The Maestro Ch. 05


She'd lost the control of keeping her mouth shut, and a soft pained groan escaped her lips each time the paddle made contact. Still, in the midst of the cloud of burning pain that surrounded her, she suddenly felt a growing core of a different kind of heat entirely. Thwack, thwack! went the paddle.

"Oooh," she sighed, more pleasured moan than pained groaning this time. Thwack, thwack! "Ahhhh, yesssss." The outburst surprised both of them. Claire's every muscle tensed with embarrassment, and Sebastien, who had been in mid-swing as best Claire could tell from the whoosh of air on her tormented skin, stopped stock still. The music stopped, too.

The paddle dropped from his hand, forgotten on the floor, as he knelt again between her legs. This time he braced himself with cool hands directly on her buttocks, making her groan. The music had changed - it was lighter, livelier. He pressed his face between her legs, and she felt his tongue sliding out onto her, all over, with feathery light licks on her clit and her inner thighs. Her back tried to arch, but was constricted by the angle she was tied into.

Heat and chills coursed over her body as Sebastien's tongue zeroed in on her most sensitive areas. She gasped and rolled her hips, trying to get more contact. The pleasure was mounting, so close, so close. Then the music stopped again, and just as abruptly, Sebastien disappeared from between her thighs.

Claire let out a short scream of frustration, and the music began again. The third movement of the Sonata is tempestuous and frighteningly fast. For a moment, she wondered what Sebastien's next move would be. Surely he would not be going for the paddle again - ouch - and indeed, he made no movement to pick it up. Instead she felt a slight, insistent tickling and prickling along her buttocks and upper thighs. On her hot and tender skin, it began stinging almost right away.

Faster and harder, he whipped at her with the instrument she had felt once before and named, almost affectionately, The Stinger. She cried out, expelling breath almost faster than she could draw them in. Still, she was not surprised this time to feel the pleasure growing in her, pushing her up, up to where she would be flung off the towering cliffs.

A momentary lull in the building tempo let her catch her breath. She felt moisture seeping out from the corners of her eyes, and from between her legs, down the insides of her thighs. The music suddenly sped up, and the Stinger with it, until she was half-delirious with pain and pleasure. Another short pause, and she knew they were in the final stretch of the song, and part of her never wanted this feeling to end, this burning, buzzing haze of sensation.

But it had to.

Sebastien loosened the bonds that held her wrists against her ankles, and suddenly she dreaded moving. She'd been bent over almost double for a quarter of an hour, and no amount of arousal would be able to dull the pain of too much inaction. But the hands guiding her limbs were gentle, and they massaged the painful, kinked spots.

"Walk around a moment," he murmured, going over to the table to fiddle with a small laptop, which had evidently been playing the music. She stretched her arms above her head gratefully, feeling her joints pop and crack in all the most delightful places. She rubbed her palms softly over her buttocks, wincing a little. "You like the Moonlight Sonata?" he asked.

"It's one of my favorites. Always has been."

"How do you feel about... Bolero?"


Claire faced the wall, arms stretched above her head, nose barely touching the surprisingly clean wallpaper in the hotel room. The opening strains of Bolero barely kissed the air, and already her chest was heaving with nervous anticipation. Ravel's Bolero was another masterful piece, about as long as Moonlight Sonata, but with a much longer buildup.

Accordingly, Sebastien began with a series of feather-light caresses to her entire backside. The stretches of skin he had whipped were still fairly tender, but the immediacy of the pain had faded somewhat. Without warning, he slicked on a cold substance of some kind, rubbing it gently into her skin. It cooled off her skin in a very welcome way, but then began to tingle. The tingling quickly turned to prickling, and it was as if she was being gently pricked with ten thousand needles. She writhed, whimpering softly into the wall. Peppermint.

She lost track of time, the seemingly endless swells of the music filling her brain along with the stings, the swats, the spanks Sebastien inflicted upon her. When he finally brought her to orgasm, she was digging her fingernails painfully into the wall, her body wracked with wonderful, terrible spasms. It was the first time she had ever come from physical punishment alone... but it would not be the last.

Her knees buckled, but she knew Sebastien would catch her. He lifted her bodily, and set her on the bed, where he had spread his overcoat. He curled himself around her, gently rubbing her arms, her legs, trying to relax her muscles.

She must have dozed off, because at some point she startled awake. The little clock on the table said 4:49. A dusty grey line was just visible at the base of the door. She felt Sebastien's body, a line of heat behind her own, and shifted back to press against him. Sighing contentedly, she felt his hard cock against her. Trying not to disturb his arm still draped over her hip, she reached back with one hand to undo his pants.

She reached in to stroke his cock, angling her hips up to rub the tip of him against her wetness. She felt his fingertips dig into her hip slightly, and with a single thrust, buried himself into her. The throbbing pain in her buttocks flared to life again as his hips made contact with them, over and over again.

Reaching out, she drew aside the outer curtain slightly, leaving the gauzy second curtain in place. She watched the sun rise light up the sky as Sebastien drove into her, forcing a soft cry from her lips as she felt him thrust a final time, coming with a shudder.


Their final performance of the season took place the night after Claire had received a particularly painful punishment from Sebastien. She was actually having a bit of difficulty just sitting at the front of the stage, waiting for her part of the concert. The orchestra was playing a rousing overture, and she was getting pissed off at the smug looks Sebastien sent in her direction whenever he could as he watched her fidget, ever so slightly. It was one of the only times that their extracurricular activities had impacted their work together.

They had known it was a bad idea, but a particularly rigorous rehearsal schedule had kept them apart, and apparently Sebastien hadn't been able to wait another night. Of course, he wasn't the one sitting up there with a really sore backside, so it was very convenient for him that way. When it was finally time for her to sing, she nearly leaped from her chair, smoothing down the back of her dress with relief. Sebastien's lips twitched with amusement, and she barely resisted the urge to glare at him.

At intermission, she went directly to her dressing room to apply a cold pack to her backside - yes, really. She had just hitched up her dress when the door opened, and Sebastien came in. A blush rose to her cheeks as she looked wide-eyed at him.

"What are you doing in here?" she snapped. He didn't respond, only locked the door behind him and approached her, slowly. She backed up until she knocked into the wall, whimpering in pain as her sensitive skin smacked into it. He hurriedly undid his tuxedo pants, pulling his shirt up to expose his rapidly hardening cock. Claire let out a sound of frustration as even the sight of him aroused her so completely.

He kissed her, sliding his hand into her panties, stroking and petting her until she was wet and ready for him. She turned her face to break free of his mouth.

"No, stop, we'll have to go back onstage any minute," she pleaded.

He ignored her, pushing her legs apart and sliding his cock into her. The motion made her buttocks rub roughly against the wall, inflaming them and making her moan softly. Sebastien was leaning into her, breathing heavily with the effort of trying to hurry. The friction of their fucking and her ass banging repeatedly into the wall made the heat grow fast between her legs.

"Owww," she whined. He gave her a quick, amused grin. She loved seeing the easy way he could smile at her these days. She slid her hand between them and toyed with her clit, letting out a soft moan at the spike of pleasure she felt. Sebastien fucked her faster, evidently hoping to hurry things along. She felt him tensing against her, and as he shot his come into her, she came too, biting her lip to keep from crying out.

He leaned in to give her a soft kiss. "You are doing a magnificent job tonight, mon abeille, in all things, as always." He pulled away so they could both get their clothes rearranged again. He gestured toward the door with his head. "Ladies first."


"Mon abeille, could I please have a word with you?" Sebastien asked, distractedly, as their first rehearsal of the summer drew to a close. Claire's first clue that something was wrong - he used his pet name for her when straggling musicians were still in the room. Surely they wouldn't understand what he'd said, but it was a big mistake for someone so careful.

"Yes, Maestro, of course."

"I know that you were expecting Alan tomorrow, but I am afraid there has been a change of plans. I am flying to Paris tonight."

"But why?"

"It is my grandmother. She's very ill, and my mother asked me to come home for a few days. I hope it will only be a few days."

His face was carefully empty, but Claire could sense the tension in him, like a cup of water filled to the very brim that you carry, so gently, to avoid spilling a drop. She laid her hand on his forearm in the barest touch.

"Have a safe trip, Maestro. I'll be thinking of you."


Six days, and she had not yet heard from him. It was unlike him to go longer than three days without calling, and she worried incessantly. Suppose he had gotten hurt on the way to Paris. Suppose he had gotten hurt in Paris. Suppose he had, in the depths of his grief, met someone else... but no, that was a selfish thought. Still, the strain was too much to bear.

Finally, she made up her mind to track him down. She flicked through the caller ID memory on her phone until she found the foreign number that Sebastien had called from the last time he was in Paris. She thought he had stayed with family, perhaps he would be there again.

She dialed, and sucked in a breath, letting it out slowly. One ring, two, three, four, then a moment of silence. "Allo?" spoke a slightly husky, though refined, woman's voice.

Claire opened her mouth, and the jumble of words that tumbled out was indeed French, but so confused as to be unintelligible. She shouldn't be so nervous, it was only a phone call. She tried again, and it was little better - at least she was able to somewhat intelligently inquire if she had reached the Boulet household.

"Oui," said the voice uncertainly. "Pardon me," it went on, in a heavily accented English, "but do you perhaps speak English?"

"Yes," Claire breathed out in relief. "I'm so very sorry, my French is terrible."

"Think nothing of it. May I ask why you are calling?"

"Please, could you tell me, is Sebastien there?"

"Oui," said the woman on the other line, a bit suspiciously. "Who are you, and why do you wish to speak with him?"

"Oh! I'm sorry. My name is Claire. I, um, work with the orchestra and, um, well, it's just that-"

"Are you the woman he's been seeing?"

Claire was silent for a long moment. "Is that what he told you?" she finally ventured.

It was the other woman's turn to be silent. "Well, no," she admitted. "He refuses to admit what I know to be true. So?"

"I would tell you nothing different from what he says," Claire said carefully.

Another pause. "I see. I will go fetch him."

There was a long pause, then muffled voices, sounding very faraway.

"Claire, is this truly you?" asked Sebastien. Her heart broke just a little to hear his voice, so soft, so unlike his usual demeanor.

"Yes, Maestro. I... I was worried about you, since we haven't spoken in a week."

A gusty sigh. "I am sorry about that, Claire. I was thinking of you, but I did not know what to say. My grandmother's funeral was today."

"I'm sorry." It was inadequate, but it was all she could say.

"We spent every summer at her farmhouse in the south, until I went away to school. She was a wonderful woman. I wish..."

He trailed away, and when he seemed to have no intention of finishing, Claire prodded, "Wish what?"

"Ahh, it does not matter. I will be home very soon, mon abeille."


Claire paced the length of her apartment as she struggled with what to do. Sebastien had always insisted that she leave him with privacy unless he asked for her. But... he had sounded so sad on the phone. She couldn't imagine leaving him to come home to an empty apartment. Still, after what happened the time before, she was more than a little reticent - not to mention the fact that Alan would no doubt prevent her from coming along. Besides, Sebastien hadn't told her the time of his flight; he would only say that it would be too late to meet with her, and that he would no doubt see her the following day.

Well, he would just have to deal with it, she thought firmly. She took a cab over to his apartment building that evening, and used her key to let herself in. It was the first time she'd been alone in his apartment, and it was a little strange. She noticed that everything was very tidy, nothing out of place. Who cleaned his apartment, anyway? It was kind of hard to imagine Sebastien with a vacuum or a dustcloth and can of Pledge.

She should get it ready for his arrival, she thought. She found the thermostat on the back wall, and turned off the "vacation" setting. Immediately, the heater kicked on, and a soft gust of warmish air blew over the top of her head. In the kitchen, she put on a kettle of water to boil for tea, and as it heated, she watched the city through the picture window. Somewhere out there was a man she had evidently grown to care for. How much, she refused to consider.

The whistling kettle drew her attention, and she poured the hot water into a teapot. She added the tea leaves, and turned away again as it steeped. She checked her watch. Eleven-thirty. How much later could he possibly arrive? She supposed flights arrived all night. She could go downstairs to check if Alan had left in the car, but what if she ran into him on her way down? No, better to stay where she was.

After a few minutes, she removed the tea leaves from the teapot. Casting around for two cups, she carried the lot upstairs, flicking off the downstairs light on her way up. She set everything down in the sole clear spot on his desk in the office, then lit a fire in the fireplace. The lamp in the corner gave off a light yellow glow, and she turned it on, scanning the bookshelves. She picked out a novel, and settled back on the creaky leather sofa to read, and wait.


She must have drifted off, because the sound of a door shutting jolted her awake, the novel having slipped to the floor. She picked it up and set it aside, checking the teapot. Still warm. She wasn't sure whether she should go downstairs, but her indecision made the decision for her, as she soon heard soft footsteps on the stairs.

She saw Sebastien whisk by the room, even as she opened her mouth to speak. Then, he walked back, slowly, looking into the room with a very strange expression on his face. She swallowed, waited for him to speak. He only stood and stared at her, looking as though he was having trouble believing what he was seeing.

Claire couldn't stand the silence, and took a step toward him.

"I know I shouldn't be here, but I just couldn't let you come home alone. I'm sorry to invade your privacy like this, but..."

She was interrupted by Sebastien's sudden stride across the floor to her. She tried to step back again, but he grabbed her upper arms tightly, pulling her in against his chest and stealing her breath in a searing kiss. He shrugged out of his clothes, tossing them carelessly onto the sofa, and then began to undress her, touching his lips to each patch of newly exposed skin. Kneeling before her, he kissed her stomach, her hips, her trimmed mound. It was an odd sensation, looking down at him.

He drew her down on top of him, kissing her deeply. She could feel him, already so hard, pressing against her. It made her wet, thinking of him aroused by her, wanting her. She ground down against him and then rose up to take him inside her. Sebastien propped himself up on his elbows, watching her breasts bounce as she rode him. Her hair had tumbled down around her shoulders.

"You're very beautiful," he said to her. Blushing, she clapped her hands over her face. He sat up, catching her wrists in his hands and wrenching her arms around behind her back, putting her face so close to his. "No, no, I want to see you," he said.

In that moment, as he held her wrists so firmly in one of his hands, she felt a great peace come over her as she finally gave in to what she needed so desperately. It was like all the inner dialogue went away and a great soft silence filled her head. She blinked twice, very slowly, and felt her heart turn over when she saw the intense look in Sebastien's eyes.

He held her tightly to him, hips pumping his cock into her from below. She whimpered, and made a move to touch herself before she quite remembered that her hands were incapacitated. Sensing what she needed, Sebastien slipped his free hand between them, sliding his fingers over her clit. She came almost immediately, abdomen clenching, crying out. She dropped her forehead onto Sebastien's shoulder, but his fingers kept up their ceaseless circuit on her so sensitive skin.

Whispering in her ear, he urged her on. "Mon abeille, come again for me." She shook her head, but he only moved his fingers faster on. "I know you can. Come for me. Do it now," he commanded softly, and she could do nothing else but obey, falling hard.

Bare moments later, she was watching his pale, slender form rising above her, firelight flickering unevenly over his skin. He folded her arms just above her head, pinning them by the wrists into the ground. He entered her again, dark eyes focused on hers. She gazed up at him, and suddenly felt this strange sense of subservience - well, that wasn't quite the right word, but it was just like she belonged underneath him. She shivered. Perhaps he had seen something in her face, for he gave her the barest of smiles.

It was funny, realizing that she was living out one of the most cliche romantic fantasies, making love fireside, with this man. It was, in fact, the first time she could think of that they had been so gentle with each other. Perhaps they both needed it.

He never increased his pace, just kept steadily moving inside her, pressing tender kisses to her skin.

"Maestro," she said softly, catching his attention. "I'm glad you're home." She bit her lip, feeling like somehow it would cost her something to admit what she was about to. "I really missed you."

Whatever it had cost, the slow smile that crossed his face was worth it. He released her hands, threading his fingers through her hair and kissing her deeply as he drove more deeply into her. She moaned softly into his mouth as the movement ignited her still sensitive skin, pushing her toward her third orgasm of the night. With one final thrust, he released into her, the rhythmic pulsations pushing her over the edge so that she cried out.

So she would have more bruises to hide. And her emotional life was getting more complicated. But tonight, she felt so calm, so much at peace that it just didn't seem to matter.

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