The Poem Of Ecstasy - Sex Stories

The Poem Of Ecstasy

Performances of Scriabin’s “ Le Poème de l’extase ” have always been extremely rare. Madeleine listened enraptured to the solo trumpeter. He had a gorgeous tone and immaculate timing, obviously helped by a good ear. He was a natural. She admired the way his long fingers danced on the valves of the instrument and imagined those same fingers playing on her breasts. She admired his lean, athletic figure and his smart attire. The brass buttons of his navy blazer caught the spotlight and seemed to twinkle at her. She had to have him! As an old hand at such concerts, Madeleine was able to hustle herself backstage after the trumpeter’s performance. As soloist, his services for the main piece (a sugary Mozart symphony) were not required. She found him and collared him immediately, thrusting a tired business card into his clammy hand. “I’m an industry specialist, career coach and teacher of music theory. I can make your career really take off. You have the potential to be a classical superstar!” she flattered. “Really? It’s just a hobby. I don’t practice enough…” “I can see that, Alan. That’s why I need to take you under my wing. You’ll be happy and fulfilled. I promise. How old are you, by the way?” “Just eighteen,” the young man smiled at her. At last, someone who cared! He stared at her prominent cleavage and sighed, “Alright, what do I have to do?” That very night they made love in her plush apartment. Sexually demanding, she wore him out. Fortunately, the following day was a ...

... Sunday. As they devoured croissants and conserve, she outlined her plans for him. His office job was soon to be history. Practice was to replace it. He realised that he would have little income of his own. He was very much her plaything, protégé and prisoner. He had moved in for better or worse, and was her lover. Gradually, she began to tire of his teenage laziness. She demanded more and more; more than he wanted to deliver. She cursed him and sometimes belittled his achievements. She was letting her sadistic side rule, and became increasingly intolerant of his musical shortcomings, as she perceived them to be. “I don’t think you’re trying hard enough!” she declaimed one day. “Stronger encouragement is needed, I feel. Look at this! My father’s old cane. It stings like mad, I’m afraid.” Alan’s jaw dropped in disbelief. Surely she couldn’t mean to? But yes, she did. All too soon he found himself bent over her generously upholstered and richly lacquered piano stool, with his manly and bared buttocks offered for punishment. That first time it was six brisk, stinging strokes administered with ill-disguised glee by his sometime lover. That first caning was unforgettable. He found it difficult to comprehend. That night they made love again, and her hands repeatedly gripped and squeezed his bruised and sore rump flesh. Soon, the canings became as routine as the practice sessions. She beat him soundly every time, and he began to love and crave this new and bizarre form of attention. ...