Hidden Flute

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It took three concerts for him to notice me. Luckily it was getting progressively warmer in Munich’s spring. I had every reason to believe I’d have to attend the full season of the free outdoor concerts in the Hofgarten park before I could meet him. If I’d settled on this flutist in the fall instead, each time I had to come back would have been progressively worse.

It would have helped if I initially enjoyed flute music. I’d certainly had my fill of young men playing the flute professionally in Bavaria. I was fairly certain, though, that this was the young man for me.

He had an air of melancholy about him that I found alluring when matched with the mournful sound of his instrument, which, in his hand, was nothing like the flute music I’d heard before. I could see the attraction of him. He was probably in his mid twenties. He was small and willowy and had an angelic face. His eyes were a watery blue, his skin the glowing alabaster of the serious scholar, and he had a northern European blondness about him that was belied by jet black, curly hair on his head. It was this mystery about him that had attracted me to him in the first place—an incongruity in his appearance. This was accentuated the second concert I attended, where he managed quite well reading his music without the eyeglasses he wore for the first and third concerts.

Could it be, I wondered, that he was really a blond?

He seemed a young man hiding from something. At first I thought maybe it was from life itself he seemed so withdrawn into himself as he played his flute in concert. But then I thought it perhaps was something more earthborn, something that spoke to me in my quest. And thus I stopped attending on other orchestra performers and concentrated on this one.

He did notice me in the third concert—as I wanted him to. I sat as close to him as I could—in the seat next to the one I had occupied for the second concert. I would have sat in the very same seat if it had been available when I arrived for the concert. And I wore the same clothes for both concerts.

I watched him intently throughout the entire performance, and when he finally looked at me, with a startled look of recognition of someone there was no reason he should recognize, I smiled at him.

After the concert was over, I remained in my seat as those in the audience as well as those in the orchestra on the bandstand gathered their belongings and moved to depart.

The young man was slow to pack up his flute. I had noticed this in the first two concerts also. He moved slowly, deliberately, and I could see that he winced from time to time. He seemed to be suffering from some sort of malady that caused pain in the movement of his extremities. He was far too young to be arthritic, I thought. But I also thought that this added an attraction of vulnerability and mystery to the young man.

I wanted him. I wanted to take him in my arms and gently make love to him. But that was only a surface want. I wanted to crush and possess him—to bring passion to those eyes. He played his flute with deep passion; even I could tell that. But his face, as beautiful as it was, seemed dead even while he was playing. I wanted to bring passion to that face to match his music. And I wanted to do it by possessing his body and making him beg to have me inside him. I could see how he would have this effect on other men. I increasingly was sure he was the one I sought.

“You play beautifully.”

“Danke,” he said.

Ah, I thought. Not really Suddeutch—southern German—a northern dialect. More Nordic, as I thought.

He had thanked me, but he hadn’t looked up from putting his flute away in its case. And he spoke in a soft, shy voice.

“I like it so much that I’ve come to all of your concerts in the park this season.”

“I noticed.” There was a blush on his cheeks, and he looked up at me and smiled. It wasn’t making me want him any less.

“Would you illegal bahis . . . would you care to have a coffee with me in a café nearby?” I asked. “I would like to discuss your music further. I know of a quintet a banker has play on salon evenings that needs a good flutist. Perhaps—”

“Sorry, I have a commitment . . . a class . . . to attend. Sorry.”

“Ah, you are a university student then? Studying music perhaps?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

“Ah. I am a professor myself. But not music. My university has a very good music department, though. Perhaps—”

“I’m sorry. I’m late now. Maybe another time.”

“Maybe no time, are you saying? Can you look at me, please?”

He looked up then, and I could see that I wasn’t unattractive to him.

“You looked so sad,” I continued. “I thought you might like to have a little company. Someone to talk to. You don’t have many friends here, do you? You’re not from here, are you?”

“I’m Dutch. And I do prefer staying to myself, yes. I don’t mean to be rude, but—”

“I believe you would enjoy having a friend. I won’t press. But I will come to all of your concerts until you decide you might like to join me for that coffee.”

After the fifth concert he followed me to the Café Wein, where other musicians gathered and that specialized in playing Mozart in the background. It had threatened rain at the park as he was putting his flute away, and the elements gave him very little time to hedge when I offered him the coffee again.

“Your accent doesn’t sound quite Dutch to me,” I inserted into otherwise innocuous chitchat, which had included passing conversations with a couple of men I had paid to address me as “professor” and make remarks on my brilliance in musical critique.

“I’ve only really been to the Netherlands on holidays. I was born and raised in Central Africa. My family . . .”

But he stopped there, his voice having choked up on the word family, and he turned his head from me. He didn’t do so, though, quick enough for me not to see the tearing up in his eyes.

I moved deftly into another topic—on where he had traveled in the world. I might have asked him why he’d left Africa and come to be here in southern Germany. But I increasingly thought I knew, and it might not have gone well for me to pursue that point. I was sure I knew, but I was not positive. I needed to be positive.

“Have you given any thought to the quintet I mentioned? The banker pays well, and they are quite good—I’ve heard them several times.”

“Yes, I might be interested, thanks.”

Here was the crux. “I have the information in my rooms, which aren’t far from here—in fact between here and the direction of your university. You could stop in and pick the contact number up.”

“Or you could bring the information to the next concert,” he countered.

“Alas I’m sure they will have filled the chair by then. There is another salon night soon, and they have little time.”

When we reached the apartment I had let by the week, having arrived here from Africa myself not more than a month earlier, I sat him at my small dining table with a bottle of cold beer and retreated to my bedchamber. When I reemerged, I had changed into a short cotton robe and held a slip of paper with a number that would connect to one of the men I’d hired—who would tell him “So, sorry, we have found a flutist” on the off chance the young man would have an opportunity to call. And in the other hand was a bottle of excellent Scotch whiskey. Although the young flutist looked a bit shocked—and like a deer in the headlights of an automobile—he didn’t rise from the table.

I set the paper and bottle down on the table and lifted his chin with my cupped hand so that his face was staring into mine. And I took a chance and took his lips in mine.

His mouth was dead at first, but slowly, hungrily he yielded to me. I had gambled that underneath that shell he was illegal bahis siteleri frustrated and wanted to lie with me. The kiss confirmed this.

He was paralyzed by the situation, though. He was trembling and tearing up and seemed not to be able to stand on his own when I pulled him up from the chair. He didn’t resist, but he gave nothing of himself either.

I took him in my arms and carried him into the bedchamber and laid him on my bed. I stood over him and let the cotton robe I was wearing fall to the floor. He whimpered at the sight of my nakedness, which I knew was not displeasing to a man wanting to be fucked by another man. I could see a spark in his eyes now, but his lips were murmuring “No, please not . . .”

“Shush,” I whispered. “Just relax. And let me comfort you. I know there is something. Something wrong. I don’t think it is that you don’t want me. Let me comfort you.”

I lay down beside him on the bed and took him in my embrace. He didn’t fight me, but, again, he made no move of acceptance either. Only detached acquiescence. I would not be defeated, though. I hummed to him and rocked him in my arms.

“When you can speak of it. Tell me. Tell me what is a barrier to us making love. I know you want to.” I had moved my hand under the waistband of his trousers and briefs and had found assurance that he wanted me. “This tells me that you want me. You have lain with another man before, haven’t you?”

“Yes.” It sounded bitter, almost defiant.

“And men have made love to you, haven’t they?”

“No.” Even harder, more bitter.

“You have never had a man’s cock inside you?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Ah, you have been taken by force then. Is that it?”


“In Africa?”


I had opened his trousers and unbuttoned his shirt by now, and I was gently fondling him with my hands—the hand of the arm I was embracing him with was stroking a nipple and the other hand was gliding along his belly and down to his cock and balls. He was relaxing a bit and was softly moaning—although I’m not sure he even realized I was already preparing him. Or that he was letting me do it.

“Perhaps if you give voice to it, let the demons out, it would be the start of healing. I am not forcing you, am I?”


“And it is giving you pleasure, isn’t it? Pleasure you haven’t had in some time. Pleasure you need.”

He didn’t answer, but I didn’t give him much time or opportunity to do so. I had moved my lips to his again, and he was opening to me, letting me possess him. And then, for the first time reciprocating in the kiss, hungrily sucking on my tongue and groaning. I could feel the melting of the iceberg that had been him in the engorging of his cock in my hand.

“Tell me,” I whispered when I released his lips. I had to know for sure. “Tell me of this sadness and bitterness inside you.”

He lay there for several minutes, not saying anything, but his eyes held mine and his hips were beginning to roll with my slow pumping of his cock with my fist.

I was going to fuck him. I knew that. And now he knew that as well—and he was resolved to it.

“Have you heard of William Jason? Major William Jason?” the young man suddenly asked.

“Yes, I believe so. Central Africa.”

“Yes, when he and his regiment mutinied and took over the government, they paid special attention to the Dutch-descendent farmers.”

“You? Your family?”

“Yes.” It was a whisper.

“You don’t have to tell me. You can just let me make love to you and make the memory of it go away,” I murmured. And indeed, he didn’t have to tell me. Now I knew for sure.

But having started, he let it out as if a mighty river had burst the damning of his soul. “As they lay in wait to attack our farm, they must have heard me practicing my flute. Otherwise I would have been dead too. Who would have known that the butcher, William Jason, was a canlı bahis siteleri classical music lover?”

He laughed an ugly, bitter laugh, and I took his lips in mine again to keep from losing him. I had retrieved a tube of lube from my nightstand that I had left there open and I was lubricating his channel with my fingers. And he was letting me do it.

When I released his lips, though, he continued with the story. “When I was the last one, cowering in a corner, the major pushed his way through the semicircle of soldiers backing me into the wall. He is a monster of a man, you know. Gigantic in every way. He fucked me for the first time then—brutally. Not caring that I had never done it before. Then he informed me that I played the flute divinely. He used that word. ‘Divinely.’ It was shocking to hear from the lips of such a monster. He said he was taking me back to the palace with him, and that I would play for him. And not just the flute.”

“Shush. Enough. I want to make love to you now.”

“He had a special chamber—more than one—that he’d set up in the basement of the palace. Of course, as far as I knew his predecessor had had the chambers too. I was strung up every which way over the next months—and taken in every way he could think of. He laughed once, telling me that all I needed to play the flute for him were my lips and my fingers. He broke everything else in my body in his rough sex torture. You may not have noticed, but I move slowly and deliberately. I am in nearly constant pain. That is what he gave me.”

“I will be gentle. Here, this will be comfortable enough, won’t it?” I had moved between his thighs with my knees. His legs were bent and I placed pillows under the small of his back to raise his hips to me. I presented the bulb of my cock at his now-loosened and lubricated hole and gently pressed in. He groaned for me, but he gripped the sides of my torso as I was hovered over him. And he moved his pelvis, drawing me inside him himself.

He sucked in his breath and moaned deeply as my cock head disappeared inside him. I held there. “Am I hurting you?”

“Yes. No. Please. Oh, god. Ohhh, ohhhh, ahhhh.”

I was inside him and he was opening to me as I slowly sank deeper and deeper.

“I escaped,” he said in a low, breathy voice. “Those who helped me, paid for it. My freedom was their death. Yet another guilt I must bear. But I was alive. I ran and ran. And I hid. I dyed my hair, changed my appearance as much as I could. Came to Europe to forge a new life.”

“Relax. Go with me. I’ll love all of those memories into the back of your mind.”

I began to slow pump him.

“Oh, god, oh god, ahhhh.”

Later I sat there in a chair, looking at the bed, as the young man slept the sleep of the fully satisfied, exhausted by a master cocking.

I almost regretted it, but there was nothing to be done about it now.

“What? I can’t! Why?” he muttered as he slowly came to. “Why am I bound?”

His wrists were handcuffed through the strong slats of my headboard and his ankles were handcuffed as well.

“I’m sorry about that,” I answered in a voice that I hoped conveyed as much regret as I felt. “I’m really sorry. But the Major sent me to find you. He wants you back.”

* * * *

Later, as I sat alone in my rented room and finished off the bottle of Scotch, I made the decision that I needed to find another way to earn my money. I had become too hard, too uncaring. But now I had gone too soft to be of use to the clients who sought me out. I would, of course, tell the Major that I had scoured Munich for his flutist without luck—that he must have been given bad information, or that the young man had already moved on. I would tell him that I certainly was willing to follow up any other lead he might have, but that it probably wasn’t worth the money he was paying.

Of all my regrets, the deepest one was not asking the young flutist where he would flee to next—so that there was always a chance I might meet, and have, him again. But if I knew the Major as well as I thought I did, it was probably best I really didn’t know—in the likely event that the Major didn’t believe me.

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