Forced Layover

"I must have you again now," he whispered. I didn't object. I was so much in arousal that I was leaking.

He locked the box door from the inside, stripped my borrowed—and perfectly fitting—tuxedo off me, unzipped his fly and released his cock, and set me down on my knees facing him. "Fammi un pompino—Give me a blow job," he whispered. "Me lo succhiasse—Suck me off. Be my maschio puttana."

I sucked him to full erection in the deep shadows of the box through one Mahler piece and then he sat me on the cock, facing away from him during the next Mahler piece. I knew it well. I understood the beat. I knew where it crescendoed to a frenzy and an explosion, and, I'm proud to say that, using the leverage of the pads of my feet on the floor of the box and what I had learned from him earlier in the day, I managed to bring us both off at the height of the cymbals clash.

As the orchestra kept playing Mahler, the count whispered in my ear. "You are a delight. Sei il migliore—You are the best. You don't have to go on to Frankfurt or back to New York. There is a place for you here in Rome. I know that the Orchestra dell'Accademia Nazionale di Santa Cecilia is in need of a first violinist. They would take you in a heartbeat on my recommendation. You, of course, would live with me. It's time for me to settle down, and you are an outstanding lay."

I didn't answer him then. Was "you are an outstanding lay" the equivalent of "I love you"? Did I care whether or not it was? I was falling in love for him, I think, and it was for more than his money or his big cock. He fulfilled me in many ways.

After the opera, he fucked me in the doggie position on his bed to the sound of Carol Orff's bombastic "O Fortuna" from the Carmina Burana, not missing a beat in wild thrusts, fucking me hard like I'd never been fucked before. The two of us tumbled off the bed in the middle of the piece and he rode my ass across the ancient, nearly threadbare Oriental carpeting, to his bathroom, where he continued fucking me up against the tiled wall of his shower, reaching deep up inside and filling me to the brim with his cum.

Later in the night, when I had recovered, he lay on his back on his bed while I rode his cock in the cowboy position to Richard Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries" from The Ring Cycle, with the count instructing me about coming crescendos and how to make the most of them.

The next afternoon, as I was in my unused UNA Hotel Roma room, picking up my bag and violin case, I called Max in Frankfurt to tell him I wasn't coming. He seemed almost relieved. I know I was.

The count was downstairs, in the lobby, ready to take me to the Sala Santa Cecilia Auditorium for an audition with the Orchestra dell'Accademia Nazionale di Santa Cecilia. I also was letting him arrange for the cashing in of my plane ticket to Frankfurt. He obviously knew how to get things done in this city. He most certainly knew how to do me.

I had left New York for a summer of learning to live the music. I had learned all I needed to know in one day in Rome with the Count Vincenzo di Abos—and I was learning some very useful Italian to boot.