Franz was about ten years older than me and occasionally visited our class to lecture or give instruction as he was too young to acquire the position of a professor at the time, though he was on good terms with all of the teachers and many of the students. A respected young conductor, he was a mentor of sorts to me, having already achieved the status I could only dream of someday nearing.
I rather looked up to him but he had always treated me as an equal, despite the differences in our age and social standing. Somehow his status was never an issue between us, or at least he never gave me cause to feel that it was, and I was immensely proud of the fact that I had earned his respect at such a young age.
He had seen potential in me and it was as though he had already given me credit in advance for the greatness he was certain I would inevitably achieve. We’d always got on quite well as colleagues, and over time we’d developed something akin to a professional friendship.
He was a handsome, accomplished man of about 30 and was married to an attractive woman from Salzburg who was a couple of years his senior. I’d met and spoken to her on numerous occasions when I’d had the honour of being invited to dine with them at their beautiful home in one of the nicer parts of the city.
In comparison, the scruffy 25m ² behind the Westbahnhof I returned to every evening was a constant reminder to me of my lowly position in society, at least for the time being.
I would never have dreamt of inviting any of my peers back to my modest dwelling, let alone the great conductor himself. But as chance would have it, one evening after attending a spectacularly performed Handel concert, he invited himself. It was not the only surprise fate had in store for me that night.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Our first stop after the performance was a local Kaffeehaus where we had a satisfying go, as usual, at picking apart each detail concerning the orchestra, good-naturedly finding fault where we could. He’d already ordered his second cup of melange and I was still working on my first. The man loved his caffeine and was a regular at half of the cafes around the city.
After having finished our coffee, we moved out into the unusually warm October evening, chatting all the while—him doing most of the talking and myself agreeing or contributing when appropriate. Despite our being jovial with one another, you should probably be aware, as I was, that the fact that he was older and more accomplished than me played something of a power role in our relationship. Although we were friends in our private time, to me he was always my teacher in the first line.
We’d not agreed on a set destination, opting instead to amble aimlessly along the streets and through the parks of Vienna. It was only when I heard him say “You live around here, isn’t that right, Gustav?” that I realised we’d happened upon the vicinity of my street.
I’d been so engrossed in our discussion I hadn’t paid attention to where we were going. Somewhat ashamed, I nodded.
Without a hint of sarcasm or judgement Franz exclaimed, “Well then, you shall have to give me the grand tour!” and began walking toward my flat. Hesitantly I followed suit, silently cursing myself all the while for having let us end up here.
Somewhat reluctantly I welcomed him into my little home, apologizing for the state of my cramped quarters. He quipped about his own humble beginnings and said something about great men having to start somewhere. This pleasantly surprised me and put me at ease.
I rummaged through my tiny pantry, coming across an expensive bottle of schnapps I’d been given by a fellow student from a wealthier background on my last birthday but had never opened, so I could at least offer him something. There was not a morsel of food in the flat.
He seemed to pay no mind to my underwhelming abode and while I poured our drinks our discussion instantly picked up where it had left off.
We drank to our friendship, to what he termed my “brilliant future” and nearly everything else he could come up with to toast. The clear liquid burned my throat and warmed my belly. I was soon feeling relaxed and content, and finding it much easier to chat animatedly with Franz.
We carried on conversing well into the evening, pleasantly passing the hours. With a few drinks inside us, the barriers between us gave way to a comfortable frankness usually shared between good friends of considerable years.
The sun had long since set and evening had fallen. Franz was on the subject of the fairer sex by the time I’d got up to light the lamp. Its glow bathed the room in the dimmest of light, but it was rather cosy. We’d got through about half of the liquor by now, the subject matter of our conversation growing progressively raunchier the more we drank.
His inhibitions dulled, he meandered onto the topic of sex. And although an unorthodox area for our discussions thus far, it was not at all unwelcome or unpleasant. Soon he was boastfully regaling me with tales of his conquests during his years at the conservatory, some in subtle terms, others in surprisingly forthright detail. This adds a whole new dimension to the man, I thought as I listened to his portrayals of an oversexed youth so similar to myself, and I could effortlessly picture the scenarios he laid out for me.
He then probed me about my own adventures, asking me whether the girls at the conservatory were as sex mad as he’d known them to be during his own studies. I blushed slightly at the bluntness of his question. It instantly summoned back images of my own hours with those very girls and I felt a stirring in my stomach. I muttered a hushed reply that I did not know.
“Ah, you are a dark horse, Gustav!” he replied with a broad smile. I was struck by an intense look of tenderness in his eyes I’d never seen before. Not knowing what to say, I simply smiled back and had another drink, which he did as well.
It all happened so suddenly I barely had time to react.
His drink still in his right hand, his free left hand fell to his crotch and he began rubbing himself as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
It was only then that I became aware of his aroused state, of the clear outline of his erection straining against the material of his trousers. I felt a sort of subdued awe at his shamelessness regarding his arousal, and I felt my own body swiftly responding in turn.
It was unreal. My cock automatically stiffened in response to the anticipation of sex.
Fuelled by a mix of curiosity, lust and intoxication, Franz grew bolder.
“Come here.”
He said it softly, but the tone of his voice rather urged more than asked me to comply.
I was confused and flustered, my pulse quickening. I couldn’t believe this was really happening. It was more like a strange dream in which the dreamer knows he is dreaming. Feeling hot and uncomfortable I obediently moved closer to him, averting his gaze.
There was a moment of silence. Franz nipped at his drink and set it down on the table. Then, taking mine from my hands, he set it down next to his. Our eyes met briefly.
“Give me your hand,” he said, lowering his gaze to indicate where he meant (as though it were necessary).
His voice was quite calm. Not believing I had understood him correctly, my puzzled expression must have betrayed my bewilderment.
“Christ, Gustav, don’t be so uptight,” he countered, slightly impatient.
He sounded a bit tipsy but was still his lucid self.
His eyes fell on mine, a slight grin adorning his face as he slowly undid his trousers, freeing up his rigid erection.
“Here. Touch me,” he repeated.
Hesitantly I reached out my hand and brought it to his proud erection. It was incredibly hard. And hot. It responded immediately to my touch. It was the first time I had touched another man’s cock. Strange sensation though it was, it was not at all repulsive to me.
I heard his breath escape his throat in a quiet moan of pleasure. Though my focus was fixed on what I was holding in my hand, I could feel his eyes upon me.
My mind was spinning slightly now from the alcohol and the rush of blood forced to my head from my racing heart. Some distant but present part of me found this undeniably arousing and I was struggling to come to terms with that.
His hand closed around mine and began slowly moving it up and down the length of his shaft. I silently consented and he left me to it.
I carefully began pleasuring him as I would myself, my fingers wrapped tightly around his foreskin, moving my hand steadily up and down and hoping he was finding it pleasurable.
Franz breathed deeply and sat back, seemingly enjoying it.
This is a lot more difficult than it looks, I recall thinking to myself. I’d instructed girls in the proper ways of manual pleasure on several occasions, guided their movements in such a way as to insure the utmost gratification for myself.
