The Horn

Author's Note: this one is shorter than my norm. I concieved of it as an introductory piece that will lead to future stories. I'd like to thank Hugo, SSS and others for their crash corse in Horn nomenclature and development. Thanks also to Kendo for the roughdraft edit.

Sam Gatwin was a hell of a Jazz man. He was also one hell of a ladies man, which is what got him killed. His final act wasn't played out on a stage, it was played out between the legs of a pretty society lady. The fact that she was white and Sam was black might have been enough to do him in. No one will ever know how a Jim Crow court would have reacted, because her husband owned a Montgomery Ward single barrel shotgun and that was all she wrote for poor Sam and his lady.

Now some people said Sam's magic with the ladies had more to do with the horn in his hand than the one in his trousers. When deep in his cups he was prone to bragging that a voodoo priestess had blessed it and if you knew how to play it, you could have any woman you wanted.

Sam's horn survived him, but no one was interested in memorabilia of a small time Jazz man back then. It was sold with his few other effects and passed into history. It would be almost sixty full years after his death that people rediscovered his music, thanks to an old aluminum disk recording he made while serving time at Angola. It was nearly ten full years after that, when music major Kerri Towland managed to locate his horn and purchase it.

"That's it?" Sasha said sceptically.

"On yeah, this is it. See the initials stamped into the bell?"

"S.O.W.G.?"

"Samuel Oliver Wendell Gatwin."

"Look, I know you're a little nutty about music and stuff, but you can't even play the trumpet. Five hundred bucks is a hell of a lot of partying you're going to miss out on."

Kerri looked up from her prize and shook her head. Sash was a great friend, but she was definitely a here and now kind of girl. To her it was just a horn, but to Kerri it was history. It had significance to her, not unlike that of a gun owned by Cole Younger or Al Capone did to a gun collector. It was far more than just an antique horn, because Sam Gatwin had once played it.

The horn was unspectacular in most ways. An old Constellation model in nickel silver. The silver had tarnished and the green felt of the case was threadbare. There were two spare mouthpieces, but she had no idea if those were original or something added by a dealer in years past in order to sell the instrument. She had read many of the first hand accounts of how Sam played and of the instrument's purported special powers.

She credited those to clever PR on Sam's part and to "respectable" men looking for an explanation for seemingly "respectable" women taking up with a vagabond Jazz musician. She pursed her lips and gave an experimental buzz and then tried the trumpet. She was by no means a player, but she satisfied herself it was a standard Bb.

"Stop it!" Sash shouted, clamping her hands over her ears.

"What?"

"If you're going to make those awful noises, at least let me get out of the room," she replied, hurrying upstairs.

Kerri laughed and began the long, slow, tedious process of polishing the horn up. Some of the tarnish came away with a little elbow grease, but a strange, kind of veined pattern remained despite all the effort she expended. It looked almost like a network of capillaries just under someone's skin. Kerri resisted the temptation to take an abrasive to it. She hadn't spent months of research and five hundred bucks to damage it. The tarnish was odd, not something she had ever seen or read about, but she wasn't really an expert in old horns. She decided to take it to Dr. Pitt-Martin.

"Hello Kerri," the tall, professor said when Kerri entered her office.

"Hey Doc, thanks for seeing me," Kerri replied.

Dr. Pitt-Martin was a tall woman, with a decidedly rubesesque figure. On a shorter woman, she would have seemed plump, but thanks to the Dr.'s tall frame, she never lacked for admirers. Kerri had only taken one class from her, a kind of overview of the development of the various modern horns. The professor was more often teaching people to play, than teaching history. Still, they had hit it off from the start and Kerri counted the tall professor as one of her favourite teachers.

"Not at all. My office hours are usually filled with sour notes, it's good to get someone who won't attempt to damage my ear drums or sensibilities, every once in a while," she said with a smile.

Kerri returned it and placed the battered case on the professor's desk. The blonde eyed her curiously as Kerri sank into the deeply padded chair in front of the desk.

"What's this?"

"Just take a look at it, I don't want to prejudice your opinion," Kerri said.

"Well, let's see," she said, opening the case.

"It's an old Conn Constellation. I haven't seen one of these in years. I guess you'd like an appraisal of it?"

"Kinda."

"Well, let's see. It's a real Conn, I'd say twenties vintage. Bb. Small bore and..." she paused when she got to the stamp on the bell.

"I'm going to assume you are well aware of what those letters are purported to mean?"

"I am."

"God, I hope you didn't spend a lot. Sam Gatwin's lost, magic horn is one of the oldest running scams in the business."

"I know, but that's it."

"How can you be sure?"

"I traced it, through several owners, back to Percival Marcy. You'll see his stamp on the inside of the case. Records show he purchased it after Sam was murdered."

"Could be a forgery."

"It could, but it's not."

"How much did you pay for this?"

"Five hundred bucks."

"That cheap? For Sam Gatwin's horn? That doesn't sound right."

"The owner had never heard of Sam Gatwin. To him it was just another instrument in his pawnshop he couldn't move. Look, I spent two years fighting with Majors over this. I'm sure."

"Majors? The memorabilia company?"

"The same."

"If they knew of it, they would never have let you get to it before they did. A verifiable Sam Gatwin horn would fetch a pretty penny. This one would likely bring close to a quarter million, if it's the real McCoy."

"They didn't know they had the key to finding it. If they had, they would have refused me access to their archives. In fact they did, twice. As it was, I got a boost from the state, because I was doing research on a historically significant time period. Majors caved when the Historical Preservation folks threatened them with a suit."

"So what did you find there, that no one else has been able to?"

"Everyone knew Majors has the Marcy files, they bought 'em at auction several years ago. They went over them with a fine-tooth comb, but came up empty and, as far as I can tell, they just left them to collect dust. But that stamp has the key to why no one could find it. Mr. Marcy wasn't a musician; he was just an estate dealer. So he bought the horn as part of a lot. The sales receipt from the auction house lists it as a trumpet. So you have it coming into his possession, seemingly never to leave. But look closely at the stamp. He identified it as a Cornet."

The professor pulled out a magnifying glass and carefully examined the faded black lettering of the stamp.

"To us, they're different. As they were to the experts Majors hired, but to Mr. Marcy, they were the same thing. So the sale of a cornet, to J.J. Errington & Sons, in a lot with other instruments, wasn't noticed. They were zoned in on finding the sale of a trumpet. On a hunch, I followed that cornet and ended up with the horn you see before you. Mr. Marcy's stamp proves it was misidentified and I have the paper trail, all the way back to when J.J. Errington took possession."

"Well, I'll be damned."

"My only problems now, are the discoloration on it and proving it really is the same instrument and not another stored in the case. I tried everything but sandpaper to get the stain out. I was hoping there was some kind of test that could verify it was his? Or at least some way to restore it to pristine condition?

"Well," she said slowly, "the discoloration is consistent with descriptions actually. People often said the horn seemed alive, with what looked like veins and arteries. It's always been discounted as part of the voodoo priestess legend. It's probably nothing more than a curious impurity in the metal. Making it a big deal would have been a smart self-promotion move on Gatwin's part, though. You needed to stand out back then to even hope to make a living as a musician. Frankly, most scholars don't believe it had any "veins", so that tarnish you tried so hard to remove may actually be your best evidence, beyond the paper trail."

"Cool! I was thinking maybe a DNA test might work? I know people leave traces in their saliva. So I bagged up the original mouth pieces and took scrapings from inside the spit valve."

The Doctor smiled gently and shook her head.

"I hate to burst your bubble, but Sam had no living relatives when he died. No one even knows for sure where he was born or that Sam Gatwin was even his real name, it seems probable it was an alias. His body was buried in St. Louis. That graveyard was obliterated by a flood a few years back and all the disinterred bodies ended up in a mass grave. So even if the technology has progressed to the point where they could get a DNA profile, they would have nothing to match it to."

"I never thought of that. Is there some other test?"

The professor shrugged.

"Metallurgy tests can confirm its age. And of course it can be proven or disproven to be a Constellation. There is no scientific test I know of that could prove it definitively."

"Rats."

The professor laughed deeply and reached across the desk, tousling her hair. Such friendly expressions were rare for the Professor. She usually kept a professional distance from students, but Kerri was used to them. When it came to her, a lot of the rules didn't seem to apply for some reason.

"Don't be so glum. Instruments aren't like scientific theory. Even the most heavily documented past ownership cases rely on a less onerous burden of proof. It just takes the preponderance of evidence and you have the paper trail, the case, the receipts and, most importantly, the veins. If all that holds up, you'll have a rare find on your hands."

"I just wish there was some sure way to know. Not for proving it to others, just so I could know for myself."

"Well, there is one possibility there," the professor said hesitantly.

"What?" Kerri asked, her excitement rising.

Rather than reply, the professor took the horn out of the case and put the mouth piece in.

"May I?"

"Of course," Kerri replied instantly.

The professor brought the horn to her mouth and softly started playing What A Wonderful World

Kerri wasn't a particular fan of Armstrong, but she knew the piece. She was impatient at first, but as the music played, it seemed to move her much more than ever before. She found herself playing along in her head, anticipating the next note and swaying gently to the melody. As the music continued, she found herself staring intently at Dr. Pitt-Martin.

It was astounding to her that she had never noticed how beautiful the professor was. Her long, blonde hair seemed golden, touched by the fading sun coming in through the window. Her soft green eyes seemed like emeralds, touched by inner fires as the light reflected in them. The thin-rimmed glasses lent a sophisticated air to her.

Kerri noticed how the blazer bulged out, over a perfectly sculpted bust and how her long legs, encased in their dark stockings, were so perfectly formed. Her eyes returned again to the professors and she found herself unable to look away from the beauty she saw there.

Professor Pitt-Martin smiled radiantly, and while still playing, pushed her roller chair out from her desk with her legs. She then turned to face Kerri and slowly, sensuously, spread her long legs. Kerri was mesmerized, watching in almost painful anticipation as the professor's legs opened more, causing her skirt to ride up. The co-ed's heart nearly froze when she saw the garter clasps. She couldn't tear her eyes away, as the professor scooted down in her chair, carrying her rump to the edge of the seat. When she did so, a flash of her red panties caused Kerri's breath to catch in her throat.

Kerri found herself in a state of arousal that bordered on the insane. Her nipples were stiff, pushing out against her bra cups and top. Blood rushed to her center, and her pussy was aching with need. Her eyes were drawn, almost inexorably, back to the professor's. Kerri fell out of her seat, onto the floor, and crawled between the professor's splayed legs.

Somewhere, in the back of her mind, a voice was saying this was wrong. It was urging her to run, but it was no more than a nuisance. A tiny buzz in the back of her head. Kerri settled in on her knees, resting her weight on her thighs and, with shaking hands, gently placed her hands on the inside of the professor's stocking clad knees. The material was cool to the touch, but her skin seemed so hyper sensitive that they almost felt rough. Kerri slid her hands up, over the stocking tops, along the deliciously smooth skin of the Professor's inner thighs and over the silky briefs. She curled her hands into them and pulled them down.

The professor put her legs together and Kerri pulled the delicate garment off. She held them to her nose, inhaling deeply. The professor's delicate, but musky aroma caused Kerri's pussy to contract in pleasure. She felt her deep muscles contracting rhythmically, even her anus seemed to be in on it.

She groaned as an orgasm of unprecedented power ripped through her. Massive blasts of otherworldly pleasure seemed to emanate from her spasming pussy and crash into her heated brain. Starbursts of color exploded on the backs of her tightly closed eyes, taking on fantastical shapes. Dragons, pegasi, and mythic beasts seemed to vie with incredibly erotic women in her swimming vision. The buzz in the back of her head was stronger now, as the unreality lent it power. She didn't come easily in the first place and this defied her notions of arousal and reality so strongly that she almost broke the spell, but her eyes returned to the professor's. The music wound it's way around her head, and she became enraptured, the panic fading back to a minor irritant. Those sparkling green eyes soon held her undivided attention.

Those eyes danced and she suddenly knew what she wanted, more than anything in the world. The professor spread her legs, the skirt was pushed up past her waist and her glorious pussy was visible. The outer lips gaped open slightly with arousal. Her mound was fat and fleshy. Her soft, blonde pubes were neatly trimmed. With an inarticulate sigh of contentment, Kerri leaned forward and buried her nose in them.

She closed her eyes, pushed her tongue between the slick outer lips and nuzzled. The flavour was incredible, better than the finest wine or gourmet meal. The blonde's juices were thick and viscous, clinging to her inner folds, but Kerri lapped at them persistently. She could feel the silky folds as her tongue rolled over them, the hard pebble of the professor's clit. The tactile sensations gipped her, even more than the taste and for a long, timeless period, she just happily licked and kissed and sucked.

Eventually her attentions began to tell and the professor's hips started to buck. Kerri's hand slipped to the crotch of her jeans and she began to rub. Her orgasm came as the professor's did, their mutual moans and cries mingling as the music faltered and then faded.

This orgasm was as intense as the first one. Sharp contractions in her deep muscles correlated to intense spiked of pleasure in her head. Kerri had been even less prepared for this one than the first, experiencing none of the normal precursors. Such intense pleasure was unknown to her and for a few moments she just ceased to be, getting totally lost in the sensations. Her muscles were still quivering when she came back to herself. After shocks continued to ripple away for some moments more.

"Oh my god!" Kerri exclaimed when she had recovered herself, burying her face in her hands.

"God, indeed," the professor managed, her breathing still not under control.

Kerri blushed scarlet when she glanced at the professor; her face was soft, almost glowing and her pussy glistened with a combination of saliva and natural lubricant. She was no longer unbearably beautiful, in fact, she was back to being just vaguely pretty. Her hair was dirty blonde, her eyes green and the slightly angular features were back to what Kerri was used to, but she did have an expression of satisfaction that softened her otherwise hard features. Kerri rose shakily to her feet, but the magnitude of what had just transpired hit her and she felt faint. The professor quickly rose and guided Kerri back to her chair.

"Just breathe deeply, it's all right," she encouraged.

"What just happened?" Kerri asked.

"You just got your proof. If any proof can be definitive, that was," the professor said with a smile as she collected her panties and put them back on.

"I'm not even gay," Keri moaned.

"No? You should consider it. I've never had head that good before," the professor said, resuming her seat and reverently placing the horn back in its case.

"Professor?"

"Call me Jean, I think after that, we should be on a first name basis," she said with another smile.

Kerri nodded dumbly.

"Before I go on, how did you become interested in Sam Gatwin?"

"Professor Marks."

Jean nodded and sat back, folding her hands together and locking her fingers, except for the two next to her thumbs which she tapped contemplatively on her nose.

"How to say this? Don Marks is a professional lecher," she began.

Her words were halting at first, but gained in clarity and assurance as she spoke.

"It's no secret he can be persuaded to give out A's to any girl who will put out for him. He's also a wildly superstitious man, who believes unabashedly in charms and magic and omens. He fancies himself a voodoo shaman and his endless demands that the school recognize him as such has caused no little stir."

Kerri put her hands in her lap. Looking down she nearly died of embarrassment when she saw a quite noticeable wet spot in the crotch of her jeans. Luckily, the professor was still speaking and pulled her attention away from that embarrassing evidence of her arousal.

"To say the least, Don's interest in Sam Gatwin is far from professional. He has, on several occasions, bored us all silly with his wild stories and theories over lunch. When he wasn't scandalizing his more prudish peers, that is. I've never paid much attention to him or his tales, but when you showed up with Sam's horn and, what I'm convinced is solid evidence it's the real McCoy, some of his stories came back to me."

"What stories?"

"Have you ever seen a picture of Gatwin?"

"No."

"Not surprising, only one or two are known to exist. He was an absolutely ugly fellow. Broad, flat features, lips so thin they looked almost like a razor cut in his face. Not exactly the countenance one would expect from one of Jazz's best known and most prolific womanizers. According to legend, his horn was the vehicle for his seductions and success. A New Orleans voodoo priestess supposedly blessed it. Don has spent almost thirty years chasing down every rumor of it. Sam always bragged if you knew how to play it, you were in, but people assumed he was bragging about his skill. Don didn't think so. He thought Sam was being honest, if deceitful. According to his study of first hand conversations, the trick was to play while concentrating on the woman you wanted. As long as she was held by the music, you could simply imagine her doing what you wanted and she would. Hocus pocus and fantasy, I would have said until just now."