tagGay MaleAll That Argentine Jazz

All That Argentine Jazz

bysr71plt©

The dimly lit room showed every sign of transition toward desertion. The closet door was open, the closet empty, other than two sad-looking wire hangers. Two drawers of the bureau were pulled out. Both were empty. Clothes once tucked away in these recesses were strewn on the two chairs in the room and hanging on hangers from the top of the closet drawer. One suitcase was already packed; another one had been moved, open and half packed, to the floor from the bed, where two naked men were stretched out against each other.

The bedclothes were tumbled and entwined the bodies of the two men, indicating both that the two had been going hot and heavy at it and that the battle had not been planned. Such was the case. What also was quite clear was that the older, thinner, taller man had won the battle. They were lying on their sides, the younger man's buttocks nestled into the older man's groin and the older man's arms and legs, caught up in wads of sheeting and coverlet, entwined around the body of the younger man so that the younger man was completely controlled, a prisoner of the older man's desire and sustained penetration. Both men were panting lightly.

The long, thin, slightly up-curved, sheathed cock of patrician and effete visiting Julliard music composition professor, Clayton Ambrose, was still buried to the root in the anal canal of the short, trim, perfectly formed blond, strikingly handsome, second-year Charleston College music major student Neal Burton. Both men felt the cock going flaccid, diminishing in hardness, if not length. Clay knew and Neal strongly suspected that the older man had come almost immediately after penetration.

"You didn't finish with me," Neal whispered, his voice revealing a sense of disappointment. "If it's our last time, I wanted there to be fireworks."

"I was lost in the moment, realizing this is the last time. I would have tried to hold longer, but I felt you were close," Clay responded. "You were close, weren't you?"

"Yes. I hoped we could come together." Close? Neal thought. You'd just started. But Clayton Ambrose had been his mentor and initiator; he wasn't about to argue more deeply than this with him. What he had said had come spontaneously from the disappointment of leaving their relationship like this.

"I want it all," Clay responded. "I do want us to come together. I too want the last time to be special. You know what I want."

"Yes," Neal answered. He'd never done it before Professor Ambrose had come to Charleston as a visiting lecturer and had seduced him, but they had often done it that way since and Neal had become accustomed to it. He turned his face to Clay's and they went into a kiss. For a few moments he thought the professor might harden enough for another finish, as the kissing and Neal's moaning caused by Ambrose's thumb and index finger having found and started to work one of Neal's nipples had caused the professor to breathe heavily and his cock to start to harden—harden enough that the professor could take three more long, shuddering slides.

But then he broke away from the clutch, pushed Neal on his back, and raised and twisted his own body as he reached around to the nightstand for another condom disk. The twisting brought his cock close enough to the surface that the glans dragged across Neal's prostate, causing Neal to jerk and shudder.

"Oh shit, oh fuck," Neal gasped. "Finish me proper, Daddy. Please give it to me."

Basically cruel by nature and pleased with the control he had over the young man, Ambrose dragged the bulb over Neal's prostrate a couple of more times to hear him beg, but then he pulled out. Neal's own cock, thick, and prodigious in its own right in its current hard, throbbing state, stood straight up from the blond, curly V of his trimmed pubes, with Neal flat on his back.

Ambrose laughed and, slipping the condom off his own cock and aiming it for a nearby trashcan, lowered his face to take Neal's cock in his mouth—again listening to the young man's moans and listening for the approach of some edge that would end his play. Before that could happen, though, he released the cock from his mouth and tapped it a couple of times, to hear Neal groan and to feel the cock lose a fraction of its hardness.

They both held nearly a full minute, Ambrose waiting for the wave of Neal's preparatory contractions to cease and listening to Neal begging in a whisper, "Just fuck me, Daddy. Don't tease me like this."

But Neal knew that, since Ambrose had come already, all of this was just play for him.

Without responding, Ambrose placed the disk on the tip of Neal's cock and rolled it down over the sides. Wetting his hand with lube, he slicked up the cock as Neal moaned and then raised up, slung a leg over Neal's thigh in an elegant, fluid motion, fisted Neal's cock until he could get it positioned at his asshole, and slid down on the cock.

Neal was panting and moaning as Ambrose lowered his face to take possession of Neal's lips with his, fisted Neal's wrists, held both of Neal's arms captive above and away from his head, flat on the surface of the bed, and started making love to Neal's cock by raising and lowering his buttocks and sliding forward and back and from side to side on the buried cock.

When Ambrose was ready—and he always seemed to know how close either one of them was to coming—he pulled Neal's right hand down to his cock, which was wrapped in both of their hands when Ambrose shot off up Neal's chest and Neal jerked and spasmed his own ejaculation inside the professor's channel.

Afterward, Neal sat, still naked, on the side of the bed and watched Ambrose move around the bedroom of his Charleston College-owned condo on Coming Street—a name that continually amused Ambrose—and expertly folded shirts and trousers.

Everything was elegant and refined about the professor, from the way he moved his slender, but well-muscled nude frame around the room; to how precisely in place was his flowing, wavy gray hair, despite having just come out of a sex session on the bed; to how wrinkle free his shirts and trousers would be when they got to the end of the journey that marked the close of his residency at Charleston College.

Both men had enjoyed their couplings when he was here; neither had been under the illusion that it was anything more than temporary. For Ambrose it was a necessary servicing wherever he was for any length of time; for Neal it had been the start of a new lifestyle and was worship of an accomplished professor and for the extra time the professor spent with Neal on his music technique. Ambrose had taught Neal a lot about sexual technique too, not least the technicals of edging and of the sexual flip-flop.

That didn't make parting a piece of cake for either one of them.

"When do you drive away?" Neal asked, as Ambrose moved about the room.

"Today. In a couple of hours."

"So, we won't have the night?"

"No." Ambrose's tone had a genuine tone of regret to it. "No. I find I have to leave earlier than anticipated. In fact, you'll see there on my dresser—that envelope—a ticket to the Carlos Ferrari Argentinian jazz concert at the Spoleto Festival tomorrow night. I'd like you to take it—as a parting gift. He's all you are preparing to be in music: a jazz and classical pianist, Spanish guitarist, singer, and composer. I hope you'll go to the concert and think of me and of how important pursuing your desires beyond the music are in honing your creativity."

"Thank you," was all Neal could think of to say on that, but he was having trouble letting go. "You say in a couple of hours. But not right now. And I can see that you're hard again."

"So I am," the professor said. He fucked Neal again on the bed, doggy style, clutching Neal closely from above, stroking him hard and deep, possessing Neal's lips as the young man turned his face to his, and diplomatically not bringing attention to the tears that rolled down the young man's cheeks. Finally, at the finish, giving the young man the finish he'd been begging for.

Clayton Ambrose had done this several times before—picked out a talented, luscious, and willing student, either male or female, to possess for short periods of time. It was usually at least a minor regret he had to leave them, if only because of the investment he put into them surrendering to his needs and whims. He wasn't into looking back. Neal was the most difficult one to leave. He had been so ripe and innocent and willing to do whatever Clayton wanted.

For Neal, though, this was a first—and a momentous first at that. He had no idea if or how he would be able to get into such a relationship again—or even if he wanted to be dominated that way again.

"Do you have any regrets?" Ambrose asked as they were cooling down in each other's arms for the last time.

"Regrets? Regrets for what?"

"That I took your male virginity. That I turned you?"

"No, of course not," Neal answered. "I'm glad it was you. You have taught me so much in all ways."

"It hasn't been just me, has it? I never demanded monogamy."

"No, but not often—not before you and none others that give me what you do."

"Will you promise me one thing?"

"Of course, but what?"

"I want you to take another lover immediately. I don't want you to slip back. You need this for your art, for your craft. Someone who can further hone your artistry."

Neal didn't answer right away. This would be a hard role to fill. He'd actually given the matter a lot of thought already but hadn't made a decision. He didn't even know how to go about finding another lover. Clay had done all of the finding, all of the seduction, most of the fucking and sex education. At no time had Neal felt he had any control over any of it. Neal had had no illusions that Clay had been a predator, taking advantage of his position, and although Neal had struggled against it that first time, letting Ambrose have his way only because the man how power over Neal's future, Neal had been deceiving himself. Ambrose had given him what he had secretly desired and had freed him from indecision and inhibition. Neal had no idea how to go about the hook-up process in more than a casual meeting way.

"Promise," Clay repeated.

"Of course," Neal answered, not sure himself if he'd ever have another deeper-level male lover.

* * * *

"Is this seat taken?"

Neal looked up in surprise and involuntarily smiled, initially mistakenly thinking that Professor Ambrose hadn't left yet after all and had come to the Ferrari Spoleto Festival concert just to be with him. Spoleto was a two-week music, theater, and dance festival, started by the composer Gian Carlo Menotti in the late 1970s, and held in the facilities of Charleston College annually in May. Although Neal was hanging around after the end of the school year to build up his portfolio of musical compositions, he would not have been able to afford to attend any of the Spoleto programs on his own means. The man who was standing by the empty aisle seat next to where Neal was sitting was tall, handsome, elegantly dressed, and of the same late forties age and the same wavy gray hair as Ambrose was.

"No, by all means use the seat," Neal answered, trying to take the edge off his smile. The man smiled warmly back, leaving Neal embarrassed that perhaps he had misunderstood Neal's smile as some sort of come on. Or were Neal's thoughts just too consumed by Clay's request—well, more of a command—to find another lover immediately. Was Neal seeing possibilities where they didn't really exist?

"I do need an aisle seat and the recital hall is filling up quickly. It's surprising there's still this aisle seat available."

"I was sitting in it until a minute ago," Neal answered. "But I could see that I could view the musician's hands on the piano keyboard better from this seat, so I moved over."

"See his hands better—ah, I guess that means that you study music yourself then," the man said as he sank down into the aisle seat. "So, are you a music student?"

"Yes, here at Charleston College. I'm lucky to be able to come to this concert. I am studying the same music styles this Carlos Ferrari composes and plays. Are you a musician too?" The man looked refined and artistic, in the same vein that Clayton Ambrose was. Neal didn't recognize the man as being with the college faculty, but he could be. Neal knew he shouldn't be so presumptuous—or hopeful—but the man could have fallen right into the role of Clayton, and Neal would open to him. Clayton had hinted and Neal had realized that he needed another man like Clayton.

Neal's openness to this—because of the similarities of the men and because of Clay's request still ringing in his ears—did prove to cut through a lot of preliminaries that normally would have been there.

"No, I'm just a banker," the man answered. "But I do appreciate music—especially the music of Argentina. I've done some study of that. And I speak the Argentinean form of Spanish. My name's Peter Wentworth."

He was looking expectantly at Neal, who felt heat coming off the man—not temperature heat; sexual heat. He was so much like Clayton Ambrose. Neal wondered if this similarity in looks and demeanor between this Wentworth man and the professor was misleading Neal into sensing that the man now sitting close beside him was interested in him on a prurient level. It may just be this similarity, he had to acknowledge, but it made Neal tense and trembly and he felt—and hoped the man didn't see—himself going hard. Neal, the wound of losing Ambrose still so open, just went with the flow.

Later Neal was to wonder how many young men other than him had been seduced and made to ejaculate in his shorts by the expert hand of older man while sitting in a crowded hall during a concert. But by the time he thought about, it didn't mean much to him anymore. Ambrose had left him achingly open to the approach. Wentworth couldn't have been blamed for recognizing that, Neal reasoned.

Wentworth was leaning into him and giving him a very warm smile, and their shoulders and forearms were touching—giving Neal a buzz of electricity. But the seats were set close together, so Neal couldn't be sure to read anything into this. The man's hands were sensual, the fingers long and manicured—and hovering as if at the least invitation they would come down on Neal's exposed knee and massage it in a way that could translate—in Neal's fevered imagination—to the feel of it masturbating Neal's cock. Neal was wearing shorts and sandals without socks. He suddenly was feeling undressed—certainly underdressed for the venue, although the festival was pointedly casual and other men in the hall were similarly dressed.

The man's sense of casual was much more refined and stylish than Neal's was, and he was very much aware that he was out of this man's league. But he'd been out of Clayton Ambrose's league too—if you didn't take into account Ambrose's pleasure at debauching younger men.

Neal was aware of the tripping of his imagination on sensual clouds enough to tell him that the fingers on the knee were just his fantasizing. But when he looked down at his knee, he saw that Wentworth, indeed, was lightly massaging it. That, of course, would have been the perfect time to get up and change seats. But he was here first, dammit, and the hall was filling up quickly. And besides . . .

Neal couldn't help himself, he looked over and down at Wentworth's lap. Elegantly cut trousers or no, there was every evidence that the man was hard and built just as long as Professor Ambrose. He looked up to see that the man had been watching him and was smiling as he spoke.

". . . like to meet him afterward?"

"Excuse me, I didn't hear you," Neal said, embarrassed that he was fantasizing about the man's equipment and those fingers on his knee while Wentworth had asked him a question.

"I said that, since you say you are studying the same musical disciplines and techniques as Carlos Ferrari offers, would you perhaps like to meet him after the concert?"

"Well, yes, certainly I would. But I doubt that's possible. There must be others who already have—"

"Oh, he has no other engagements after tonight's concert, and I can introduce you to him. My bank is sponsoring his appearance and I've been hosting him. I am responsible for seeing that he has a pleasant time in the States. I speak his dialect and he speaks very little English. I've been translating for him. Which I suppose means I need to go on stage to usher him out now and introduce him. The lights are going down. Would you be so kind as to make sure this seat is saved for me to come back to?"

Wentworth was rising and moving up onto the stage—and to the back, where a door was opening to let the performer enter. Now Neal knew why the man had said he had to have an aisle seat—and also why he could offer to introduce Neal to Ferrari.

He also knew, with a shudder, that he'd protect the seat next to him with his life.

The introductions made, Wentworth returned to his seat. But before he left the stage, he'd leaned down to Ferrari, who was positioned at a Yamaha concert grand piano, with microphones between him and the audience and a guitar on a stand behind him, and whispered something to Ferrari. The performer looked out into the audience, apparently directly at Neal, and smiled as Wentworth whispered something else to him.

Carlos Ferrari was no taller than Neal was. He was sensitive-looking as many musicians are. Perhaps in his mid thirties, he was dark complexioned, sensual, with black, curly hair—perhaps even permed hair—that reached to his shoulders. He was dressed simply in a white, billowy shirt and brown trousers. Like Neal, he was wearing open-toed sandals. Both his toes and his fingers were long and slender, and, like many Latins, his arms and hands were in perpetual motion as he talked and played.

Wentworth returned to his seat. As he sat down next to Neal in the near total darkness of their row—there was no one in the two seats to the other side of Neal—and in the seconds before the music started, Wentworth leaned over and whispered to Neal, "Carlos is gay, you know. And goes both ways."

Neal said nothing. He told himself that it was just a spontaneous piece of "I am close enough to him to know what he likes" banter, and nothing more. That didn't stop him from trembling or for this to convey to Wentworth where their shoulders and arms were touching.

Ferrari played three songs on the piano. First a busy jazz rendition and then two slower pieces, with rolling arpeggios that made Neal think of the gentle coursing of a river. And, sure enough, when Wentworth went back up on stage to translate a short commentary on the music for Ferrari, he said that these were Ferrari's own compositions and were about life on the river.

"Carlos lives near the Puraná River in Argentina," Wentworth told the audience. "He loves the feel and sound of the river running by his bedroom window. He says the second composition is of an image he once had of his lover having moved down river and of him maintaining an emotional connection with this lover by going to the riverbank and looking down into the water at his own reflection and imagining that the reflection floated down the river to be received by his lover."

After the audience has applauded this, thanks to Wentworth Neal envisioning a male lover in a way that hadn't been revealed to the rest of the audience, Wentworth said the next set of songs would be love songs to this lover.

All the time Wentworth was translating this commentary, both he and Ferrari were looking directly at Neal and smiling—or so it appeared to Neal. When he returned to his seat and Ferrari was beginning to play his next set, Wentworth leaned over and whispered to Neal, "I told him a music student wanted to meet him and pointed you out. He said he was pleased. He also said this set of love songs was being played with you in mind—that you reminded him of his down-stream lover. The lover is a young man who looks very much like you. I hope that doesn't upset you."

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