7 comments/ 58488 views/ 16 favorites Controls By: Christinahorny My name is Martin and I am married to my wife Christina. I had been married before when I got a girl pregnant, I was only 19. We did what everyone expected of us and got married. It was a recipe for disaster. I came home one day to find her old boyfriend sharing our bed with her, What I saw made it look like she welcomed him back with open legs. Due to her continuing infidelity I got custody of our son Tim. I later married Christina 8 years my junior. I am 37 she is 29, we are close and she acts like a good mom to her step-son Tim. He is still very much my son and anything I say he does not argue with. Tim attends college, Christina works as a medication assistant in a pharmacy and I work as a supervisor on nightshift for a surveillance company. I do ten hour shifts which gives me three days every week with my family. It was during my long weekend off that I noticed Christina had changed her routine, normally she showered before bed. Lately it was around 9pm whether I was here or going to work. I mentioned in passing that I had noticed the change. Christina was very quiet ( not like her at all ) Tim was round at his friends so I asked her what was wrong. She said she would prefer not to in case it got Timmy into trouble. Now my curiosity was really fired. I told her I would not get angry but I could see it troubled her. She told me that for a few weeks now he has been spying on her in the bathroom. She said she wasn't sure how long it had been going on but the other week she was shaving her pussy of any regrowth. She had her leg up on the stool when she saw his shadow under the door. She told me he must have got a real eyeful. On other nights she was now aware he was watching. "What do you want me to do about it I asked " She was alarmed and said to me that he is unaware she knows and wants to keep it that way. She said she wouldn't be able to face him if he was confronted about it. "I have changed my routine and that has stopped him, so please don't mention anything". I told her that was ok with me and that he was probably doing what every 18 year old horny male does. She still was having some concerns so I persisted with her to tell me everything. " Since I now shower earlier, he has stopped spying, he watches television with me instead, Anytime I say I am tired he offers to give my legs a massage." I asked her if she had let him and she said no because she was worried I would get angry with her. I said to her " Why would I get angry?" She said that she is on her feet all day and some evenings it is tempting to take him up on it. I have no problems with that, if you feel he is going too far just let me know and I will discretely put an end to it. He has never disobeyed me and I think that won't change in the near future either. I asked her where he asks her to massage her legs and she says in the living room "Good" I said " That is a nice safe area, never agree to any of the bedrooms" I suggested the next time I am working tell him yes and see what happens. I also told her she can give me a daily commentary if it made her feel more secure Christina took a big breath and said she had not given any thought to Tim asking to use the bedroom and would I think she would suggest it. I calmed her down by telling her a neutral area would be better for her to be in control that was all and I trusted her so it would be ok. I suggested the next time I am working tell him yes and see what happens. I also told her she can give me a daily commentary if it made her feel more secure. She looked unsure but I said it would be okay I was working the following night and spend the day doing odd jobs around the house. While setting up the cabinet below the television set, ( which had locked glass doors to keep my limited edition flutes and glasses.) I repaired the locking mechanism, however I started to think about what Christina told me. I was worried if Tim would go too far and would she still protect him. I went out to my work shed ( I sometimes take work home to see how well they work ) and I decided I would place a digital camera in there locking the door afterwards. It had a timing mechanism that would switch itself on at 10pm and off again at 2 am. At 9pm Christina went and had her nightly shower before giving me my sandwiches for the night. I kissed her goodnight and told her not to worry about anything. I arrived home in the morning meeting Christina as she left for work. I gave her a kiss and said to her " Any problems " She told me no and I was correct about Tim. She got into her car and drove off. Tim was inside in his usual mode of trying to get out on time which is a rare occurrence. After Tim left and was picked up by the college bus I unlocked the cabinet door and took out the camera. I connected it to the television and it opened with Christina sitting on the sofa watching a television program. After about 15 minutes of this Tim arrived home. After some soft drinks and a handful of sandwiches he eventually asked Christina if she had a busy day. She answered that she had and was very weary. "Why don't I give you shoulders a rub or your calves"? Tim asked, but the sound of his voice was that he expected to be turned down. Christina delayed answering for a while then said she could really do with her legs massaged. This took Tim by surprise and he hadn't thought this through. He began to rub her calf and Christina asked him if he had any massage oil. Tim said no however any despondency was allayed when she said there was some in the bathroom. He came back into the living room with a two small towels and the massage oil. Christina lay back on the sofa while Tim sat on the edge. The angle allowed me a 45 degree view of her legs and nightdress. Christina's face blocked by Tim sitting where he was He spent a good ten minutes on her foot and ankle the bent her knee to do her calf . Christina's legs were still close together so nothing was visible. When he massaged the other foot then placed her left leg on his knee to give him better access to the right leg. He took his time again however when he bent her knee to do her other calf her panties came into view. They were a modest pair that gave nothing away but she was unaware he had an open view of the gusset. I then noticed that although they were an unglamorous pair of panties they did show off her camel toe. Tim had a very good view of this. When he began to massage her knees she brought an end to it. In the evening I asked her how it went she thought it was indeed an innocent event. The next morning's viewing was very similar with no untoward comments from Christina at night. She must have begun to trust him more as the third day's viewing I could see she allowed him to go mid thigh I left for work the fourth night thinking I will dismantle the camera on my days off as nothing was too much out of the ordinary. Again I met her in the morning with a peck on the cheek and told her I would prepare the evening meal for her coming home after I catch up some sleep. Tim caught his bus as usual I played the footage on the television. Tim came through with the massage oil and proceeded like he had done the previous evening. He did up as far as her knee on both legs however this time she did not close her legs. Her knees remained bent and apart. He got some more oil and started to massage her thighs. The higher he went the more her nightdress gathered just short of her waist. It was then I noticed she was wearing sheer panties with her slit and clitoris clearly visible. He massaged up to her panties on both thighs brushing her panties He then asked if she would like he shoulders rubbed and she said yes please. He left her legs uncovered with her semi-covered pussy on view while he went up to her shoulders. He was gentle with her and when it came to doing her upper chest he slipped the straps of her nightdress down her arms. He rubbed the oil into her chest, the top of her nightdress being slowly pushed down. At one point I could see her areolas come into view but not her nipples. His hands wend down the side of her breasts when she said they should stop. I found myself really hard watching this footage and decided I want to see more. That night Christina mentioned nothing about the massage however our lovemaking that night was as hot as I ever had she was really on heat with me. I thought this is good I get to watch her enjoying herself and get great sex afterwards too. She was getting turned on by it too. My nights off went by too quickly and I headed off to the first of my four nights. Next morning wasn't anything out of the ordinary. When the house emptied I replayed the footage of the previous night. This time he started with her shoulders and took his time rubbing all the tension out. Again he pushed her straps down her arms and began to massage her chest, This time her nipples came into view and I thought why did she allow that. I took a closer look and it appeared she had fallen asleep. He massaged both of her breasts, her nipples were pointing up she may have been asleep but she was also horny. He went down to her legs and gradually massaged up her calves to her knees and her thighs. She was still asleep. I saw him open the ribbons to her nightdress at the front, exposing her to his view , except for the sheer panties ( which might as well not have been there ). When he reached her panties he rubbed over her mound. Her hips began to move with this. He pulled her panties to the side, now her pussy was on view. She was wet and Tim managed to easily get a finger into her. Then a second while he played with her clitoris. I could see her start to climax. Tim got startled and removed his finger replacing her panties. As she woke Tim quickly left the room, he had no chance to close her nightdress. I could see the look of embarrassment as she looked at her exposed body. She called out to Tim but he did not answer. I then saw her put her hand inside her panties and make herself cum again. I was so hard It was going to be difficult to sleep today. At night I asked her how things went. She told me she accidentally fell asleep I thought she might tell me how she found herself exposed but she didn't. I began to think she is getting off on this as much as I am. I went to work that night looking forward to the next morning's viewing. Morning came with the usual routine and soon I was alone in the house with my footage was awaiting. The scene was the same as most night. He massaged her shoulder and chest, again he uncovered her breasts. Her eyes were closed but somehow I didn't think she was asleep this time, however if Tim did then things would become interesting. He began to massage her legs this time leaving the apart. As he went higher it was apparent she was not wearing any panties. Tim just stared at it. He opened her nightdress fully exposing every inch of that gorgeous body He touched her pussy playing with her clitoris and then insert two then three fingers into her. He separated her legs and put his face into her pussy, I could hear him licking her. Christina's breathing was getting heavier and her hips meeting his licking tongue. She climaxed with such force. Tim covered her and again left the room. She sat up her face full of sexual satisfaction. I was so hard watching this .I wondered what the next night would bring. I didn't ask her how it went in case she gave the game away The next morning both appeared a little tired. Christina said it was a hard week and she would be grateful when Friday came. Tim left for college as usual running for the bus... I switched on the screen for twenty minutes nothing happened. Then Christine said. I enjoy your massages but would you be embarrassed if I asked you to give me a full massage. Tim asked her what she meant. If I wrap a towel around me and lie on the other towel will you massage me all over. Tim nodded before he uttered "Oh Yes I could" Christina stood up and went to the laundry cupboard for two large towels. She lay one on the sofa Then asked Tim to go and get the massaging oils while she changed. Tim left the room Christina removed her nightdress and lay naked on the sofa face down. She covered herself with the other towel Tim started on her neck and shoulders, I could hear Christina almost purr slowly as he worked his way down her back moving the towel southward at the same time. When he got to her lower back she told him if the towel was in the way then take it away. Tim didn't need to be told twice. My young wife now lay naked on her tummy in front of her step-son. He massaged her buttocks and let some oil run down the crack to her anus. His hands glided over the top of her anus and she gave a jump. Now she opened her legs. He did the same again and she pushed back at him.. He poured a little more oil into the crack of her cheeks but this time he left his finger on her anus. She pushed back against him his finger going inside her. She got up on her knees and sat back on him rocking against his finger. She then lay down on her tummy . I was so hard watching this but I was also amazed because she would never let me touch her there. Tim now went to her legs I still had the view up her lovely shaped legs and saw the pink of her pussy glisten with her juices. He massaged her legs up to her thighs. She asked him if he would be embarrassed if she turned over. He said she could do that if she wants. She turned over her breast sporting very stiff nipples and her legs apart exposing the pink inner labia and her protruding clitoris. He massaged her breasts as Christina groaned with pleasure. He delicately massaged up her legs until he came in contact with her pussy. He drew her knees up. Christina's pussy almost grotesque in its magnificence. Then he began to lick her pussy, slowly at first and then building her up to her climax. Her body rocked with pleasure. Tim disappeared from view as Christina lay there in the afterglow of her climax. When Tim returned he was naked sporting a huge erection. He began kissing her nipples and Christina's eyes remained closed. Her nipples were hard as he rolled them between his fingers. As he did this he was playing wither clitoris with his other hand, then he moved between her legs. Christina's eyes opened when she felt the head of his cock touch her hot moist entrance. She tried to push him off and told Tim that we can't do this, its going to far. She no longer was in control of the situation and Tim was intent on his own mission, he pushed his whole length all the way inside her. He began to pump into her and Christine's resistance very quickly melted. Her body responded to his thrusts and she wrapped her legs around him. He was big and she was accommodating all of him. She let out a scream as she came again, her nails tore large streaks on Tim's back. Tim began to pump harder as Christina came for a third time just as he erupted into her. As they lay there in a post coital cuddle. Christina asked him never to tell anyone. She said she didn't mean it to go this far but it was that with two guys in the house she has never felt so horny. The rest of the recording showed them asleep but nearing the end of the recording Christina is seen rubbing his cock until he is hard again, then sits astride of him and impales herself on him. She rides him until they both cum almost simultaneously, then the recording ends. That evening nothing is mentioned by any party and I leave things as is until my days off. There was no lovemaking the next night ( probably too tired ), however on my nights off she was like a wanton rabbit with me, She was right, she is very very horny. I could stop my son any time or show Christina the recording but I choose to have the best of both worlds. Controu's 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.