Sex in C Major
Chapter 63

It felt seedy. Dirty. Wrong.

Right.

It was a clinical sort of self-fuck, the kind done from boredom or a need to sleep rather than crawling out of one's skin with arousal, and yet the pain of metal digging into his skin when he came, shuddering and twitching against the restraints, was a spike of raw, dark pleasure. He wrenched harder, just to feel it. Just to feel that he couldn't.

And when it was over, Stefan expected to be let go.

Only Yannis said, "Good."

And moved.

Wood creaked. Something clicked.

"You can do that," Yannis said carefully, "as many times as you want. Whenever you want. You can touch any part of your body that you want, but you don't attempt to remove anything I put on you. If you do, I will stop the experiment, I will leave you here until Darian comes home, and I will tell him exactly how many times you got off. And believe me, you will not enjoy it if Darian punishes you."

A thrill of fear chased up Stefan's spine. He swallowed, rubbing his tongue against the rough leather in his mouth. His dick twitched, already beginning to rise again.

Something slipped over his ears.

The disorientation was immediate and frightening. Stefan tried to get rid of it, but between the blindfold and the gag, he couldn't do so much as shake his head. Headphones. Heavy. Large. Maybe even industrial. They cupped and covered the shells of both ears entirely, cocooning them in softness. But it was the last sense. Blind, deaf, dumb-he half-lifted his hands, only to fist them and lower them again. He'd be punished. Left here to rot until-until whenever Daz came home, and then he would be punished. Hurt.

And he had agreed to this.

Agreed to all of it.

But then-

Sound.

Music.

Stefan breathed out, and relaxed. String music. It began to rise and swell, and he recognised a symphony from somewhere. Perhaps Yannis himself. Had he played this before? It was a full orchestra, an expert recording, and it drove into Stefan's skull and skittered down his skin as it stripped away the shed, the chains, the bench, and consumed him.

There was nothing.

Nothing but the music.

He could feel it in his lungs. Could feel the shiver of strings tightening around his chest, and the low rumble of a bass and cello in perfect harmony grip around his heart. It began to beat with them-shuddering, rapid beats that tried to keep time and tone, but couldn't. Like a drum trying to be something else entirely, Stefan felt his whole body straining to fit. To slip into the music like clothes. To follow it; to let it guide every breath, every heartbeat, every movement.

And when the music swelled and rushed, so did his body.

His heart beat faster. His cock filled. His hands cupped it, and stroked the length in shivering trills, playing the shaft as the bow played the violin strings. His nerves vibrated, strings of their own. His muscles creaked against the chains. Cellos.

He was the music

He was he was-

The first climax hit at the crescendo, as a great tide of instruments crashed on the shores of his brain. He drowned it in, drinking notes like water, feeling the semiquavers quiver in his veins like they were real. It shook him, burst over him, and he struggled in the chains for something-anything-to hold onto.

But as the tide receded, that soft, lonely violin remained. It cried and cajoled, and dragged him with it. It stroked his burning skin, and kissed his trapped throat like a lover. No, a trap. A temptation. It tugged at his hair and lips, bit at his neck and nipples, and by the time the rumble of the double bass returned, he could feel himself shaking all over again.

It was alive.

It was alive and crawling over him. He could feel the staff lines gouging into his skin. He could feel the footsteps of the notes. His hair was standing on end; the music stroked through goose bumps and licked at the creases and crooks in his skin. It was everywhere. It was outside, inside,everywhere. It was everything. There was nothing but this tide, this crash and ebb, this roar and whisper, this sensuous fuck kissing his ears and dragging his hand to his cock, whispering to him, sucking at him as he stroked-

The second climax burst when the bass boomed, and the music lapped, wet and hot, at his eyes. It clawed at his limbs, cutting and savage. The vibration of the cello was pounding through his veins. The deep roar of the double bass promised more, promised everything. But it was the violin that teased, high and fleeting. It fingered him, but never fucked. It kissed his cock, but never sucked. It filled him, his blood burning, his dick aching, but there was no satisfaction from the flighty high notes. They taunted, but it was the bellow and bray of the deeper instruments that shook him to the core. That ripped him inside out.