The Connoisseur Ch. 01
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Old Hall Chambers, January 2005
As a lawyer I believe I have a duty to my clients even, in some circumstances, after their death. Problems arise when personal relationships conflict with professional obligations. This has only troubled me once but it has been a source of great concern and soul-searching. It is only after much deliberation and lengthy discussions with senior colleagues whose absolute discretion I trust that I have decided to publish certain documents, and to do so on this site with its strong sexual content.
I made a brief but disastrous marriage many years ago. My ex-husband disappeared to Australia soon after the divorce and, as far as I can guess, is still there. However, I remained close to his parents (who also disowned him), first to his mother, Celia, with whom I became very close, and later to his father, Robert. Celia died prematurely in 1990. Robert survived her by five years. Both appointed me as sole executrix of their separate wills. It is the fulfilment of Robert’s wishes that has burdened my conscience.
The year after my father-in-law’s death I received an approach from an author who planned to write a biography of Robert (I still find it difficult to think of him as Sir Robert). His career as conductor of many of the world’s finest orchestras, as well as his trenchant views on modern music, made him an eminently suitable subject. I could not – and did not – refuse to release the articles, letters and private jottings he had left; as far, that is, as they related to his professional life.
However, I decided, rightly or wrongly, not to disclose a number of items I found among his papers which are of a highly personal nature. Robert was a serial fornicator who had frequent opportunities with compliant women and seldom declined them. Not a hint of that appeared in the book when it was published.
Had I not been personally involved with Robert and Celia, I have little doubt that I would have released all the papers to his biographer. Because of my decision, the public has been deprived of a full portrait of a remarkable man. Now ten years have passed since Robert’s death and I wish to make amends for the benefit of posterity; but, taking advice from experienced colleagues, I have chosen to make these revelations here where they will be read by those who will not be shocked and therefore will not diminish a great man’s memory.
I should point out that Robert never kept a diary. These recollections were jumbled among his other writings with which I had to deal, although they all seem to have been set down in the course of a few days shortly before his death. Why Robert committed these thoughts to paper, I do not know, but they exist and so, still with some trepidation, I publish them here.
The only editing has been to remove or disguise the identity of persons still living. Where necessary I have appended brief notes in square brackets.
Strange how the mind works involuntarily. Tomorrow morning I shall be rehearsing an all-Brahms programme – the Double Concerto and the Fourth Symphony – with one of the world’s finest orchestras. If those musicians are to respect their foreign conductor, I must approach them in a manner that conveys utter certainty. Therefore, although these are both works I know well, I have been spending the evening studying the scores afresh. And yet, from time to time, unbidden into my mind have come thoughts, memories, images of the young woman who came to interview me this afternoon and then made her body available with such libidinous generosity.
Should I have refused? Sent her away? If the possibility had occurred to me, which I doubt, I would have ignored it. The longer my career has continued, the more I have become aware that many women are irresistibly attracted to a sexual encounter with a celebrated conductor. When the situation has arisen, I have declined on only a handful of occasions. The results have varied widely, from the totally unsatisfactory to the wildly unexpected and rewarding. I do not believe I am being boastful when I tell myself (it is hardly something to proclaim to the world on a television chat show) that I have become a connoisseur of woman as a sexual partner.
Take, for example, the young lady who is under the impression that she seduced me this afternoon. She came from a reputable newspaper, accompanied by a photographer. After he had taken his pictures and departed for another assignment, the interview proceeded along conventional lines until she asked me about Celia. She had done her research and knew that I had lost my dear wife almost two years ago.
“Since your wife died,” she said, “you must find travelling so much a very lonely business.”
I acknowledged that it was. She crossed her legs, allowing her skirt to ride up a little, and unfastened the top button of her blouse. If not blatant, the action was obvious enough. At my age, I can still enjoy being seduced but this young woman did not impress me as being worthy of the time-honoured manoeuvrings. I said, “Are you suggesting that we should Göztepe Escort do something to relieve my loneliness?”
Her blush was certainly not due to modesty; more probably she was embarrassed that her approach had been seen for what it was. In American show business, these women are called starfuckers. Well, so be it. I was prepared to accept her on those terms and told her so. Then I suggested that she should undress. When she had stripped to bra and panties, I stopped her and indicated that she should lie across my lap. Her bottom, I have to admit, was enticing: tight, round buttocks that stretched the pale blue material of her panties. I slapped her a few times and she responded encouragingly. When I removed the panties, her cheeks were no more than a gentle rouge: I am no sadist.
My pleasure was in fondling between her legs, where I discovered, as I expected, the vagina to be wet and receptive. I took her into the bedroom of my suite, turned her on to her back, removed my trousers and offered my penis to her mouth. The rest was satisfactory but routine. She was acquiescent to every approach, writhed, wriggled and moaned in full measure. Whether she reached orgasm I am not sure. For myself, I withdrew in time to direct my sperm across her breasts. I am not interested in paternity suits from opportunist young women.
To her credit, she cleaned herself in the bathroom, thanked me for my time and departed without rancour. The encounter was a welcome relief of tension before tomorrow’s rehearsal, but she will not find a place among the women whose memories I cherish in the silent hours.
Besides, the time is not far distant when I will have to resolve the situation that has developed with my daughter-in-law. Gemma is more than twenty years my junior, an attractive woman with prominent cheek bones, dark eyes and smooth lips. As a successful and ambitious lawyer, she dresses formally yet still shows a subtle awareness of the appeal of her small, high breasts and fine legs. I admit I have not been immune. Instinct and experience suggest to me that there could be an extremely interesting tension between her cool professional persona and the sexual being beneath the surface. To explore further is tempting, despite the fine line of taboos one might be treading.
Gemma drew up Celia’s will and acted as an executor. In the process they became close and – I now know – Celia gave her some clear indications about the way she and I arranged our lives. At our last meeting Gemma asked me, without dissembling, whether it had been an open marriage. There was no reason to deny it, so I explained how it had come about.
[I had been aware long before Celia’s tragically early death that she had had a number of affairs while married to Robert, but it was only in the conversation recorded below that I learned the details. GJ]
We were having breakfast before the limousine came to take me to the airport; the orchestra of which I was then Chief Conductor was about to embark on a three week tour of the Far East and the United States.
“How will you manage, darling?” Celia asked. “While you are away.”
“Robert, darling, don’t be coy. How will you manage for sex?”
I knew perfectly well what she meant but I was unprepared for the question to be raised over breakfast. I stayed silent for a moment.
Celia went on, “I’m not naive, you know that. I know all about your appetite for sex, and I’ve had good reason to be grateful for it. But I guess you don’t abstain when you are on tour. Am I right?”
“Well – “
“Of course you don’t, and I can’t say I blame you. But I thought this might be a good time to regularise the arrangement.”
“If you like, put cards on the table. As long as you always come back to me, and as long as I am your number one, I want you to know that I’ve no objection to casual screwing to satisfy a need.”
I leaned across and kissed her fingers. My conscience doesn’t often trouble me, but I do have occasional pangs. It seemed that Celia was absolving me of any self-doubts.
“But,” she said, “what about me?”
It took a moment for the implication so sink in. “Do you mean a reciprocal deal?”
“I do. Sauce for the gander, and all that. I don’t enjoy being deprived, you know.”
So a deal was struck. We were both free to go to bed with whomever we chose, provided we never lost sight of our basic relationship. We sealed it by agreeing that, if asked, we would each give the other details of our dalliances. Celia thought that might be not merely honest but positively stimulating. And in time she was proved correct. Now she said, “What time is your driver coming?”
“Just before ten.”
“So we have time. Sit there.” With that she cleared away the breakfast dishes and, when she returned from the kitchen, bent across the table and lifted her skirt round her waist. “If I’m going to be wicked,” she said, “perhaps I should be dealt with in advance.”
Needing no further invitation, I walked round the table to survey the bottom clad in green silk and offered İstanbul Escort for my inspection. Foreplay of this kind had long been a stable element in our sexual activity, and it is impossible to say which of us derived the greater pleasure from it. Heedless now of the clock moving towards my departure, I caressed those sweet, round haunches, each movement of my hand taking me further between the legs she was straddling wide apart. She reached behind her and pushed my hand away.
“Not yet. Spank me first. Hard as you like. I want to remember this.”
I complied with vigour until, at last, she cried, “Enough, darling. Are you ready.”
Of course, I was. My penis was demanding to be released. I dropped my trousers and underpants to the floor and took my cock in my hand. “How?”
“Just like this.” With one deft movement she pushed down the green panties and widened her legs still further. Crouching slightly, I could see that her cunt lips were already glistening with her juices. The spanking had had its invariable effect. Directing the head of my cock into the moist opening folds, I drove my full length into her in one thrust. Her cry of pleasure was all the encouragement I needed and I proceeded to give her the repeated deep penetration she invariably craved. I was still in full control and Celia was urging me to further effort when the door bell rang.
“Damn and damn again,” said Celia. “They’ll have to wait because I can’t. Fuck me. Come, darling, come.”
I did and, with a little finger manipulation, so did she. Swiftly making myself respectable, I went to the door and told the driver I would be with him in five minutes. During that interval, I opened my trousers again and Celia, bless her, licked me dry. Never have I departed on tour in better spirits.
[That was clearly a defining experience for Robert. The note which follows returns to the day he and Celia made their compact. GJ]
I cannot claim to have been rigidly faithful before Celia gave me her blessing, but once that freedom was granted, I seldom lacked a partner when the mood took me; and that has not changed since her death. But soon, I fear, i shall have to confront the problem of Gemma. It would help if she were to make the first move, which is undeniably possible; if she doesn’t, I fear the carnal images I conjure in my mind may lead me to take the initiative. What Celia would make of that, I prefer not to consider.
Meanwhile, I am minded to recount the sexual odyssey set in train by that breakfast table compact (how long ago it seems now, yet how fresh in mind’s eye is the image of dear Celia’s bottom in the green panties; how she enjoyed it when I moved the material to one side and applied my tongue to her anal opening.).
Opportunity arose sooner than I could have guessed. Flying to join the orchestra in Singapore I was travelling, as my contract stipulated, first class. On this occasion, I had the cabin to myself until we were due to be joined by more passengers at Dubai. The stewardess, recognising my name, remarked that she had recently bought one of my recordings. Never slow to miss an opportunity, I offered to arrange for her to have tickets for the Singapore concert.
“If you have a stopover, perhaps we could get together in my suite,” I suggested, naming my hotel. Experience has taught me that the direct approach often yields a result; I detest oblique hints that end, as often as not, in an affronted woman who hasn’t understood.
“Would have been nice – but my boyfriend is already there, and we’re off on holiday as soon as I arrive.”
I noted ‘would have been nice.’ “A pity,” I said, “I suspect it might have been more than just nice.” She was a well-built young woman of about thirty with ample breasts.
“Yes,” she replied. Then she looked me directly in the eyes. “Though we do have several hours until Dubai. I know the purser is busy – we’re quite full at the back – but, personally, I don’t have anyone else to serve …”
She was standing beside my seat and the curtain separating first class from business class was closed. I let my hand rest on the inside of her calf, slid it up to her knee.’
She smiled down at me. “I knew it would be nice,” she said, widening her legs.
My hand soon found its way to her bottom which was round and firm. She pushed back against me. I met her eyes and she nodded. “It’s all right,” she said softly. “I like it.”
With a little help, my fingers found their way inside her panties. Tentatively, I searched for the anal opening and applied the gentlest pressure with a finger tip. She took a deep breath and leaned forward, supporting herself against the seat in front. I withdrew my hand, applied a little spittle to my index finger and resumed my exploration. She opened with remarkable ease, accepted the finger and, after a moment or two, began to reciprocate as I moved it in and out.
Twisting in my seat without losing contact with that exciting little orifice, I leaned across with my other hand to lift the front of her skirt. The panties were dark blue. A damp stain was Anadolu Yakası Escort spreading across the front. I eased them to one side, and inserted two fingers into her well-lubricated vagina, so that she was impaled from both sides simultaneously.
It was tempting to allow the situation to develop further but I think we were both conscious that out privacy could not be guaranteed. Withdrawing my fingers from her cunt, I found her clitoris and rubbed gently. It was all she needed. With a gasp she came, almost collapsing, clinging fiercely to the seat in front.
Recovering, she excused herself and disappeared through the curtain. When she returned, she said, “Sorry about that, but I was in a mess. Had to clean up.” She smiled. “But they’re still busy back there. And I ought to show my appreciation.”
With that, she knelt beside my seat, opened my trousers, found my penis still half erect, took it briefly in hand and then fellated me with swift efficiency, swallowing at the climax. Since it was only a few hours since I had received similar treatment from Celia, I felt entitled to be proud of my unfailing virility,
“Yes,” she said as she stood.
“It was. Very nice.”
Singapore, then, passed off without further excitement, but Japan provided an experience which remains unique in my memory. At the end of a rapturously acclaimed concert (Mozart and Bruckner, if my recollection is correct) I was introduced to the chairman of the electronics company that had sponsored the concert. He was an elderly gentleman who bowed deeply before congratulating me on the evening’s performance. He would be honoured, he said, if i would enjoy his hospitality for an hour or two. I feared the worst – polite conversation with his fellow directors, possibly, or a meal of raw fish, or even – God forbid – a karaoke session. However, in Japan, courtesy is all. I had no choice.
Nyaki – as he insisted I should call him – took me to his home, a vast mansion behind walls and high gates, closed circuit cameras everywhere. Inside, we were greeted by his wife, Tahamara, who must have been forty years his junior, clad in a neck-to-floor kimono, richly decorated. Even to western eyes, she was stunningly beautiful.
“Unfortunately,” said Nyaki, “Tahamara speaks no English, but I am sure she will be able to entertain you. No doubt, after a concert you experience some stress.”
Could he be suggesting a massage, I wondered? Or something even more enticing? Whatever, the intention, courtesy demanded my agreement.
“Good,” Nyaki bowed and indicated that Tahamara should lead the way. “We have a pleasure room. Please, enjoy.”
In the inner depths of the house, the pleasure room surpassed expectation: a large bed and various items of equipment – frames and ropes – were its only furnishings. I trust that I concealed my astonishment, firstly at the room’s very existence, and secondly at the complete lack of preamble or explanation in leading me there. But perhaps I gave some sign of uncertainty.
“Please.” said Nyaki. “You must relax.”
He spoke to Tahamara in Japanese. Immediately, she allowed the kimono to slip from her shoulders. Underneath, she was naked. Her small breasts were crowned by nipples reddened with lipstick, as were her shaven vagina lips. Nyaki spoke again. His wife stepped forward and, garment by garment, reduced me to a similar state of undress. Noting my already erect penis, she smiled and raised her eyebrows questioningly.
“Would you like her mouth?” asked Nyaki. Taking my astounded silence for assent, he gave the instruction and she knelt at my feet to begin an act so subtle it is impossible to describe: delicate flicks with the tip of her tongue, light, almost imperceptible brushes with her teeth, sudden deep suction, drawing the head of my now rampant cock to the back of her throat before releasing it with an exhalation of warm breath. The sensation was exquisitely intense, while always allowing me to avoid the embarrassment of a premature discharge.
Finally, Nyaki took charge with a few soft words. Tahamara immediately rose, walked over to a padded bench and bent forward across it. Deftly, Nyaki fastened her wrists and ankles into cuffs before indicating how invitingly his wife’s posture displayed the rounded cheeks of her bottom.
“A little chastisement is a well-known English practice, is it not?” he said with a smile. “Please. She will enjoy, too.”
For some time, I slapped, spanked, stroked those rounded buttocks and, given a nod of encouragement from her husband, explored the receptive brown anus with my forefinger and then with my tongue. Tahamara was silent throughout but the manner in which she thrust back against my digital invasion was clear evidence that her acceptance was more than passive obedience.
And there was better still to follow. Releasing Tahamara from her bonds, Nyaki led us both to the bed. Once again, a few words of quiet command were enough: his wife took up a position on knees and elbows, her bottom facing me. Nyaki reached forward to open her legs a little wider, exposing a lipstick-rimmed cunt, the labia glistening and irresistible. I knelt behind her and drove in my cock with a force I had not really intended. Holding on to her waist, I paused, savouring the sensation of my full length enveloped in her warm, wet folds.
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