Sex in C Major

"Yannis won't like that, if we get caught."

"Better be quiet then, hadn't you."

"Yes, Sir."

Thankfully for Stefan's hot cock, Yannis put in an appearance then, looking harried. His glasses were askew; his arm was clamping a folder to his chest, spitting post-it notes and papers.

"This had better be worth it," he spat.

Daz smiled peaceably.

"It will be. Get you off the thesis and onto one of your side projects for an hour or two."

Yannis scowled.

"I haven't got time for bloody side_"

"I brought Stefan's disc."

Yannis hesitated.

Then he glanced aside at Stefan, and adjusted his glasses.

"That's hardly prescribed use of a music room."

"Mm, bit like last time we used one together?"

The flirt was overt. The meaning clear. Stefan felt himself flushing; Yannis did flush, his face darkening a little even as he rolled his eyes and projected a look of annoyance.

"You're a nightmare. Why do I keep you?"

"The fantastic toasties."

"Point." Yannis waved exaggeratedly ahead of them. "Go on then. Get yourselves set up. Make it worth dragging me away from the lab with only two weeks until my next meeting with Dr da Costa..."

The music room was rather like the ones Stefan had practised in at school-nothing more than a small, cramped room with an old piano dominating one wall, some stray music stands stacked in a corner, and plastic chairs that were obviously removed and used in exam halls all over the city at the pertinent times. The window was frosted and dirty; the door, similarly, had a small viewing window that was too grimy to be of any use.

And the door had no lock.

"What if someone comes in?" he whispered as he was shepherded inside.

"Put a tie on the doorknob," Yannis quipped, but then fished a plastic sign out of a mess of papers on one of the music stands, and flashed it to Stefan before sticking it to the door with old, nearly-gone putty. In use.

"Does that "

"It doesn't stop the actual music students, but it stops your casual idiot on the roam," Yannis said waspishly. He sat at the piano, but leaned back on the lid. "Go on then. What possible work have I got to do on this side project?"

Daz unpacked the laptop bag in reply. The laptop was sat on a chair of its own. A folder of notes was handed off to Yannis. Stefan was told to strip, which he did with only one more glance at the closed yet unlocked door.

Then Daz took a toy out of the bag and tossed it to Stefan.

"Sir "

"You know how to use it. Put it on, but leave it switched off."

It was a small rabbit, of sorts, designed to clamp around his cock and penetrate him at the same time. Stefan hadn't used it much-it wasn't big or brutal enough for Daz's tastes. It had vibrate settings, designed to open up his cunt and get him wet, and bring him off again and again by squeezing and massaging his cock until he exploded.

In Stefan's eyes, it was a torture device.

Because yes, he'd come. Over and over again. But they would be masturbatory orgasms, nothing more. He'd be almost empty inside. There'd be no teeth tearing at his nipples or hands squeezing bruises into his hips. There'd be no dildo tearing him in half; there'd be no cock ripping at his insides. No blood, sweat, and cum.

No sex.

"Now."

Stefan swallowed, and lay down. Naked on the floor, the soles of his feet planted to the cheap, dirty carpet, knees raised and parted wide, he felt the heavy gaze of his owners as he pushed the toy into place, its faint coolness barely registering on the hot dampness of his own arousal.

Then Daz's boot inched across the floor, and pushed up against it.

Holding it in place.

"You can do whatever you want with your hands," he said quietly, "but you don't move from right there on the floor."

"Can I-can I come, Sir?"

"Oh, that's the idea."

"The the idea?"

"Yannis has recorded eleven sex songs from your experiments. I'm going to play them all. You're going to come as often as you want, and Yannis is going to work out which ones get you the most worked up. You can use your hands. You can use that toy. You can even rut my shoe if you want. But you don't get up, you don't get us caught, and you don't get either of us to help you. Got it?"

Shit.

Eleven songs? Oh fuck, Stefan knew those songs. All eleven of them. He couldn't have played them again if asked, and he couldn't have hummed along. But he knew their impact-the soreness for days, the wet rush of lust, the desperate burning in his veins and the way his hands had shook on the keys. The way he'd begged his master, screamed so loud the whole street must have heard, to fuck him until he bled, tore, burned, hurt.