Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

I built up the courage to intervene at that point. I think my voice sounded strained and squeaky. Nonetheless I couldn't let the opportunity pass me by so I stood and offered to buy his drink for him—"and I need another beer too, bartender"—so that he could quench his thirst before having to traipse over to the cabana and back.

"Yes, thank you . . . if I can join you for the drink."

Could he join me? I was doing all I could do not to hyperventilate.

"Have you been swimming in the ocean yet?" I asked. "Is it too late in the season to do that? The temperature too cold?" I felt like an idiot for not coming up with anything better to say than this. And then he proceeded to confirm my idiocy.

"Surely you know I've been swimming in the ocean, Mr. Cordell. You've watched me do it, haven't you? Yesterday as well as today."

I was shocked, but then I felt all sorts of posturing and foreplay was being brushed aside. He obviously was in the game. And I knew this game so well. He was approachable.

"You know who I am, do you?" I didn't have to sound surprised. I was. Not necessarily that he'd know who I was, given what he obviously was. But that he would be so straightforward in getting to the bottom line. It was almost refreshing.

"Yes, of course. You're the Peter Cordell who produces for the Metropolitan Opera, aren't you? I read the New York papers."

"Yes, you have me there. And you are?"

"Raul. You can just call me Raul."

Ah, yes, Hispanic. I very much liked the passion of a Latin lover. Scott was West coast, sun, beaches, muscle shirts, and all about himself.

"Ah, the newspapers."

"And we have a few mutual friends too."

"Oh?"

"Yes. For instance, I know one of the members of the Met's permanent dance troupe. Jason Deavers. You might remember him."

"Yes, of course." Certainly I remembered Jason. I opened my legs for him nightly for a month two years ago. Raul most certainly was direct. Well, I could be direct too.

"I would like to see you. Away from the beach," I said. I turned my face to him and looked directly in his eyes.

"I'm rather attached," he responded.

"Yes, I have seen that. But you may be interested in reassessing your situation."

"I rather doubt that," he answered. I looked away then. This obviously was going to be expensive. He wanted to haggle. But then he surprised me.

"Did you know that they give performances in the old opera house in Charleston?" He asked. "The local troupe is quite good, I think. I have an extra ticket for a performance of Mozart's Idomeneo for tonight. It's a powerful work—Greeks and fated lovers and tragic promises and all. Very melodramatic, but not much performed anymore. If you wouldn't be too averse to a busman's holiday . . ."

"He certainly is resourceful," was my thought as I clothed myself in a tuxedo that evening, after having already been to the barbers and then having a long shower and primping and making myself the best I could be. He was going to great lengths with me. This then, I knew, was going to be very, very expensive. But I had seen him fucking the older man, and I was assured that he would be very, very worth it.

The ticket he left for me was for one of the private boxes high up above and at the corner of the stage. It was angled, so that no one from the audience could look into the box, and only singers positioned well up into the height of the set could see much of anything in the shadows.

I was the only one in the box until shortly after the first interval. In the interval, I had craned my head out around the edge of the box and scanned the audience and seen that, yes, both Raul and the older man were seated in the orchestra section. Raul looked magnificent in his tuxedo. That must have cost the older man a fortune. And the older man was probably paying for all of these empty seats in this box as well—and perhaps didn't even like opera. Raul had his hooks into that man really good. He should be grateful that I intended to take Raul away from him.

After the lights went down following the interval, I felt more than heard that someone had entered the box. I turned my face and saw that it, indeed, was Raul.

There were practically no preliminaries. I heard the zipper of his tux trousers being lowered after he'd sat in the chair beside me and felt the hand on the back of my neck, coaxing my face down into his lap. And to the glorious live, opera music of Mozart, sung rather well for the provinces, I gave Raul the best blow job performance I could muster up—luxuriating in my tongue's play with his cock ring.

He stopped me short of making him come, though, and I watched in fascination as he took a condom packet and a tube of lubricant out of his jacket pocket. He leaned over and whispered in my ear, "Strip off your trousers and briefs, please, and sit on my cock. Oh, and you look quite handsome tonight."

I sat, skewered by his cock, holding myself slightly off his lap at his request, bearing my weight on the balls of my feet, while I watched and listened to a Mozart opera on stage and he rhythmically fucked up into my channel. I made a little yipping noise each time that cock ring dragged across my prostate. He had his hands snaked up under my shirt and worried my nipples while I stroked my cock to completion. At his suggestion I had my linen handkerchief draped over my lap to catch as much of the cum I spouted as possible—to keep both of our tuxes clean. At the point of my ejaculation, his mouth went to the hollow of my neck and he lightly teethed my throbbing artery as I sighed my release. Timing was everything, and I knew I would remember that moment forever—the ejaculation came at the height of a love duet on stage.

He left me just before the second interval, after standing close beside me in the shadows and holding my face to his crotch as I cleaned his cock with my mouth and then helped to readjust his tux. As he was leaving, I gave him my card and hissed that I had to see him again—that he could come to my beach home any time he could get away. The sooner the better.

It had been the best of all setups for Raul to be moving to a new sugar daddy. Not only was he a hunk to view and a stud in cock play, but he was brilliant in his choice of claiming me. I—a veteran of the New York Metropolitan Opera—had never had such an uplifting sexual experience as being fucked to a live staging of a Mozart opera. I was bowled over. I was dangerously close to being in love. I certainly was in deep want and lustful need.

It was three maddening days before he appeared at my door. He was driving a BMW sports car that, I thought, must have set his older daddy back nearly a hundred-thousand. I had gone to the beach every day, spending the entire morning and afternoon at Joey's. But neither Raul nor his sugar daddy appeared the first day, and a family took up residence in the cabana the following two days.

He was all smiles and not the least bit apologetic for leaving me hanging. "I had business meetings," was all he said.

Yeah, right. He had business meetings. He was out spending daddy's money. That's what he was doing.

"It doesn't matter," I said. "I want you again." I took him by the hand. I planned to lead him right back to my bedroom, but Raul's Latin temperament was clicking in. We stopped in the middle of the living room and rocked back and forth against each other's bodies, kissing and feeling and unbuttoning and unsnapping and stepping out of clothes. And then, naked, we were kissing and feeling again.

He had extracted a condom and lubricant before his trousers hit the floor, and he simply pushed me back into the center of one of my deep couches and knelt between my legs. He worked my cock briefly with his mouth and then rolled my hips up and was going after my entrance with his lips and then lubricated fingers, as I groaned and stroked my cock and floated on the clouds of heaven.

He fucked me there, crouched between my thighs, my ankles resting on his shoulders, and his hands working my cock and nipples. Bringing me to the brink again and again and then holding and then renewing the plowing until I couldn't take it anymore and ejaculated in a cry of ecstasy. Virile young man that he was, though, he continued stroking and I was ready to come again before he did.

We held there for several minutes, as I felt him ebbing away from inside me.

"That was nice," he said. "I do like a bit of variety now and then. If you are coming down next year, we should arrange to do this again."

"Next year?" I exploded in surprise. "I want you in the next ten minutes again. I want you every night. I want you in my bed."

"Sorry, old chap. I have a live in." Raul was almost jovial, as if he wasn't angling for anything at all here.

"A live in? That old man I saw you with at the beach?"

"Well, yes, actually. Teddy's my permanent. He indulges me with a side blow from time to time. I have rather a fetish for interesting older men. But we've been together for three years now—and I plan for that to last forever."

"Who is he? A Rockefeller?" I asked, becoming frustrated and a bit angry now. Raul hadn't even pulled his dick out of me yet. But he'd gone flaccid, and although I was trying to arouse him again, it didn't look like we were going to manage that. "God, I want you again now," I growled, giving up all of my pride.

"Sorry, Teddy and I fucked before I came over here and he'll want it again when I return. He's insatiable."

"Again who is he? Think of him and think of me. What does he have that I don't."

"My love, actually. I'm sorry. But it's a permanent thing with us I'm afraid."

"What is he paying you? I'll double it. Whatever it is."

He gave me a funny look then and pulled out of me and walked over to the center of the room and started separating his clothes from mine.

"You don't know who I am, do you?" he suddenly asked, turning and looking at me hard.

"You're Raul. That's all you told me."

"Ah, well. We'd mentioned New York papers. I rather thought you had seen my photo in the society pages at least as often as I've seen yours. I didn't think I'd need to give you my last name. I'm Raul Delaplane. Of the Argentine Delaplanes."

Delaplane. The Argentine Delaplanes. Richer than anyone not from the Persian Gulf. Oh, shit.

Then he gave me the funniest look. "Oh, you thought I was some sort of gigolo and Teddy was my sugar daddy, didn't you?" As he was pulling his briefs on, still looking like a luscious dark angel, he reared his head back and laughed. "It's rather the opposite, I'm afraid," he said through attempts to cease chortling. "Teddy's penniless other than what I give him. He was my tutor, and my first love. And, I hope, my last love."

After Raul had gone, I lay there, my legs still open, mourning the loss of his cock, and contemplating how unfathomable this scenario of Raul and his old lover was. What was this fickle thing called love? I wondered. And would I ever find it for myself?