Opera Night

It's been said that good actors adopt the character they're to play, while great actors are themselves adopted - some might even say

possessed

- by the character they're to play. If you'll indulge me for a few minutes, I'll tell you why I think that the latter is real.

Sly and I were sitting around on his new couch on a Thursday night, divvying up the fee from our latest client. BTW, Sly's apartment is definitely looking better these days, but I can still remember the first night he had me entertain a client here on his old couch to work off a blackmail price. I was so nervous. Lord,

that

was a while ago! I remember how surprised we both were to discover both my latent talent and that I rather

liked

the work. Hey, after all, who doesn't like to do what you're good at? He suggested we partner up, and I accepted. I've never looked back.

Our little two-person enterprise has done quite well since then, with Sly finding clients for me and me providing the sex. The new furnishings, which I picked out for him, attest to that.

"Princess, you know a guy called Mozart?" Sly was all innocence.

"Mozart?" I said wonderingly. Sly's entire background was the rough streets, so I couldn't imagine where this came from.

"Mozart? As in Wolfgang Amadeus?"

"I don't know nothin' about wolves, here," he said. "So, who is he?"

"He was a famous composer," I said, stressing the 'was'. He lived in the seventeen hundreds and wrote lots of symphonies, operas, and other musical stuff. A genius."

"Operas, hunh? Seventeen hundreds, you say. So he's dead?"

"Yes, Sly, he's dead. Why do you ask? I have to say, you've certainly aroused my curiosity."

Sly's eyes darted to my breasts, which were more revealed than concealed by the diaphanous black nylon teddy I'd worn for the client's pleasure.

"My

curiosity

, Sly. I said you had aroused my

curiosity

."

"Oh."

"Okay, Sly. Look, I know you wouldn't recognize an opera if one fell on your head. So just where are we going with all this?"

Sly grimaced. "Fuck. Don't get all hoity-toity on me, Princess. So you went to college. Good for you."

"Sorry," I said contritely. Sly resents the opportunities I've had that were denied to him. But underneath the roughness he's a good guy. He takes good care of me, and not just because I produce for him. We've learned to respect one another. I didn't mean to hurt him.

"S'okay," he said grudgingly. "Anyway, this guy contacts me about some guy he works for who's an opera singer. This singer is gonna be appearing at the Met in some opera about an Italian called Don Giovanni."

"Don Juan", I said.

"Whatever. He told me Giovanni. But the Don Juan part makes sense now. It seems this Giovanni guy is hell with women. For some reason or other the singer feels he's got to do something special to get into the part."

"Oh," I said. "I think I get where this is going. He needs to really feel like he's a sex machine and irresistible to women, yes? It's what they call 'method acting', but I didn't know opera singers used it. So, if I get the idea, I'm to make him feel like the real Don Juan?"

"Jesus, Princess, you're good. So, what do ya think?"

"Sounds like fun. Any more details?"

"Yeah. He wants you in his dressing room before he goes on."

"Holy shit. Really? I get to go to the Met? Backstage no less? I love it! Hell, I don't care about the money. Set it up,

please

!

"Not so fast," Sly said. "You may have stars in your eyes, but remember, we're in business here. You may not care about the money, but I do."

"You're right, of course," I said. "So, agent mine, how much?"

It appears opera singers make a lot of money and don't mind spending it. This was going to be profitable as well as fun. God, I love this job!

The singer's agent met me at the stage door for the Met. He was small and nervous. He looked both ways and then over my head to beyond me as if he was expecting a police raid or something. He never looked me in the eye, but he made a quick scan of the rest of me and grunted "Fine. Good. Rudolfo will be pleased. Follow me."

I followed him into the cavernous bowels of the Met. It was absolutely fascinating. There were bits and pieces of scenery and amazingly realistic props. Lots of men and women in work clothes were running about like ants from a kicked-over anthill. I kept gawping until the exasperated agent stopped and turned to me.

"Please! Please! Rudolfo's on in one hour!!"

Eventually he ushered me into a moderately sized dressing room with a make-up desk, a closet, and even a small bed. He rummaged through some stuff on the desk and handed me a sheet of paper.

"Do you speak Italian? No? Oh, no sweat, that'll be ok; he's sung the part in English before. Here are your lines. Try to memorize them."

Well, that was unexpected. Luckily, I'd done a little acting for a class in college, and there wasn't much on the paper, so I figured I could handle it. Still, I would have appreciated knowing beforehand. I was really beginning to dislike this guy and thinking about leaving, when he opened a closet and showed me the most charming eighteenth-century country lass dress I'd ever seen. It was gorgeous.

"Put this on," he said. I'll send a dresser to help you." And without another word, he left.

I looked at the dress. It was remarkable. Not only was the fabric rich and the colors lovely, but at the seams it had parallel rows of hooks and snaps so it could be adjusted for almost any size, on the spot. Looking at some of the rows it was clear that some quite hefty Zerlinas had worn it before me. There was going to be a lot of leftover fabric to discreetly tuck away.

I stripped down to my bra and panties.

A moment later the door opened, and a young lady entered.

"Hi. My name's Alice, and I'm here to help you dress."

I couldn't tell whether or not she knew the purpose of my visit, so I let it pass. She could think what she wanted to.

She looked me over very critically.

"That bra's no good and lose the panties. Don't go with the outfit."

I meekly obeyed. I was awed by all this.

Alice proceeded to dress me in a very businesslike manner. I loved the dress. The bra she gave me pushed up my breasts until I thought for sure they'd pop out of the low-scooped neckline. My God, if peasant lasses wore this stuff before the pill had been invented it's a wonder the world wasn't overpopulated.

Alice rearranged my hair and applied some makeup. This was fun! Like a spa day, only free.

When she was done, she put her hands on her hips, looked appraisingly at her work, smiled approvingly, and left. I looked at myself in the mirror. Wow! Next to being a princess, what girl doesn't dream of being the beautiful and charming peasant lass swept off her feet by a handsome nobleman? And there she was, in the mirror, looking back at me with a big shit-eating grin.

I reluctantly tore myself away from the vision in the mirror and spent some time reviewing my lines.

Abruptly the door burst open. And there he was, Don Giovanni himself, dressed in the romantic clothes of the eighteenth century. He was very dashing and good looking. Not at all what I had expected.

His dark eyes swept me up and down as if he owned me. He looked every inch a lord, used to having his way with women and, for that matter, everything else. He spoke in a deep, rich voice, his eyes locked on mine. I felt my breath catch and my knees felt weak. His eyes swept over my bosom again, and then he locked eyes with me, and in that commanding voice declaimed:

"You were not made to be a peasant girl. Another fate is called

for by those roguish eyes, those lovely lips, those

slender, perfumed fingers, so soft to the touch and smelling of roses.

Give me thy hand, oh fairest, whisper a gentle 'Yes',

Come, if for me thou carest, with joy my life to bless."

I had to force myself to look away from his eyes and remember my lines:

"I would, and yet I would not, I dare not give assent,

Alas! I know I should not...

Too late, I may repent.

Ah... that I could deny thee!"

To which he replied:

"Let us go, let us go, my beloved, to soothe the pangs of an innocent love

With thee, with thee, my treasure, this life is nought but pleasure,

My heart is fondly thine. Come, dearest, let me guide thee."

Oh God, I wanted to yield to this guy! He effortlessly picked me up and laid me down on the narrow bed. Almost before I knew it, my breasts were exposed, and he was kissing them lasciviously. Lord, I just wanted to lie back and be ravished like some busty heroine in a bodice-ripping romance novel. If this was method acting, this guy had it down pat! I was already wet.

In one smooth motion my peasant dress was turned up and my legs were spread. How he got out of those lovely tight silk breeches I'll never know - my eyes were closed - but in seconds I felt his warm cock pressing my pussy lips, imperiously demanding that I yield to his will. No problem there! In another second he was into me.

Deep

into me. He went in so easily; I was well lubricated. I sighed with pleasure. I swear if I'd been a Victorian woman I'd've swooned. He felt so incredibly good, so deep inside me, stretching and filling me. Once in me he wasted no time on frivolities. He pinned my arms over my head, raised his hips and proceeded to pump me a few times and then, with a powerful thrust, plumbed my most intimate depths, and accompanied by a satisfied sigh, came, filling me with burst after burst of his warm ejaculate. I gasped and let out a little "oh" with each lovely spurt. I felt dizzy.

And just like that, it was over. Don Giovanni stood up, buttoned up his breeches, swirled his cape around his shoulders, gave me a knowing smile and left.

I felt as if I'd been through a ringer. I just lay there, legs spread, dripping cum, my breasts wetly exposed, trying to reassemble my shattered psyche. It was the damnedest thing: I had been the victim of your classic "slam bang thank you ma'am". I should be furious, or at the very least frustrated as hell, but instead there I was, serenely relaxed and feeling a pleasant warmth deep inside my womb where Don Giovanni's copious load was making itself very much at home. My vagina was tingling, remembering his powerful cock throbbing in it and stretching it so delightfully.

I'm pretty sure I had a stupid smile on my face. I was one very confused woman!

Maybe knowing what was going to happen to the bastard helped me recover my sense of self. At last I shook my head to clear it, and slowly got up and rearranged my disheveled clothes. Still in a bit of a fog, I managed to get them off by myself. I hung the dress back up in the closet and gazed lovingly at it for a moment before I put on my own suddenly drab clothes.

Since I was already in the Met, I brazenly wandered out into the auditorium and found a vacant place up in the nosebleed section reserved mostly for students, where I could attend the opera unnoticed. Don Giovanni was terrific. Nobody saw my smile and dreamy eyes as I watched his scene with Zerlina.

He was great. Completely believable. Poor Zerlina didn't stand a chance. Damn, but I do good work! Even so, a part of me was glad to see him go to Hell at the end. He richly deserved it, the magnificent rat!