It Ain't Over Till The Chubby Spits...

And not even then!


























 Art Michael Kirwan

 Story by Troy Storm



Originally published in Inches magazine - December, 2002


"I'm sorry the audition didn't work out." The suit made a special effort to come over and speak to me. I was grateful for that, but a little surprised that someone as high up in the organization as artistic director would be concerned with a casting call for extras anyway.

"Yeah, I'm sorry, too. I don't know opera like you do, but I know what I like. And I've always wanted to 'carry a spear in *Aida*.' It's one of those stage traditions you read about. It would have been neat."

"Yes ... neat." He smiled and nodded. He seemed like a nice guy, reluctant to let me go without letting me down easy. I appreciated that. "Unfortunately, our spear-carriers are union," he continued to explain. "The only place we could have used you was in the Triumphal March."

"And I love parades. I thought I looked pretty good in the costume--what there was of it."

"You were ... outstanding." He smiled. His dark eyes flicked down quickly and back up again as a light flush colored his high aristocratic cheekbones. "Perhaps, too much so."

"It was that little panel thing hanging down in front, right? Damn."

"Yes. It didn't ... hang down."

My ears got hot. "I .... uh, get excited sometimes when I want something really bad. Sorry."

"Please, don't apologize. I have to admit I've never thought of the Triumphal March auditions as a sexual experience. Verdi would be pleased, I imagine, to know you find his music was so ... fulfilling." The artistic director cleared his throat. "If there were any other place in the production we could have used you ... You have a splendid physique."

The stage manger had told us to put our pants on and wait after we had walked across stage in those little Egyptian jock straps with the damned front panel, so I was standing talking to the suit bare-chested. He seemed very appreciative of all the hours I had spent bulking up.

"Are you"--he had trouble pulling his attention away from a nipple that I was absent-mindedly scratching--"an opera buff?"

"Kinda." I crossed my arms over my chest and puffed out my pecs. "Some of the stuff really gets to me sometimes. Sometimes it's just a lot of yelling."

He laughed, allowing himself to check out my biceps good. Now we were in his yard: talking opera. He had a good-looking, open face with bright, dark eyes and looked like he had a lean, toned body. I thought if he'd strip off that designer three-button and let his glossy, slicked-down hair get mussed, we'd probably be good for a couple of laughs together.

"You're right. Sometimes it is just a lot of yelling, but we try to mitigate that as much as possible. What is it that 'gets to' you?" He tried to look really interested. Anything to keep me talking, I guess. I knew he probably wanted to get into my pants. I was flattered.

"The one with the Princess, or the Queen, or whoever she is, who comes up with riddles for her suitors and when they blow it, she chops off their heads. Great stuff. The music, I mean. Dumb plot, but the music is fantastic. Awesome."

"*Turandot*. Puccini. Yes." He nodded, pleased. "Absolutely awesome."

I laughed. "Right. But, I always thought it was *Tu-ran-dough*. It's *Tu-ran-dot*?"

"It's Italian, not French."

"Oh, yeah. Right. I'm Italian."

"You are, indeed. Very much so." He was really enjoying just looking at me. It's nice to be hit on by a cultured, good-looking guy, but that seemed to be it. He couldn't think of one more thing to say. I figured I couldn't just stand there all afternoon with my tits cooling and him just drooling. I'm more an action kind of guy. So, it was my turn to pick up the spear and march.

"Look. This is kind of forward of me, but maybe we could get together some time and you could teach me some more about this opera stuff."

He seemed stunned. "That ... that would be fine. I'd like that very much. That would be ..."

"But I don't know what I could do in return. I mean, you're such a big shot and an expert, and I'm just--"

"No, no. I wouldn't expect ..."

"I'm just a guy with a good body. All I could do is--"

"Please, I'd be thrilled to."

"--offer you sex." He shut up. "I mean, if you wanted it, of course. We could listen to some music, then, you know, get a bite, maybe some candles and stuff, and then, like, roll around in the hay." His jaw worked, but he seemed totally incapable of producing a sound. So I kept going. "Or if you'd rather do the 'roll around in the hay' stuff first ..."--I looked around--"we talked so much that it looks like we're the only ones left." My pants were tented I was sticking out even more than I had under that little Egyptian panel. "Maybe we could find a little secluded nook and go at it."

He worked his jaw and sucked in deep breaths trying to get his vocal chords unfrozen. "I've ... uh, never ..."

"Oh, that's OK. I've done pretty much everything. Say I teach you about what one guy does to another guy, and then you can teach me about opera. How's that?"

The artistic director looked like a kid on Christmas morning. "That would be ... awesome, absolutely awesome. We can use my office. There's a couch."

"OK, I guess. I'm not much of a couch potato. I get too active for couches ..."

He laughed, loud, but not at my joke. It was like he didn't quite believe what was happening, so he reached over to grip my forearms, to hold on. He had a good grip. I like guys with good grips. This was going to work out fine.

"Would you stop slobbering?" I laughed. We were now in his office, both naked, and all he could do was feel me up and stare at my body ... and my dick.






























"You're huge." He gulped.

Yeah, I am. Ten inches? Eleven? Bigger than any other guy I've ever been with. But so far I'd had no complaints--at least from guys, at least once I broke 'em in. He had a tight body, good shape, nice-sized porker, fat balls--I'm a sucker for plump, juicy, heavy-duty gonads. And best of all, as I would soon find out, he took directions fine.

It looked like he was going to take all night, feeling up my meat, licking my shaft, wrapping his fists around it, making my dick-head bulge and belch pre-cum which he fucking played in, poking his finger in my slit, stringing out the grease and dragging it up and down my dick. So I decided to move things along.

"Suck it," I directed, brusquely, sticking my dick in his face. Instantly, his mouth wrapped around my knob, hot and wet and way hungry. Good sucking action, excellent energy--that was more like it. I fed him my big dick slow, not knowing his limits, and, inch by inch, he licked and gobbled and chewed down the big bone hungrily. I got almost half my meat buried in his craw before he started gagging. After he'd caught his breath, he started to apologize profusely.

"No, man. You just gotta go with the flow. Do that, and your throat just opens up. Like this." I bent down, slipped my lips over the smooth head of his nosecone and kept going until I had buried my nose in his dick hair. He went speechless again, squeaking a sound that was never heard on the opera stage and hanging onto my head.

Granted, he wasn't that hung--seven, maybe seven and a half--but that's a nice, solid, mouth-filling slab of sausage to work with. And it was a pleasant change of pace from playing with the all the big guys at the gym. It meant I wouldn't have to throw my jaw out. I sucked in my cheeks and sucked his nuts right up alongside his bone-hard meat pole and into my mouth as well, lock, stock and throbbing barrel. In about five seconds he blew his wad, yelling and moaning--very uncultured-like. I loved it, and something tells me that the artistic director did too.

I don't think the man had come in a coon's age. The healthy portion of male sex potion that he pumped down my gullet would just about take the place of my usual afternoon protein shake. He fired the white stuff down my throat like there wouldn't be a second time. The impulse is understandable, but he got it wrong. I had a hell of lot more times in mind.

Gasping for breath, he started to apologize again for blowing his load so quickly. So I plugged his yap with my meat and he went back to doing his job. This time, we worked about three-quarters of my honker down his gut--plenty enough for me to fuck his cultured face with.

Though I could tell he wasn't quite as experienced in the ways of giving good head as I was, he took my dick-punching fine. As I pounded my meat in and out of his mouth, he hung on to my butt, kind of bleary-eyed. I could tell he was determined to take it. He was forcing himself not to gag, which made for a lot of clutching throat action as I rammed my trusty fuck-pole in and out--very stimulating.

I wasn't sure how much of my man-milk he could take, either, so I figured the first time 'round I'd give him a chance to judge the kind of loads he was going to have to deal with. When I was ready to fire, I yanked my dick out of his sucking maw and sprayed his face, shoulders and chest, and even uploaded a couple of ropes that splattered down his front.

He couldn't stop snickering. "I've never seen a man shoot so much semen."

"It's the Italian in me. We're milk cows if you treat us right--even the guys." And the artistic director of our city's opera was treating me right. He beamed--and then yawned for my dick again. I headed him off at the crotch.

"No, I'm ready for a little butt work." He was kneeling in front of me, and, reaching over his back, I patted his ass appreciatively. Nice, round, hard cheeks. I leaned over far enough that I could saw my hand down his crack and punch a middle finger knuckle-deep into his hole. Tight--and very fuckable. He looked up at me, wild-eyed. I usually like to make guys that are older than me sweat. It keeps 'em in their place. But I figured I owed this classy dude some slack. After all, in his dealings with me, he'd been anything but snooty.

"I figured I'd let you fuck *my* ass first," I said. "That way I can point out what I like to do so you'll know what to expect. What do you say?"

I liked the guy, but he was going to have to do something about going speechless on me. Since my artistic director was frozen, I took things into my own hands, taking my time sliding the latex over him, beating his plasticized meat, sucking on his dick-head, nosing into his balls. His classy honker was sleek and smooth with a round knob and big, thick, bulging veins that the tight rubber flattened. My ass tingled with expectation.

I eased my butt onto the leather couch, leaned back, threw my legs up in the air and stretched them wide. He hunkered in between my thighs, glistening with anxious sweat. But he wasn't too anxious to function. He held my big dick and balls out of the way with both his trembling hands and eased his sleek sausage into me.

Oh, man. Love at first fuck. That classy, classic bone was made to split my chute wide. We fitted together like Turandot and that stud that answered her riddles. I thought the director was going to pass out when he first socketed his pole all the way up me, but then his eyes began to glitter, and he clinched his teeth and concentrated on giving my happy butt one great royal fuck.

Ooooh, yeah. For the time being, this man's meat pole was mine, and I was properly filled. I clamped his fists around my bone and--who would have thought the classical dude had so much funky rhythm in him?--he jacked me off and slammed his dick up my butt in perfect tempo. I came like a son of a bitch, my legs shooting out, then snapping back to lock around him as I sprayed down his sweaty bod. My sphincter stripped his meat and my rectum went into spasms, milking his throbbing bone until my ass had sucked the joy juice right out of his exploding nuts. He came like that old Egyptian whore, happy to be making the whole regiment happy. He did so good fucking that I never even had to coach him.

As he finished gushing up my hole, his tight, quivering bod buckled and he found his tongue-lolling face hovering over my swaying, dripping flagpole. We both realized that, next time 'round, he could suck me off while he fucked me off. Something plenty hot to look forward to. The artistic director of the opera just grinned, hanging onto my ankles that by this time were hooked around his neck. He was looking good and rumpled, his dark, hooded eyes sparkling under damp thick lashes. I liked getting boned by this artistic, opera-loving man--I mean, a lot.






























"That was amazing," he said as he caught his breath, "watching my ... dick ... punching in and out of ... your ass. And the way your ass just ... sucked it up. Absolutely amazing." Inside my packed rectum, his hardening dick twitched again. I gave it a hug with my chute and it pressed happily against my insides, filling my hole with prime hardwood. I ground my butt in teasing, tight circles, thinking maybe I wanted a reprise.

But the artistic director had a different idea. He pulled a condom over my hanging boner--yeah, it's a fucking tight fit. Then he pushed my hips down into the leather so he could extract his meat from my clutching hole. I swear his thang had now swelled up to eight inches at least. Showing off his athletic prowess, he climbed up on the couch and squatted over me.

"Wish me luck," he whispered.

"Luck's got nothing to do with it," I muttered, reaching under and sticking a couple of fingers up his ass. He gasped. "Just think of it as a fine singer's throat that needs to open up to let all the beautiful music flow out."

There wasn't even a flicker of amusement in his dark eyes at my screwy comparison. "Out? It's going in!" he said, with determination. "All the way in!" And he grunted.

I pulled my fingers apart, widening his gap, massaging and reaming the tight, puckered tissues until he presented me with a yawning, hot velvet hole. He stared down blankly at me as he concentrated on opening his ass. I pursed my lips and he saw me. After a moment's surprised hesitation, he lowered his head, opened his mouth and we lip locked.

And that did it. Sucking face must have pulled a magic lever in his ass. He lowered his butt and my huge bone slid right in--all the way in, just like he'd wanted. Stretching his butt lips wide, my giant prong plowed through his rectum like Princess Turandot running down that staircase to throw herself on the Prince. We made great music together. He positioned his tight, well-cared-for butt up and down my long, thick stump, sucking in my meat and stirring his ass over it. Then he pulled off just far enough so his tight sphincter could chew on my knob before he rammed his ass back down. The artistic director was giving my star performer the star treatment--including pretty fucking royal accommodations. OK, another bent metaphor, but what the hell. Chances are you've been there too and you know a guy can get a little giddy, know what I mean? When you've found your dick's delight, life is good. It must have been good for the artistic director too--at least good enough for him to spend another big load. Before it was over the lean guy squealed, and so did I.

I gotta admit, the dude surprised me. He put me in his opera, strapping my big, punched-out, hyperactive meat into a tight dance belt so that the little flap down my front only bulged slightly more than the average guy's. I looked almost respectable. He even gave me a spear to carry, union be damned. I got mentioned in a couple of reviews as hot ancient Egyptian eye candy. He moved me into his pad and dressed me up and took me everywhere, shoving my humble, well-built ass in everybody's face. He was proud as hell of me and wanted the whole world to know we were fuck-buddies, maybe more. And I found out that a hell of a good way for a budding opera buff to learn more about opera is in the buff.




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