The Patron

By Selena Illyria

© 2008 Selena Illyria, All Right Reserved

I/R,Paranormal



Every twist, every turn, through the labyrinthine hallways of the backstage area of the Opera house brought her closer and closer to her goal. It became harder to breath, and her heart picked up pace with each step that she took. Her body hummed with anticipation as the guide told her how lucky she was to be at the Opera House on that day, at that time, as the Opera Company was moving the next day to another town. She clutched the handle of her opera glasses tightly, her fan hanging off her wrist, gently swaying as they made their way deeper into the backstage area. They passed by singers, set builders and extras, but she didn't care about any of them. All she cared about was him.



Her body heated, stomach tightened, her breasts became full and heavy, the nipples beading tightly, aching for attention. Her panties became moist at the very mention of him. The whole reason for attending the opera that night was to see him perform before the company left town to tour. She had tried in vain to attend the theatre when the company had first arrived, but work kept her from her desire. But now tonight, on the last night of their performance, she would get to meet the man she had dreamt about before ever seeing his face clearly. Just hearing him play the violin brought her close to orgasmic bliss. She bit her lip, remembering how aroused she became when the opera arrived to the point where he performed his violin solo. The audience couldn't see him, as he was in the orchestra pit, but that didn't stop her from picturing him in her mind; visualizing his face from the photo she had found among her father's person affects after the accident.



In the photo, her father stood next to a young man, who looked to be about twenty-five at the time. They were in front of a red brick building, the young man holding a violin in one had and a bow in the other. His pale skin was a stark contrast to the long, ink black wavy hair that fell to his hips. His eyes were an indiscernible color, and she couldn't see many features as the picture was somewhat fuzzy on his part. Her father stood next to him, cocoa skin glowing, his clipped curls, cut close to his head, wearing a black suit and crisp white shirt with plain black tie. His arm around the young man, actually smiling, something she rarely saw while growing up in his house.



When she’d inquired about the picture, her father's best friend and lawyer told her that her father was the young man's patron, a practice that she had thought long dead. When it had come time to decide what to do about the young man, now thirty, she’d decided to continue as his benefactor. After all, she’d grown up listening to opera, and loved the violin; although she had never played an instrument, she could appreciate the talent it took. Over the three years she had been his patron, she got to know him via letters and emails. It started out with the usual, Hi, how are you?, I'm fine, this is where we are, this is when we leave. But soon, the letters became more intimate. She looked forward to reading his correspondence, loved getting mail with foreign stamps and postmarks, and adored hearing about his travels and the people he met.



But she had never spoken to him on the phone, not daring to break the spell of intimacy she shared with him in his letters. All she had of him, as far as his image was concerned, was the blurry picture. Then two years ago he’d signed a record deal, and his first CD had sold quickly, becoming a number one seller. Although he was in high demand, he chose to tour with the opera house exclusively. She couldn't count how many times she had listened to his CD; the sensual play of the bow on the strings, the sweet, moody melody of the violin filling her ears and bringing such intense emotion and pleasure. She’d found herself fantasizing that he played only for her. It seemed ridiculous to her logical mind, but she kept the dream alive. Soon, those imaginings had turned sensual, and then downright erotic. She’d find herself breathless at times, aroused at the mere thought of those dreams.




And now she was about to meet him, her dream, in the flesh.



She prayed that he was all she hoped him to be. She had frequented the opera scene since she was a little girl; her father was a great believer in supporting the arts. And due to his generosity, it allowed them access to places the public couldn't go. She had gotten to meet great singers and celebrities, but found most of them so vain and self-absorbed that they became insufferable to her. She hoped he wasn't like that.



The longer she followed her guide backstage, the darker it seemed to become. Light fixtures on the walls were wider spaced, and she found herself becoming both nervous and excited. With each step she took, arousal burned brighter and brighter within her. Soon, a soft melody floated toward them, and she paused, closing her eyes, savoring the sweet sound. It was heavenly; she just knew that it was him playing. She clutched the program she carried with her for him to sign tightly in her fist, not caring that it would be wrinkled. Soon she would get to meet him. The guide seemed to notice her pause as he stopped and turned back toward her.



"Well, Miss? Are you coming or not?"



She narrowed her eyes at him. She didn't like the way the guide looked at her, like she was some groupie. As if she planned to fall at the violin player's feet, bask in his presence and hope he would chose her to spend his night with. Straightening up, spine rigid, she held her head high.



"I was just straining my ears to hear the music. Let us continue," she said sharply. She swore she heard him snicker softly, but chose to ignore it.



As they continued down the hallway, the music became louder and louder until, finally, they were before him. There he sat in an open space where the corrider connected with other hallways, a single light illuminated him. He was not what she expected at all. His black suit pants were wrinkled, his black jacket, thrown carelessly on a nearby traveling trunk. His white shirt was unbuttoned enough to show a sliver of pale white skin. He sat on a pile of crates, his head bent so his hair fell around him like a curtain of midnight ink, his fingers moving deftly over the strings, completely oblivious to their presence. With each pluck of his fingers, each swipe of his bow her body came to life, responding to the melody; her clit throbbed, pulsing in time with the beat. Her body grew hotter as the music sped up.



And then suddenly it all stopped. His head came up, his hair still covering most of his features. From what she could see, he had full lips shaped in a Cupid's bow. He stood, violin in his right hand, bow in his left hanging at his sides. He reached up and tucked some hair behind his ear, and she saw a quick flash of silver before it disappeared. She couldn't be sure, but she thought she'd seen an a silver earring.



"Mr. Bartholomew? May I present . . ."



Her guide was interrupted by Sebastien Bartholomew, violin prodigy extraordinaire.



"I know who she is, Giannini. She is my patron."



His voice was like liquid velvet running against silken skin, skittering along her spine, heating her core, tightening her stomach further and causing the arousal within her to increase ten fold. The room became like an inferno, and her nipples hardened against the crushed silk of her dress as she extended her hand, as calmly as she could, toward him. His large alabaster hand, rough with calluses, enveloped her small hand. Holding it firmly, he didn't shake it; instead he gave it a firm yank, and she stumbled toward him until she hit a hard wall of pure man. His arousal pressed against the soft swell of her belly. Gulping she looked up, knees threatening to give way at any second. Her dark brown eyes clashed with his green-gold orbs, looking down at her, darkening with each second that passed.



She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. She tried again, but like before, nothing. He brought his head down to hers, his lips crushing the delicate flesh of her mouth. She felt his arm snake around her waist, the violin hitting her thigh. He devoured her in a demanding kiss that she couldn’t break if her life depended on it.

He finally pulled his head away from hers and looked deeply into her eyes, reaching up he brushed back a stray curl, his roughened fingertips brushing her silken skin.



"Welcome to my world, wife," he whispered.



She stared at him in wonder until his words sunk in. Trying to shove him off of her, she finally found her voice and uttered, "What the hell are you talking about? I'm not your wife."