The small audience assembled in the chamber -- scarcely a dozen ladies and gentlemen -- had fallen silent. Before them, a single musician gently pulled his bow across a brick of rosin. Looking at him, one could scarcely believe that he spent his every moment in the company of nobility and the well-to-do. He was thin and wiry with a perpetually disheveled appearance. Thick, wild hair and a thin patch of scruff surrounded a gaunt face. Even in clothes that cost a year's salary for a common man, he could not shake the appearance of having been freshly dragged off the street.
Perhaps that is what drove him to perfect his skill. What else but music could elevate a man of low birth and standing to such a place? His list of clients included kings and bishops and his wait list may as well be a directory of the rich and powerful. Few these days took the title of bard and even fewer deserved it. For Franz Heinkel, however, it barely seemed adequate.
It was this reputation that elevated him to sit with the social elite and drew his audiences. It was also what brought two young ladies, Mary and Sophia to sit at their first performance. Born as cousins and raised as sisters, they attended court together in the home of their aunt, the Lady Aceline. Mary bore the countenance of her aunt. From her porcelain skin to sharp brunette hair, her every feature spoke to her French heritage. Her womanly curves were yet to fully fill in, giving her a dainty appearance. What she lacked in curves she made up in presentation, her every step, word, and motion a testament to her future as a lady of good fortune. Sophia, on the other hand, was cut from an entirely different block. She had her mother's hair: a long mane of untamable crimson that hung over lightly freckled skin. She had grown quickly, easily filling in her dress years ago. Her breasts stood on prominent display, accentuated by the tight cut of her bodice and hidden support offered by the bust of her dress.
The pair sat side-by-side in rapt attention. Accounts, myths, and outright fabrications of the bard's skill abounded in equal measure -- a reputation great enough to hold even the interest of teenage women. They were no stranger to his list of accolades, from having cured the sick to staying the hand of a war-bent parliament, all with naught but his violin. How much truth lay within these accounts was anyone's guess, though none have ever claimed to be disappointed after his performance.
A single, sharp motion brought the instrument to his cheek and bow to rest upon the strings. In an instant, the lanky and awkward-looking man disappeared. In his place stood a performer, born of equal parts skill and confidence. The sudden transformation often took audiences by surprise and created the opening he needed. The collective gasp that filled the room told him all he needed to know. He already had them all.
The first note sang out, a soft start to a slow melody. The trick would unravel if he showed his hand too soon. He did not need his eyes to see their anticipation. They hung on his every note, convinced that the next would justify the incredible cost of his service. Perhaps he enjoyed this too much, the selfish entertainment of leading them on nearly disrupting his concentration. He eased slowly into his song, growing from the deliberate plodding of the prelude to a rich and vibrant chorus.
He could feel the air move through the room, their very breath chained to every swell and fade as his song took hold. He took great pride in his ability to ensnare an audience with nothing but his virtuoso technique, a feat few bards had ever performed. With so captive and audience, the rest of his performance would be largely vestigial, though his pride as a musician bade him to continue. A moment later, a the sound of a second violin joined in, ringing out from inside his own. People these days were consumed by rationalism, ignorant or even wholly dismissive of the magic all around them, even as they witnessed what should have been impossible. The metallic smell of his spell taking root went unnoticed, hidden behind the phantom harmony and the fog growing in their minds.
It was not long before a third, fourth, and finally fifth violin joined the first. To Franz's knowledge, the one-man quintet was a trick of his own invention, a truly unique calling card -- not that anyone ever remembered it. As each violin sounded, the audience sunk deeper into his spell, fascinated by his skill and easily overwhelmed by the magic they never saw coming. Each extra harmony represented an immense strain on his mind and magic, though the end result justified the pain. When the fifth violin finally joined, they were so deeply ensnared that one patron literally fell from his chair. It was a slightly older man, though Franz cared little more than to give a cursory look. The man was useless to him and could sit on the floor if he so wished.
A final scan over his captive audience revealed what he wished to see: a room full of entranced subjects, ready and willing to follow any suggestion he may plant. Normally, he would merely demand gifts and erase memory of his technique. This time, however, he possessed much greater ambition. His eyes settled upon a pair of girls -- a young brunette and redhead -- as he made up his mind. With a smile, he launched into what he knew would have to be the best performance of his life; nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Mary watched the bard with blank eyes, barely registering anything more than the unearthly beautiful music and the rhythmic motions of his hands and bow. Every note was more beautiful and entrancing than the last until it was all she could do to stay awake and listening. It was then, as she teetered on the edge between wakefulness and sleep, that she began to notice a different feeling. What had before been respect and admiration for his skill slowly transformed into attraction. Someone so talented surely deserved to use her as he saw fit. She was ready to drop to her knees and service him when she realized that she could not move.
Every attempt was met instead with a small surge of pleasure and arousal over her entire body. She struggled against her imaginary bonds to reach out to him, yet received nothing but pleasure in return. She wanted nothing more than to pleasure him, yet here she was, trapped in an endless spiral of selfish arousal. The more she struggled, the greater the pleasure until it felt as though a thousand hands stroked her hot, sensitive body with every attempt to move. Her clothes grew hot and confining as her arousal built. She was surprised to notice her hands moving on their own, slowly untying and loosening her dress, yet the pleasure of undressing for him quickly banished any other thought to the back of her mind.
Moments later, she found herself naked and slumped in her chair. She tried to remember how she managed to shed her clothing, yet quickly abandoned her search when it brought no further pleasure. She focused instead on the heat of her arousal, the feeling of blood coursing through her engorged sex. Her wetness flowed freely onto the chair, gathering in a puddle between her legs. She found her arms free to move and immediately pushed both hands to her slit, stroking and fondling every inch of hot flesh. Instead of pleasure, each touch only deepened her arousal. Nothing, not even rough stimulation of her clitoris brought her even an inch closer to release.
She realized quickly that it was not her body that brought pleasure, but submitting to the music. She needed to do what he wanted, though he left her no clue. Her head turned to see Sophia sitting beside her, similarly naked and dripping. Her breath came hot and shallow, panting with arousal and pleasure. Their eyes met, unfocused from the trance and lidded with lust. Their bodies moved shakily closer, faces lining up for what they both knew comes next.
The moment their lips touched, the full-body pleasure she felt earlier returned, as did a deep sense of satisfaction at pleasing her new master. As their kiss deepened, so did her pleasure. Every slow rake and gentle probe of her tongue into Sophia's mouth brought her ever-so-slightly closer to a cliff of pleasure that felt so very far away. One hand found its way into the redhead's tangled mane, gripping her tightly and pulling her passive partner deeper into her kiss as her tongue explored ever deeper. The other hand found the other woman's breast, two fingers running down from the top to run astride her stiff nipple. She felt her touch mirrored on her own breast, sympathetic pleasure given to her as a gift for obedience. The girls gasped in unison as her fingers found a nipple, squeezing softly while circling around her sensitive areola. Each twist was rewarded with a surge of pleasure and a gentle twitch deep inside her sex, as though an invitation to come inside. Her hand trailed down her cousin's considerable bust and down her stomach, dragging her nails across the flushed skin. She felt her every touch in real detail on her own body as her hand crested the girl's mound, combing gently through her trimmed, crimson pubic hair.
Sophia could do nothing but grip the chair tightly as her friend's hand stroked the lips of her sodden quim. Not a single muscle in her body obeyed her, even to reciprocate the kiss that explored her mouth. Drool slipped from her mouth as her jaw hung slack and accepting, a reflection of the action at her lower mouth. Mary's touch was electric, her own body so much more sensitive than she had ever been when playing with herself. He wanted her passive and accepting and she was more than happy to oblige. If this was the pleasure he could offer, she would do whatever he asked.
She came the moment the other girl's hand slipped inside her sex. Her body fought to move, to shake and writhe, but the music would not allow it. She was a passenger in her own body, riding out the waves of pleasure with nothing but the edge of the chair to grasp and hold tight. Her orgasm faded quickly and did nothing to quench the heat in her groin. A single finger drove deeper and deeper inside her before encountering an obstruction.
Her hands tensed in anticipated pain at the breaking of her maiden head, though it never came. Instead, a sense of ease filled her as the finger pushed through and even deeper inside her. She felt the warm blood trickle out of her, yet the pain never came. It was his gift to her, a reward for her obedience. The intruding finger was shortly joined by a second, accompanied by a pleasant stretching sensation. They thrust in together while wiggling slightly, their passage eased by the quantity of juices flowing out of her.
The rhythmic thrusting of Mary's fingers faded into song, merging into a single point of fixation and ultimate pleasure. The music itself was filling her, stroking her to climax with every swell and denying her release with each fade. She gave up struggling to move, simply accepting what was given to her as he wished.
