Cadence

Frisson

Frisson

fris·son, frēˈsôn / noun– a sudden strong feeling of excitement or fear; a thrill.
Overwhelming physical and emotional response.
Chills down the spine.

An aesthetic experience so intense, you can't do anything else.


My heart was beating so wildly I could only little sips of breath, quick and erratic prestissimos. I felt his hands slip down the smooth curve of my sides to rest on my hips as he drew me closer. His face bent down into mine in slow motion, like an impressionistic Debussy Reverie, dream-like, blurred, and then disappeared as I felt his lips over mine, over and over again. Our lips felt like puzzle pieces that perfectly fit together. He was the half that made me whole.

It was magic, the way his lips connected with mine. The warmth of his mouth, the caress of his lips softer than I how I remembered it and that low moan from my maestro, more musical than a Schubert Ganymede, intense, sensual and loving, all at the same time.


This felt good. This felt true. This felt right.


His touches sent a strong feeling of warmth spiraling through me. I closed my eyes fearlessly but it didn't feel dark. I didn't feel the darkness, instead it created colors of intense passion.


His lips felt so gentle, so warm. My hands began to slide up his chest and encircle his neck, as our kisses began to grow heavy. His hands slip off my face and tightened around my waist. I continued kissing him hungrily wanting more. I felt myself pushed against the wall , his body pressing against mine. Nobody breaking the kiss, it goes on, with our lips moving in perfect sync to our breathing which has become music to my ears, becoming more and more passionate by the measure, by the bar, by the second.

Not knowing when it exactly happened when his black coat fell on the floor, who removed it or how it was removed but there it was, with the tie. My eager hands began greedily undoing his sexy dress shirt. His hand slid smoothly onto my arm, pinning it against the wall as the kiss grew more greedy. I felt his hand slide through my chest onto my dress as he slowly began to unzip my black gown, to the floor, with my lace corset beginning to show.

Reluctantly, I breathed and broke the kiss. Opened my eyes, relaxed as I breathed in the air in the studio, still leaning against the wall. Bin stared back, his eyes, calm as well. I felt my breath slow down. His forehead pressed to mine. I rested my head against his sculpted chest, listening to his heartbeat. That thunderous, rapid pounding.


He kissed me again, changing the tempo, rubato, as he pleased, a bit slower than adagio. I felt his lips curve up into a smile. This maestro had his own tempo. And that smile during the kiss was a warning. He was about to change tempo yet again. I felt it. I felt him. Against me.


He was ready.


Unable to resist any longer, with the tempo rubato now being fast, our mouths pressed together in a long passionate kiss as we slowly undid was what left of what we were wearing that night. Tongues like two contrapuntal melodies in perfect harmony, swallowed his groan of pleasure as we slid closer and closer to each other, no visible gap between us.

He brushed his hand up my thigh, squeezing it, at times inching closer to the middle. His fingers knew my body so well like his Lizst concerto that he didn't even need to think about what he was doing, they just knew what to do, where to go.

And how to make me come undone.


His fingers wandered further. His skillful pianist fingers, landed on my heat as I felt the crimson creeping up my cheeks. He was always so good with his hands, his skilled touch. His fingers continued their gentle, teasing strokes. Electricity shot through me as I felt his fingertips rubbing oh so gently at my clit, forcing me to break their kiss and gasp for air. Bin gave a satisfied smirk. All I could do was whimper out of desire, and buck my hips upward against his sinfully skilled fingers.


All the while, lifting me onto the Steinway.


Shifting me so that I was leaning back against the piano, he sat on the piano bench. He gazed upward and met my eyes, the familiar mischievous glint of the maestro, making me feel that frisson. I wanted to look back and hold that gaze, but my eyes and senses betrayed me as I felt his tongue trace a melodic line, onto the contours of my inner thigh.

"Mmm. My clarinetist so sensitive." He whispered.

The way his lips vibrated against my skin made me tremble. He lapped at those folds, tasting it, gently at first, slowly increasing pace, tempo and yet keeping a steady rhythm. My feet were anchored to the piano bench that kept me from slipping. He took his time in tormenting me with an overload of pleasure, swirling his tongue over and over again, until I lost myself completely.


"Are you ready?" He leaned in to my ear and whispered. That question. I've heard so many times but now, not in the cold manner I heard from him when he first saw me again. But that same tone, whenever we'd enter before the performance. That reassuring tone, yet so sexy.

But this was a different kind of performance. Certainly, a different kind of entrance.


"Please." I answered.


"Does this feel good?" He murmured, lips against my neck, leaving wet kisses. I couldn't manage anything but a soft moan, resting my weight against the Steinway. How he'd move so quickly, I couldn't figure out, but in what seemed like a quick tempo change, he closed the distance between us. He hoisted my up so that I was seated on the keyboard cover and buried himself inside me in one swift move. I opened my mouth to reply but with the movement of his hips, he was inside me, filling me. I felt my vision blur as I felt him in that wet heat and the heaven surrounding it.


Knowing him, it took all his self control to not push the tempo at once. But he said it himself, he never liked rushing things. How he'd always want to slow the tempo down to savor each note, each melodic and harmonic dissonance. Rushing things wouldn't be nearly as satisfying.


"Breathe with me Yejin." He whispered. His voice strained.

He brushed a lock of hair out of my face, waiting until his gaze locked mine. "I'm all yours, Maestro."


The look of sheer pleasure on his face, drove me closer to the edge more than anything. And I could feel him. A small moan of anticipation of what was to come escaped me. I bit my bottom lip, knowing that if we were too loud, someone might hear. And Bin, noticed it.

"Soundproof." He smirked as he left a trail of wet kisses on my chest. This studio had near-perfect acoustics. A world class artist, a world class instrument, and a studio in an ideal acoustic environment. Every sound in the studio, stays in the studio.


Including the music that we were making. From mild and soft pianissimos, as he kissed me slowly. To sudden sforzando accented moans. To uneven breaths and staccatos. No fortissimos yet. And how he'd gaze at me from time to time, his soloist. His collaborating artist. Those intense and passionate eyes.

It only turned me on, more. I couldn't hold back my moans, which had increased in dynamics rather significantly.


"Bin." I felt it. I was breathless. I was almost there. The most intense and emotional part of a musical phrase. The most emphatic one in the cycle of a performance phrase or a musical section. The climax.


"Not yet Yejin." The torture. That delayed musical climax to prolong the music, to make the music grow and swell, to prolong the pleasurable act. A series of suspended chords building in tension – only to purposefully defer the anticipated resolution. Each lover's melody of moans climb over the other, surging to a point where you think it will burst – but delays the release.


The drifting from the ebony instrument became harder, more insistent. The harmony wasn't as simple and gentle but rather quick, almost harsh chords. His gentleness was lost on me. The disjointed, chaotic, dissonant chords around us, turned me on more than ever before.


No stable sense of key, a fleeting feeling of satisfaction, themes and motifs building up. I wrapped my legs around his toned hips pushing him deeper. We moved together. I felt every inch and trace of his naked skin brushing against each other, over and over again. I felt everything a hundred times more: every thrust, every move, every kiss, every trail left on my body.


Somehow, I managed to force my eyes open as I watched him take me over and over again, taking in the sight of his muscular build, memorizing the way his face contorted and relaxed in varying intervals. A bead of sweat dripped down his face as he steadily ramped up the pace. I loved how he was hitting all the right spots inside me, making me moan with ever growing dynamics, intensity and duration.

I gripped his broad shoulders and then his back. He winced slightly as I felt my nails dug into his perfect skin, but the rest of the reaction was worth it. He was almost there too. I loved that he could do this to me and make me feel and moan this good.


Our breathing became one, our bodies became one and followed each other's motion, to the rhythm of his thrusts. Panting became more vocal, moans keeping in time with the movements. I felt myself pass the point of no return when the sensation pulsing through me became unstoppable.


His hand found my chin and gently lifted my head up,
"Look at me and nothing else"


I cried out his name as I felt him release the heat that pulled us into our nirvana, in that moment of pure bliss, an echoing scream that reverberated through the room. My eyes screwed shut, my body relaxed as pleasure washed over me. I felt my muscles clench even tighter around him as he continued thrusting into me, slowing his pace slightly to watch me come undone.
                                                                                      

It took the last of his strength to pull out and collapse beside me. I slumped over, unable to hold myself up anymore and he caught me in his arms and guided me to rest on him, my head on his shoulder as he leaned back against the piano again. The Maestro's usual sense of modesty crept back into him as he draped his coat over me to cover me up until I'd restored enough energy to dress up.


You think back of a song, a sonata, a concerto, a symphony, you'll remember the goosebumps, the frisson. Sudden changes in harmony, dynamic leaps (from soft to loud), melodic appoggiaturas, dissonant notes that clash with the main melody, the sweet anticipation, unpredictable flourishes and sweeping harmonic  cadences that hit a sweet spot. For me, it was and will always be, the music that is Hyun Bin. It didn't matter which piano concerto he plays or which symphony he conducts. He would always come over me like a wave.


An aesthetic experience so intense, I choose not to do anything else but give in, over and over again.


We both look at each other at the same time. He smirks, "Encore?"

The resolution is found, The climax fades and the music finds itself back to where it all started.