Adopted to Inherit

"Such brazenness."

I turned to Collen, who was pursing his lips as he gazed across Charleston College's Sottile Theatre. We were sitting, side by side, on the aisle of the third row center, in the "official" section. The orchestra was tuning up for the Thursday, 22 May, opening of the premier run of the Rhiannon Gidden-composed opera, Omar, at the 2021 Spoleto Music Festival.

We were a strange pair, I knew, and I, at least, was drawing a lot of attention. Some there would recognize me. Others, who didn't, would be wondering what the hell I was doing at this event. Some didn't know I was a twenty-eight-year-old opera singer in New York as well as a classical music critique for Ovation magazine, here to cover this opera opening. My "date" and seatmate, Collen, was a mainstay here. He quite certain was recognized by more in Charleston, South Carolina, and at the annual Spoleto Festival than I was. He headed the public relations effort for the festival and thus was on the festival staff.

Other than that, ours was a noticeable Mutt and Jeff pairing. Collen was pushing forty and was short and dapper—slender and somewhat effeminate. He was a handsome devil, arresting flame-red hair and striking blue eyes and a perpetual "What can I do for you that will get you to do something for me?" smile. Contrasting him, I was tall and hulking, at six-foot-four, a former basketball star at Louisiana State University, originally from Jamaica, and milk-chocolate black, with dreadlocks. If only those looking at us knew what lurked below the surface of my tuxedo. If only they knew what Collen and I would be doing later tonight. I was here, as a guest performer and media reporter, because Collen and I had already met and bedded in New York.

"Brazenness because we have come together?" I asked. "I know we're in the South, but is a white man with a black man all that unacceptable here? Or is it a man with a man?"

"I think it's the dreadlocks," Collen said, with a saucy smile. But then he added, "No one knows we're here, sitting together, other than in an official Spoleto capacity. No, Devan, the brazenness is those two over there. One the other side of the theater. On the second row. René is looking back at us now."

"Ah, the young, dark, sensual young man? He's looked over at us several times. I wondered what he was doing in the official section. Do you mean because he is with that big black guy sitting beside him—like you and me sitting here? He's a handsome dude."

"There's that, of course."

"You're here with a big black bull, Collen. We're going to fuck later. What's more brazen about those two than us two? They may not even be together."

"Oh, they're together all right. The black stud is a male escort. His name's Jomo Davis."

"And you know this because?"

"You know why I would know that, Devan. And the two have come together. They are seen around a lot now. The brazen part is who René is and why he's not here with someone else."

"Someone else like who?" I asked.

"Gino Capilati."

"The Italian composer? One of the big daddies of this festival?" Capilati was the conductor emeritus of the Orchestra del Maggio Musicale Florentino in Florence, Italy. He spent his summers here in Charleston working on the Spoleto Festival, which was originated by the composer Gian Carlo Menotti to parallel the annual music festival in Spoleto, Italy. His connection to Spoleto was to help preserve the Italian connection to the music festival.

"Yes, that's the scandal here. Capilati, who hasn't been seen yet in the leadup to this year's festival, impulsively adopted René late last winter as his son. Before that, they were a couple."

"This René looks very young—a sexy very young," I said. "Capilati must be ancient now."

"Yes, he's nearly eighty. There can't be anything sexual between the two anymore—but to adopt him? That's a scandal, even here. And for René to then be seen at music venues with a male escort—a black one to boot? The young man is twenty-five, and he's a gold digger despite his title and talent."

"He has a title? And what's his talent?"

"Yes, he's some hereditary Italian count with a long, distinguished name. René Tencredi Fallett di Barolo, if I remember correctly."

"If you remember correctly?" I laughed. "That's a big mouthful to be able to flip out so casually. You keep tabs on him, don't you?"

"Yes, I do. Capilati is a good friend of mine. I hate to see him taken advantage of like this—and so blatantly be cuckolded. To inherit what must be great riches from Gino, the young Italian has become just René Capilati and calls Gino 'Daddy.' When he's not fucking around with the male escort, Jomo Davis, that is. He does have musical talent. I'll grant him that. He played cello in Milan's Orchestra I Pomeriggi Musicali before Capilati coaxed him here to join the selection staff for the festival."

The lights were dimming and the orchestra was about to begin the overture. René was turning his face back again and looking across the theater at us—at me, I think. He smiled and nodded. I returned both. If he enjoyed the company of a black stud, maybe he'd enjoy mine. He was a beautiful young man and I was perpetually horny. I wondered if he knew who I was—what I liked—what I like doing to sweet pieces like him.

"I trust the black stud is a high-priced escort," I said.

Collen snorted. "He certainly charges me a lot."

"Then that's fine," I said. "Not too brazen. Not as brazen as this." My hand went to Collen's knee and then as the lights went full down just before the curtains opened, I briefly moved the hand to his crotch and squeezed. As I suspected, he was half hard. He drew in his breath and let out a little moan. He didn't draw away, though. He slouched forward in his seat and parted his legs more, giving me more of a handful of him at the crotch.

"I won't charge you anything at all," was the last thing I said as the opera began.

* * * *

His name was Mike Trent. He was nineteen and a tenor with the Westminister Choir of Rider University, in Lawrence, New Jersey, which had been singing at the Spoleto Festival for over twenty years. The choir students also gave voluntary service as ushers at events throughout the festival. Collen Prince had invited a couple of the students to pass veggies at his small after-opera party at his snug mews house on the short, two-block Trapman Street on the south side of the Charleston old city peninsula near Colonial Lake.

This had been the slave side of the city and there were a lot of small, out of the way houses here that escaped the worst of the 1989 hurricane damage and had been restored. The whole area had been under a gentrification renewal process since Hurricane Hugo nearly leveled this section of the city. Collen's house, tastefully renovated at great expense, had essentially a one-room living-dining-study L downstairs with a kitchen and an enclosed porch off the back downstairs and two bedrooms and two baths upstairs.

About a dozen festival staffers and a few performers—all men and all gay—had been invited. They spent much of their time on the enclosed porch, which had a bar at one end attended by a cute mulatto guy, Dennis, who was giving me the eye whenever he had the chance.

Mike Trent had gone into mesmerized fan mode when he'd seen me at the party and had followed me around with his bacon-wrapped chestnuts tray. He'd seen me in Otello as Othello in New York a couple of seasons earlier. Being an imposing, manly black and having a deep baritone, I came easily to the role.

I had no trouble getting him upstairs and under me in the smaller of the two bedrooms. Two other guys were on the bed in the master bedroom. I didn't trouble with a rubber. He was young and claimed to be inexperienced and it had been a bit rushed. As hard as it was to get my cock in him, I could believe he hadn't done it much, but then I was massive, so no one took me easily. A lot of men wanted to take me, though, and I accommodated them. Once we got into it, Mike took me like a trouper, adjusting well to the rhythm and lying comfortably in my embrace and opening to me nicely. He was a sweet lay.

I bent him over the bed, not taking the time to strip myself. I just had my fly unzipped and my erection out. I'd stripped his trousers and briefs off. I held my hand over his mouth to stifle his initial inclination to scream at the size of what he had to take, and I palmed his belly with the other hand to hold him in place. It took god awfully long to stuff him at least half way and to be saddled enough to pump, but I managed. And he managed. And we fucked. When he was well in place and skewered, I took my hand off his belly, ran it into the long, dark hair on his head, and pulled, arching his head up into my chest while I pumped him. I released his mouth to hear him yodel, which he did, and found that he, indeed, was a tenor. I left him collapsed on his belly on the bed, humming softly to himself and blowing bubbles, my cum dribbling out of his ass.

Welcome to Charleston and Spoleto.

When I came downstairs, nearly all of the other guests had cleared out. Collen asked me to stay afterward. I wasn't surprised. Although I was checked into the Mills House Hotel, five blocks away on Queen Street, I had assumed I'd be spending the night with and on top of Collen.

Everyone was gone except for the bartender, Dennis, still washing and polishing glasses out on the porch when I fucked Collen on the living room sofa. We were completely stripped down for this, and I used a condom, because I was very suspicious where Collen had been and with whom. He wanted me naked anyway. He loved the thuggishness of my body under the elegant clothes I wore as well as the hulking muscularity of me and my huge cock and plump balls. He particularly liked the tattoo—of a three-masted sailing ship, following the curve of my left breast, with the scene of a far shore flowing over my left bicep and down to my elbow in waves and snow caps, all done in blue. Cobalt blue on brown skin. And he liked the piercings—the rings in my nipples and the heavy Prince Albert ring in the bulb of my cock. In New York, he'd said he loved me fucking him with the PA ring in. He seemed to like it as much here on his sofa as well as liking the click of it on his teeth as he attempted to deep throat me before I fucked him.

He huffed and puffed as he lay on his back along the sofa cushions, his ankles on my shoulders, as I crouched over him and took my time getting my cock inside him. Unlike the young Westminister Choir tenor, I gave the seasoned nearly-forty-year old the entire length, merging short hairs with short hairs before I pumped him. He clutched at my shoulder blades with his claws, screaming bloody murder as I fucked him deep, but everything he was screaming was encouraging me to give him the full treatment, which I did.

Dennis came to the porch door and watched us a for a while. He was polishing a glass. It must have been highly polished in the time he stood there.

He was still there, behind the bar, fussing around doing not much of anything—waiting for me, I was sure—when I left Collen, well fucked, stretched out on his back on the sofa, one arm and leg dangling off the side, and babbling.

I fucked Dennis on the floor behind the bar, putting him on all fours and fucking him like a dog. His eyes bugged out, and he nearly dropped a glass as I strutted onto the porch buck naked.

"Shit. You're gigantic," he said. "And fuckin' gorgeous. I love black bulls."

"Yes, I am, and I love being a black bull. You're getting all of it if you stay around any longer."

He stayed around. "You sure you can do it a second time in one evening?" He asked.

"The third time," I said, as I put him on his hands and knees, mounted him high, filled him, and rode him like we were in a rodeo. He whined and whimpered and bucked under me, but he took it all and claimed afterward to have loved it.

After I'd done the bartender, I came back into the living room, scraped Collen off the sofa, threw him over my shoulder, and took him upstairs. I fucked him at least two more times in the night that I could remember. He rolled onto his back, opened his legs, and drew my cock inside him each time, each time exclaiming, "Shit, you're huge. I don't know if I can . . ."

But he could, each time. "Nope, I haven't gotten any smaller in the last hour," I answered each time. With each successive fuck, though, his passage had dilated more. The last time I contemplated fisting him too and knew I could have done it. But I was too tired at that point for new games. Also, I liked having my boy's wrists tied to the headboard when I did that to him.

I had managed a full sweep that night. I'd been long overdue for a roundhouse night. I was satiated, buoyant, and walking on air as I walked back to the Mills House Hotel at the corner of Queen and Meeting Streets the next morning.

Dennis had still been there when I'd showered, dressed, and went downstairs, and I decided then that Dennis was there more-or-less permanently with Collen. I should have figured that out. Now that I thought about it, someone was living in the second bedroom where I'd spiked the choir tenor. Collen was downstairs at the kitchen bar too. They offered me coffee and croissants, which I accepted, but that didn't do it for me. When I got to the hotel, I went into the dining room, still in my tuxedo from the previous night, now somewhat disheveled, and had a full breakfast.

As I was entering the hotel, the black stud escort I'd seen at the opera with René Capilati the previous evening was leaving the hotel. He nodded to me, as if he knew who I was and that we were brothers in the fight, which I suppose we were, although I didn't do it for money. I nodded and smiled back. I was entering the dining room when the elevators opened and René Capilati, the adopted gold digger, strutted out. He too, like the black escort had been, was wearing a tuxedo, as he'd done at the opera. I half expected and hoped that he'd come into the dining room to eat breakfast, but he didn't. He was gone when I came out of the dining room.

Regardless, I had a very good idea what the two of them had been doing here in the hotel the previous night. I wondered if either of them had gotten off as many loads as I had. That had me counting them. Five? Was it five? And the bartended had asked me if I could produce two. I laughed.

I went up to my room, stripped off my tuxedo, took a shower, laid out on the bed nude, and slept the sleep of the victorious and well fucked—a black man at the height of his virility.

* * * *

"Well, hello, who is that now?" The curtain was about to go up at the Spoleto Festival opera in the Sottile Theatre in Charleston and René Capilati, festival staff member, was looking around to see who was there. He'd spotted Devan Grey sitting with the festival public relations director, Collen Prince, across the theater.

"The big black stud with the dreadlocks?" the man sitting beside René asked.

"Yes, the big black, beautiful stud with the dreadlocks," René answered. "Isn't he gorgeous? I think I'm supposed to know who he is." René flashed the man a smile when he realized that their eyes had met, and the man smiled back. It wasn't just a friendly smile—not from either one of them—and they both instantly recognized that, both of them being active in the lifestyle.

"Why are you interested in him? He's just another black giant and you have one sitting right here beside you," Jomo Davis said. Jomo worked for a high-end escort service in Charleston. René had hired him for the evening—and the night, all night. Jomo wasn't used to a client's aroused interest being redirected away from him.

"Maybe it's the dreadlocks," René said. "I wonder if he's hung."

"I'm hung," Jomo answered.

"Yes, you're a big black bull," René answered, giving Jomo's forearm a pat, as the lights were going down. He shot another look across the rows, smiled when he saw the look was returned, and nodded another "maybe we'll hook up" nod to the black dude with the dreadlocks sitting next to Collin Prince. "Ah, now I think I know who he is," René said. "I think that's Devan Grey. A Jamaican, although American now. He's an opera star himself, and he writes for Ovation. Collin brought him down for the festival. I'll bet he's doing Collin."

"So, who hasn't done Collin Prince?" Jomo said.

"You never," René said, turning a smile on the handsome black man at his side.

"Several times," the escort answered.

The orchestra was swinging into the overture, so the two men settled in their seats. In the dark, René snaked a hand over between Jomo's thighs, and the black man widened his stance and covered his lap with his fanned-out program bulletin. René deftly unzipped him, pulled his monster of a cock out, and stroked him. The escort gave a little jerk when René pressed his thumb into the man's piss slit, but he held. He was on the job. It was his job to hold and not to come until the client wanted him to. It also was his job to pretend like he gave a shit what was happening on stage in the opera and to let a client play with his cock in public like this if that's what the client wanted. René was paying big bucks for this. Besides, Jomo would have his innings later. René was no different than any other client. When Jomo got his cock in him, René would go docile for him and take him as rough as Jomo wanted to do it.

René was a client who liked it rough and liked it to be a surprise.

In the interval, Collin Prince and the big black with the dreadlocks rose and headed up the aisle in single file, Collin guiding the black dude. There would be drinks carts in the lobby. René stood, preparing to walk back to the lobby himself.

"Where are you off to?" Jomo asked.

"I should check in on Gino," René said, pulling his cellphone out.

"Your sugar daddy?" Jomo asked. "Does he know you're out with me?"

"Yes, he knows. And he isn't my sugar daddy. He's my father now."

"Didn't you used to—?"

"Our relationship has changed. I'll be in the lobby."

"Maybe you should call him here. Most everyone has gone to the lobby. It will be noisier in the lobby than here."

"You just don't want me to go sniffing around Devan Grey and his dreadlocks," René said, with a laugh.

"And you're wondering if he has a bigger cock than I do," Jomo answered, a bit stung, because he, indeed, thought that René wanted to sniff around the other black stud, and that wounded Jomo's pride. "But I'm right about the cellphone reception, aren't I?"

"Yes, you are," René admitted. He took the phone and walked over to the middle of the theater in front of the first orchestra rows and made his call.

Twelve minutes later the lights were flashing, calling the audience back to their seats for the second act. Collin Prince and Devan Grey were coming back down the other aisle to their seats. Prince was guiding Grey with the palm of a hand on the black giant's tailbone, and René had a momentary twinge that maybe he had it wrong and that Prince, not Grey, was dominant. But no, he thought, that couldn't be the order. Grey was just too magnificent.

René was about to sit in his seat. But Jomo, standing, grabbed his wrist, strongly enough that René winched.

"Come with me," Jomo growled, pulling René a step up the aisle.

"The opera is about to begin," René said.

"Fuck the opera," Jomo hissed. "You aren't any more interested in this opera than I am. You want to take a piss."

His grip was strong. So was his experience with René and his knowledge of what turned the client on. He wasn't wrong. René was turned on by surprise and forceful domination. This was making René go hard. Surprise, ending in kinky sex, turned René on. This wasn't the only performance of the new opera Omar that René had tickets for. As the lights in the theater went down, he allowed Jomo to herd him up the aisle, into the lobby, around to the side, looking for and finding one of the more remote men's rooms. Jomo stripped René of his tux trousers and briefs in one of the cubicles, pushed him down on the toilet, put René's ankles on his shoulders, and fucked the stuffing out of him with a monster black cock.