Soft-Mouth Trumpeter

"Well, now, that was a real sweet song, Rick," Mr. Haskins said. "You're developing the soft mouth you need to be a great trumpet player. Someday you'll burn up Bourbon Street." Just like those framed newspaper articles on his living room wall said Mr. Haskins had done--if ever so briefly and such a long time ago. "Just a few more years of preparation," he added, as he often said, to keep it all real. He wanted to encourage me but he wasn't about to sacrifice his integrity. I, of course, was possessed by hopeful thinking.

"Thank you, sir," I answered, feeling I was ready for Bourbon Street--whatever that was--now. I didn't want to argue with him, but in two more years I'd be twenty-one. At twenty-one, according to the newspaper clippings, Mr. Haskins had made his mark in New Orleans and would soon be coming back home. There were some things I could do legally until then, but I thought if I hadn't made good with music by then I'd probably end up working at Steele's garage the rest of my life.

"You know what else that soft mouth would be good for now, don't you?"

"Yes, sir." And I did know. I went down on my knees to the man and unzipped him. He was hard enough to just plop out into my hand--and then into my mouth--and I gave him suck. Mr. Haskins gave to me generously with his teaching time. I couldn't have afforded it, if I was paying him in cash money. I wasn't doing anything with or for him that I wasn't do for other men.

After a bit, he murmured in a husky voice, "I think we can take this into the other room now. You can play me a sad song on the trumpet."

The other room was the bedroom in his small farmhouse bungalow on the edge of Rio, in eastern Louisiana, near Highway 21S leading into Mississippi, where he did enough farming by himself to get by when added to what he could make from teaching various musical instruments to folks in this small southern town. I didn't pay in money. I paid in giving servicing to the man, barely forty but already scrawny and played out in a life that hadn't worked out to his satisfaction and had spit him back to rural Louisiana after a brief flash of success. He often said that it was cruel to have given him any success at all if it was going to be that brief.

I didn't want to wind up that way. Two more years in getting professional was a lifetime away.

But he'd been to New Orleans and he'd played his trumpet there in a district he called Bourbon Street. That's what I wanted as well. And, even though barely nineteen, I didn't want to wait. I'd had enough of being shunted between uninterested aunt's house and tired-out other aunt's house where I lived because my mother was in the pen for drugs and I'd never known a father. And the aunts certainly didn't know anymore what to do with me at nineteen than they did when I was a child, when my mother was in the pen before for the same habits she couldn't give up.

"Good thing you were born with straw-blond hair, blue eyes, and a good smile," my aunt had said. "You might make it out of here on the strength of your looks. It's too late for you to do it on the back of academics or sports." I think my aunt had always known that I would be queer and go for men. She didn't show no nevermind. I knew she gone with women as much as men herself.

Yeah, well, I hadn't been given much help with either athletics or sports. I was good enough in sports; I just hadn't concentrated in one of them good enough to win a college scholarship. Conversely, I'd been given a lot of encouragement to give out to men.

I wanted to make it somewhere on the strength of my trumpet playing. I already knew where my good looks and trim, tanned body could get me. I'd been getting favors for giving those favors for over a year. I hadn't gotten to where I'd figured out how to make money off lying on my back, though.

"You lie on your back on the bed and spread your legs and play me a sweet tune," Mr. Haskins said, as I complied and he pulled off my jeans and my briefs. I put the trumpet to my mouth, reclining back on my other elbow, and looked down the length of my sleek but hard-muscled chest--I was bare-chested. I looked down to the top of his bald head, fringed with gray-flecked mousey-brown fuzz, as he took my cock in his mouth and pressed a finger into my hole. When he'd moved down further to tongue my hole, I was panting too hard to continue playing and I laid back on the bed, arms extended, trumpet clutched in one hand, and watched the scrawny, weed-choked land outside his bedroom window.

"Oh, shit, Mr. H. You do me so well," I murmured.

A couple of rubber packets and a tube of lube lay on the bed between me and the window. They'd been there while I was getting my trumpet lesson in the other room. They'd been waiting for us here. This had come down to a routine. I could disconnect from the act itself when I lay here and watched the world beyond the window. He did, in fact, do me real well. He wasn't the looker or the young, muscular guys who sometimes did me. But he was experienced. He knew how to get me off.

I wasn't disconnected from him like I was for some others who I gave it to for money. I liked being fucked. It felt good that men wanted me so bad they'd fuck me, and I particularly liked being fucked by Mr. Haskins. His hands were grasping and squeezing my butt cheeks as he ate me out, and I moved my hips, rocking them against his face, and murmured, "Yes, yes, yes. Do me. Do me hard."

He stood, grasped my ankles and hooked them on his shoulders. He was nuzzled into my pelvis. Leaning over to the side, he picked up a rubber packet, slit it open, and handed it to me. "You know the thing of it. You need to say yes to me sticking my dick in you," he said. "You have to want it. You have to put it on me before I put it in you."

It didn't really matter to him if I wanted it. He just needed something to assure himself for not being able to resist sticking it in me. He told me I was too fine looking for him to deserve. But that didn't stop him from sticking it in me.

I let loose of the trumpet and raised up to him. Putting both hands between our bellies, I placed the tip of the disk to his cockhead and smoothed the rubber down the sides of his shaft. He was in full erection, but he wasn't a big man--certainly not as thick as Reverend Manning was. He just knew what to do with it better than most of the others. He was panting and making little grunting sounds. He took up the tube of lube and squeezed some out, brushing my hands away from his sheathed cock to slick that up and then moving down to my hole.

"Oh, shit. Oh, fuck," I murmured as his slicked fingers entered me and spread me open. He stifled further exclamation, though, by leaning forward and taking my lips in his. When his fingers came out, his hands went to my waist and pushing my chest away from him. He positioned the cockhead at my hole, and I moaned. His mouth moved down my throat, and managed to reach my nipples as I was leaned away from him. All of my sensations went to that cockhead lodged at the entrance to my hole.

He let loose of one of my nipples and straightened up, looking down at me, capturing my eyes with his.

"Such a sweet golden angel," he murmured.

And then he groaned and I gasped and jerked as he started forcing himself inside me. I writhed under him, but he held on fast and relentlessly moved up inside me, deep. He pulled back and then thrust forward, pulled back and thrust forward. I collapsed back on the bed and turned my face toward the window and the dreary field beyond. In, out. In, out. He did it so good. Just when a rhythm was set up, he'd go off rhythm and I'd shudder and gasp again, the muscles of my passage walls grabbing at his hard shaft and shimmering over it. He'd touch my prostate with it again and again and I'd climb that tower to a gushing release.

I didn't just lay there then. When he'd set up a rhythm, I went with it, leaning up, grasping his thin waist between my hands, moving my hips in the cadence he set with his thrusts, crying out, "Yes, yes. Fuck me good!" It wasn't just his desire and need; it was mine too. For those moments, I wasn't in sleepy little Rio, Louisiana. I was in New Orleans, playing my trumpet to the accolades of jazz aficionados.

He fucked me good. He went off rhythm and touched my prostate with it and I cried out with a gushing response, spasming and spasming again and again and collapsing back on the bed, open and vulnerable to him, as he just kept on fucking.

* * * *

Someone tapped my foot with his when I was under a car at Steele's Garage, looking for where the oil leak was. I earned a little money from doing odd jobs at the garage. There wasn't much work in Rio for a young guy with just a high school education, unless you were willing to go to the fields, and I hoped I never was so bad up I'd have to do that. I did pick up some handywork chores now and then too, though. I was saving up for a trip and was almost there. Most of the money I got was from sucking men's cocks and taking them in the ass.

"Come on out from under there. I got the itch. I got a trumpet for you to blow." Frank Steele laughed at his own joke, and the next thing I knew he'd gripped my ankle and pulled me out from underneath the car. There was a dimly lighted storeroom behind the garage office and a tool bench under the window. The window was covered with grime and no one was likely to be near enough to it to see what was going on inside.

I was going to earn myself some more money.

Frank Steele, big, pot-bellied, direct, and ugly outside of the dark storeroom, put me on my knees, unzipped himself, and made me gag from having his dick in my throat. I gave him what he wanted, but he didn't want to blow in my throat. He swept the tool bench clear, ran his fingers into my hair, and pulled me up to my feet, turning me toward the window, and forcing my belly down on the bench top. My cheek was pressed to the wood and my eyes looking at the rubber packet.

I was going to earn me more money than just for a blow job.

"Sweet little ass," he declared as he jerked my jeans and briefs down. In no time he was mounted on me and inside me. He was not a man to last long. Ten minutes and it was over and he was peeling off three twenties and telling me what time we had to have the leak located and fixed on the car in the bay.

Frank was a good sort. He just wasn't one for manners or romance. He slapped me on the rump and gave me a smile before I pulled my jeans up.

"Haskins tells me you're getting really good on the trumpet," he said. "He can't get over what a soft mouth you are developing. He thinks we need to get together in a couple of years and send you down to New Orleans. I for one would really miss you around here, though. Maybe we should set up a little nightclub of our own here in Rio for you to play in. Rio needs a little more culture."

Maybe what Rio needed was plowed over and a new start. But some sort of club that played music would be nice. Maybe Mr. Haskins would take up the trumpet again then.

I wanted to go to New Orleans myself in the worst way. These men here didn't pay me enough to travel that far, though. I'd have to get over there on my own. Reverend Manning didn't pay me at all. But he fed me after Sunday church services, making a big show out of the charity he was doing. I'd play the trumpet in most of his services at the Wilderness Baptist Church. Then he'd invite me home for lunch, and my aunts would simper about how charitable he was. His housekeeper will have made a meal and left it for us. He most certainly didn't want her to see him take me to his bedroom, strip and turn me over on my belly on the bed, and switch my buttocks with a bamboo cane before mounting me like he was a jockey and riding me hard. As far as I could tell his was the biggest, thickest dick in town. I didn't know what to think about a man of the cloth who had to do a bit of hand-whip work before he could get it up. He'd start all soft, both of us jaybird naked, and get harder the more he came down on me with that cane. When he was hard as a rock, he'd throw the cane away like it was some snake he just realized he had in his hand and he'd mount and fuck me. I was a little scared that the caning made me hard too.

Afterward, we'd dress and go out on his front porch, where I'd play soft tunes for him on the trumpet and he'd wave piously at all of his parishioners who passed by on the sidewalk.

Somehow a hint of what I was giving--most any money coming my way was by that means--to the men of Rio must have gotten back to my aunts. One day Aunt Judith, in telling me that she and Aunt Meredith were taking a shopping trip over to Gulfport for the coming weekend and I'd be alone, gave me a sharp look and said, "While we're gone, you watch yourself, Rick. Spend the time practicing your music and don't go around the town much. There's been talk. We don't want to get the reputation of being trash--no more than your momma has brought on us."

The part of that I paid attention to was that they'd be over in Mississippi for the weekend. That would be a great opportunity for me to ride the bus over to New Orleans and find this Bourbon Street Mr. Haskins had talked about as a musician's heaven.

* * * *

"Hey, Mr. Golden Angel. You lost? You need a helping hand?" The voice was cheery. It also was a deep bass, not at all what I expected when I looked up. What I saw was fantastic. She... or he... or whatever was both beautiful and garish at once, the overblown nature of her no more apparent than in the cantaloupe-shaped and -sized breasts try to bust out of the halter top on a sundress spray-painted on a voluptuous body. The facial cosmetics had been applied by a trowel. It was perfection laid on thick. The fluttery eyelashes and wavy-haired blonde wig were over the top but, taken altogether were glorious.

I indeed was lost. I'd just gotten off the bus in downtown New Orleans at the Greyhound station on Loyola Street. I'd brought a small tourist map showing Bourbon Street on it that I had snarfed from Mr. Haskins's house and had looked in all directions from where I stood, comparing the street names on the map to those on the streets here. Nothing matched.

A couple of men had stopped as they passed me, something about me arresting their attention apparently, and I gave them smiles. They paused, but most of them moved on. One guy gave me a smile back, though, and was coming in close to say something to me, but the appearance of the striking figure with the melon breasts scared him off.

"I just got off the bus," I said, "and I'm looking for Bourbon Street."

"Of course you did, honey, and of course you are. That's a horn you got in that case there, isn't it?" She gestured to the trumpet case I was carrying along with the duffel bag I'd brought some clothes in. I'd saved the bus money and enough, I thought, to carry me through a couple of auditions at the jazz and blues clubs Mr. Haskins had told me about. I was going to make my stab at this. I couldn't wait any longer.

"Bourbon Street is in the French Quarter, Sweetcakes. That's a different section of town than here." She raised her milk-chocolate arms to point toward the French Quarter and her bangle bracelets clattered together. On second look, she was no less gorgeous, garish, or overripe than she had been on first look.

"Uh, sorry. Can you tell me which direction it's in?"

"I can do more than that, if you're nice to me, Sugar. I can walk you in that direction. Maybe stop by my place for lunch on the way. It's a good bit away, and you couldn't look any more lost--or any more delicious. You want to take a walk with me. My name is Jamie."

"Uh, OK, thanks. I'm Rick."

"Why of course you are. You play that trumpet you're carrying?"

"Yes. I was taught by someone who played in the Bourbon Street clubs. He thinks I'm good enough to play in those clubs too." That, of course, was a lie. Mr. Haskins said I needed a couple of more years of preparation to make it in New Orleans. But I didn't want to wait to try.

"Marvelous. I guess that means you have a soft mouth too. You're just too gorgeous not to."

"Soft mouth? Oh, you mean to be able to do Jazz and the blues on the trumpet."

"That too. Come with me, Sweetie. But maybe I should ask how old you are first."

"I'm nineteen."

"Perfect. It's this way. Come along." She put an arm through mine and propelled me east, away from Loyola Street and toward adventure. I was just slightly taller than she was. Looking down at her as we strode along, all I could see were those perfectly round breasts bobbing along.

"You get around a lot where you come from, Honey?" she asked as we walked--or rather, as she gripped my arm and propelled me along. "I'll bet you drive all the men wild."

How did she know?

* * * *

"Yes, you do indeed have a lovely soft mouth." Jamie was lying back against the raised arm of a fainting couch in her third-floor Dauphine Street apartment located "almost but not quite" in the French Quarter of New Orleans. Her curve-hugging dress, which buttoned up the front, was unbuttoned and the sides were peeled away. She was cupping her melon breasts and squeezing and rolling them, while further south on her torso I was leaning over and giving head to the longest and blackest cock I'd ever seen. I obviously was pleasing the T-girl because she was moaning low and telling me I really, really was pleasing her.

She had said she could get me a gig at a jazz club if I pleased her. My only question had been how I could please her.

Having seen the flagrant display of her breasts, I had assumed she'd gone all of the way in a transformation, but when she was revealed and I expressed surprise, she said, "Give up this champion-sized black shaft, Honey? Not on your life. If I'd done that I couldn't use it on you, could I?"

That was a point and, also, quite apparently, a declaration of intent. I guess I had given myself away--what I'd done and what I'd be willing to do--when we first entered her apartment, where, after a long walk toward the French Quarter, she offered me a sandwich and something cold to drink before we continued on to the jazz and blues club area on Bourbon Street. The apartment was already occupied when we arrived. The bedroom was in use. A friend of Jamie's, a thin but hard-bodied black dude Jamie called Buster, was busy topping a young white guy on the bed. The white guy was on his belly, arms splayed out, head turned toward the bedroom door, and giving a glazed-over expression, as Buster topped him and did what looked like pretty vigorous pushups on the white guy's ass--and had been doing so for a while. It was such an impressive sight that my own sphincter muscle was puckering up.

It was a surprise for me, at least, and I paused, calmly watching for too long for me to pretend to be shocked or disapproving. Jamie moved me further in into the apartment, saying, "Why don't you sit on this divan in the living room, take that trumpet out of its case, and blow us some sad tunes? I want to know what you can do with that soft mouth I think you have. I'll make us something to get our strength up."

She claimed to like the trumpet tunes, but, after lunch, while the fucking continued in the bedroom, she showed that she had other plans for my soft mouth and she had some particular reason we might want to get our strength up.

I was a country hick, the sounds of sex from the other room had their effect, unpeeling revealed Jamie to have a body that was both voluptuous and interesting, and Jamie was really, really good at getting her dick inside a young guy. So, of course we fucked--or rather, I gave Jamie a blow job and she put me on my belly on the fainting couch and she mounted my ass and fucked the stuffing out of me. Next she moved onto her back under me and I straddled her loins, taking her inside me, and rising and falling on that long, black cock of hers. I leaned over her, watching her squeeze and roll those melons of hers while I rose and fell on her shaft.