When Viktor enrolled in the Conservatory, he never imagined how pivotal Professor Elias Thorne would become in his life. Elias was a formidable presence, known for his exacting standards and unrelenting discipline. Students whispered about his strictness, about the time he made a boy play Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto for six hours straight until his fingers couldn’t hold the bow anymore, and his knees buckled. And yet, those who emerged from his tutelage played as if the violin itself had chosen them.
From the moment Professor Thorne heard Viktor play at his audition, he had seen potential in him. "You have talent, but you play like a boy, which is wrong for this piece," he had said, his voice cool and dispassionate, his sharp blue eyes locking onto Viktor's with an intensity that made the room feel smaller. "And you must also learn to listen. Not just to the music, but to the sound inside the violin. It is alive, Viktor. And if you do not honor it, it will never honor you."
Their lessons were grueling. Daily, Viktor would stand in Elias's studio, the walls lined with portraits of great violinists, their gazes serving as an unspoken reminder of the heights he had yet to reach. His fingers would ache from endless etudes and scales, his shoulders grew more and more tense from maintaining the perfect posture under Elias's watchful stare. The professor was merciless in his critiques. A misplaced note, a lack of emotional depth, even the way Viktor tightened his bow would provoke a lecture, Elias's voice a low rumble that echoed off the wooden floors.
"Again!" he would command, his eyes narrowing as Viktor stumbled through Paganini’s Caprice No. 24. "You think this is music? This is noise, Viktor. Start over." Elias would pace the room then, his tall frame casting long shadows, his hands—strong from years of wielding a bow—gesturing sharply to emphasize each flaw.
Sometimes, Viktor would leave the studio with tears stinging his eyes, his confidence shattered, the weight of Elias's disappointment like a physical ache. Yet, somehow, he always returned. Elias had a way of igniting something inside him, a spark that refused to die—a mix of fear and fascination that kept Viktor showing up, bow in hand, heart pounding.In their quieter moments, Elias would tell him stories about the pieces they worked on, his voice dropping to a gravelly timbre that made Viktor's skin prickle.
One day, as Viktor struggled through Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto, Elias stopped him midway and said, "This piece, Viktor, was born of deep sorrow. Tchaikovsky was trapped in his own world of despair, and yet he poured all of it into this concerto. It’s not just a concerto—it’s a cry, a plea to be understood."
His voice softened, and for the first time, Viktor saw vulnerability in him—the faint lines around Elias's eyes crinkling with memory, his broad shoulders slumping just a fraction. "When you play this, let the agony fill you, but don’t let it break you. You have to live with it, breathe it. Only then can the music live." Elias stepped closer then, his hand hovering near Viktor's arm as if to steady him, the warmth of his presence cutting through the chill of the room.
Viktor nodded, feeling the weight of his words settle like a hand on his chest. He realized then that Elias was not just teaching him technique but how to understand the life of the music—and perhaps, in glimpses, the man behind the maestro.
Another time, as they tackled Shostakovich’s Violin Concerto No. 1, Elias explained, "Shostakovich composed this concerto as an act of defiance, a refusal to bow to the political pressures of his time. It’s a battle. You must channel his anger, his resistance, Viktor. When you play the Passacaglia, think of the times he was silenced, the countless voices that were crushed beneath tyranny. Let that rage fuel your bow." As he spoke, Elias's jaw tightened, his own history flickering in his gaze—a subtle scar on his knuckle catching the light, a reminder of battles fought beyond the strings.By his final year, Viktor had transformed. His playing had gained a depth and maturity that left even the most skeptical professors in awe. Elias still critiqued him fiercely, his voice a whipcrack of precision, but his eyes would occasionally betray a flicker of pride—a softening at the corners, a lingering look that made Viktor's pulse stutter.
On the day of his graduation recital, Viktor chose to perform Bach’s Chaconne. It was a piece that had once terrified him with its complexity and emotional weight, but now, it felt like a part of him. As he played, he poured every ounce of his being into the violin, his fingers dancing over the strings as if possessed, the notes rising like a confession.When he finished, Elias rose from his chair in the front row. For a moment, he said nothing, and Viktor feared he had disappointed him—the silence stretching taut as a bowstring. Then, without warning, Elias enveloped him in a hug. It was not the precise, calculated gesture Viktor might have expected from him, but a firm embrace, warm and unrestrained, Elias's solid chest pressing against Viktor's, his arms wrapping around with a strength that spoke of restraint finally broken. The scent of rosin and aged cologne filled Viktor's senses.
"Viktor," Elias said softly, his voice thick with emotion against Viktor's ear, "you’ve made me very proud."
***
After graduation, a new rhythm emerged. About every two weeks Elias would climb the narrow staircase at four sharp, scarf doubled against the cold, and knock the brass plate twice—measured, like a metronome. Viktor would open the door, ready for what they both knew was coming.
When Viktor welcomed Elias at his apartment, he always opened the door as soon as the professor’s finger touched the ring. Elias would step inside, the door clicking shut like a secret sealed, and pull Viktor into a hug—firm, lingering—making sure he felt the young man's cock press against his abdomen or thigh through the thin fabric of his dress pants, or his shorts, or his sport sweatpants, depending on the weather, depending on the mood.
From this embrace, Viktor's cock usually stirred to life, from a semi-flaccid four inches to an insistent six, the bare cock head nudging against the fabric as blood rushed in. A subtle twitch would betray his arousal: it would buzz like a bow humming before the first touch on the strings.
They'd settle on the worn couch and share stories—stories of recitals past, critiques turned to quiet praises, meetings they had, new places they’d been to, surprising new discoveries about each other’s life--every time. It was never a hurried conversation; it was the part they enjoyed, too, looking into each other’s eyes, smiling knowingly. Elias's hand would wander casually to Viktor's thigh, like when emphasizing a point about phrasing in some music piece, his delicate long fingers ghosting the area where the fabric stretched to accommodate the proud parts of Viktor’s young body.
After a while, Elias would murmur quietly: “Would you play for me?” Viktor would nod, throat tight with anticipation, and rise to fetch his violin from its case in another room. He'd return stripped bare, his rock-hard erection jutting straight forward like a conductor's baton—almost seven inches of flushed, throbbing flesh, the foreskin now fully peeled back to expose the swollen, plum-colored glans glistening with a pearl of precum at the slit, one vein slithering down the shaft to the base of his cock. His small balls would be drawn tight in their wrinkled sac, swaying slightly with each step.
Elias's gaze would darken, hungry yet reverent, as Viktor lifted the instrument to his shoulder, bow poised—his own cock now betraying him, too. Elias would sit in the armchair with his fly unzipped halfway, the thick bare head peeking out, the hidden shaft curving upward. Then there was usually a low, involuntary groan rumbling from Elias's chest like distant thunder, as Viktor took his position in front of him.
The first notes would float out—rich, aching tones from Bach's Chaconne—and Viktor's body would respond in kind, his cock a living extension of the melody. Precum would ooze from his tip in a steady drip, hanging like a silken thread all the way to the floor, the shaft contracting rhythmically—twitching upward in sharp, staccato jerks on the high notes, then relaxing with a languid sway on the sustained bows, the skin slicking further to a glossy sheen, color shifting from rosy to a heated scarlet along the frenulum as arousal built. Wet, schlicking sounds would accompany each pulse, the drip elongating and snapping free with a soft plink against the wood, his balls tightening further like drawn strings, quivering with the vibration from his bowing arm.
Elias would sit motionless across from him, legs spread wide in the armchair, his fist now loosely encircling his dick, perhaps more reluctant to rise up proud but still hard under soft skin. He would run his hand up and down that hidden shaft in slow, syncing strokes, his arm flexing in time with the music's lilt, a deeper flush creeping up from the base as the hand slapped wetly against his balls on downbeats. His breathing would come in ragged harmony, a bass counterpoint to Viktor's soaring lines.
As the piece built to its climax, the music swelling in polyphonic fury, Viktor's cock would mirror the crescendo—straining impossibly harder, the glans ballooning to a shiny, angry red, veins throbbing like strings about to snap, precum flowing in thicker rivulets now, coating the shaft in glistening trails.
He would shift, planting one foot forward so the rhythmic drive from his bowing arm would ripple down, a teasing vibration that grazed and tickled his drawn-up balls, sending electric sparks up his length. The cumshot would then hit like the final, exultant chord—his body arching as a bow at full draw, hips bucking involuntarily, and his cock would erupt in violent spasms, the slit dilating wide as spurts of cum jetted forth with forceful pulses: the first blast arcing high and far, a hot, pearly stream splattering at Elias's feet with a wet splat, followed by three more erratic spurts—each contraction milking out creamy white jets that sailed in diminishing arcs, the shaft recoiling with each ejection, balls contracting visibly in their sac, a guttural moan tearing from Viktor's throat to blend with the fading notes. Soon his glans twitched in aftershocks, dribbling the last pearly remnants down the cooling, spent cock as it softened fractionally, still semi-rigid and flushed.
Then, in almost full silence, Elias would moan—it was a deep, guttural sound Viktor had only heard coming from him in his dreams—the older man's hand would now be buried fully now in his open fly, fisting his erection with urgent, twisting pulls, the full length now slick and trembling. He then would snarl and growl, with each stomp of his foot against the floor—thud, groan, thud—wet smacks echoing as precum frothed over his knuckles. His moans built, first quiet and restrained, then raw and demanding, hips would thrust into his hand as the shaft flexed wildly, balls—larger and heavier than Viktor's, hanging low in a loose, dusted sac—slapping audibly against his thigh with each fervent pump, the entire length quivering in sync with the music's ghost.
Elias's gaze would flick to the puddle of Viktor's cum glistening before him, and a shudder would rip through his frame, his strokes faltering into a final, twisting pull that had him spilling over his knuckles with a choked curse—"Fuck, Vitya"—hot spurts arcing onto his floor next to Viktor’s in four heavy pulses, the cockhead flaring with each jet, cum thick and copious, splattering with sticky thwacks as the shaft would slowly deflate in his loosening grip, retreating to a thick, satisfied five inches slicked in its own pearly aftermath.
After a long, charged silence, Elias would straighten, tucking himself away with trembling hands, his face flushed beneath the silver at his temples. He would rise unsteadily, crossing to Viktor in two strides, cupping the younger man's jaw with a tenderness that belied the fire in his eyes. "God, Viktor... I'm so, so sorry," he murmured, voice rough with aftershocks, pressing a fierce kiss to Viktor's forehead. "So sorry, Vitya—I have to go." And he'd leave hurriedly, coat snatched from the hook, the door echoing shut behind him...
Sometimes Viktor would call after him, but in vain. “Sorry, sorry about that, Vitya, I am weak… thank you, thank you, oh, God, sorry again.”
Viktor would smile every time, knowing that he would return two weeks later, scotch in hand again, the cycle of hunger reigniting at the first stroke of a bow.
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