Sex in C Major

"I haven't played the piano in years," he protested.

"Can you still play with both hands?" Yannis asked mildly.

"I think so?"

"That'll do. Don't start yet, though."

The suckers were cool. Damp. They clung to Stefan's skin where Yannis pressed them, like tiny mouths with tinier teeth. The pen marks were covered up. The rubber kisses landed on Stefan's neck, nipple, the spot over his ribs on the right side, the crooks of both hips, his inner thigh, the shaft of his still-swollen cock. There were hundreds of marks, and hundreds of suckers, it seemed yet as Stefan stared at the gutted keyboard in front of him, he began to realise what was going on.

There would be eighty-eight suckers, or thereabouts.

One per key.

As the last was put into place, Stefan's skin tingling with the weight of them, Yannis sat back on his heels.

"The keyboard will record what you play for me," he said mildly. "You can play whatever you want. You can come as often as you want. But you don't remove your hands from the keyboard, and you're only finished when I say you're finished. Understood?"

"Yes. Sir."

The term slipped out. Yannis blinked. Stefan's stomach clenched-but over his shoulder, Daz simply chuckled.

"Told you," his master said cryptically.

Yannis pulled a face.

"Whatever. Play, then."

Stefan felt his face flushing, self-conscious under their scrutiny, and spread his fingers on the keys hesitantly.

Pressed down.

A single note rang out-an F, high and sweet-and Stefan cried out as his nipple was pinched in the sharp bolt of pleasure that vibrated down the wire and sucked on his skin through the rubber teat attached to him. It shivered. Shuddered. Rubbed itself against his skin like a bitch in heat and gasped an arousal against his nerves in desperate want.

His cock swelled. The rush of wet arousal was immediate.

And he pressed it again. And again, and until his nipple peaked and his lungs had to fight for a little air.

His index finger came down. A C. A bite of music at his neck this time, and the shudder was not from the sucker this time, but from Stefan's own body. His eyes closed. His fingers explored, and as sound rippled from the keys, it licked over his own skin. He began to play-something. Nonsense. It barely had a tune. It certainly had no rhythm.

But it was music all the same. And it was in him. On him. It was him. The Fs made his hair stand on end; the Cs were running along his skin like hands. The As and Bs were inside his very flesh, like molten metal in his veins in place of blood. When he breathed, sly Gs were in the very air in his lungs.

He played.

His hands worked, skittered, hammered, clawed, pleaded, loved the keys. He was the music. It was inside of him. Outside. All of him. There was no difference.

He played, and played, and played.

There was nothing else but sound. 39

Hands.

The cloths were lifted away. Stefan sagged. Hands stroked at his skin, and he was lifted free of the chair. Carried. Leather creaked, cool and sofa, under him. The sofa sagged. "Please," he whispered, reaching.

Fingers caught his own. He was turned. The leather was cold against his nipples, and he tried to shrug away from it. A hand pushed down.

"Stay still."

His master's voice. He stilled, relaxing. Daz had him.

Cotton. Thick cotton. It was knotted around his arms. Tied his forearms together behind his back. Then he was turned again. Arranged on his back. Knees bent. Spread.

"You with me?"

"Mhmm..."

"Stefan..."

He forced his eyes open. Blinked. Daz was looming over him. Shirtless. One arm supporting himself against the back of the sofa.

Hips between Stefan's spread legs.

Stefan lifted his hips.

"Please."

"Why?"

"M'empty."

It hadn't been enough. He'd come two, three, four times on the music in his veins-but it hadn't been enough. To come alone. To never be filled. To feel only his own arousal inside and that slick slide was disgusting, in Stefan's eyes, when it came from himself. When it was his own body, the wrong body, doing it.

He needed someone else to do it now.

"Fill me. Please."

"You want me to fuck you?"

"Yes." He dropped his voice. "Sir."

A hand closed around his throat. Loose, but warning. Then it slid south. Rubbed over his nipples. Caught the mark Yannis had made on the left one. Pinched.

Even the spark of arousal was tired, but Stefan moaned anyway. To encourage. Make his master do it. Make anybody do it. He just needed someone. Someone to fill him. Coat him. Spoil whatever was left to spoil.