I gasped as he entered me. There had been little preparation. He wasn't large, but it still was a chore to stretch to his insistent need.
"Hold. Hold, Grant. Take it. Open up. Yes. Good boy." I gripped the far edges of the small conference table I was bent over in Ronald Dunston's office in the San Francisco Symphony Hall, my cheek plastered to the mahogany surface of the table, the conductor's fist pressed into the small of my back, I panted and groaned, as the sheathed shaft moved in and out, in and out.
"You do it. Fuck yourself. Ah, yes, very nice. Beautiful boy." He held steady as I began to move my pelvis, moving back into the hard cock inside me and then forward, pulling away from it and then fully sheathing it. He wasn't thick, but he was long. He wasn't young and he wasn't trim. But he was the maestro, which was the only thing that counted. Nothing else mattered here other than that he was the maestro and wanted servicing from me.
His heavy underbelly was pressed to the small of my back where his hand had been when he penetrated me, and one of his hands had moved to grasp the back of my neck, holding my head down on the surface of the table. I didn't even begin to think of him as an old, overweight man. He was the maestro. The other hand went around my thigh and he was fondling my balls and stroking my cock as I moved back and forth, back and forth, on the engorged shaft.
Ronald hummed and I moaned, screwing in harmony.
I was here at Dunston's sufferance. I played the cello. To be able to do so in a San Francisco Symphony concert was a step up for me. The chance to do so was why I let Ronald Dunston fuck me. He was no prize looks or age wise, but he was a maestro, one of a few conductors permitted to take on concerts with this symphony and in this hall. We'd met by chance somewhere or other--I forget precisely where and when. But I hadn't forgotten what he did, putting concerts together and conducting them. I let him fuck me. This is San Francisco. It was a gay city. I let a lot of men fuck me. I had a good reason to let him cover me--a better reason for why I let most men screw me.
Dunston was a concert conductor and I played the cello. He was conducting a concert here, the symphony backing some vocal soloist from Europe, and he was down a cello player. So, here I was, belly to tabletop, Dunston's dick inside me, and me moving my ass back and forth on it, screwing myself on his shaft, showing gratitude for being given the concert gig. No big deal. This was San Francisco. Giving it up in a fuck was a renewable resource once you'd lost your virginity. And, with me, that was long gone.
I heard a sound, the creak of Dunston's office door, I thought, and I turned my head in that direction. The door had been shut; now it was slightly ajar. I had the sensation that someone was there--tall, bulky, a flash of reddish-blond hair. I instinctively moved, pushing up, having the notion to roll away and off the table. But Dunston muttered, "No, you don't. Hold still. You're in it now," and grasped the back of my neck, turning my head away from the door, toward the window, and holding my head to the surface of the table. He hadn't heard anything. When I had a chance to turn my head back, the door was closed. I was so nervous to be doing it in the symphony hall, here in Dunston's office, that I decided I'd imagined being seen.
I came onto the carpet under the conference table to Dunston's stroking hand, not making any effort to hold off and prolong the fuck. He was filling and stretching me, but not in a challenging way. I was able to get hard for him myself and to come off because I liked being screwed and, though he was no prize in body, he was a towering figure in my world. It was a thrill to be screwed by the man with the baton in a music concert I was playing my cello in. I took my music very seriously. And I took dicks churning in my ass where I could get them.
Soon after I came, he was pulling out of me, I heard the slither of the condom being jerked off, and he came on my butt cheeks. He stepped away from me, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter were being lifted from the table from in front of my face, my cheek still pressed to the table top, and he moved to the window overlooking Van Ness Avenue. I lay there for a few minutes, pulling myself back together, regularizing my breathing, my hand going to my cock to pick up on the stroking, aware I had been fucked but not to full satisfaction. My T-shirt was off my torso and heaped up beside me on the table. My jeans and briefs were down around my ankles. It had been a "quick into position" fuck. Nothing romantic.
I watched Dunston lounging in the window frame, backed from the late-morning light streaming in from the San Francisco crisp early spring sunshine. His trousers and briefs were off, puddled at my feet. His billowy white linen shirt was unbuttoned and flared open. In profile, I could see the bulge of his stomach. He was handing his still half-hard cock and stroking it, indicating that he hadn't been completely satisfied either. I discerned that we weren't finished. That was the pattern with him. The first time would be quick, not completely satisfying for either of us. If he could get it up again, there would be a second, longer fuck. The satisfaction with the second fuck was what would keep him asking me to lie down for him.
The other hand held his now-lit cigarette. The hand was dancing in the window frame between puffs. He looked lost in thought, and I realized that he was running through his conducting of the piece we had been working on in the concert hall that morning. He was lost in his music. I'd seen this before between fucks. They were useful for him, these sessions. They gave rise to him going through the music in his mind. I was grateful for that. Sex with him didn't do that for me, unfortunately, although perhaps I should work to get to that level with him. Perhaps I needed to see getting off with him as freeing musical creativity. Perhaps I just didn't understand that musical release was a higher pleasure for him--and perhaps it could be for me too--to just getting a load fired off.
Luckily, I could get off on the mere desire to do so. The man inside me didn't need to be a dreamboat.
He turned and looked at me, still bent over the table, and smiled. He was in erection again, such as it was. He moved to the desk, where there was an ashtray and stubbed his cigarette out. He picked up a condom packet, split it, and crowned himself, turning toward me so that, still cheek to table top, but my head turned to the interior of the room, I was watching him slowly roll it on, knowing that, within minutes, it would be inside me again. It was almost a sensual move, even if his body wasn't arousing. I whimpered. "Yes, please. Please do me again."
Then he was behind me again, hands grasping my hips, and he mounted me, penetrated me, stretched my channel, and fucked me again. I felt it more now--more stretch, more slide, more friction, more caressing of channel walls, which responded, rippling over the hard, moving shaft. This time he was fucking me; I wasn't using his cock to fuck myself. He was humming as he stroked. I recognized the tune, a section of the score we'd been practicing earlier that morning, and the music entered and resonated through my brain.
This fuck was better--a whole lot better.
Afterward, he slapped me affectionately on the rump as he pulled away from me, lit up another cigarette, and returned to the window frame. I knew he'd gotten more satisfaction this time. So had I.
"You can use the bathroom over there to clean up," he said. "There's a washcloth in there you can use. I suppose you'll want to find a lunch somewhere before we start the practice again. Please be circumspect in leaving here."
And when I came back from the bathroom, cleaned up and dressed, he was still standing in the window frame, just in his open shirt, the tail of which came almost down to his knees. Again, his stomach bulged out from the shirt as did his cock, now flaccid, not now being stroked--apparently satisfied, for now. He was using both hands, including the one holding the cigarette, in conducting an imaginary symphony through a piece of music. He was humming, so I knew the passage he was conducting in the air was from the concert we were practicing. He seemed to be in heaven. As far as he was concerned, I wasn't even there--perhaps I never had been.
I silently went to the door, assuming Dunston was in another world altogether--one that I would have loved to share in. It was now that I was able to think of him as a lover rather than just someone far more important that I was who could help me with my ambitions--if he chose to and if I gave him what he wanted from me. But he knew I was there at the door.
"Don't forget that the rehearsal resumes at 4:00. I kept track of you this morning. You fit in very well with the symphony. There may be a place for you here." He then turned toward me, giving me a pointed look. "It isn't all because you are a beautiful boy and give me good fuck. You are a promising young musician. I would not put my cock in you if you didn't have promise."
I felt a warm glow surge through my body. "Mr. Dunston. Maestro--"
"Go on, have your lunch. It will be a long day. An evening rehearsal too, with the soloist. I think I'll want you to do me a favor after this afternoon's rehearsal."
Yes, of course you will, I thought. But what I said was, "Thank you, sir," and then I left him, returning to his world, his hands dancing in the light that was streaming into the window. He was already half way through his mental practice of the piece.
* * * *
The first thing I noticed about Armando wasn't that he was drop dead gorgeous. I was that he was weaving around on Larkin Street, pulling a suitcase behind him and shaking a cellphone near his ear like he was a drunken man. And it was a good thing I was zeroed in on him too, because at the corner of Larkin and Eddy, he stepped out into oncoming traffic, and I had to grab him from behind and pull him back to safety.
"
Che diavolo?!
