HEY DIDDLE DIDDLE THE CAT AND THE FIDDLE
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 caftan 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 rumored 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.
"Scheherazade, 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 epicenter 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 long
caftan 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 labor," 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 labor. 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, molding 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 caftan 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
realized 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 instill 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. "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.
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