Butterfly

"Yes, I would like that," I answered, not really sure. I had enough experience now to discern the Congolese baritone's interest—the nature of it—but not enough experience in these matters to be either quick or glib in response. There was no reason not to say no—Hal Horton, the conductor for the D.C. Gay Men's Chorus, had asked that we all be welcoming and accommodating to the needs of the visiting soloist—so I didn't say no.

"We can go to my hotel. It's nearby. There's a bar there. Ethan is it? Your name is Ethan?"

"Yes, of course," I said, watching the slim, but muscular dusty-black—black, not brown—man move away from me as I stood up from the piano bench. As he moved—I'd almost say glided—away he was talking with other members of the choir, full of self-confidence, fully aware that he was in the spotlight. He was a handsome man. I'd almost call him majestic. I certainly thought of him as majestic after having heard him sing through the Broadway Show program we had been rehearsing. He moved gracefully, like a dancer, and I couldn't help looking at the movement of his bubble butt as he walked away and before others descended on me to talk about issues with the program the choir was singing. I was the choir's new accompanist.

I was still feeling my way around with relationships with men, and my exposure to that was slowly evolving. At twenty-four and in a new body, I had moved to Washington, D.C., a totally new man—literally—to work as a practice accompanist at the Kennedy Center, the city's premier performance arts center hovering over the Potomac River between Georgetown and the Mall area. I was working too, voluntarily, as the accompanist for the D.C. Gay Men's Chorus. This put me in direct contact with openly gay men. I was much too much of a novice in a world I'd long watched from the sidelines to be able to identify a gay guy in the general population, and, in my new life, these were men who not only were gay but also who noticed me and came on to me. This was a new world to me.

I was a child prodigy, graduating from high school at fifteen and from college—in the music program at DePauw University in the sleepy little Indiana town of Greencastle, southwest of Indianapolis—at nineteen. From there I'd gone into a dull life of mediocrity, teaching piano in Greencastle, the most unusual aspect of my life being that I lived with an older man, who kept me. I did my teaching in a room in his large house, which meant I didn't go out much. We did have a sex life, in a limited sense, but we were both undesirables to others at that point in life and did little more than mutual hand jobs and quick, awkward fumblings of oral and anal. We both were fat. I had always been heavy and geeky, my nose always in studies, always too young for the other boys my age, never into sports. Clayton Snyder, an elderly dentist, was fat and ugly, but he kept me safe and in the isolation I sought and was very good to me, as a companion, until the day he dropped dead of a heart attack when I was twenty-one and he was sixty-four.

I hadn't realized that he was a millionaire several times over—or that he had no one to inherit other than me. His death came as a life-altering shock to me. I could have remained withdrawn, except now financially secure. The unexpected acceptance to study performance piano at Julliard in New York City abruptly changed all of that, sweeping me up in a whirlwind of opportunity that moved too fast for me to defend myself against it.

In those years in New York, now financially secure and becoming aware of the world and of my own sexuality, I spent almost three years coming out of my cocoon and morphing into a butterfly. I shed seventy pounds, put myself into the hands of an expensive personal trainer and groomer, became an accomplished pianist and a body-beautiful, model-class twenty-three-year old. When I had become a butterfly, the personal trainer taught me to take cock and to want to give cock as well. He was much more interested in oral, however, and taught me to give expert blow jobs—without giving much in return. But my interest in music had taken center stage and my experience with men was still very limited.

Then, barely twenty-four and having learned all I could at Julliard and having developed and stylized my body to perfection, I took the job in Washington, D.C., and started to try my butterfly wings—with the innocence of a much younger man and in a whole new life that gave no one reference to my sad past.

We were practicing at the Theater of the Performing Arts on Connecticut Avenue, near the Van Ness Center, and the Congolese soloist, Beno Kayembe, was being roomed at the Days Inn by Wyndham several blocks north of the theater. We walked, him moving gracefully, like a panther, a hand on my buttocks to guide me, me like a lamb to the slaughter. He was confident. I was trembling, emotionally willing but also an emotional basket case. This was something I'd come to a new life in Washington to pursue—a new, riskier, sexier life.

I was trying my best to hide my nervousness and inexperience in this from Kayembe, embarrassed by my almost total naivete in gay matters. I was avoiding accepting this "let's go for a drink" idea as being more than just that. I had zero confidence in my ability to attract men, even though I now did so. I had every reason to believe that this was just normal life for a hunk like Kayembe—that he could casually pick up and bed willing men.

What if this wasn't an assignation, I wondered. Was I being stupid and completely inexperienced? And what if it was?

While we were moving, he admitted that the Days Inn didn't have a bar. "I was just checking on whether you'd go to my hotel with me," he said, with a full white-toothed grin.

I smiled back, not wanting to admit to him that I hadn't caught the signal at all, let alone the meaning of it.

"By that I mean my hotel room," he clarified. I still didn't do more than smile. He took it as acquiescence, I'm sure—that I was as much into casual sex as he was. It was actually a result of not knowing what to say. His hand went possessively to my butt as we walked.

We stopped at a bar on Connecticut Avenue and had a drink, although I couldn't have told you later what either of us had to drink. But we didn't stay long, exchanging chit chat on how each of us had arrived at today's rehearsal—his life in the Congo and the difficulty of growing up gay—not openly, of course—and as a singer, also not that openly, being expected to be something else, which, in his case was being a personal trainer in a gym. I told him he certainly looked like a personal trainer and he was pleased. I told I'd had a personal training before I came to D.C., but I didn't tell him just how much work it had required to get me fit. He said nothing about my new, trim self, but then he had no idea what I had looked like three years ago. I got the definite impression that he was much more about himself than any guy he was trying to make. It was pretty obvious that he didn't have to try that hard to make a guy. All of his conversation indicated that he was confident he was going to fuck me and that I had been in synch with that from the moment we met and I agreed to go with him.

There was no question whether I was gay and a submissive. I was working with the gay men's chorus and I had accepted his invitation to go with him—and he quite obviously was a top.

I was more sketchy about my background, not thinking that he'd be impressed to hear I had once been 230 pounds, painfully shy and unsocial, and dull as a bedpost. He'd obviously been drawn to the new, butterfly, version of me, and I decided to leave it like that, dwelling on having been a child prodigy and thus more secluded from a normal life than most boys and that I had recently finished my studies at the Julliard in New York and come to D.C. to start a new life—to start life itself, actually. Late.

"You mean it was late when you started letting men screw you?"

"Yes." His bluntness went straight to my cock, making me harden. In many ways he was primitive, raw surface honesty. I found it arousing. "Not that it has happened much," I added. I was so afraid he'd find me too inexperienced for him. I was on the edge. Did I want to or didn't I? He was far beyond me on that issue. It was like he already was laying me on top of the table in this bar—by right of his beautiful body and his raging self-confidence.

"You're not telling me you're a virgin, are you?" he asked.

"No. Just not much experienced," I said.

"Sweet," he said, a grin spreading across his face and a hand going to my thigh. "Shall we go to my hotel room now?"

"Yes," I said, trembling and shimmering inside.

* * * *

"I'm from the Congo. Our country holds the record for biggest cocks. Over seven inches."

"You're bigger than that, aren't you?" I said, with a shudder. I, of course, was no expert in gauging cock measurements, but he looked a foot long to me—and thick and very, very black. It fascinated me; I couldn't look away.

"Yes, I am," Kayembe said, with a grin. "A lot longer than that." And he was, I was sure. It would have hung down to his knees if it hadn't been sticking out, erect. "That's why I undressed first. I didn't want you to find out too late to withdraw."

"But you're hard. So, you don't want—"

"No, I don't want you to leave," he said. "If you don't think you can take it, you can at least give me a hand job. After a rehearsal like we've just had, I'm all keyed up."

"But you don't mean that, do you?" I asked. "You're not going to let me leave just with giving you a hand job."

"No, I'm not," he said, with a grin. "But we can pretend, if you want. You're going to take it inside you and love it."

The Congolese soloist had stripped as soon as we'd gotten to his hotel room. I'd sat on the foot of the bed, watching him, trembling and struggling with myself on whether I wanted to be here. But I had grown impatient and I wasn't getting younger. I wanted to know it all, experience it all. Kayembe would be something exotic—something "more." And that he was. I'd never been with a black man before. I'd probably never be with a black as primeval and hung as he was ever again. His body was magnificent—not overly muscular, but perfectly formed. Dusky black, not the variations of chocolate seen in most blacks in America. Purely Central African, exhibiting even more so because of the tattooing and the stippling on his chest and shoulder blades—a pattern of raised beading of the skin. Nothing like I'd ever seen or ever would see in an American black, I was sure.

And the cock. It was the cock that was arresting, out of proportion to the body. In erection, oversized for his body, impossible to avoid, reaching out toward me as I sat on the bed. Impossibly long and thick. Proud, as it had every reason to be. The raised beading—the stippling—went in a swirl around the shaft as well. I tried looking away, but the wall next to the bed was a mirror, and I could still see it there, reaching out toward me. Besides, he was handling it himself like it was a precious treasure, which, no doubt, it was to him—and to many of the men he had sex with.

He reached over and touched me on the shoulder, gently saying in that rich baritone voice of his. "Don't be scared," he said. "I will be good to you. You will open to me to take it deep. Play with it. Make it something you want inside you."

Shuddering, I turned back to him, took the shaft in my hands, and, as he leaned back and jutted his pelvis forward to let me handle it, played with stroking it and pulling the foreskin back on the glans. I knelt before him. He took my head between his hands. I knew that he wanted to dip my head forward and for me to take him in my mouth.

"I want you to give me suck," he murmured.

"I'm building up to that," I answered.

"If you don't want this—if you think you cannot take me, give me release with your hand; then you can leave," he said. "If not, take it in your mouth and then in your ass. I'll give you an experience and an education as you never had before. Do you wish to leave?"

I hesitated, absolutely terrified. But I wanted to be a butterfly. I wanted to unfurl my wings and experience a new world—a whole new life—while I had time and opportunity to do so. If I left, I'd always wonder.

"I want to, but I don't know if I can," I murmured.

"It's all according to nature. I was made to be inside you and you were made t sheath me. If we take our time, you can. And once you have . . ." He didn't finish the sentence, but he and was caressing my cheeks with his long, black fingers, coaxing me into position.

"No, I'll stay," I said, my voice shaky even in my own hearing. "But you'll be? . . . you're so big."

"Good," he said, ignoring the plea. "We begin." He placed his hands on my shoulders, pulling me in closer on my knees on the carpet at the foot of the bed and between his spread thighs, his hands going back to cupping my cheeks, the bulb off his cock pressed at my lips. I opened my mouth, doing what I could to unhinge my jaw, opening up over the glans, pressing the foreskin back with my lips and teeth. This, at least, I had done before, if not with a shaft of this size. I had been doing this much since I was nineteen, if not often. My eyes watered at taking him in. He moaned as I dragged my teeth down the sides of the shaft and over the nubs that had been stippled on the cock as I took him in. As I did so, I wondered if I'd be able to feel the nubs on my passage walls, but I didn't remember to think about it later while it was happening.

"Fuck, yes, you can suck cock," he said. "So, let's do this right." He pulled out of me, lifted me up to my feet, efficiently undressed me, lifted me again, and gently put me down on my back on the bed, with my head hanging over the foot of the bed. The bulb of the cock was pressed to my lips again, with my head arched back, giving the shaft a straight channel into my throat. I gagged a bit as the cock slid in, but this only made him laugh. It didn't make him stop. I opened wide, including my throat, putting myself into the stance I'd used before to deep throat, and he gasped at how much of himself he could get into my throat—not all by any means, though. He massaged my throat with one hand, feeling where the bulb of the cock was reaching, while working my nubs with the other and slow stroking my throat to an ejaculation. I gagged in trying to take and swallow the cum, but I managed. He sighed his satisfaction, pulled out, and then started manipulating my body into the main event.

While we were naked and in preparation, he playing with his shaft to regain hardness, I remarked on the beauty of his body, which pleased him. He said nothing of mine, which I resented more than a bit, as I had worked hard to achieve it, but he spent time exploring me with his hands and his mouth, so I took that as the best compliment I was going to get from someone as self-absorbed as he was. He didn't throw me out of the room unfucked. He knew every inch of me intimately and had used me totally before I hobbled out of his room on my own.

What came afterward probably was as rough for me as it was because he had been fooled into thinking that my ability to deep throat, even of a cock his size, meant I was experienced in other ways. I wasn't—not well enough for a man of his size. But there wasn't much I could do about his taking from that point. He was much, much stronger than I was and he just put me in the positions he wanted me in and, after he'd recovered his erection when he was done preparing me, he just took what he wanted. It didn't matter to him that he had a cock that stretched me to the limit and could almost reach my tonsils from the ass end.

This was all for his pleasure. Whatever I got along the way, which was a lot, mind you, was incidental to Kayembe taking his pleasure. He was accustomed to guys he was fucking being so in awe of him and his endowments that they gave him whatever he wanted for his own pleasure.

I was in awe of him. He entered and entered and entered me as I writhed under him, panting and gasping, and he fucked me totally. I took it and took it and took it. He obviously enjoyed hearing me groan and moan and unsuccessfully press on him to take it less vigorously. At length, I just gave up and lay back, open and vulnerable, spreading my legs as wide as possible, lifting my tail to the best angle of access, and he took his pleasure as he wished.

* * * *

I was exhausted, stretched out, totally defeated in his arms, and after a half hour of preparation, with Kayembe intent on bottoming out in me before, in his words, he could "begin," I collapsed and totally surrendered. And when I did, when I totally relaxed—or thought I had—I stretched that extra little bit that got those last two inches, of many, many thick inches inside me.

All the time he was working me with his mouth and his lubed fingers and a huge greased dildo, he had been demanding and cajoling me to relax and open totally to him, which I thought I had done, but I had been wrong. When I finally despaired of pleasing him or even of surviving the experience—of dying gloriously because throughout it all I was aroused, on a high, and wanted to do this, to sheath it all and enjoy its play and flow inside me—I did relax and open enough for the satisfaction of his complete possession. His satisfaction, not mine, in his mind. This was for his pleasure. I was just there to sheath him and give him an evening's sport—sexual exercise and release.

I couldn't complain. He hadn't indicated it was otherwise. And I was using him too—to go to the top of the mountain in sex. To make up for lost time and opportunity. To be able to say I could take, what, eight or ten inches of extraordinarily thick black cock? Who knows? Who cared at this point—other than Kayembe who was determined that I do take it before, as he claimed, he could "begin"?

Fuck, if he hadn't begun already . . .

When I had gone completely docile and, I thought, relaxed, loose, and stretched for him and he had buried that last two inches, he was sitting on the foot of the bed, with me in his lap, facing him, my back on his thighs, my left leg running up his torso, and my arms dangling, uselessly, at my sides to the carpet. His hands were squeezing and separating my buttocks cheeks.

Victorious at last, he laughed, murmured, "I told you you would do it"—not that I could do it but that I was going to do it and then, after holding for nearly a minute as my breathing calmed down and we both concentrated on the throbbing of his shaft fully buried inside me, the muscles of my passage walls undulating over the alien club possessing and stretching me to the limit, he began what his idea of the fuck was—grasping my hips in his hands and pulling me on and off the cock in long slides.

Moaning, I lay there, letting him have his way, no longer struggling in any way, being positioned and moved like a rag doll. Over the next half hour, he manipulated me into several different positions, never pulling his cock all the way out, always bottoming on his slides and thrusts, taking me totally.

As he fucked me, still coaxing me to open to him, he was whispering, "Think of something else. You will relax more. You need to relax more. I want to be in deeper." He wasn't coaxing me thus out of irritation or frustration. He was clearly enjoying the conquest and challenge of taking it from me. I was giving him the sport he sought.

Relax more with a club inside me? My mind went to butterflies floating around in a garden of flowers, and it worked. Beyond that, being a pianist, a musical background—on the piano—floated in as well, and I luxuriated in Liszt's "Transcendental Etude No. 10" and his "Reminiscences de Norma," as well as Prokofiev's "Piano Sonata 1, Opus 1." With these aides, I relaxed, loosened, and stretched more and, in doing that, I increasingly was able to focus, with a want of my own, on the cock working inside me—and I did want to enjoy the cock working inside me—as well as the sensation of the floating butterflies with musical background.