The Cat and the Fiddle

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Music washed over Karen, as soft and soothing as the caresses of her master, the Maestro. She had been bound, she had been beaten by him, and now she knelt by him as he reclined on the couch, his eyes closed in appreciation of the peace which the music brought.

One hand rested on Karen’s neck, fingers curled beneath her chin to hold her head up, keep her back erect. On her haunches she felt like an obedient pet, waiting for the Maestro to acknowledge her, to offer some small sign of affection or approval.

Out of the corner of her eye, not turning until Maestro said she could, Karen was aware of his other hand moving to his lap, then drawing the loose kaftan he wore up his legs. Then there was a gentle pressure on her neck, he tilted her head and she saw his strong thighs bared, his fingers slipping between them. She gazed down with love, with veneration, until the fingers curled beneath her chin slowly raised her head to gaze into the eyes of the Maestro. There was the hint of a smile in those eyes, a gentle curve to the lips and the slightest suggestion of a nod, at which she lowered her head, kissed his thighs, buried her face in his lap.

The loving way Maestro caressed her neck could as easily bring tears to her eyes as any pain he has caused her, after the way he had used her she could only love him all the more for the kindness he now showed.


He was rumoured to be a hard task-master, he was a perfectionist and demanded nothing less than perfection from those in his charge. As he walked across the stage Karen was struck by his athletic grace, he was tall and heavily built but he moved with an ease which belied his bulk. It was when he stepped up onto the conductor’s podium, though, when he tossed back his head and that mane of long blonde hair, when he raised his arms as if to embrace them all, it was then that she felt in awe of the power which he exuded.

‘Scheherezade, the Entrance of the Kalendar Prince,’ he announced, his voice deep and sonorous, reverberating richly about the concert hall, and brought his arms down, the baton held lightly in his right hand.

As Karen drew the bow across the violin strings she felt as if it was stroking her heart, drawing music from her soul, her whole body quivered to hear the orchestra swell, to feel herself under the control of the man before her.

Her eyes flicked incessantly from the score to the Maestro, from the ink-black of the musical notation to the jet of his eyes, and she played with more passion than ever before, uplifted by the music, orchestrated by the Maestro, her body swaying in time with his baton.

There was a sweat on her brow, her cheeks were flushed, she wore a long thin cotton skirt to the rehearsal and beneath it, between her thighs, she could feel herself becoming wet.

This was passion, pure and unadulterated…..surely!

‘No! No! No!’ said the Maestro, tapping his baton vigorously against the podium. ‘I sense no feeling! You play like automata rather than musicians with soul! Now again! From the beginning!’

And so they began again, and again, and each time Karen’s soul seemed lifted ever higher until she felt that it was soaring. Sweat was pouring from her, it ran in rivulets between her breasts, across her belly, along her thighs. There was a tingling numbness in her fingertips from the constant vibration of the strings, every muscle quivered and ached, and at the very heart of the sensation, the epicentre of this, was her groin. Though she was wet she was also afire, it felt as if the bow had been stroking there, the fine strands drawn across her swollen labia rather than across the violin.

When the Maestro finally called a halt to the rehearsal, after a punishing three hours, she felt overcome by weariness, as if her body had been used by him, and she slumped in her seat, elbows resting on knees, bow and violin hanging loosely from her hands.

‘We will resume tomorrow morning and hope for better,’ the Maestro said, stepping down from the podium and crossing the stage. ‘And you, First Violinist-‘ he added.

‘Yes Maestro?’ said Karen, looking up.

‘I will see you in my dressing room when you have packed away your instrument,’ he said, and was gone.

Quickly Karen packed bow and violin into the case, snapped it shut and stood. Her bare arms were breaking out in goose bumps, now the sweat was cooling on her, and she shivered as she crossed the stage, then again more violently as she entered the bare corridor behind and walked along to the dressing rooms. The goose bumps were spreading, she was no longer sure of the cause, and she felt a shivering which was almost like a trembling in her legs as she reached the door to the Maestro’s dressing room.

She knocked hesitantly, and then again a little harder.

‘One moment!’ came the answer, and then, maybe a minute later, ‘Enter!’

Entering, Karen immediately saw that the Maestro had changed, that gone were the grey slacks and white shirt, the soft black moccasins; now he wore what seemed to be a mersin escort long kaftan of some fine muslin or cotton, open at the neck and coming down almost to his bared feet. Even more relaxed than his dress, though, was his attitude, sprawled full length on the couch, his baton still in his hand and idly twirling it between his fingers.

Put your instrument case down in the corner and then come over here,’ he told her, using lazy gestures of the baton to direct her, first to her right where she set down the violin case, and then to a spot beside the couch which she stepped forward to take up.

‘So, First Violin? Yes?’ he said, his eyes slowly moving up her body to meet hers, but before Karen could answer he cut the air with his baton to silence her. ‘No! Fiddle, more like! That is what you are! Fiddle!’

Stunned by his harsh tone, by the unexpected words, Karen’s mouth fell open and the single word escaped her lips. ‘Maestro?’

‘You played with passion, I grant you that, you put in effort and labour,’ he continued slowly, in his low deep timbre. ‘But you played without discipline, too wildly.’ The baton was raised, to caution against any protests or interruptions. ‘Whores exhibit passion, servants and maids offer effort and labour. Would you consider yourself any of those?’ he asked, smiling to offer a pause in which she might now answer.

‘No, Maestro,’ she managed to respond.

‘A lack of discipline gives a slipshod interpretation,’ he went on, ‘and if the interpretation is slipshod, Fiddle, it means that you are not paying attention to me. I do not merely conduct the orchestra, I orchestrate you, make you dance to my tune. Is that sinking in, Fiddle?’

‘Yes, Maestro,’ said Karen, lowering her eyes a little, feeling her cheeks burn with shame each time he called her by that derogatory name.

‘Good,’ he said, and now permitted a slight smile to break, lines forming at the corners of his deep dark eyes, his lips curling and parting to show the strong even teeth. ‘And we have passion, at least. I witnessed that. And guess that we have the evidence of that still.’

Dropping his hand lazily at the side of the sofa, the Maestro hooked his baton beneath the hem of her skirt and then slowly began to lift it, baring her legs, her knees, the swell of her thighs. He pushed the baton in further beneath her skirt, brought it up higher until finally it touched her knickers, at which point he twirled it in his fingers so that the slender length of wood rolled to the left and the right, moulding the smooth silk against her swelling labia.

‘Hold up your skirt and let me see, Fiddle,’ he said, in such a calm and even tone that he could not be denied.

With trembling hands Karen took hold of her skirt, bunched it high about her waist so that the Maestro could see the full length of her thighs, her flat belly, the brief white knickers which his baton held pressed against her cunt.

Yes, we have evidence of your passion, I see a damp patch there,’ said the Maestro, and began to stroke the baton slowly back and forth so that her labia seemed to swell and pout around it, almost kissing it.

His eyes were fixed on hers as he aroused her, and it was indeed as if she was dancing to his tune, her legs trembled and her hips swayed, she could feel her breasts swell beneath her blouse and she wanted to drive her body onto that flimsy wand in some frenzied tarantella.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, the Maestro withdrew the baton from between Karen’s thighs, making it rasp against the moist silk as it came free. Swinging his feet to the floor, standing, he walked around her and her eyes followed him as he went to his dressing table. There was fruit there, juice, the usual variety of food and drink which a maestro or virtuoso would require in his dressing room. He filled a glass with wine, raised the rich tawny liquid to his mouth and wetted his lips with it.

Silhouetted against the mirror, the bright naked bulbs which were burning all around it made the thin material of his kaftan quite transparent. The contours of his body were clearly defined beneath it, the comforting breadth of his shoulders, the almost feminine slimness of his waist, the firm solidity of his thighs….and between them, between the splayed legs, the dark outline of his tumescent prick hanging low and heavy.

‘Turn around, Fiddle!’ he ordered, for though his back was turned to her Karen realised that he had been watching her in the mirror.

Quickly Karen turned her head, gazed at the blank wall before her, the empty couch beneath her.

‘Now what I require of your playing is discipline, Fiddle,’ she heard the Maestro say. ‘How might we best instil that in you, do you think?’

‘I don’t know, Maestro,’ she answered.

There was a pause, and then she felt his hands rest lightly on her shoulders. He must have turned, he had moved close to her, and she could feel the heat of his body no more than an inch away from hers.

‘Let your skirt fall, Fiddle,’ he told her, and, when she did so, said, ‘Unfasten it, let it drop, step out of it.’

Karen moved her hands behind her to find the single button which fastened it, felt her fingers graze the Maestro’s belly momentarily as she fumbled with it. Then the skirt was free, slid smoothly down her legs to form a pool at her feet.

‘Good girl,’ he said, and with a gentle pressure on her shoulders he turned her to face the mirror. ‘Now lean forward, rest your hands on the dressing table.’

Karen did as she was told, bending forward from his touch, resting her hands flat on the polished wood of the dressing table to take her weight. She chanced a glance in the mirror, saw the Maestro squatting before the valise which was beside the couch. It would hold his toiletries, a change of clothes, perhaps more batons, and as he finished rummaging in it and began to rise again she quickly averted her gaze, fixing her eyes on the grain of the wood between her hands.

There was a soft purr of the throat, as if the Maestro sensed her obedience and approved of it, she was aware of the fragrance of the fruit and wine to one side of her, conscious of how her cunt was still wet and warm and swollen.

Then the Maestro broke the silence.

I think the best way to begin instilling discipline is by introducing Fiddle to my Cat,’ he said, a threatening mischief now in his voice, and when she heard the air hiss behind her she almost raised her head, turned, until he snapped, ‘No! Head bowed! Eyes down!’

Then the first blow of the lash struck her, the slender leather strands of the Maestro’s cat o’nine tails wrapping themselves around her arse, her thighs, biting so hard and so deep that they surely tore the fabric of her knickers.

Karen gave out a yelp as her body bucked and her back arched, her head coming up but her eyes now closed, so great had the pain been.

‘Be still! Learn discipline!’ the Maestro ordered her, and he gave her a moment to compose herself, to bow her head once more, before he delivered the second blow.

A wayward strand of the lash seemed to wrap itself around her waist this time, in a stinging embrace, and as the Maestro drew back his hand for the third blow she felt her body tugged towards him, against the cock which had now grown erect.

‘Nice, but not just yet,’ he said, pushing her back towards the dressing table with a nudge of his hips, and the next blow made Karen scream out loud.

‘Such wonderful acoustics we have in here!’ remarked the Maestro, the blows coming continuously now, first with a forehand stroke, then with a backhand slash, as much vigour in his beating of her as there had been in the conducting of the orchestra.

Karen’s body slowly slumped lower, her arms trembled and her knees were close to buckling. At last she had to rest her head on the dressing table, her cheek wet with tears against her hands, the fingers of one hand knitted tightly around the other.

It was only then, as the sobs shook her body, that the blows stopped.

‘You acquitted yourself admirably, you take to discipline well,’ she heard the Maestro say, but was too weak to respond.

Then she felt his fingers hooking in the waist of her knickers, slowly stretching the elastic, then easing them down over her stinging buttocks. He must have gone to his knees as he tugged them to her ankles, for now she felt his lips touch each buttock, kissing them softly, and then his coarse tongue licking them. And as his saliva cooled on her flesh it brought such a sweet relief.

‘Nice, Fiddle? It makes the pain worthwhile?’ the Maestro asked, his tongue now licking beneath the cheeks, hardening like a cock to work its way between them.

Oh yes, Maestro!’ Karen gasped, laughing away her tears and parting her legs a little.

His tongue was a marvellous instrument, it probed and caressed as well as any fingers could have, found the crinkled hole of her arse and licked it, poked it, his face pressing hard against her as he licked to the very lips of her cunt.

Such a virtuoso! she thought.

As his tongue finally withdrew she felt his hands on her ankles, then his fingertips running up her calves, her flanks, resting on her hips as he stood once more. Circling her waist, he pulled her against his groin so that she could feel his erection against her, then ran his hands up higher, over her ribs to cup her breasts, raising her up from the dressing table. His fingers nimbly unfastened her blouse and parted it, then returned to her bared breasts, strumming her nipples in a quick pizzicato. Then he held her with one arm, his large hand covering her breast as if for her modesty, raised the other to her neck to caress her there, then ran it down her back, along the soft indentation of her spine.

Karen opened her eyes and saw the two of them reflected in the mirror, she caught in his embrace, he nuzzling her neck and kissing her ear, his hidden hand in the small of her back, then at her buttocks. She felt him foraging in the folds of his kaftan, then the material grazing her as it was lifted. Naked thighs now pressed against her, strong and firm, with a soft down of hair on them, and his cock which he had taken in his hand being stroked up and down the crack between her buttocks.

The tip was wet, slick, the shaft was firm but all he did was stroke it against her, smearing her with its sticky juices.

Patience, Fiddle,’ he said, when he felt Karen press back against him. ‘Patience goes hand in hand with discipline. Both make passion more enjoyable.’

His hands moved to her shoulders, pulled her blouse from them, she raised her arms slightly so that he could slip it from her. Then she heard the material tearing, in the mirror saw his strong hands ripping the thin cotton into long strips.


‘Ssh,’ he said softly, drawing her hands behind her to bind them, then her elbows, and finally her uppers arms, a long strip pinning them and winding twice around her chest like a makeshift bandage, squashing her breasts. With an easy movement he spun her and lifted her, sat her on the edge of the dressing table.

Maestro has full control now, yes?’ he said, reaching out to the nipple which protruded from her twice bound breast, and he twisted it and tugged it like a dog worrying a rubber bone, or an early bird a worm.

‘Yes Maestro!’ Karen agreed, hissing at the pain.

‘Good!’ he smiled, releasing the nipple and reaching past her to take up his baton once more.

Then he began to move it slowly through the air before her, tracing an intricate arabesque which her eyes followed hypnotically. From his deep chest there came a low bass rumble as he hummed softly, the tune they had rehearsed earlier, its cadences and cascades rising and falling so seductively that they sent a thrill through her groin. Her upper body was bound, her arms were pinned at her sides, her hands tied behind her, but her legs still hung free and she parted them. An hour before, two hours, and she would not have believed herself capable of such a blatant act, but now she was baring her cunt to this man.

A downward cut of the baton brought a sudden silence from the Maestro, his hand fell and the baton rested loosely in his fingers, pointing down to the floor. Then, like a water diviner closing on some hidden spring, his fingers twitched, the slender rod flicked and moved haltingly between her thighs.

‘The fount of all wisdom, the well of desire,’ said the Maestro, making subtle circular motions with the tip of the baton, stroking Karen’s labia and then parting them, letting the polished wood slip between them.

Karen clamped her thighs together so viciously that she might have snapped off the tip, then relaxed and clenched her cunt a second time to draw it deeper, asked with heavy-lidded eyes that the Maestro help.

Nodding, understanding her need, the Maestro inserted the baton deeper, worked it around inside her, searching until he felt the swollen bud of her clitoris, and like a metal tongue clapping against the cup of a bell it raised a song inside her, made her whole body resonate.

‘Oh Maestro!’ Karen sobbed.

‘Sweet, but not enough?’ he wondered.

‘Oh so sweet!’ she told him.

‘But not enough!’ he told her, and she knew this was true, the Maestro knew it to be true, he could see in her eyes the need for something more.

With a final tap against her clitoris he pulled out the baton and tossed it aside, then began to tantalisingly raise his kaftan, lifting it slowly, his eyes never leaving hers as he challenged her not to look down.

With the discipline she was learning Karen kept her eyes on his, smiling into them and hoping he could recognise her love, held her gaze fixed even when he raised his kaftan above his head to mask his face for a moment.

Even the kaftan fluttering like a blurred white moth when he tossed it aside did not break the spell which held her, she caught it only in the periphery of her vision.

Nudging Karen’s parted thighs a little wider, then Maestro then took a pace forward to insert his body between them, rested his hands on her knees and squeezed gently.

‘More?’ he asked, waited for just the slightest nod from Karen, at which he took a hand from her knee and moved his erect cock up onto the edge of the dressing table.

She knew that she could look now, knew that she had to, and when she cast her eyes down to see the tip weeping -weeping for her!- she felt like crying with joy, with need.

Oh how she needed it, needed him, and her eyes entreated him, she tried to shuffle her bound body closer to the edge of the dressing table. But the Maestro took pity on her, perhaps now even felt the same need himself, for his hands caught her at the waist and lifted her bodily from the dressing table, clutched her to him as he turned and lowered her onto his magnificent erection.

Instinctively her free legs wrapped around him, gripping him with a strength which matched his own as he walked her slowly back to the couch, each step he took stirring his cock inside her. There he bent forward, lowered her slowly down and then lay on top of her, his cock never once leaving her.

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