Music Composition Masters Degree candidate Marcus Arcite sat in the office of Miranda Hendricks PhD, the Chair of the State University's Orchestra Department. First thing that morning they were discussing the performance of three works he had submitted to Professor Cassandra Lancy, his faculty advisor. The advisor had sent copies of the proposed main theme of each to the department head, who was also the Conductor of the school orchestra. The nerdy student rubbed his hand nervously on his freshly shaved jaw while the slim Conductor played each piece on her electronic keyboard.
"Storms of Rage? The main theme sounds like you're inspired by Holst's Mars, Mr. Arcite." Dr. Hendricks glanced over the sheet music that she had just played. She brushed a stray curl of her auburn hair, lately streaked with a touch of gray, back into place.
"So was John Williams." He answered and tried not to stare at the cleavage her professional style blouse revealed when she leaned down to file the sheet music in her desk drawer. He twitched his shoulders, broadened by long hours of practice at various drums and bowed string instruments and adjusted his wire-rim glasses. "And please call me Mark. It's fun to play Holst's The Planets for Star Wars fans who always ask what part of the movies it was in."
"Yes, I've done that years ago when I was a student. Yours has the same flavor as both Holst and Williams, but different enough that it doesn't matter. Your titles though are a bit trite, Sea of Sadness and Satyr's Bacchanal? But the themes are good enough for your Masters, that is if you can orchestrate them well enough for performance. I found them very moving, very passionate. You have a knack for composing emotions."
"Thanks, Doctor." He ran his hand through his dark curly hair and grinned at the compliment, a slight blush reddening his tanned complexion. "The main thing I want is to have the listeners feel the emotions in the music."
"I think they certainly will. Get to work on the arrangements for the different sections on all three and get with the Concert Master to decide how you want to orchestrate it. Do you know her?"
"Yeah, Sumitra the First Chair Violin. We've had a few classes and done studio work together. She really knows her stuff." He didn't mention that they had briefly dated, but not seriously.
"Good. I'll let you know how many copies of each section you need to print once the orchestra is put together."
"I'll try a couple of arrangements on the synthesizer as demos, but I think a traditional orchestration would work best." He nodded.
"That sounds about right, but get Sumitra's opinion before you decide." She nodded and dismissed him from her office. As he exited, he took a final brief glance at the conductor, admiring her fit figure.
"Stop dreaming," he mused to himself out in the corridor shaking his head. "It's been a while and now you're too busy for unsatisfying one-night stands with cougars in jazz clubs who just want to bed the piano player."
Mark had learned early in his music career that the frontman of the band got the best groupies, whether cougar or teen or anything in between. Very few wanted the drummer or bass player and none of them wanted more than a quick fling before getting distracted by the next act. His natural musical talent let him up his game from drum kit to guitar and finally to piano, not only catching the attention of groupies, but earning a bachelor degree in music and a modest postgraduate music scholarship to state university. But it wasn't long before the attraction of shallow fleeting partners began to wane. At least the pay from being a backup musician in jazz gigs and rock playing jobs was decent and sometimes his cut of the 'kitty' or tip jar was too. Along with some recording studio work it was enough to help pay for additional college expenses and a few minor luxuries that the scholarship didn't cover.
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Mark answered the late night knock at the door of the larger practice room. It was the Concert Master or First Chair Violin, a pleasant looking dusky-skinned graduate student with a small red forehead dot applied above her squarish horn-rim eyeglasses. Mark welcomed her in, admiring her well-formed figure, highlighted by her tight knitted top and knee-length skirt.
"Hi Sumitra. Thanks for meeting with me, sorry it's so late." He smiled at the cute violinist, trying to be charming.
"No problem Mark," she answered in her slightly accented voice, greeting him with a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. "I was performing until late anyway, another studio gig. I understand that you've got some concertos to orchestrate."
"Studio work helps pay the bills." Mark nodded. "You looked at the scores I emailed? Good. They're not in traditional concerto form, so I just call them pieces. I put together a couple ideas with the synthesizer. I'm thinking of doing a more traditional orchestration, but I've added some very low notes so it needs at least four basses. Six would be better if we can get that many. Let me know what you think and don't hold anything back."
"Why the extra low notes on the bass section?"
"I want the audience to feel the bass harmonics to emphasize the emotions in the music. That emotional impact is my main focus here. I've added some harmonics to the synthesizer mockups of an orchestra performance. Let me know if you feel the emotions." He enthusiastically said.
"I can tell you're passionate about this, that makes me optimistic." She smiled. "Let's have a listen."
He set another hard plastic chair next to his at the sound console. Once she was seated, he switched on the digital recording, playing the synthesized pieces in the performance order. Storms of Rage was first on the excellent sound system, starting with martial horns and snare drums. After a few bars, her pretty face twisted into an angry scowl and her fists clenched as the subsonic harmonics from the synthesized basses started affecting her. In a while she could no longer contain the anger they generated.
"What do you think you're doing? You want me to help you with this shit? It's terrible and you're a horrible person for making me listen to it." Sumitra squirmed angrily in her chair as it ended. She glared at him until the next piece started. Sea of Sadness began with electronically generated somber woodwinds and melancholy brass. Her expression softened.
"Oh that's nice," she whispered.
The cellos and basses joined in and the harmonics soon turned her scowl into a sad frown, then into an expression of despair, tears welling up in her dark eyes. She reached over to him with shaky hands, looking for some reassurance. He hugged her as best he could in their awkward side-by-side position. As the piece neared its end, she began sobbing and crawled into his lap facing him, discarding her eyeglasses and wiping her tears on his shoulder. He held back his own tears and tried to comfort her, patting her back while trying to ignore the closeness of her sexy feminine body straddling him. Then the piece ended and Satyr's Bacchanal began with lush romantic strings.
"Oooh..." she murmured, her eyes went wide as the subsonics increased and she began distractedly plucking at his clothes. As the music reached its crescendo, she leaned forward and captured his mouth with hers, her tongue invading past his lips to twine with his. She pulled off his polo shirt and caressed his chest as his thumbs toyed with her nipples through her clothes. She paused in their making out to whip off her sweater and bra, baring her generous breasts and milk chocolate nipples for his mouth and hands.
"I need this." She whispered and reached to undo his pants, mumbling in Hindi. He reached below her skirt and yanked down her sensible white cotton panties, then lifted his bottom enough to let her drop his pants and underwear. He had just gotten his fingers underneath her skirt and into her trimmed bush when she bent down and engulfed his stiff hardon with her mouth, giving it a quick suck and leaving it coated with her saliva.
"Now," she commanded, "I need this in me." She lined up his cock and slammed her hips into him, nearly tipping the chair over. His manhood sank into her tight, wet pussy in one thrust. They both moaned as she rode him like a wild animal, her mouth locked with his and his hands playing like a virtuoso on her breasts. Their rhythmic motions matched the tempo of the music until the piece ended and they continued. It wasn't long before she shuddered in climax, squeezing his hardness and triggering him over the edge to a gasping orgasm, sending jets of semen deep into her.
