Linen and Leather

May 11, 2007 Danae Klimt
Tags: dermot, fionn

A Tale of Nouveau Montmartre

Linen and leather.

Cream-colored linen. Cream-colored leather.

Cream-colored linen cut in a simple three-piece suit. The trousers have crisp pleats; a fine gold chain spans the two sides of the vest. The jacket is somewhat loose, very fashionable. A conventional, even modest outfit, except for the absence of a shirt. Throat, wrists, and a hint of belly are exposed; flat nipples thrust against the smooth line of the vest.

Cream-colored leather made into a fringed tunic and snug trousers. Something a tribal warrior might have worn, dancing around an evening’s fire, or a Paleolithic shaman leading a ritual in a cave. The tunic is cut in a point, front and back, the fringes hanging down to an equal length all round. The feet are left bare to show off their long, straight toes and high arches, as well as the scar burnt across the left instep. Only Einheriar wear leather, but this man has earned the right. He was an Einheria once, a policeman, a warrior, though now he is a Courtesy–courtesan, lover, and artist.

Linen and leather. A younger man and an older. A courtesan and a former warrior. Student and teacher, lovers, friends. Partners today in a dance that might go back to the caves of Europe, to a time when men initiated other men, made boys into adults. Or perhaps this is the decadence of the customs of Athens and Sparta, a fakery of something that once was real.

The young man in cream-colored linen sits down at a piano on an empty stage. Its glossy black curves reflect his face to the audience, a pale spectre of concentration. His auburn hair swings forward as he gazes down at the keys, not touching them yet. His back, turned to the waiting audience, is straight yet not stiff, alive with attention, with concentration. He stretches his fingers to the keyboard and begins to play.

There is no score, neither on the music stand nor in his memory; he improvises according to his inspiration. When he was first studying the piano as a child, his teacher reproved him for not wanting to learn to read music, not caring about studying and learning the music of great composers. He has always been interested in listening to many kinds of music, but he plays only the music that emerges from his mind and heart. He plays with a confidence and sensitivity that make his hearers think of Chopin, Jarrett, Tru-Yahn.

When the sound of a flute comes from somewhere offstage, the man in the linen suit does not look up. He expects it. His audience does not, and cranes their necks to see the invisible performer. They know who he is, but they cannot see him, only hear him. He plays a descant over the music of the piano, creating his own improvisations in answer.

The man in cream-colored leather steps into view from the side of the stage. An alto flute, longer than a soprano flute and curved, deeper and softer in tone, is held to his bearded lips. His eyes are closed. He walks forward one step at a time, lifting his feet and placing them down with the care of a wading heron, moving toward the piano. His large fingers move deftly over the golden instrument; his lips are at the perfect point of contact with its mouthpiece.

Both men are improvising, but their audience does not know that. Most of the listeners assume that two people who can play so flawlessly together must have rehearsed a composition, must have memorized this duet. A few connoisseurs have come to hear this improvisation as much as to watch what will follow. The older man’s eyes remain closed, and the younger man does not look up, as the older man approaches the piano, one step at a time. The music flows on, like two streams flowing together, rushing into a single river.

The sound builds, the volume increasing, the chords growing more complex, the listeners rigid in their seats, until it crests, and resolves into a simple, ancient melody. A folk song, from Ireland, back on Earth. None of the hearers know it is called “An Contae Thir Oghain,” the County Tyrone, but many of them recognize it as an Irish tune. The leaps and falls of the melody lull the audience into relaxing, until they rest in the silence at its ending for a full breath before applauding.

As the audience beats their palms together, snaps their fingers, rings little chimes, and otherwise expresses approbation, the flute player lowers his instrument, and the pianist shuts the lid over the vibrant keys. He rises and walks toward the other man, returning the smile that crooks the older man’s mouth. The man in cream leather reaches out, casually, for the man in cream linen, loops an arm round his shoulders, weaves his long fingers into thick auburn hair. And kisses him, a long, focused, blatantly erotic kiss which stills the audience and poises them for the next part of the performance.

Bearded lips covering smooth, depilated skin. Greying brown hair falling forward over broad shoulders as long auburn hair falls back to expose a neck like an ivory column, strong, smooth, and fair.

The curtain at the rear of the stage rises, and behind the red curtain is a room, a room made for sex. A couch, draped with deep brown fabrics and pillows, flanked by small carved tables set with drawers. The drawers hold secrets that will soon be opened up. The top of one table holds a stand for the flute. The height of the couch is perfect for one man to kneel and kiss the other who lies there. As the men turn to look at the scene, the stage shifts underfoot, rotating, bringing the couch and tables close to the footlights, taking the piano toward the backdrop.

The man in linen shrugs off his jacket and tosses it aside. The crisp linen crumples on the floor, and his bare arms shine under the lights from above, paler than the vest which covers his torso. Without the jacket, the erection that breaks the perfectly fitted line of his trousers is impossible to miss. He kneels beside the man in leather, who now reclines on the couch, and reaches under the heavy fringed tunic for the waistband of the leather trousers. The drawstrings yield to his nimble fingers, and the leather pants glide swiftly down the older man’s long legs, over his bare feet, to be draped across the foot of the couch.

The scent of cock mixed with leather makes him forget the hushed and sweating people watching, makes him forget his own erection, rubbing insistently against his buttoned fly. He can think of nothing but the man before him, the moment, and a memory of the first time he sucked this cock, any cock–when he was taught how to do it. He was fifteen, over a year into his training as a Courtesy, a fast learner and eager to advance in his chosen profession. And he was madly infatuated with his mentor, and anxious to learn as much about pleasuring men as he had so far learned about women, because it seemed that men excited him just that little bit more.

But the first time he saw Fionn naked, it frightened him. That cock was so big. The man’s whole body was so big. He could overpower a smaller man, not to say a woman, inflict real pain if he wanted to….

Fionn smiled and touched his cheek. “It’s all right, Jerome.” He hadn’t chosen his professional name yet; Fionn called him by his birth name. “Don’t be frightened. I’ll pleasure you first. We’ll take it slowly.”

He had lain in the older man’s arms, afterwards, no longer frightened, but dizzy with the possibilities the future held; running his hand over Fionn’s body–the tight little nipples, the hollow stomach, the furry balls, and then up and down the massive shaft. He was no longer afraid. Fear had been driven out by desire.

All this runs through his mind, blinking on and off like a bright light, with one inhalation of the sharp musk of leather and man. This man. Surrounded by cream-colored fringe, Fionn’s massive erection thrusts aside his tunic and beckons Dermot’s mouth. He chose the name Dermot, at the age of eighteen, as a compliment and complement to the name of the man who had trained him, the man he still calls “master”, half in earnest, half in jest. He bends his head and takes the head of Fionn’s cock into his mouth.

The audience gasps, but Dermot doesn’t hear them. Neither does Fionn. Fionn remembers a beautiful boy, slender, willowy, his coppery hair shocking against his pale-gold skin. The way it fell down a back that shimmered with freckles, and the back dipped into an arse hard and round as an apple, white as the sweet flesh inside. Big eyes that were foam-grey with fear. It was not the first time he’d seen that fear in a potential lover’s eyes, and it wouldn’t be the last. But he had made a reputation for himself as a gentle giant, a man who knew his own strength. He knew he could soothe this boy, teach him, train him. He would start by giving the boy the same pleasure that he must learn to give.

It didn’t take long to bring young Jerome off, once, twice, in Fionn’s hand and then in his mouth. Afterwards, the boy lay naked against him, his slim body so smooth, dozing in complete trust. When his head cleared, he was eager to touch and taste, and by the end of the lesson, Fionn was already hoping the boy would want to work with him once he was fully trained.

Jerome/Dermot is deep-throating him now, effortlessly, auburn hair swaying against his cheeks as he bobs his head. Dermot–older, taller, heavier, not so willowy any more, strong with the deceptive strength of a trained Courtesy, the strength of a gymnast or a dancer. Dermot, his friend, his lover, someone to grouse with when things go poorly, to sleep with when the rain is cold. Jerome, so open and trusting, a warm-hearted boy equally quick to listen or to laugh, has not been lost in the transformation to Dermot, accomplished Courtesy, lover of men and women. Jerome was the springtime, but Dermot is summer, lingering sunshine, fruit on the tree.

Fionn’s soft groan is a signal to Dermot to draw back, not to press on to orgasm. There will be more to their performance than this oral display. He pulls away with a deliberate show, sliding his lips along the length of his teacher’s cock and over the head of it with a small wet “pop”. The audience groans along with Fionn, and Dermot, his face turned away, allows himself a brief smirk. Yes, he is good at what he does, knows it, is proud of it.

With the same deliberate show, the same confidence in himself, he rises, turns one shoulder to the audience, and begins to strip. His trousers and vest trickle to the floor like melting snow, baring fair, freckled skin, stiff nipples, an impressive cock nested in coppery pubic curls. He is not fully erect yet, but already one can see that his organ is larger than one might expect for a man of his size.

Fionn gets up off the couch, and in one quick movement peels off his tunic. The audience gasps at the display of massive chest, long long legs, and fully uncovered erection. At the contrast between the two men, even greater than when they were dressed in their cream-colored linen and leather. One so tall, dark-haired, inescapably masculine. The other shorter, fair, bright like flame, tantalizingly androgynous.

Dermot kneels on the couch, head bowed, his hips angled just so. The audience can see the perfect white arse, the deep crease that splits it, the glistening brown pucker in the depth of the crease. And they can see Fionn move in closer, draw his hand from the nape of the younger man’s neck, under his hair, down to the pucker of his arsehole, before greasing his cock with the cream that he takes from the drawer of the table to his right and pressing it, smoothly and surely, deep into that perfect arse offered up to him.

Dermot groans. The audience doesn’t know that he lubricated himself hours ago and wore an anal plug until right before the performance to stretch his muscles. Some of them don’t know that he’s taken Fionn like this many times, without pain, without injury. Nor do they know that in private, it’s often Fionn who spreads his arse, Dermot whose rampant cock rides him. They only know from his groan that that cock is *still* big, dammit, but he wants it. Wants to be split, wants to be fucked, wants to feel the man he loves inside him.

Fionn moves carefully, always conscious of keeping the correct angle so that the audience can see what he’s doing. But he is also conscious of Dermot’s movements in response, of the younger man’s breathing and his noises, of the arch of his back. Just because they’ve done this many times doesn’t mean he isn’t careful. And it feels so good. Dermot’s body is so warm, inside and out; his ragged breathing is as sweet as flute music; and later, when this is over, they can lie in bed and watch silly videos and fall asleep together. A performance like this always makes Fionn want to retreat, after.

In and out, in and out, harder, faster. The room is filled with the smell of perspiring bodies, of leaking cocks and flooding pussies, of all kinds and degrees of arousal. Some of the watchers are openly touching themselves, or one another, or moaning along with the performers. Dermot kneels up, shoving his weight down onto Fionn’s pelvis and pulling Fionn’s hand to grasp his cock. Fionn pumps Dermot fiercely, gasping into the younger man’s hair, all control gone. Nothing is hidden when the two men come, within moments of each other. Dermot’s back arches, and he lets out a surprising high scream. Fionn bears him forward, gasping wordlessly as he bucks his hips.

They lie still together as the audience applauds, clapping, cheering, whistling, moaning. Then the moving stage bears them away, to be veiled by the red curtains. Behind the curtain, the two men disengage, laughing softly, congratulating each other on a good performance, and head for the showers, to wash each other, tiredly, before retreating into their private space, their apartment, where their audience cannot follow. When they are gone, another young man comes onto the stage, into the dimness, picks up the scattered garments, and, before carrying them away, inhales the scent of the lovers, embedded in linen and leather.

Entry Filed under: Nouveau Montmartre

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