A clever tongue drew zigzags over the throbbing vein running down Adrian’s cock and he cursed, loud and pleased and drawn out, muscles tensing and trembling beneath Neal’s hand that still held his thighs spread.
A little more.
Neal knew this man like a master musician knew his instrument; could play and pluck and draw him any way he wanted. But he held off; a moment longer he held, before peeling his fingers free of Adrian’s cock and taking him deep to the back of his throat. He swallowed, over and over, the pressing motion enough to pull Adrian’s orgasm from him, pulsing hot down Neal’s throat as he pulled back enough to swallow it down.
It was only when Adrian made a sound, high and just a little pained, that Neal pulled off him and ducked his head to catch his breath. He turned his head, just a little, to pool cool, panting breaths over the slick skin of Adrian’s thighs, over his balls, heavy and twitching with the aftershocks of his orgasm.
“Fuck me,” Adrian sighed, licking his bottom lip into his mouth and releasing it with another groan. He turned his head to rest against a sweaty shoulder as he watched Neal push up on all fours between his legs. He smiled, waiting for Neal to look up, and bit his lip again.
Neal was beautiful, with his pale skin and bright eyes. He was entirely Adrian’s own.
“What was I complaining about again?” Adrian asked, his smile widening when Neal snorted, and sat up to arch his back with a groan, hands up behind his neck to stretch his shoulders as well.
“The heat,” Neal replied after a while, voice still strained as his muscles were before he relaxed them. He crawled forward to press himself to his partner’s sweaty chest again as Adrian’s hands settled heavily over Neal’s back and drew absent patterns there. “You were complaining about the insufferable, unending heat.”
“So I was,” Adrian mumbled, content for the moment to just stroke through Neal’s hair, over his back, and down to his ass to cup him playfully before letting go. “And it is, in fact, still insufferable and still unending.” He could feel Neal’s erection press against his thigh as his partner shifted, through the damp fabric of his boxers, and waited until the accidental push became a deliberate nudge.
Adrian set his hands on either side of Neal’s face. He kissed him, a long and lingering thing that left them both breathless and sleepy-eyed.
“You hot too, baby?” Adrian asked, smiling when
Neal hummed, sarcastic.
“Like Satan’s armpit,” he replied, droll, and kissed Adrian again just to taste his smile and the laugh beneath it.
“Eloquent boy, is this why I’m fucking you?” Adrian asked.
Neal just lifted his eyes to the ceiling in amused contemplation. “That and my company’s exceptional choice in hotels for business trips.”
“You know, we’ll actually have to give them this one,” Adrian replied. “Send flowers. A hotel room so hot it guarantees a blow job.”
Neal laughed, shook his head, and only stopped when Adrian held him still again, pressing gently against his cheeks to push his lips out of shape. Sleepy, loving, and silly.
“Turn over,” Adrian said, and Neal raised an eyebrow in amusement.
“Why?”
Adrian’s nose wrinkled in pleasure from just watching him, eyes narrowed by the sheer delight at being able to touch his partner and make him feel good, to return the favor.
“Because I’m going to blow you, too,” he said.
BöSENDORFER BLUES
Cecilia Duvalle
The day that The New York Times announced Demyan Petrov’s final performances at Carnegie Hall, I purchased center of the house seats for each night, booked my flight, and reserved a hotel room across the street. It was months away, but there was no way I’d miss this.
Oddly enough, the newspaper never used anything but Demyan’s name, completely avoiding the “he” or “they” article. Demyan’s wildly dramatic transition from Darya in the late ’90s was simply not discussed. Nor did the Times appear to pay any attention to the multitude of interviews where Demyan emphatically denied being either “he” or “she.” I chalked this up to something about the classical world’s insistence on remaining socially clued in to the Victorian Era, but it could just be discomfiture at using “they” to describe a single person.
As soon as I had my tickets, I wrote them an embarrassing fan-girl email all about how I had been one of the sixteen students in their master class at the Boston
School of Music in the summer of 1995, and how they probably didn’t remember my terrible rendition of Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C♯ Minor. It was also unlikely they would remember me from any of their numerous concerts I had attended over the years since, but I didn’t bring that part up in my email. It seemed a bit too stalker-like.
It took all my courage to invite them to the Russian Tea Room for dinner or drinks after the concert as it was right next door to the Hall—two majestic structures side by side. I sent the email quickly, before I lost my nerve as I had so many times before. Twenty years of fantasizing about someone was long enough.
As soon as I hit send, anxious expectation settled between my legs. I fidgeted for a while, refreshing my email multiple times before giving up. It wasn’t like they would read my email instantly.
I warmed my icy hands under hot tap water until they felt like they could move nimbly over the keys before opening my piano. If I didn’t have cats, I could leave the lid up and at the ready. As it was, my sweet companions would sleep inside and their hair and dander would wreak havoc on the delicate felts and hammers.
I didn’t need any music; it was one of my life-pieces. I’d internalized the prelude so thoroughly it was a part of me as surely as any part of my anatomy. I never performed it publicly. Not since Demyan had taken my hands in theirs, turning them over several times, caressing them, sending shivers through my body. When I close my eyes, I can still smell the musky sandalwood and cedar drifting off them in gentle waves as our fingers touched.
In the end, they had declared the Rachmaninoff a private indulgence for me. You have amazing dexterity and heart, but no reach with these tiny hands. Play to your strengths. They were right, of course. I forced myself to love Schubert and Mozart—anything that my hands could reach. But I still loved the heavy chords, the dark and broody nature of Rachmaninoff.
I breathed in deeply and came down as hard as I could, playing the first three chords and letting them ring out in fortississimo. The vibrations from the piano lit through my body, waking up every nerve of my being. As I played, I imagined Demyan’s hands dancing across the keyboard. Their fingers, long enough to reach the impossible chords that my stubby ones must roll. It flowed out of me, years of practice making it near perfection. As I played the last and final chord, hushed to the softest of pianissimos, my entire body was alive, pulsing with desire.
I closed the lid and leaned across the curve of the piano. My hand, now warm from the exercise, found the one spot that would bring quiet calmness to my throbbing need. I played a trill with my second and third fingers, my clitoris the only key. It was Demyan’s long fingers I imagined at work, their body pressing me firmly from behind into the coolness of the black wood.
I had given up on hearing from Demyan after three months. Either I had been too ridiculously crushy sounding in my email or they got so much fan mail their assistant just deleted mine along with those from other crazies and groupies. I’m not entirely sure classical musicians actually have groupies, but what better word for me? I would go to every concert Demyan played if I could. I would follow them around the world and, if asked, I would do whatever sexual activities they might want. If they had sex.
Their email response the day before my flight surprised me. I stared at the inbox for five minutes before opening it, my hands sweating worse than before any performance, my fingers trembling as I hit open. I told myself their assistant had responded, that it would contain a polite, but firm, declination. I read the email in a state of awed wonder.
&nbs
p; My dear Ms. Novak, you do yourself a disservice. I do remember you from the summer of 1995. How could I forget? It was the first master class I ever taught there. You were the only one to attempt that prelude. You and your dear, sweet, short fingers. How I felt for you, agonizing over how hard it must be to reach those thirteenths! I understand you became an expert in Schubert— an admirable composer and one of my favorites. I have no desire to go to the Russian Tea Room… let’s just say as a Russian expat, I have my prejudices against it. However, I do believe there is a delightful quartet playing at the Blue Note Saturday after my performance, and I would be very much grateful to not go alone. Perhaps you could buy me a drink there instead. Send me your phone number so we can connect in New York.
Demyan
I reread the email a dozen times. I understand you became an expert in Schubert. How would they possibly know that? It’s not like I have any CDs out. Or YouTube videos. I’m a successful bit player, happily content to perform with half a dozen smaller symphonies and teach lessons to teens with more talent than I have. A quick Google search would easily bring up my website that shows my repertoire and performance dates. Demyan hadn’t followed my career; why would they?
An offer for drinks was more than I had dared hope for. I Googled the Blue Note. Demyan Petrov was into jazz? A few email exchanges later, these within minutes of each other, and I had a date after their final performance in Carnegie Hall, and I had Demyan’s cell number memorized.
I arrived in New York Thursday night and spent the night alone in my room, tossing and turning. I gave up sleeping and sat at the window, staring across the street at Carnegie Hall as the sun came up. I spent Friday wandering around Manhattan, daydreaming about the following night and drinks over jazz. At three o’clock, my phone buzzed with an unexpected text from Demyan.
Would you like to watch me warm up? Five o’clock at the musician’s entrance. Come dressed for the evening.
There was only one answer to this question. I was only a mile from my hotel, so I jogged back to my hotel to prepare for the evening. I found my way to the right entrance at 4:45. I’d rather wait a few minutes than be late.
A short, swarthy-looking man opened the door a moment later. “Miss Novak?”
I nodded, suddenly unable to speak.
“Demyan asked for me to be putting you in third row for good view and good sound.” He waved me in with a smile that made me blush.
As I settled into my seat, not far from where I would sit later with my purchased ticket, I marveled at the grandeur of the hall. I eyed the piano on center stage with envy. Demyan only played on Bösendorfers. Steinways were “too precious” to them. And, well, frankly, the sound is better even if the brand name isn’t so well known. They are extremely rare, and Demyan traveled with their own. My Yamaha grand was a toy in comparison.
Demyan appeared onstage wearing jeans and a muscle shirt. I don’t know what I had been expecting, but this was not it. I squirmed in my seat and settled to listen. They began with a C-major scale—the simplest of them all. It rippled up and down the hall with a rich clarity. Familiar, almost boring, yet perfectly executed. No stumbles. No fumbles. No breaks.
After a comprehensive warm-up, they played the prelude. It wasn’t on the program for the concert either night, so I knew it was meant for me. A private concert. My body responded to each crashing chord with hunger and desire. How I wished for those fingers to touch me with the same precision.
Pushing back the bench as they stood up, they turned to me at last. “I hope you enjoyed this…little rendition of mine?” They beckoned me up to the stage.
I ran a finger along the rim of the piano. So close to the master at last.
“Thank you.” What else could I say? There are no words for perfection.
“Sit. Sit. Let me hear you play.”
I took a step backward, and Demyan grabbed my hands, examining them closely before their eyes came to mine. Intense, bright, dark, penetrating. “Play something. Anything. Even just a scale. Play.”
They pulled my hand to their mouth and kissed my palm. The heat from their lips sent a fresh tremolo of desire through my body. They guided me to the bench and managed to have me seated before I knew what was happening.
“I take it this is yours?” I ran a finger in a silent glissando across the keys.
“I only play my own instrument.”
I hadn’t warmed up. My hands were stiff with New York heat and air-conditioning. I flexed my fingers, hoping to wake them up. Rubbed my hands together, willing the friction to spread the warmth.
I cleared my thoughts and played a C-major scale, just as they had done. Easy. No mistakes, just as clean and perfect as theirs. At first, I thought the extra blacked out keys of the mighty piano would make it difficult to play, but they quickly disappeared from my consciousness. I switched to C-minor to warm up on the key for the piece I’d decided on. Another life-piece but without any of the gigantic chords Rachmaninoff favored, Beethoven’s Pathétique. What can I say? I like loud, bombastic chordy music—the stuff my earliest piano teachers told me I wasn’t allowed to play because I was a girl.
From the very first chord, my body lightened and buzzed with the music. The energy from the piano filled my body so that every inch of my flesh rippled with pleasure. I had to keep myself from coming as I played in front of Demyan. I only played the first movement, but it was enough. I was playing the world’s greatest piano on the world’s most famous stage—as Demyan Petrov watched me with an intensity I’ll never forget.
When I was done, Demyan’s grin told me they knew. They rounded the piano, their fingers dug into my shoulders, their warm body pressed against my back. The same musky scent wafted over me. “Yes. Yes. I see it. I saw it then; I see it now. You are the same as me. The connection to the piano and the music. Do you know how many times I have orgasmed in front of thousands? And none of them have a clue?”
I blushed. “No. It doesn’t surprise me at all.”
Demyan urged me forward on the bench so that I was perching at the edge. They sat behind me, their legs hugging me close, and chin tucked over my left shoulder. Demyan slipped their arms under mine and reached for the keyboard. New music I’d never heard before hit my already pulsing body with a new passion.
They played a soulful blues piece. The music washed over me as I leaned back into Demyan, who managed to play around me with ease. The music was a story of lust and love and want. I didn’t know who the characters were, but I could feel their desire building inside me. I relaxed into the full embrace, my head lolling against their shoulder and baring my neck. I don’t know how Demyan could continue playing while kissing my neck, but it wasn’t long before the music and the love bites had me close to orgasm.
I stiffened in embarrassment, realizing there must be people in the hall somewhere, working, watching. Wouldn’t they know what was happening? I was sprawled against Demyan in a lovers’ embrace.
They laughed gently into my ear and tugged at my earlobe with their teeth and brought the song to an end. Demyan wrapped their arms around me, warm and confident. “No, my dove. You will not find fulfillment yet. Not tonight.”
The spell broke as Demyan lifted me to my feet.
“I must ready myself for the performance.” Demyan tapped my nose with an index finger. “I see I was not wrong in my assumption about you.”
“What assumption would that be?”
“You have had a crush on me since 1995. And, you will do anything I ask of you.”
“That’s one hell of an assumption.” “Am I wrong?”
I looked away.
“I do not allow myself to orgasm before a performance. I need to save myself for the performance. To give it my all.”
“Do you always…onstage?” I don’t know why, but saying the word orgasm in the middle of the stage at Carnegie Hall was just impossible for me.
“Almost. And now, you are one of less than a dozen people who know this about me. Do you like knowing a secret
like that?”
“I’ll be watching you even more intently during your performance tonight.”
“Good. There’s something delightful about knowing someone in the audience is watching closely.”
***
I waited in the lobby with the rest of the audience. I sat patiently, thumbing through my program with everyone else chattering around me. I might not have had anyone I knew sitting next to me, but as soon as Demyan came onto the stage, I did not feel alone.
I kept my eyes fastened on Demyan’s face, waiting for the moment, watching for the telltale signs that they were experiencing the ultimate bliss at the keyboard.
Just as Demyan was taking a bow before intermission, they looked directly at me and smiled. Those around me saw I had been singled out by the master. I blushed and hid in my seat during the intermission.
During the last part of the program, Demyan stood up. The audience shifted and people looked at each other. “I would like to announce a change in the program.
I would like to play for you, instead of the Liszt in the program, the entire Sonata Pathétique. It is a favorite of mine. I would like to dedicate it to a student and fellow performer who is in the audience. Ms. Emily Novak. Please stand, my dear.”
A blinding light hit my face, unexpected and shocking. Demyan had planned this. My knees were wobbly bits of flesh. They were looking straight at me. Not just Demyan, but everyone in Carnegie Hall. I pushed myself up onto my shaky feet and bowed awkwardly toward the stage.
Demyan blew a kiss at me before throwing their tails back over the bench and plowing into the piece. Why had they chosen to do this? Was it to mock me? But no—it was a signal to me. They wanted me to be prepared. To watch when the moment came for them.
As the third movement began its final circling, chasing, crashing moments, I saw it. The shift in Demyan’s hips. Anyone else watching might see it as a natural movement with the change in music. It was the last, light flickering touch of the sweet melody that sent Demyan over the edge.
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