Auditorium. That black dress. 11:59.
She stared at her phone, watching the bouncing dots which signaled another incoming text. Her clit throbbed gently as the next line appeared.
Something new for you.
She enjoyed a mild wave of pleasure washing through her as she read it all again.
Something new for you.
The skin on her forearms tingled. Her eyes widened. Her pussy throbbed.
Something new for you.
He was the brightest star even among Julliard's estimable constellation, a once-in-a-generation master composer and performer who was only beginning what everyone already knew was going to be an exceptional career wherever and however the talent took him.
She didn't know him well, which was how they both wanted it. Most of the sex she'd ever had was a duet, but with him she was swept through the movements of a concerto: the allegro of a teasing touch, the adagio of a slow tongue on her clit, the scherzo of a vigorous intentional fuck, the soaring cantabile of orgasm, the gentle adagio of a langorous kiss and the coda of aftercare. She was the symphony, he was the soloist; she was the instrument, he was the instrumentalist. He certainly knew his way around a movement.
His instrument, she thought. She liked that. She wasn't sure what this was yet, but she was happy to put herself into his beautiful hands for now.
God, his hands. Like any pianist she had ever been with--and she'd had plenty--he was exceptionally good with his hands, effortlessly articulating each joint in a way that only a master instrumentalist with years of dedicated practice could. But that wasn't even what it was about him. It was his voice.
She imagined that he couldn't sing (although she'd never heard him try) but his warm baritone in his ear was better than anything she had heard in ten years she had spent in intensive musical education with other singers. It could tell her to do anything--like, to name one relevant example for this evening, immediately get out of bed and her sleeping sweats, take a shower, curl her hair, touch up her face, and slip on that black dress. She briefly considered what to wear under it, but decided that an assignation with her occasional lover in the conservatory's auditorium at midnight was hardly a time for underwear.
She opened the door into the almost entirely dark auditorium at the appointed time, her heels clacking slowly down the wooden floor as she took a seat near the aisle in the third row. A single spotlight shone down on the nine feet of the school's majestic 1939 concert Steinway, primed for performance.
She noticed with some interest that there was a metronome perched on the smooth onyx shelf next to the piano's open lid. He had the most natural rhythm she had ever seen in any musician in her entire 29 years. (Yet another helpful asset in bed, now that she thought of it.) The Julliard School did not simply leave things like this out on their most prized piano, and this was not a man who needed his time kept.
She was fixated on the metronome now. It was certainly out of place on the school's main stage. But there was something else--
She nearly giggled as he strode from the wings wearing a full tux, tails and all. He was not so much handsome as winsome, but he had a way about him which was thoroughly attractive to all of the women in their class. She applauded politely but enthusiastically as he approached the spotlight, touched by his commitment to this private performance. He bowed deeply in her direction before lifting the piano's lid, pulling out the bench, and smoothing out his pants and jacket. He then did something as surprising as anything he could have done in that moment as he reached up to unlatch the metronome.
It was a classic older wooden model, its ticks warm and resonant in a way that today's plastic devices could never be. It began to meter out an easy adagio, somewhere around 55 BPM.
Adagio. She felt his hand on her thigh as she thought the word and felt the metronome's ticks begin to fill her. She was not imagining his hand, she was feeling it. It was there. But she was alone in the audience, and he was hunched over the keys, eyes closed, his hands firmly on his own thighs.
He took a comfortable breath as he positioned his hands over the keys, only releasing it slowly as the slender but powerful fingers of his left hand began to trace a slow ostinato in the lower registers. His right soon joined, confidently sketching out a spidering counterpoint. It was determinedly understated, unspeakably gorgeous.
But the metronome was still going, and she felt herself going with it. She felt her consciousness slipping, her body melding with the plush seat. Her lids lowered. Her body slumped. She could feel her heart, her breath, her entire being folding into the metronome's insistent rhythm, the tick itself in turn perfectly aligned with the comfortably predictable pattern his left hand was still tracing out on the keys.
It all felt so familiar now, something she had already heard in a dream. The metronome, the ostinato, the melody--
Have I heard this all before? Is this even an original--
He began to play insistent alternating octaves in perfect rhythm along with the metronome, the ostinato of his left hand weaving in and around the rhythm of the right and the unrelenting tick of the metronome. She was the rhythm, the ostinato, the octaves. She was his hands on the indifferent ivory, and he was her mind.
My mind. Even as she struggled to resist, she felt the octaves wash it clean with perfect clarity. Any questions or thoughts or resistance she might have brought to the situation were gone.
The adagio ended. She was in a deep state of comfortable trance, half-lidded and blissed out. The metronome continued to ring out through the dark hall.
She became aware that the next movement had started, that he had at some point adjusted the metronome up a few ticks for an allegro. As his fingers began to dance softly across the keys, she could feel them teasing her nipples, sliding around her small but substantial breasts, trailing down her midriff with his tongue barely--just barely--teasing her clit. They multiplied as he played on until there were at least twenty hands all over her body. She felt her pussy flood, soaking through the thin fabric of her black dress and beginning to moisten the upholstery. Her hips began to buckle as he began a complex Bachian point-counterpoint, and she moaned softly as she felt a finger slide into her even as the hands continued to caress every inch of her skin. She came immediately as the finger--what finger?--plunged deep into her.
The movement ended as she hit yet another climax on the tip of his tongue, her pleasure filling the empty air where music had just been.
Silence. She opened her eyes wide. The metronome had stopped, leaving her with a brief moment of at least partial clarity. Her hands were still resting on the armrest, and there was no one else in the hall. No one had touched her. And she had never been touched like that.
Their eyes met. He smiled warmly and, his unwavering gaze still locked in to hers, reached up to adjust and unlatch the metronome again. She became distantly aware that she had removed her dress, that she was completely nude, that she was leaving a warm wet spot in seat 3G.
She felt his cock slide deep into her dripping pussy as he launched directly into a vigorous scherzo. She came again without even realizing that it was happening, her entire body spasming and squirming with pleasure, her quiet moans giving way to louder expressions as he began to rail her out. She could see him on stage and feel him inside her at the same time, but at least for now there was nothing to question. Before she had met him she had had the most difficult time even getting herself off, and had certainly never been able to orgasm during sex--but now she just couldn't stop. It was that voice, somehow still in her ear even now.
He smiled down at her, reaching the climax of his brilliant scherzo even as she found yet another of her own. She gasped audibly, her legs shaking. She still had not touched herself.
The metronome was back at a welcome adagio. He smiled and made a slight gesture with an open palm. Without a thought, she stood, pulled herself up onto the stage, and crawled on her hands and knees over to the piano. She took her place kneeling before him as he began the sonata's final movement.
As he spelled out the ostinato with his left hand and began another perfect counterpoint with his right, she was filled with an urge which she could not resist to take his cock down her throat. She could already feel how warm and welcome it would be. She had to have it. It was so overwhelming that she nearly came again just thinking of it, but she steadied herself and in one smooth motion unzipped his pants and pulled it out. It was already mostly ready to go, and she looked up at him with gratitude before gratefully accepting it with a slow tongue. The pounding octave figure returned as he played, bringing more insistence and energy to her efforts. She took it all now, nearly gagging as she turned her eyes up to meet his.
He was still playing as smoothly and confidently as before, seemingly unmoved by what she was sure had to be the best blowjob of his life. But she could hear some hesitation in the music now, his mind and body beginning to lose focus a bit in the face of so much pleasure. It wouldn't be long now.
They both reached the finale together, him in a sweeping statement of interlocking trichords, and her taking everything he had to give her all the way down her throat. She kept his cock in his mouth, unwilling to let it go and swirling her tongue around it as another small spurt filled her mouth until he was finished.
The sonata's final chord hung in the air. He placed a gentle hand on her head, pulling her eyes up to meet his and gazing down at her with sincere affection. They sat that way in silence for a few minutes, just existing.
He snapped the fingers of his right hand forcefully and carefully said a single word:
She was awake. She knew that when she was awake after hearing that word that it was time to leave. She wiped her mouth with the back of a hand and carefully tucked his cock back into his pants before zipping them back up. She realized in an unexpected but not unwelcome flash that she was completely naked under a spotlight on the main performance space of the nation's most prestigious music school. She slowly stood, returned to her seat, slipped her dress and heels back on, smoothed down her hair, and walked back up the aisle and into a warm summer night without looking back.
This was how the sonata ended. This was how it always ended.