Musical Beds (18 page)

Back in the hotel room at last, von Ritter prolonged Lydia’s agony by making her play a number of violin exercises, naked, in the centre of the room while he sat in the armchair watching.

“Yes, that’s good,” he said when she had finished. “But not perfect. Come and bend over the end of the bed, please.”

How many more hoops would she have to jump through before she got her orgasm? It was a slightly grumpy Lydia who presented her upthrust bottom to her conductor.

“You were good, so I’ll only give you six,” he decreed, retrieving the riding crop from the wardrobe. “But they will hurt. Count them.”

The leather end of the crop slapped down with a tremendous crack. He had hardly had to put any effort into the stroke, and yet it lit Lydia’s bottom up with fiery effectiveness.

“Ouch! One,” she said.

He laid each stroke with consummate skill, never hitting the same area twice, so that by the sixth her entire bottom felt as if it had been covered. The strokes were heavy and burned deep into her flesh. She put her hands behind her to feel the heat. It was a satisfying glow. But her pussy still throbbed, longing for attention.

“Okay,” said von Ritter softly. “I have made you wait long enough. Do you want to come now?”

“Oh, yes—please, Sir,” she blurted. She wanted his cock, thick and long, moving back and forth inside her.

But he didn’t even take off his jacket.

Instead, he made her lie on the bed on her back with her legs spread in the air, displaying her red bottom and her swollen clit while he took a vibrator from the bedside drawer then knelt on the bed beside her.

“You will stay in that position,” he commanded. She held on to the backs of her knees and waited while he tested the batteries and the speed settings.

Finally, he switched it on and applied the tip to her nipples, one by one, letting the buzz ripple through her while she bit her inner cheek to keep from begging him to fuck her with it.

He moved it slowly down her stomach, then dipped it in and out of her labia, sometimes holding it there for a few seconds, sometimes just giving her the briefest of contact. She struggled to hold her legs in position, wanting to kick them or thump her heels down on the mattress—anything to bring her closer to the humming source of pleasure.

“Was it hard?” he asked, holding the vibrator a maddening inch from her clit. “To go without orgasms for a week?”

“Yes,” she whined. “Really, really hard.”

“Were you thinking all the time of sex?”

“All the time. During rehearsals, even.”

He tutted. “Bad. You must focus during rehearsals. You must think of the music, not of your greedy little pussy.”

“I couldn’t help it.”

“And you are sure you didn’t…give yourself a little helping hand? When I wasn’t looking, maybe?”

“Honestly, I didn’t. I wanted to wait. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“But would you have disappointed yourself?”

Somewhere in the midst of her brain cell-destroying lust, Lydia found a part of her that was capable of considering this question. Yes, that was the crux of it. She would have disappointed herself. All of this was an exhilarating challenge, and she was ever a people-pleaser, a teacher’s pet, a top-of-the-class student.

“Yes. I hate to fail.”

“I see that in you,” he mused. “Well, a lot of us are like that. Most of us, probably. It’s what makes us work so well together.”

“Please…” He was drifting off topic and, meanwhile, that vibrator was going nowhere.

He chuckled. “Sorry. You need attention, don’t you?”

She nodded, her face screwed up with the effort of not grabbing the damn thing from his hand and using it on herself.

He lowered it again, circling her clit so that she squirmed furiously on her bottom, then he plunged it, suddenly and without warning, inside her.

She yelped, feeling the silicone tip breach her opening, which yielded immediately, thirsting for penetration. Von Ritter fed it inside with agonising slowness, pushing it inch by inch, stopping multiple times to twist it in circles. Lydia was surprised at how easy it was to accommodate. But for the vibrations, she might barely have even felt it.

Once it was fully inside her, though, von Ritter deployed a little attachment—a butterfly clitoral stimulator—and suddenly her entire being was whitewashed out of existence by an orgasm that seemed to last forever. Even when it seemed to die away, it would revive again, the butterfly coaxing her clit to further heights, until the spasms were way beyond her control. Von Ritter held the vibrator fully inside her for the duration, occasionally thrusting with it, keeping her clit covered and her cunt stretched until her limbs collapsed, quivering, on the bed.

“I think a little abstinence has done you good,” he whispered, removing the vibrator, leaning over her with a tight smile. “That was quite an orgasm.”

She wasn’t capable of an answer, though she wondered fuzzily if he had enjoyed it at all. He seemed satisfied with a job well done, but she couldn’t locate any joy in his expression.

Now will he fuck me?
she wondered vaguely, but it seemed not.

He tucked her into the bed and went to shower.

She was asleep before he came out.

* * * *

A knocking at the door woke her up.

Disorientated, she looked around for signs of von Ritter, but he didn’t seem to be there. She looked around for something that would tell her what the time was, but her watch was buried somewhere underneath her clothes.

Where was he? Who was at the door?

“Karl-Heinz,” she called uncertainly.

“Room service,” said a voice from beyond the door.

She dragged herself out of bed and found a bathrobe hanging up, which she slipped on. She opened the door a fraction to find a uniformed young man with a tea trolley. Now she came to think of it, she was famished.

“Oh. Thanks,” she said, opening the door for him to wheel in the provisions. For an awkward moment, she thought of spy thrillers in which room service always turned out to be bad news, delivered by enemy agents.

Don’t be daft. You aren’t a spy.

“Herr von Ritter ordered it for you,” the man explained. “He said to tell you he had to go out but he will be back soon. He asks that you will wait for him.”

“Oh. Okay. Thank you.”

She nodded at the man, hoping that would be enough to get rid of him. From the corner of her eye, she could see the vibrator on the nightstand and she prickled with embarrassed heat.

He left, thank goodness, and she sat down to a feast of seafood pasta and chilled sauvignon blanc, wondering where von Ritter was and when he would be back. She felt anonymous and lonely here in the hotel room, like a whore who’d been hired for the night.

Was that what she was? A diversion? A toy? Von Ritter never seemed to want to talk about himself much. She had no sense that she was getting close to him. It was all sex games so far.

She speared a prawn and shrugged inwardly.

So what? It was early days. She was having fun. And it definitely took her mind off Milan.

Damn. Why did I have to think of him?

Now she was going to lose her appetite and sit there, thinking about him and what might have been. Double damn.

Her inconvenient longings were conveniently interrupted by the arrival of von Ritter.

“Where did you go?” she asked.

“Julius called.”

“Julius Hackmeyer?”

“That’s right. I joined him for a quick drink. I’d have brought you along but…” He chuckled. “You were far too deeply asleep.”

“You could have woken me.”

Von Ritter shook his head. “I think he wanted a man-to-man talk,
Liebchen
.”

“Oh?”

“Curious, aren’t we?” He tweaked her nose and stole a clam from her dish. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Oh…a bit.”

“I hope so. Because I’ve got something I want to give you for dessert.”

Chapter Thirteen

The spring rushed headlong into a sultry summer. The city air grew hazy, the hemlines rose, the concert drew closer.

Vanessa met Ben’s parents and nobody got shot. In fact, everybody got pleasantly tipsy and there was much laughter and clumsy dancing and the birthday meal ended with all of them getting turned away from a taxi rank for being too rowdy, especially Ben’s father, who was singing
Mrs Robinson
at the top of his voice.

Milan and Sarah seemed to be getting very much closer, very quickly. They appeared to be inseparable after rehearsals and, by the week before the Prom, Milan had even stopped chasing after Lydia and trying to lure her back.

She was relieved. Or was she? Was relief the word?

Everyone had to move on sometime, she thought sadly. And it wasn’t as if she had shut herself away, mourning his loss.

On the contrary, she spent more and more time with von Ritter, especially since he’d found a decent apartment. They played kinky sex games almost every night—rope bondage, spanking with all kinds of implements, nipple clamps, sex toys of every description. Yet they had still never had full sexual intercourse.

Lydia wanted to ask why, but, on the other hand, she was afraid of the answer.

They did everything else—hand jobs, oral sex, penetration with dildos and vibrators, even butt plugs. But the joining of their flesh, cock to cunt—that was one frontier von Ritter seemed reluctant to cross. Was he waiting for some mythical right moment? Or would it never happen? Sooner or later, she was going to have to steel herself to ask outright.

But the Prom was mere days away and the orchestra had entered into a feverish time of intense rehearsal, pre-publicity and promotion. Relationship questions were going to have to wait. Besides, they were happy enough. Life was sweet, full of potential, excitement on the warm air. Why spoil it?

“I want to show you off,” said von Ritter, lying in bed after Lydia had swallowed down a mouthful of his semen.

“Show me off?” She wiped her mouth and lay down beside him.

“Yes.” He caressed her stomach idly. “Dress you up and take you somewhere. Let everyone know that you’re mine.”

Her pussy clenched at the words. Lately, von Ritter had talked more and more of ownership, of collaring, of some kind of test of commitment.

The idea excited her, but at the same time it seemed too soon. She was not sure she was ready to dedicate herself to him.

“Somewhere like where? Out for dinner?”

“No,
Liebchen
. I’m thinking more of a place where we can be ourselves. There is a private club in the city I used to visit.”

“A BDSM club?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Wow.”

“What do you think?”

“What would I have to do?”

“What would you have to do?” He rolled onto his side, grinning widely now, pinching her nipples between practiced fingers. “What you always have to do. What you’re told.”

“Would it be an orgy?” she asked, thinking back to the party in Vienna where she’d so memorably engaged with two famous movie stars.

“No, not an orgy. I don’t plan to share you. I just want to display you. I’m proud of you. You’re a wonderful submissive. I want all the other Doms to be jealous of me.”

“Oh, it’s about vanity and status, is it?” she teased.

“Isn’t everything? Sorry, that sounds cynical. No, it isn’t really. I just want everyone to know what a terrific girl I’ve got. Is that so bad?”

“I never said it was bad.” She thought about it, imagining dark dungeons and iron maidens against the dripping walls. “What’s it like there?”

“It’s very nice. Different rooms, you know. If you want a dungeon, you can have that. Or, if you don’t, there are plenty of other settings.”

“I see. What would I really have to do, Karl-Heinz? How far would you want to go?”

“Well, I guess I’d like to show off your body. Perhaps have a go at tying you up, maybe whipping you.”

“In front of an audience?”

“Yes, in front of an audience. But you won’t know any of them. How would you feel about that?”

She bit her lip. It really seemed far too silly to claim that she was shy, after everything she’d done. But she was. All the same, the activities von Ritter had mentioned appealed to her. The fantasy of being spanked in public was an old and often-visited one in the dark of the night.

And they wouldn’t know her…

And von Ritter would be proud of her…

And perhaps he would let her inside his head, as a reward.

“Well, all right,” she said. “But there won’t be anyone I know there? For sure?”

“Ninety-nine per cent sure,” he said. “Is that good enough?”

“I think so.”

* * * *

On the Thursday night before the Prom, Lydia arrived at von Ritter’s apartment to find some clothing laid out on a chair for her. If you could call it clothing. Black and shining like oil, it lay drawing all the light of the room into it.

“Do you like it?” Von Ritter stood at the side of the room, sipping at a brandy.

“I’m not sure it’ll fit,” she said doubtfully.

“It’ll fit. Look. I’ll help you.”

He put down his glass and picked up the first of the two garments, a glossy corset top with frilly shoulder straps.

“You can’t put this on by yourself, after all,” he said. “Well, then. Get undressed.”

Lydia began removing her clothes, eyeing the corset with suspicion.

“It looks uncomfortable.”

“It’ll hold you in at the waist, but I won’t lace it too tight. I want you to be able to breathe.”

“That’s reassuring.” Lydia folded her clothes neatly onto a chair and stood naked, shaved as instructed, ready to be locked into the scary new garment.

In the event, it wasn’t as uncomfortable as she had feared. Von Ritter pulled the back laces until she was a perfect hourglass, then knotted them tight. Her breasts were pushed together and raised high by the low, square-cut neckline. The bustier ended in a soft V-shape, its tip pointing directly down at her naked pussy.

She could breathe without difficulty, but she was highly aware of her squeezed-in stomach and her prominent breasts.