The Erotic Études Opus VI

Étude VII - Pucci

Étude VII - Pucci

For whatever reason - perhaps it was the lack of light in the room - I found it easier to copy the score in the biergarten, on the ground floor of the hotel. Slightly self-conscious with ink and paper in hand, I retreated to the farthest corner, a large stein of pils at my elbow. There was a motif that was nagging at me, after that night at the theater. The impossible had happened, and they staged the first act of "Leonore", renamed "Fidelio", in rehearsal. I was busy recalling the haunting Aria at the climax of the piece, which only really rests in me when I have it written down, when I felt eyes upon me, and I looked up.

Across the table, I met the regard of a young man, probably no older than I, and possibly less. He smiled when I looked up at him, and I gestured for him to sit. Impolite to take up an entire table as the evening was reaching its peak.

"Evening, Herr van Beethoven," he quipped in German, waving a finger at my manuscript.

"You're right on one account, this is Beethoven. But I'm just copying it down. Why did you say that?" Something about him captured my curiosity, and I put down the pen.

He laughed easily. "You. Your hair every which way like that, and - you're obviously not Italian!"

"And you?"

"Oh - I am!" he laughed. "Buy me a beer, Herr van Beethoven." He drew his chair closer. "You are quite good looking."

I blushed, but despite my embarrassment, I waved the barmaid over. "He would like a - what? Pils?"

"Of course," he replied brightly, smiling. "You are!" he protested.

"I am what?"

"You are quite good looking."

"Well, so are you," I replied briefly, and sipped on my forgotten pils.

The barmaid returned. She said, in German, "Is this one bothering you?" And I shook my head. We drank for a few moments in silence.

"So who are you?" I asked at last.

"Schiavo," he replied, wiping his lips after a deep draft. "Good, this. And you?"

"Schnabel," I replied without hesitation. It had occurred to me, as soon as the barmaid asked her somewhat curt question, that the youth was a prostitute. Better, then, that I use a name I could afford to have repeated, and could not be traced.

"Well, Schnabel, you're here on your holidays, is that so?"

"Yes, I am," I replied.

"Perhaps you would like an hour of entertainment on your holidays. When we've finished the beer, of course." He smiled winningly.

"With you?" I hid my amusement by raising my glass. But his regard was difficult to turn from. "Perhaps when we have finished two beers."

"Two, then," he nodded. "So, Herr van Schnabel, why are you writing down something of Beethoven? Is it all in your brain then?"

"Yes, exactly," I replied. "I write it down to get it out of my brain where I can see it. And consider it. I heard it at the theater last night."

"I was at the theater last night too," he said.

"You were? The Camerata?"

He nodded. "Something about Spain, and two lovers, and they take the man away."


"Yes!" he laughed. "That's the name. And Leonore. But I'm not quite bright enough to recall the music as you can."

"This is the last aria in the act," I explained. "Come, hope, let not your last star be clouded by despair," I pointed at the bar.

"I'm sorry Herr van Schnabel, I can't read music. I hope that does not cause you to change your plans."

The barmaid arrived with the second round of drinks, and took away our empty steins. "No, no," I said. "I am curious though - what caused you to attend the theater last night?"

"Oh - well I go where I am asked. I was asked to accompany a gentleman."

"And this is not considered embarrassing?" I was mildly shocked.

"Oh no. He is a rather important gentleman. No one would dare to criticize him."

"I see..." I didn't see at all. Confused, I summoned from my memory the next bar of the aria, and dipped my pen in the inkwell, while Schiavo observed all with what appeared to be rapt attention.

"You write that so quickly! How do you do that? All those little squiggles and things, and it's so neat!" he remarked.

"They're called notes," I snorted. Despite my patronizing tone, I found myself mightily flattered by the youth, who was studying the paper before him as though it contained a profound secret which he must unravel.

I picked up my stein - and it was empty. I could ill afford another round for both of us. "That's our two beers," I concluded, and capped my inkwell.

"Shall we to your room? Are you staying here, Herr van Schnabel?"

"Yes - yes I'm staying here. Listen, I have no money for --"

"Money?" he drew back as though I had slapped him. "I don't want money! I want to spend the night with a nice looking German!" he seized my arm. I left the money for the beer on the table, and let Schiavo drag me out of the biergarten and up the stairs.

Once we were behind the closed door, Schiavo reached his arm around my shoulder in the darkness and drew me down to an open-mouthed kiss. I stood a half head taller than him. I straightened then. "How old are you?" I asked.

He laughed quietly in the darkness. "Does that matter?"


"Sixteen. Do you want to talk or do you want to fuck?"

I turned then, and fumbled my way to the bed, sat, and lighted the candle. "Here's the light, come here then," and the dark youth approached, stripping off his frock coat and shirt in a quick gesture, dropping them on the floor. He came to me, and unfastened my coat, pushing it from my shoulders. I seized his arms, and kissed him, and he pushed me down on the bed, pressing his body intently against my own as his tongue pushed between my lips., I ran my hands down his shoulders - the flesh of his back was smooth as satin - and felt a familiar ache of desire build within me.

His hand worked my belt free and opened my trousers, plucking the buttons open deftly, and my breath quickened as his fingers found what they sought. He sat up then, and I pulled my trousers down.

"Ah, a quick one," he remarked, stroking my growing erection. "And how old are you?"

"Nineteen in June," I replied, my breath short. If he maintained that intent stroking, I would climax in moments; but he did not, and we embraced once again.

"I forget how quick young men are," he said quietly into my ear. "Old men are so hard to excite..." and he chuckled, grasping me once again.

"Wait," I stopped him, "I want you naked too," and the youth complied, stripping his trousers off in a quick motion and lay back on the bed.

"Here I am," he said, stretching his arms out. He was likewise, fully aroused, but before I could move he twisted around beneath me and put his head between my knees. "Have you ever tried the sixty-nine? It is an exercise in concentration. I do you, while you do me," and he put his mouth on my aching penis. I stretched out over him and likewise, took his penis into my own mouth, holding it much as he was holding my own.

It was certainly an exercise in concentration; for Schiavo's sexual skills were considerable. First he nibbled delicately, and darted with his tongue, and it was all I could do to hold him in my mouth while he teased me, and it was not long before my climax exploded under his expert manipulation. It was not until I had recovered from my own orgasm that I was able to concentrate adequately to bring him to his own climax, which was somewhat more slow emerging, but at last, he came, with a satisfied gasp, and I lay back on the bed. He jumped up and facing back in the same direction, nestled into my shoulder. "Not such a bad performance, considering you hadn't done it before..." and I drew back.

"How do you know I --"

"I can tell. It's something you have to practice," he placed a tender, salty kiss on my lips. "No matter. I could tell I pleased you, though. Didn't I?"

"Yes, yes... but that is your profession, isn't it?"

"What?" he laughed, and sat up, the laugh catching in his throat until he coughed. When he recovered, he started laughing again.

"That is your profession, though..." I said, now puzzled.

"No it's not!" he fell back on the bed, wildly amused, still laughing.

"But you said - you had been to the theater with a gentleman..."

"Yes. He was my father!"

"Your father?"

"Yes, have you ever heard of Guiseppe Pucci?"

"Pucci, he's--" I stuttered.

"He's my father," he said. "I'm his youngest son, Giacomo Schiavo Pucci."

"But if --"

"Why did I make you buy me beer? Because I wanted you to buy me beer. I liked it."

I was grateful for the poor light in the room, because I must have blushed from head to foot. And nestled comfortably in my arms, the sixteen year old son of the most powerful noble in Milan placed an affectionate kiss on my cheek

•   •   •   •


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The Erotic Etudes Index

[ I ]   [ II ]   [ III ]   [ IV ]   [ V ]   [ VI ]   [ VII ]   [ VIII ]   [ IX ]
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