When I was twenty three, I won a national competition at a world renowned music school. The first time I played for my class, I felt rather unnerved by the penetrating eyes of our teacher, a beautiful older woman we all knew as “Madame.”
“Music is the language of love,” she said softly when I finished. “Schumann was madly in love when he composed this romance.” When she seated herself beside me on the bench to offer a demonstration, I became wrapped in the heat of her sensuality. Her exotic fragrance enshrouded me as she swept the entire class into the mood of the music. Those dark eyes glittered and her breathing became audible as she transported me into another world, baring the very soul of Schumann s romanticism. The spell that Madame cast ended with a spontaneous burst of applause from the class, though I was rooted to the spot, too mesmerized to react.
Madame s eyes burned into me like lasers as she acknowledged my rapt silence with one of those smiles that could light her countenance like the glow of a soft candle. Deep within myself, I knew we had both been on the same wavelength. I sensed it was just a matter of time.
Periodically, each student of Madame s received private coaching, not at the school, but at her penthouse apartment. My first one on one encounter with her put butterflies in my stomach as the maid ushered me into her studio. Two imposing grand pianos dominated the large room. She entered immediately and wasted no time. “I have been listening to more of your scholarship tapes, and they all play the same thing,” she said.
“They are telling you that I am cold and heartless with no soul to feel the romance of the music, is that it?” I asked in a voice filled with dejection.
“Au contraire, mon cherie, quite the contrary,” was her assurance as she led me by the hand to a large mirror. This was very exciting.
My flesh tingled as that familiar fragrance enveloped me again. “Use this mirror as you practice, because stage deportment in any artist is as important as the music and you shall become a true artist,” she predicted. “We are viewing the image of a tall, blond and broad shouldered young man with a smile that could attract any young lovely. The heart we cannot see, but it is there, and you must learn to let it express itself more freely.”
Our eyes locked in the mirror for a moment, and then I swept her into my arms. I could feel her firm breasts burning indentations into my chest. She didn t resist. One of those smiles was lighting her face, and I dared to taste it with a kiss. I impatiently yanked at the buttons of her blouse to bare her breasts. Once their smooth whiteness was gleaming in the soft light, my mouth moved to them, savoring those hard nipples one at a time while Madame shuddered in response. After a while she slowly led me from the mirror to a nearby settee.
We undressed, and my hands roamed freely over her nude beauty. As I kissed and licked the smooth expanse of her stomach, curved hips and thighs as trim as any teenager s, her fingers curled through my hair. My impatient cock was rearing hot, hard and heavy with desire for her. The penetrating eyes of Madame had become glazed with desire. She fisted my hardness and placed it against her swollen folds, rubbing it back and forth over her moistness. Little by little, more and more of it slid its way into her warm cove. Then a quick shift of my hips had my cock churning wildly inside her.
Madame complemented my every move with one of her own, her pussy urging me deeper inside with each hearty thrust of my cock. I was giddy and dizzy with sheer delight at possessing this forbidden fruit. Her soft hands were fingering my spine as if it were a keyboard of sensitive flesh. And when we began a final crescendo to the climax, my seed poured into her in relentless waves, each one tossing both of us higher than the last.
Then Madame shocked me by becoming all business once more, insisting adamantly on the three hour class that was to follow. She led me through my paces at the piano with a dogmatic and almost feverish intensity threatening, cajoling and complimenting me as though our love interlude had never transpired. Afterward, the maid served us some exotic tea and piles of French pastries.
Our lovemaking became a routine prelude to my coaching sessions at her apartment. Madame knew how to bring out the best in me, both in the bedroom and at the piano. She was teaching me that sweet songs of sex were not unlike those of the music. I was reaching new heights of sexual splendor, and it was reflected in my interpretations at the piano which, I came to realize many years later, had been her whole purpose.
Just before Madame was to embark on a month s tour of South America, I spent the entire night with her, the first and only time. She played the role of seductress, her normally well coiffed hair hanging almost to her hips as candlelight caught the glints of its natural sheen. Our background music was the soft strains of Wagner s love music as we reclined nude under the canopy of her bed. Her firm breasts quivered when I cupped their creamy flesh and Madame s hands couldn t resist my rock hard meatiness.
Foreplay culminated in a perfect coupling of our sex organs. Our bodies sang a duet together, and as Wagner s music soared to a climax, so did our lovemaking. Spasms of her orgasm began rippling through her with shudders, her loud cries indicating an ecstasy so intense she ached. One of Madame s hands reached underneath me to stimulate my anal area. This act triggered a release of sizzling sperm. Then the last magnificent chords of the Wagnerian love orgy diminished into oblivion, and Madame was sound asleep in my arms.
The next morning, my high priestess of the piano was still wound tight. I awakened to the sensual delight of her lips wrapped around the length of my cock. The coolness of smooth silk sheets was a contradiction to the fire burning in my groin as she lathered my cock. My entire body began to tingle with white hot heat, my cock was like a stick of dynamite ready to explode. When I came, she kept the entire hardness deep in the back of her swanlike throat to take every drop of semen. Then the maid Alicia was knocking on the door.
“S il vous plait, Madame, I must pack your gowns for our tour,” she begged urgently. “The plane, it will be leaving without us.”
I could feel a lump choking my throat. “I shall miss you until your return,” I said simply.
She kissed me lightly. “When I return, dear boy, I shall be listening to determine whether our intimacies have improved your interpretation of the music.”
Sadly, or maybe mercifully for me, we never knew that was to be our last romantic intermezzo. The very next hour, Madame received an urgent call from her family in Paris saying she was needed immediately. And I didn t see her again until two years later, when she adjudicated me at the Tchaikovsky competition in Russia. Even then, we weren t allowed to consort with the judges and were only able to speak briefly before I was whisked back to the hotel where I was staying. I did not win the coveted award. But merely competing was enough to launch my career.
Recently I received a note from her. “I was passing a shop in Rome the other day and your picture on the jacket of an album drew me inside,” she wrote. “Quite by coincidence, the Schumann romance you played for me that very first time was in the repertoire. Ah, what a difference I heard in the music when playing it that very same evening. It pleased me greatly to know that I might have had a hand in the music, or anything else that could have created such passion and warmth. Your interpretation was superb and brought back many memories. I couldn t have done better myself.”
Yes, but if she only knew how perfect she was.
Mr. (Name and address withheld)