Tenor Tremors by Callan Smith

When I was a child I used to love the Biblical story of young David playing on the harp to Saul and 'refreshing his soul.' My fertile imagination began to think of all kinds of profane meanings behind those pure words. Especially as I distinctly remember my Sunday school teacher saying that "David took an harp, and played with his hand, so Saul was refreshed and was well." I mean why does it say he 'played with his hand'? How else can you play a harp! Maybe he was playing with something else as well and that's what had such a restorative effect on Saul.

Things got even worse when I learned about David and Jonathan and by the end of it all I was some confused cookie. Even now I'm afraid purity of thought is still something of a problem with me. The purer the music, and the face of the youth that produces it, the further my mind goes off on dirty tangents thinking of all the lust in denial under his symphonic surface. Small wonder then that 'Carmina Burana' has always been one of my favourite pieces especially when you see it danced under an unadulterated Roman sky literally studded by the bare torsos of scantily clad male dancers.

Once, out of curiosity, I looked up the definition of 'adulterated' in the dictionary and found it described as "that which makes poorer in quality by adding another substance." This naturally brought me to the perverse conclusion that my motives must therefore be pure as I wanted to do exactly the opposite: make something richer in quality by adding another substance. Anyway it took me quite a few years to put my theory to the test. I had to wait until I was taking part in a Summer Festival in Bath, England.

Don't know if you've ever been there but if you're looking for a place to refresh your soul, I can't recommend anything more 'unadulterated' than Bath. It's absolutely beautiful and unspoiled. Full of sweeping Georgian terraces and magnificent houses and almost untouched by the passage of time.

I rented a miniscule room at the top of one of them. It was literally a garret and reminded me of Gene Kelly's cramped quarters in 'An American in Paris.' However I was compensated by a breathtaking view over the Cotswold hills and once I got used to climbing seven flights of stairs I settled in nicely.

I was in charge of publicity and promotion. As with all festivals, this entailed last minute organization, many headaches and even more sleepless nights. After one particularly gruelling grilling with my gruesome superiors I awoke to the heavenly strains of a tenor practising his scales. Those full rich tones rising on the morning air to meet my receptive sexual eardrums sent me daydreaming as to what angelic face and athletic body could possibly produce such pure erotic sound so early in the day. My dick rose in appreciation too. In fact I must admit I was soon refreshing my tired soul by 'playing with my hand' and reaching a highly satisfactory crescendo as my invisible soloist hit his high notes. Somewhat sexually satisfied, I had a quick shower and set off to satisfy my other appetites by having a long, leisurely English breakfast in the small cafe across the street. I was in the middle of the traditional bacon, egg, tomatoes and sausage when the little bell jingled above the cafe door and he walked in.

I knew immediately it was him. I knew by the way his delicious Adam's apple quivered and pulsed as he asked for a table. The cafe was pretty full by now so I indicated the empty chair in front of me. He smiled and sat down. In fact you might say he installed himself. Not only at the table but in my life. We talked non-stop for two hours. His name was Vittorio Vit and he was from Venice. I discovered later that very few Venetians have a surname that ends with an 'oh' or an 'ah'. They leave you open mouthed nonetheless as they are the very antithesis of your average Italian. Tall, fair and blue-eyed. I don't really want to go into banal descriptions of chiselled features and sculptured forms but unfortunately, or rather fortunately, those would be the only words to describe him. However I can maybe add a little originality by saying that I was immediately captured and captivated by his tumbling forelock. It was ever in the process of forward slither and voluptuous collapse which is exactly the effect he had on me.

At this point I have to go all New Age and Celestine Prophecy on you as Vittorio told me he'd come to sing the tenor role in 'Carmina Burana.' It was my fate to see him perform publicly before we had 'performed' privately so to speak. I mean we communicated on such a professional and personal level that sex took a little while to rear its frisky head. In fact we got off - or maybe I should say 'got Orff' -- to such a good start that I was afraid to put a sexual foot forward in case it broke the magic of our encounter. You might say I kept Vittorio at an unnecessary distance. Not wishing to ruin our friendship and all that.

I know. You don't have to tell me. I'm your regular dickhead.

Anyway I've got Carl Orff to thank for finally breaking the sexual ice for me. As I sat in the open-air amphitheatre listening to Vittorio sing I was immediately aware of the raw barbaric power which punctuated the maestro's music and at the end of it all had worked myself up to quite a sexual frenzy. 'O Fortuna' had brought us together and after a week of 'No sex we're British' I wanted to impart physically something of what Vittorio had given me vocally. That's if I could pluck up the courage and grab the bull by the proverbial horns. I didn't have long to wait. He was pretty full of adrenalin after the show and after a quick dinner we walked home, each clutching a bottle of champagne to celebrate. The sky grew pretty dark and the heavens opened so we were positively drenched by the time we got to our Georgian residence.

"I live on the third floor," he said. "Maybe you'd better come in and dry off before tackling the rest of the stairs."

He gave me a towel and proceeded to slip out of his shirt and trousers. Then he opened the bottle of champagne and sat down on the sofa. His wet t-shirt clung to him like shrink-wrap and I was pleasantly surprised to see he was wearing a pair of Dolce & Gabbana briefs. The white shapeless ones that are all the rage now only they are anything but shapeless as you can see the way a guy's balls dangle and the shape of things to cum.

He leaned forward to hand me a glass of champagne. "You're a good friend," he said, looking me straight in the eyes.

"No, I'm not." I thought. "I'm a fucking dick sucking pig so lean back again because it makes your crotch look like a mountain in those white briefs."

"You should get out of your wet things too," he said, pushing back his unruly forelock.

As I undressed in the bathroom, he stood in the doorway sipping his champagne and chatting amiably, his concrete form framed and backlit.

"Singing opera sure gives you a tight torso," I said appreciatively.

"Gives you a tight ass too," he said laughing.

I hesitated before I slipped out of my slacks. I didn't want to seem like a copycat. I was wearing D&G too.

"I took you for the Calvin Kline type," he said.

"A bit passe," I said. "D&G are hot here too."

There was a long pause after this. The conversation which normally flowed between us now became a little unnatural and stilted. It was as if we were both battling with the tension of the unsaid. Suddenly he sank to his knees in front of me and pressed his face against my shorts, mouthing the burgeoning head of my prick. I was both surprised and delighted but instead of greeting him with open legs I began burbling banalities to cover my embarrassment. Fortunately I didn't say "Eat my shorts" which I must admit I was tempted to do but what I did say was just as bad.

"I'm not sure this is a good idea," I said, gulping down my champagne.

"Stop being so British," he said in between inserting his tongue into my cockpit and making my dick take off. Fortunately it had fewer hang-ups than me.

"Madonna," he exclaimed. "Why have you been hiding all this from me?"

"I didn't think you'd be interested," I said inanely.

He pulled my briefs down and buried his face in my crotch.

"This is great," he said. "Better than zucchini. Did no one ever tell you that Italians have quite a penchant for zucchini?"

"And the French too," I said even more inanely. "Only they call them courgettes."

I must have sounded like a real asshole.

The fact was that I couldn't believe that my dreams were coming true and that this Italian stud of a God, or God of a stud, was kneeling in adoration of my dick. You see, as you've probably gathered by now, I suffer from low self-esteem and at such times tend to open my mouth and blow it instead of just letting someone else do the honours.

I'm happy to say that my dick responded better than I did. Especially after Vittorio had dipped it in the champagne and played his tongue along the dripping underside and then used it to lash its sensitive head. I'd never been tongue-whipped before and nearly shot my load with the sheer pleasure of it.

"My call," I said as if we were playing a game of cards.

He took one last, long drag on my intoxicated dick as if he was sucking a smoothie through a straw and then stood up and kissed me. I slipped my hands up his watertight t-shirt and exposed his crunchy, munchy abdominals. They were like leather-covered rock, enveloped in soft fuzzy moss. Quite a rare combination when you come to think of it. His pecs were full and firm and his nipples just like I liked them. Pointed and juicy.

I pulled his t-shirt over his head and went to work. Even his plush, hairy armpits turned me on. I was in horny heaven a-licking and a-pricking him with my tongue, encouraged by his appreciative moans and groans and the thrusts and throbs I was receiving from his groin. Once again our tongues lashed out to swallow each other and he took advantage of my bare ass to finger fuck me. And once again I had to pull away from him to save myself from coming too soon.

He sat down on the bidet still wearing his immaculate D&G briefs. He looked camera-ready and picture-perfect just as if he were posing for the famous underwear ad. Only, unlike the ad, he was holding his dick from the base of his balls so I could watch it grow to its full length and fill the white cotton and dampen the material with his pre-cum. Teasingly he moistened his lips. He grasped his hardened dick and gazed at me languidly and invitingly, his fabulous forelock tumbling over his face. Then, when I still didn't move, he said, "Aren't you interested to see what's underneath?"

I was. But I was also afraid I was going to be overwhelmed by the final unveiling. He took the initiative by trusting his thumbs down the front of his briefs and lowering them just enough for me to see the beginnings of his pubic hairs. "I usually do this to music," he joked, turning round slowly so I could see his bubble butt coming into view.

He was right. Singing had certainly given him a tight ass. It took all my self-control not to come there and then in front of him. And probably all over him. In fact my dick was positively weeping for him.

"Why don't you finish the job?" he said as his uncut dick threatened to burst through the seams of his underwear. "I'm a better singer than stripper."

I did as I was bid and was soon face to face with the perfect pecker. Perfect for me that is. It uncoiled like a python as it met my mouth and, once inside, filled out and plumped up as if it had found the perfect nest. Perfect prick, perfect nest. What more could a guy want? And it wasn't even in my ass yet.

Somehow I knew we were going to have nothing to worry about in that department either.

Now it was my turn to moisten my lips as I sipped the nectar leaking from his penis, its girth stretching my jowls to at least twice their size.

I found myself thinking, "This is great. I could really develop a taste for this."

As if he could read my thoughts, he forced his cock deeper into my mouth.

As I gasped and gagged, I wondered how many had cum before me and also how many had stayed the course.

"Lube me up good," he said. "It feels so great in here, I can't wait to get inside your ass and make it burst into flower."

"Pretty good vocabulary for an Italian." I thought. "Must have seen a lot of adult movies."

Later I discovered he'd lived three years in Vancouver. And also seen a lot of adult movies.

It's surprising what goes through your mind when you're sucking someone off. It's also surprising what big macho studs say to you while you're going down on them. You long for something original but all they usually do is pull your hair out by the roots and tell you how fucking sweet you are. At least with Vittorio I got a mouthful of horny sounding Italian as well as a mouthful of juicy dick.

What he said might not have been highly original but it sure was new to me.

Just as my jaws were about to give out he took his dick from my mouth and replaced it with his tongue. That was pretty hot too. Then he picked me up in his arms and carried me to the bed. I felt like Vivien Leigh in the movie she made with Marlon Brando. Or was it Clark Gable? What I did know however was that I wasn't going to think about it tomorrow but enjoy it today. Soon I was flat on my back, legs akimbo, with his tongue licking the edge of my ass crack, wetting skin that usually doesn't see daylight. This was definitely a first and I couldn't get enough of it.

My ass pursed its lips as he drooled hot spit on me, lubing the way for his nine - or was it ten - incher. Then he started stroking my love hole with his fingertips, gently at first till it fairly quivered for him. Then more firmly, touching and rubbing slowly and sensuously until he had me chomping at the bit.

"Are you ready, amore?" he said as his hands massaged my ass cheeks.

I shuddered in tremulous anticipation unable to speak.

My mouth might have been temporarily out of action but my anal portals were wide open and stretched out like a welcome doormat. He'd spread my cheeks so far apart by now that I felt my whole world was one huge asshole.

It didn't take long for my voice to come back. I nearly hit a falsetto myself as he shoved his dick deep into the centre of my being. I began to buck like a bronco but my yells turned to cries of joy as his penis pulsed against my prostate. Each time he hit home I could feel my jungle juices boiling, ready to erupt. I'd already stopped myself from coming three times that night and knew I wasn't going to last much longer. My dick and my prostate and my asshole soon became one continuous scream of pleasure as we reached an ear-splitting sexual crescendo together. In fact, he too literally burst into song as he came like a full throated thrush inside me.

It sounds kind of corny but, believe me, it was fucking fantastic. To feel your ass full of tremors as a terrific tenor serenades you is something special. Of course it wasn't a full aria. More a variation on the scales I'd heard on that fateful morning. And just as I'd done that day I came in profusion. And so did he. As our Biblical friend David would have said (and with reason), "My cup runneth over." And then some!

After that fulsome beginning, things were constantly on the up and up. Literally. And, from that day forth, I couldn't wait for him to practise his scales on my ass.

And every time he gave me a mean vibrato.

After just two more performances of 'Carmina Burana', he had to leave for the Edinburgh Festival. The song was temporarily over but the melody lingers on.

I continue to be in a state of forward slither and voluptuous collapse every time I see or think of him, or his forelock. Not to mention his foreskin.

Fortunately, I live in Italy and am able to follow him around from time to time. I know from past experience that absence doesn't necessarily make the heart grow fonder. Neither does his tenor presence make my ass any more tender. Still, I must say I enjoyed getting it 'adulterated' and Vittorio certainly made it richer by adding his own particular substance. You might also say he succeeded in 'refreshing my soul' but I don't quite know how I'm ever going to restore my asshole.

By the way, I've remembered the movie now. It was "Gone With The Wind." Very appropriate I thought recalling the air coming out of his pipes and into mine. In fact I get a touch of the tenor tremors every time I think of him.