by Rob Rosen
I sipped my latte. “You have it first hand?” He went quiet. “Richard, love, it’s a concert, a hall full of people adoring the boy.”
He turned to me with that smile I loved. He knew me too well. “As if that matters,” he said with a mock pout. “He’ll be alone onstage, just him and his instrument.”
“Which means?”
“You’ll be doing me in the men’s room at intermission.”
“You flatter me.”
Unlike Kennedy, Conley appeared to conform. He wore white tie and tails in the photo and his expression seemed quite agreeable. For a moment, I thought I saw that same willingness I saw in Richard.
“Turn the page,” Richard said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re staring. Turn the fucking page.”
As if to fortify me, or perhaps himself, Richard refused to dress on the night of the concert, idling up beside me, naked and fondling himself. I was at the dresser, buttoning my shirt. “Richard,” I said, trying for some measure of discipline.
He began to work himself with languid strokes that I watched in the mirror. His body had not changed in our time together, still smooth, lightly muscled, a silky blond bush caressing his long narrow prick. “I want to go to the concert with my ass absolutely tingling,” he said, reaching for my crotch. I didn’t stop him.
“I don’t want to get sweaty, “ I objected.
He began to unbutton my shirt. I looked at the nightstand clock. “We can have supper after the concert instead of before,” he said. “Late night at a greasy spoon.”
“You’re certainly in a mood.”
He pulled open my pants and freed my cock. I had no intention of succumbing to him, and yet I did.
Phillippe was going to be in a tiff about the dinner reservation, I thought as I stripped and joined Richard on the bed. I’d be scolded next time I booked. Considering this as I lubed Richard’s butthole, I fingered him a bit too long.
“You’re wandering,” he said. “Put it in.”
I looked at him, cock high, legs higher. He loved fucking face-to-face, while I preferred the rear mount, but, as this was his show, I acquiesced, running a hand down his chest, stomach, prick, taking his feet in my hands as I eased into him.
He always responded as if I hadn’t been in there before, vocal to the point of parody, contracting his sphincter to retain the illusion of a road less traveled. I could have done without these efforts—I loved him, loved his ass without reservation—and yet I appreciated what it meant and fucked him with abandon, unleashing a good-sized load that would surely leave his ass as tingly as he desired. That he orchestrated his own climax to coincide with mine was further testament of his devotion, and as I rode him I thrilled to the sight of great dollops of cream spurting from that knob I had so often sucked.
There was, I had to admit, a certain decadence in entering Davies Hall knowing I’d just had Richard. He stayed close, brushing my arm as we moved through the crowd. We stood at the bar for a drink, and while I read program notes on Bach and Conley, Richard whispered to me that his sphincter was quivering. “It’s getting me hard,” he said. He pulled my hand from the program to his crotch. As I groped beneath the bar, I was amazed, as ever, how much we managed in public. Richard was a true master.
Once seated, he had a way of placing his program over his crossed legs that allowed one hand free rein. He would then lean my way if he was so engaged, knowing it amused and interested me. To his left were a couple so elderly I doubted they could hear the performance, much less pick up on Richard’s doings, and so when he took my hand under the program, I was ready for a bulge, but not a fully exposed prick. How he had managed this without the old couple’s notice was one thing; without my noticing, quite another.
The stage was seldom empty at Davies Hall. At the very least there were usually violinists and an accompanying piano. Solo pieces were few, Bach the most stellar example. From our fourteenth row center seats, everything looked vast and hollow. That is, until Trevor Conley strode in.
Even in white tie and tails he looked the handsome schoolboy: shock of dark hair above pale skin and pink cheeks, slightly hesitant in his movements. He started to smile at the applause, then stopped, and I feared him lost until he put the violin to his chin and began to play.
Richard’s under-program erection had gone soft. I could feel him staring at me. I pulled my hand from his lap and heard him draw a long breath. Ordinarily, I would have offered some sort of reassurance—a look or touch— but I was away just now, watching the boy and his violin, listening intently.
The No. 3 Sonata was first, which meant the No. 3 Partita next, and that meant a similar order for the 2’s. I felt smugly complicit with Conley in saving the Partita No. 2 and its haunting Chaconne for last. As I watched him bring Bach to life, I felt a heaviness in my chest, a longing for the music, and for the boy. This bittersweet ache spread throughout my body, and I soon found my cock hard and my recently emptied balls swelling with desire.
Richard shifted in his seat, pointedly removing the program to show me he’d zipped up. I gave him no more than a glance. I couldn’t offer more. Everything in me was directed toward Trevor Conley.
The first sonata concluded with a rousing Allegro Assai that sounded like two violins instead of one and sent the crowd into cheers and applause. Conley acknowledged these with a single bow, then began the Partita. Its prelude was equally exuberant, and I found myself riveted.
My erection, which had never waned, began to ooze. Richard, of course, knew what was happening, and I silently pleaded that he not put a hand under my program because I would come at the slightest touch, so primed was I. I then watched Conley’s long fingers glide up and down the instrument’s neck, stroking powerfully yet with a sensuality that took my breath away. Indeed, I found myself not breathing, discovering it only when a gasp escaped me, which, of course, set Richard fidgeting.
When Conley had completed all seven of the piece’s movements, he took his bows with less hesitance than before. His cheeks were flushed, and though I knew the lights obscured most of the audience from his vision, I still had the feeling he looked directly at me. He paused, noticeably, as our eyes locked, and at that moment I fell absolutely and totally in his thrall. I watched him leave the stage, catching Richard looking at me. “I could use a drink,” he said, and I nodded and followed him out.
Wine in hand, I could say nothing. I didn’t want Richard at that moment, didn’t want anyone but the boy. I sipped repeatedly and looked about, hating the entire assemblage, Richard included. Everything and everyone was an intrusion.
“So . . . ” Richard said. “Not bad, is he?”
“Quite good.”
“He looks like an absolute child.”
“Yes, doesn’t he.”
“Plays incredibly well.”
“Yes.” I felt myself nodding.
Richard let me alone then, allowing me my thoughts, however much he might object. When it was time to go back inside, however, he tugged my arm. “He’s straight.”
No, he’s not, I wanted to say, but didn’t.
Richard took my hand as Conley began the Sonata No. 2. I maintained our connection throughout the piece, but when Conley began the Partita, Richard let go. I appreciated the concession and let myself submerge into the music. I found, as the Chaconne approached, that I wanted more than anything to free my cock and pump it to eruption. When I moved my program to my crotch, I knew Richard took note, but I didn’t care. While I didn’t go so far as he had, didn’t set my throbbing dick free, I did allow the pressure of my hand against the swelling. Halfway through the Chaconne, as Conley gave it to me like no one ever had, I came prodigiously.
When the performance ended, I was out of breath and apparently weeping. Richard brushed tears from my eyes as I watched Conley leave the stage, my heart pounding as he returned for another bow. When he settled us with an encore, I didn’t think I could stand it, yet I dissolved in gratitude as he offered a snip of Mozart.
I forgave him the digression. Anything to keep him before me.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Richard said as he drove us home. He waited patiently as I worked up a reply.
“I think maybe our little preconcert tryst was too much. You don’t mind skipping supper, do you?”
“No.”
Once in bed, I took Richard into my arms, kissed him, then turned over and closed my eyes. Trevor Conley was still playing for me, and the ache I felt, and the erection I bore, were for him alone.
When I saw in Thursday’s Chronicle that Conley would play at a free noontime outdoor concert at Justin Herman Plaza on Friday, I said nothing to Richard, hoping he wouldn’t notice the item. I worked so hard at being nice to him—attending him, fucking him—I was certain he had no idea of my intentions.
I left work at eleven on Friday and said I wouldn’t return, then strolled the few blocks to the plaza. The crowd was sizeable, and I noted a piano had been brought out. Other performers had been added to the program. Just as well. I liked the idea of Conley not being the main focus. It made him seem all the more accessible to me.
When I saw him approach, my breath caught, everything in me pausing in sublime anticipation. He had on faded jeans and a royal blue silk shirt open at the neck. I pushed through the crowd to intercept him, jostling strangers for the desperately needed eye contact. As he passed, he glanced my way and hesitated ever so slightly, then moved on. The crowd surged in around him as I withdrew. I had what I wanted.
He played Beethoven’s Kreutzer Sonata, accompanied by a young female pianist from a local conservatory, and encored with Bach’s Allegro Assai. I stood some distance away, confident now, and when the performance was over, he hung back, fussing with his violin, chatting until the crowd thinned and people went back to work. He closed his violin case as I approached.
“Magnificent,” I said.
He looked up at me. “Thank you.”
“I heard you Wednesday night as well,” I said. “Also magnificent.”
“Thank you again.”
His accent was delectable. I’d always had a thing for the British and could be coaxed quite far with the simplest conversation. “If you haven’t other plans, I’d like to buy you a drink,” I said.
He didn’t look old enough to be in a bar, would certainly be carded, and yet I saw knowledge in his eyes. “There’s a bar at my hotel,” he said.
“Oh, where are you staying?”
“The St. Francis.”
“Fine, shall we walk or get a cab?”
“Walk.”
We said nothing en route, both understanding the situation. I enjoyed having him beside me, enjoyed glances from passersby, which I chose to interpret as acknowledgment of the suitability of our pairing.
At the hotel, Conley passed the bar without a glance, heading directly to the elevator. He had a small room, and once inside set his violin case on a table and, much to my surprise, opened it and removed the instrument. I stood just inside the door as he played the few notes every violinist does at the start of a concert. Tuning up.
For the first time in my life I had no idea what to do. I watched him, dumbstruck, my erection sagging. And then I saw him drop his bow hand, and I let out some sort of half exhale, half cry, which caused him to smile as he turned and presented me with an open fly and a long prick not quite erect. He then began to play the Partita I so favored. I found myself stunned into near paralysis.
When I didn’t approach him, he came toward me, playing all the while, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for him, like breathing for the rest of us. I kneeled as he reached me and put a hand to him, caressing his stiffening cock and tracing the knob, which was already wet. I glanced up at him and the violin, then closed my mouth around his cock, savoring his feel, his taste, before I began to pull, to lick and suck his delicate meat, my hand running through the silky black hair that engulfed it.
He continued playing above me, moving from the first to second movements, and I pulled back, undid his jeans, lowered them. He never missed a note as I stripped his lower body, as I lifted each leg, pulled off his shoes. And when I had him naked from the waist down, he took a wider stance. I reached up to cup his sac, squeeze his balls, going in to suck them as my hand kept his cock working. When I took him back into my mouth, he lasted until the third movement before he withdrew and erupted, shooting great spurts of come onto my face. I turned from side to side, taking it all, and when he went soft, I settled into a gentle licking. He didn’t stop playing until he’d completed the entire movement.
I sat back and only then did I realize I hadn’t even taken off my jacket. He grinned as if he’d just noted the same thing, and I rose and removed it. “What about the rest?” he asked. He put the violin aside and took off his shirt. I laughed too sharply—I seemed the schoolboy now—and undid my tie.
As I disrobed, he opened a bottle of water and casually paraded about the room. He glanced at me periodically— I’m certain to see what kind of body he’d landed—and I was glad I’d kept myself trim. Richard had helped inspire me. You don’t, after all, hang on to a younger partner without looking good.
When I stood naked, Conley offered me his bottle and I finished it, only then realizing how dry I’d gone. All my fluids had gathered inside my balls. My cock stood stiff above them, waiting.
“There’s protection and lube in the nightstand,” Conley said, and I took a moment to savor the idea of my finger up his butt, my prick up his butt, before retrieving things and setting them beside the bed. He then said, “Not there,” and I picked them up again. He motioned me over, and then he took up his violin.
When I stood, momentarily lost, he sighed and offered an all too brief explanation. “It’s the ultimate,” he said, putting the instrument to his chin.
“You mean while you’re playing?”
He didn’t answer. He started into the fourth movement—the energetic Gige that precedes the Chaconne—turned his back to me, and spread his legs. Apparently, I was to take him standing; apparently, it was up to me to find a suitable angle; apparently, he had done this before and knew it was feasible.
I’d taken Richard standing many times, but always there had been that adjustment from him, that bend that encouraged both penetration and ride. Now I simply stared at this gorgeous specimen while he flexed his butt as if to hurry me along.
The Gige is just under four minutes, and I wanted to be inside him for the Chaccone, so I slipped on a condom, took a fingerful of lube, and thrust it into his hole. His muscle responded, closing around my digit, and I prodded him briefly while he played brilliantly above. I was so occupied when the Gige ended that Conley allowed a brief respite between movements, as if to say now, do it now, and so I slathered my prick, planted my feet firmly between his, pulled him open, and shoved in.
He was shorter than me and had bent slightly forward to receive my cock. He stayed that way briefly, allowing me a few glorious strokes before he righted himself to begin the Chaconne. I had to adjust my position to accommodate him and felt my age as leg muscles complained at the posture. Yet I did not waver, so elated was I at fucking the boy, the violinist.
In seconds, my body acclimated to the angle. I began to ride him with full abandon, shoving my cock up his chute with energy newly born. I pumped him in accompaniment to the Chaconne, savoring his tight hole and the fact that the movement was fifteen minutes long. It was like some exquisite timer set in motion. I found myself thrusting with the music, easing to a slow sensual rhythm where it did, then picking up speed as the music began to build, plowing to my root in an orgiastic frenzy that set my entire body reeling. I kept on reaming Conley’s ass in this great musical fuck until time finally ran out and my swollen cock began to throb, juice rising, pulsing, begging. I tried to hold back but couldn’t. I experienced that ultimate sweet agony as I came, while the boy began Bach’s final minor key passage.
When I was spent, I slid out and tossed the amply filled rubber, then rested my chin
on Conley’s shoulder in time to watch him come unaided, cream shooting from his stiff prick onto the carpet in a great arcing show. He played all the while, never missing a note, spending himself in this most dramatic manner as the Chaconne’s final notes died away.
His chest was heaving, body wet with sweat; his eyes were closed and I knew to remain silent. I slid my arms around his chest as he lowered the violin. He took his time now, as if return was difficult, as if he’d been somewhere the rest of us aren’t allowed. When he finally turned, he gently pulled away. Tears were all down his face.
“What is it?” I asked, instantly aware the question was an intrusion. “I’m sorry,” I added. “It’s just that it was such a . . . so incredible, the music . . . ”
“And the fuck,” he said quite bluntly. “My two passions.”
“And you like to combine them.”
“Every time I play, I want to come.”
“Do you?”
“No, I just want to.”
“But have you ever? I mean, in concert?”
He looked at me with suspicion now.
“I only ask,” I explained, “because it happened to me Wednesday night when I heard you play. I came right there in my seat.”
He remained guarded, as if only the music was trustworthy, and I saw then how he’d trapped himself, how his music and his sexuality had become one. My reaction, unfortunately, leaned toward rescue. “How long are you in town?” I asked.
“I leave in the morning.”
“I have the entire afternoon free,” I said. I thought of Richard and our Friday nights out. “Longer if I make a call.”
He held the violin parallel to his flaccid prick. I took in the image, knowing at day’s end it would be all I had left, the instrument and that beautiful cock.
“I don’t think so,” he said, offering nothing more, trusting me, in my maturity, to understand.
“Of course,” I replied, grabbing my clothes. “Yes, I understand. Certainly.” I left my cuffs unbuttoned, shoes untied, and shoved my tie into my coat pocket. At the door I hesitated, something inside me breaking apart. I turned just as he lifted the violin and began the Chaconne, but I didn’t linger to watch it make him hard.