Newsgroups: rec.arts.erotica Keywords: gay, subtle Sender: erotica@telly.on.ca (Evan Leibovitch - moderator)
A friend of mine wrote this for an English class. Personally, I'm not too keen, but I figure that if it got an 'A' someone must like it.
John.
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ALLEGRO CON VIVO
By:
Lucille Veronique Roche'
(John Cheever)
Steve leaned back in his leather easy-chair and allowed the swelling strains of Bach to relax him after his long day.
A sound mixed in with the complex music, rather like several bells hit swiftly and with absolutely no consideration for harmony. Snapping out of his reverie, Steve realized it was the phone. Sighing, he turned the music down and answered.
"H'lo," he said, "Who's this?"
"Hi, guy! What's up--or should I ask?" a raucous voice replied, yelling to be heard over the driving beat of the music behind him.
"Hi, Mark. Are we still on for tonight?"
"'Course. I'll pick you up at ten, and we'll go cruising for hot guys. Think we'll see any action tonight?"
"I doubt it. When was the last time you met someone who just didn't want a good lay?"
"The day I met you. 'Though I think we'd kill each other if we dated."
"We would. See you at ten."
"Later!"
The phone disconnected with a loud bang as Mark dropped it back in its cradle. Steve replaced his own phone and turned up the stereo again, allowing Bach to wash away the tension headache he had felt coming on for several hours.
He slept, and awoke some time later to the start of Berlioz's Symphonie Fantastique. He glanced at his watch, and catapulted out of his chair toward the bathroom. It was already quarter after nine, and he had to make sure he looked absolutely perfect.
Steve undressed for his shower, carefully inspecting himself for advancing signs of age. He looked at his broad shoulders, their muscles gliding cleanly under alabaster skin as he shifted them sensuously.
'Not bad for a thirty-year-old,' he thought, running his hand over his lithe chest, twining momentarily in the small patch of hair that rested to the right of his heart.
He leapt into the shower, finishing in record time. He continued to inspect himself as he dried and styled his short black hair. He stopped to yank another grey hair as he had been doing for fifteen years already. He contemplated it as the music poured over him.
'Why did I have to go grey at the age of fifteen? Couldn't I have waited? Like, maybe thirty more years?'
He shook his head and opened the bathroom door, allowing the music to project more cleanly into the small space. The cool air flowed over his unclad body, raising little hairs and making him feel like a wrung-out washrag.
He dressed, stepping into his conservative clothing and thoughtfully undoing an extra button on his shirt. Finally finished, and with five minutes left before Mark was due to pick him up, he sat and listened to the symphony that still pulsed from the speakers. He relaxed again, allowing the thudding tympani of Berlioz's "March to the Scaffold" to push against him like an excited lover. The movement ended, and the next began, the "Dream of a Sabbath Night." He sat, thrilling to the eerie sounds of the gently stroking violins.
His doorbell rang just as his door slammed open and Mark stepped inside.
"You here, Steve?" he yelled, shutting the door behind him.
Steve looked up just as the music quieted.
"I'm here," he said, his voice punctuated by the sullen ringing of a church-bell.
"You about ready?" Mark asked, stepping into the den and looking Steve from head to foot, "And will you open another button on your shirt? You've got such a good body, it seems like a waste to always close it in like that. Do you know, if I looked like you," he continued, running his own hand down his smaller, but still well-built chest, "I'd run around without my shirt on."
"I know," Steve replied, "And you'd probably get yourself killed someday, looking at your chest while you should be paying attention." As if to add a final period to his sentence, the Dies Irae began at that moment, the wailing trombone pulsing death into the very air of the room.
"Good timing," Mark replied, tipping his head, "Now if you could only do that with the stock-market. . ."
"Funny," Steve replied, shutting off the stereo with a flick of his finger. "Let's get going."
They left Steve's large, airy apartment and drove off in Mark's red convertible.
Steve looked around him as they drove through the pleasantly cool evening. The almost-full Moon hung before them, ever outracing the car as it dipped through the trees. Mark turned on the radio and music erupted, hurting Steve's classical-accustomed ears.
"What," he asked, wincing slightly, "is that?"
Mark looked at him, a disapproving frown painting his finely chiseled features. "That, my dear sir," he said, "is Skeeter Davis' 'The End of the World.'"
"Oh," came the sullen reply, and Steve sat back in his seat in a desperate attempt to escape the noise.
Steve closed his eyes and enjoyed the gentle rocking motion of the car, accompanied by the cool draughts of air that washed over his forehead. Suddenly, the engine throttled down and stopped, and the air took on a taint of half-burned gasoline.
"We're here," Mark said, opening his door and getting out.
Steve opened his eyes and exited similarly. He felt, as usual, a vague sensation of discomfort. He really didn't like bars, they felt too much like meat-markets where all the butchers had a remarkable lack of subtlety.
He took a deep breath, opened the door, and went inside. Mark followed like a trained puppy.
For the second time that evening, Steve's ears rebelled from the music, but he moved purposefully onward. The garish dancing lights that had always amused him with their vulgarity tonight took on an almost hypnotic glow. Steve tore his eyes away and allowed them to roam the interior of the small bar.
"Take a look to your right," Mark shouted, "The blond one."
Steve looked, and observed a very beautiful man clad in a tank top and a very tight pair of shorts entertaining several people at once. "See you later," Mark continued, wandering off in the blond's general direction.
Steve stepped over to the bar and sat down on an available stool. He ordered his usual, a vodka tonic, and proceeded to swivel himself around and look at the people. Most were not what Steve would consider available people, as they did not appeal to his sensibilities for various reasons. Several were already orally attached, and some few looked as though they were more than merely having a good time.
"Good day," an accented voice said from beside him.
Steve looked up and almost couldn't believe his eyes. The face that looked back at him was darkly handsome, with strong cheekbones and sparkling eyes. The stranger's hair hung almost to his shoulders, tumbling off his crown in a cascade of auburn-tinted brown. He wore a dark-blue suit with a scarlet tie, and further accentuated the effect by wearing an ankle-length cloak of darkest jet black. On his outstretched hand, a ring of buttery gold with a dark green stone enwrapped his ring finger.
"H-hello," Steve stammered, "Want to sit down?"
"Thank you," the stranger replied, "Please do not mind if I do so."
"What an interesting accent," Steve said, kicking himself for not being able to think of something better.
"Thank you again. I am from northern Germany, originally, but I moved to the United States some years ago. The climate is ever so much more pleasing to my--delicate sensibilities."
Steve arose and grasped the man's hand. "By the way, I'm Steve," he said.
"I am called Rowlfe. Rowlfe Bluter," the man replied, seating himself, but not drawing his hand from Steve's.
For a moment, the room seemed to darken with a pulse of black flame. Steve sat down, attributing the effect to either the vodka or true love. He really wasn't sure which.
Steve and Rowlfe spoke for some time, until Rowlfe suggested that they take their conversation to some place more comfortable. As though he did it every day, Steve found himself suggesting his own apartment. "But," he said, "I'm afraid I don't have a car. I came with a friend of mine."
"We will use mine, then," Rowlfe said, "You had best tell your friend that you are going."
He and Rowlfe made their way through the crowd to where Mark sat. Mark saw them coming, and nodded appreciatively at Steve as he got a good look at Rowlfe Bluter.
"We're leaving," Steve said, leaving anything further utterly unsaid but not unheard.
"Have a good time," Mark replied, raising his eyebrows. "Talk to you tomorrow." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, "If you're not too tired to talk!"
Steve shot him a look of purest consternation, and took Rowlfe's arm.
"Shall we be going?" Rowlfe asked, bowing gently to Mark and turning toward Steve.
The room seemed to pulse with the same dark fire, and Steve stumbled forward. Rowlfe caught him evenly and set him back on his feet.
"Are you ill?" Rowlfe asked, his eyes showing concern and a half-seen glint of. . .something else Steve couldn't fathom. It could have been amusement or triumph or, as Steve barely hoped to think, good old-fashioned lust.
"No," he said, regaining his composure, "I'm quite fine. Let's be going. You must come see my place, and I'm sure there's enough there to keep you interested."
"No doubt," Rowlfe said dourly, leading the way out of the bar and into the parking lot. He drove a crimson Camaro, and he quickly unlocked the doors. Amazingly, he opened the door for Steve.
"My good sir," he said, bowing again and sweeping an extended hand inward toward the seat. Steve took it and allowed himself to be seated.
"Thank you," he said, feeling very uncomfortable. He glanced into the back, halfway expecting to find that Herr Bluter had a rather full toybox with some very unusual articles of German craftsmanship. There was nothing there, save for a mahogany walking-stick topped with a sphere of mottled ivory and inlaid gold. The other door opened and Steve swung front again, just as Rowlfe's grinning face appeared and he stepped into the car. Oddly, he noticed that Rowlfe's teeth did not show when he smiled.
Rowlfe started the engine and gunned it, backing quickly out of his space, turning, and roaring off down the road. Silence reigned in the car, warm, close, and companionable. It was broken only by Steve's directions.
They arrived back at Steve's apartment and entered. Rowlfe looked appraisingly around him, noting the predominance of bright, cheerful colors and potted plants. Steve dimmed the lights down to a diffused glow, more than enough to see by, yet not enough to shed light into the shadowy corners of the living room.
He turned on his stereo, and light Bach wafted out of the large speakers.
"Please sit," Steve said, "And what would you like to drink?"
"Thank you," Rowlfe said, seating himself gently on the white couch. "Would it be possible that I could have a Bloody Mary?"
"Sure. I'll be back in a minute." Steve disappeared into the kitchen, returning some time later with their drinks. Rowlfe accepted his with a nod of his head and an absent-minded, "Danke."
"Bitte," Steve returned, an amused smile touching his handsome features.
"Sprechen Sie Deutsch?" Rowlfe asked suddenly.
"Ja, ein bischen," Steve returned, "But not more than a little. Could we stick to English?"
"But of course, mein schoene Mann." Rowlfe smiled his curious closed-mouthed grin and leaned back. His ring glinted green in the gentle light of the living room.
"What a beautiful ring!" Steve exclaimed, "Was it in your family for a long time?"
"Oh, yes," Rowlfe said, looking lovingly at his ring, "This bloodstone has been owned by the Bluters for more than four centuries.
"But do let us not get caught up in smalltalk. Will you never sit down next to me?"
Steve's heart jumped and his pulse began to quicken. He moved over next to Rowlfe and sat a discreet distance away. Rowlfe sighed, looked at him tiredly, and moved over until his thigh was touching Steve's.
Steve realized that, if Rowlfe didn't stop soon, they'd soon be spending the night together. They sipped their drinks and listened to the Bach from the speakers. Occasionally, one or the other would place his arm quietly around the other, and they soon moved so that they were touching along the entire length of their bodies. Steve could feel a very gentle warmth from Rowlfe, and he was sure he was generating quite enough heat to keep Rowlfe more than warm enough.
The compact disk suddenly stopped and the next one flipped into place. Various short Baroque selections erupted from the speakers, spent their fury, and were gone as if they had never been.
Steve finished his drink and noticed that Rowlfe had done likewise. He considered arising to get them another, and even moved to do so. For the third time that evening, the pulse of darkness overtook him and he sat heavily back down. He was beginning to wonder whether he was having a stroke.
As soon as Rowlfe's hand touched the side of his face and began gently stroking down along the tendons of his neck, he stopped caring about another drink, or having a stroke, or anything else but Rowlfe.
Rowlfe whispered in Steve's ear, "Oh, my beautiful man! How I want you to be mine, right now!" His tongue gently touched Steve's ear-lobe, and traced the curve backwards and up. Steve shuddered in simple pleasure.
Steve reached over and began to touch Rowlfe's neck with a feathery, stroking finger. He moved boldly down to his neck-line, undid the crimson tie and the top two buttons, and placed the tie carefully on the table. His fingers returned, stroking the hollow of Rowlfe's neck and downward. Rowlfe drew back for a moment and looked at him with hunger in his eyes.
In a single, swift motion, Rowlfe picked Steve up and carried him to the bedroom. Steve thought, 'How trite!'
"A bit, my dear. But being trite does have its advantages at times," Rowlfe said, placing him gently on the bed.
Steve could have sworn that he hadn't spoken. On the other hand, he wasn't entirely sure.
Rowlfe leaned down over him and sealed his lips on Steve's as his hands undid all of the buttons on Steve's shirt. Steve's questing hands were doing the same for Rowlfe.
Steve opened his mouth and advanced his tongue slowly. Rowlfe's met him before he could enter and blocked him off. Suddenly, Rowlfe broke away from the kiss and pulled Steve up by the back of his neck so he could remove the cloth barrier of the shirt. With a single motion, Rowlfe's also flowed off him and fluttered to the floor, looking for all the world like a misplaced bat tumbling to earth.
Steve leaned over and looked more closely. Rowlfe had a nice German build, not terribly hairy but with very nicely proportioned muscles. He leaned farther and grasped Rowlfe's belt-buckle, cast in the shape of a serpent, and pulled the man on top of him. Their tongues roved each other's bodies, tasting the small of the back and the top of the shoulders with equal abandon. Steve's blood roared in his ears like a flaming crimson explosion, and he undid the double-snake buckle and quickly unbuttoned Rowlfe's pants. Rowlfe dropped them after the shirt, and removed his simple black underwear. He was now clothed only in his bloodstone ring and a bright, tooth-hiding smile.
Steve began to wonder whether sex with this man was such a good idea; he was absolutely huge! Certainly a ruler would have placed him at a good ten inches, with quite enough circumference to damage him. Too late now, he thought, and ripped off the rest of his own clothing.
Rowlfe looked at him with an unreadable expression, and gently pushed him face up onto the bed. His hands roved Steve's body, running along his arms and down his chest, and once lightly grasping his testicles for a moment. His tongue began at Steve's forehead and moved downward as lightly as the touch of a butterfly's wings. It stroked gently along his nose, over his lips, down the tightlytendoned musculature of the neck, across his heaving, sweaty chest, and continued ever onward.
Finally, after a moment's eternal pause, Rowlfe took him deeply into his mouth.
Steve's body convulsed with pleasure as Rowlfe slid down over him, and enjoyed the gentle stroking sensation it caused.
Rowlfe continued, taking him more and more deeply, and finally Steve knew he was reaching the Moment of Truth. He reached it.
Wave after wave of shuddering pleasure washed over him, but something was not quite right. Mixed in among the pleasure was intense pain, growing worse all the time. He was on fire, agony shooting blazing tendrils up his abdomen.
He drew himself upward and the room grew dark again. This time, the pulse did not pass and Steve slipped into unconsciousness.
He awoke the next morning, lying naked on his bed. Remembering, he looked downward, halfway expecting to see a bloody stump. Everything was normal; there was no damage to him at all.
He arose slowly and dizzily from his bed and stumbled to the bathroom. The mirror reflected a dead-white face and blue-rimmed eyes. Steve shuddered and stepped into the shower.
He convinced himself that it was all a dream, until he saw the note taped to the bedroom mirror. Written in deep burgundy ink, it read: "My beautiful man, how much I enjoyed being with you. I fear that I had to leave some time after you fell asleep, but I shall return to our meeting place this evening and wait for you. Rowlfe Bluter."
Some time later, he heard his telephone ring and stepped out to answer.
"Hey, dude! What's up?" Mark's voice asked its customary question.
"Nothing here," Steve idly answered. "What happened last night?"
"You mean you don't remember? Not remember that God on Earth who swept you off your feet?"
"Not much, I don't. Do you want to go back again this evening?"
"Okay. Maybe the same blond will be there again. Maybe this time I'll be the one he takes home for some fun and games." Mark's voice took on a dour note and added, "Maybe I'll hit the lottery and win two million dollars."
"Maybe you will. I'll see you tonight, then?"
"Sure will. Goodbye."
"'Bye," Steve said, replacing the phone gently in its cradle.
He'd make sure to talk to this Bluter character and to ask him exactly what happened.
Steve readied himself and was completely normal-looking by the time Mark made his appearance. They drove in the aura of Mark's loud music to the bar.
They entered. Steve's eyes immediately scanned for the unmistakable form of Rowlfe Bluter, but didn't see him anywhere in the room. He sat on a bar stool.
"Good day, Steve," Rowlfe's voice said from behind him.
Steve turned and rose, intending to tell Rowlfe off immediately. His eyes fell to Rowlfe's ring, and he saw it flash darkly once, then once more.
Steve fell back into his dream, from which he would never again escape.
Rowlfe led him out to his car and laughed quietly at the stumbling motions Steve made.
Oversized, sharp canines caught the moonlight and reflected an eerie image of the moonlight to anyone with the eyes to see.
Steve's could no longer.
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