Piano Study

Preface:

Over-the-top and up-from-below – dual perspectives – fit this rousing (I hope) chapter about three piano students and their entwined relationships with two men who are guiding them in sex-traordinary ways. Readers of lustful bent (especially those of taste for Classical music) will find much to absorb their attention. Creating this series is providing much pleasure for me. If you are so affected, please comment and rate!

The unlikely proved likely. It became actual. Our Gestalt – that is, the symbiosis of teens Michael Psmith and Ramses Córdova with me and I with them – expanded to include young Stephanos Zamparas and the man to whom he “belonged,” J. Carter Springwell. How smoothly merits explanation.

Rescuer of Stephanos from his peasant home in Eleusis, J.C. had provided for the boy in the way his fellow Hyacinthus Union friend Jonathan-David Crittenden earlier had for Stephanos’ older brother, Kyriakos. The whopping difference lay not in any sexual incompatibility – far from it, thanks to Stephanos’ nature and J.C’s patience – but in musical talent. A talent, self-developed, of such propensity as to be unreckoned as yet, possibly unreckonable.

With J.C. looking on benignly (while studying us closely), Stephanos had played Schumann, Wirén, and Liszt as from some supernal height. His genius apparent, what he and J.C. wanted was to have the boy guided by me.

That came as no surprise. After all, they had witnessed my students’ exemplary performances and experienced for themselves how Ramses and Michael stirred very listener’s spirit. How, though?

We were in the Athens home of Pavlos Pisauris, not our own. The moment my boys had sated themselves in the relics of ancient Athens, ours would be a flight home to the U.S. and the resumption of our lives together. For a chance to become acquainted, we invited the two of them to eat with us our evening meal.

J.C. countered with an invitation to join them in their hotel, the Divani Caravel. “In-room dining there is a beautiful experience, what with our view,” we were told.

“At night, Athens and the illuminated Acropolis,” Stephanos’ melodious voice intoned, “is enchantment itself.”

Off we went in two taxis, three boys in one, J.C. and me in the other. Having determined that our cabbie’s English was basic, we could speak freely, if circumlocutory.

A forthright manner was assured by J.C.’s membership in the Hyancinthus Union and that organization’s trust of us. Without knowledge of the organization’s plans for us nor of the philanthropic support we had, he offered money for Stephanos’ instruction. I disabused him of any need there. Rather, I thought it safe to direct our minutes together to confiding my methodology of instruction which had brought pupils Jim, Michael, and now Ramses to achieve almost cosmic rapport with music.

The question was how?

J.Carter Springwell’s face studied mine. A smile radiated. “I understand your approach is sex-based. Stephanos is ready for that. I am, too.”

At the sight of my knit brow, he had more to tell me.

“Let me explain a few things about my boy’s background. Stephanos’ older brother, Kyriakos, is a potter approaching the late Peter Voulkos in breakthrough originality and much influenced by a student of his who also worked with Peter Callas.

Those Greeks and their fierceness of approach to manipulating clay, to firing techniques, to experimentation with glazes with terrifying results have thrust young talents such as Kyriakos in a new world. The boy, now on the verge of manhood, owes his expressionistic development to Jonathan-David Crittenden, his erastês. The safe violence of their union – which I won’t describe – fuels Kyriakos’ creativity. J.D. isn’t himself a potter, as I am not a musician. We both admire, even love our boys’ areas of expression. But J.D. reinforces Kyriakos’ progress profoundly and will continue to do so as the sphere of instruction he receives in London is left behind. A lifetime of commitment lies ahead. It’s mutual and…not shared.

“Stephanos and I are altogether a different couple. He’s young, sexually perfect for me – well, he ought to be. I trained him - with some help from H.U. guys. While I’ve never shared him with another man, we agree that what I do when we make love – which we do often in celebration of our shared life – that it’s reached its limits. He remains untrained in music but, as you’ve seen, is gifted to the nth degree. We know from hearing your students that you are the teacher he must have in his life.”

Somehow, this man’s honesty struck home with me. Taxis delivered us to the Divani Caravel. Through its pavilion-like modern lobby and up the elevator, we were soon ensconced in a room luxuriantly appointed, sitting around a glass-topped Corinthian capital looking directly at the illuminated Parthenon’s front and, in the near distance, the Erechtheion’s side. Gilded modern-design flatware, white plates, a gold-leafed sprig of dried eucalyptus as a centerpiece, and crystal stemware took our breath away collectively.

The meal of seafood unfamiliar to Michael and Ramses – octopus and squid in particular – included steamed fish and accompaniments of lentils and cucumbers in yogurt, roasted eggplant, potatoes, red onions and zucchini. Were the meal to be described more fully would detract from that what mattered most: the evening’s outcome.

We stayed the night in their divine Acropolis-view suite.

Nothing could have seemed more natural – in the absence of any piano.

The kingsize bed’s coverings went to the floor. We, unclothed, went to the twelve-hundred count Egyptian cotton-clad mattress, Stephanos the center of attention by Michael and Ramses. J.C. and I balanced ourselves on either side to watch and to encourage.

No square inch of the youngest boy’s skin failed to respond to kisses by those two. Their lips and tongue surveyed Stephanos. Prodded to do so, he turned over to reveal that he was as flawless behind as he was before. Utterly delighted, he raised his bottom.

“Somebody, please. Anybody.”

J.C.’s interest in Ramses was so obvious that, rather than to let that closeness be interrupted, I told Michael, “Use spit and don’t disappoint our hosts.”

J.C. looked at me, an arm around Ramses’ neck, his free hand palpating the teen’s ball sack, and said, “Michael, you will provide Stephanos’ with his first fuck by someone other than I. We both grant you that honor.”

Honor? Must be some Hyacinthus Union usage, like the crotch-hand-press homage member’s boys gave to men when greeting them.

 Into the breach went more than enough spittle and Michael’s now-randy erection, welcomed by Stephanos’ flute-like, “Ooh, beautiful!”

Michael applied himself to the fuck for possibly as much as a minute before murmuring into Stephanos’ exposed ear, “I’ll teach you Gershwin’s Second Prelude, which I bet you don’t know.”

“Please do.”

“Ramses, you must help with the rhythm.”

I snapped a finger at J.C., “Wake up over there. Take Ramses and let him move on you. You’ll see exactly how the transfer of knowledge takes place with us.”

J.C.’s endowment was not in my range of vision

On his side now and backed against J.C.’s lower belly, suddenly-surprised Ramses (who did not let on that he had been taught the piece by Michael) started humming the upper line of the left-hand part and moving accordingly back and forth. A walking pace the like of which J.C. had never experienced (if his face told me anything). Michael came in humming the melody exactly on pitch (to which Ramses adjusted) and matching his strokes to its eighths and quarters. When the melody returned in octaves, I was over Michael’s bottom, wet with my own saliva, and into him, adding my humming to his – so together we fucked the short piece into Stephanos.

No sound broke our calm.

I drew away from Michael.

Michael removed himself from Stephanos’ back and looked at Ramses. “Tell him how we settle a new piece I’ve taught you.”

Ramses smiled, pressing back and turning his head to J.C., “He,” he pointed at me, “loves it firmly in place.”

“Stephanos, shall I?” I asked.

A nod into his pillow, the small Greek waited.

My entry, approved by a nod from J.C., who was all eyes (presumably at my large mushroom cap spreading wide his boy), elicited a moan lower and longer than any sound we had heard from Stephanos. As I plumbed him with upward strokes at full depth and pulled away with downward ones to rake his prostate, Stephanos extended a hand for Ramses.

Ramses rolled to his stomach and reached back to J.C., a signal that he should mount and, by implication, match what I was doing. A mental as much as a physical signal, the gesture was clear that we were, in our way, inviting and admitting the man to our circle.

Stephano’s lover had a penis shaped like a torpedo, large and straight with a head smaller than the shaft. Its effect, surely different from mine.

To the music’s four-quarters-per-bar I acted as the whole note. Full depth for downbeats, pullings-back during the succeeding three. A stride which came to me from my vantage point above Michael’s back as he fed Stephanos the Gershwin.

Not since Michael first lay beneath me – when I began his instruction – has so wondrous a pupil absorbed my mushroom-headed cock the way Stephanos did. When he began sighing with a semblance of the Gershwin Prelude, I felt we were in touch with the wellsprings of Mount Helicon’s muses. Hesiod’s name came to mind, and Ovid’s, who wrote of Athena visiting the muses for inspiration. Athena, goddess of wisdom! A boy this young taking my all – and I mean my all – he inspired me to pour into him an ejaculation that made my head spin.

Paresthetic frissons caused Stephanos to shiver in spasms which we later were told resulted from expansions of his mind. He managed to say, “I can learn anything now – better.”

Popped out, I relaxed, recumbent. Stephanos, brilliantly aware, turned to admire his lover digging into Ramses. A quick move of his head spotted Michael, who stood near me watching.

“Michael,” the boy called, “come, please. Take J.C.’s balls and tug them gently, or he’ll never let Ramses up. He can go for ages, but I never get to see how he looks when, finally, he comes!”

Obligingly, Michael dashed to lend the requested hand. He found the big man’s legs parted sufficiently that to fondle his dumpling-soft bundle was easy. My boy knew what to do. He played with, encircled carefully, then began pulling the compressed testicles each time J.C. cast himself into sweet Ramses’ fundament. Voltage of some sort evidently generated, for our friend ratcheted into high gear and, as he fired his volleys, declared aloud, “Here’s love…from Zeus…to Gany…mede!”

*

The rapport we five felt dictated that we not separate but pass our night together. Turned out, although cozy under a single, encompassing sheet, we slept harmoniously. No shyness nor discomfort disturbed our wakening either.

By breakfast’s arrival, the bathroom had serviced all of us. Before the spectacle of Athens’ ancient Acropolis in early light, we sat and spoke of practicalities. Michael prompted Stephanos to tell us about daily life with J.C.

“We are in the Springwell family house in Greenwich, Connecticut. It’s Tudor style with masonry chimneys, half-timbering, steep gables. We have a big lawn and lots of trees. The piano is a Mason & Hamlin from before the First World War.”

“Completely restored,” J.C. joined in.

“Yes, with a rich tone and responsive action,” Stephanos concluded.

I asked J.C., “Schooling?”

“I home-school my boy, like all members of the Hyacinthus Union. No extraneous distractions that way. No folderol to slow down a mind as quick as my boy’s.”

Stephanos pointed to the time.

Haste dictated that e-mail addresses be exchanged on scraps of paper. I slipped J.C.’s card into my wallet in alongside that of the Grand Officer of the Hyacinthus Union. A collective embrace. Soaring thoughts. We were off.

This novel of mine snakes its steamy way over and beneath the viaducts of the not-so-innocent in the art world on Amazon.

Thanks to gaydemon, my sex-driven stories about agriculture, education, small town life, and high culture await your pleasure.