Che un sogno sono stati i miei musica.
“What a dream my music was.”
The celebrated Armenian cellist, Tsovinar, was rambling adventitiously about the city, on a bright, chill afternoon in late October. She was to perform, once again that night, at one of the great concert hall which brought the city so much artistic acclaim. According to her usual fixed ways she was amusing herself with people watching, gazing into shop windows, thinking of anything but the approaching dull work that her job had turned her passion into. Not that she was nervous, but she found she came to her work all the fresher for an hour or two of blissful self-indulgence, turning off her mind the way a drunk finds release in the first highly anticipated drink of the morning, or the onanist her middle finger.
Wandering away from the busiest street of the city, she found herself in a quiet thoroughfare, throwing away the lipstick-stained butt of one stubby cigarette and produced yet another. She has been bothered by a trouble with deep breathing all her life, now her doctor had recently recommended a curious new medicine, smoked, in the form of New World tobacco. “Cigares de Joy cure Asthma,” the tin box the cigarettes resided in declared, “Joy’s Cigarette’s afford immediate relief in case of asthma, wheezing, winter cough, hay fever, and, with a little perseverance, effect a permanent cure. Universally recommended by the most eminent physicians and medical authors in France and Britain. Agreeable to use, certain in their effects, harmless in their actions, they may be safely smoked by ladies and children everywhere.” Ladies and children certainly were and it did seem to not only help her lungs, but at times, steady her hand. Tsovinar marveled at the age she lived in, modern medicine could do anything.
No, not everything. Of late she had been having what her doctor referred to as “female night hysteria;” waking from mystifying dreams full of nervousness, a curious wetness between the legs, muscle spasms, shortness of breath. No one could explain what it all meant, though they did agree she should refrain from too many mentally taxing tasks, avoid thinking of anything indecent and pray before bed. Perhaps it was the indecent part that troubled her so. Even while wearing eyelet, closed-crotch drawers under her skirt, having to open her legs so obscenely wide simply to rest the cello between them made her feel … vulgar.
But today she would not think about that. Today she was out for her afternoon constitutional, a dawdling walk. As it was part of her rule, she tried to avoid any music shops she might pass by. She had already ignored three or four without doing more than barely glancing at their plate-glass windows. One though, walking by a large music emporium, brought her to stop, retracing her steps and standing, her head cocked to one side, remaining motionless for a few moments, then went straight to the window and peered in.
She had not seen anything when she first passed by, indeed, she had merely determined, out of the corner of her eye, that one of the forbidden shops was nearby. Why, then, did she feel encouraged to return?
The window was stocked, as all such windows are, with instruments, with sheet music, with such paraphernalia as resin, bows, chin-rests, mutes, strings, bridges, pegs. An old Hakhnazaryan, valued at several hundred rubles, lay alongside a set of wooden spoons, an ocarina, a saxophone, all gracefully grouped upon a gilt-edged copy of “Basasael in E Major.”
Amongst the carefully-arranged violins and cellos was a curious old instrument, the likes of which the virtuoso had never seen before. It was this that she now stared, an ugly, squat cello, of heavy carved patterns, ancient in appearance. The maker, whoever he had been, had displayed obvious lewdness during its construction, a perverse pleasure, but more especially in the work upon the upper scroll, which, owing to some freak sense of humor, he had carved into the semblance of a hideous, bloated phallus. There was something horribly repulsive about this strange work of art, yet it also possessed a subtle fascination in her eye. The cellist, staring at the queer instrument, a tool which seemed to pulse with infernal life, slowly edged her way to the door, then entered the shop.
The attendant came forward, an old, broken tea kettle of a man, knowing the celebrated musician by sight, bowing low.
“That is a curious string bass in the window,” began the artist, at once, with a wave of her hand in the direction of the monster.
“Which one, ma’am?” inquired the attendant. “Oh, the one with the, er, unfortunate scroll-work, you mean? I’ll get it for you.” Drawing aside a little curtain, he opened the window-bay, brought out the instrument, whose erect life force seemed to be pulse more lewdly than ever.
“A fair tone, ma’am,” added the man, producing a chair for his guest to sit upon, “but too scandalous to suit you, I’m sure. You could never play this in public.”
As soon as Tsovinar touched the neck of the cello she gripped it quiveringly, fairly raised her voluminous skirts to her knees and nestled the debauched thing between her thighs, resting the bestial neck against her cheek. Then, for a few moments, she held her breath, firm as a flint, her eyes fixed upon the amazed attendant, evidently without seeing the man.
“A bow,” said the musician in a low, raspy voice. She stretched out her free hand, took it, without moving her eyes. Then she touched three strings with her long fingers, drew the camel-hair smartly over them with one rapid sweep, producing a rich chord in a queer minor key.
A slight shiver passed over her frame as the notes were struck, a look of concentration writ upon her face, changing to one of craving, but she did not cease playing. Slowly dropping her gaze, the artist felt the rhythmical pulsation of the scroll-head next to her ear. It spoke to her. Though her own countenance flushed, her lips tightened, as if to suppress a cry, the bow was raised again, the cello spoke.
Did the incubus whisper to her moving, nervous fingers? He almost seemed to be doing so, surely such a melody as came from the instrument was born from no human soul. It was slow, measured, but no solemnity was suggested, it thrilled her frame with desire, never dread, it was a chain of sounds, like a depraved woman’s wet dream, slipped out of recollection as soon as it was evolved, a tune incapable of being recalled.
Slowly, as the last note was lost, the great cellist dropped her arm to her side, sitting motionless for a few moments, grasping cello and bow without speaking. There were drops of perspiration on her forehead, she was pale, weary-looking. When she spoke, it was with a faint voice, she seemed to address herself to someone invisible.
“I can endure that,” she whispered. “I will play it again tonight.”
“Do you wish to play on the instrument at this evening’s concert, ma’am?” queried the dealer, aroused both at the heinous choice, as much as how the performance had physically affected him.
“Yes — yes, of course!” was the reply, given with some emotion, the speaker having apparently roused herself up from oblivion.
As the dealer took back the instrument, he chanced to turn its back upon his customer. It was a curiously marked piece of wood, but now there was an iridescent, opalescent dribble, a stain spreading down the neck of the cello, throwing a grotesque blur upon the otherwise exquisite wood.
“See!” gasped the artist, pointing a shaking finger at the stain, clutching at the dealer’s cuff. “Cum!”
“Heavens to Murgatroid!” blurted the other, shrinking back in alarm. “What a thing to say. Are you ill, ma’am?”
“Sins of the flesh!” cried the half-demented virtuoso, hobbling out of the shop, her hair undone.
It was night, the concert hall was crowded to overflowing. The musicians were upon their seats, familiar as they were to such views, they couldn’t but gaze with interest at the restless field of animated, desirous faces stretching out before them.
That curious noise, a multitude of hushed murmurs, accompanied by the discordant scraping of strings, tuning of reeds, the stray cough, was at its height, once or twice a loud trombone would momentarily assert itself, an oboe’s plaintive wail would rise above the tumultuousness, in short, it was the moment which foreshadows the entrance of the maestro to start that night’s performance.
All of a sudden, the long-continued babel ceased, for an incalculably long second, silence reigned in the ancient hall. Statues in the dark corners looked down, waiting. Then a storm of deafening applause burst forth, necks were craned, eyes strained, all in attempts to catch a single glimpse of the regal soloist who was to open the concert by playing a difficult ‘Concerto di Azazyel’.
It was noticed in the crowd that as the virtuoso followed the bent, bald conductor to the center of the platform, all could see she was unusually pale, those who were seated nearer observed as well that she carried a curious cello instead of the expensive Guadagnini upon which she was known to perform.
A tap from the conductor’s baton, a short, breathless silence, then — the first note, the sweet strains of the opening bars issued from the instruments from seventy-six musicians.
The cellist, with a sinking the heart, an emotion which she could scarcely account for, brought the cello between her thighs, saw, for the first time that it had been re-strung. Normally, as was her habit, she left stringing and tuning to others, yet now it had a strange effect upon her. Again the shudder that had passed through her body at the europium passed through her again. She unwillingly ran her hand over the wood of the scroll and — almost with a cry — flinched at the touch of sticky, seminal fluid that appeared to be oozing down its side.
The orchestra, which had swelled out to a loud forte, now dropped to a pianissimo. The moment had arrived. Tsovinar raised her bow, commenced to play the lovely adagio.
What had come over her? Where were the concert hall, the orchestra, the anxious crowd of people? What sounds were these? This was not ‘Concerto di Azazyel’, this sweet melody so like, yet so unlike, the weird music which she had played in the dealer’s shop. What subtle magic had enacted upon those strains that their banality, their deadening scoff had entirely vanished, leaving behind sweet, pure harmony?
It seemed to the Armenian that she stood within a small, but comfortably furnished room. Two figures were near by, those of a beautiful young man sprawled lazily upon an ottoman, and an exquisite, foreign-looking woman with hair of moon-lit silver.
“Arcangelo,” the older woman said in a low voice, as she crouched between the young man’s open thighs, “tell me tonight that you have not dismissed me forever. I can wait for your love.”
“Semajaza, my love, even if you were the Devil himself, I could not love you any less.”
The older woman, older by Tsovinar by some good ten years, shifted, moved her skirts around and lo! Tsovinar gasped, for the young man’s trousers were undone and his rigid cock, still gleaming wet from the woman’s open mouth, stood rigid and alive for all the world to see.
Semajaza’s hand slipped over his manhood, and Tsovinar watched in amazement as it slip effortlessly through the other’s clenched fist. Arcangelo released a deep moan from somewhere in the deepest recesses of his chest as Semajaza caressed him again and again with long, slow strokes. The older woman watched exultantly as his thickened member grew harder and harder still, his knees weakened a little from the glorious sensations.
Semajaza released his cock, winked at him playfully, turning round, leaned against the ottoman with her arms out, pulling her dress to her hips and pushing her ass high up in the air. She wore drawers with an open slit and peeking between the fabric she showed off her plump, plum pussy lips, the little brown eyelet of her arse, all for his twitching cock to delight in.
“Put it in my ass, Arcangelo, I want to feel that thick cock inside me.”
With a smile the young man ran his fingers between the cleft of her cheeks, massaging around her puckered hole as he pushed the tip of his spit-wet finger into her. Slowly Semajaza began to moan as the tip of his finger sunk down, down, into her, up to the knuckle.
“I think you like finger fucking, Semajaza, as much as you like my cock.”
“I’m ready for you, Arcangelo,” moaned Semajaza in response. “Put your cock in me, petite amour, fuck my ass.”
Arcangelo eased his finger out, using his hands pulled her firm, exquisitely rounded ass cheeks apart a little more as the tip of cock pushed against her slickened puckered entrance, paused, then pushed some more. Taking his velvety cock’s head in one hand, he fed the tip into her hole, allowing her gentle rocking movement to ease more of his cock into her.
“Oui, Arcangelo, more, give me more. Dieu, fuck me in my ass.”
The young man pushed a little harder as he felt her tight opening yield only the merest of fractions as his cock took her, Semajaza took one hand off the ottoman, though the thin membrane that separated them he could feel her fingers slide into her cunt. He began to rock his hips slowly, making ever larger movements as Semajaza began to let out little whimpers. Feeling emboldened he began to build up the tempo, the length of each pistoning thrust grew, becoming a blur in, then out, of her taut, almost unyielding cave. Semajaza’s fingers were flicking over her clit, dipping back into her pussy as the sounds of her grunting, that feminine animal sound, ricocheted off the wooden floors and ceiling. His hands gripping her hips, disappearing under her many layered skirts, firmly willing him to push his cock in ever harder, urging him on — oui, petite amour, oui — anything that would allow him to assault her with an ever deeper, deep stroke. Though she was not even aware of it at the time, blurred of brain, the cellist had reached the conclusion of the Concerto’s adagio movement.
Tsovinar did not hear the boisterous applause which hailed the fall of her bow, she knew nothing of the ardor of the orchestra, or the praise of the conductor, she heard no music, only animal voices, only the wet slap-slap of hips and bellies grinding against each other.
“Dieu, oui, you feel so good in there, so thick, oui, fuck me, Arcangelo.”
“Do you like that? You want more?”
“Oui — Arcangelo — please — oui, harder.”
Tsovinar could only think of her own fingers in her pussy, how her own ass would make the room for his cock, tightly gripping that massive shaft, throttling its last drop of blood and cum and as she watched Arcangelo begin to pound his cock into Semajaza, harder still, pulling her back with his hands in time to spur them deeper into her tight hole. Semajaza moaned, louder still, impaled forcibly at each toe-curling thrust, more, more, more onto his cock. The sight of Semajaza, her ass offered up to the young man as her hanging breasts — jolting, jiggling — at each thrust. Semajaza fingered her clit, making savage little sounds, as the squish of her juices squelched hot between them, filling the little room, the concert hall, the world.
Tsovinar watched as the young man’s cock sank back into his older lover, even deeper now, almost up to his root, leaving nothing of its massive length outside.
“O! D– D– Dieu! Arcangelo, cum in me, Arcangelo, cum in me now.”
The presto movement had commenced for some time. Now a peculiar situation soon made itself known to the concert hall. Slowly to the horror of the conductor, the orchestra’s tempo had to be increased to match that of the thrusts of the cello, until a new prestissimo was reached. Still Tsovinar was not satisfied, there seemed no limit to her apocalypse flight, her fingers actually flew up, down, up the fret work, her bow shot backward and forward with incredible speed, yet as the music grew quicker, quicker, it grew until the exasperated conductor, who, with pure agony, dragged the miserable orchestra along for the ride, felt that only fiasco was inevitable.
“Oui, Arcangelo, I want it all.”
The young man’s body contorted again, again, his stomach muscles tightened, then released to deliver what all her cravings needed as his cock jerked repeatedly, like a ram getting ready to jam the lamb, he gave up all the cum he had for her. Semajaza’s tensed her bum muscles, gripping his cock harder, eager to milk out every last drop as she pushed against his softening shaft.
His lips kissed hers as her muffled cries signaled she was still there, panting, growling. His kisses were soft, gentle, sucking, kissing her neck, his fingers dancing over her stiffened nipples. As he knelt on one knee, he kissed her round belly as his tongue traced a line through her moonlit-hued pubic hair, using the tip of his tongue to caress each side of her girl-cunt lips. Savoring to take one whole fold into his mouth, he let his tongue play with each slickened fold, drunk on her divine juices.
Semajaza melted in a riot of moans, sighs, her hands in his hair. His tongue probing her, easing into her hole to fuck her with its tip, listening to her moans of approval. His fingers arrived to stir up her now hardened clit, using the flat of his thumb to rub over its swollen nub. As his tongue slowed to explore her blood-purple girl-walls, Semajaza began to whisper under her breath, lost in hazy world of rapture. He could feel her stomach rise, then tighten with every soft stroke of his fingers over her clit, her shallow breathing becoming noisier, he could tell she was very close.
His tongue left her wet opening as the thick middle finger from one hand penetrated her slick, cum-filled ass, as the fingers from his other hand slid into her cunt. Semajaza’s body seems to slump a little as his fingertips slick with her girl-juices, slowly fucked her tight opening while his mouth enveloped her clit, letting the tip of his tongue flick over like heat lightning. Semajaza’s hands gripped his shoulders, her nails pressed hard across his skin. Listening to her as she sighed, stopping suddenly, then moaning, releasing her tensed muscles in one wild go as his tongue backed off from pushing her over the edge into orgasm.
On, on, on rushed Tsovinar’s fingers, the bow — faster, faster — faster still: a few of the oboes and lutes fell off from sheer exhaustion, stared, horror-stricken at the woman, hair undone, breasts free, a cellist possessed. Some of the audience rose in their seats, many burst into loud, anarchistic cheering.
“O! O! Arcangelo, oui, oui. Your fingers–”
Semajaza’s muscles stiffened, her pussy contracting on his fingertips. Imprints. The next moment she was almost limp. Each licking-lap from his devil’s tongue seemed to only leave her further stranded upon an alien world, between intense arousal and the act of cumming, lost in her own private trance.
Arcangelo increased the tempo all of his tongue splayed over her clit, lapping the full length for a few seconds, then, with a grinning slurp, lingering on the deep shaft of her pussy’s well, a chasm into the heart of the volcano, once again, lapping in a quick stabbing motion, hoping for eruption, letting his fingers work for a more a sinister staccato tempo. Semajaza began to tremble harder, harder, O mon Dieu, hard with each lapping endowment of his tongue over her clit, her breathing making little O — O — O as the tremors began to build. Her body started to quake, reducing to a flutter as she clutched his back, her thighs wrapped around his neck.
Tsovinar could hear the older woman’s voice begin to build in rapture, like a tsunami crashing into the shore, Semajaza erupted, her blood-engorged pussy churning on his fingers, milk of the gods, as his hand was covered suddenly in brilliance. His mouth sucked in everything she had to offer, lapping at her to taste up her cum as she undulated madly under him, her poor muscles distraught as they released their tension, a vast gush. She growled as her body shook again with less force this time, releasing his back from her thigh’s grip as she shook again, again, again in ever diminishing convulsions.
Suddenly, with the loud snap of a string, the incantation was broken. The orchestra, unable now to proceed, stopped in utter confusion, a loud groan of release rose up from a thousand throats. Then the whole concert hall rose in sudden horror, as the cellist dropped her instrument with a crash upon the platform, stared wildly around, clasped a hand to her breasts and with a strangled cry, fell to the ground, writhing in ecstasy.
For weeks the Armenian cellist lay, veiled between life and death, a sunny land where no judging eye could spy upon her, far away from morality and all its hideous implications. Finally, one day, the breathing world reasserted itself, she got out of bed. But it was long, very long, before she could again appear in the concert hall, while the queer, mysterious cello never again played its strange, mysterious influence upon her. It had been hopelessly spent, shattered, in the climax of that last night’s performance, which had almost been fatal to Tsovinar as well.