The Dead Dick Diddle
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Hey Diddle Diddle free porn video
Music washed over Karen, as soft and soothing as the caresses of her master,the Maestro. She had been bound, she had been beaten by him, and now she kneltby him as he reclined on the couch, his eyes closed in appreciation of thepeace which the music brought.
One hand rested on Karen's neck, fingers curled beneath her chin to holdher head up, keep her back erect. On her haunches she felt like an obedientpet, waiting for the Maestro to acknowledge her, to offer some small sign ofaffection or approval.
Out of the corner of her eye, not turning until Maestro says she can, Karenwas aware of his other hand moving to his lap, then drawing the loose kaftanhe wore up his legs. Then there was a gentle pressure on her neck, he tiltedher head and she saw his strong thighs bared, his fingers slipping betweenthem. She gazed down with love, with veneration, until the fingers curled beneathher chin slowly raised her head to gaze into the eyes of the Maestro. Therewas the hint of a smile in those eyes, a gentle curve to the lips and the slightestsuggestion of a nod, at which she lowered her head, kissed his thighs, buriedher face in his lap.
The loving way Maestro caressed her neck could as easily bring tears toher eyes as any pain he has caused her, after the way he had used her she couldonly love him all the more for the kindness he now showed.
He was rumoured to be a hard task-master, he was a perfectionist and demandingnothing less than perfection from those in his charge. As he walked acrossthe stage Karen was struck by his athletic grace, he was tall and heavily builtbut he moved with an ease which belied his bulk. It was when he stepped uponto the conductor's podium, though, when he tossed back his head and thatmane of long blonde hair, when he raised his arms as if to embrace them all,it was then that she felt in awe of the power which he exuded.
"Scheherezade, the Entrance of the Kalendar Prince," he announced, his voicedeep and sonorous, reverberating richly about the concert hall, and broughthis arms down, the baton held lightly in his right hand.
As Karen drew the bow across the violin strings she felt as if it was strokingher heart, drawing music from her soul, her whole body quivered to hear theorchestra swell, to feel herself under the control of the man before her.
Her eyes flicked incessantly from the score to the Maestro, from the inkblack of the notation to the jet of his eyes, and she played with more passionthan ever before, uplifted by the music, orchestrated by the Maestro, her bodyswaying in time with his baton.
There was a sweat on her brow, her cheeks were flushed, she wore a longthin cotton skirt to the rehearsal and beneath it, between her thighs, shecould feel herself becoming wet.
This was passion, pure and unadulterated…..surely!
"No! No! No!" said the Maestro, tapping his baton vigorously against thepodium. "I sense no feeling! You play like automata rather than musicians withsoul! Now again! From the beginning!"
And so they began again, and again, and each time Karen's soul seemed liftedever higher until she felt that it was soaring. Sweat was pouring from her,it ran in rivulets between her breasts, across her belly, along her thighs.There was a tingling numbness in her fingertips from the constant vibrationof the strings, every muscle quivered and ached, and at the very heart of thesensation, the epicentre of this, was her groin. Though she was wet she wasalso afire, it felt as if the bow had been stroking there, the fine strandsdrawn across her swollen labia rather than across the violin.
When the Maestro finally called a halt to the rehearsal, after a punishingthree hours, she felt overcome by weariness, as if her body had been used byhim, and she slumped in her seat, elbows resting on knees, bow and violin hangingloosely from her hands.
"We will resume tomorrow morning and hope for better," the Maestro said,stepping down from the podium and crossing the stage. "And you, First Violinist-" headded.
"Yes Maestro?" said Karen, looking up.
"I will see you in my dressing room when you have packed away your instrument," hesaid, and was gone.
Quickly Karen packed bow and violin into the case, snapped it shut and stood.Her bare arms were breaking out in goose bumps, now the sweat was cooling onher, and she shivered as she crossed the stage, then again more violently asshe entered the bare corridor behind and walked along to the dressing rooms.The goose bumps were spreading, she was no longer sure of the cause, and shefelt a shivering which was almost like a trembling in her legs as she reachedthe door to the Maestro's dressing room.
She knocked hesitantly, and then again a little harder.
"One moment!" came the answer, and then, maybe a minute later, "Enter!"
Entering, Karen immediately saw that the Maestro had changed, that gonewere the grey slacks and white shirt, the soft black moccasins; now he worewhat seemed to be a long kaftan of some fine muslin or cotton, open at theneck and coming down almost to his bared feet. Even more relaxed than his dress,though, was his attitude, sprawled full length on the couch, his baton stillin his hand and idly twirling it between his fingers.
"Put your instrument case down in the corner and then come over here," hetold her, using lazy gestures of the baton to direct her, first to her rightwhere she set down the violin case, and then to a spot beside the couch whichshe stepped forward to take up.
"So, First Violin? Yes?" he said, his eyes slowly moving up her body tomeet hers, but before Karen could answer he cut the air with his baton to silenceher. "No Fiddle, more like! That is what you are! Fiddle!"
Stunned by his harsh tone, by the unexpected words, Karen's mouth fell openand the single word escaped her lips. "Maestro?"
"You played with passion, I grant you that, you put in effort and labour," hecontinued slowly, in his low deep timbre. "But you played without discipline,too, wildly." The baton was raised, to caution against any protests or interruptions. "Whoresexhibit passion, servants and maids offer effort and labour. Would you consideryourself any of those?" he asked, smiling to offer a pause in which she mightnow answer.
"No, Maestro," she managed to respond.
"A lack of discipline gives a slipshod interpretation," he went on, "andif the interpretation is slipshod, Fiddle, it means that you are not payingattention to me. I do not merely conduct the orchestra, I orchestrate you ,make you dance to my tune. Is that sinking in, Fiddle?"
"Yes, Maestro," said Karen, lowering her eyes a little, feeling her cheeksburn with shame each time he called her by that derogatory name.
"Good," he said, and now permitted a slight smile to break, lines formingat the corners of his deep dark eyes, his lips curling and parting to showthe strong even teeth. "And we have passion, at least. I witnessed that. Andguess that we have the evidence of that still."
Dropping his hand lazily at the side of the sofa, the Maestro hooked hisbaton beneath the hem of her skirt and then slowly began to lift it, baringher legs, her knees, the swell of her thighs. He pushed the baton in furtherbeneath her skirt, brought it up higher until finally it touched her knickers,at which point he twirled it in his fingers so that the slender length of woodrolled to the left and the right, moulding the smooth silk against her swellinglabia.
"Hold up your skirt and let me see, Fiddle," he said, in such a calm andeven tone that he could not be denied.
With trembling hands Karen took hold of her skirt, bunched it high abouther waist so that the Maestro could see the full length of her thighs, herflat belly, the brief white knickers which his baton held pressed against hercunt.
"Yes, we have evidence of your passion, I see a damp patch there," saidthe Maestro, and began to stroke the baton slowly back and forth so that herlabia seemed to swell and pout around it, almost kissing it.
His eyes were fixed on hers as he aroused her, and it was indeed as if shewas dancing to his tune, her legs trembled and her hips swayed, she could feelher breasts swell beneath her blouse and she wanted to drive her body ontothat flimsy wand in some frenzied tarantella.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, the Maestro withdrew the baton from between Karen'sthighs, making it rasp against the moist silk as it came free. Swinging hisfeet to the floor, standing, he walked around her and her eyes followed himas he went to his dressing table. There was fruit there, juice, the usual varietyof food and drink which a maestro or virtuoso would require in his dressingroom. He filled a glass with wine, raised the rich tawny liquid to his mouthand wetted his lips with it.
Silhouetted against the mirror, the bright naked bulbs which were burningall around it made the thin material of his kaftan quite transparent. The contoursof his body were clearly defined beneath it, the comforting breadth of hisshoulders, the almost feminine slimness of his waist, the firm solidity ofhis thighs….and between them, between the splayed legs, the dark outlineof his tumescent prick hanging low and heavy.
"Turn around, Fiddle!" he ordered, for though his back was turned to herKaren realised that he had been watching her in the mirror.
Quickly Karen turned her head, gazed at the blank wall before her, the emptycouch beneath her.
"Now what I require of your playing is discipline, Fiddle," she heard theMaestro say. "How might we best instil that in you, do you think?"
"I don't know, Maestro," she answered.
There was a pause, and then she felt his hands rest lightly on her shoulders.He must have turned, he had moved close to her, and she could feel the heatof his body no more than an inch away from hers.
"Let your skirt fall, Fiddle," he told her, and, when she did so, said, "Unfastenit, let it drop, step out of it."
Karen moved her hands behind her to find the single button which fastenedit, felt her fingers graze the Maestro's belly momentarily as she fumbled withit. Then the skirt was free, slid smoothly down her legs to form a pool ather feet.
"Good girl," he said, and with a gentle pressure on her shoulders he turnedher to face the mirror. "Now lean forward, rest your hands on the dressingtable."
Karen did as she was told, bending forward from his touch, resting her handsflat on the polished wood of the dressing table to take her weight. She chanceda glance in the mirror, saw the Maestro squatting before the valise which wasbeside the couch. It would hold his toiletries, a change of clothes, perhapsmore batons, and as he finished rummaging in it and began to rise again shequickly averted her gaze, fixing her eyes on the grain of the wood betweenher hands.
There was a soft purr of the throat, as if the Maestro sensed her obedienceand approved of it, she was aware of the fragrance of the fruit and wine toone side of her, conscious of how her cunt was still wet and warm and swollen.
Then the Maestro broke the silence.
"I think the best way to begin instilling discipline is by introducing Fiddleto my Cat," he said, a threatening mischief now in his voice, and when sheheard the air hiss behind her she almost raised her head, turned, until hesnapped, "No! Head bowed! Eyes down!"
Then the first blow of the lash struck her, the slender leather strandsof the Maestro's cat o'nine tails wrapping themselves around her arse, herthighs, biting so hard and so deep that they surely tore the fabric of herknickers.
Karen gave out a yelp as her body bucked and her back arched, her head comingup but her eyes now closed, so great had the pain been.
"Be still! Learn discipline!" the Maestro ordered her, and he gave her amoment to compose herself, to bow her head once more, before he delivered thesecond blow.
A wayward strand of the lash seemed to wrap itself around her waist thistime, in a stinging embrace, and as the Maestro drew back his hand for thethird blow she felt her body tugged towards him, against the cock which hadnow grown erect.
"Nice, but not just yet," he said, pushing her back towards the dressingtable with a nudge of his hips, and the next blow made Karen scream out loud.
"Such wonderful acoustics we have in here!" remarked the Maestro, the blowscoming continuously now, first with a forehand stroke, then with a backhandslash, as much vigour in his beating of her as there had been in the conductingof the orchestra.
Karen's body slowly slumped lower, her arms trembled and her knees wereclose to buckling. At last she had to rest her head on the dressing table,her cheek wet with tears against her hands, the fingers of one hand knittedtightly around the other.
It was only then, as the sobs shook her body, that the blows stopped.
"You acquitted yourself admirably, you take to discipline well," she heardthe Maestro say, but was too weak to respond.
Then she felt his fingers hooking in the waist of her knickers, slowly stretchingthe elastic, then easing them down over her stinging buttocks. He must havegone to his knees as he tugged them to her ankles, for now she felt his lipstouch each buttock, kissing them softly, and then his coarse tongue lickingthem. And as his saliva cooled on her flesh it brought such a sweet relief.
"Nice, Fiddle? It makes the pain worthwhile?" the Maestro asked, his tonguenow licking beneath the cheeks, hardening like a cock to work its way betweenthem.
"Oh yes, Maestro!" Karen gasped, laughing away her tears and parting herlegs a little.
His tongue was a marvellous instrument, it probed and caressed as well asany fingers could have, found the crinkled hole of her arse and licked it,poked it, his face pressing hard against her as he licked to the very lipsof her cunt.
Such a virtuoso! she thought.
As his tongue finally withdrew she felt his hands on her ankles, then hisfingertips running up her calves, her flanks, resting on her hips as he stoodonce more. Circling her waist, he pulled her against his groin so that shecould feel his erection against her, then ran his hands up higher, over herribs to cup her breasts, raising her up from the dressing table. His fingersnimbly unfastened her blouse and parted it, then returned to her bared breasts,strumming her nipples in a quick pizzicato. Then he held her with one arm,his large hand covering her breast as if for her modesty, raised the otherto her neck to caress her there, then ran it down her back, along the softindentation of her spine.
Karen opened her eyes and saw the two of them reflected in the mirror, shecaught in his embrace, he nuzzling her neck and kissing her ear, his hiddenhand in the small of her back, then at her buttocks. She felt him foragingin the folds of her kaftan, then the material grazing her as it was lifted.Naked thighs now pressed against her, strong and firm, with a soft down ofhair on them, and his cock which he had taken in his hand being stroked upand down the crack between her buttocks.
The tip was wet, slick, the shaft was firm but all he did was stroke itagainst her, smearing her with its sticky juices.
"Patience, Fiddle," he said, when he felt Karen press back against him. "Patiencegoes hand in hand with discipline. Both make passion more enjoyable."
His hands moved to her shoulders, pulled her blouse from them, she raisedher arms slightly so that he could slip it from her. Then she heard the materialtearing, in the mirror saw his strong hands ripping the thin cotton into longstrips.
"Maestro-?"
"Ssh," he said softly, drawing her hands behind her to bind them, then herelbows, and finally her uppers arms, a long strip pinning them and windingtwice around her chest like a makeshift bandage, squashing her breasts. Withan easy movement he spun her and lifted her, sat her on the edge of the dressingtable.
"Maestro has full control now, yes?" he said, reaching out to the nipplewhich protruded from her twice bound breast, and he twisted it and tugged itlike a dog worrying a rubber bone, or an early bird a worm.
"Yes Maestro!" Karen agreed, hissing at the pain.
"Good!" he smiled, releasing the nipple and reaching past her to take uphis baton once more.
Then he began to move it slowly through the air before her, tracing an intricatearabesque which her eyes followed hypnotically. From his deep chest there camea low bass rumble as he hummed softly, the tune they had rehearsed earlier,its cadences and cascades rising and falling so seductively that they senta thrill through her groin. Her upper body was bound, her arms were pinnedat her sides, her hands tied behind her, but her legs still hung free and sheparted them. An hour before, two hours, and she would not have believed herselfcapable of such a blatant act, but now she was baring her cunt to this man.
A downward cut of the baton brought a sudden silence from the Maestro, hishand fell and the baton rested loosely in his fingers, pointing down to thefloor. Then, like a water diviner closing on some hidden spring, his fingerstwitched, the slender rod flicked and moved haltingly between her thighs.
"The fount of all wisdom, the well of desire," said the Maestro, makingsubtle circular motions with the tip of the baton, stroking Karen's labia andthen parting them, letting the polished wood slip between them.
Karen clamped her thighs together so viciously that she might have snappedoff the tip, then relaxed and clenched her cunt a second time to draw it deeper,asked with heavy-lidded eyes that the Maestro help.
Nodding, understanding her need, the Maestro inserted the baton deeper,worked it around inside her, searching until he felt the swollen bud of herclitoris, and like a metal tongue clapping against the cup of a bell it raiseda song inside her, made her whole body resonate.
"Oh Maestro!" Karen sobbed.
"Sweet, but not enough?" he wondered.
"Oh so sweet!" she told him.
"But not enough!" he told her, and she knew this was true, the Maestro knewit to be true, he could see in her eyes the need for something more.
With a final tap against her clitoris he pulled out the baton and tossedit aside, then began to tantalisingly raise his kaftan, lifting it slowly,his eyes never leaving hers as he challenged her not to look down.
With the discipline she was learning Karen kept her eyes on his, smilinginto them and hoping he could recognise her love, held her gaze fixed evenwhen he raised his kaftan above his head to mask his face for a moment.
Even the kaftan fluttering like a blurred white moth when he tossed it asidedid not break the spell which held her, she caught it only in the peripheryof her vision.
Nudging Karen's parted thighs a little wider, then Maestro then took a paceforward to insert his body between them, rested his hands on her knees andsqueezed gently.
"More?" he asked, waited for just the slightest nod from Karen, at whichhe took a hand from her knee and moved his erect cock up onto the edge of thedressing table.
She knew that she could look now, knew that she had to,and when she cast her eyes down to see the tip weeping -weeping for her!- shefelt like crying with joy, with need.
Oh how she needed it, needed him, and her eyes entreated him, she triedto shuffle her bound body closer to the edge of the dressing table. But theMaestro took pity on her, perhaps now even felt the same need himself, forhis hands caught her at the waist and lifted her bodily from the dressing table,clutched her to him as he turned and lowered her onto his magnificent erection.
Instinctively her free legs wrapped around him, gripping him with a strengthwhich matched his own as he walked her slowly back to the couch, each stephe took stirring his cock inside her. There he bent forward, lowered her slowlydown and then lay on top of her, his cock never once leaving her.
"My fiddle is about to become a violin at last, a Stradivarius," he grinneddown at her, licking his tongue across her breasts, along her neck. "I willmake you sing. I will play a symphony on your soul, make a rhapsody of yourbody."
"Oh yes! Please do, Maestro!" Karen begged.
"But will it be allegro or andante?" he asked. "Would you like it quickor slow?"
"Allegro, Maestro! Allegro con brio!" she pleaded, and he laughed, a deepbelly laugh.
"Then slow it shall be!" he said, to deny her and tease her a little whilelonger, and he rested a hand to either side of her, supporting himself on hispowerful arms as he lifted his hips and slowly pulled out of her. "Slowly,but with feeling."
He pulled back until there was just the tip of his cock inside her, heldit there, his body as still as a statue, his biceps bulging but not betrayingso much as a tremor as they bore his weight.
"We play as a concert violinist rather than a gypsy fiddler," he told her,as he began to enter her again, moving with an agonising slowness. "We playwith feeling rather than frenzy, verve rather than vigour, love rather thanlust."
Love? Could he have meant that? Karen hoped so, for love was what she feltfor the Maestro, despite the pain he had caused her, and if she lifted herhips slightly to meet him it was to offer herself to him now, rather than todemand him.
Intuitively he seemed to understand this, for his slow thrust forced himselfdeep inside her and there he held his cock, touching the roof of her cunt,touching her heart and stirring her spirit. And when he lowered his face tohers to kiss her it seemed that he was sucking out her soul.
"A touch more? Now?" he asked, taking his lips from hers, slipping his tonguefrom her mouth.
"Slowly we will build to our crescendo, if it pleases Maestro," said Karen,and felt him begin to move rhythmically inside her.
"The Entrance of the Kalendar Prince!" laughed the Maestro.
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