Dominated By Robert And His Cock 3

Then Robert began to move his hips, still holding me firmly, and I forgot the pain that had shot through me, forgot my aching thighs, forgot my humiliation. He thrust into me, now rapidly, now slowly, manipulating his body so that his cock slid into me at different angles, hitting new places inside me every time he changed our positions. I began to moan softly, wishing my hands were free so I could grip his thighs, his buttocks and draw him ever further into me, knowing I could never feel this complete again without his cock inside me.

As he continued to fuck me, Robert reached underneath with his slick hand, grasping my erect cock and masturbating it while he continued to thrust into me. I began to grunt rhythmically as I felt my climax approach. Hearing this, he pointed my cock directly at my face as he pushed me over the edge with his final strokes. The wail that emerged from my throat was garbled as hot salty fluid shot into my mouth and splattered over my face and chest. I eagerly swallowed, reveling in the debasement of being forced to eat my own cum. I heard Robert's harsh gasps as his own cock throbbed in my ass, dumping its load at the other end of my body.

He withdrew, and released my bonds. I stood up shakily and turned. When I tried to walk my strained muscles would not cooperate and my knees buckled. Robert caught me before I fell. "Easy, guy," he whispered. Supported by his arm around me, I made my way to the bed and collapsed onto it on my back. I saw his face above me, looking down with a worried expression.

"Was I too rough?" he asked.

Slowly, I shook my head. I tried to speak. It was a moment before the words would come out of my throat, still sore from being rammed with his cock. "Actually, I could get to like this," I croaked.

He chuckled. I reached up toward him with my arms and he laid his body on top of mine. We exchanged a long, exhausted kiss, which turned into a tongue bath as he licked off the cum that remained on my face. When he was done we continued to hold each other. I stroked his hair and beard. Nestled against his hairy chest, I felt utterly relaxed and content. After a while, Robert spoke.

"If you want to know the truth, I've never done anything like that before."

"You sure acted like you knew what you were doing."

"But I've never forced anyone into it who didn't know it was going to happen, Jim." Robert sighed and shifted his position. "I shouldn't have done that."

I shrugged. "I went with it, didn't I? I probably deserved it for being such an asshole to you today."

I saw the slow smile spread again across his face, his teeth brilliant against his dark facial hair. "Maybe something like that was on my mind, yeah. Stay in line, Jimbo, and I won't do it again."

"Aww," I groaned in mock disappointment. He laughed.

"Still up for trying new things. I always did like that about you." Robert gave a huge yawn and stretched. "God, I'm exhausted. Hope I'll be up to Lensky again on Tuesday."

I snorted. "It ain't Tristan, worrywart. God, you tenors." I sat up. "I'm hungry. Let's eat."

Dinner revived Robert enough so that when we came back to the room we had another round, more conventional but very passionate. Then, spent at last, we fell asleep in each other's arms. To this day I remember the sight of his body, glowing white in the reflected light from the street, as he walked across the room to close the curtain just before we turned in.

At breakfast, he said, "Did I tell you there's going to be an Opera News article about me? By Will Crutchfield. I'm not sure of the exact issue, but make sure and read it."

"Any special reason, other than to look at pictures of you?"

He laughed warmly, my bear with the sweet bronze voice, and squeezed my knee under the table. "You'll like it. I'll send you a copy."

It actually did arrive in mid-July. "Roberto Lucarelli, the Fourth Tenor?" was the title, and below was a photo of him, bearded. Toward the bottom of the first page, he had highlighted this passage:

[the article said] Lucarelli credits his vocal security, readily apparent in Met performances as Lensky in Eugene Onegin this season, to solid early training. His voice teacher at the University of Texas at Austin was former operatic diva Margaret Foster, but there were other formative influences that he considers equally important. "I had an accompanist and coach named Jim Schneider who I think is one of the greats. Madame Foster taught me how to sing, but Jim taught me how to pronounce languages, to interpret, to perform. He's still at the University, and I hope, working with young singers. They'd be lucky to have him."

I accepted the congratulations of my colleagues with a smile, but inside, guilt struggled with indignation. I had been blustering and bitching at Robert about having forgotten me, when he had already thanked me in a public interview. Instead of calling me on it, he had let me vent. He had the moral high ground, as well as the international career, damn him. Finally, with a sigh, I made a copy and put it in my professional file. Then I sent an e-mail to thank him.

I picked up the ringing phone in my office one afternoon and there he was on the line. "I hear there's going to be an opening at the City Opera for a repetiteur and assistant conductor," Robert said. "Say the word and the job is yours, James. I'm serious."

I was excited against my better judgment. I had long since settled into the academic life. Now, here was a belated opportunity to leap into the professional world being presented.

"What's the catch?" I couldn't help asking.

"There's no catch, Jim. I've even got a lead on a place you could rent. This actor friend of mine's moving out to L.A. but doesn't want to give up his New York digs. It's a nice apartment on the upper East Side. He has a grand piano. I'll vouch for you if you want to sublet it."

"Why are you doing all this for me, Robert?"

"Jim," his voice was pained, "Do you have to make me say it? Seeing you again last spring was wonderful. I miss you. I'm not suggesting we get back together again. It would just be nice to-have you around."

I said nothing.

"Please. At least say you'll consider it."

I sighed. "I'm not ungrateful, Bobbo. I know it's the opportunity of a lifetime. I'll think about it."

Six weeks later I sat on the plane for New York, waiting to depart. I wondered for the thousandth time whether I was doing the right thing. It had all happened so fast. The awestruck adoration of some of my summer students on hearing that their professor was leaving for a "real job" had been sweet. The thinly disguised envy of some of my peers in the Music Department, those who had failed professionally, made it a bit easier to leave. Having to leave the dogs behind made it much harder. Thinking about them now, my eyes watered, and I wasn't ashamed.

Trying to take my mind off what made me sad, I pulled out the plastic headset from the compartment in front of my seat and plugged it in. I flipped the selector until I heard classical music. It was opera, and after a few seconds I sat up alertly, listening with concentration until the selection from Puccini's Turandot ended, the tenor voice soaring triumphantly to the high B and the orchestra blaring the postlude.

"That was the voice of Roberto Lucarelli, singing the lovely 'Nessun dorma,'" intoned the suave voice of the announcer. How appropriate, I thought. "Vincero, I will win," the character sings in the opera, and yes, Robert had won. I wasn't abandoning the contented life I had built so carefully, and flying off to the big city for the opportunity to join one of the great opera companies of the world. I wasn't grasping at the professional success I had refused to try for so many years ago.

I was flying across the continent to answer the plangent call of Robert's clarion tenor voice, to see his brilliant smile shine from his bearded face, to seek the comfort of his strong arms, to lose myself in his burly, strong body. Act One of the opera had ended with our quarrel, and his departure for New York. Act Two had been our reunion at Lincoln Center, and the bittersweet day and night that had followed. Now, Act Three was beginning, and only time would tell how it would all end.

I closed my eyes and leaned back, letting go of the past once and for all, as the engines roared and the plane took off for the future.

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written by ivrys88