Controu's Release

When I was dressed and packed, I walked down the ornate staircase, wondering yet again if there was a story behind the bare walls and rooms and evident overall shabbiness of the once-elegant home, but knew that I'd probably have to read all of Philippe's novels—and then probably between the lines—to solve that mystery. There had been several mysteries left unsolved that weekend, including, I thought, as I caught sight of the big and studly Ham waiting at the door for me, chauffeur's cap in hand, the intriguing mystery of Philippe's novel, the Black Behemoth. Maybe I would track that book down and read it after all.

As it turned out, I wouldn't have to read the book, because it couldn't have been nearly as explicit as what I experienced for the next two hours. Ham put me into the limousine and strode majestically around the miles of Cadillac, settled into the driver's seat, squared off his chauffeur's cap, and put the car into gear. Not more than fifty yards down the drive, though, in a shady spot under the Oak trees that couldn't be seen from either the road or the house, he pulled the car over to the side, walked back around the car, opened the door beside me, and stuck his head inside the passenger compartment.

"Mr. Philippe wanted me to let you know that he was very pleasantly surprised last night and wondered if you'd like to know what was so special about that Black Behemoth book he wrote based on me."

"Yes, maybe," I said tentatively. "Well, yes, yes. I guess I would like to know," I went on to say, curiosity getting the best of me. "What were the traits he took from you for that book. I presume, knowing about Mr. Controu's books, that the Black Behemoth was some sort of monster."

"Yes, sir, he was," Ham said with a grin. "Those traits, to put them shortly, were length, strength, thickness, endurance, and frequency—with a little special twist. Now that you've heard what they are—and in light of you and Mr. Philippe last night, Mr. Philippe wonders if you'd like to more than just hear about those traits. As I said, he was very pleased with your . . . piano playing last night."

I could feel my body trembling a little, but, what the hell. It all sounded just too intriguing. "Yes, yes, Ham. I think I'd like to know more about that."

"Well, OK," Ham said as he started to strip off his cap and uniform. "But if it gets to be too much, just you let me know, OK?"

And then his massive, naked body was in the thankfully very commodious passenger compartment of the limousine with me, and he was helping me off with my own clothes and folding them nicely and putting them to the side as a good valet knows to do.

"Oh, God, yes. Deeper, deeper!" I was screaming. I was laying back on the seat, facing forward, my feet mashed into the ceiling padding and Ham scrunched down on the balls of his feet between my legs and humping me with deep forward thrusts. I was meeting him thrust for thrust with my hips. Within minutes, I was grunting at the action of an ebony dick even longer and thicker than Philippe's, as Ham spouted loads of semen deep inside me. I was a little disappointed that he'd cum so quickly though.

I started to pull away from him, but Ham pushed me back down into the plush seat and hugged me. His mouth went to mine, and his hands raced around the curves and folds of my body and, unbelievably, his unbelievable cock had stiffened right up again and he was giving me another load of his juice, bathing my insides way up into my intestines.

"God, I don't believe you could trigger again that fast," I moaned. "Now . . . Hey, wait, what are you doing?"

Ham had turned me and pulled me down to the floor of the car on my knees, my chest buried in the seat. And he was behind me, his legs between mine, and he was already pumping me again in long and forceful strokes. He held my hands up and out with his big mitts. His face was buried in the side of my neck, where he was sucking with all his might, reopening the wound Philippe had bitten there last night.

"Enough, enough," I was yelling. "No more." "But then the big mushroom head of his cock stroked across my prostrate again and I turned to jelly. "Oh, oh, oh, yes. Do that again. God, that's driving me crazy. How can you stay so long and so thick and so hard and so vigorous?" And then within minutes, "God, how can you go off again so fast? I have to rest. Let me rest."

Ham's idea of letting me rest, however, was to lay me down along the seat with his body stretched out below mine, his strong arms woven around either thigh and meeting in a fisthold on my stomach and inhaling my cock and balls into his mouth. I arched my back, dug in my heels, and rhythmically pumped Ham's mouth.

"Ahhhh," I sighed. "Such a soft mouth. Oh, do that again. That tongue. You're driving me wild. I'm going to cum. Oh, God, I warn you, I'm going to cummmm!" Having done so, I collapsed under Ham, sure now that the session was winding done. He'd proved his attributes and then some.

A moment of silence, and then I cried out again. "Not so soon. You can't possibly . . . ahhhh. I don't know if I can . . . Oh, yes, yes. Fuck me. Fuck me again. Harder, deeper." I couldn't help it. This big black stud was taking me to places I'd never been before.

Ham had snaked himself up my prone body, slapping his broad chocolate chest on my chest and his belly on my belly, pinning me on my back on the seat. He had thrust his arms under my arm pits and had my arms pinned so that they couldn't do more than stroke his back. His still-hard dick was buried in my ass and he stroked me again in fast, strong thrusts. I rubbing the backs of his monster calves with the heels of my feet, wanting this to go on forever now but knowing I was close to passing out under his assault.

"Ah, that's good. This is all I can take, though. I know you can't possibly shoot again so . . . Oh, God, oh my God. No one can reload in ten minutes, time after time. Oh, oh. I think cum is coming up in my throat. You're a Super . . . no, no, not again. Ahhhh."

A brief silence. And then another "Ahhh," and "ohh," a weak moaning and heavy sighing. I was stretched on the seat on my belly this time. Ham was crouched above me, kneeling with his knees encasing my thighs. He had his elbows locked and his palms opened across my shoulder blades on either side, and he was performing his specialty now. From that position, Ham was giving me a long, long stroke alternating with total withdrawal action—but with a twist. Somewhere between ass rim and stomach—a different point with each stroke—Ham would rotate his hips, which would rotate his cock inside me. I grunted when he was fully sheathed, sighed in anticipation and brought my pelvis to him when he exited me, and moaned deeply when he was rotating his cock inside me. I'd never been serviced like this before.

"It feels so big now, as well as long," I murmured. "It's so tight. But it feels so fine. You could do this all day. It doesn't matter that you don't shoot again. You could . . . Oh, my God, not again. Oh, oh, oh."

Ham liked his specialty. He did this twice more, continuing to reload and shoot at an amazing pace. I was exhausted; couldn't do anything more than give him a sloppy smile as he redressed me and delivered me to my hotel in Baton Rouge.

I gave a concert in Baton Rouge again the following spring. As I entered the hall for each performance, I scrutinized the limo ranks for a glimpse of Ham and then I scanned the audiences wildly, trying to catch Philippe's face. But if either were there, I didn't see them and they didn't make themselves known to me. On my rest day, I rented a car and drove out to Controu's Release. The oaks and long drive were still there, but the house was gone. A sign at the road as I entered the drive said a new upscale housing development was being built there. When I got back to Baton Rouge, I scoured the piano stores until I found Philippe's Steinway—identifiable by the scars where the silver candelabra had been dragged across the top and thrown to the floor in our passion. I couldn't find out where Philippe had gone, but his next novel is about to come out, and I already have it preordered.

Since that concert tour in Baton Rouge, I've been fucked on top of the Steinway a couple of times—and often quite satisfactorily and fully—but never as sensually and deeply as I had been fucked by Philippe. I didn't even try to duplicate what Ham had done to me in the back of that old Cadillac limousine.