The Maestro

by Leo Barton

  THE MAESTRO

  by

  LEO BARTON

  The Maestro published as an eBook in 2012 by Chimera eBooks.

  ePub ISBN 9781780801155

  mobi ISBN 9781780801162

  www.chimerabooks.co.uk

  Chimera (ki-mir'a, ki-) a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy.

  New authors are always welcome, or if you're already a published author and have existing work, the eBook rights of which remain with or have reverted to you, we would love to hear from you.

  This work is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The author asserts that all characters depicted in this work of fiction are eighteen years of age or older, and that all characters and situations are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright Leo Barton. The right of Leo Barton to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex.

  Chapter 1

  'In Spanish, linda means beautiful,' Alfonso had told her after she had accepted his offer of a studio in Barcelona for three months. 'Blondes too,' he had added half jokingly, 'real blondes at least, are very much in demand in Spain. You will be a little English exotica.' The idea that 'linda' meant beautiful in South America made her laugh. She had always thought that her name was quite ugly and very unsexy.

  Sebastian would have taken off by now. As she lay in their double bed, she turned her eyes to the half light of a grey dawn, and imagined Sebastian sipping his black coffee, a script as always open on his lap, his blue eyes staring intensely at the print. He had that actorly knack of completely engrossing himself in whatever he was doing. She would have already slipped from his mind, maybe to return fleetingly over a pensive gin and tonic and a small cigar.

  'Only three months,' he had said, trying to console her, as he had shaved in the bathroom mirror, and she, having dragged herself from her sleep to see him off, stood watching him, slightly irritated by his apparent nonchalance at their separation.

  'Three months, Seb, is a long time! Well at least it is for me,' she had remonstrated, as she watched him smiling at her through the mirror as she spoke.

  'You know this is important. This will be the last time I'll be away for such a long time. It's bags of lolly, nice Hollywood lucre. After that I'll be stuck in the West End in some cruddy farce for months, I promise.' He turned his lathered face towards hers. 'Anyway, you've got your little Spanish sojourn,' he added, a caustic dismissiveness in the adjectival 'little'.

  Sebastian could be insufferably condescending sometimes. It was his class, he always said with a jokey defensiveness whenever Linda accused him of sounding superior. He certainly had the better looks of his class, that silky blond hair, the intense blue of his intelligent eyes, the fine boned prettiness: there was something quintessentially aristocratic about him. That is why they always gave him either those stiff upper lip military explorer roles, or else the homosexual, public school fop types to play.

  Sebastian was neither of those things, but if he was good at anything, it was playing a part. Presently, he was playing the role of suburban husband casually bidding his wife goodbye before another day at the office, somehow hoping she wouldn't notice that he was off into the deep of the Peruvian jungle for the next three months.

  Even though she feigned annoyance at his impending absence, the truth was that she was far too excited about the prospect of going to live and work in Barcelona to become overly depressed by his departure. How many years had she talked about getting down to her art seriously, leaving the analysis and the dissection to those who knew for sure that they couldn't paint, while she attempted, once and for all, to find out if she could.

  She was surprised how quickly and neatly everything had fallen into place. One day Sebastian was sheepishly telling her about his fabulous new role in some Hollywood epic, and the next, Alfonso was casually mentioning how cheap studios were in Barcelona; and that he could arrange for her to work with the feted Delgado, possibly the greatest teacher and painter in western Europe. The synchronicity of the two events gave heart to her natural impetuosity and before the week was out, and probably not considering the full consequences of voluntarily making herself unemployed, she handed in her notice at the gallery.

  She got out of bed and made herself a coffee. Of course she would miss Sebastian, she thought, as she poured the viscous brown coffee from the cafetiera into her china cup; she would miss his wonderful sense of humour and just the great feeling she could still get sometimes when she was with him.

  He was also fantastic in bed. Every previous sexual relationship paled into insignificance next to having sex with Sebastian. Never had anyone manipulated her quite like him, teased her with such skill, taken her so gently, then so roughly, so fervently, giving her such pleasure that it shocked her by its immensity.

  For example, when she thought about him he could still make her do what she was doing now as she sat on a stool near the kitchen table. Her coffee forgotten, her hand had unconsciously crept under the silk kimono she was wearing and sneaked between her thighs, her fingers were stretching over the moistness of her tumescent sex lips, then languidly snaking up to rub the hard knot of her clitoris.

  Her memory turned, as it often did when he left her to go filming, back to their first dizzying encounter. They had been introduced by mutual friends at a dinner party in Hampstead. Sebastian had immediately dazzled her, by the combination of the almost angelic pure beauty of his looks, the hearty easy laugh and his brilliant sense of humour. He could be so amusing. Even then it did not seem a stilted staged performance. Sebastian had seemed as if he was born telling funny stories.

  No, it was not just his looks that made him the natural centre of attention immediately he entered a room. He was so self-confident, so comfortable with himself without being smug, it was impossible not to be attracted to him.

  When she laughed, as he mimicked some pompous art critic that they both knew, it was as if her whole body laughed, her skin prickled, a dampness spread from between her thighs, a result of both her laughter and her arousal, the two somehow merging inside her. No man had ever done that before.

  It had all happened so quickly. A drunken boor had engaged her in a conversation about a recent exhibition she had reviewed so as to stare at the décolletage of her white lace gown, had accidentally, or maybe on purpose as Sebastian later claimed, spilled wine over the front of her dress.

  She had stood up quickly, excused herself amid the over-effusive apologies of her lewd dining companion, and gone to the bathroom at the top of a wooden spiral staircase to clean off the wine before it left a permanent stain on the fabric.

  The bathroom was a small oblong with little space for anything else but a toilet, wash basin and a bath. There was a mirror over the sink.

  She was looking at herself as she finished dabbing water onto the stain at the front of her skimpy dress when He walked in.

  She was startled when she saw him appear. He smiled at her gently, but knowingly, but he did not speak. Quietly, he closed the door behind him.

  The excitement made her tremble. She knew why he was there. She did not turn around to face him, but remained looking at him through the glass, focusing on his eyes, the easy relaxed eyes, transformed now in his lust, staring so greedily at her body, betraying his nonchalant dinner party posture.

  He was coming closer, close enough for
her to smell his cologne, to feel the warmth of his breath on her neck. His hands threaded through her arms and grasped her breasts firmly, squeezing the warm mounds of flesh, then rolling his flat palms over them. Her heart speeded frantically in her intense excitement. His slender fingers slid under the lace of her dress, then the lace of her brassiere. He found the erect tips of her aroused breasts. As he nibbled gently on her neck, sliding his tongue up to the lobe of her ear, he plucked hard on her nipples. Linda gasped with the surprise of the hot pain that throbbed from the pebble-hard tips of her breasts sent a shudder through her body.

  Her head automatically tilted, then arced back, exposing the delicate white of her throat. It was electrifying to feel his strong hands on her, his hard fingers tugging on her now engorged nipples. Her own hands reached upwards, stroked his tensed knuckles as he continued to manipulate her.

  His hands glided lower, brushed her flat stomach, then smoothed over her round hips through the lace of her dress, before touching the top of her stockinged legs. Bending lower he momentarily slid his fingertips under the nylon, before gradually reaching his hands higher underneath her dress to the soft flesh of her thighs, her dress bunching, riding up until it was lifted over the bottom of her pearl white panties.

  She had never so totally abandoned herself to a stranger like this before, so quickly, so ardently. She was so wet. His fingers were gently tracing their way up both sides of her swelling labial lips, feeling their moist heat, then delving between them, deep inside, first one finger and then two, gently at first then thrusting harder, pushing against the inner ribbed walls of her sex. She could feel his tool stiffen through his slacks, pushing against her, its hardness pressing against her panties.

  Without looking at him, she knelt on the lid of the toilet, her stockinged knees resting against the pinewood. Grabbing the edge of the cistern with her hands, she perched her bottom up before him.

  She could hear the violins below, the strident rhythm of the cellos and double bass, and the conversational cackle from downstairs. She could hear it all, as Sebastian flattened the palms of his hands under her panties and over her firm voluptuous buttocks. He slid his fingers between the cleft of her bottom. His thumb pressed first against her perineum, making an exquisite shiver pass through her, then up further onto the tiny aperture of her anus, tickling her, tantalising her. Her whole body trembled with the slightest contact his body made with hers.

  The anticipation was tremendous. This had never happened to her before. Somewhere in her consciousness, she knew that she should be concerned about the people downstairs. She should be perturbed that a man whom she barely knew was at this moment pulling her panties down; the lace slowly sliding down her inner thighs, dropping to her knees, her dress now crumpled around her waist, her bottom bare before his beautiful eyes.

  Her breasts felt heavy. They throbbed with pained excitement. His hands moved up and down the white flesh of her buttocks, squeezing them hard, spreading her, his fingernails digging in, scratching her, etching themselves on her skin in his seemingly uncontrollable lust.

  He knelt down on the linoleum and arched his neck, levering his mouth between her spread thighs. As she had felt his breath on the nape of her neck before he had touched her, so she momentarily felt its heat before the first dizzying contact of his tongue along the ridge of her excited quim. His tongue flattened against her as he grabbed hold of her inner thigh, pinching lightly while his tongue feasted on the wet folds of her intimate flesh.

  There was no urgency in his movement, the tongue glided up her, flicked her clitoris and then glided back down. She felt her face flush as he repeated the action. Again and again the tongue slid along the ridge of her labia, and most delicious of all, began to probe inside her quim, softly and gently at first before building up to a crescendo of hot, rapid jabs. She wanted to scream out, to respond vocally to the exquisite pleasure he was bringing to her, but she knew she couldn't. Still, the necessity to remain silent caused an added delectable frisson of erotic tension to the encounter.

  Her hunger, though, was too deep and urgent to be satisfied merely by his tongue. Delightful though it was, it carried too much promise of the hot, thick cock she had felt push against her panties.

  As if sensing this, he climbed up from his kneeling position. She reached her hand behind her and found his penis, liberated it from his slacks, unzipping him first, then sneaking her fingers into the flap of his briefs. She couldn't see his tool, but it felt so beautiful, thick and long. Her hand began stroking him from the base of its shaft to the thick ridge of the bulbous dome.

  She wanted to take it in her mouth, to lick the head, taking the whole of him between her glossed lips, but the desire to have him inside the burning heat between her legs was too overwhelming. She pulled his cock towards her.

  He slid into her slowly. First pressing the engorged head of his hefty member against her labial lips; his hot dome slid along the juiced folds before slipping inside her. His thick meat pressed against the warm flesh of her cunny muscles, expanded inside her as she clenched tight onto him harder and harder with every stroke of his cock.

  Suddenly, he thrust inside her, pushing further up her than any man had ever done, stuffing her with his hot meat, making her gasp hard at the depth of the insertion. He placed his hands on her shoulders and pulled her body roughly onto him, ramming his cock even deeper inside her.

  The pace suddenly increased, became frantic, the strokes lengthening, her bottom slapping off his tensed thighs. She wanted to scream again, to cry out with the rough pleasure that he was bringing her, but she dared not give in to such venting of her pleasure. She could feel him throbbing, swelling inside her, his hands gripping her shoulders more fiercely, propelling her harder and harder onto him. He was filling her like no man had filled her before. His teeth were nipping her ear. His hands reached down from her shoulders and caressed her breasts. Then he tugged her already tumescent nipples between his fingers, his thick cock rammed even harder inside her, almost ruthlessly. She felt totally dominated by him.

  Before it happened she knew that it was going to happen; that they would orgasm together, that as soon as he shot his seed into her, she would climax. She did not know, though, that the moment he ejaculated, his hands would sweep down to her hips and he would swivel her around his stiff pole, so that her orgasm would be so breathtakingly intense.

  It must have lasted for a moment, but the moment seemed to contain an infinity in its centre. As her hips rotated on his twitching cock, she felt each gush of his jism as a counter point to each elated electric shiver that passed through her.

  He didn't pull out of her straight away. His hands reached up to her ruby nipples and pinched them again lightly between his fingers. It felt like he was touching her nerve ends, the painful pressure managing to prolong her orgasm even further beyond its natural course.

  When it was over, he kissed her so tenderly on the neck it had shocked her almost as much as the force of his prodigious sexual power. He turned her around and sat her down on the edge of the bath. He pulled out a card from his back pocket and passed it to her.

  'Call me!' he said smiling, knowing, she was sure, that she would obey him. She was too astounded by what had happened to reply, merely acquiescing with a nod of the head. 'Don't worry, I'll go down first. I'll sort it out.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'The dress, you know, it doesn't normally take so long to clean, especially as there are two of us. Don't worry!' He smiled beautifully at her, stroked the side of her face, leaned over, kissed her on the lips, and with that, he was gone. She knew already that she had fallen crazily in love with him.

  She had to stay in the bathroom for a little while longer, until, at least, the blush of her face paled so that nobody would suspect, but surely they must, that anything had happened between them.

  However, five minutes later as she descended the spiral staircase she was met not with smirking faces, but with concerned looks.

  'H
ow's the headache?' the host asked. 'Sebastian told us...'

  'I hope you don't mind,' Sebastian looked at her, smiling.

  It was not what he had said - the excuse for their lengthy absence was in reality quite lame - so much as the conviction he had said it with, the true thespian skill, managing to pull off such an incredible suspension of disbelief.

  Her index finger continued to strum the hard nub of her clitoris, the memory of Sebastian inside her fading, being replaced by another figure. She shouldn't let him into her fantasy like that, it was a fateful portent, but she couldn't help it.

  If she was honest with herself it was another thing to be added her list of reasons for going to Barcelona, something that she did not willingly place in the forefront of her mind: Alfonso. Of course she didn't love him; of course there was nothing like that. And he was, after all, Sebastian's friend, had known him long before she had met him. Maybe this was what had been the problem with Sebastian: Sebastian knew exactly what Alfonso was like and perhaps he had detected something about Linda's desire to go to Barcelona and her swift willingness to give up work that was not purely concerned with proving herself as an artist. It might go some way to explaining his flippant attitude towards her lately when she spoke about her artistic ambitions. He was usually so encouraging.

  What was Alfonso's attraction? He wasn't so handsome, quite normal looking once you took away the exotica of Latin allure; he had an attractive dark complexion, deep brown eyes, and his body was firm and muscular, but he certainly was not in the Sebastian league of good looks. No, it wasn't that he was so handsome, she thought; it was that there was something quite immoral, or at least amoral about him. He always made it perfectly clear that he was very attracted to her, usually as soon as Sebastian left the room. He would look in a certain leering way at her, or momentarily take her hand in his own and make some feeble pass in his best English.