Message-ID: <18332eli$9812280430@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: Nick Subject: A Horror Story: The Violinist (M/F) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-Id: <3.0.1.32.19981227102131.007acb60@pop3.demon.co.uk> A Christmas Horror: The Violinist by Nick (Copyright Nick@cassandra.demon.co.uk) Note that this story is provided free for entertainment. You may copy it and distribute to friends but you may not make money from it or any part of it without my agreement, nor must you claim it as your own. This story is copyrighted to me (Nick) and I ask you to observe that. This story is of an adult nature, containing some sexually explicit scenes. I do not intend either for me or the reader to break the law in any country where it may be read, and so if for any reason the law of your country forbids you from reading adult literature, do not read any further. A kind of ghoulish fascination drew his eye to her as she walked in. The room was full of beautiful girls being wooed by admiring young men with varying degrees of success, and her awkward limp together with the livid scar across her cheek, told him she simply didn’t belong in this place. “Hi, Tina!” someone yelled enthusiastically. She smiled, though, as a number of people recognised and greeted her, and he was pleased for that at least. It seemed cruel, but knowing that there was a little crowd she could join, meant that there was no danger of her trying to join his. He was generally uncomfortable in the presence of anything out of the ordinary, as she clearly was. “…car accident when she was young left her like that…” he overheard. Of course he felt sorry for girls like her - didn’t everyone - but to put it bluntly he simply preferred the company of beautiful women; women like Brenda, to whom he now returned his full attention. He had been working on her all evening and his efforts were now paying off. She sat on his lap now, and he luxuriated in the feel of her voluptuousness against him. Her eyelids, slightly hooded with alcoholic lust, told him all he needed to know, and he pulled her towards him to kiss lips that were only too willing. His hands stroked the hair at the nape of her neck and roved over her back and body, feeling the delicious contrasts of hardness and softness that gave the female body its power over men. The time was right and he broke free of the kiss to stare adoringly into her eyes. “Quiet everyone…” a voice across the room distracted him from his mission, but the thumping disco and loud chatter continued unabated. “Quiet… QUIET!” Only then there was silence as someone obligingly turned off the music. “Tina’s going to give us a little live entertainment.” Tina sat in a chair surrounded by admirers looking faintly embarrassed as someone handed her the violin. She didn’t refuse though and climbing a little unsteadily to her feet, quietly checked its tuning. He sneered to himself. What kind of party did they think this was? Everyone was here to get stoned on alcohol and heavy rock, not listen to some disabled amateur violinist go through her paces. Of course everyone would take pity on her and applaud, but… …her first notes soared across the room… …in the end there was no substitute for sex drugs and rock ‘n’ roll… …with a power he had not anticipated… It was an Irish folk tune with an infectious beat. He found himself unexpectedly tapping his feet and watching her fingers dance across the strings as she swayed with the music. At first there was kind of respectful silence as she played. Then people started clapping with the music and a couple got up and started to dance, bodies swinging, skirts flying. He heard and saw none of this. He was hypnotised by those dancing fingers, and sat watching open- mouthed, wondering at the magic in those fingers. It seemed strange, but he became fascinated by the thought that those fingers could also make music with his body the way they did with the violin. They moved from string to string, quivering slightly for the vibrato, then moving on to the next note. He felt himself harden slightly as he imagined those fingers manipulating him the same way. Something irritated his ear, and he shook his head reflexively. Right now Brenda’s teeth nibbling at his earlobe was an unwelcome distraction, though in the past such stimulation had been known to drive him wild. Almost unconsciously he resisted her pull as she tried to draw his lips to hers, keeping his eyes fixed on Tina as she played. Beyond those fingers, the bow cut wildly across the strings with the easy authority of a professional musician… though the image of a dominatrix with a whip sprang to his mind. Beyond the bow… her eyes, bored directly into his. Brenda stopped pulling him about, and thankfully sat still on his lap, while he lost himself in Tina’s playing. He was vaguely aware of a sudden movement and the fact that Brenda was no longer there, but it no longer seemed to matter. When Tina finished, he applauded wildly and shouted for more, oblivious of the fact that Brenda had retrieved her coat, and oblivious of her angry backward glance as she disappeared from the room. He got up and walked towards Tina, half expecting to have to fight his way through a bevy of admirers, and more than a little surprised to find none. “I just wanted to say, that was absolutely bloody fantastic!” he said with a boozy slur. “Thanks,” she said, and then paused as she looked at him expectantly, “but is that *all* you wanted to say?” Five minutes ago it would have been far more than he wanted to say but at that moment, he could not imagine for the life of him why. Now he had so much to say to her. It was just that he had no idea where to start. Where did she learn to play like that? Did she play professionally? Who did she know here? Where did she come from? What was her telephone number? Would she have sex with him? “Would you like to go somewhere quieter?” she apparently read his mind, as he failed to get any words out at all. And then they were upstairs in a darkened bedroom, on a bed covered in coats. He was kissing her hands, her fingers, and then guiding them onto his penis in the hope that she would realise his earlier fantasy. He heard her gasp as she felt his hardness and began to work at him. Oh yes! She really could work the magic on him as well as with her instrument. He groaned in delight, and kissed her. She was different to Brenda, as all women are different to each other, but there was a strangeness to her difference that he could not put a finger on. Her hair was dark and heavy, while Brenda’s was light and wispy and there was a sweet smell about her that reminded him of something he could not place. It was curious and curiosity always intrigued him. He tried to compare their bodies, but somehow, its feel seemed elusive. There was something he tried to remember about her, relating to her body, that seemed to have slipped his mind. The hungry twitching of her vagina, as he penetrated her, banished all other thoughts as she seemed to draw him in and envelope him, and her sighs flowed through his being as her music had done earlier. He dozed for what could only have been a few moments, but she was gone when he awoke. It was almost as if he had dreamt the whole thing and indeed he was even about to shrug it off as some drug- induced fantasy, he was pretty stoned after all. As he sat up, though, a card slid from his chest. He picked it up and studied it, turning it over, at first not understanding. He had expected a message of some sort, but it was just a ticket to a concert of chamber music. At any other time he would have smiled cynically and left the ticket where it lay, or possibly tried to sell it - not that anyone he knew would have bought it. He knew nothing of chamber music, believing it to be the province of nerds in stuffed shirts. It was *definitely* not his scene. However, he knew she had left it for him and he would move heaven and earth to be there. A brief break in the story to make an authors note: S to r y c o p y right belongs to N i c k at c a s s a n d r a dot d e m on dot c o dot u k as should be stated at the top. Sorry for the interruption. Please carry on reading. Indeed it seemed that he could think of nothing else as he counted off the days to the date on the ticket. He could not get Tina from his mind and even when Brenda tried to reconcile things with him, he found his attention wandering. Brenda herself should have seen things for what they were and moved on, but she persisted. He may have felt that it was his pursuit of her on the night of the party that had captured her heart, but in truth she had been his long before he had known it. He did not know, nor did he care, that she would do anything for him. He took his seat in the second row in the concert hall, as the ticket indicated, his heart beating in anticipation. On the stage were four empty chairs and four music stands. He had a program, and had read it understanding nothing. None of the composers were familiar to him and the names of the pieces meant nothing. He looked up as the audience applauded. The musicians were taking their places. For a moment he didn’t recognise Tina. There were three men and one rather odd looking girl with a limp. It was only when he caught sight of her violin that his mind seemed to slip into gear and he realised it was her. They tuned their instruments and then waited in silence for a few interminable moments before the unseen signal to begin. Then once more he found himself seduced by her playing. Despite the fact that he almost universally loathed this kind of music, he found incredible images of lust and passion drifted into his consciousness as he watched her. There was something about the tiny movements of her body and the slight shake of her head as she jabbed out the notes in the fast sections, that aroused him. Equally, her gentle swaying during the slower sections seemed to him so sensuous that he could not conceive that there weren’t others who desired her as much as he did. He watched her in rapt awe as she played and tried desperately to catch her eye but her attention was consumed by her performance and in co- ordinating her timing with the other players. It was only at the end of the last piece that she suddenly turned to the audience as she played, her eye seeking him out like a huntress, and indeed he almost felt like running. When she caught him, she kept her gaze fixed on him seeming to direct her music at him and him alone. The quartet took their bow as the audience applauded, Tina keeping her eyes on him all the time, a smile playing on her red lips. The next thing he knew, the stage was empty and people had stopped clapping and were getting up to leave. The spell was broken. He knew what he had to do, though, and made for the Artists Entrance. She was not long and it was clear she was expecting him. Without a word they made slowly for his car and then he drove her to his little bachelor apartment. “Will you play just for me?” he asked a little apprehensively as he showed her in. She had after all just captured the hearts of a room full of the great and the good who had paid good money for her art. “If that’s what you want,” she responded gently, “but first I need to relax a little.” She walked over to his window and threw back the curtains, staring at the street life outside, while he poured her a drink. “I love the night, don’t you?” she said, “its so full of unseen activity and the bustle of unexpected life.” Her face was close to the window peering through the reflections on the glass. “Turn out the light,” she said, “lets bring some of it in here.” He obliged, and the room was lit only by the streetlights and flickering signs from outside. She turned to him as he stood beside her and rested her arms on his shoulders. “So, you want me to play for you,” she murmured. “Yes,” he said simply. “Of course,” she said, “one can only truly feel at one with the instrument when you feel it against your bare flesh.” She stood back from him a little while he worked to understand what she had just said. “Sit down,” she said, “and give me a moment.” She disappeared into his bathroom as he sat on the old sofa bed and waited. Then she was there before him her naked form silhouetted against the window holding her violin at her side. Saying nothing she slowly brought it up to her shoulder and placed the bow on the string. Then she played. The music was like nothing he had ever heard before. It’s swirling sound reverberated about the room and penetrated deep into his soul. The street sounds outside and the imperfect acoustics would normally have detracted from the quality of the playing, but somehow she used all of those things to enhance and strengthen the effect. Somewhere in the distance a phone rang. Its sound was sucked into her tune and absorbed until it stopped ringing. The music roved through his consciousness, seeming to harmonise at all his most intimate thoughts. The phone rang again and was once more absorbed into the music. Outside came the sounds of police sirens and they too served only to provided a backdrop to the tune which seemed to be taking him… Suddenly he was gripped with a nameless fear. “Have you made some pact with the devil?” He blurted out suddenly, cutting across the music. She stopped playing, the flashing blue lights illuminating her body intermittently. Outside, there was the sound of slamming car doors and shouting. “What?” He suddenly felt foolish. It all seemed so real only a moment ago, and the fear really had gripped him like a cold claw around the throat. “It’s just…” he hesitated, “you play so beautifully I felt that…” She laughed. Laughter that should have banished his apprehension for the stupidity it was, but somehow didn’t. The terror he had felt had still not completely vanished. “Silly boy!” she walked over to him, and for the first time, as the flashing lights outside reflected off her curves, he could see her body in more detail than before. “I’ve always been able to play the violin well. It’s a gift, I suppose, from childhood…” she paused, looking into his troubled face, and then took his hand. She pressed it against the scar on her face. “But it’s not enough.” Her voice had changed, become deeper, more bitter. “Like every woman, I have my wants and desires.” She moved his hand down to her breast. “But who would want me like this?” He became aware for the first time of the scars and unnatural indentations that marked her body. He shuddered as he felt the jagged unevenness of old wounds, but a certain morbid compulsion kept him there, caressing them. With a quick urgency she seized his hand once more and pressed it between her legs. His fingers squirmed against the warm moistness of her sex, and entwined themselves in her wiry hair, and she gasped, closing her eyes, as he insinuated herself in her folds. Despite his fear he could feel his erection growing. “I have always been able to make people laugh or weep with my music,” she whispered, her eyes still shut, “but never to make them lust after me, never to want me. Not as I am.” The long gash on her thigh that all but crippled her showed up as black under the blue lights. Down below them the sound of crashing doors and heavy footfalls on the stairs could be heard. “So, yes,” she hissed at him suddenly, “I made a pact with the devil…” and the confession thundered into his mind like a hammer, “…but unlike Paganini I already had the gift. I needed to adapt its use, that’s all.” His heart hammered against his ribcage as she smiled at him, her red lips revealing white teeth and her eye sockets shrouded in darkness as the blue light continued to flash outside. He recognised the sweet smell of her now, that smell he had thought so delightfully curious that first night. It was the smell of the new grave. Even then he would have followed his instincts and run, but she picked up her violin and drew the bow back over the strings. Fear is often the last defence mechanism we have as living creatures. It enables us to recognise danger and do whatever we must to protect ourselves. Without it we are defenceless. As he listened to that sweet unearthly note, his fear melted and vanished… “No answer sergeant!” “Break down the door then.” The small ram was aimed effectively at the lock and the door burst open on the first attempt. The two police officers burst into the darkened room. “Fuck me, serge, what a stench!” the young officer held his handkerchief up to his face. “I’ll just switch on the… Oh Christ…” They surveyed the awful scene in front of them for a few moments as light flooded the room. “He must have been here for at least a fortnight.” said the young PC struggling to retain his sense of equilibrium. The sergeant took a few deep breaths and shook his head sadly. “Poor bugger,” he muttered, “we might have got to him in time if we’d listened to his girlfriend when she first came to us.” END Copyright Nick@cassandra.demon.co.uk December 1998 -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----