Mountain Music Retreat Treats

"Is there anything else I can do for you, Professor Shelton . . . anything at all?"

He made my breath go ragged. He couldn't know how that simple offer by a beautiful young man like him set my juices going. I knew the signs. He was offering so much more than opening the drapes on the bedroom windows. "I don't think so, Rick. It is Rick, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. Rick at your service . . . anything you need. Anything at all." The smile he gave me and the pose he took at the B&B room door in Hot Springs, Virginia, would, in any circumstances really, tell me he could be of service in the terms I craved—I had a fetish for eighteen- and nineteen-year-old young men, and he'd told me he was nineteen as we were climbing the stairs to this room. But maybe I was overanalyzing this. Maybe what I was seeing was all because of what I looked for in a young man, what I craved from him, not because this young man was offering himself to me. As it was, young men on the cusp of manhood seemed to have a fetish for me too. They flocked to me for some unknown—to me—reason. Rick had told me he was the owner's son, putting in voluntary duty, because when Garth-Newel, the mountain music education venue, was performing here, the accommodations were taxed.

The big hotel here, where Rick usually worked as a gardener, was the Homestead, a five-star Omni resort, that had been here, if in somewhat smaller and more primitive form, since before the American Revolution, drawing the southern elite to the mountains both to get away from the mosquito-ridden coastal plantation regions to the Allegheny Mountains during the summer months and because the area, true to its name, offered a series of hot springs pools that were touted for their medicinal benefit. Thomas Jefferson himself had come here for relief from his rheumatism. Indeed, this B&B had been named the Jefferson Inn in his honor and boasted a small, enclosed hot spring in its garden.

I wasn't here for the hot springs, though, I was here to attend the Garth-Newel concerts being conducted at a nearby music retreat to mark the end of a residential concert session, a chamber orchestra offering. I had been asked to serve on the Garth-Newel board and had come to check out what that program was all about. I had intended to decline as the area was just too remote for me—I had recently moved to Bridgewater to teach in the music program at the college there and at the Shenandoah Music Conservatory up the road in Winchester—from Washington, D.C., where, as well as teaching at Georgetown University, I was a violist in the National Symphony Orchestra. I still played in that orchestra on occasion, but fear of discovery in my fetish for eighteen- and nineteen-year-old young men and how that had manifested itself in my life in Washington had sent me packing to more remote regions. Thus far the mountains of Virginia had been a bit too remote for me, however. I was thinking of moving on down to the Charleston area.

I hadn't yet established a safe and discreet arrangement with one or more young men in Bridgewater, and it was giving me a severe case of blue balls. I wouldn't have come up here into the mountains to check out Garth-Newel at all if I hadn't been told that some of the music workshops, including the emerging-talent four-week program opening this weekend, were open to teenaged musical prodigies as well as older musicians. Most of them who came here to hone their abilities during summer programs were adults beyond college age, and men older than nineteen didn't move me at all. I wanted a younger man, one who still was flexible, yielding, impressionable, and early in his actualization of his sexual awareness while his body had developed into that of a man. I also liked them small and narrow hipped, but capable of passion for a man. And I wanted them to want it—I didn't want to work too hard to get them. I know, I wanted it all—but I'd been graced with the looks and technique that didn't make the hunt all that difficult.

Standing before me, in the doorway of the B&B guestroom, was what seemed to be exactly what I yearned for—the B&B owner's son, Rick. But, although he appeared to be provocative and to be hinting at availability, in my forced abstinence for the last several months, I knew I should not make assumptions—that I should tread very carefully. His father was the proprietor of the guesthouse and probably was always lurking somewhere. I would have much better results, I thought, if I were to fall into a teacher-student relationship with some comely young violinist at the Garth-Newel retreat center and hope for something to develop from there.

"Thank you, Rick. I'll certainly call on your services if I need them." With a lingering smile, then, Rick was gone and had taken all of the sunshine with him. The room was a bit shabbier in his absence, but it was serviceable—and at half the price I would have to pay to stay at the Homestead, up the slope from here, it was well worth the choice. Just the beauty of the owner's son to look at and fantasize about was worth the choice.

I had agreed to come to the final concert of the past week's instructional session at Garth-Newel and to stay through the opening days of the next session as a string section tutor, so I'd packed for the duration. I unpacked, showered, and, tired from the winding-road trip up to Hot Springs, laid out on the bed just in my briefs and took a short nap.

When I woke about a half hour later, I went to one of the windows of the room on the back of the house and looked out into the garden, toward where I was told there was an old wooden structure over the thermal spring pool the B&B guests were free to use. I'd try that out later, I thought, but I wanted to see what the structure looked like. It was said to be over two-hundred-years old. It was there, but so was a summer house, closer to the house, hidden from ground-level view by an ancient boxwood hedge but clearly in view from my bedroom window, where I stood, only in bikini briefs.

Rick was being fucked in the summer house and the shock of seeing this riveted me to the window of my room. He was in the lap of a big, black bruiser, facing away from the hunky top, looking at me standing in the window, his eyes slitted, a small, satisfied smile on his face, his tongue flicking out of his parted lips. He obviously was being fucked well. He obviously could clearly see me, nearly naked, at the window.

His arms were raised, his fists locked behind the neck of the black stud. I think I'd seen that man when I arrived at the B&B. I think he was a gardener, massive and muscular. He'd been clipping the boxwoods at the front of the inn, just in shorts and high-top boots. His ebony torso had been magnificent. I gauged him to be in his late twenties—too old to be of sexual interest to me—and, like me, an exclusive top—but not too old for me to appreciate his physical beauty. I remember at the time wondering if he was hung. He certainly looked it. The thought wasn't of him as a sex partner but more as competition—or, arousingly, as a partner in screwing the luscious young Rick together. I wasn't above doing doubles. I could have sex with another top when the focus was on sharing a young man between us. I too was hung and I kept myself in fighting fit. But I wasn't the sexual animal that this black man was—at least I didn't think I was, although young men seemed to flock to me.

I could see now that the black bull, indeed, was hung. I also could see now that Rick indeed took a man's cock. He was being tested by a big one and was taking it in his stride. His shoulder blades were pressed into the black stud's chest. The black man's beefy hands clasped Rick under the knees and raised and spread the young man's shapely legs, showing the black dude's muscular legs and high-top boots underneath. Rick's hips were rolled up, showing the massively thick root of the black man's cock in the young man's hole, moving in and out, in and out.

My response to this surprising tableau laid out in the summer house below my window was an involuntary, focused one. I remained there, watching the nineteen-year-old being fucked by the somewhat older muscular black bull. I wasn't even aware of having pushed the front of my bikini briefs down, seized and freed myself, and jacked off to what I was watching. Although the black giant was working the young man's channel with his thick cock, Rick's attention, other than the grimacing he was doing, was on me, above him, in the B&B second-floor window. Our eyes locked. I watched Rick's expression as the black man fucked him, and Rick watched my expression as I masturbated at the window.

I tore my focus away from Rick's eyes to his hole, fully dilated between those narrow hips of his to take the thick, jet-black root of the cock, several inches of the shaft appearing and disappearing in the steady beat of the fuck. The monster cock-working-small-hole image was burned into my mind for hours afterward. That could have been me. Presumably from the way Rick looked at me and the offer he'd made it could still be me. I was just as hung and nearly as muscular and young as the black stud. Of course, if Rick's fetish was for black bulls . . .

The black stud and I came nearly simultaneously. Rick had already come, lowering one of his hands and beating himself off as the black guy maintained a steady rhythm of pulling his hole on and off the cock. I came, splashing my spunk against the window. Rick rolled off the black guy's lap and disappeared around the corner of the summer house, taking his T-shirt and shorts with him. The black dude just lay there, stretched out on a patio chair, looking oh-so satisfied with himself and playing with a now-flaccid python of a shaft with one of his hands. He looked up at me, standing in the window, smiled, and saluted. I have no idea how long he'd known I was up here, watching them. He hadn't been the one I was interested in, though, so, after giving him a nod, I pulled away from the window, took another shower, and lay on the bed, dreaming of the B&B owner's son, Rick—and, yes, of putting him between me and the black gardener.

I certainly had picked the right accommodations to stay at in Hot Springs.

* * * *

The young musician's name was Jordan Compton. He was only nineteen—a beautiful young man—and was somewhat of a prodigy violinist, having been invited to Garth-Newel's Emerging Artist Fellowship Program that ran for four weeks, starting the next day. We were in the pole barn performance venue of Garth-Newel, which had been established on a former mountainside farm, following the concert of the Amateur Chamber Orchestra Retreat that had been in residence the previous week. I had been paired up with the young man by the Garth-Newel organizers with the proposal that I give him special tutorials. Jordan was one of the youngest musicians at the retreat. It usually took more years of experience than he had to reach the "emerging artist" status.

I had to keep myself from grinning ear to ear at the prospect of tutoring the lovely young man, who showed an instant case of hero worship for a member of the National Symphony Orchestra. I would be pleased indeed to give him special tutorials. The staffer who put us together had no idea what my image of a tutorial for young Jordan was. Gloriously, Jordan seemed so in awe of me that I already was halfway to home plate with him. He had his violin with him and, as the concert goers were dispersing from the pole barn, which was basically a high roof over wooden tree-trunk columns, a structure that was open to the surrounding farm area on three sides that had once been where bales of hay were stored, we sat off to the side, me behind him, my arms around the little honey, with my hands on his hands, helping him to place his fingers on the violin strings to get a deep plucking sound out of the instrument. The youth was mesmerized and probably didn't even realize he was moaning when I slipped one hand under the hem of his T-shirt and moved it up to stroke one of his nipples.

But maybe he did know exactly what was happening here. He was such a little tease. He was small for his age, narrow at the waist and the hips. He'd had me speculating on possibilities when I first saw him. I wasn't speculating for all. He made all the moves and did all of the eye teasing of a submissive.

This was going to be a piece of cake. I didn't know if I'd stay for the full four weeks of the program and tutor Jordan, but I sure as hell intended to stay until I'd fucked the young man—twice.

I wouldn't do it here, of course. Musicians and audience members were still milling around the pole barn where the concerts were given. It was a transition period in which those in the chamber orchestra who had just played a concert and were wrapping up their residential program would be finishing their packing, clearing out of the residential cottages, and taking off, after which the students in the program that Jordan was in would be moving into the cottages for their four-week stay.

Still, the young man seemed to be primed for me already. I looked around the rolling hills of the farm for possible places I could take him and have enough time and privacy to use him. It was while I was scanning the area that I saw him—Rick, the young man from the B&B. He was standing just inside the tree line to a forested area on the other side a small meadow up the slope of a hill. It was obvious that he saw me too, as I seemed to be the focus of his attention. He was beckoning to me. When he knew our eyes had made contact, he turned and walked into the woods.

There was too much going on on the grounds here now for me to realize any short-term plans with the nineteen-year-old violinist. There were too many people milling around in the transition from one residential program to the next. Jordan would have to wait.

Pulling away from the young man and his worshipful gaze and assuring him we would have several days for me to tutor him well—and totally—I removed my hand from under his T-shirt and rose from behind his chair.

"I would appreciate any time and attention you can give me," he said, his long eyelashes fluttering. "Any attention at all," he repeated. He made no mention of my having palmed his naked belly under his T-shirt with my hand and given his pecs a squeeze and a nipple a tweak. Although he had gasped when I did this, he hadn't pushed me away. Indeed, he nestled his back even move into my chest.

I had murmured that it was all part of the mentoring—that the intimacy should flow into his hands and emerge in a richer sound from his violin. It was nonsense, of course, but he went with it.

This was no novice despite only being nineteen. This youth hadn't gotten to the level of being invited to a Garth-Newel emerging master musician program on musical ability alone. He'd moved up the ladder by giving favors to those who could give him a boost. I well knew how these youths operated.

He had taken my hand as I withdrew it from under his shirt and had both wrapped a couple of fingers around my middle finger, a clear signal of a submissive for those who knew such signals, and smiled fetchingly at me.

"Anything you want," he added, pinning the offer down. "You help me with my violin skills and I'll give you anything you want."

"I'll be back," I said. "I have something else I have to do while you are getting settled into your cottage, but I'll see if the staff will let me take you to dinner off the grounds today. Would you like that?"

"I would like that very much," he said. "You are a hunk. I hope you are big in every way."

There wasn't much room to misinterpret that. I had, in fact, wondered if he could take it big. He was such a slim young man, with a narrow waist and hips. My favorite, as a matter of fact. I hardened more on the prospect of splitting the difference between two narrow hips, shoving a massive shaft up a tight hole. I didn't know if he could take me. He was pretty baldly signaling that he wanted to try, though. I had already gone hard for him, which surely was apparent to the young man. He had every reason to know what was on offer.

"Later," I said as I stood, turned, and strode toward the tree line beyond which Rick had vanished.

* * * *

There wasn't much of a trail into the woods, but I had no trouble following it, as Rick was doing a Hansel and Gretel "thing." I laughed when I saw his T-shirt on the ground in the middle of barely discernible path. I picked it up and, as I did so, I started unbuttoning my shirt. The shorts were after that. I pulled my shirt off my back and slung it over my shoulder. Then the young man's jock strap. It was red silk. A red silk jock strap. How much of a signal was that? I stopped long enough to pull my trousers off and pick the strap up, draping the lot over my arm. I was down to my briefs and my shoes and socks.

Rick was down to less. One after the other I found his sandals on the path. I stripped off my briefs and would be swinging in the breeze as I loped along if the young man's tease hadn't made me stiffen and stand straight out from my thatch.

The young man was sitting in the crook of a tree, naked and little-body beautiful, giving me a saucy "come and get it" smile, with his arms raised along the forked branches of the tree and his legs spread and raised, his feet taking hold on the branches of adjacent trees. His rosy, puckered hole was winking at me, begging to be dilated and violated.

I went and got it. I wanted to take him that way, in a missionary in the crook of a tree, but not first off. First off, I wanted to get a taste of him and listen to him moan and beg for it. I dropped the accumulated clothing from the game on the path he'd been playing with me and went to him, turning him. I bent him, belly down, over the crook of the tree, arms and head dangling down on the other side, knelt behind him, and buried my face between his nicely rounded butt cheeks. He groaned and moaned for me as I ate him out and coaxed his rose petal of a hole open enough to take me. I knew he could manage it. I didn't want him too open, though. He was a cocky little thing; I wanted him to suffer from the screwing. He'd taken the big black stud in the B&B summer house, so he'd open up enough eventually. At the same time, I was slow-beating myself off.

When I couldn't hold off with that anymore, I stood, covered him close from behind, palmed his belly with one hand, lodged the mushroom cap of my cock at his entrance with the other hand, and then raised that one to the youth's head, running my fingers into his hair, gripping, and cruelly arching his torso back. I buried my face in the young man's neck, and forced my cock up inside him. He opened right up like a pro, the muscles of his channel walls grabbing my cock and pulling it inside.

As I skewered him, Rick cried out, "Yes, yes. Shit, yes. Do it. Fuck me hard, Daddy!"

I fucked him hard. He was a little whore, opening up quickly, stretching to accommodate what I had. And what I had was enough to make a young man cry. He did a little sobbing as I fucked him. I moved the hand I'd had on his belly down to his cock and jacked him off while I fucked him. He lay in my arms, moaning and telling me how good he was getting it. After he came but before I did, I put him in the position he'd posed in when I'd found him here—sitting in the crook of the tree, arms raised up the split trunk of the small tree, and legs spread and raised, feet gripping branches of nearby trees. I hovered between his spread thighs, my hands gripping his waist, bending over to kiss his lips and worry the young man's nipples with my mouth as I pounded myself to an ejaculation pumping his sweet channel with my shaft.

As we were dressing, he whispered, "Don't forget that there is a hot springs building behind the B&B. It's a great place to relax in the late evening." And then, with a laugh, he was gone, melting into the woods.