Zen and the Art of the Violin

Zen and the Art of the Violin
 
   “I am here to teach you the art of the Violin. Like a Zen master, I will use a stick to help you along. But my application of the slat will be soft as a love pat on your bottom to coax you on when you are in the throes of passion with the violin. Never ever will the wood be used to punish you. When you stroke the strings like a lover I will rub your posterior with the stick in a sensual massage to bring about the friction of wood upon your skin. The slow circles of my wood on your supple seat will deepen the emotions of your practice until you are one with the music.”
     Agnes seizes the moment to have her student gather her skirt up and pull her panties down to her knees. Now her bare bottom will feel the tap of the tempo as the buzz of the strings blasts her into a musical cosmos where ancient hunger drives her into sacred madness. The violin bow is warm enough under her touch to give her fingers a sugar melt. And so a wicked plan is hatched by the aspirant violinist vixen. She gives her tutor a reason to apply the wood by making the strings wail like a cat. The sound waves send vibrations into the G-Spot of the young lady’s eardrum. Her wild stroking provokes the tutor to tap the student on her bottom firmer than promised but not enough to sting her young skin. The maiden Ro wiggles her hips as she takes the rub of the stick while performing a fifties bebop dance. The caress of the slat singes her with pure erotic energy that flows to her fingers in a mesh of electricity that sparks between her legs.  
     In answer to her gyration, the tutor places the paddle so that the student is straddling the wood while she plays Vivaldi until she is making love to the instrument in a duet between her moans and the wail of strings on fire. She squats on the edge of the paddle where the friction is strong enough to tickle her passion for music. The lass is a music academy graduate who knows not where her gift will take her. So the tutor leads her into realms of melody undreamed by her innocent heart.  
     With a single finger, Agnes teaches the new singer by note. Agnes puts her through the paces with the chamber shaken by the cry of the violin, while the pupil’s voice runs the gamut from mezzo to soprano which resonates on the acoustics of the practice room. But the mating of the stick with the musical vibrations through her body is an omnipresent force that penetrates every fiber of her being.    
     Agnes knows that her acolyte is ready for the next step. For this, only a Baroque tune will do, and that music can only be Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons.” The wildness of the woman pressed into wood takes her into a far orbit of the harmonies of her derriere spheres. Yet her voice trebles in a dream from some Gothic concert in a Wagnerian Opera lost in the myth of Germany. With no one else in the room, they make music together. Agnes taps a beat on her posterior while the pupil makes love in palpitations with the violin she plays.  
     Ro bows the strings like Vivaldi on LSD until you could swear smoke rises from the violin. Each rising note inspires a newly born moan from the girl, Rowena. Ro screams like a banshee high on Brandenburg concertos. The heat of her bare skin against the wooden stick makes for a baroque bonfire. But Ro maintains her poise knowing this is a lesson she shall not soon forget.  
    Her pupil knows there is no turning back. Rowena squirms like the wood might form an erection and penetrate her at any moment. But her flesh slickens enough to take her where she needs to go. On that thought the girl, Ro, lets the friction do its work on her. Vivaldi pulses into her womanhood with the ferocity of a man taking her with masculine roughness because he knows she needs something more than a vacation from reality. She needs this composer to demonstrate his manly might.  
     Ro wonders how much more she can take before she takes the plunge. But the beat on her derriere gives her a dizzying prospect of what lies beyond the threshold. She has saved her virginity until marriage. But here is this composer straight out of history giving her an orgasm. Does a climax inspired by a dead man count for losing virginity?  
    Both sets of her lips quiver in unison. The centuries that roll across her pudenda push her over the precipice.