Making Beautiful Music
by SleepyGirl
Andrea loved the woods at night, especially in the early autumn, when the leaves were turning, falling and carpeting the ground with a crunchy carpet, the partly denuded branches allowing an occasional glimpse of the cloud-scudded full moon through the canopy.
Her friends thought the wood was creepy, even in the daylight—the way the wind seemed to whisper through the leaves, the old branches creaking in reply—but Andrea thought it was wonderful.
She hadn’t been here since before she went to college, although in her youth she had visited the wood as often as she could, even though her mother wished she wouldn’t.
She stopped suddenly, straining her ears, convinced she had heard a phrase of lilting music. But, apart from the wind and the sudden screech of an owl deeper inside as it celebrated securing its meal, the wood was silent.
She shrugged and walked on, the freshly fallen leaves rustling around her feet, and she wished she’d worn her boots rather than a pair of trainers.
Once more she thought she heard it, a soft, haunting melody, but again, as she stopped to listen, it faded on the midnight breeze. She stayed still, hardly breathing, waiting for the music to start again, but the night remained hushed.
She pulled her coat tighter around herself, a barrier against the chill of the night. “Is there someone there?” Andrea spoke into the engulfing darkness, but the trees seemed to consume the timid words, and no reply came.
She thought about turning back, for the first time questioning her decision to come here at Samhain. But she hated trick-or-treat; the spirit of the festival was here in an ancient wood, not snotty nosed kids dressing up in the city.
Still, as she started back the way she had come, the music floated up again, coming from deeper within the heart of the grove. The sound was mournful, but beautiful, like soft rain on a sunny day, and she turned once more, heading towards the centre of the wood.
The further in she went, the larger the trees became, older and gnarled, and, as Andrea tried to head towards the enchanting sound, their branches seemed to grasp at her as she passed, and brambles snared at her ankles, forcing her away from the centre. But, at every turn, the music called her to it, leading her deeper, despite the woods’ apparent determination to bar her way.
It didn’t take long for Andrea to become completely disorientated, the moon now hiding behind billowing clouds, deepening the grove’s natural gloom to almost total blackness.
Suddenly, as she stumbled around the bole of a giant oak, Andrea found herself on the margin of a grassy clearing. It was strange: she had walked in these woods for years, but she had never seen this glade before, although, it was as if some part of her was expecting to find it.
It was from here that the ethereal music seemed to be emanating. In the centre, no more than thirty yards from where Andrea stood, she could almost discern a silhouette, dark against total black. It appeared that two little white birds were fluttering back and forth in front of the darkness.
To Andrea’s right, the cloud secluding the moon blew away, bathing the dell in its soft light, silvering the grass and picking out drops of dew, making them twinkle like scattered diamond. Andrea stepped back beneath the large branches, her back pressed against the rough bark.
As her eyes adjusted to the light, what Andrea saw took her breath away. A woman in a long black satin gown was seated on a large rock in the middle of the glade, facing the harvest moon; her raven black hair glistening in the ghostly light. Between her wide spread thighs, sat a naked young woman, in one of the strangest poses Andrea had ever seen.
She was leaning away from her companion, her arms outstretched, parallel to the ground, her hands grasping a wooden staff, just below its crystal capital. Her legs, clasped together and as straight as a die, pointed out at forty-five degrees to the floor, feet pressed against the foot of the staff, which itself sloped backwards from crown to heel.
The woman in black was rocking back and forth rhythmically, her breasts pressing against her naked companion’s back, her hands, that Andrea had taken for birds, moved back and forth between the naked woman’s body and legs in time to the haunting music.
Andrea realised that one of the women was now singing, and she strained to hear the lyrics. “Come to me, my Olithoi,” the sweet, enticing voice sang.
Andrea heard the name and shuddered, as something buried deep in her mind stirred.
She remembered a spring morning when she was five. Her parents had brought her to the woods for a picnic. She recalled playing at the edge, but had wandered deeper and become lost. Until this moment all she had remembered about that day was her frantic mother hugging her tightly as she eventually returned, after four hours in which her parents had searched frantically. She couldn’t tell her mum or dad where she had been; only that she had felt safe.
Now though, she recalled finding a clearing, and meeting a woman dressed in forest green. The woman was beautiful and she said that Andrea was very special, finding the Summer Lands on Beltane all on her own.
Andrea didn’t know what Beltane was, but she did like that the pretty woman thought she was clever. She remembered dancing and singing and the woman saying, “You have a beautiful voice, Olithoi.”
“My name is Andrea,” she had protested, making the lady smile.
“And I am, Belle,” she had introduced herself with a flamboyant curtsey. “You may be Andrea in your world, but in mine you will be Olithoi.”
The woman had knelt beside Andrea and, taking the young girls hand in hers, whispered, “Take my hand and we’ll go back to your own world now, Andrea.”
“I want to stay here, with you, Belle. I want to be your Olithoi.” Andrea had pleaded.
Belle looked sad as she said, “It is one thing for a child to stumble through the divide, my Olithoi. But, to stay, you must pay a price, and you are not yet old enough to make that choice.
“When you are grown up, and have become the beautiful woman I can see you will be, then come to me at Samhain, and render your service. Your reward will be to live forever among the faeries in the Summer Land.”
Reluctantly—for Andrea, like all young girls, loved faeries—she took Belle’s hand and let her lead her to the edge of the forest.
Whilst Andrea reminisced, the woman continued to sing.
“You have come to me, my Olithoi, “To sing and dance, bringing me joy, “Drawn by the music of the beast, “To replace her at the Samhain feast.
She hadn’t realised it, but as the woman sang, Andrea had started to move towards the tableau. And, as she approached, she saw that silvery strings ran from the naked woman’s arms and body, to her legs, and it was these that the singer was plucking, bringing forth the haunting tune—though the sound came not from their vibrations, but from the instrument’s open mouth.
“So it is time, for my beast to rest at last.” The harpist said, and Andrea recognised her as Belle, the woman she had met all those year before, untouched by the passing of time.
“Dance for me, my Olithoi, bring me joy.” Belle said softly, and Andrea found herself starting to sway from side to side in time to the ethereal melody.
“You can’t dance in those clothes, my Olithoi,” Belle instructed, and, without a second thought, Andrea removed her coat and let it fall to the dew touched grass. It seemed warmer here in this magical glade and soon the rest of her clothes followed. And so, with unadulterated joy, Olithoi danced, as naked as the day she was born.
Around the glade she skipped, dancing to the human harp’s tune, Belle the centre of her sunwise orbit, the bright moon displaying her beautiful nakedness.
At the end of the third circuit, the music suddenly stopped, and so did Olithoi, staring blankly at the beautiful, fey lady.
“You may drop the staff now, my loyal beast.” Belle said, and the harp let the wooden pole clatter to the floor. The crystal flared briefly as it hit the ground and Yolina’s strings vanished, allowing her to stretch for the first time in countless years.
“You have served me well, my Yolina,” Belle said with a warm, appreciative smile. “You will get your reward as promised, welcome to the Summer Lands, sister.”
Yolina bowed, and vanished.
“It would appear I need a new instrument, my Olithoi, a new beast to draw humans into my realm. Come, sit between by legs and let me tune you. Take up the staff, my Olithoi, and earn your reward.”
Dutifully, Olithoi reached down and grasped the rod with her right hand. The gem at its head flashed, shining brighter than the moon. The stave seemed to slip through Olithoi’s hand but she gripped it in both hands, her fingers entwining around the slippery ash, just below the glowing crystal and felt its magic.
As Belle spread her thighs once more, Olithoi took Yolina’s place, and stretched out her legs until her feet touched he heel of the enchanted stave.
She felt Belle’s long, slender fingers run up and down her spine, and tingles started on her arms and legs, moving from her wrists and ankles upwards, and she gasped as it reached her nipples.
“Are you ready, my new beast?” Belle asked, but she knew better than to wait for a reply, for Olithoi would speak no more; not until she lured her own replacement. But that could take years, and in the meantime, Belle would use her to bring others into her realm, playthings for Olithoi’s musician, and her friends.
Belle leant forward, her silk covered breasts pressing against Olithoi’s back, reaching round and running a trill across the strings.
Olithoi could not believe how wonderful Belle’s touch was, the vibrations setting her whole body on fire. She opened her mouth to moan, but what came out was a beautiful, eerie sound, her voice calling forth sympathetic vibrations through her whole body.
“Tonight, you play only for me,” Belle said, as she pressed her breasts harder against Olithoi’s back, her thighs squeezing her instrument, her pussy hard against Olithoi’s buttocks, absorbing the resonance, and the faery queen moaned with what sounded like pleasure.
As the song continued, so did Olithoi’s feelings of ecstasy, each note like a soft kiss, flowing up the strings to her skin, then flying to the harps centre, her pussy, the feeling transformed to pure sound in her throat.
As Belle plucked her towards her first orgasm, Olithoi tried, but failed to scream, as the tune that was being played on her, reached the climax to the first verse of a poetic saga, a song that could, and would, last for hours.