Virtuoso Performance

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A post-concert ball.
1.8k words
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For his first major solo performance after his wife's death, why on earth did he insist on Paganini of all people? Kara wondered as she watched Chris, standing at the front of the stage, shake out his arms and nod at Rolfe, the conductor. Rolfe turned, scowled over the entire group to get their attention, and raised his baton. Kara hastily looked down at her music, but couldn't resist looking up again just before Chris's entrance. She watched anxiously as he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and set his bow on the strings of his violin. In another moment, she heard him play and relaxed her shoulders. It was going to be all right.

Although she'd asked herself the question, she really knew that the reason he'd chosen this piece over a romantic composer was because he could handle the technically exhausting challenge—but the emotional effort of Beethoven or Tchaikovsky or Bruch would have broken him before he was through the first movement. Any concerti but Paganini's would have crushed him with the suddenly contracted memory of his marriage to Rachel and her untimely death from cancer.

The Paganini highlighted Chris's virtuoso skills perfectly, and as the piece progressed Kara found herself caught up in Chris's performance. Knowing how difficult the solo was contributed to her appreciation. But she always loved to watch him and listen to him play; this time it was different somehow. I wonder why, she thought as she sat listening to an especially acrobatic cadenza. At the end of the cadenza, there was a pause, and in that split second, Chris looked over to where Kara sat in the bass section, caught her eye, and winked. Then he resumed playing.

It was so fast that Kara found herself wondering what had just happened, but she grinned at her music all the same. He didn't wink at anyone else in the middle of a concerto like that. And that was it; Kara blinked as she realized it. That was the difference. Tonight, she thought, I'm the one who'll be going home with him and I'll be going to bed with all that incredible talent. He'd warned her before they left the hotel room that after a performance he always was left with excess energy, but hadn't mentioned how he wound down enough to sleep. Now, however, she thought she could make a pretty accurate guess, and she grew flushed thinking about the energy he'd be bringing to bed with him tonight.

As she thought, the music and Chris's passionate performance both began to work on her. The stage grew smaller and the room grew warmer until everything seemed to dissolve into darkness and moist heat, leaving her with only the pure tonality of the violin to cling to like a life preserver in a vast, dark sea. She shifted in her chair and hoped there wouldn't be a wet spot on her dress when she stood up. Then, of course, awareness of how her arousal was manifesting itself--and during a performance of all things--only made her think further in the same direction: of her nipples in Chris's mouth, her legs wrapped around him, that delicious moment when his erection was poised at the entrance of her vagina. Just how enthusiastic would he be later? She stopped playing.

"Are you all right?" the bassist next to her whispered.

Her breathing had accelerated and she had to make a conscious effort to slow it again. "Yes, thanks," she whispered back, not taking her eyes off her own music. How embarrassing. She found her place in the music and started playing again.

"It's just that you looked flushed," the man next to her said at the end of the concerto under cover of the audience's applause.

Kara smiled feebly at him as she watched Chris take a bow. "Thanks," she said again, momentarily distracted by a slow trickle of her juice down her thigh. God, how long was it going to be before she and Chris could leave?

"I wanted to say congratulations, too," her colleague continued as they gathered their music, "to you and Christopher. For your marriage and all."

Kara wondered what the "and all" included, but she thanked him yet again, even though it had been a month already, gathered her bow and music in her right hand, hooked her left hand under the upper bout of her bass to carry it off stage, and headed for the green room.

The green room was like the hive of proverb: musicians buzzing to and fro, back and forth, chatting, laughing, emptying spit valves, packing away instruments, loosening bows, wiping rosin from varnish, disassembling and swabbing out wind instruments. Kara looked for Chris but a hasty glance around the room told her he wasn't in it. She decided to bag her bass so that when she did find Chris they could leave posthaste.

As she was zipping her bass bag, Rolfe found her. "If you're looking for Chris," he said, "he's still out in the hall, receiving."

"Oh, god, that's right," Kara said. "I was wondering. How many are left?"

"Not many." Rolfe pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his forehead and the back of his neck; he was dripping with sweat. "It was another superlative performance," he said, referring, she knew, not to the orchestra, but only to Chris. Sometimes she suspected Rolfe of being in love with Chris, too. "He is remarkable, your husband."

"Yes, I know." Kara thought she felt another trickle down her leg and set her bass down quickly. "I think I'll go rescue him." She left Rolfe and the room with alacrity.

In the hallway, Kara pushed through a small, chattering mob of people to stand next to her husband, who put an arm around her waist as if she were a bullet-proof vest. He was standing with his back against the wall and the group surrounded him like they were going to hurl stones any minute. "I'm glad you're here," he said to her in a low voice. "I need you to swoon or something so I can leave. Are you feeling all right?"

In response, she guided his hand slowly down the slope of her ass, hiked her dress up in the back just enough to get his hand under it and dropped the hem again. She let his hand find its own way and stiffened in reaction when his fingers brushed over her mound, the wet hair curling around his fingers as if to hold them captive. If only it could, she thought. He had very talented hands with preternaturally flexible fingers. It was why he could play Paganini so well. She smiled at his raised eyebrows.

"You're feeling just fine," he murmured, "but obviously you need bed rest."

"No, just bed," she whispered. "And you." She stiffened again as he withdrew his hand and watched as he shoved it into his trouser pocket.

"Thank you all," Chris said loudly to the hallway, "I'm afraid that's it for tonight. I need to get my wife home." The mob shuffled off, grumbling, as Chris steered Kara toward the green room. "I hope you're ready to leave," he said as they walked. "I don't want any of that to go to waste." He pulled his hand out of his pocket and considered his fingers, then put the first two in his mouth. He nodded approvingly.

As he reached for the doorknob, Kara, without turning around, reached behind her, grasping for the hard-on she knew must be waiting. She was not disappointed. Nor was she really surprised when Chris's hand veered from its trajectory towards the doorknob to come back to her and feel its way across the velvet of her dress to cup one of her breasts and squeeze. She leaned back into his shoulder to meet his open mouth with hers and felt his hand slide into the bodice of her dress; his fingers unerringly found her nipple and pinched.

She moaned and turned in his arms. Her hands reached for the zipper on his trousers, yanked it down, and reached inside to wrap around his hard, hot cock.

"Oh, god," he groaned into her mouth. Both of his hands gathered the skirt of her dress up until he could slip his hands underneath to cup the cheeks of her ass and back her up a few steps until she was pressed between his body and the wall, her hands still around his cock, her thumb rubbing over the head, smearing the pre-cum around. His hands moved across her ass cheeks to meet in the crack and follow it around to her drooling pussy. "Hey, hot cunt," he whispered into her ear, his breath hot and moist on her neck as he easily slid two, then three fingers inside. She was wet and slippery as a ripe peach. His thumb rubbed over her clit and he felt her body jerk against his. "God, you're so fucking wet," he whispered. "I should fuck you right here right now."

Kara opened her legs a little further and leaned into the wall to give him better access. "Oh god, yes, Chris, fuck me," she whispered. "Fuck me now." She sucked in a deep, noisy breath as his thumb brought her climax closer and she humped his hand faster. "Fuck me, Chris," she said again. "Please. Oh, god--" Her body formed a taut arch as her orgasm overwhelmed her; her head tipped back as she opened her mouth, barely suppressing her scream, then surged forward again so she could rest her mouth against the lapel of Chris's tux to muffle the scream she couldn't suppress.

"God." Chris's face was sharp and tight in the dim light of the hallway as he guided first one of her legs, then the other around his hips, and he said "Oh, shit," as she slid down, taking his cock in all the way to his balls. Bracing her against the wall and holding her ass cheeks in his hands, he drove in and out of her, grunting each time her cervix barred him from sliding all the way up inside to become part of her. He didn't even want to think what Rolfe would say if he happened to come out the green room door and see them. All that mattered right now was the warm, moist home that his cock had found.

Kara's arms were wrapped around his neck, holding his face in her tits, and he wished he'd taken the time to free them before his dick took over; he had a taste for her nipples, especially now. He gradually became aware that she was moaning into his shoulder and that her body was tensing. Oh, fuck, he thought, is she coming again? In another minute, her cunt went into spasms, clenching at his dick, and with one last shove, his already-tenuous control ended in a frenzy of sweat and exclamations, tangled clothing and thrusting hips.

As soon as Chris deposited his last shot, he heard Kara sigh deeply, contentedly. He smiled, panting. "You liked that?"

She nodded. "Can we go back to the hotel now?" she asked. "I need to go to bed, remember? My violinist prescribed it."

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4 Comments
janevalenzjanevalenzabout 18 years ago
very hot

Anyone who uses Paganini in an erotic story is all right by my book. However, I was slightly puzzled by the mention of the wife's death in the beginning. It does add context behind Christopher's choice in the piece. Yet it left me wondering if this was the continuation of a series of stories. Overall, you make me want to go through my old CD collection for a listen-through and freewrite for old time's sake.

AnonymousAnonymousabout 18 years ago
Literotica at its best

Wonderful story, a great mixture of eroticism & slutty talk. Have you ever tried playing whilst having your boobs & nipples played with....

Hercules_unleashedHercules_unleashedabout 18 years ago
Excellent

Wow, the tension was just right, ripped me right along with her. An outstanding performance Mollybloom, now I am set to read more of your work and as the last comment said, I too give you a standing ovation. Perhaps you might like to check out some of my work. Even if your mariage is in name only, your husband does not know what a treasure you are, don't let life pass you by. should you wish to contact me I can be found as Hercules_unleashed on Yahoo or mail me to thebacchanalia@aol.com

Peter

TonyZeeTonyZeeabout 18 years ago
Bravo!

Played with true verve and gusto. I've got a standing ovation going on here and only need a lusty string bassist to bestow it on. Another fine erotic piece. Or to paraphrase your literary doppelganger, Yes, Molly Bloom. Yes.

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