Guitar Me

"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?"

"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?"

"Always."

"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.