Lento e pianissimo. This is the window of a studio. At this moment he is facing the blank. Allegro. She, a contrabassist by trade, enters suddenly. She looks worried, anxious to begin rehearsing. Work is pressing. She takes the bow, paces from side to side, checks the scores, selects some pages and clips them to the stand. She then undoes the action and repeats the gesture with some others. Andante. He tilts his chair back and pulls on his hair, takes a breath. He turns to look at her suddenly, over his shoulder. He details the wavy hair that she swipes to the side without a care. He notices her arms, thin and beautifully chiseled by the tough labor of marking the mast and wielding the bow. Her shirt, slightly separated from the elastic waistband that holds her clothes in place, allows her lively-toned skin to appear. Work is pressing, but… Forte. He rises and walks resolutely towards her, who turns her body when their lips are nearly brushing. Piano e afettuoso. The small bulge of her lower lips, barely covered by the cotton shorts, is pressed precisely by the tips of the fingers that were blocked moments ago. He indulges in sinking into the warm cotton. He takes the small bump between his fingers, squeezes it, plays with it, moves the juicy slabs slightly up and down, then lets go. Forte subito. A lopsided shape appears on the fabric of his pants, growing from the fly to the pocket; it pulsates. Adagio. With his free hand, he subtly snatches her bow and places it on a small wooden table. She smiles deeply, anticipating the pleasure that lies ahead. Piano forte. It won’t be long before she grips the warm bundle that awaits beneath the trousers.