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Siebren’s Music Assessment – Fic for J <3
“Good evening, Miss Y/n.” He smiles. You can see the wrinkles around his eyes fold, then relax. His aged face greets you warmly, and genuinely. Though, you can see a smirk crawl upon his lips. Diablerie, maybe?
“Yes, Dr. Siebren, good evening.” You reply, coyly. In front of him, you feel small and weak, as if he could throw you around without exerting any effort; and part of you wishes he would. He stands six feet tall, straight, with his hands politely clasped behind him. Your eyes trail across his broad shoulders, before you catch yourself, and blush. He silently chuckles, as if he noticed.
“Simply Siebren will suffice. No need for formalities, yes?” It’s true, this was your sixth session with him, and he corrects you to call him ‘simply siebren’ every time. It must be his stature, or his reserved courtesy that makes you want to address him punctiliously. You both go through this ritual every week. It’s been nearly two months since you’ve been studying under him, although you progress quite slowly. He’s too gracious to ever point it out, but it seems that you can never focus when you two meet. You know it, too. Every session, you find yourself overwhelmingly warm and flustered. You know this feeling, however you refuse to admit to yourself that this man has such an effect on you.
“Miss Y/n?” He’s noticed your distractedness. “Are you ready to begin?” He places one hand on his chest, and gestures toward the grand piano with the other. You scramble to collect yourself and gather your courage. This session is special; your first sight reading assessment.
You’ve practiced tirelessly for this, at least, a little. Late into the night, you’ve sat at your shabby piano and did your best to connect your brain and hands as one, playing technically and lightly. But when you play, your mind wanders, and fantasizes about Siebren sitting tall beside you on the bench. You imagine him humming, and tapping his foot to the tempo as usual, before he leads his hand toward your thigh. His long, soft fingers caress your skin over your tights, and slowly slip beneath your skirt. You can feel the warm pads of his fingers prod and pull your skin, as if he is starving for it, and - at this point of the fantasy, your hands have left the keys and instead moved to the growing heat between your legs. Night after night, your practice has been interrupted by these dreams, and afterwards, you find yourself too worn out and blissful to even think about sheet music.
You approach the piano bench and take your place. You sit meticulously, careful not to violate the correct posture. You look at him expectantly, wishing he’d come closer, so much closer. Siebren nods politely, then takes his place beside you; he sits nearly perfectly, impossibly poised. Looking up at him, you watch him clear his throat, then adjust his collar. His eyes are closed, and he’s breathing deeply. You realize that he’s... nervous?
“Miss Y/n, this is a very important session. I’d like you to try your best.” Siebren says, curt and honest. Your eyebrows furrow, both from the pressure, and the worry that this is very unlike him. Imitating him, you breathe deeply, clear your throat, close your eyes, and adjust your collar too. He laughs, and you both feel better. You notice he’s sitting closer than usual, and you can feel his knee graze against yours. The sensation sends a shiver through your whole body, and a twinge of electricity forms in your stomach. “Begin when you are ready.” He says quietly. Now, the side of his entire thigh is pressed against yours. Pink flushes your face, and your breathing quickens; that familiar feeling is back, and stronger than ever. You wish he’d press his whole body into yours and take you completely.
There was no reason to stall. You take in as much of the staff as you can, position your hands, and start to play. It’s an unfamiliar piece, longing and dissonant. But the electricity grows. The spark in your stomach churns and twitches, and a warm current overtakes you. You misplay. Your finger slips a note, and Siebren cringes. It’s subtle, but you can read him well – he's enthralled. The current wavers, and you press your thighs together, trying your best to focus. “Pay attention, Miss Y/n.” He warns. There’s an authority in his voice you haven't heard before, and it only weakens you. Writhing on the bench, begging for any friction your stockings will provide, you try and continue playing. The melody is beautiful, and Siebren hums along like always. His eyes are closed again and he’s listening very closely. Your finger slips, and misplays a note again, as you release a half-moan, half exasperated sigh. Regularly, Siebren would smile, and place his hands over yours to demonstrate. But this time, he is silent. “This is not your full potential, Y/n.” Until this point, he’s exclusively referred to you as Miss Y/n, but this is different. He speaks the name with ownership, with greed. You attempt to play again but miss an entire bar almost immediately. You rub your legs together harder, frustrated both sexually and musically. You feel tears well into your eyes and before you can pathetically try again, he speaks.
“Stand.” He says. His voice is commanding, but gentle.
“What?” You protest, but your body obeys. Now, you're standing between the bench and the piano, humiliated. Siebren slides to the middle of the bench, directly behind where you're standing. You don’t dare to look at him.
Before you can react, he firmly plants his hands on your waist and sits you in his lap. You were right, it’s as if you weigh nothing to him at all. You gasp, and dig your nails into his hands, but you remain silent. This is what you’ve wanted, isn’t it?
“If all you distract yourself with is me fucking you on this bench, why don’t I? Then you might play like I know you can.” He says it strategically, and kindly, despite his pressing hands and dominating tone. “You were grinding yourself into a mess right beside me, Miss Y/n. Haven’t you heard of theater etiquette?” He laughs, but you can’t. The pink blush on your cheeks deepens to scarlet. It was happening, what your body yearned for, craved for. You feel his chest pressed against your back, his groin pressed against yours. What was once a spark is now an electrical storm, electrifying your whole body. The heat moves from your cheeks to all over, and you pant softly. The tears swell, and you can feel your mascara running. “Now try.” He commands. Unable to do anything but submit, you place your fingers on the keys and play. Your hands shake, but you follow the music perfectly until the fourth bar. There, you misread the timing and lose your spot. He returns to his usual patient demeanor, and you can feel him gently sigh into your hair. Instead of demonstrating again, he tightens his hold on your waist and slides you forward and back. You let out a crying moan and go to cover your mouth. “No,” he says. “Play.” You whimper and obey.
You’re playing better than before, with only occasional mishap. And each time, he rocks you forward and back, grinding you on his growing bulge. Too, each time, Siebren lets out an almost inaudible groan. His breath is on the nape of your neck, and you feel his burning eyes on your hands, anticipating your technique. You can feel a growing wetness below your skirt, surely leaving a wet spot on his maestros’ tux, which both embarrasses you and thrills you. You near the end of the piece, the incessant rocking driving you mad with desire. The heat inside you is a roaring flame, ignited by Siebren, ignited by this grinding, ignited by this situation only thought possible to be a daydream! On the final bar, you’re relieved you're nearly free of playing, but also dreading the ceasing of friction between you and him.
You’ve played the piece in its entirety. His hands loll, and release their tight grip of you, falling to your hips. You cannot move a muscle, terrified, abashed completely. Above layers of fabric, he’s enflamed your skin and your lust like nothing or no one before. After a tingling pause, he pats your hips and buzzes contentedly. “I am satisfied. Are you, Miss Y/n?” He laughs, amused by the denial he’s tormenting you with.
“No.” You whine, low and strained. You are not satisfied. Heavy petting through these layers and layers of clothes is nowhere near enough for you; you need him more than anything. “Let me play it again.” You demand pitifully.
“Miss Y/n,” he muses. “Where are your manners? I’m your superior, I must remind you.” Somehow, he maintains a tenderness in his voice. He’s talking nothing like the man you know, but that same gentle tone drives you wild, as it always has.
“Let me play it again, please.” You feel him inhale behind you. “Please, Dr. Siebren.”
He releases the breath. With this, you feel the knot in his pants pulsate and jump. Seems there is a time and place for formalities. An ambitious idea presents itself in your mind. Pattern recognition is a valuable skill in piano, and you see no reason why not to take advantage of the current pattern; if a mess up rewards you with the desperate friction you so desire, then why play well? Now, it's your turn for a diablerie.
He nods, and you restart the piece. Every other bar, you slip your fingers down a key or hold the note for a second too long or – whatever you can to earn that silent groan from Siebren, you’ll do, and he knows it. Siebren is no fool, and sees through your plan, but he allows it. He rocks you back and forth, and you feel as if you're about to burst. You try and bite your lip, to stifle the moans escaping unwittingly, but you can feel it; he will make you finish like this. “Siebren, I’m- I’m gonna,” you murmur. Suddenly, he digs his fingers in and stands you up, the abrupt loss of sensation making you moan and whine grievously. His fingers return to his emollient way, gently caressing your hips and lowering to your haunches, as if you were something rare, worth of worship. “No, please!” You cry out. “I was so close...” It’s as if you've lost control of yourself, miserably crying and speaking so freely. The degradation envelops you, and you feel no more than a toy to him, abused for pleasure and amusement. You resist the urge to stomp your feet.
“Miss Y/n, the foundation of piano is discipline. I cannot do everything for you, my pupil.” Behind you, he stands, trailing his hands up with him, then removing them entirely. You cannot help but whine again. He walks away, circling the bench slowly, as if you were his prey. You turn to face him; he sits in the grand velvet chair in the corner, less politely than you’d expect. He lay slouched, with his legs open. You’ve been too embarrassed to look him in the eye until now, and you see that he is unmannered. A sheer coat of sweat covers his blushing face, and a few buttons of his tux have been undone. He rests one hand on the arm of the chair, and the other on his groin. “I’d like you to practice this discipline with me. Surely, you’re... unprepared for the sight reading.” He grins. “Prove to me that you know what you're doing, Miss Y/n. But remember, discipline makes an artist. One mustn't get too ahead of oneself, yes?” Your eyes can’t help but widen as he speaks in avoidant riddles.
“Tell me what you want, Siebren.” You plead.
“Strip, Y/n. Then show me what you can do.” Theres nothing to say but ‘yes’; yet you can’t even mutter it. You silently and elatedly obey.
First, you begin to undo your frilled blouse, exposing the lacy bralette underneath. Siebren laughs. “You’ve been hiding this from me this whole time? You have no idea how often I’ve imagined it, just like this.” He’s clearly flattered that you’ve worn this for him, as if you were expecting it to happen; or hoping maybe. His grip on his bulge tightens. You slide your shirt off your shoulders, then curl your fingers into the waistband of your appropriately-lengthed pencil skirt. Siebren watches you carefully, and says, “Go on. I can’t bear to wait much longer.” His gripping hand slides up and down, and you can see underneath his bulge twitches with each article of clothing you drop. What he says, though always polite, has an undertone of mocking to it, which only embarrasses you more and more. “Wait, stop.” He cautions. You look at him, forgetting your situation, and feel honest concern. But when you read his face, you’re sure whatever is troubling him, is no real trouble at all. “Like that, you’re perfect. Don’t take of anymore.” His stroking gets faster, over his pants. All you have left is your lacy bra and matching panties, soaked wet, your sheer tights, and humble heels. Somehow, this is more vulnerable than being entirely naked. The blush from your cheeks spreads to your neck and breasts, and he watches it. “Please, don’t make me wait any longer.” He contends. You surrender yourself.
Your legs are draped over both arms of the chair, you’re sitting in his lap, and your hands and arms rest on his wide shoulders. He’s taken off his blazer and dress shirt, leaving just his unbuttoned pants. You’re surprised to see he has no underwear on. “I’ve been waiting for this, forever, you know. Any layers between us I could shed, I would.” He’s flustered. Your faces are merely inches away, and you realize that you have not yet kissed; the most polite man you’ve ever met, has nearly made you cum before he's kissed you.
“Dr. Siebren,” you start. He looks at you expectantly. “I want you to kiss me.” You say, molting your shame. He blushes almost cartoonishly and hesitates before he speaks; it’s clear he’s choosing the perfect words.
“There is nothing else I want more.” He softly lunges forward, and your lips interlock as if the other pair was missing before. Your tongues tangle with each other, in the most passionate kiss you’ve ever felt. The sparks in your stomach arrive again. His hands run through your hair, down your face and neck. He gently and greedily gropes at your breasts, being careful not to disturb the lace. His mouth travels to your neck, leaving small bites and hickeys on its way. How unprofessional. Suddenly, his hands slide beneath your legs, and your hips and he tears your pantyhose wide. The ripping sound interrupts your small gasps and moans and makes you choke. You’re surprised, greatly, but it seems Siebren has forgotten himself wholly. He needs it, needs you. The new, large hole in your tights grants him convenient access to what hides behind. He stops. “May I continue?” He asks, and you nod, heaving. His fingers softly hook the bridge of your panties and tug them to the side. “Perfect,” he says. “You’re so perfect.” Now it seems he can’t look you in the eye, completely fascinated by your drenched cunt. His fingers breach the slit, sliding between your labia with no resistance. You moan, releasing an unwilling and demeaning noise.
“Fuck, Siebren.” You mutter. Before you finish your words, he slips one finger inside of you. The sudden intrusion makes you jump, but he pulls you back down by the hip with his other hand. Your walls clench around him, and you shudder.
“Relax,” he says, soothingly. “I’ve got you.” He’s looking back up at you now, studying each wince, each whimper you unleash. Youve never felt more beautiful, so seen. You repose and feel trembling jolts of pleasure run through you.
“More, please.”
He inserts another finger, and another moan escapes you. “More!” You cry, and realize that he’s no longer moving his fingers, that you’re riding them, like an animal in heat you grind yourself desperately up and down the length of them. Then, he abruptly removes them. The emptiness leaves you incomplete, longing for more, and he delivers. He teases the tip of his cock at your entrance, gliding it back and forth. You moan, loudly, the warmth of it shocking your senses. You’re sick, you need it now, more than anything. Without meaning to, you whimper, “Siebren, put it in! D-Dr., please!” Then, push yourself downwards onto it. He groans immediately, feeling the same need and desire that crutches you. A jolt of pain runs through you at the sudden fullness; he’s bigger than you expected. That familiar ball of electricity grows. You cannot withhold the noises you’re making now. Raw, carnal noises fill the room as you both relish in the euphoria of each other. He fills you up absolutely, as if your bodies were made for each other. You ride, and you feel the head of his cock slam into your cervix. Fuck, I’ve never f-felt like this!” You cry between moans, pathetically. In response, Siebren groans in pleasure. He wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you closer than before, pressed against him totally. With his other hand, he snakes it down and presses the pad of his thumb against your clit. “If you do that, I’m gonna-” You whine. You convulse and squirm, but you’re pressed so firmly into him that you are virtually motionless, as he thrusts roughly upward into you. Your hands are banded around his neck, and you dig your nails into him all over again.
“Let’s come together, Y/n.” He chokes out. As if it were a command, your body obeys immediately. That ball of electricity erupts into a great fire, and your whole body clenches and unclenches in a blissful ritual. Your moans grow erratic, and weak. At the same time, you feel heat spread inside you and become even fuller. Siebren releases a final groan, and is left panting, blushing. His grip on you never ceases. He exhaustedly musters a few more thrusts, before settling contentedly, still inside. You rest your head between his neck and shoulder, and heave into his skin. You can feel his cum escaping you, running down and out. Breathing heavy, he plants a few sparse kisses on your ear and hair. He laughs.
“Productive session, no?”