Acciaccatura - chapter 1 - "mindless sex"

by Aline

Sprawled on a chair, his long legs stretched in front of him, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up his arms, his tie loose, Chris Keller was smiling to the young blond elegant woman, journalist actually, sitting in front of him.

He'd agreed to this interview just because she was young and nice and had a beautiful mouth; but the whole thing was boring him to death. His eyes roamed over the girl's face, stopped on her full lips coloured in red and he sighed.

"I'm sorry, I didn't listen to your last question," he said, frowning, yawning, stretching, his muscles showing under the fabric of the shirt, moving, powerful body, and the girl blushed; he glanced at the man holding the camera behind her and smiled again. Hey, gorgeous, would you suck my dick if I asked you nice?

"My favourite part of tonight's concert?" He laughed, ran his long fingers over his cropped hair.

All of them so predictable; always the same questions, the same faked surprise; he looked for an answer that would take her off guard, wondering if, maybe she'd end in bed with him. But no, no, he wouldn't do that; journalists weren't supposed to know what kind of man was hiding behind the cool and sexy faade of the prodigy who played so wonderfully with his audience's emotion; one of them had, years ago; a mistake Chris had been forced to correct in the worst possible way. Jesus, he didn't want to think about that now.

"My favourite part? I think Bartok's concerto."

She nodded solemnly and then froze, her red lips parting in surprise and confusion.

"Bartok's concerto? But... you didn't play it!"

He grabbed the bottle of water and drank, smiled an ambiguous smile.

"Yeah, that's why I loved it so much. Like women, you know... The ones you can't have are always the best."

He stared at her and got the expected answer; a deep flush and he saw the tip of a tongue dart out, moistening the full lips. Ah, man, he had to get someone in his bed tonight, and he didn't give a damn about what his impresario, his ex-wife and all the fucking staff would say; he needed some good fuck to let go of the tension.

"Yeah. After a concert I'm not lucid enough to answer serious questions."

He unbuttoned his shirt a bit, sweaty taut skin showing and crossed his legs.

"Now if you don't mind, I'll go to bed; I'm exhausted."

He waited for her nod and rose; walking away he brushed against the cameraman, feeling the heat against his body, and their eyes met; he felt the sudden rush of desire and smiled.

When he left the room, the woman sighed. "He's wonderful... When he took off his jacket during the show and rolled up his sleeves, I thought some women were going to cream themselves right there."

The man with the camera thought that some men had probably got a raging hard-on then, too; but kept silent.

Chris Keller stepped up the stairs, thoughtful, opened the door of his suite and smiled to himself.

Yeah, tonight was the perfect night to go out cruising. Boys, girls, he didn't give a damn; any warm and willing body would do.

He'd planned to leave the hotel very late, late enough to escape his chaperons' watchful eyes -hey, they had some good reasons to keep an eye on him, the maestro was pretty unpredictable and wild, a lot of the untameable young downtown boy, saved from delinquency and prison by music was still there, waiting for a moment of doubt, a moment of pain, of boredom, to take ovver again and ruin their hard work.

Before leaving, all black leather jacket, leather pants, sleeveless shirt, eyes shining, a lithe panther off hunting; he made a detour via the fancy bar upstairs, just to take a look at the city below, waiting for him.

He thought maybe it was too late for a drink, nearly 2am, and the bar would be closed.

It wasn't.

The bartender gave him a professional look and smiled, recognizing him. "Same as yesterday," Chris said

A knowing nod and the man pointed to someone sitting in a dark corner of the bar; Chris grabbed his glass and walked up to the silhouette near the picture window.

A man. A Christmas gift of a man wrapped in a rumpled Armani suit, tie loosened, hair ruffled, eyes lost far away.

Young enough, probably clean and attractive. Hey, raise your eyes, baby, I wanna see ya.

The man did.

Blue eyes, clear and barely surprised, and a slow smiled stretched the expressive mouth. Fine, Chris thought, he wouldn't even have to go out, what he craved was sitting in front of him, looking hot.

Chris sat down, silent and sipped his drink, asked for one more; two more, one for him, another for his silent companion who looked a bit... unsteady maybe; Chris' brain looking for the right place to take him.

He noticed a golden ring -a wedding ring; aw that was cute, and he smiled, stretched out his fingers, let them brush against the sensitive skin on the inner side of the man's wrist, blue eyes looking at them in mild surprise; stroked more skin, pushed up the sleeve, unbuttoning it to reach higher until his fingers, the fingers that had sublimated Bartok and Haydn and Schubert's music only four hours ago, started stroking again and again until a troubled gaze met his own, until he heard the slightly ragged breath.

"Not here."

They found an empty room in front of the stairs, a simple one, not the luxurious suite Chris was used to but what the fuck? They didn't need more.

The guy leaned against the locked door as Chris watched him, planning his attack, delaying it to increase his desire until it was so painful he couldn't do anything but pounce and slide his hands under the shirt, feel taut soft hairless skin under his trembling fingertips. He growled in need, while the man took off his jacket, unbuttoned the shirt, exposing himself to Chris' hunger, his hands, his lips, his teeth, and when he threw his head back in pleasure, biting his lips, Chris bit the strained neck hard.

They got rid of their clothes like boxers shrugging off their bathrobe before the fight, impatient and never breaking eye contact, discarding their clothes on the floor without much care.

Raw mindless silent sex, Chris' fingers playing on an unknown body, a symphony of moans and hisses and pleas filling his ears, silky hair brushing against his heated skin. He felt the warm body open up to him, letting him in, his fingers, his cock, taking him deep into tight hot flesh, felt him shudder, fighting the urge to clench his muscles around the invasion, heard him whisper "godgodgod..."

The guy had his back against the door, he was naked and offered, his legs hooked around Chris's waist, his weight on Chris's hips, every thrust pushing him back hard against the cool wood, his hands blindly seeking a support to ease the burden until Chris turned around, carried him to the table, buried inside him so deep that the other man was sobbing in delight and pain, his cock hard and leaking against Chris' belly.

"Not yet, not yet, I don't have enough yet, hold on; grab the table."

Strong man's hands clenching on each side of the desk to meet the hard thrusts.

"Got a name?"


"Tobias. Make it Toby."

Breathless too.

Chris thrust deeper, and Toby arched his back, surprised, and moaned; Chris stilled long enough to kiss every single inch of the smooth chest; bite the erect nipples, leaving marks that would show; kiss muscled shoulders and arms, nibbling the strained sinews of the offered neck and the trembling chin, kissing the parted lips and combing his precious fingers through soft wet hair, listening to the soft noises Toby made and gritting his teeth to resist the urge to get more, much more, much harder, feeling Toby shake, aware that they wouldn't last much longer.

"Sweet fucking Jesus!"

A yell when Chris thrust again, a vicious rough thrust, changing the angle to brush against Toby's prostate hard; and Toby came, endless spurt spattering Chris' chest and his own with hot come; Chris' hoarse laugh as he licked the sticky skin and thrust again.

"How much more can you take? How much more do you want?" He asked in a dangerous voice as he went on and on, feeling the soft cock against his belly twitch again, his own unbearably hard erection deepening the wound, splitting the other man in two...

"Please, I can't..."

So Chris came, silent, dark blue eyes looking deep into Toby's soul; his hands bruising Toby's shoulders, then holding the shaking hips tight, trying to push his cock further, to bury himself deeper as pleasure kept spurting out of him until he had no strength left.

They stayed like that for long; collapsed together on the thick carpet, dragged a red satin quilt from the bed to keep them warm.

Later they fucked again, sniffing, licking, biting each other, Chris' mouth everywhere, Toby's tongue into Chris' ass, Chris purring like a half-sated panther; half-sated only and soon strong arms dragged Toby back under the insatiable body, Chris surging inside him again while Toby growled and spread his legs wider.

Dawn found them still joined, Toby's breath hot against Chris' neck; Chris' fingers up Toby's ass, thrusting and stroking mercilessly while Toby's mouth, locked around Chris' cock kept him hard and starving... A shy sun was already licking the carpet as they finally yielded to the irresistible desire and came.

They parted without a word. Toby left first; Chris followed discreetly few minutes later; collapsed on his untouched bed and slept through the day.

That night he played like a possessed man, exhausting himself, drowning himself in Schubert and Haydn and Liszt, drunk with music; and he got a triumph, threw his tie and his jacket at a hysterical crowd, an unusual gesture in that uptight world, listening to the endless ovation, bowing to the audience, magnificent in his sweat soaked shirt, grinning, his eyes shining like sapphires.

Three hours after the concert, he fell asleep in the plane that took him back home to New York and dreamed of more boundless sex.

That was the night Chris Keller became a legend.


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