetened the air like overripe fruit - all these things reminders of why he remained in this mosquito-laden part of the country trying to capture the next invention that would set the ever expanding industrial revolution on its ear.
The sound of music coming through a shuttered window beneath his bungalow interrupted his reverie. It was the sound of a stringed instrument. Jonathan wasn’t in the habit of playing the voyeur, but an inch between the shutters and past lacy curtains provided the opportunity to see who might be playing.
The room was lit by both candle and gaslight. Jonathan’s eyes nearly popped at the sight of a young woman holding a bow that swept ever so gently over the strings of her cello - a bass member of the violin family an octave below a viola. She had chosen to play in a most uninhibited fashion - in the nude. Without clothing, the cello seemed a part of her, providing an aesthetic appeal. She possessed a naked prettiness that set her above mere sensuality. After the shock of the delightful sight, Jonathan dissected the image one portion at a time and realised he was moved by more than the artistic aspect of the scene.
In the pale light, the woman could have been the subject of a Rembrandt painting. Her oval face was surrounded by gleaming raven hair. Her eyes were downcast, not revealing their colour. Her long, black lashes floated above her cheeks. Her nose was straight and her unpainted lips were on the edge of a smile. She seemed to be lost in her music as her long fingers caressed the strings of her instrument. The visible part of her slender legs ended at delicate feet. Freed from the societal conformity of clothes, she and her instrument were truly one.
The neck of her cello rose between the ample tear-drop breasts that were capped with stiffened, brown nipples, hard from the thrill of harmonious creation, Jonathan supposed. The tip of the cello’s wooden, phallic neck rested against the side of her face as her fingers titillated its strings. Her body nestled against the instrument’s graceful curves as it vibrated with a soft, baritone melody.
He imagined the cello’s bulbous component to be a huge scrotum responding to the shaft’s excitations. This was the most tantalising sight he had witnessed since that of the Creole woman engorging his own sac at Madame Frazzetta’s. Could this be the subject to test my Musica? Jonathan mused.
The music stopped suddenly and the image of his succulent dark-skinned lover taking his bulbous cock into her pink mouth suddenly vanished. The cellist stood and sat her instrument on its stand. She massaged her fingers briefly then stretched, her arms reaching for the ceiling as if she were posing for an artist’s canvas. Jonathan’s eyes feasted upon the heavenly torso from her uplifted breasts to the cove of a navel, to the split between her legs camouflaged only by a small sampling of public hair. An involuntary moan escaped his lips as the woman suddenly turned and left the room, giving him the pleasure of watching her dimpled backside glide jauntily away. He stared at the abandoned cello. It looked forlorn at losing its mistress, and he felt equally despondent at losing the exhilaration of watching them perform harmoniously.
Additional time at his neighbour’s window would have been unwise. If someone in another courtyard bungalow were to spot Jonathan lurking about, the moniker of Peeping Tom might accompany the brand of That Crazy Inventor.
As Jonathan climbed the stairs to his own dwelling, he crafted a plan to meet his neighbour below. He was somewhat of a musician himself. Although his skill was questionable, he played the flute. He entered his lodging and picked up his invention. It was different than Taylor’s in three ways. In addition to the central piece of equipment that probed the vaginal canal, his device incorporated two small mechanical arms above and below. Each held a feather designed to tickle the clitoris and the anal opening, all three pieces working in unison to create multiple points of contact, heightening the stimulatory experience. Although it didn’t stop there, ever since the poet had written the phrase, “If music be the stuff of love, play on,” Jonathan believed sound was desired by the female during the exercise of fantasy. Hence, his machine also incorporated a music box that could play while the three moving arms created sensual satisfaction. What’s a satisfying, silky dream if it doesn’t go full throttle?
It was late the following evening when he was disturbed from his plotting by a rap on the door. The wind-chime’s ghost music must have been working its magic , Jonathan later thought. He opened the door to find a woman standing at his threshold.
“Bon Soir. Sorry to disturb you,” the fully clothed woman said. “My name is Naomi. I live downstairs.”
“Won’t you come in,” Jonathan answered somewhat overwhelmed. He wondered if she somehow knew he’d watched her through the window the night before, or worse, might have somehow sensed his fantasy. It was New Orleans after all, where the mysterious was as common as the steam that rose from the cobblestones after a rain. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Naomi. I’m Jonathan.”
Naomi’s eyes were pools of blue liquid in contrast to her dark features. “I’ve been meaning to introduce myself. I’ve heard you play your flute. I’m also a musician.”
“Yes, my poor attempts at composition. I’ve heard you as well and had every intention of doing what you have done. Quite a coincid
ence, I guess you could say.”
“Quite.” Naomi’s eyes widened as they fell upon Jonathan’s workbench. His Musica set amongst a few other gadgets. “I’ve heard the other music too. Does it come from that contraption on the table?”
“Why yes,” Jonathan said a bit reluctantly. “It’s something I’ve been working on.”
“An inventor as well. You are amazing!”
Jonathan looked at the sumptuous mouth that, in his fantasy, had screamed in ecstasy with the insertion of his Musica. “Perhaps we could share our common love for music some time.”
“That would be most pleasant, I would imagine.” She looked at Jonathan’s workbench again, and then added, “I have a confession to make. I heard you playing a few evenings ago and was intrigued. The next morning, I stole up the outside stairs and, through your window, found you toying with that interesting looking device.”
Jonathan didn’t know whether to feel embarrassment or something else. Naomi soon calmed his apprehension. “I’m quite the adventurous soul. If that device is what I think it is, would you show me how it works?”
Jonathan blushed. He had expected to settle for one of Madame Frazzetta’s girls, yet the exact thing he’d dreamed about had fallen into his lap. “I will demonstrate my invention on one condition.”
“Yes?” she said expectantly.
“That you play for me.”
Naomi smiled and gave Jonathan a look every man wishes for. It was one of not only pleasure, but of admiration. “But of course, but my instrument would be difficult to move. Why don’t you bring your instrument and your toy downstairs? I might feel a bit more comfortable in my own surroundings.”
“When?”
“No time like the present. Just be kind enough to give me a few moments to prepare for a guest.”
Jonathan watched as Naomi trotted down the steps, her gypsy skirt teasing her derrière. Thankfully, she was not a woman who needed the contrivances of Victorian garb to pay a call. She was as earthy as the Quarter itself. Sometimes dreams do become reality, but would she actually allow him to apply the Musica. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Naomi answered her door. She was wearing an elegant, silver-blue silk robe which sculpted her body into an amazing thing with no tell-tale lines that might reveal undergarments, not unlike some of the clothing articles worn by the women who offered their charms at Madame Frazzetta’s. She took the flute case from under one of Jonathan’s arms and the wooden box containing the Musica from under the other. Naomi poured them a glass of wine and lit their cigarettes. He watched the languid ribbon of smoke rise alongside her face forming a hypnotic sway that pleaded for company. The veil became thick in the air, forming an undulating cocoon around the two of them. They enjoyed the momentary silence, with only the faint sound of tinkling ghost music stealing into the apartment. Too much conversation usually led to lies. It went along with the protective mask most people wore, not just on Mardi Gras, but year round.
Naomi took a long draw on her cigarette. The tip glowed with a fire as bright as Jonathan was feeling within his loins. Her eyes were as blue and wild as a Siamese cat’s. He was glad he hadn’t been the only voyeur in the complex.
“When I peeked through your shutters,” Naomi said, “instead of finding a man in the throes of his music, I saw a man fondling a device and wanted to know more.”
An erection had bloomed in Jonathan’s trousers. He crossed his legs conspicuously bringing a smile to Naomi’s lips.
“I’m always up for a new experience, Jonathan. You wanted me to play for you, so I will. Then you can demonstrate your contraption, the one in the cherry wood box, that is.”
“That would be delightful, Naomi.”
“Hopefully you won’t be shocked, but I prefer to play in the nude. I enjoy the intimacy of my instrument. It produces a sweeter melody, I believe. You should try it sometime.”
Without further adieu, Naomi extinguished her smoke in a porcelain dish, stood, and removed her robe. She was a woman comfortable in her own skin, proud of her figure and high colour. She walked unabashedly to her cello, sat on a cushioned, straight-backed chair, and placed the instrument between her thighs like a silent lover. Jonathan wished it was he she was about to play as she positioned the bow above the strings and her long fingers manipulated the frets. He didn’t notice if the sounds that began to rise from the cello were sweet or not as he was caught up in the thought of Naomi’s legs in the air with his Musica between them rather than the lacquered piece of wood currently residing there. What kind of music might she make then?
The tune played out. The music finally stopped.
“Beautiful,” Jonathan offered. Then, “You’ll think me strange as well, Naomi, but they say confession is good for the soul. I also spied on you while you played your instrument just last evening. So it seems we were both curious.”
Naomi took the cello from between her legs and set it aside. “Well now, my young neighbour, we are birds of a feather. Speaking of which, it is your turn to perform. Just make believe you’re a doctor, or an explorer seeking treasure if need be.”
Jonathan found it amusing he should be cajoled about the test rather than consoling the first subject of the Musica.
“Where would you have me submit to this exploration?”
“I would suggest your boudoir since I believe neither of us would want a third party enjoying the sight of either the experiment or your charms, as I have.”
“To the bed then.” She led Jonathan to the back room. Holding the Musica, he followed her with his feet as well as his eyes, the sway of her hips and the dimpled cheeks no less provocative than on the preceding evening.
From the bedroom, a street lamp shone through a rear window like a luminous pearl in a faint fog that was gathering in gauzy wraiths. Naomi had candles in her bedchamber. She lit several. “Will this do?”
“Admirably.”
Naomi climbed upon her bed. The candlelight created a dark shadow between her breasts. The dark triangle below her naval was in luxurious harmony with the hair draping her shoulders. Her smooth, curved lines beckoned invitingly to his artist’s soul making the thought of clinical penetration difficult. He bade Naomi lie on her back and invited her to do or say anything she might desire when the music started.
“Music?” she asked. “Are you going to finger your flute while your machine penetrates me?”
“No. There is a music box attached which will play Chopin to begin with. Then, depending on your reaction, I can replace it with another tune such as a Strauss waltz, or even something more lively.”
“My, but you are the creative one. You are also very handsome, Jonathan. I can’t imagine any woman who wouldn’t desire the pleasure of your inventive proclivities.”
Jonathan now concentrated on the Musica. With a key, he wound the object’s spring tightly. Tinkling notes began to play and the three vibrating appendages were set in motion. Naomi looked at the mechanism with an expression that could have been akin to Captain Ahab’s first sighting of the great white whale.
“Spread your legs and raise them slightly,” he asked of her.
She complied. “As if I was taking in a lover?”
“Quite so.”
Jonathan placed the Musica against Naomi’s skin allowing the probing bulb and feathers to skim lightly against the three points of interest. She jerked slightly with the initial contact, and then relaxed.
“It tickles,” she twittered, “but at the same time, it’s very soothing. May I move my hands?”
“Of course. Do as you please. The whole point is to see if this is something that will make the female’s day more pleasurable without the comfort a male might provide.”
The delicate hands Jonathan admired while they plunked the strings of the cello moved to Naomi’s breasts. “Or perhaps be an accompaniment
to a man’s pleasures,” she said as she deftly pinched her nipples, turning them into pert, distended stems.
“I’ll now insert it,” he told her.
As he did, Naomi gasped and raised her legs higher, her feet appearing to be sentinels watching for anything that might disturb the moment. Jonathan held the Musica in a spot where penetration could be achieved while the two feathers adequately titillated the clitoris and the anus. He watched Naomi. She continued to play with her breasts, grabbing their bulk and pushing them up as if offering them to a hungry babe. The look on her face was one Jonathan would have described as rapture, a look he had never seen on the faces of the concubines at Madame Frazzetta’s. Perhaps many women could achieve satisfaction beyond anything they could hope for while merely gratifying an aroused partner.
Naomi’s moaning was at a high pitch. She paused only long enough to utter, “Can you make it go faster?”
This gave Jonathan the opportunity to try out another aspect of the Musica: different music boxes at different times. He slipped out the tiny metal box that played Chopin, and inserted the rollicking Saber Dance while also tightening the spring.
Naomi’s response was immediate. Her back arched and her breaths were boisterous. “You are playing me like a finely crafted instrument,” she managed to say. “Don’t stop until...Oooohhhh, don’t ever stop. Take me to the abyss of desire and over. Play me like your mouth was not on your flute, but on my wanton slit. Play me, Maestro.”
Valves & Vixens Page 8