The Audition [M/F] (1/3)

*Praeludium*

The murmur of the audience, echoing throughout the concert hall. A cacophony of instruments in disarray; the sudden beat of a drum, followed by a single note from a clarinet, a French horn momentarily soaring over a cello, only to give away to a high-pitched flute.

A sudden silence befalls both audience and musicians, and after a few moments of expectation applause can be heard. A man in a raven-black suite crosses the stage and walks up the two small steps of the central podium. The entire orchestra stands and the man graciously waves at them, only to turn around and take a small bow towards the still-applauding public, a smile on his face. As the musicians take their seats he turns towards them, his features quickly becoming sombre.

*Allegro*

The Violinist stood silently in the middle of the Music Director’s living room, instrument in one hand, bow in the other. Casting her gaze downwards, she remained there silently. It was a unique, one-time opportunity, a private audition to obtain a chair at the Director’s prestigious orchestra. She had already failed two public auditions and knew it was her last chance to qualify.

The Director was sitting in front of her, slowly taking the time to study the girl. Starting with her delicate features, his gaze continued downwards along the length of her long black hair which melted into the v-line of her yellow Poupette St Barth Paulina minidress, tracing the muted curve where her waist met her hips, down past the hem of a ruffled skirt which revealed a pair of thin, bare legs, and finally pausing a few moments as it reached the Bottega Veneta stretch-chain sandals hugging her feet.

“At least tell me you are familiar with Kreisler.”

The Director’s tone was patronizing, with a hint of sarcasm. It took the girl a few moments to realize it was even a question, but before she could answer he pressed on with a brusque follow-up.

“Praeludium and Allegro? Ring any bells? I believe they teach that during the first semester… or did you miss that class?”

She slowly nodded, unsure of which response she was supposed to give, while staring intently at her immaculate pedicure. The glitter sprinkled on her bright-pink toenails sparkled in the light, and while wearing shoes indoors made her uncomfortable she knew the gold chains and yellow straps lacing her bare feet would not go unnoticed. The Director, in turn, was barefoot.

“Yes you know it or yes you missed that class?” he asked, smirking.

The girl pursed her lips. Her parents had immigrated from Hong Kong shortly after the transfer of sovereignty, and she had been born soon afterwards. In a laughably stereotypical manner her mother made her start music lessons early on, boasting how her five-year old would be “the next Yo-Yo Ma”. Regardless of her mother’s unrealistic expectations (and gross misunderstanding of different string instruments), the girl did turn out to be a competent (albeit unremarkable) violinist — certainly one good enough to have memorized Kreisler’s “Praeludium and Allegro” by the age of seven.

“I know it,” she answered, nearly a whisper.

The Director leaned back on his chair, expectant.

“Play,” he commanded.

The Violinist took a deep breath, lifted the instrument to her shoulder, and with a sudden swipe began to run her bow across the strings. For the first minute or so the notes emanated sharply and in quick succession, only to pause for a brief instant as the tempo slowed, the vibration of the strings filling the room with sound. The piece, composed in the early 19th century, had been a musical hoax, its authorship intentionally misattributed. “The name changes, the value remains,” Kreisler had remarked, upon revealing the deceit to former commenders. The girl, eyes closed, began to slowly sway as she lifted her right heel just slightly, the pressure spreading her toes outwards through the open sandals.

“Garbage!” the Director bellowed.

Startled, the Violinist suddenly stopped playing, as the man continued to berate her.

“The music must flow into the change of tempo, your transition sounds like a broken clutch.”

A wave of embarrassment swept over her as, much to her chagrin, her face turned red.

“You have to both feel and understand the music,” he complained. “It’s up to you to set it free!”

She looked back at him, expressionless upon hearing what in her mind was a pedestrian criticism, an excuse wrapped in a platitude aiming to humiliate her.

“Again,” he ordered.

Without a word, the Violinist pressed her head against the chinrest, and drew her bow. The notes once again exploded, more forcefully than before, so as to sweep away the earlier chastening. This time she managed to play mid-way through the piece, but soon into the allegro another reprimand.

“Your phrasing is all over the place,” the Director scowled, “do you not understand it’s meant to be molto moderato?”

“Again!”

A third attempt. Almost immediately, a third scolding.

“This is a waste of time,” he said, getting up, exasperated. “You hide behind the notes, hoping the music will conceal your mediocrity.”

The Violinist had had enough, and defiantly decided to play her gambit.

“I have no need to hide anything, and you know it,” she declared, glaring back.

The Director held her stare, pondering for a few moments, taking her measure. He understood where this was heading. For a brief moment his breathing quickened.

“Take off your clothes,” he demanded in a low, stern voice. There was no urgency to this request, in his mind it was a given.

The Violinist remained still, the silence between them thick. The Director turned away and headed towards a cabinet near the corner of the living room. She simply stood there, as if carefully evaluating her next move. As the Director rummaged through the furniture’s contents she placed her bow and violin on the dining room table and began to peel off her dress. She then carefully folded it and placed it next to the instrument. Her breasts, small and firm, did not require the support of a bra, and so removing her Agent Provocateur Babeta thong sufficed to expose her in full. She placed the lingerie on top of the dress and picked up the violin and bow. The stilettos, she decided, would stay on.

By then the Director had found what he was looking for, and after closing the door of the cabinet he slowly returned to his seat, admiring the figure standing bare before him. He sat on the chair once more, his face at the level of her trimmed but densely hirsute pubis, its raven blackness a stark contrast to the paleness of her naked body.

The Director leaned back on his chair and the Violinist noticed what he had retrieved. He held the slender violin bow in his hand, a Helisson Cyrillo made out of Pernambuco wood which cost more than her entire Holstein outfit.

“Nowhere to hide now,” he muttered to himself.

“Play.”

The Violinist slowly lifted her instrument and raised her bow, keenly aware now of her naked breast rubbing against her arm. Once again, she began to play. The girl was slim but a violinist will naturally develop their upper muscles, and without the cover of cloth these became beautifully apparent as she flexed and twisted in rhythm with the music.

The violin suddenly screeched nearly in unison with the whip-like crack of the Director’s bow impacting her buttocks. The pain was sharp, but the blow had been more sudden than forceful, and the thin red strip along her ass cheeks quickly began to fade.

“Tempo. Also, did I say you could stop?”

The Violinist was momentarily bewildered, but immediately recovered her composure. Her stoic expression was nonetheless unable to conceal the obvious heaving of her breasts, driven by her agitated breaths. She lifted her gaze, gritted her teeth, and began the praeludium.

For a second time the Director’s bow drew a wide arc which struck her straight across the crack of her posterior.

“Slower.”

A high-pitched note had pierced the adagio when she flinched, but she nonetheless slowed down as she headed into the allegro.

Another whip of the bow, another recrimination, another flinch. This time, however, the dissonance had been nearly imperceptible. Half-way through the allegro the end was in sight.

“Vibrato,” the Director demanded, the bow again leaving its mark across perfectly smooth skin.

Small beads of sweat had begun to form on her forehead, and indeed her entire body, as she furrowed her brows, concentrating intently on her playing, trying to ignore the bursts of pain. The final repetition of the initial theme had begun, she was almost done, but not before the thin strip of Pernambuco wood and its master made one final statement.

“You need to take control!” the Director shouted, standing up, bow still quavering from the encounter with the girl’s flesh.

For the first time the Violinist became overwhelmed, and fell to her knees, careful nonetheless that her beloved Holstein not hit the floor. Gently, she laid it down in front of her, and remained on all fours, looking down, bathed in sweat, panting. As the Director placed his bow on the table his caustic judgment came swiftly: “that was pathetic.”

He stood in front of her, towering over her prostrated figure. He gently stretched his leg, lifting her head with his bare foot, and
used his big toe to slowly push her chin upwards until she was looking at him from below.

“Tempo, phrasing, vibrato… control. Control is everything.”

She remained silent, breathing hard still.

“Perhaps a demonstration is not uncalled for,” he said, turning around and heading towards the A/V setup at the end of the room, above which two long shelves held a few hundred CD cases. The Director quickly scanned the spines and made his choice, feeding a shiny disk into the NAD C538.

“Here,” he beckoned the Violinist, pointing towards a spot on the floor next to him. It was clear she was to crawl to him, and so she did, kneeling expectantly once she was at his side.

“Arms behind your back,” the Director instructed, loosening his belt. The Violinist propped her feet underneath her still-aching buttocks, and held her forearms tightly behind the small of her back. The position made her breasts jut forwards, dark brown nipples pointing at the Director’s legs. He soon had her facing his flaccid penis as he finished removing the rest of his clothes.

“In music, control is everything,” he explained, “and as a conductor it is my responsibility to rule the entire orchestra with an iron fist.”

“And that would include you.”

The Violinist perked up ever so slightly.

“I have conducted Beethoven’s seventh symphony two-hundred and sixty-seven times throughout my career,” he continued, picking up a pair of MDR-Z7M2 headphones. “Without fail, the second movement takes me eight minutes and twelve seconds, exactly. Always.”

“Control,” he repeated, as he placed the headphones over the girl’s ears, “prove me wrong.”

The conductor pressed “Play” and lifted his arms. Unable to hear the music, he would have to conduct by memory alone, keeping the tempo for exactly eight minutes and twelve seconds. The Violinist now realized that, were he to waver at any point, she might get her chance. The thought of biting down on his cock flashed through her mind, but as certain as its effectiveness would be it wouldn’t get her any closer to her goal. She had to play the game his way. As the music began to swell within the earcups and his arms commenced to sway, she gently took his penis into her mouth.

The allegretto from the 7th has been described as a dance, its slow, mesmerizing cadence flowing and ebbing throughout the duration of the piece. The Violinist knew she didn’t have much time, but her efficiency was unquestionable. She quickly lubricated the length of the Director’s penis, which within seconds became fully erect. Sucking the shaft would take too long, and so she focused all her efforts on the sensitive glans.

She pressed her lips around the base of the head as she swirled her tongue over it, poking and licking his urethra before flicking it across his frenulum. She repeated the motions over and over, slightly bobbing her head back and forth, drool dribbling down his now rock-solid erection. Soon the taste of pre-cum filled her mouth and she took a moment to look up in an attempt to gauge the effect of her ministrations.

The Director, eyes closed, continued guiding his imaginary orchestra, exactly on cue to the music flowing through her headphones. It was halfway through and a perfect match.

The Violinist renewed her efforts, vigorously lapping the tip of his engorged member, her chin covered with a slimy mix of saliva and pre-ejaculate. As the symphony’s movement approached the final crescendo she forcefully ran her tongue along the bottom of his shaft, striving to elicit his orgasm. In despair she began to suck his dick with abandon, her lips rapidly running the length of his member.

When the allegretto entered its last minute she accidentally took in too much, and his cock bumped against her throat. The Violinist gagged and pulled her head back, freeing his penis as she started to cough, the tears flowing down her cheeks mixing with the other bodily fluids dripping from her lips.

As the final seconds played out she looked up and saw Director slowly relax his hands after exactly eight minutes and twelve seconds.

The Director opened his eyes and looked down at the dishevelled girl kneeling before him, panting, drool and pre-cum running down her neck. He bent down and gently cupped her chin with his hand, wiping it with his thumb as he made her stand up. He took off the headphones and then softly but firmly grabbed her by the shoulders, turning her towards the door nearest to them.

“My turn,” he whispered into her ear, nudging her towards the bedroom.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/tvh9ga/the_audition_mf_13