The name on the awning of the taverna struck me and brought up memories so rapidly and fully that I wasn't completely aware of the guitar music wafting up in my brain. If I had been I wouldn't have climbed the two terrazzo steps to the terrace level of the Tree of Idleness restaurant and sat at a table under a spreading olive tree.

Even then, though, I knew I was tempted to enter the restaurant because of its similarity to the one Adrianna and I had often frequented in the village of Bellapais in the northern, Turkish, enclave of Cyprus. As it was, the memories brought back so much pain that I collapsed more than sat, breathless, in one of the straw-bottomed chairs, and was pinned to the spot because the young Greek Cypriot waiter was so quick to take my order of a bottle of chilled Palamino wine and a plate of sheftalia.

I was on somewhat of a pilgrimage of nostalgia to try to hang onto memories of the good times with Adrianna - the years before she had contracted breast cancer and our world was sent spinning. But this was, perhaps, too much nostalgia too quickly. And running into a restaurant named the Tree of Idleness was more than I had bargained for.

Adrianna and I had met at a restaurant called the Tree of Idleness in northern Cyprus. She ran her own seaside pool bar west of Kyrenia on the northern Cypriot coast, but her then husband, Jalil, was a musician at both her bar and the Tree of Idleness, and I went to the latter restaurant in Bellapais one evening. I was in my first year following journalism school and was traveling around Europe. I told everyone that I was looking for out-of-the-way vacation places and was compiling a tour book, but I acknowledged to myself that I was hiding.

Jalil wasn't playing his set when I went into the restaurant. If he had been, I wouldn't have gone in. The open terrace under a spreading olive tree was nearly empty except for the usual elderly Turkish men, lining the wall in their straw-bottomed chairs, drinking the sludge they called coffee, and ogling all of the pretty girls walking through the Bellapais central square.

There was a girl for me to ogle too. She was sitting alone at a table and looking pensive. I was bold and asked her if I could sit with her while I drank an Efes beer. She was amenable to that. She was a mere wisp of a girl - a young woman, surely, but waiflike, with dark hair in a pixie cut, which made me think of her as a girl. I discovered in chatting her up that she was English. She said that she was there to hear the guitarist who would be playing in a few minutes. I almost left then, the mere mention of a guitar being what I was trying to escape, but the young woman - Adrianna - seemed almost to beg me to stay with the look in her eyes.

Then Jalil, a dark, handsome Turkish Cypriot man, who wasn't much older than I was and was strongly built, perched on a stool next to the door into the interior of the taverna and began to tune his guitar. Adrianna stopped speaking in midsentence and almost looked frightened when Jalil first appeared. But when Jalil started to play his soft, but insistent, Spanish guitar music, she became mesmerized. So did I for that matter, much to my chagrin.

Jalil was as compelling as his music was. His features were rugged in a way that promised to make him ugly in old age, and he was powerfully built, evoking surprise that he was strumming a guitar rather than working on a fishing boat. But he was beautiful now, and there was a sensuality in what he played and how he played it that seemed to hold Adrianna in thrall. It did me, certainly.

When he'd finished his first set, he came over to the table and demanded - I can't say asked, as it certainly seemed like a demand - that Adrianna tell him who I was. She introduced us and then, almost immediately, said she'd have to leave. I started to rise when she did, but Jalil asked, almost with a pout, if I wasn't going to stay to listen to his next set, which would be his last for the evening. As compelled as I was to do so, I would have said no, but Adrianna insisted that I do so as well.

The music of his concluding set was so compelling and sensual that I almost couldn't speak when he finished and came back to my table.

"You seemed to enjoy that," he said, with a smile.

"Yes, it was incredible," I answered.

"I watched you as I was playing. It enhanced my playing, I think," he said in a low, hoarse voice. "It was almost like having sex, wasn't it?"

"Yes," I murmured in answer. It was exactly like that. That's what I was hiding from, and that's why I probably should have left as soon as he started playing.

"That was my last set, but there is more that I'd like to play for you. I live on the coast, down west of Kyrenia, but I have a room here too, above the taverna. Will you come with me?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, instinctively knowing what he was asking of me.

And then in a lower-register voice, his eyes drilling into mine, and his fingers lightly brushing the hair on my forearm, causing chills to go up my spine. "And will you come for me?"

"Yes," I whispered.

Later Jalil told me about the pool bar on the Mediterranean coast that he and his English wife, Adrianna - he only told me they were married after he'd fucked me - ran, and he invited me to move in with them and use the bar as a base to do my tour book research.

I accepted. I knew it was a mistake to do so, and perhaps if he didn't play the guitar so divinely . . .

Once I'd moved into the pool bar house, I found that Jalil was often drunk and, when so, was a brutal, rough lover. I could take it - in fact I rather enjoyed being taken totally and roughly and slapped around a bit. But he fucked his wife this way too.

In time, after she'd been brutally assaulted in the night after the pool had closed down and I had to sit in my room and listen to his taking of her - knowing exactly how it felt to be grabbed and slapped and forced down under him on the bed and have my legs forced open and the hardness of him thrust up inside me and the plowing start as he choked the breath out of me - I could not ignore it anymore. I never reached the stage of trying to intervene. We were in his country, with its traditional laws. She was English and I was American, and she was his wife - almost his possession, in Turkish terms. And as long as he played his guitar for me, I was virtually his possession as well.

But later, after he'd left her sobbing to go drink himself further into a stupor, I'd come to her room and comfort her and tend to her bruises. In time, comforting her included giving her the gentle fuck that her husband wouldn't give her.

All the time he was fucking me too. When he found out that I was fucking Adrianna, we had to flee him and northern Cyprus. We went to London, where I wrote and she worked in a pub. We married when her divorce from Jalil went into effect, and we returned to Cyprus - this time to the Greek side - where we opened a small boutique hotel and taverna on the southern coast, near Limmasol. It did well - and my travel writings were doing well also. When Adrianna contracted breast cancer, we owned and operated a larger boutique hotel in the Lake District of England.

It took Adrianna two horrible years to die. I sold the hotel and went wandering, enabled to do so because writing about this was my bread and butter. But in my wanderings I found I was both seeking and hiding from something - something that I now was free to do, but that I still thought was wrong for me to do.

My wanderings and search for places Adrianna and I had been happy brought me back to Greek Cyprus. I was lodged at the Nicosia Hilton now, in the interior capitol of Cyprus. Restlessness had sent me walking in an ever-enlarged circle around the hotel. And that was what brought me to the taverna, on the small side street, named the Tree of Idleness, just as the taverna on the square in Bellapais on the Turkish side had been named.

I was still deep in reverie when the music began. The guitarist hadn't come out to the patio under the olive tree. He sat on a stool inside the taverna, which was really used only in the colder winter months, so he was the only one inside. It was dusk and he was under a spotlight, though, so he was hard to miss. He was playing Antonio Carlos Jobim's "Corcovado," which had been one of my favorites in college when I heard Cat Ralston play it.

I couldn't leave now. I was a prisoner to the music - and to the guitarist. He was considerably older than I was, maybe forty-five or so, of medium height, but he was hard-bodied in a sinewy way and with rugged features that showed wear and tear but, when put together, exuded power and sensuality. I couldn't help myself, I was already thinking of him as a lover and wondering if he'd be gentle or rough - was he long, thick? Jalil was both.

I shook my head. What was I thinking. Just because he played the guitar divinely and was sensual looking didn't put us in bed together. I'd finished the sheftalia and nearly finished the Palamino. But suddenly I knew I couldn't leave - at least not until he finished for the evening and left. When the waiter came by, I ordered a brandy. He didn't care how long I stayed. When Greeks came to a taverna at night, they were in for the night.

There was something about the guitarist that wasn't completely Greek. If he were in the movies, he'd play a gangster part or the grizzled cowboy, long experienced to the hard life of a ranch.

When he finished the set and left the little platform he'd been sitting on and disappeared into the back of the taverna, I felt like I'd been in a trance. For the first time I noticed that there were CDs on the tables. On the front was a photo of the guitarist, set half in shadows. A black-and-white shot. It only added to the rugged sensuality of his aura. I looked at the name. Paul D'Alessandro. That wasn't a Greek name. There was a short bio on the case. He was Cypriot back to the period in which the Genoese owned the island. So he was of mixed Italian and Greek origin. It was a good mix, I thought.

I found myself reading the bio, looking for any evidence that he was married. And then laughing at myself. Jalil had been married and it hadn't mattered. I had been fucking Adrianna during the same period that Jalil had been fucking me and it didn't matter. Still I chastised myself for having any fantasy of a hookup with this guitarist. I had foresworn all of that. This was why I was backtracking and trying to capture all of the good times I'd had with Adrianna. I was determined to keep her and what we'd had for seven years firmly in my mind.

"You like the music?"

I looked up sharply. He was standing there at my table, his guitar in his hand.

"Yes, yes, I liked it very much," I said.

"My name is Paul. Paul D'Alessandro," he said.

"Yes, I know," I answered. And then, embarrassed, I pointed at the CD. "Oh, sorry. My name is also Paul. Paul Matisen. A coincidence."

"Yes, a nice coincidence you come to the Tree of Idleness. You come here before?"

"Yes. No, not this Tree of Idleness."

"Ah, you have been to the one in Bellapais then."

"Yes. Years ago. But . . ."

"Yes, I know about the one on the Turkish side. That's the original one, but it belonged to Greeks. They opened this one on the Greek side when the Turks invaded and pushed the Greeks off their land there."

"Oh." I didn't quite know what to say after that. It naturally was a sore subject with the Greeks who had been dispossessed of their homes and businesses on the Turkish side, much the same as the Turks who had lived on the Greek side of the line experienced.

"No matter what brought you. It's good you found us. I watched you while I played. It was as if you were spinning on every note."

"Spanish guitar music does that to me," I said with a nervous laugh. "It's so . . . so . . ."


"Yes," I answered in a small voice.

"I could see that in your face as well. That was what I meant by spinning - the thought of you spinning on what I might have for you. I believe it made me play with more feeling."

I felt I would hyperventilate. I'd heard that line before - the declaration that I made him play with more feeling. That's what Jalil and said right before he told me he was going to fuck me - and I had almost begged him to.

"Well . . ."

"'Cocorvado' is a nice song. But someone like you, I think a bachata in flamenco style is for you."

"Bachata?" I asked. "Flamenco I've heard of."

"Yes. Something very Latin. Something for lovers. Like Ravel's 'Bolero.' You know 'Bolero'?"

"Yes, doesn't everyone?" I said with a catch in my voice.

"I play a bachata in flamenco style for you. For you, I play 'Mon Amor' now. Not the famous song by that name. A bachata by that name. One I have often played . . . for a lover."

"Really, anything you play will be fine," I answered hurriedly. "I have to leave soon anyway. Your playing has been - "

"And then you come with me, yes? My sets will be over. I have a room nearby. I play just for you. Then I play you, yes? I make sex with you like I make love to my guitar."

I froze. Before I could say anything, though, he had turned and gone to his high stool and was preparing to play.

The music was mesmerizing. It began slow and the tempo and volume built. I had an insistent, pounding rhythm to it when it got into full swing and it, indeed, was just like the rhythm of the fuck. I found that I was holding my breath and that my hand had gone under the table top to my engorged cock through the thin material of my trousers. His eyes were locked on mine and mine on his and I felt we were having sex as he played. He said he wanted to make sex with me like he was playing the guitar. I watched his fingers caressing and brutalizing the strings of the guitar in term - and that's what I envisioned him doing with my body. The image was overwhelming.

He reached a crescendo and I couldn't take any more. I threw bills down on the table, far more than I owed for the food and drink, and stumbled off the patio and onto the street. At the corner of the building, I turned into the darkness, moved behind a thick stand of bougainvillea winding up a trellis, unzipped, and barely got my cock out when, the clearly heard music reached an even higher, more insistent pitch, and I ejaculated against the stuccoed wall.

I stumbled back to my hotel room, took a shower, and got into the bed naked. Weaving a scene in my mind then with Paul D'Alessandro, I masturbated to another ejaculation and fell into a deep sleep.

* * * *

Jalil wasn't the one who taught me the sensual effect that classical guitar music - and guitarists - had on me. That had already happened and, in many ways, was what had brought me to Turkish Cyprus to begin with - to hide from myself and my weakness.

I studied journalism at Georgetown University, in Washington, D.C. While there I met a young woman my age who was going to American University and studying Latin American studies. Inez was her name. She had dreams of being in the Foreign Service and serving in South America. Although my dreams weren't limited to South America, I too wanted to travel the world. She was shy, as was I, but that drew us together, not apart. She was serious in everything she did and wanted to study all aspects of every problem closely. I was just a dumb kid who narcissistically groomed myself to look hot without having any inkling of what the goal of that was. We were contemplating a lasting relationship, and she initiated sex - to ensure, I guess, that I was what she really wanted.

She didn't say I wasn't good at it after we'd rather clumsily, I thought, fucked a couple of times. She seemed to remain on track to her goals, one of which was me. I was just going with the flow, assuming that marriage was something you did upon graduating from college - although both of us intended to go on to graduate school and we both had the means and grades to do it.

Another of Inez's goals was to become a proficient classical guitarist. To that end she was taking lessons from Cat Ralston, who was a quite well-known and well regarded classical guitarist, credited with bringing Brazilian guitar music to the American ear and who owned and played at the Cat's Meow, a nightclub in the Maryland suburbs of the capital.

The first time I saw and heard Cat Ralston was at a New Year's Eve party Inez dragged me to at the Cat's Meow. His music moved me that evening, although he himself didn't. In keeping with the atmosphere of ringing in the new year, it was crowded in the club and they were a rowdy bunch. They mostly quieted down during the sets that Ralston played, backed up by his brother on the bass. But, although I was fascinated - and felt a little warm - from the music, Inez kept saying that Ralston wasn't playing his best - that he was irritated by the noise. And, indeed, he scowled through his playing and, Inez said, cut his sets short.

He wasn't a young man. He was probably pushing fifty and was mostly bald on top, although his arms were muscular. He had a sensitive face, though, which I kept wishing wasn't set in a scowl. And when he closed his eyes while he was playing, he seemed to soar onto an upper, sensual plain. His fingers were, of course, limber and expressive, and I tried looking at them rather than the irritated frown on his face. I found myself soaring with him, although at the time I connected the buzz I was getting and the urge - which I followed - to feel Inez up while he played to the cheap champagne we were drinking.

Inez, who was clearly disturbed that Ralston was on edge, suggested that we leave early. I was ready to go, because Ralston's irritation somewhat irritated me too. It was his club. If he didn't want a boisterous crowd in on New Year's Eve, he should tailor the deal, I thought. I stopped in an art museum parking lot on the way home - it was already after midnight - and we fucked in the backseat of my Sebring convertible. It was my second most successful performance with Inez ever. I didn't then connect it with the guitar music, although it was what kept going through my mind while we fucked - mostly Ralston's rendition of "Corcovado."

Inez was clearly disturbed that I hadn't heard or seen Ralston at his best, and as he was like a god to her, she insisted we go back the next weekend, when the crowd would be smaller and would be there solely for him.

She was right. His performance was magnificent that second night, and he clearly was in a much better mood - although he still soared to the heavens by himself while he was playing. I found myself soaring there too, trying to be with him, but content to be somewhere near the same cloud with him. Once when I opened my eyes well after he'd struck the last cord, I saw his eyes on me.

He stopped at our table after that set, which I could understand. Inez had a lesson with him once a week. He sat at our table briefly, asking Inez to introduce me to him.

"You seemed to really feel the music, Paul," he said.

"Yes. I don't know what it is about the music, but it makes me feel so . . . so . . ."

"Sensual?" he asked in a low voice.

"Hmm, maybe, I'll have to think about that." I was embarrassed. He'd defined the feeling exactly, but I had no idea people were actually permitted to talk like that in polite company.

He and Inez chatted for a few minutes and then, as it was apparent Ralston was about to go on for another set, he turned to me and said, "Do you play an instrument?"

"Piano," I said.

"Any good at it?"

"I studied it a long time. I guess you'd say I could hold my own doing background at a party."

"Any interest in taking up guitar?"

"I've never thought about it," I said.

"You could try taking lessons from me. I have a spot open on Thursdays. At 6:00 p.m. Last lesson of the day."

Inez piped up, "I think there's now an opening on Tuesday's right after my lesson. We could come together."

"I think that slot has filled," Ralston said. He was looking at me. His eyes were intense, and I thought he was trying to convey something. But I had no idea what it could be.

Of course I accepted. If I was at all good at the guitar - and being able to say I took lessons from Cat Ralston - well, it would be quite a coup.

It was rather curious at the time, but when he played the next set, he didn't close his eyes and appear to be riding the clouds. He kept his eyes locked on mine. And he played as if he was playing just for me - almost like he was playing me. When my heart began to race on a passage, he pushed it. When I began to tremble and move with the beat, he sped up the rhythm. I was sweating and hard when he finished.

I fucked Inez in the backseat of my Sebring in the nightclub parking lot, not being able to wait. And it was the best of my performances, bringing moans out of Inez I'd never heard before and letting me know exactly when she'd had an orgasm. I couldn't have positively said she'd even had one before then.

I felt a little tense going into my first guitar lesson with Cat Ralston. We were in an all-black room - black carpeting, black padded walls, black ceiling in a small room off the main nightclub floor. When I later remarked on the blackness to Ralston, he said he played best with no distractions. Remembering his irritation on New Year's Eve, I could well understand what he was saying. There was a bench and a couple of straight chairs, an ottoman, and a fancy bank of electronic equipment. There were three guitar stands, all with a guitar on them that looked like it probably was priceless.

Ralston came into the room wearing bagging shorts, an Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned to reveal a hairy, beefy chest - not quite fat, more barrel-chested muscle than meat - and open-toed sandals without socks. He was drinking a beer. I would have been surprised except that Inez had warned me that he was eccentric and was prone to dress really casually. On stage it was always a formal white shirt, with the top three buttons unbuttoned to reveal a gold medallion nestled in curly chest hair, black trousers, and black dress shoes.

"Today, you get a feel for the guitar," he said. "Here, you sit straddling the bench, forward please. I'll be sitting behind you. You will be playing with your fingers, but I'll be doing all of the playing. My method is to show how to place your fingers for the wanted sound by the feel of it."

"OK," I thought, although I was on edge, nervous. I assumed that was natural the first time, though. Still, I gave a little shudder when, with guitar in hand, he straddled the bench too and sat close behind me. His arms came around my shoulders and the guitar was in front of me.

"Here, put this hand here - with this finger there and those on these strings. And the fingers of the other hands here. Yes, that's right. You're trembling. Don't feel embarrassed. I do this with all of the new students."

He was holding me close; how couldn't I feel embarrassed. I could feel the hardness of his cock at the small of my back, for god sake. Or was it hard? I couldn't tell, and why would it be hard?

He placed his fingers on mine and he guided them through a few scales and then a few simple nursery rhyme tunes. I felt like I was fumbling under his guidance, but he told me I was doing fine.

"Now something at the other end of the scale," he whispered. "Just so you can feel what a moving tune feels like."

The tune was sensual, starting off slow and picking up speed. "And this interval part. Notice it uses only one hand."

While using only one hand for this demonstration, though, he was unbuttoning my shirt with the other and running his hand from my chest down to my belly. I was breathing hard and had my eyes tightly shut, dancing slowly on that cloud. I guess I knew what he was doing, but I was too much into the music - and the effect the music was having one me - to object. And when I didn't object, Ralston moved his hand on down to my basket.

"You're hard. You truly know what this music is for, don't you? This is the music of the fuck. So, we will fuck now."

I whimpered, unable to form words. He was right. I was under the spell of the music. The thought raced across my mind that the two times I thought I'd fucked Inez well, it really was because of the music.

He put the guitar aside, but there was still music. It was still Ralston playing the guitar - this sensual song. But it was coming out of loudspeakers now. It had started back at the slower part at the beginning.

With his arms still around me, he unbuckled my belt and unzipped my trousers. His chin was on my shoulder. His hand was on my cock. He stroked me to the increasing beat of the music. I watched the movement of his toes in his sandals. The man had perfect rhythm. Even his toes scrunched and expanded right on the beat of the music and his stroking of my cock. When I ejaculated, he kissed me on the neck and murmured. "Very good. Very musical. Right to the beat."

I was confused. It was him keeping the beat. I did nothing but not fight him. In contemplating my confusion, I had to ask him to repeat his next direction.

"Slip off your trousers and briefs, please. I will fuck you now."

I moaned but did as he commanded. He grabbed hold of my hips and pulled me back on the bench. Then with the palm of his hand in the center of my back, he pushed my chest down onto the bench, and I felt the bulb of his cock at my hole.

"Concentrate on the music," he murmured. And I did so, but I sobbed and whimpered and grabbed the legs of the bench in a white-knuckled grasp as he worked his cock inside me. When he was all inside, he paused and his heavy breathing was matching the rhythm of my panting.

"Superb," he muttered. And then I heard the music start all of the way over again.

"Belly on top of the ottoman over there," he whispered.

He pulled out of me and, like an automaton, I struggled over to the ottoman and laid down on it on my belly, with my arms and legs spread wide and my head hanging over the top.

I gasped as he entered me again, able to get in deeper in this position.

"Concentrate on the music," he murmured. And, again, I did. He fucked me in rhythm to the music. As it accelerated in speed and intensity, so did he. He kept commanding, "Yes, yes, good. The music. Perfection. Concentrate on the music."

I grabbed at the carpeting with my fists, dug my toes in, took a fold of material from the side of the ottoman in my mouth, and chomped down to avoid screaming. But most of my attention went to where it was directed - reveling in how Ralston's cock was able to keep perfect time with the increasing beat of the recording.

He ejaculated at the height of the music.

"Supremo," he exclaimed. "You can feel the rhythm and you can now play with passion. The lesson is over; I'll see you again next Thursday afternoon."

I had only three lessons before I pulled myself away from Ralston's clutches, during which I learned little of how to play the guitar but much of what a man could do with another man. I also cut it off with Inez soon thereafter. I had enjoyed being fucked by Ralston far more than I had enjoyed fucking Inez.

As soon as I graduated, I was on a plane to Europe to start my grand journalist experience. Luckily I had the means to do so.

What I was to find out, however, was that I didn't have the means to resist classical guitar music and guitarists.

* * * *

I arrived at the Tree of Idleness and took a quick look around, but I didn't see Paul D'Alessandro anywhere. I turned to leave, but there he was, carrying a net bag with a few provisions in it.

"I knew you'd come back," he said with a smile. "I do not play tonight. It is one of my off days. I live up there, though," he continued, pointing to the two stories of flats above the restaurant. "You come with me?"

"Yes," I answered, the guitar music already starting in my head and my mind going back to that other Tree of Idleness and that other guitar player. I was prepared for him to then say, "And you come for me?" as Jalil had done. But he didn't. He was more direct than that.

"And I fuck you, yes?"


"You stay the night, and I fuck you all night?"

"If you wish," I answered.

"Do you wish?"

"Yes . . . I think so."

We sucked each other off as we slowly undressed, discovering each other's bodies. Me in awe and a little frightened of the size and thickness of him - but quickly in heat over the hardness of his body, sinewy and lithe, not an ounce of fat, the muscles well defined and the veins popping out on his arms with no layers of fat to go through. His legs were strong. I suddenly felt I knew what "all night" was - that he could go all night.

"Where? The bed?" I asked, motioning to a twin bed in the corner of his studio room.

"Not the first time," he said. He moved a straight chair with arms in front of a full length mirror on the wall next to the entrance into his kitchenette. He opened a closet door half way across the room. Another full length mirror was on the inside of the door. I could see that being positioned at the chair would mean that much of what happened between the mirrors could be seen in the mirrors. This alone made me tremble.

"Lean into the chair," he said. "Your hands on the arms of the chair, legs spread, please."

When I did so, I could see that I was able to use the mirrors to watch what was happening both at my front and at my back. D'Alessandro knelt behind me. I felt my butt cheeks being parted and then his tongue at my hole. I watched a hand come between my legs and take my cock and he was milking me while he tongued my hole. Occasionally he'd let loose of my cock and give my balls attention. And periodically he also pulled my cock back through my legs and gave it suck.

I sighed, enjoying the view and the sensations and the buildup of it. This was what Jalil never did. There was no buildup. This had me in heaven - well, almost heaven. Why had I been resisting this, I wondered. I can't believe that Adrianna would object. She had known that Jalil was fucking us both. Was it just that the experience with Ralston and then Jalil had been so traumatic.

I came in a flow that was more calming than explosive. Paul laughed and took my cock in his mouth and cleaned it off. He bounced up and went over to the counter dividing the kitchen from the main room.

"Five," he said, counting out the condom packets on the counter. "I like your body. It gives me so many ideas. I wonder if this is enough."

"I have more in my trousers," I said.

"So, you knew."

"I had hoped," I said. He laughed and rolled a condom on his cock, which was looking both formidable and mighty proud. As he moved to me and put his hands on my hips, I murmured, "Music. Could we have music? Your music, please."

"So you want to fuck to music, do you?"


"And mine? Nice that you want it to be mine. I'll give you extra good fuck for that. And good music too. The flamenco style of bachata I told you of. Good fuck music. The song 'Mon Amor.' I'll put that on."

The music started and he was close behind me again. During the initial, soft part, he entered me, slowly and deeply, while I took heavy breaths and groaned and set myself rigid.

"Relax," he whispered in my ear. "Just relax. I have far to go yet and I want to take you fully. Just relax. I'll make sure you don't fall." He moved a strong, broad hand to my belly and palmed me there, giving me support. He was holding the root of his cock with his other hand, rotating it in my channel, helping me to open to him, pulling deep groans out me, flying me to heaven.

When he had bottomed, he just held me there, both of us panting, waiting for I knew not what.

And then I understood. The music moved into the passage where the beat picked up and the music became more insistent, louder.

My belly still palmed with one hand, he cupped my chin with the other and arched my back to him. And then, right on the beat, he began to pump me, faster and faster, right with the music, bottoming deep on the down beat, pistoning me while I moaned and grunted and cried out to him on how high I was flying, one with both him and the music.

Before the music ended, with both of us ejaculating simultaneously, I realized that this was exactly the same song that Cal Ralston had first fucked me to.



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