The Master Musician (just a taste of a nsfw drabble)
He had promised her a night out. He who abhorred crowds. With a guiding graze of his fingertips to the small of her back he herded her in through a stage door, half obscured by a garbage bin in the alley.
“However did you manage to accomplish this?”
“Easily. I’ve an old acquaintance who holds a prominent chair in the Strings.”
Thoroughly impressed but deferring to demurement, she followed where he led to the very instruction of the letter. He did so appreciate clean, concise adherence to his dictation on any and all fronts.
He wove them effortlessly through a dizzying distribution of behind the scenes duties and scenarios. Stagehands and master electricians surged forth with a singular purpose, seamless as blood cells in an artful artery. What a well oiled machine the Human race, when assigned a specific, undaunted task.
Drawing level to an eave of one of the wings, sheltered in a sheath of a curtain of rich red velvet, he brought them to a pause just shy of the stage, though well buffered by shadows to most of the ensemble.
“That’s far enough, Marla.” He indicated intimately; a low hum enriching the quality of his consonants with a sliver of steel enforcement, and her limbs locked in response. His thumb absently stroked the swell of her hip to praise her exact obedience. Her body softened an indulgent inch, but otherwise remained sternly still.
He took up residence to the right and slightly behind her, perched over her shoulder like an ominous bird of warning, his lips just barely skimming the curve of her ear.
“Second row…third chair.”
Marla dipped her chin an increment to confirm she had taken note of what he had intended her to, the personage of great musical import, all but directly parallel to their current location.
“It is to him that we owe our thanks for arranging this particular experience.”
Marla’s gaze narrowed shrewdly in a second inspection, detecting how the gentleman’s chair was slightly askew from the rest of his section’s’ uniform placement. It was tilted quite clearly in a cheat to the left, so that the focus of the eye was not trained to the conductor…but to the curtains which the pair of observers had discreetly infiltrated. As if their appearance had been anticipated prior to their arrival.
“We must find a way to repay him for such a generous gesture…”
She heard the hidden proposition in his offhanded phrasing, the note of notoriety in its compelling cadence and her lips parted to protest.
“It is not required of you to speak.” His words preemptively sliced over her tongue, halting its argument. Blood poured from the internal wound, filling her cheeks in a subtle uprising of rage and a measure of sensual shame. She knew full well, however, that it was wholly in her power to refuse him. It was her will alone that determined the outcome of this event. It was for this reason above all others that she acquiesced to his request.
And so with conditioned, chosen chastisement, she smoothed her lips together and did not utter a word further.
The first strains of melody were taut with languished yearning, tense with a terrifying undercurrent of an obscene oath yet to be fulfilled. She felt him inhale slowly at the space just shy of the heated tendril of a wayward curl at her temple, as if he sought to draw the sweet marrow from her very bones with his breath alone. But it was the increase of excited fear he breathed in, in a glaring sumptuous gluttony, and spread over his lungs like warm butter or honey over bread.
Fear of the unknown, of what he would make her do….what she would allow him to do…
He steadied her hips between his palms like a sculptor would for clay on the molding wheel, sliding over the hill of one side; his fingers trickled like rain water down the length of her thigh. His thumb stroking over the hem of her skirt before submerging his entire hand beneath the length of fabric, like a deep sea diver in search of pearls. The splayed expanse of his palm scalded like a brand on her bare thigh.
Though she had eagerly awaited this bolder touch, her body jerked in surprise and his other hand clamped on her like a bear trap; measure of metal in his fingers, biting into the bone. Firm, unyielding; a punishment. But a pleasure too…as nothing is ever one thing alone.
“Do not move.” He commanded and her skin flushed in a fever even as a shiver laced her spine. She released a silent breath and swallowed lightly, seeking a semblance of control in her ribcage.
The trap of his clutch released, his fingers no longer pinching cruelly, but set to massaging the length of flesh he had inflicted to bruising. A coarse moan sought to unwind from the spool of her throat like some luxurious thread, but she knew silence was the song he currently wished to hear and so tamped down the sound with gritted teeth…all that emerged with a withheld low grunted breath, that pulsed the prominent vein at her neck.
His action paused.
The pulse flashed again, transparent, traitorous….taunting.
A warning vibrato of a dangerous growl reverberated from the cavern of his chest as he pressed bodily into her, “Mind yourself…”
Though there was no curl or lift of her lips, and her tone was sufficiently respectful, her answering, “Yes, sir,” stirred another displeased vibration from him as his ribald hand roughly roved over the contours of her garters, snagging on the stocking straps savagely as a hot exhale of bridled fury bathed the shell of her ear, before seeking composure in his returning order.
“Watch him….as I work.”
Marla’s gaze searched the third chair violinist’s and found him intently watching the scene unfolding as his own musical piece began the first strident stanzas.
Her chaperone’s nails trailed the tender inside of her thigh, his calm once more retained, and he dallied on the edges of her; skirting the furnace like heat that pulsed in time to the quickening beat as he explained conversationally, “He considers himself quite the virtuoso. So advanced is his conceit that he claimed his meager strumming could best my own strings in any concert hall the world over.”
Her mouth went dry as her skin twitched beneath his touch and her legs pressed together in a vain attempt to coyly keep him caught between them, as he edged nearer and nearer to the silk of her undergarments. Her skirt now hitched unbecomingly, halfway up the wealth of her thigh.
He continued, unconcerned, “Can you imagine? The sheer arrogance…”
She could feel his cold gaze burning into the man’s own across from them. How he had divided himself to stay on task, on target as he caressed her to the point of keening and simultaneously sneering in a characteristic challenge to any man who claimed to be able to best him.
“The absolute absurdity…”
Her breath had turned haggard and shallow, a wild sheen flickered in her irises as she partway turned, the start of his name stalling as the sharpness of his teeth made their presence known at her jaw, grinning with a warrior’s penchant to display the destruction of their foes to their very faces.
“So I laid a wager…” His fingers slid over her core, searing like heated coals, and she arched in a soundless cry but the hand on her hip brought her back even as she strained for escape. The master musician at work.
“His instrument….”
She was panting now in a panic. Not for humiliation, or mortification, or embarrassment….but for the permission his command allowed her, demanded for her debaunched release; to detach herself from her self imposed professionalism into the barbaric bereavement of socially acceptable behavior.
“Sherlock...”
“Against mine.”
