It's Just Sex!

Sonia Harris laughed. "Embouchure!" she said, and she laughed again. Van der Bos had pursed his lips and his face was darkening. She lay her refined hand delicately on his. "How delightful! You must pardon me, Mr. van der Bos. I had never considered that!"

"It's very important with woodwinds," he retorted. It was a stuffy thing to say, but van der Bos was thawing again, nevertheless, under the impact of Ms. Harris's charm.

She had personal charm, and the waiting room had been restrained and tasteful, except for the artworks, perhaps. The office was really quite lovely, and Ms. Harris had put him at ease, until now. Van der Bos was used to good things and educated company; but the chewed pencils on her desk were a false note.

Perhaps she likes to have things in her mouth, he mused.

A sudden thought made her eyes light again with mischief. "And flutes, I imagine!"

Playing the skin flute

was a phrase from her past; she hadn't heard it since the college.

"Technically, the flute is considered a woodwind," the pedantic man offered.

"And it is always hard and long! Oh, please, forgive me if you can, dear man. I am incorrigible with a new idea. Very well! Young and sweet, and very willing to follow direction-- I believe we can accommodate you rather well. Let us turn to the formalities, then. I think you will be entirely pleased, I really do."

* * * * *

Mr. van der Bos was suddenly very warm when he put down the telephone. The pupil he'd arranged for through the "It's Just Sex!" agency was on the way, and so quickly! Oboe, she'd said. The entire idea now seemed disastrously, monstrously wrong. Incredibly risky-- but also incredibly exciting. He trembled, but his shoulders pulled in and his head drooped.

"What have I done, what have I done?" he muttered. He thought about having a drink, but he wasn't enough of a drinker; the stuff affected him too strongly, it would be horrible. He flitted around the room, inefficiently, tidying inconsequential objects. He carried the waste paper basket into the kitchen to empty it. Regrets and anxiety prevented him from even thinking in sentences.

Stepping on the pedal and seeing the steel pail open its mouth broke the spell. As he dumped the paper in his shoulders straightened and he took a deep breath.

"Well!" said he, "What a fool I am; but how much can go wrong?" It's just a young pupil, isn't it?

With calm steps he moved to the front room and replaced the basket by the piano with a firm hand. Another good breath. "And he will surely know what we will do," he told himself.

But as he sat and waited he began to fidget, even to sweat. He checked his watch, but time was moving by no faster. A minute per minute. He wanted to make a reed or something, distract himself, but Ms. Harris had spoken as though the boy would come any moment.

"I'm acting like a schoolboy," he said, frowning. Immediately, the knock came on the front door. Like a schoolboy Van der Bos wiped his palms on his shirtfront as he went to answer it.

"Mr. van--"

"Do come in! Quick! There." Van der Bos shut the door and checked the street for witnesses. Nothing. The sun washed the street and hardly a leaf stirred.

The room seemed dark when he turned again. He saw oxfords and tan khakis. The 18-year-old boy had an oboe case. He was dressed well enough. His eyes continued upward-- such a perfect complexion!

He was beautiful.

He was speaking.

"Is something wrong?"

"I'm sorry, young man; your name again, please?" There, thought he, that's the right note. His own voice returned him his confidence.

"Peter Stockwell, sir."

"Come and sit, please. May I see your instrument?"

The boy's eyes went very wide. He froze and his fist tightened on the handle.

Already? he thought, panicking. I just got here!

But van der Bos was reaching out, low-- for the case. "The oboe! Yes!" He made his arm work and passed it to the older man. He watched the practiced fingers turn each piece, assemble the body of it and flutter the keywork, and slyly evaluated him. Van der Bos was dapper and deft; he had dignity. But he seemed brusque.

I wish he would smile, Peter thought. But it seemed a forlorn hope.

Van der Bos pulled a reed case from his pocket and selected one. He placed the case on the table with the oboe's case and then he did smile. "May I?"

Peter nodded and smiled back.

"It's a good student oboe," remarked the older man. He fitted the reed, fluttered the keys again, and played a phrase, then the same phrase very softly. Peter had never achieved so full a tone, or especially such a controlled soft sound.

"It never sounds that good when I play it."

"It's a real reed. The synthetics are easier to play, but for good dynamics you need reed. And firm embouchure." Van der Bos hiked an eyebrow at him with this word, and he smiled again.

"I know, but it's not easy." Peter liked his smile, and already admired him. He seemed worldly and sardonic. He hadn't yet interpreted the pun, though.

"Embouchure can be learned," replied van der Bos, plucking out his reed and placing it in the little case. He disassembled the oboe, though. Playing had centered him and he was once more the master. "Will you place yourself in my hands?"

Well, yeah! thought Peter. The boy understood the double meaning this time. "Sure, what do I do?"

"Completely?"

There was more to this question than oboe reeds, but Peter took the plunge. "Yes."

Once the flap of velvet lay over the black African wood and gleaming metal again, van der Bos stood and put out a hand.

Peter allowed himself to be guided to his feet. He watched the teacher's eyes soften. The man's arm circled behind him, and nudged him close.

He wants to kiss me! Peter realized. He closed his eyes and drifted forward into the unknown.

The music teacher's arms were hauling his body against his own and his kiss was exaggeratedly passionate. Peter could not participate at first, although he held the man's hips to be able to stand. Confusion, frantic analysis, and a rising lust tore his attention from the kiss.

He had told Ms. Harris that he wanted this, that he had to try it, that he had to know what it would be like. "I need it to be a total stranger. I don't want to have to meet him, every day, you know? I'd be so embarrassed."

But it was nice so far. Peter was becoming hard, and the teacher was like a length of carven ivory beneath the professorial worsted. It was lovely to feel his strong fingers kneading assflesh, to smell the wool, wood, and sweat of the man. Peter kissed him in response. His slim arms slid up the master's back.

My heaven, thought van der Bos, he's so young and so wiry! Such a tiny little ass, almost make believe!

He broke the kiss. "Peter." The boy's eyes opened, his mouth hung slack. "Let's work on your embouchure!"

Suddenly Peter decoded it. "Oh God! Yes, okay-- here?"

The man had thrown off his clothes quickly on the way to the bedroom, but Peter had to disrobe under his eyes. The reddish cock with the little tip peeping out stood out from its nest. Peter both dreaded it and longed for it. He kicked away his underwear and sank down before it, reaching, but van der Bos interrupted him with a clasp on his forearm.

"Turn around, Peter," he said, "I want to see you." He spoke softly but with complete authority. The boy stood and turned himself around for him. "You are a marvelous boy." Peter swallowed in a dry mouth. He checked the teacher's face once, but the cock held all his attention. "Show me your mouth work, now. That's it. That's very sweet."

It tasted as he'd thought it would, but the smell was a drug. It made him shake like an aspen. He felt his anxieties dissolve and his cock become heavy and tight. It bumped into the teacher's knee, over the hairs. How could the heat of it not have branded the man? Never had his girl made him feel this ready. Peter explored the cock with fingers and tongue. It was only making him harder.

That's it, then, Peter thought. I knew it, I knew it. He pressed his lips firmly and slid low, then back, then low again; the strong hand caressed his hair. Peter leaned his forehead into his master's belly and took him as deeply as he could manage. Tears started, but they felt good. It was relief. I just knew it, he told himself. One tear crawled down a cheek and dripped off.

Van der Bos found him charmingly clumsy. His fresh rosy face and dewy lips engulfed him with such gentleness. To watch it sink into that soft clear earnest face was nearly unbearably good.

"You have talent. But you need training; let me show you. Up. Up, now." Van der Bos sank to one knee and reached fingers under the young man's balls. "Pay attention now," he said.

Peter laughed; the older man shot him a glance. "Pay attention!?" Peter echoed. A species of harlequin elevation of his mood had taken place.

Van der Bos smiled around the young cock in his mouth. It really had been a silly thing to say.

His own embouchure was finely schooled in both arenas. Sonia Harris would have said skin flute was another instrument at which he was master class. But he was taken by surprise. Precisely because he had forsworn his students, however tempting, he had forgotten how full-bore gonzo a young man can be.

Perhaps it was his training with the brass instruments. Whatever it was, his tongue was as deft and as accurate as his fingers, rapid and precise. Peter had imagined he was as hard, as full, as he'd ever been, but the woodwind master improvised a tarantella of lust. The young man was soon hyperventilating and clutching galvanically at his head, uttering weird night-cries and syllables from obscenities.

Having brought him there, van der Bos became suddenly gentle and subtle, not providing quite enough, not quite enough. It was utterly maddening, and Peter bellowed like a bull in extremis and took charge. Clamping the graying temples in his hands, he pounded cock fiercely into the teasing mouth. The wiry little ass van der Bos had admired earlier could pound nails. Whipcords of straining muscle ridged the legs and belly of the once-timid pupil, and he fucked the old man's skull with sweat flying off him.

"Take it, you bastard!" With a final deep jam, the engorged cock drove in and the whole organ leapt, head swelling widely. Again, and the first salvo of cum shot into the teacher's throat. It was the most intense come Peter ever had experienced. Each exquisite thrill as the pulses traveled out the length of him threatened to cause him to black out.

He released the older man and wobbled on his feet. He was still hard. The cum was oozing now, a solid stream but very slow, causing an insane tickle at the tip. He groaned and swayed.

"Very good," croaked van der Bos. "Now show me what you've learned."

Peter fixed an eye on him. There it was, that cock like a horn curving up. His breathing was almost under control again. He slavered for it.

"No, I want it, you know, up inside my ass." His cheeks burned to say it, but he had to know. It was what he'd come to the agency to find out.

"Suck then."

There was a moment of mutual measurement. Peter dropped to the floor, grateful for the stability, and closed his mouth on him.

Van der Bos crooned his pleasure and issued instructions. After a suck lesson he turned the young man over on the bed and took lascivious pains to lubricate him very thoroughly, rolling his knuckles in the hollow between the bones, marveling at the delicious slim ass which he would now own.

He stood and placed himself, leaned forward, and sank in.

"You're so fuckin nice, boy," he breathed. It was the finest ass he'd had in fifteen years, and he savored every inch of it.

Ass.

* * * * *

"Agency, Ms. Harris's office!" the bland voice said.

"I'm Peter Stockwell. Please tell Ms. Harris thank you very much, okay?"

"Mr. Stockwell. It was all as you wanted it, then?"

"More."