By Chance

I gasped as he entered me. There had been little preparation. He wasn't large, but it still was a chore to stretch to his insistent need.

"Hold. Hold, Grant. Take it. Open up. Yes. Good boy." I gripped the far edges of the small conference table I was bent over in Ronald Dunston's office in the San Francisco Symphony Hall, my cheek plastered to the mahogany surface of the table, the conductor's fist pressed into the small of my back, I panted and groaned, as the sheathed shaft moved in and out, in and out.

"You do it. Fuck yourself. Ah, yes, very nice. Beautiful boy." He held steady as I began to move my pelvis, moving back into the hard cock inside me and then forward, pulling away from it and then fully sheathing it. He wasn't thick, but he was long. He wasn't young and he wasn't trim. But he was the maestro, which was the only thing that counted. Nothing else mattered here other than that he was the maestro and wanted servicing from me.

His heavy underbelly was pressed to the small of my back where his hand had been when he penetrated me, and one of his hands had moved to grasp the back of my neck, holding my head down on the surface of the table. I didn't even begin to think of him as an old, overweight man. He was the maestro. The other hand went around my thigh and he was fondling my balls and stroking my cock as I moved back and forth, back and forth, on the engorged shaft.

Ronald hummed and I moaned, screwing in harmony.

I was here at Dunston's sufferance. I played the cello. To be able to do so in a San Francisco Symphony concert was a step up for me. The chance to do so was why I let Ronald Dunston fuck me. He was no prize looks or age wise, but he was a maestro, one of a few conductors permitted to take on concerts with this symphony and in this hall. We'd met by chance somewhere or other--I forget precisely where and when. But I hadn't forgotten what he did, putting concerts together and conducting them. I let him fuck me. This is San Francisco. It was a gay city. I let a lot of men fuck me. I had a good reason to let him cover me--a better reason for why I let most men screw me.

Dunston was a concert conductor and I played the cello. He was conducting a concert here, the symphony backing some vocal soloist from Europe, and he was down a cello player. So, here I was, belly to tabletop, Dunston's dick inside me, and me moving my ass back and forth on it, screwing myself on his shaft, showing gratitude for being given the concert gig. No big deal. This was San Francisco. Giving it up in a fuck was a renewable resource once you'd lost your virginity. And, with me, that was long gone.

I heard a sound, the creak of Dunston's office door, I thought, and I turned my head in that direction. The door had been shut; now it was slightly ajar. I had the sensation that someone was there--tall, bulky, a flash of reddish-blond hair. I instinctively moved, pushing up, having the notion to roll away and off the table. But Dunston muttered, "No, you don't. Hold still. You're in it now," and grasped the back of my neck, turning my head away from the door, toward the window, and holding my head to the surface of the table. He hadn't heard anything. When I had a chance to turn my head back, the door was closed. I was so nervous to be doing it in the symphony hall, here in Dunston's office, that I decided I'd imagined being seen.

I came onto the carpet under the conference table to Dunston's stroking hand, not making any effort to hold off and prolong the fuck. He was filling and stretching me, but not in a challenging way. I was able to get hard for him myself and to come off because I liked being screwed and, though he was no prize in body, he was a towering figure in my world. It was a thrill to be screwed by the man with the baton in a music concert I was playing my cello in. I took my music very seriously. And I took dicks churning in my ass where I could get them.

Soon after I came, he was pulling out of me, I heard the slither of the condom being jerked off, and he came on my butt cheeks. He stepped away from me, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter were being lifted from the table from in front of my face, my cheek still pressed to the table top, and he moved to the window overlooking Van Ness Avenue. I lay there for a few minutes, pulling myself back together, regularizing my breathing, my hand going to my cock to pick up on the stroking, aware I had been fucked but not to full satisfaction. My T-shirt was off my torso and heaped up beside me on the table. My jeans and briefs were down around my ankles. It had been a "quick into position" fuck. Nothing romantic.

I watched Dunston lounging in the window frame, backed from the late-morning light streaming in from the San Francisco crisp early spring sunshine. His trousers and briefs were off, puddled at my feet. His billowy white linen shirt was unbuttoned and flared open. In profile, I could see the bulge of his stomach. He was handing his still half-hard cock and stroking it, indicating that he hadn't been completely satisfied either. I discerned that we weren't finished. That was the pattern with him. The first time would be quick, not completely satisfying for either of us. If he could get it up again, there would be a second, longer fuck. The satisfaction with the second fuck was what would keep him asking me to lie down for him.

The other hand held his now-lit cigarette. The hand was dancing in the window frame between puffs. He looked lost in thought, and I realized that he was running through his conducting of the piece we had been working on in the concert hall that morning. He was lost in his music. I'd seen this before between fucks. They were useful for him, these sessions. They gave rise to him going through the music in his mind. I was grateful for that. Sex with him didn't do that for me, unfortunately, although perhaps I should work to get to that level with him. Perhaps I needed to see getting off with him as freeing musical creativity. Perhaps I just didn't understand that musical release was a higher pleasure for him--and perhaps it could be for me too--to just getting a load fired off.

Luckily, I could get off on the mere desire to do so. The man inside me didn't need to be a dreamboat.

He turned and looked at me, still bent over the table, and smiled. He was in erection again, such as it was. He moved to the desk, where there was an ashtray and stubbed his cigarette out. He picked up a condom packet, split it, and crowned himself, turning toward me so that, still cheek to table top, but my head turned to the interior of the room, I was watching him slowly roll it on, knowing that, within minutes, it would be inside me again. It was almost a sensual move, even if his body wasn't arousing. I whimpered. "Yes, please. Please do me again."

Then he was behind me again, hands grasping my hips, and he mounted me, penetrated me, stretched my channel, and fucked me again. I felt it more now--more stretch, more slide, more friction, more caressing of channel walls, which responded, rippling over the hard, moving shaft. This time he was fucking me; I wasn't using his cock to fuck myself. He was humming as he stroked. I recognized the tune, a section of the score we'd been practicing earlier that morning, and the music entered and resonated through my brain.

This fuck was better--a whole lot better.

Afterward, he slapped me affectionately on the rump as he pulled away from me, lit up another cigarette, and returned to the window frame. I knew he'd gotten more satisfaction this time. So had I.

"You can use the bathroom over there to clean up," he said. "There's a washcloth in there you can use. I suppose you'll want to find a lunch somewhere before we start the practice again. Please be circumspect in leaving here."

And when I came back from the bathroom, cleaned up and dressed, he was still standing in the window frame, just in his open shirt, the tail of which came almost down to his knees. Again, his stomach bulged out from the shirt as did his cock, now flaccid, not now being stroked--apparently satisfied, for now. He was using both hands, including the one holding the cigarette, in conducting an imaginary symphony through a piece of music. He was humming, so I knew the passage he was conducting in the air was from the concert we were practicing. He seemed to be in heaven. As far as he was concerned, I wasn't even there--perhaps I never had been.

I silently went to the door, assuming Dunston was in another world altogether--one that I would have loved to share in. It was now that I was able to think of him as a lover rather than just someone far more important that I was who could help me with my ambitions--if he chose to and if I gave him what he wanted from me. But he knew I was there at the door.

"Don't forget that the rehearsal resumes at 4:00. I kept track of you this morning. You fit in very well with the symphony. There may be a place for you here." He then turned toward me, giving me a pointed look. "It isn't all because you are a beautiful boy and give me good fuck. You are a promising young musician. I would not put my cock in you if you didn't have promise."

I felt a warm glow surge through my body. "Mr. Dunston. Maestro--"

"Go on, have your lunch. It will be a long day. An evening rehearsal too, with the soloist. I think I'll want you to do me a favor after this afternoon's rehearsal."

Yes, of course you will, I thought. But what I said was, "Thank you, sir," and then I left him, returning to his world, his hands dancing in the light that was streaming into the window. He was already half way through his mental practice of the piece.

* * * *

The first thing I noticed about Armando wasn't that he was drop dead gorgeous. I was that he was weaving around on Larkin Street, pulling a suitcase behind him and shaking a cellphone near his ear like he was a drunken man. And it was a good thing I was zeroed in on him too, because at the corner of Larkin and Eddy, he stepped out into oncoming traffic, and I had to grab him from behind and pull him back to safety.

"Che diavolo?!--What the hell?!" he declared, and that's when I knew he was Italian. I knew enough about Italian to figure out he was surprised and just now snapping back into where he was. He also was gorgeous--dark and sultry... tall, trim, and obviously fit, with wavy black hair, sexy five-o'clock shadow, sensual smile, and flashing dark eyes, his expression changing from surprise, annoyance, and confusion to an interested smile. I took him in just like that, in an instance, immediately aching for him sexually. But then I realized I had been assessing him as I walked behind him as he was weaving up to the intersection. He had buns to die for.

"Questo cazzo di telefono. È mort," he exclaimed, and then when he realized he was speaking in Italian while standing at an intersection in San Francisco, in the United States, he gave me a wan smile and said, "Sorry. This fucking phone has gone dead and I was using it to find my hotel." His English was just fine. How nice for us lazy Americans that most of the rest of the world makes an effort to learn our language.

I laughed. "You were walking off the curb into oncoming traffic."

"Siamo spiacenti--Sorry," he said, "Thanks for saving me." His smile was fuller now. He was a god and I ached for him.

I couldn't let him just walk away. "Come, there's a café over here," I said. "Let's have a coffee and I'll see if we can sort this out together." When he hesitated, I lifted the laptop bag I was carrying, having left the symphony hall at lunchtime intending to do some work in the computer before going back, and added. "I have a recharger in here. We can get your cellphone going again while we have a coffee."

"Buono Molto buono. Yes, very good, thanks. We sit and I regather."

I led him over to an outdoor café on Larkin Street and introduced myself as we sat. He positioned his suitcase on the other side of where we sat next to each other, looking out onto the street, and I opened my laptop bag and brought out my recharger. He flashed me a glorious smile as he hooked up his cellphone.

"I'm Grant," I said. "Grant James." I wanted to add, and you're gorgeous, but I didn't. I'm sure the look I gave him conveyed that. The look I got back was open and seemed interested. Could I hope he was gay--and a top--I wondered. That was normally a stretch, of course, but had a good chance of being right here in San Francisco, especially since his initial reaction seemed to be to check me over just as I was drinking him in. He was dressed both sensually and expensively. Well-cut designer jeans with a white silky shirt, open several buttons down, showing a gold medallion on a chain nestled between hard, olive-complexioned pecs, with swirls of curly black chest hair.

A waiter appeared, giving the young Italian the same look of longing I knew I had, and took our coffee orders. "I am Armando. Armando Rizzo," he said. "I am from Italy."

"Yes, I gathered that," I said, with a smile. He smiled back. "New to San Francisco?"

"Pardon?" he asked.

"Nuovo? Un turista?--New? New to San Francisco? A tourist?" I asked.

"Ah, you speak Italian then?"

"No, not really. Sorry."

"No matter," Armando said. "New here, yes. Just for a few days. I am here on business."

I didn't pursue what business that would be. The coffees had arrived and his cellphone was charged. "Look. Your phone is recharged. You can make that call now. But maybe I can help you. Where were you going? What were you looking for?" I gave a little laugh then. I knew that what I wanted him to be looking for was me.

I nearly melted when his response was as if he read my mind. "Maybe I was looking for a salvatore--what do you say, a savior?" He gave me a meaningful look but then continued. "What my phone was trying to tell me, though, is where my hotel was--where I had been booked."

"What hotel?" I asked. I was trembling because he'd touched my knee with the fingers of one hand and hadn't taken them away. He had been speaking with his hands as much as his voice since we'd met, which I took to be an Italian trait. I rather hoped it was more intimate than that, though.

"The Phoenix Hotel," he said. "I was told it was something special--swinging, I think they said."

I laughed. "We don't need your phone to find it. You were standing in front of it when you walked off the curb into traffic. It's right there--across the street. And, yes, it's a special place. A motel, really, but straight out of the 1950s. The décor is rock and roll. It's quite unique." My assessment that he might be a player deepened. Whoever had booked his hotel had been thinking in the vein of swinger--like they knew he was a player and would enjoy that connection.

"I hope I really am booked there. I don't know what I'll do if I'm not. I'll have to look through my papers to see who to contact here if there is no hotel booking."

"I'm sure they will help you at the hotel reception desk if there's a problem." It was a gay-friendly hotel. The receptionist more than likely would be gay. This man was drop dead gorgeous. I know he'd get all of the help they could give him.

"You have been so disponibile--so helpful," he said, his hand moving from my knee to my forearm, causing the hairs on my arm there to electrify and making me have to put myself in check not to moan. "Perhaps you could come across and stand with me until I know I'm in the right place. I may not have remembered the hotel right."

"Of course," I said. I would have followed him anywhere. He wasn't just touching my forearm; he was stroking it. He was checking out my preferences and availability. I gave him a look meant to tell him I was his, if he wanted me.

I would gladly remain in his presence for as long as possible. I did as he asked--I would do anything he asked of me at that point. I was a hopeless submissive. He could be as dominating as he wanted to be. And, standing there a bit away from the desk as the receptionist, slightly hippy looking in coordination with the hotel's décor and as gaga mesmerized as I was by Armando, I heard that, "Yes, of course, Mr. Rizzo, the hotel has your booking." Even from where I was standing, watching Armando give a clerk a dazzling smile, I could sense the clerk wanting to add, "and you can have anything else from me you want, Mr. Gorgeous."

I felt exactly the same way.

As we stood there, another guy, big, muscular, a redhead who registered in my brain as familiar for some inexplicable reason, came into the office and went into the snack area next to the reception desk. He smiled at me in passing, and the renewed sensation that I'd seen him somewhere before gave me a second jolt of familiarity, but I couldn't place him. He was a hunk, his smile was one of interest I often received here in San Francisco, where men freely showed their preferences. I had a flash of arousal, but then I turned my attention back to Armando, talking with the reception clerk. I had something going there, I hoped. I couldn't be imagining an encounter with two guys at the same time. When I looked back at the snack area, the burly redhead was gone.

His key in hand, Armando turned to me, letting me share in the dazzling smile. "There's a snack shop right here and I see they have beer. I've wanted to try out one of these Coors beers you have here in the States. Would you like to join me in one to celebrating everything working out well?" He already was pulling two beers from the glass-fronted refrigerated case.

"Yes, that would be very nice," I said. "We could take it out to the pool area."

Almost as if he wasn't listening to me, though, he continued. "It was wonderful that we met by chance like that. I hope I'm not being too presumendo--how you say, presuming--but would you like to come to my room with me?"

Yes, I melted on the spot. This conversation hadn't been about beer.

* * * *

The Phoenix was a former two-story motel, with all of the rooms, each with a large picture window, opening off open walkways overlooking the central pool area. When we got to Armando's room, which was on the second floor, he put his suitcase on a luggage rack beside the door and zipped it open. Lying on the top of his clothes was a long, thick, curved, black rubber dildo, with two plump balls on the base. I knew he'd opened that as he did so I'd see the dildo. I did what I could not to react other than to show him I'd seen it.

"Vuoi andartene?--I'm sorry, how you say? You wish to leave?" He looked down at the dildo and then up at me. He smiled and touched the dildo with his fingers. More accurately, he caressed the dildo as he smiled at me.

"No, I'll stay."

I had gone to stand at the picture window overlooking the pool area, and Armando walked over to me. I handed him one of the cans of beer and we stood there, facing each other in front of the window. He smiled at me and I smiled back. He took the can of beer out of my hand and put both it and his can on the table between us in front of the window. Still holding my eyes with his, he pulled on the curtain cord and the curtain closed over the window, although it wouldn't close all of the way.

"We do this in private, no?" he asked.

"However you want to do it," I said, giving him the "yes" he was searching for.

His hand went, first to where his fingers traced the curve of my cheek from upper ear lobe to the corner of my mouth.

"Do you have any idea what that could be?"

"Whatever," I answered. "Hard, rough, whatever."

He brushed a finger against my lips and I opened my mouth to take his thumb in and to suck on it lightly. The hand moved to the back of my neck and he pulled our faces together. He lightly kissed me on the lips, and then more hungrily. His other hand snaked under the rim of my T-shirt and up my bare torso to palm my left pec. The top three buttons of his shirt already were open. He reached up and unbuttoned the two below that. The palm of my hand rested on his hard, lightly hirsute lower belly. His other hand moved between the waistline of my jeans and the skin of my lower belly, sliding lower. I grimaced as fingers traced my engorging half hard and then closed on my balls--but I held steady to his touch. He squeezed my balls and I jerked, but held.