Warming up the Diva

[mindwa]

This is my first attempt at erotic fiction, so please, be gentle (but not TOO gentle ;)

I was to be ready for her when she came in. I wasn't to speak, and she was not to have to tell me how to proceed. There would be no pauses, no wasted time, no wasted breath, only a relentless pace toward the end of the session. Those were the instructions.

I shivered in the coldness of the room. I would be naked soon. I wondered while sitting still on that bench what it would be like. Would she be gentle in her admonishments? Would I be taken up, were I to slip? I waited there, suspended almost as if by ropes, for her.

The door shuddered open and stood ajar for several seconds, and I became uncomfortable looking at it. The leafy clattering outside gave rise to a swirl of anxiety, and my breath caught.

I blinked and she was there. I blinked again and she was at me, having crossed the room in a way that put itself out of mind by virtue of its own grace. She held, poised beside me, turned away with lips parted and a light frost on her breath. I perceived the faintest tremor in the air before she began.

If heaven could wail, it would aptly describe the sound springing dulcetly from her thin ruby lips, a sound that awakened storms in the air of the room, and rang onward as if to throttle time for its subjectiveness.

She reached the end of a phrase that seemed endless. I struck the first chord on the piano with precision and the exact weight distribution I had practiced. Perfectly. The next second, my jaw shattered.

Or nearly; the back of her hand had connected with my right jawbone at precisely the angle that could send my glasses flying from my face and rock me near-to-falling on the bench. I stared. She turned away and began again. I returned my shaking hands to the keys and played my first chord again as her phrase ended and nearly cried out when another strike somehow harder than the first ended my sorry refrain.

I saw blood on her glove; I glared as a beast on fire and stabbed toward the keys, daring her to try again. I chiseled out the first few chords in open invitation to strike and thought I saw her nod slightly before she continued.

Tonight, the great diva would be Carmen in her most decadent setting. This beast behind the cold bars of her eyes would sing and seduce, lie naked and bask with breasts bared toward her audience in applause, as she demonstrated freedom through seduction and depravity; as she slinked about performing a role my colleagues thought of as "that vulgar gypsy slut". I knew better.

Carmen would die before being untrue to her nature. She represents the purest free spirit, unladen by the fashionable giddiness of the modern bohemian and undrowned in the prostrate literary vomit of the pop liberal.

It occurred to me, in the quiet area of my mind untouched by the rage or passion of my swirling surroundings, that she was remarkably beautiful. The instant this thought passed, she stopped and turned, eyes pointed into me, seemingly gouging out my secrets wordlessly. She stared for so long I fell to hypnotism by the hardness of her features, and then my chin was in her white-gloved hand and she was touching my nose with hers.

She was daring me to repeat the thought which had crossed my mind earlier, I realized. I wondered briefly how she could have known, and her quick glance at the keys told me that I had somehow communicated it to her while rehearsing.

She saw my understanding in my face and darted her tongue out, tasting the blood on my broken lip before releasing my chin. She seemed to be considering something for a moment, then glided in close and planted her knee next to me on the piano bench. She reached between my arms and then down, cupping my package, and said softly while giving me a merciless squeeze, "play."

Pleasure intensified by nausea crept over and through me, with the pain quickly fading into the throbbing overtones of the Habanera rhythm. Only when she began to sing did her arm relax slightly and begin an almost imperceptible rocking motion that seemed to gain momentum as she sang, "l'oiseau que tu croyais surprendre battit de l'aile et s'envola." My little bird did indeed fly, and I was sad once, but in the name of beauty I mortified my sadness.

I attempted to escape as the pleasure mounted and was rewarded by a sudden searing bite on the neck between phrases. There was only the pleasure left, and I was left only to give in.

We had not stopped, our rhythm had not fluctuated, and all was still on the surface as our hearts wrestled and fought. She sang, "L'amour est l'enfant de Boheme, il n'a jamais, jamais connu de loi; si tu ne m'aimes pas, je t'aime; si je t'aime, prends garde a toi!" as she ripped an orgasm from me, commanding me silently from above and behind and taunting me with her lyrical double meanings.

I could hear the smile in her voice as I tensed when I came, staring wildly up at the ceiling, mouth arrested in a silent cry, still not daring disrupt the music for fear of a more intense punishment. As I abated she did not, and my silent shuddering for the remaining minute of relentless torture was my only testament to my discipline.

We concluded and I breathed and bled. She released me and walked toward the stage entrance. I watched her go, sweating, enraged, until she turned to me with a look of deep sadness perforated by her small smile and paused, removed her loose clothing in a single swift motion and strode onto the stage.