tagBDSMPiano

Piano

byAlexVishnya©

A small concert hall is the shape of a tall cylinder. Light comes from an invisible source overhead, pouring out a soft golden glow that plays at the edge of crimson. Black fabric is draped on the rounded walls, giving the space a deep softness, an otherworldly cocoon. In the center stands an open grand piano, all black and infinitely reflecting its surroundings: soft edges and sharp angles, a golden inner frame, a row of white keys shining brightly amongst the black. In front of the keys is a black wood and leather piano bench. The leather is stretched taut; the legs are solid and heavy in construction, seemingly a part of the charcoal granite floor. But the bench is not what it initially seems.

From the center protrudes a phallus, rounded at the top and slowly growing thick at the base until its curves fade into the leather of the piano bench. It feels like polished marble at first, but then gives way like hard rubber. If it is squeezed it changes shape. If warmth is near its surface it moves to reach the source. It softly expands and contracts, growing in thickness and length, changing shape with the reverberations and textures that surround it.

A group of people slowly take their seats in a semicircle around the piano. The rows of seats are elevated so that the piano is slightly below. They look down on the piano, on the bench. Their eyes scan the black surfaces in relaxed anticipation, running over each curvature, each edge, each line. Their black clothing is tight on their bodies, revealing hidden pieces of skin on the ankles and upper chest - a slit between breasts, an oval around the navel, a net of fine mesh catching a bare back, short cut sleeves revealing defined muscles and broad shoulders.

The light becomes cooler and brighter. People shift in their seats and become aware of a sweet scent, inhaling it deeply. Sounds of exhalation travel up the cylinder and run around the space, coming from all sides, all at once.

A black drape is parted by a silky white hand which slowly becomes an arm, a shoulder, a body. She is tall and powerful in her nakedness. Her blonde and brown hair is in ripples that cover her chest like sand on a beach. You can see the lightest fuzz of her skin in the fluorescence of the light. She slowly moves across the stage toward the piano, striding with thick and toned legs, her chest now uncovered and pulling the rest of her body toward the instrument. She is like an Amazonian woman, broad in her curves and movements, unselfconscious in her beautiful smooth skin, her deep blue eyes. The crowd watches her and feels the holding of their breath. They try to release and relax, moving their chests in and out, inhaling and exhaling as a collective.

They watch the naked woman's every move: the tendons that surge as her foot raises from the floor, the tilt of her hip as she moves her balance forward, her inner thigh as it slides against its other half, back and forth, smooth and frictionless. They watch the slightest movements of her supple breasts, the gradual hardening of her nipples. Her body moves in tiny waves with each step, the wholeness rippling at the impact of bare soles on the cold floor. They watch her mouth draw open and reveal a warm red wetness as her gaze moves to the black bench. Her eyes sharpen and become wider, her cheeks turn a shade of pink, and something seems to simultaneously loosen and tightens in her core. She stands before the bench, before its leather extension, inviting her to sit.

She comes between the piano and the seat. The crowd of eyes senses her anticipation and their own. A weight of lust settles in the woman's abdomen, in her pelvic muscles. She hadn't expected this, but then again, she expected nothing at all. She lowers herself to the edge of the bench, a sliver of her ass touching the cold leather, then slides closer to center until the lower back comes in contact with the protrusion.

At first, the phallus against her spine is cold like the bench, but quickly matches the warmth of her lower back. Then, like water, the it shifts shape and becomes a flat pad, a smooth and soft rubber firmness that carresses her from tailbone to behind the solar plexus. The crowd watches the transformation in awe as the solidity of the black mass melds and reconstitutes itself. They shift back into their seats, looking for the same support, the same comfort. The woman feels the room breathe and lowers her shoulders.

From the ring of seats, the woman seems to have become more petite, more delicate in her seated pose. The light crosses into a subtle yellow. She extends her head and body toward the invisible ceiling as if pulled by a thread and elongates her legs toward the golden pedals of the piano. Her toes curl around the metal then slide forward until her foot seems to grasp its entirety. She lightly places her hands on the keys and begins to play.

Her fingers move slowly, pressing the keys with a soft touch and releasing one hammer at a time, letting each note hang in the air and swirl around the room. She starts on the middle keys and spreads her arms apart, gradually reaching the higher and lower frequencies simultaneously. As she strokes the keys the black protrusion morphs in shape and size in rhythm with the sound, moving about her lower back, pushing into her muscles, giving beneath her rocking. Her melodies grow in complexity and the people watch her eyes close as she tilts her head to hear the strings' vibrations. The black mass on her back begins to disappear into the bench until it's completely absorbed it. The woman pushes through her feet and slides to the center of the bench, her eyes still closed, her lips parted and glistening.

She is completely relaxed, playing a soft melody in the higher keys, a lower rhythmic pattern in the bass. As she moves to the music she feels leather-like snakes come up from the bench and squeeze around her thighs like belts. A tingle runs through her and exits at the top of her neck as she sits completely erect, swaying back and forth at the hips, continuing to play the grand. The crowd listens with their eyes wide open, seeing the first signs of sweat form on her legs as they work. Tense and release the pedals, tense and release her tendons. Tense and release. Tense. Release. Between her thighs and below her abdomen forms a new protrusion, at first just a small mound. The leather around her thighs pulls in opposite directions, opening her legs to the piano, exposing her. The mound expands to fill the new space until it comes in contact with her skin and cups her vulva. It presses in through her lips, sliding without resistance against the wetness. The whole surface of the bench takes on the same slippery texture as it absorbs her and she absorbs it. The crowd sees the change. Some feel at their exposed skin - a soft neck, a firm stomach. The air itself becomes heavier, more humid.

All the while the woman plays, her keystrokes becoming deeper, her rhythms expanding her body movements to capture all of the patterns.

Suddenly she throws her head back and opens her mouth in a gasp, her hair nearly touching the bench behind her. She holds her hands on the last chords, sustaining them. The crowd watches as her toes curl and her stomach tenses. Her chest moves in and out and a shiver runs through her naked and wet body, now fully coated in a layer of sweat, glistening and shaded in red hue where the blood flows viciously just under the surface.

The woman feels the mass reach deep inside of her and press tight, slowly vibrating with the frequency of the lowest note in her chord. She tries to shift her pose but the bench holds her; her legs are spread to a ninety degree angle. She tries to pull them together but the leather snakes tighten and don't give. It is her secret pleasure to be restrained like this, even in the frustration of being unable to move her insides churn and pulse and want more. She resumes playing, feeling the shifts of pressure and tightness of the bench as it spread within her. It moves to the changes in key and melody, to the spaces between the high and low notes. Vibrations of the piano strings correspond to the black, wet, leather firmness the grips her like a hand holds a puppet.

Her breathing becomes part of the music. Her movements are the movements of the piano strings and the cascades of notes. Melodies and rhythms play upon the ears of the crowd and the growing, gnawing black mass inside of her moves with the tones. It jolts her in crescendo, pulses violently against her inner walls as she dances her fingers through the octaves. The legs of the piano begin grow toward her, sprawling out soft velvet vines that wrap around her ankles and shins, pulling them taut. The vines writhe around her slick legs and creak like a leather glove on wet glass, restraining her compulsive movements further, sending her pulses back into her own body.

Her playing becomes more erratic, long sustained chords punctuated by jazz like flourishes that slam down into hard attacks on the bass keys, over and over and over again in a trance of reverb and cyclical rhythm. Her body shivers and shudders with each vicious slam of the keys, fighting inside the cage of leather and rubber. Her breasts drip with sweat from the confines of the black material, engulfing her and reflecting the light for all to see.

And they see it all. All the jolts of electricity that run through her limbs, all the gritting of her teeth and sudden change to ecstatic smile. They watch as her hair becomes soaked in sweat and her collarbones catch tiny reservoirs of fluid that explode into the air. They see her fight to control the sounds, fight to hold on as long as she can. Each shudder goes into the bodies in the crowd. Their focus is on her every movement, vicariously enraptured by the passion, by the growth of the desire for release, the desire to come. The woman feels the pressure within her start to overwhelm. It's beginning to swallow her, to turn her inside out, to make her want the beautiful release of being torn apart.

The leather bench grows and goes deeper, filling every crevice within, finding any opening that yearns to be filled - pulsing, expanding, contracting. She summons it into her body with the keys, with her echoing moans that overlay the chaotic music. She cries in pleasure and the building frustration as the pain of wanting release weaves into her moan. The blackness grows to wrap around her torso and each breast. It wraps her back and around her stomach. It tightens almost lovingly around her neck and restrains her entire wet body in a lattice of bondage, squeezing her skin, pulling her shoulders back. It slithers to beyond her beck and finds its way to her now dripping, drooling lips. Her eyes are rolled back as she gasps and squirms and moans in muffled ecstasy, barely able to move. The leather blackness penetrates her open mouth and pours in like a waterfall.

She tightens like a string. Her hands hold one deep chord, each finger pressed into the piano, spread as far as her skin permits. Her body violently jerks and pulses. The crowd is wet in their own sweat, gripping at themselves like children writhing with a heavy lust that makes their skin crawl. The blackness envelops the woman completely, as if she were a sculpture. Nothing. The piano and the bench and the woman are all the same edges and curves, all deeply, colorlessly black and reflective.

A deep scream of life and pain and deathly ecstasy explodes into the room. Gradually it becomes less muffled and mixes with the sound of slithering and slurping, of leather snapping and pulling against itself, of tentacles sliding free from skin. The scream becomes a moan, becomes a rush of inhale then moan again, over and over as she comes and writhes and comes again, gasping for air, reaching an ever deepening release, an ever engulfing climax of pleasure and destruction. Each piece of newly exposed skin vibrates and sends her into a circle of sensation, of pleasure beckoning pleasure, amplifying the satisfaction. She feels afloat, on a spiral that carries her and spins her like a gyroscope.

All at once, the blackness recedes from her shuddering body. It pulls itself from her feet and her arms, her head and torso. It slides out from her deepest cavities, leaving her insides to feel suddenly empty and free to breathe. It had conquered her entirely and she it, creating the music that moved it to annihilate her being. The last of it exits her mouth and she collapses onto the floor in a puddle of her own sweat and fluid, exposed and dazed, sliding back into reality, into the sensations of gravity and the cold granite floor.

She feels her tongue able to move again. She's soaking wet and pink all over, her chest continuing to move as she breathes deeply, each inhale a new wave of pleasure. Red bands cover parts of her body and she touches them, feeling a slight sting accompanied by satisfying warmth. The crowd erupts in applause, sweat pouring from their faces as they stand up. She spreads her body in all directions, stretching every limb and appendage across the slippery wet floor. Her face radiates joy and complete serenity. She runs her hands all up and down her body and lolls her tongue out like a puppy. She is born anew, clean in every pore, inside and out. The crowd continues to howl as the lights dim and fade the room into nothing, into an empty black cylinder that contains only the remaining smell of salt and sweetness.

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by Anonymous

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by jth215-204/09/18

And the piece had only one movement!!!

Just loved it. So erotic... I'd wish it had been a piece in 4 movements... Thanks!!! Looking forward to more of your stories.

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by AlexVishnya04/09/18

Thanks

Thank you to those who read my first attempt at erotica!

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