In the dimly lit auditorium of St. Vitus’s Concert Hall Maestro Alonzo Vivaldi—no relation to the Baroque bore, mind you—scribbled furiously on his score. His quill danced like a caffeinated flamingo, each stroke birthing notes that squirmed on the page, alive with a lust no manuscript could contain. Alonzo, a man whose mustache curled like a lover’s whispered promise, was composing his magnum opus: Symphony No. 69 in Erotic Minor. The notes weren’t just music; they were molten desire, each semiquaver a wink, each crescendo a moan trapped in ink.

Across the hall, Julian the violinist tuned his Stradivarius, his fingers caressing the strings like a man coaxing secrets from a lover’s spine. Julian was a specimen—cheekbones sharp enough to slice through a monk’s vow of chastity, eyes smoldering like twin cigars left too long in an ashtray. But behind the smolder was structure. Years of discipline. A body trained for precision. He had never missed a tempo in his life.

He didn’t know it yet, but Alonzo’s symphony was about to seduce him in ways no mortal melody ever could.

As the orchestra warmed up, a cacophony of squeaks and toots filled the air, like a barnyard orgy conducted by a drunken satyr. Julian drew his bow across the strings, coaxing a sultry note that purred like a panther in heat. He felt it then—a tremor, not in the wood, but in himself. The note lingered longer than it should have, curling around his wrist like a question he didn’t know he’d been asking. Then the sheet music on his stand began to quiver. The notes wriggled like eels in a bucket of champagne. Alonzo, perched at the conductor’s podium, grinned like a fox who’d just discovered the henhouse’s backdoor.

“Play, my darlings!” Alonzo bellowed, his baton thrusting skyward like a phallus defying gravity. The orchestra obeyed, but the notes of Symphony No. 69 refused to stay tethered. They leapt from the page, swirling around Julian in a kaleidoscope of sound and lust. The violins wailed like sirens on a bender, the cellos groaned like oak trees making love to a thunderstorm, and the timpani thumped with the urgency of a heart caught mid-climax.

Julian’s bow faltered as a particularly lascivious G-sharp slithered up his arm, coiling like heat around a nerve. His breath caught. The note vibrated through him—skin, sinew, then lower, lower, until his cock stirred in warning. His trousers, tailored for elegance not urgency, tightened with betrayal. He shifted in his seat, but the note didn’t relent. It licked, it throbbed, it kissed.

“What in the name of Bach’s wig is this?” he gasped, but the note didn’t answer—it kissed him. Not metaphorically, mind you, but a full-on, wet, orchestral smooch that tasted of stardust and sin. The auditorium dissolved, the walls melting like chocolate left too long in a courtesan’s corset. Julian was no longer in St. Vitus’s. He was somewhere else—a dimension where music wasn’t heard but felt, tasted, and ravished.