By Chance

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?!—What the hell?!” he declared, and that’s when I knew he was Italian. I knew enough about Italian to figure out he was surprised and just now snapping back into where he was. He also was gorgeous—dark and sultry . . . tall, trim, and obviously fit, with wavy black hair, sexy five-o’clock shadow, sensual smile, and flashing dark eyes, his expression changing from surprise, annoyance, and confusion to an interested smile. I took him in just like that, in an instance, immediately aching for him sexually. But then I realized I had been assessing him as I walked behind him as he was weaving up to the intersection. He had buns to die for.

“Questo cazzo di telefono. È mort,” he exclaimed, and then when he realized he was speaking in Italian while standing at an intersection in San Francisco, in the United States, he gave me a wan smile and said, “Sorry. This fucking phone has gone dead and I was using it to find my hotel.” His English was just fine. How nice for us lazy Americans that most of the rest of the world makes an effort to learn our language.

I laughed. “You were walking off the curb into oncoming traffic.”

“Siamo spiacenti—Sorry,” he said, “Thanks for saving me.” His smile was fuller now. He was a god and I ached for him.

I couldn’t let him just walk away. “Come, there’s a café over here,” I said. “Let’s have a coffee and I’ll see if we can sort this out together.” When he hesitated, I lifted the laptop bag I was carrying, having left the symphony hall at lunchtime intending to do some work in the computer before going back, and added. “I have a recharger in here. We can get your cellphone going again while we have a coffee.”

“Buono Molto buono. Yes, very good, thanks. We sit and I regather.”

I led him over to an outdoor café on Larkin Street and introduced myself as we sat. He positioned his suitcase on the other side of where we sat next to each other, looking out onto the street, and I opened my laptop bag and brought out my recharger. He flashed me a glorious smile as he hooked up his cellphone.

“I’m Grant,” I said. “Grant James.” I wanted to add, and you’re gorgeous, but I didn’t. I’m sure the look I gave him conveyed that. The look I got back was open and seemed interested. Could I hope he was gay—and a top—I wondered. That was normally a stretch, of course, but had a good chance of being right here in San Francisco, especially since his initial reaction seemed to be to check me over just as I was drinking him in. He was dressed both sensually and expensively. Well-cut designer jeans with a white silky shirt, open several buttons down, showing a gold medallion on a chain nestled between hard, olive-complexioned pecs, with swirls of curly black chest hair.

A waiter appeared, giving the young Italian the same look of longing I knew I had, and took our coffee orders. “I am Armando. Armando Rizzo,” he said. “I am from Italy.”

“Yes, I gathered that,” I said, with a smile. He smiled back. “New to San Francisco?”

“Pardon?” he asked.

“Nuovo? Un turista?—New? New to San Francisco? A tourist?” I asked.

“Ah, you speak Italian then?”

“No, not really. Sorry.”

“No matter,” Armando said. “New here, yes. Just for a few days. I am here on business.”

I didn’t pursue what business that would be. The coffees had arrived and his cellphone was charged. “Look. Your phone is recharged. You can make that call now. But maybe I can help you. Where were you going? What were you looking for?” I gave a little laugh then. I knew that what I wanted him to be looking for was me.

I nearly melted when his response was as if he read my mind. “Maybe I was looking for a salvatore—what do you say, a savior?” He gave me a meaningful look but then continued. “What my phone was trying to tell me, though, is where my hotel was—where I had been booked.”

“What hotel?” I asked. I was trembling because he’d touched my knee with the fingers of one hand and hadn’t taken them away. He had been speaking with his hands as much as his voice since we’d met, which I took to be an Italian trait. I rather hoped it was more intimate than that, though.

“The Phoenix Hotel,” he said. “I was told it was something special—swinging, I think they said.”

I laughed. “We don’t need your phone to find it. You were standing in front of it when you walked off the curb into traffic. It’s right there—across the street. And, yes, it’s a special place. A motel, really, but straight out of the 1950s. The décor is rock and roll. It’s quite unique.” My assessment that he might be a player deepened. Whoever had booked his hotel had been thinking in the vein of swinger—like they knew he was a player and would enjoy that connection.

“I hope I really am booked there. I don’t know what I’ll do if I’m not. I’ll have to look through my papers to see who to contact here if there is no hotel booking.”

“I’m sure they will help you at the hotel reception desk if there’s a problem.” It was a gay-friendly hotel. The receptionist more than likely would be gay. This man was drop dead gorgeous. I know he’d get all of the help they could give him.

“You have been so disponibile—so helpful,” he said, his hand moving from my knee to my forearm, causing the hairs on my arm there to electrify and making me have to put myself in check not to moan. “Perhaps you could come across and stand with me until I know I’m in the right place. I may not have remembered the hotel right.”

“Of course,” I said. I would have followed him anywhere. He wasn’t just touching my forearm; he was stroking it. He was checking out my preferences and availability. I gave him a look meant to tell him I was his, if he wanted me.

I would gladly remain in his presence for as long as possible. I did as he asked—I would do anything he asked of me at that point. I was a hopeless submissive. He could be as dominating as he wanted to be. And, standing there a bit away from the desk as the receptionist, slightly hippy looking in coordination with the hotel’s décor and as gaga mesmerized as I was by Armando, I heard that, “Yes, of course, Mr. Rizzo, the hotel has your booking.” Even from where I was standing, watching Armando give a clerk a dazzling smile, I could sense the clerk wanting to add, “and you can have anything else from me you want, Mr. Gorgeous.”

I felt exactly the same way.

As we stood there, another guy, big, muscular, a redhead who registered in my brain as familiar for some inexplicable reason, came into the office and went into the snack area next to the reception desk. He smiled at me in passing, and the renewed sensation that I’d seen him somewhere before gave me a second jolt of familiarity, but I couldn’t place him. He was a hunk, his smile was one of interest I often received here in San Francisco, where men freely showed their preferences. I had a flash of arousal, but then I turned my attention back to Armando, talking with the reception clerk. I had something going there, I hoped. I couldn’t be imagining an encounter with two guys at the same time. When I looked back at the snack area, the burly redhead was gone.

His key in hand, Armando turned to me, letting me share in the dazzling smile. “There’s a snack shop right here and I see they have beer. I’ve wanted to try out one of these Coors beers you have here in the States. Would you like to join me in one to celebrating everything working out well?” He already was pulling two beers from the glass-fronted refrigerated case.

“Yes, that would be very nice,” I said. “We could take it out to the pool area.”

Almost as if he wasn’t listening to me, though, he continued. “It was wonderful that we met by chance like that. I hope I’m not being too presumendo—how you say, presuming—but would you like to come to my room with me?”

Yes, I melted on the spot. This conversation hadn’t been about beer.

* * * *

The Phoenix was a former two-story motel, with all of the rooms, each with a large picture window, opening off open walkways overlooking the central pool area. When we got to Armando’s room, which was on the second floor, he put his suitcase on a luggage rack beside the door and zipped it open. Lying on the top of his clothes was a long, thick, curved, black rubber dildo, with two plump balls on the base. I knew he’d opened that as he did so I’d see the dildo. I did what I could not to react other than to show him I’d seen it.

“Vuoi andartene?—I’m sorry, how you say? You wish to leave?” He looked down at the dildo and then up at me. He smiled and touched the dildo with his fingers. More accurately, he caressed the dildo as he smiled at me.

“No, I’ll stay.”

I had gone to stand at the picture window overlooking the pool area, and Armando walked over to me. I handed him one of the cans of beer and we stood there, facing each other in front of the window. He smiled at me and I smiled back. He took the can of beer out of my hand and put both it and his can on the table between us in front of the window. Still holding my eyes with his, he pulled on the curtain cord and the curtain closed over the window, although it wouldn’t close all of the way.

“We do this in private, no?” he asked.

“However you want to do it,” I said, giving him the “yes” he was searching for.

His hand went, first to where his fingers traced the curve of my cheek from upper ear lobe to the corner of my mouth.

“Do you have any idea what that could be?”

“Whatever,” I answered. “Hard, rough, whatever.”

He brushed a finger against my lips and I opened my mouth to take his thumb in and to suck on it lightly. The hand moved to the back of my neck and he pulled our faces together. He lightly kissed me on the lips, and then more hungrily. His other hand snaked under the rim of my T-shirt and up my bare torso to palm my left pec. The top three buttons of his shirt already were open. He reached up and unbuttoned the two below that. The palm of my hand rested on his hard, lightly hirsute lower belly. His other hand moved between the waistline of my jeans and the skin of my lower belly, sliding lower. I grimaced as fingers traced my engorging half hard and then closed on my balls—but I held steady to his touch. He squeezed my balls and I jerked, but held.

“Anything,” I whispered.

Satisfied that he could have me, Armando pulled away. “It’s been a long flight. I’ll need to shower. You first or me?”

“I’ll go first,” I said. “I won’t take long.” Nothing was said about this being in preparation to fuck. Nothing had to be said.

“Buono—Good,” he said, and, as I walked to the back of the room to where the bathroom was, he moved over to the suitcase and took up the dildo. I turned and looked at him and he turned to me. He ran his hand up and down the length of the dildo—it had to be at least nine thick inches long—he looked at me and smiled. Again, nothing else had to be said.

When I came out of the bathroom just a few minutes later, my waist wrapped in a towel, Armando was sitting on the foot of the bed, magnificently naked, lightly hirsute, with curly black hair on olive skin, his body perfectly proportioned, and with an erection that rivaled the size of the dildo. He was slathering the dildo with lube.

“Spoglialo—Strip it off,” he said, his voice low, commanding. The mastering was beginning. And then, when I did unknot the bath towel and let it slip to the carpet, he drew in his breath and said, “Molto bene—very nice. You have a beautiful body. We will make beautiful sex. You are experienced, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

He lay the dildo on a hand towel beside him on the bed. A couple of gold-foil Trojan Magnum packets and a tube of lube were there too. He was taking this for granted. I hadn’t given him any reason not to. He rose, paused by me to take my chin in his hand and lean over and kiss me on the mouth, and then proceeded to the bathroom and the shower.

I sat on the bed, in the spot he’d vacated, panting slightly and keyed up, and perched there, nervously, looking down at the dildo, condoms, and lube while he showered. He was humming in the shower, the tune nearly recognizable, but not loud enough for me to pin it down. He clearly was happy, though. An Italian god was going to fuck me and I was happy about that. I was trembling all over.

When Armando came out of the bathroom, naked and drying off with a towel, I was reclined on my back on the bed, at the foot. I’d pulled two pillows down and stuffed them under the small of my back to elevate my pelvis. My legs were spread and bent, the heels of my feet dug into the edge of the mattress at the foot of bed. I was ready for him.

Armando laughed when he saw that I was prepared and had already surrendered. Nothing was said. He nudged in between my spread legs and picked up the dildo. He went to work immediately, hovering over me, close above me, staring intently into my eyes. He was still humming. With surprise I recognized the song now—it was one of the Italian love songs that would be in the concert I was practicing for.

I didn’t have time to dwell on that, though. The bulb of the dildo was at my entrance. I cried out, arched my back, raised my pelvis, and latched onto Armando’s bulging biceps as he penetrated me with the dildo and began to open me up with it. Panting and huffing, I rocked on the rubber shaft as he moved it in, out, going deeper, working me with it. He knew what to do to open me fully, and he did it.

I sensed movement beyond him and my gaze went to the picture window out onto the open corridor beyond. The curtains hadn’t come completely together and I could see that a man—big, beefy, redheaded—was standing outside, peering in, watching Armando open me up with the dildo. I wanted to cry out, to tell Armando we were being watched, but the Italian stud was moving on.

“Molto bene. Sei aperto. Ora lo facciamo—Very nice. You’re open. Now we do it,” I heard him murmur. He was in command, assured. I was totally his.

The fuck was becoming real. I was open, stretched, gaping, and wet, and the dildo was coming out. I turned my head toward the towel as the slicked-up dildo was dropped and one of the packets of condoms was lifted, to be torn, the rubber extracted, the slit gold-foil packet dropped. I was already panting and moaning low.

Armando did it. Humming, he was mounting me, entering me, holding me in a closer embrace. My mouth opened in a silent scream of pain-pleasure as he filled and stretched me. There was far more pleasure—much of it psychological and emotion from having such a beautiful man and such a big cock inside me. The dildo had opened me well. He was stretching me further and caressing my channel walls in a way the dildo could not do, but the slide was more pleasure than pain. My hands went to his shoulder blades and then down to grasp his plump butt cheeks. He was inside me, going deeper. He was fucking me, stroking me deep. The bulb entered the core of me, caressing, slaying, making me fully his. I held him close, opening and closing my grip on his buttocks, helping to guide his thrusts forward and his glides back. Forward, back, in, out, deep, my channel walls shimmering, opening, grabbing, caressing.

“Shit, yes! Fuck me. FUCK ME!” But he didn’t need my permission or encouragement. He was in charge. He was inside me, deep, moving in my inner core, conquering me, making me his.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. OH, FUCKING SHIT!”

With a jerk and a little cry, digging my nails into his biceps and nearly sobbing my surrender, I came . . . and then released again . . . and again. He fucked on.

* * * *

Armando went to sleep on me—literally on top of me and still inside me, although not until he’d done me in a couple of exotic and demanding positions. He obviously like to fuck and I enjoyed being fucked by him. He didn’t immediately zonk out on me, but he did pass out before we experienced the fireworks. We had a couple of flares and quick recoveries, but not, as yet, a final fireworks display on his part. I, of course, went off left and right multiple times. The man could hold and use an erection forever.

We were stretched out on the bed, me on my belly and him on top of me, embracing me close, only our pelvises moving, him languidly fucking me in a doggy and me rocking my hips with the fuck. The plane ride from wherever he’d flown into San Francisco that morning—he hadn’t gotten around to telling me where he’d come from—must have been long. He went to sleep.

I rolled out from underneath him and went to the shower. He was in the same position when I came out of the bathroom, so I left him my phone number on a sheet from the hotel message pad on top of the dildo just in case he’d want to meet up again, and I quietly left him to sleep.

I was out on Larkin Street, headed back toward the symphony hall, even though I had a couple of hours to kill before the afternoon rehearsal. My best buddy, Timothy, shared everything, and my session with Armando was just too delicious not to share, so I had my cellphone out and was leaving a teaser on his voice mail when, at the intersection with Turk Street, I tripped on the curb and went down in the street. It wasn’t even clear for me to cross the street. By chance, though, a hand came out of nowhere from behind me, grabbing the back of my T-shirt, and pulling me back to safety. As I came up with a smear of mud on my arm, I heard and felt the rip in my T-shirt.

“Careful, guy, you’re too good looking to be flattened by a truck.” The voice was deep and had a tone of amusement.

I turned to look at who had saved me—big, burly, muscular, red headed. It was a redheaded guy, and, instantly, I knew where I’d first seen him. He was in the trumpet section at the concert rehearsal that morning.

“Good thing I happened along,” he said as we moved out of the stream of pedestrians to the side of a building.

“This wasn’t really by chance, was it?” I asked. “I think you’ve been following me around and spying on me.”

“Not following you around. But by chance seeing you a couple of times. You’ve been a busy little boy.”

“Well, thanks for saving me,” I said. “My name’s Grant James. I play the cello.”

“Yes, I know you play the cello. I’ve been watching you all morning. And salivating, if you don’t mind me saying so. I don’t think we need to dance around what you’ll do with a guy. I’m Josh Fisher.”

“I don’t do it for everybody,” I said, defensively, realizing that he was the guy who had seen me with Ronald Dunston at the concert hall and then again with Armando in the hotel, but I took a good look at him. He was big, but not fat. He wasn’t what I would call handsome, but his face was good enough. His body looked like it was more than good enough, and the reddish-blond hair was intriguing. As far as I knew, he blew a good trumpet. He must to be in the symphony. “We have to be back for a rehearsal at 4:00, and I’ll need to find someplace to clean up. And this T-shirt is all ripped up. I should go tend to that.”

“You could come back to the Phoenix. I’m checked in there. You could get a shower and I have a T-shirt you can wear. You’ll be swimming in it, but you’ll be covered.”

“You’re at the Phoenix? You don’t live in San Francisco?”

“No, I’m up from L.A. They needed to fill in the San Francisco symphony for this concert. They brought me in.”

“Me too,” I said. “I do live here, but I was brought in to fill in.”

“So, you want to come back to my hotel room.”

“Umm, I don’t know.”

“It’s that you don’t do it for everybody thing? I don’t live up to your standards.”

“No, sorry, I don’t mean that at all.” He certainly knew how to put a guy on the defensive and pin him down. I had to give him that.

“There’s a menswear store here in this block,” he said. “Maybe you really need a smaller T-shirt than I can provide—although I like you just fine with that one hanging off you in shreds. You are a gorgeous little piece, you know.”

I bristled at the words “little piece,” but in retrospect, wasn’t that what I really was to men like Dunston and Armando, and this redheaded hunk? Wasn’t I just a little piece to be dominated and used? And so what if I was. Wasn’t that what I wanted from a man—assured dominance. Wasn’t that the face I showed to men? Wasn’t that why I had moved to San Francisco? Yes, that, and big cocks—I craved big cock. I almost laughed, but turned from him so he didn’t see that.

“You still need to clean up,” he continued, “but let’s stop in at the store and find something you like. I’ll pay, of course. I tore that one.”

Yep, he sure knew how to box a guy in. He’d even gotten in some signaling. He had me at an advantageous. He’d seen me getting fucked twice today already. I took another look. He looked like he was a stud. Being honest, didn’t I like the attention—even the assuming a commanding dominant would do with me? If I met him in a bar, would I go to a hotel with him? I did laugh under my breath then. He was proposing I go to his hotel with him—and both of us knew I would.

When we got to his Phoenix hotel room, which was on the first floor, just steps from the pool, Josh went immediately to the window and drew the curtains. The curtains in this room drew completely shut, and the act of doing so conjured up the gap in the curtains in Armando’s room and the certainty that it had been Josh who had seen Armando fucking me through the gap in the curtains upstairs from here. And that raised the question of what Josh was doing on the second floor of the hotel when his room was on the first floor. Had he been following me? I was certain that he’d seen Ronald Dunston fucking me in his office at the symphony hall and had been following me since then.

And, if so, was he expecting the same from me? Why else would his first thought upon entering the room be the need for privacy—privacy for us, not just him. That, at least, was answered quickly, not least because the next thing he did as I stood there, my T-shirt in tatters, holding a store bag with a new sports shirt in it, was to go to the luggage rack next to the door, open it and pull out a couple of those telltale gold-foil Trojan Magnum condom packets and a bottle of lube.

“Uh, thanks for saving me down there on the street and for this shirt, Josh . . . it’s Josh, isn’t it? I don’t think I know how to thank you enough. I’ll just shower and go—”

“I think you know how you can thank me,” Josh said, his voice thick with obvious lust, which I could also see in his eyes.

“I don’t know what you think, Josh. I didn’t recognize you from the concert rehearsal right off, and now we’ve met by chance, but—”

Josh laughed. “We’re not here by chance, Grant. I saw you. You’re a sweet little piece and I saw you take cock twice today. The last time you took a foot of dildo and nearly that much from the Italian. You were taking it, like you loved it big. I may not be much of a looker, but I can satisfy you. I know what you’ll do for a guy who can give it to you good.” As he was saying this, Josh unbuckled, unzipped, and pushed his trousers and briefs down, stepping out of them. He was in full erection, and his shaft, nestled in strawberry blond curlies, revealed that he was as big there as everywhere else in his body.

“Listen, I didn’t come to your room to—”

“Yes, you did. We both know why you came here with me. You can’t get enough cock—big cock. And I’ve got big cock for you. You aren’t going to fight me on this, are you? You’re going to give me your hole, aren’t you? I’ve been following you around all day for the opportunity of spiking you—and you’ve been giving it to every other man who wanted it.” He was fingering one of the gold-foil Trojan packets.

“I’ll think about it,” I said, my attention focused on that long, thick shaft standing proudly out between his thighs. He had my juices going. He was being commanding, which always turned me on. “First a shower.” With that, I walked to the back of the room and into the bathroom. Stripping off my clothes, I turned on the shower, and climbed in.

I’d left the bathroom door open. That’s all the “yes” Josh needed.

I’d barely gotten into the shower and gotten the muck from the street cleaned off my arm until he was there, at the shower, opening the stall door, naked, a big bear of a young man, muscular, covered with a down of reddish-blond curls, powerful of body, his erection monstrous.

“Have you thought long enough?” he asked, not really waiting for an answer. He was handing his huge cock, projecting it at me. “You want this. Go down on your knees and worship this.”

He put his big mitts on my shoulders, pressing down, making obvious what he wanted.

I did manage a “Yes” on my way down onto my knees under the cascading water of the shower. I opened my mouth wide to the cock, took him inside, and gave him head as he held my head between his hands, holding me captive there and moving my head where and as he wanted to get his pleasure from me.

At length, he withdrew, raised and turned me, facing the wall, and went down on his knees behind me, burying his face between my butt cheeks. Raising my arms and pressing the palms of my hands and my cheek to the slick tiles of the shower wall, I jutted my butt back and moaned. “Yes, yes, yes,” I whimpered, surrendering all. “Give it to me. Put it in.”

“What do you want?”

“You. Your cock. Fuck me.”

When he stood, I realized he’d brought a condom packet with him. Catching the flash of something gold, I looked down to see a split Trojan packet floating in the water on the floor of the shower stall. Almost simultaneously, I gasped and gave a little cry, as, hands on my hips to hold me steady, I felt him penetrating—thick, insistent, brutally demanding—my ass.

“Yes, YES! Oh, shit YES!”

I stretched for him, constantly just short of accommodating his lustful demand. But then I had. He was inside me, deep, pumping. Gasping and groaning, I went with the glorious fuck.

We didn’t finish there. After I came, still stretched out on the shower wall, with my arms over my head, my palms pressed to the tiles, and my finger opening and closing to the rhythm of his thrust, and him holding my hip with one hand, the other one snaked around, fisting my cock, and stroking me off, he pulled me out of the shower.

“That’s what you wanted,” he declared.

“Yes,” I agreed.

“You want more of it.”

“Yes,” I agreed again.

We dried each other off, and he took me to the bed. “I’m gonna fuck you good.”

“Yes.” It was the big cock. There was nothing else about him . . . it was the big cock.

Josh sat on the end of the bed, and I sat on his lap, facing him, skewered on his shaft, rising and falling him under my own power, leveraging off my knees buried on either side of his hips until he wanted to finish under his full control. At his direction, I reclined back, my torso streaming down to the carpet between his spread legs, my head resting on the floor, and my arms raised over my head, in an attitude of total submission, as Josh gripped my hips and pulled me on and off his cock to his completion.

“It’s good for you. It’s great for you,” he murmured.

“Yes,” I agreed.

Making my submission complete, as we nuzzled together afterward, me raised to his close embrace again, the two of us kissing, both of us concentrating on him going flaccid inside me, I reached over and picked up the second gold-foil condom packet. “Again, please,” I murmured, accepting what I was, what I wanted, what I would give to a man on demand. I wasn’t embarrassed. This was San Francisco. I could be open and honest here—I could accept and not hide my wantonness.

“Not now, I’m afraid—although you are a great lay. We just about have enough time to shower again, get dressed, and make it to the afternoon rehearsal.”

“And later?”

“I’m still here tomorrow—beyond tonight’s concert. I thought that, as long as I was in San Francisco, I’d do a little cruising up here. I don’t have to put a lot of effort in that now . . . if you aren’t doing anything else this weekend.”

“Molto buono?” I said, with a laugh.

“What’s that?”

“It’s Italian for ‘very good,’” and laughed again. I didn’t think I’d tell him what the joke there was. I wasn’t proud at how easily I had surrendered to him, just because he had a big cock. But I had been well fucked.

* * * *

“You’re late to the rehearsal. I rather hoped you would come back to me after you’d had lunch.”

The voice of the concert conductor, Ronald Dunston, was in “hurt” and “pouty” mode. No doubt he’d planned to have another go at me in his office after lunch. Well, I needed to keep him happy, but he didn’t have a big cock like the cocks I had after him today.

“Sorry, I didn’t know you wanted me to come back earlier,” I said. He was speaking to me out of the side of his mouth in the middle of a milling crowd. Josh Fisher and I weren’t the only ones who hadn’t been sitting in their chairs at the strike of 4:00. Not wanting to be seen with a musician as junior as I was here—in fact, just a substitute player—grated on me a bit. He certainly didn’t mind having sex with me. “You just reminded me that the afternoon rehearsal was at 4:00. I didn’t hear you say I should come back earlier.”

He harumpfed and looked away, smiling at the first chair of the violin section as the violinist tried to get her section settled in their chairs. That gave me the moment I needed to look back at my Italian lover, Armando Rizzo, perched calmly on a stool next to the conductor’s stand. Armando had given me quite a turn when I saw him in front of the range of orchestra positions when Josh and I entered the auditorium. But I guess I should have known that Armando was the Italian vocal soloist the orchestra was backing for this concert. It was a concert of Italian love songs. Armando was an Italian—and he certainly was a lover. He was just visiting San Francisco on business. He hadn’t told me what business that was, but I hadn’t asked either. He was humming one of the songs in the program while he was fucking me. And, for that matter, he had been booked at the Phoenix Hotel. Josh Fisher, an out-of-town musician brought in by the symphony, had been booked there too. No doubt the symphony used the Phoenix for all of its bookings. All of that hadn’t come together just by chance.

Armando’s look that had come my way as I was walking onto the stage had been open, welcoming. There was no indication he was upset that I’d left him sleeping in his hotel room. As I watched, he took the slip of paper I’d written my telephone number on out of his pocket and waved it at me, smiling. We were good. We could be even better if we could get together again.

“That favor I’d said I might have to ask you for,” Dunston said, pulling my attention away from Armando. The conductor was speaking out of the side of his mouth, looking at someone else entirely and smiling and nodding greetings with them.

“Yes, the favor,” I said, not immediately remembering he’d mentioned one, but then dredging that up.

“The Italian soloist,” Dunston said. “Something must be done with him for dinner before the concert this evening. By any chance could you take him on—take him to dinner and keep him occupied until we need to reassemble at 7:30?”

I didn’t hesitate, my eyes going back to Armando, who was still seeking me out with his attention. “I have my concert clothes here already. I don’t have anything else planned for the interval.” My mind was racing on how much sex at the Phoenix Armando and I could wedge in between the end of this rehearsal and when the musicians call was for the evening’s concert.

“He doesn’t speak much English. You aren’t conversant in Italian, are you?”

“No, but we’ll manage,” I responded. It hadn’t been an insurmountable problem thus far, not that I would tell Dunston that, and Armando spoke a whole hell of a lot better English than I spoke Italian.

“Very good,” Dunston said. “I will, of course, give you symphony funds to spend on the meal.”

“Molto buono,” I murmured.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” I responded, assuming Ronald Dunston wouldn’t appreciate hearing my explanation for that little reference. I wasn’t looking at Armando now, though. My gaze had gone over to the trumpet section, picking Josh Fisher out, who was looking at me like a puppy dog in heat. I’d halfway promised to spend the interval between the rehearsal and concert with Fisher. We hadn’t said how we’d use the time, but there wasn’t much mystery how it would have gone.

All was not lost. I wondered if, by chance, Armando and Josh had ever done a threesome—or a double penetration. They were both players. I thought there were grounds for thinking they might both like to play with me between the rehearsal and the concert.

I smiled at Josh and nodded my head toward Armando. Josh had seen Armando and me together. He looked over at Armando, who seemed to understand, and the two studs smiled at each other.

Molto buono.

Dunston had a hand on my arm as I looked away from the two studs. For the first time he was showing a connection. I don’t know if he’d seen the three-way looks between Armando, Josh, and me, but somehow, instinctively, Dunston seemed to realize he had to assert something of his own privileges or lose position.

“Grant,” he said, giving me a little smile. “I thought perhaps, after the concert, I could take you somewhere . . . a little celebratory something for your first participation in a symphony concert. I can arrange more, of course.”

Ah, yes, I mustn’t lose sight of my goals. I did want to be offered a seat in the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra, and Ronald Dunston was my path in that direction.

I smiled at him. “We’ll see what this evening brings, but it sounds like a plan.”

* * * *

Armando naked, fisting his cock and stroking it, drew me, also naked, to him where he sat on the foot of the bed in his motel room and pressed me down onto my knees between his spread thighs. I took his cock in my mouth and gave him head. Behind me, Josh, naked, moved in close behind me. Taking his erection in his hand, he rubbed it against my cheek. I pulled my mouth off Armando’s cock briefly to turn and give Josh’s erection a little attention. Josh pulled away from me, but just to roll on a Trojan Magnum and lube it up. He pulled me up off my knees, put one arm around my belly, and moved his cock into position with the other. I moaned deeply as he mounted and entered me from behind. Armando leaned forward and kissed my nipples and belly as his hands stroked me off. I came quickly.

Armando crowned himself with a Trojan Magnum and greased it while Josh fucked me from behind. When he was sheathed, he placed his hands on the backs of my thighs and lifted and moved me into his lap. Josh moved with the repositioning, not losing penetration. I cried out and writhed as Armando brought me down onto his cock, forcing his way inside me on top of Josh’s already buried shaft. They held me between them, two big-cocked men sharing me, as I writhed, deliciously between them. I had settled down, they started to move me in rhythm, thrusting with one cock and then the other, pumping me in harmony.

Sitting across the room on a straight chair, naked, and with his cock in his hand, stroking it, the conductor Ronald Dunston enjoyed the performance and patiently waited his turn with me.