Allegro Softcore Sex Story 1

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.

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written by erotica