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By Alex Barton
The conductor lay back in the bath, the water as hot as he could stand. His impressive cock jutted above the surface, the shaft quivering with the intensity of his arousal. For a moment he considered whether to masturbate but decided to wait: the anticipation would make his eventual orgasm even more pleasurable.
The bathroom filled with steam and he glanced around at the luxurious fittings, amazed at how quickly any damage the hotel had sustained during the Blitz had been repaired. But then, unlike his beloved Berlin, London had not been invaded by a marauding horde anxious to kill, rape and steal everything of the slightest value. The city had suffered during the air war but still had the resources available from America to rebuild which Berlin did not. In Berlin hotels there was no marble left, no stainless-steel fittings, no French soaps, perfumes and shampoos to replace those destroyed during the ferocious assault by the Red Army.
In an effort to forget what he had seen, what others had told him happened (he left before the final conflagration to reside quietly in his native Salzburg and await the inevitable denazification process), he submerged his body under the water for a minute or so, enjoying the absolute silence and the tingling sensation in his balls as his cock throbbed with need.
He sat up, slicked his blond hair back from his face, and reached for the dossier his secretary had prepared for him. He was not concerned the paper would become soggy or the ink run: it was plasticized, the machine that produced it a personal gift from the Reich Minister of Aviation who had commissioned the process for the Luftwaffe.
The entries on each of the principals he would be meeting for dinner were succinct, telling him little he did not already know. The Englishman in charge of the recording was married to the principal soprano which might lead to them supporting each other in the event of a question of interpretation, something the conductor insisted was his sole prerogative to decide. As far as he was concerned, he was building a recorded legacy that would last a thousand years, considerably longer than the Third Reich which had raised him to prominence and now lay in ruins.
He knew the marriage of the producer and the soprano was not a love match: the marriage was one of expediency to enable her to escape the stigma of having been the mistress of a leading Nazi politician and to give the Englishman the power to guide her career, ensuring she sang in only the most prestigious productions, both recorded and in the opera house. Thinking about this the conductor smiled: the Englishman had also made himself responsible for furthering the career of an American-born Greek soprano who considered herself the world’s leading prima diva; her temper tantrums and unpredictability legendary despite her extraordinary talent.
The conductor’s secretary had told him he would enjoy the three photographs at the back of the dossier which he assumed would be of himself holding the soprano particularly close as he congratulated her at the end of one his performances given at the Salzburg Festival where they had both recently appeared. But when he came to the photographs they took his breath away and whatever resolve he might have had not to release the tension in his balls evaporated and he curled his long, slender fingers round his hard shaft, gently stroking the taut skin back and forth over the throbbing tip to produce the precum he knew would make his masturbation more pleasurable.
Time-stamped a month earlier, the photographs had been taken through a window into what the conductor, judging by the furnishings, guessed was a hotel room. Nothing could be seen of the man the soprano was sitting astride, her back to her lover, but he was clearly in charge: her legs were spread wide by the powerful muscles of his thighs so the camera could capture that the cock entering her body was buried deep in her asshole not her cunt. Judging by the rapturous expression on her face, the way her mouth was open, her eyes half-closed with lust, she was loving every second of being sodomized.
For the first time the conductor could see the woman’s magnificent breasts in all their glory. Spread out across her chest and curving beyond the sides of her body they were huge and heavy but defied gravity by being high and firm, crowned by large rose-pink nipples, their tips hard with her arousal. The conductor had always known the soprano was buxom but as she habitually wore high-necked dresses and blouses of thick material that minimized her bust he had no idea it was truly spectacular and the conductor ached to be able to take her breasts with his hands, suckling their tips as he plowed his cock back and forth in her rectum.
Close to orgasm, the conductor turned the page and sucked in his breath, struggling to hold back his climax for a moment or two longer so he could savor the vision of the perabet soprano cupping one of her massive breasts in her hands, the globe lifted to her mouth so she could suckle the tip, her lips sealed round the nipple, dragging it out from the surrounding areola. Her eyes were closed, every inch of the man’s cock buried deep in her back passage.
The conductor flicked over to the last page and his orgasm surged in an explosion of cum that spurted from his prick high into the air to splat back against his tautly muscled belly. Time and again sperm gushed from the tip of his cock until his balls were drained and his breathing began to slow from agonized gasps to deep breaths. He stared at the picture, mesmerized by the sight of the soprano on her knees between the man’s legs, his cock buried so far inside her mouth it had to have entered her throat. Blobs of cum were clearly visible leaking from her lips but what brought what the conductor so quickly to orgasm was the sight of her asshole gaping wide, its pink interior clearly visible, which had to mean the soprano had lifted herself off her lover’s body and sucked his cock which had been buried deep within her bowels into her mouth the moment he climaxed.
To do that of her own free will, or even at her lover’s behest, strengthened the conductor’s resolve and he knew he had to have her. That very night, if possible.
The conductor entered the lobby of the hotel heading for the bar where he had arranged to meet the producer and his wife. His evening clothes had been made at great expense before the war by a tailor who ended his days on a cattle truck headed east or so the conductor had been told by the man’s neighbor who, not of the same religion, had been spared the same fate. Even with an ego as big as the Eiger the conductor knew his clothes made him look good while a combination of aerobic exercise and skiing at his chalet in Gstaad ensured he stayed in perfect shape, his compact, muscular body complemented by his Aryan handsomeness and thick blond hair. He smiled affably at a breathtakingly beautiful woman with violet eyes who gave him an appraising glance as she walked past toward the lift. The conductor smiled to himself: his celebrity rested solely in the world of classical music; her face and voluptuous figure were known to cinemagoers the world over.
“Can I help you, sir?” a bellboy asked as the conductor waved him over.
“I need to make a telephone call,” the conductor said and the bellboy led him to one of several booths, immediately withdrawing. The discretion of the staff, the comfort of the suites and the quality of the wine cellar were the reasons the conductor always returned to the hotel, preferring it to the Savoy or the Ritz.
He spoke to his secretary in Berlin for a few minutes to ask what the situation was with the deteriorating health of the Principal Conductor of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra, a man who had sworn to do all in his power to ensure the conductor never succeeded him. Such resistance was completely pointless: the Chancellor of the Federal Republic had personally guaranteed the conductor’s appointment and he was confident the players would accept his authority, recognizing it would cement their reputation and substantially boost their income, his appointment carrying with it the business interests of not one but two recording companies, one German based in Hamburg and one English based just outside London. Together with those contracts would come appearances at the Salzburg Festival and he knew that, should anything go wrong in Berlin, he would be courted just as assiduously by the Vienna Philharmonic who would be delighted to appoint him Conductor-in-Chief for life.
The news from Berlin was excellent and the conductor tipped the bellboy as he made his way to the bar looking for his hosts. He decided to forego his usual whisky and soda: celebration was in order with champagne, the best the hotel’s cellar had to offer.
Intrigued despite himself, the conductor listened as the producer spent much of the time during dinner explaining his plans and, in particular, the conductor’s role in raising the standards of the producer’s newly formed orchestra made up of the cream of London’s musicians. His plans were imaginative, even visionary, involving concert trips to North and South America, the Far East and all over Europe. The conductor smiled to himself: it would be like blitzkrieg all over again only this time the German invasion would be officially sanctioned and supported by English investment.
The soprano, obviously used to her husband monopolizing the conversation, joined in whenever he asked for her opinion, biting her lip when he showed impatience with what she was saying and took over the conversation. She reached for her champagne and her eyes met the conductor’s when the producer, a heavy smoker, patted the pockets of his jacket and realized he had run out of cigarettes. He excused himself and left the table to use the machine in the foyer.
“Are perabet giriş you free later to discuss my ideas for the recording?” the conductor asked.
“Of course,” the soprano said in German. “But it will be because I want to be fucked, not because of any romantic attraction. I will never leave him – ” she nodded her head in the direction the Englishman had gone, ” – because he is important to me, even if he treats me like a verdammte washerwoman.”
“We are of the same mind,” the conductor said, smiling at her. “He is important to my future just as he is to yours. He is a brilliant man but a cruel one.”
“As are you,” the soprano said without smiling and signaled the waiter to refill their glasses.
Back in his room the conductor slipped off his jacket and hung it in the wardrobe. Then he stripped off the rest of his clothes and reached for an Egyptian cotton bathrobe provided by the hotel. He walked into the bathroom and cleaned his teeth, combed his hair and opened the robe to admire the length of his prick hanging down between his legs. He was fastidious about shaving his groin and was pleased his shaft and balls were perfectly smooth.
He used Italian Acqua di Parma cologne and splashed a little on his hands, stroking it over his stomach. He knew the secret of applying a scent was for it to be obvious only when a woman leans close enough to kiss; he wanted the soprano to enjoy the fragrance when he extracted his cock from her rectum at the moment of climax and spurted his semen down her throat. The delicious thought made his cock stiffen and he watched as it thickened to full hardness. He knew he was bigger than the man in the photographs and hoped the soprano would be able to accommodate him in her asshole just as readily.
There was a knock on the door. The conductor reached in his leather washbag for something and slipped it under a pillow on the double bed. Leaving his robe open, his now fully erect cock jutting from his groin, he opened the door, unconcerned whether it was the soprano or a chambermaid.
The soprano’s eyes widened despite herself.
“God, you don’t waste time, do you?” she said, looking down and then into the conductor’s face. He saw contempt in her eyes, compounded when she walked into the room and turned to face him.
“What did you tell your husband?” the conductor asked.
“What you suggested. That you wished to discuss my role and your interpretation of the opera. He is very protective: it has been a favorite of his since childhood and he learned German so he could translate the libretto.”
“That’s good,” the conductor said quietly.
“Alright then,” the soprano said, reaching under her blonde hair for the zip to her dress and running it down her back. Then she hooked her fingers in the high neck of her dress and pushed it down her body so it fell in a pool on the floor. She kicked it away and stood wearing only a black garter belt, black stockings and black high heel pumps. She was not wearing panties and her mons was covered with a down of blonde hair.
The soprano’s eyes dropped to the conductor’s cock, as hard as steel, quivering with desire at the sight of her voluptuous bare breasts. She cupped her hands under the huge globes, offering them to him. “You’re obviously so fired up I don’t expect this will take long,” she said, pinching her nipples between her thumbs and forefingers to heighten her arousal.
The conductor walked across to her and, without a second’s hesitation, slapped the soprano hard across the face. She reeled and he grabbed her shoulder to hold her steady. He raised his hand a second time and slapped her left breast hard, knocking away her hands. This time she swayed in shock and the conductor raised the back of his hand and slapped her right breast just as hard. Tears filled the soprano’s eyes, her fingers going to her mouth as she stifled a scream, obviously fearful of the scandal if anyone heard.
“No, please – no more!” she whimpered, tears running down her face as she gasped for breath.
The conductor threaded his fingers in her hair to lock hold of her head and brought his mouth down hard against hers, his tongue entering her mouth. He tasted the salt of her tears as they ran down her cheeks and he broke the kiss, pulling her face into his shoulder.
“Shh,” he said, softly, his lips stroking across her neck and up to under her ear, his mouth opening as he closed his teeth on her earlobe and bit gently into the soft skin. He slid his hand between her legs, forcing them open, his fingers stroking the mass of blonde curls as he pressed into the opening of her cunt, finding it wet. She may have appeared contemptuous of his arousal but he could tell, as he pushed three fingers as far as they would go into the slick, wet hole, that her body had reacted to the anticipation of being fucked by him and the sight of his erect cock when he opened the door.
For several minutes the conductor did no more than savor the scent, taste and softness of the perabet güvenilir mi soprano’s lips, face and neck, his fingers masturbating her at the same time. She had stopped crying and now her breath came in sharp little gasps as she submitted to his control of her, his fingers still entwined in her hair holding her tight.
The conductor moved his head back and glanced down at the soprano’s huge breasts, heaving with the pleasure his fingers were stirring in her sopping cunt.
“Suckle them for me,” he whispered, his eyes meeting hers. “I know you can.” He saw surprise in her eyes, obviously wondering how he knew. “Use both hands for each one.”
The soprano did as she was instructed, cupping a breast in both hands and lifting it toward her mouth, her lips opening hungrily to envelop the nipple.
“Wait,” the conductor said. He slid his fingers from between her legs, dripping with her cream, and smeared the oily liquid onto her nipples, first one then the other. “Now do it.”
The soprano’s eyes flashed with arousal as she lifted the slick nipple to her mouth and closed her lips round the tip, sucking as much of the creamy-soft flesh into her mouth as she could. The conductor slid his fingers back between her legs but this time sought and found the erect bud of her engorged clit standing proud of its hood. He closed his fingers round the stiff little organ and squeezed, making the soprano groan softly, her mouth open so she could show him she was biting the taut tip of her breast. The conductor bent his head and sucked hard on the other breast, fucking his fingers deep into her cunt; the soprano bucked and whimpered, moaning as she climaxed, a flood of her cream pouring out over the conductor’s fingers.
Perhaps she expected him to remove his fingers from between her legs and offer them to her to lick clean or perhaps to do it himself. But he didn’t. He pushed his hand further between her legs and his fingers sought and found her asshole, the slippery liquid on his fingers making it easy for him to force open the tight muscle of her anus. He pushed three fingers into her rectum just as he had in her cunt.
This time the soprano screamed with surprise, her cry muffled by her mouth being stuffed full of breastflesh which was now dripping wet with her saliva as she continued to suckle herself because he had not told her to stop.
“Can you get pregnant?”
“Yes,” the soprano said, releasing her breast from her mouth, her breath rasping in her throat.
“Then I shall fuck only your asshole,” he said quietly and caught the flash of excitement and arousal in the soprano’s eyes.
Fully aware he could not relax his dominance over the soprano as he suspected many men had done before him, the conductor slid his fingers from the soprano’s rectum and brought them to her mouth, cupping her chin, his other hand still holding the back of her head in a tight grip. The soprano wrinkled her nose in distaste, repelled by the scent of her ass and whimpered with shock as the conductor stroked his fingers across her lips and pressed them inwards so they entered her mouth. As her tongue washed over the fingers that had been buried in her bottom the conductor’s gaze softened: he intended to slide his cock from her bowels and climax in her mouth at least once during the night so it made sense she should become accustomed to the taste.
The conductor withdrew his fingers and released the soprano’s head.
“Lie back on the bed and show me your asshole,” he said.
The soprano reached for her black high heel shoes to slip them off but the conductor quickly said, “No, leave them on.”
The soprano complied, hooking her hands behind her thighs and lifting her legs so her knees were pressed into the huge globes of her breasts, her asshole displayed to the conductor’s gaze. He shrugged off his robe and climbed between her legs, his hands replacing hers as he forced her thighs right back and lifted her hips off the bed so his face was inches from the tiny puckered opening of her anus, darker than the creamy skin of her buttocks, a strong scent coming from it stirred up by the fucking motion of his fingers. The conductor inhaled deeply: a lifelong devotee of anal sex, nothing aroused him more than the sight, taste and scent of a woman’s asshole twitching in anticipation of being sodomized.
Slowly, lingeringly, the conductor licked his tongue through the cream oozing from the soprano’s cunt, smearing it over his mouth, cheeks and nose. He adored the taste of cunt cream and swallowed eagerly, savoring the honeyed taste. The soprano mewled with desire, her hips flexing as she rubbed the bud of her clit over his questing tongue, her arousal turning the trickle of her cream into a flood. The conductor lapped up every drop, his lips and tongue digging into the hole then swiping along her cuntlips, sucking gently at the rigid bud of her erect clit then down to the opening of her asshole. He pushed his tongue as far past her sphincter as he could, the scent filling his nostrils, the taste of her rectum flooding his tastebuds. He knew he could spend the entire night with his face between the soprano’s legs but his cock demanded relief and he slid a hand under the pillow to find the tube of lubricant he had placed there earlier.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32