Controus Release

I met him at a cocktail party in Baton Rouge. The celebrated southern author of those heavily nuanced gothic novels of lust, decadence, old family decay, and the hint of the occult and vampires. I'd never been able to finish one of his novels; they were much too dense and overrich in description for me. But Philippe Controu himself I found to be a surprise. He was younger than I had thought he'd be—and much more handsome and well turned out. I had expected dark-rimmed, eyes that darted about, a sour disposition, and a body ruined by too much wine and old-money inbreeding. But he had turned out to be tall, built like a bodybuilder, and with open, smiling eyes that danced as he told me how much he'd enjoyed my piano concert that evening, that he'd returned from New York to Baton Rouge specifically because he'd heard I was playing there. The two blonde models hanging onto his arms claimed to have been equally entranced with my piano keyboarding, and, as he invited me to his family's plantation on the Mississippi some thirty miles north of the city for the weekend with a broad smile and a wink of his eye, I caught a hint of some promised frolicking with the blondes.

It wasn't my usual style, but I could swing that way on occasion, and my agent had already told me that I was overdue for a rest and rejuvenation. I saw no reason why this weekend I couldn't rejuvenate by dipping into finding out if one of these sweeties was a genuine blonde.

On Saturday afternoon, I was met at my hotel entrance by a hulking jet-black man in a chauffeur's uniform that barely contained his bulging muscles. He opened the rear passenger door of an aging ebony Cadillac limousine and gave me a big pearly smile as I climbed in with my overnight bag. Thirty miles up the river road later, as I was driven up the long, oak-lined packed-earth drive to Controu's Release, the main residence of Philippe's family for generations past, I couldn't help but feel I was entering the set for the movie version of one of his novels. The Spanish moss hanging off the gnarled trees would be an invitation to terror on a moon-encrusted night, and as we approached the house itself, guarded by eight thick columns rimming a deep, two-story porch, holding up a sagging roof that had seen better days, I got the feeling of ruin and decay.

The chauffeur ushered me into a wide front hall, running the full depth of the house and adorned only with an ancient Oriental carpet and a cherry side table of ancient visage, straddled by two Chippendale side chairs of equal age. A broad staircase, with a notched-wooden balustrade running up two flights toward a dusty, clouded skylight overhead, yawned before me. The heavily detailed cherry wood walls were bare, although I could see by the changes in finish where the many paintings—most likely family portraits going back to the ages—had once hung.

The chauffeur briefly guided me into the room immediately to the right of the double-doored entry and told me that this was the music room and that, after he'd shown me where I was to sleep that night, I was welcome to come here and practice. I was pleased that Philippe had remembered that I'd told him I had to practice at least three hours every day. The only pieces of furniture left in the music room now were a Steinway grand piano and the bench that went with it and a deep wing chair, upholstered in a blood-red heavy brocade, set a good twenty feet back from the piano and behind where the pianist would sit—positioned so that whoever occupied the chair would not intrude on the concentration of the pianist. There was a small cigarette table next to the wing chair, a tall, five-stick silver candelabra on the closed piano lid, and diaphanous sheer white curtains hanging in heavy folds from the two French windows opening to the front porch and the two opening to the side porch.

As I mounted the stairs behind the mountain of a chauffeur, he was telling me that Mr. Controu was still in his study, producing his set number of words on his next novel and would not see me again until supper—but that he wanted me to practice my music and not to worry about disturbing him. I was told that Philippe was hoping that I would give him a private concert that evening, concentrating on nocturnes but moving to more lively pieces if the mood struck me.

"Private concert?" I thought. "What about the dancing blondes?"

And, indeed, I saw no one else before dark that evening. But that didn't matter. Without the normal distractions that intruded on my time while I was on tour, the quiet hours at Philippe's magnificent Steinway were just what I needed. I didn't regret the absence of blondes at all.

The blondes didn't materialize at dinner either. It was just Philippe and me in a nearly stripped, but obviously once quite eloquent dining room behind the music room and with a breathtaking view of a distant riverboat, all alit, gliding down a broad moon-bathed stretch of the Mississippi.

Philippe was an entertaining and animated host. He didn't tell me why the main rooms of house had been stripped down to the bare essentials, and I didn't ask. My bedroom had turned out to be less Spartan. There was a solid rice planters four-poster bed with a thick mattress and silk sheets, a few priceless bureaus and upholstered chairs, and two curtained French doors leading out onto a second-floor porch overlooking the river. While the chauffeur served our dinner, now clothed in a billowy white shirt and tight black pants that left little to the imagination, Philippe did apologize for the lack of servants, the house crew having already moved up to New York to the summer house, he said, and for the heat. He said he'd forgotten to tell me that his old house didn't have air-conditioning.

That explained why he was dressed in just a flowing cobalt blue silk robe over silk sleeping shorts then, I thought. I had been warned he was an eccentric author, but I wasn't complaining. What I could see of his body was beautifully maintained, and, although he wouldn't know it, I did appreciate such things.

He also apologized that the blondes had canceled on the weekend at the last minute, but that he didn't regret this if I'd play for his this evening—that my artistry on the piano was all he needed for a successful weekend. I, of course, found this flattering.

The rest of the meal whizzed by in a fascinating monologue, in which Philippe regaled me with background information on some of his best-selling books. I found myself almost regretting that I hadn't read any of them all the way through and couldn't really remember much of what I had read in them.

"Have you read my Black Behemoth?" he asked, as the chauffeur was serving our desert and pouring snifters of brandy.

No, I hadn't, I acknowledged.

"Good thing, probably," Philippe said, with a little laugh. "Because I modeled the main character of that novel after Ham, here, and if you'd read what that character did, you'd probably be scared spitless of our faithful giant here."

I gave the chauffeur, now complete with a name—Ham—a sharp look, and he returned my look with a broad grin. An involuntary shiver went down my spine, and I made a note of myself to continue not to have read the Black Behemoth.

After dinner, Philippe repeated his request that I give him a private piano concert, and I gladly acquiesced, my fingers longing to caress the keyboard of that magnificent Steinway once more.

The room was in darkness, except for the flickering light from the five candles in the candelabra. The French windows were open to catch what they could of the evening breezes, which caused the flames to flicker dancing shadows around the room that somehow achieved a close rhythm to the nocturnes I was playing. I probably was playing in rhythm to the light, but somehow the pace and pattern fit in perfectly with the music as scored.

Philippe sat behind me in the deep shadows of his wing chair, savoring a cigar and his snifter of brandy.

After a short while, I sensed an extra fluttering at the billowing curtains at one of the side French windows, and I started to turn my head. But Philippe spoke up and asked that I pay no heed to the gust of wind. I sensed, however, that someone else was in the room with us. I started into another nocturne and slowly became aware of a sighing sound behind me that turned into a moan. I found myself playing faster and louder, losing the sense of a nocturne while still making the music captivating. My hands began to tremble as the moaning increased, but they still raced across the keyboard, playing true and melodic and insistent. I was playing with abandon when I heard a little cry of ecstasy from the wing chair. There was only silence behind me now, and I brought my playing back into control, ending with a soft haunting melody that more died away in a whisper than stopped.

There was no doubt in my mind what had gone on behind me, but I didn't care. It was the most sensual experience I'd ever had, and when Philippe had climaxed, so had I—without touching myself with anything other than my own music. I couldn't tell him how close we had become at that point of release. He surely didn't think of me in those terms. But I could enjoy the experience without question or comment.

When I rose from the piano and turned, Philippe was still sprawled in his wing chair, his silk robe loosely pulled across his lap, the sleeping shorts barely visible on the carpet beside the chair. There were two snifters of brandy on the cigarette table—his nearly drained, and a fuller one, waiting, he told me, for me as a relaxer before I went to bed. He said he wouldn't accompany me upstairs, if I didn't mind—he still had some more writing to do in his study, his muse having been piqued again by my playing—but he was sure I could find my own way to my room.

I wasn't the least sure that it had been my playing that had piqued his muse, but I was flattered that he would say so.

I walked into the dimly lit entrance hall and started up the stairs. A slight motion caught my attention and I looked into the murky shadows of the back of the hall and was sure that I caught a glimpse of the hulking chauffeur—now totally unclothed and all muscle and strength and fluid motion, as he withdrew even further into the shadows.

It was much hotter on the bedroom level than it had been down in the music room—so hot that when I went to bed, I opened both French windows, turned on the ceiling fan, and stripped before climbing into the bed. The snifter of brandy looked inviting, but I was simply exhausted by having given the most unusual and sensual concert of my life, and I drifted off to sleep without tossing off the brandy.

I had the strangest dream in those first hours of the night. I dreamt I was awakened, hot and fidgety, staring at the shadows from the moonlight through the billowing curtains at the French windows as they played in the slowly revolving fan overhead. It was almost as if there was someone in the room with me. And in my dream, I really did think there was someone in the room with me. I followed a shadow evincing the notion of arms and legs and a massive torso as it glided toward the bed, stopped to check the brandy snifter, and, as I turned abruptly in the bed in search of a cooler section of sheeting, quickly dissolved back into the shadows.

I fully woke up not long afterward, and the heat was just too much. As I came more awake, hopelessly awake, I also felt the call of the Steinway in the music room. I had the overwhelming urge to return to the piano and to try to lull myself back into sleepiness by letting my fingers glide across the keys. This had often worked before. I would play quietly. If Philippe had gone to bed, I was sure that the thick walls of this old house would cover my playing.

I rose, naked from the bed, and, taking the snifter and a box of matches with me, I softly padded down the staircase, set the snifter on the piano, lit the candelabra, and started quietly playing. After limbering up on the keys, I took a sip of the brandy and started to play a soft lullaby. The old standby was working; already I began to feel drowsy. I took another, deeper drink. This was a funny kind of drowsy. It was a drowsiness that seemed to distance me from my surroundings but that didn't put me to sleep. My arms and legs felt heavy, but I continued to play, my fingers having memorized the proper notes.

I don't know what made me look up, but when I did, I saw what appeared to be the swirl of a dark blue cape at one of the French windows. A blue cape topped with piercing eyes, which held mine and bored into my brain as I watched the apparition move in a circle around the room. At first I wasn't even sure that I was seeing anything real, and I played on, not missing a note or a beat. But, mysteriously, I became increasingly aware that the man was real, that it was Philippe. I also increasingly became unconcerned whether he was real. Philippe's eyes held mine in thrall. My hands continued to play, but the rest of my body seemed to be held in some sort of suspension.

With a swirl, Philippe's cape—really just the robe he'd been wearing earlier, I would have known if I had been in full control of my facilities—opened, and I gasped. Philippe was in magnificent shape, but most noticeable of all was a tremendously long dong hanging down between two huge balls. I felt weak in the knees and wondered why I didn't get up and do something about this intrusion. But those eyes, those mesmerizing eyes, were locked onto mine.

Those eyes held mine as Philippe slowly walked over to the piano. Eye contact was lost, however, as Philippe then swooped around me and straddled me from the back on the bench.

I felt that gigantic cock rising up the small of my naked back, and I shuddered. My fingers trembled on the keyboard.

Philippe raised the snifter to my lips and made me drain the strong brandy. Then he instructed me in a low, hoarse voice to continue to play. I continued, my fingers flying on the keys even though nothing else about me seeming to work, to be able to connect to any sense of danger. Philippe raised me up on my knees on the bench now, and he pressed my chest forward onto the closed top of the Steinway, my eyes just inches from the base of the flickering candelabra. My fingers no longer had access to the keyboard, but were gripping the edge of the piano top now on each side, my arms stretched out. Philippe's lips were at my asshole, He was spread my thighs and butt cheeks apart so that he could get his tongue deep inside me. He was pulling on my cock with one hand and exploring my torso and thighs with the other one. I sighed and moaned for him—drugged to the point of not caring what he was doing and not capable of stopping him even if had cared, but highly sensitized—enough to fully feel and appreciate what his tongue and fingers were doing to my body.

His knees were on the bench now, beside mine, my thighs between his. His bulbous cock head was at my well-wetted hole, and I groaned and writhed as he forced himself inside me, holding his cock in his hand and moving it in ever-deepening circular motions. I'd had cock before, but nothing as long and thick as his. My fingers were gripping the sides of the piano lid hard, and the effort of taking him in was causing my arms to shake. The candelabra was wobbling back and forth dangerously on the shaking piano lid, and Philippe paused to take it in one hand; blow out the candles; drag it across the polished wood, scratching the precious wood without caring about anything coming between him and his mining of my ass; and toss it aside. I heard the now-empty drugged brandy snifter hit the floor and shatter at the same time.

Philippe didn't care. He was a mad man now, determine to plow my ass to the end. And, although I now was drowsily screaming for mercy in an eerie slow motion as if we were being filmed under water as his magnificent, heavily veined dong pushed inside me and stretched my ass walls to the limit to a depth I'd never felt before, I didn't care either. The pleasure and sensuality of the experience was far outweighing the pain. I was being definitively fucked on top of a Steinway. I could feel him throb and expand inside me, my ass walls grabbing and pulsating around his enormous tool, loving him loving me. He was making little yip yip sounds of pleasure and breathing raggedly behind me as he got harder and harder and pushed deeper and deeper, clutching at my hips, and butt cheeks, and nipples with his searching hands.

Although the candles were out, the moonlight that bounced off the long-worn stone floor of the porches and into the room through the French windows bathed the Steinway and our little tableau in soft light. I turned my head and was sure that I saw a black presence in the shadows, all muscle and steel, pulling on a mammoth rod and I found myself regretting that he didn't come closer and share in this earthmoving fuck I was receiving on top of the Steinway.

When Philippe's throbbing cock was fully sheathed and I could feel the tickle of his pubic hair on the rim of my ass, he got one hand dug into one of my nipples and the other one at my throat and he pulled me up and back to him. He buried his lips and teeth into the side of my neck and I could feel the pain there. I had the presence of mind to remember that his novels had an undertone of vampirism, and I should have been afraid. But the drug had taken all fear and all inhibitions away from me. I arched my neck and welcomed his piercing teeth, which did, in fact, draw a little blood. He disengaged and turned my face to his and we kissed deeply. I could taste my own warm blood. He seemed somewhat surprised that I returned his kiss so fervently and that I moved my hands back on top of his butt cheeks now and held his pelvis as close into me as possible, wanting his steaming cock as far into me as possible. But he should have gotten the idea by now that I wasn't being fucked for the first time. His cock was simply too thick and long to have plugged me so fully and easily if no one had been there before him.

He hadn't need to drug the brandy. He only would have needed to ask me what I wanted from him. Once I'd seen his cock and balls, there was no question what I wanted from him.

He smiled at me when our lips parted and I told him that I loved having his cock inside me but it would be so much more of a turn on for me if I could watch his muscles ripple as he pumped me. He threw off his robe then, fully open to me, and stood in a slight crouch on the bench, pulling my pelvis up with him, and slowly turned me on his cock, to cries of encouragement and appreciation from me, until I was on my back on the top of the Steinway, with my legs flung up and out and Philippe hunched over me. He took my ankles in his hands and fucked down into me, deep and shallow, rapid and slow, working my prostate and rotating against my ass walls, corkscrewing and plunging straight down for what seemed to be hours of sheer joy—until we had both cum in great spoutings and the drugged brandy had taken the last of my senses from me.

I awoke the next morning in my own bed, with only my tired and bruised body assuring me that the episode on top of the Steinway hadn't all been a dream.

Ham, the man for all services, delivered a breakfast tray to me and told me that I might as well go back into Baton Rouge early because Mr. Philippe was locked in his study and pounding away on his computer—and when he was in this sort of mood, he was milking a creative spurt on another novel and wouldn't surface again for days, weeks, or months. I was a little disappointed, as I would have enjoyed another duet on the piano, but I didn't mind an extra day off in Baton Rouge all that much either. I did make a note to pick up Philippe's next novel, however, to see if I appeared in it.