PROFOUND IN HIS SILENCE

G. R. RICHARDS

Amber Quill Press, LLC

http://www.amberquill.com

Profound In His Silence An Amber Quill Press Book

This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or have

been used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

Amber Quill Press, LLC

http://www.AmberQuill.com

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No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from

the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

ISBN 978-1-61124-173-0

Published in the United States of America

Also by G. R. Richards

Birds Of A Feather

The Brothers Of Hogg's Hollow

Camp

Chapter 1

First Day of Rehearsals

There was nothing more daunting than a room full of strangers, except a room full of strangers who also happened to be

opera singers.

How would Charles ever manage to keep track of all these people? Director, conductor, voice coaches, language coaches,

rehearsal pianist, choreographer, costumers, stage manager, assistants and, last but not least, the company. Usually, he didn't
have to worry about these things. He just faded into the background and, unless he slipped up somehow, nobody cared who
he was. Charles wasn't exactly sure how he'd cope with being known to everyone.

Pelléas et Mélisande was written for a small cast, as far as operas went, and only a smattering of chorus members. This

would be Charles's first escape from among their ranks. He'd never been cast as anything but "male chorus" before now, not
even in school, and to have been selected for a title role? Well, it really blew his mind. Not that he'd let anybody know how
excited he felt, or how nervous. How nauseous, actually. Charles spotted a water bottle underneath the chair with his name on
it, and he rushed to sit and take a good long swig.

He sputtered when he heard his name from a woman's lips. "Charles! We wondered when you would arrive." Her airy

French accent wisped about the room like a butterfly. A broad-shouldered black man trailed behind her. Both wore warm
smiles, which helped loosen the knot in his stomach. He stood to greet them, his apprehension temporarily suppressed.

"I am Melissa," the blonde continued, "and this is Bo. We have been cast as Mélisande and Golaud. It is very nice to meet

you."

Like Charles required their introduction! These performers were perhaps not world-renowned, but Charles had heard of

them both. He couldn't decide whose hand to shake first, so he put down his water bottle and awkwardly stuck out both at
once. Melissa took one while Bo grabbed the other. If he weren't so much in awe, he might have felt a spark.

In the presence of two such seasoned opera singers, what could Charles do but regress? Suddenly he was the painfully

gauche child of his youth, always saying the wrong thing. "Melissa," he teased, "did they give you the part just 'cause your
name sounded like your character's? Melissa, Mélisande? Get it?" He nodded expectantly, even though he felt like a jackass.
He couldn't seem to control which words decided to tumble out of his mouth.

Melissa offered a gracious smile. "Ah," she said, simply. "I should hope not." She released his hand and chucked him

gently on the chin before taking her seat. Hers was next to his, right in the front row, and on his other side sat Bo. When
Charles plopped down between them, he felt a little like a kid sitting between his parents. If only there was a way to keep from
saying anything else he'd regret...

Charles glanced down at Bo's large, dark hands perched on the thighs of his khaki cargo shorts. "So," Charles began,

somehow unable to stop himself, "you don't see many black opera singers."

Bo turned his shiny shaved head slowly, like a robot. The guy was big. He could have played in the NFL. Charles's heart

pummelled his ribcage. After taking another sip of water, he offered a nervous chuckle. And his mother thought he'd never
get injured performing opera for a living! Seemed like he was about to prove her wrong.

"You're right," Bo said at last. He had a hint of an accent, but Charles couldn't identify it. It was very slight.

"I can think of a few," Charles went on. Why am I still talking? Am I an idiot? "Mostly mezzos, though. Not a lot of men."

Bo nodded, gazing up at a frizzy-haired woman who'd just climbed onto one of the risers in front of them. "You're right

about that, too," Bo said as a hush fell over the audience of performers.

The woman on the riser kept running her hand through her hair, like it was an Afro comb and she was trying to get that

ball of orange fuzz as full as it would go. She introduced herself to the gathering and Charles recalled she was one of the
producers who'd been at his audition. She also introduced the cloud of people hovering around her. Charles found himself
snickering when she got to the director. The one he'd auditioned for had to drop out when performance dates were changed.
This new guy was tall, adroit, and supremely French. All he needed was the beret to cover his big bald head. Charles tried to
muzzle himself but it was no use. The laughter burbled up from his core and exploded in disruptive bursts.

The director stood very still, turning his head only enough to glare down at Charles with the small, beady eyes of a

rodent. "Ah, c'est mon Pelléas en train de rire come un bouffon?"

Charles was pretty sure he understood, but he simply said, "Yeah." Hopefully answering in English would convey that his

French was rather weak. Maybe not the best thing to admit after landing the leading role in a French opera, but what the hell,
his contract was signed.

"Would you like to inform the room why you are laughing?" the director asked.

Christ, this was high school all over again! All his operatic training, all his work at establishing a career, and Charles felt

like a teenager. "Well...your name," he confessed, unsure what tack to take. "It's Jean-Luc...and you kinda look like Patrick
Stewart. See where I'm going with this?" Charles tried to suppress the class clown in him, but stifled titters from the back of
the room egged him on. "I was just wondering if you wanted us to call you by your name, or if you prefer your title as Captain
of the Starship Enterprise."

The snickers from the back of the rehearsal room expanded into full-blown laughter, and Charles felt quite satisfied until

the director bounded from the riser. Charles leaned as far back as he could in his chair. He was sure this Jean-Luc guy was
about to pound him. What a way to start the rehearsal process. First insult a huge black man and then get beat up by the
director!

The angry man had stopped so close to Charles their knees very nearly touched. His nostrils flared and his face went

bright pink, all the way up to his peaked egghead. He stood there for a moment, towering over Charles like a bald volcano
about to erupt. Charles couldn't move. His limbs were locked in place, feet flat on the floor and hands gripping the seat of his
chair. All he could do was wait in dumbstruck silence and hope the director wouldn't break his nose. Hockey players looked
good after taking a punch to the face, but opera singers? Not so much.

After an eternal moment of heart-pumping, breath-robbing intensity, the director took a step back. Charles slumped in his

chair, but his senses were still on high alert. He thought he ought to say something, but he didn't know what. The director
solved that problem for him.

"Our Pelléas has proven what I've always held to be true: opera singers are children. You are nothing but self-indulgent,

egocentric infants, and I am hired to be your guardian throughout this process." Jean-Luc stared down at Charles with those
beady rat eyes and said, "To answer your question, for your sins, you shall call me Director." After a lingering gaze bordering
on lechery, he looked up over the heads of the rest of the cast. "For now that goes for everybody, and you may thank your
dear Pelléas."

As "Director" made his way back to the riser and the stage manager broke into a review of housekeeping details, Charles's

shoulders fell and he stared straight ahead even though he felt both Melissa's and Bo's eyes on him. Why turn to face their
scolding gazes? He'd obviously proven himself the token toddler of the group. Christ, even the little kid playing Golaud's son
was better behaved, and likely now scared to death of Jean-Luc.

Charles half-listened to the costumer and music director and all the rest as they outlined the rehearsal process. He knew

he'd never remember all this information, quietly thanking the heavens he already had it on paper. People in this industry just
liked to hear themselves talk. Charles was no exception, but he certainly wasn't alone in his gregariousness.

After what felt like for-fricken-ever, the producer called a break. Mr. Director shot her a "how dare you usurp my

authority" type glare, but she didn't seem to notice. Charles noted that most of the bigwigs left the room for break, and then
realized with a jolt of dubiousness, that he was now one of the bigwigs too. After all, he'd landed a title role.

Even as Melissa and Bo rose from their seats, Charles tried not to look at them. He tried not to, but Bo's gaze was softly

magnetic and he had to look up at the guy. As Bo opened his full lips to speak, Melissa reached for Charles's shoulder and
squeezed. "Pauvre petit," she cooed. "Keep your eyes to the floor and your nose to the grindstone, and Jean-Luc will treat
you fairly."

"You've worked with him before?"

The crow's feet around Melissa's smiling eyes crinkled as she nodded. She tightened her grip on Charles's shoulder until it

hurt. Struggling not to shrug away, he stood, and she released her grip. He was taller than Melissa, and not as tall as Bo, so
for a second it seemed as if he and Bo were the parents, and she the child despite the fact that she was significantly older
than either of them.

"Funny that you and I are playing brothers. We don't exactly look like family," Charles said to Bo as the three of them

wandered toward the snack table. He felt like fruit today. Normally, he'd have been all over those donuts.

Bo chuckled and the sound reverberated deep in Charles's belly. "Pelléas and Golaud are only half brothers," he corrected

while putting a few sliced melons and whole berries on a small plate.

"So, I guess your dad was mother's big black hunk of a husband, and my dad was the scrawny second one she married

out of pity."

When Charles chuckled, Bo cocked his head and gave him a tilted glance. "You're not so bad for a scrawny white half

brother."

Bo's gentle gaze shifted in intensity until it made Charles feel... strange... uncomfortable? It was more than he could

handle. He looked quickly to Melissa, but she had turned her attention to their director, who'd just left to return to the
rehearsal space. Grabbing Charles's wrist, she whispered, "Come, let's get back. He will want to start immediately."

Melissa pulled on Charles's arms, and Bo followed behind them. "But we haven't had fifteen minutes yet," Charles said,

"and I wanted more fruit." He'd worked for hard-asses before, but even hard-asses gave them their allocated breaks. Opera
performers were union, after all.

"Hush," Melissa said, pushing him into his chair. Bo sat, too, and when their knees touched, Charles shifted toward

Melissa, trying not to be obvious

"Pelléas et Mélisande is a symbolist opera," the director called out over the buzz of performers settling down from break.

The room fell eerily silent all at once as everybody returned to their seats. "It was the sole operatic creation to flit like a dream
from the mind of the master impressionist Claude Debussy. You cannot compare it to Don Giovanni or Aida or, God forbid,
Carmen. This is a work on an entirely different plane of consciousness. This work defies simple understanding. It is about
everything and nothing. It defies even synopsis."

Charles looked around at the nodding sycophants. They were nothing but a bunch of dashboard bobble-heads agreeing

mindlessly with whatever drivel the director spouted. He'd seen it over and over again when he sat at the back of the room as
a lowly chorister, and had learned to keep his mouth shut. This man, this Jean-Luc, Captain "Call-Me-Director" seemed to
taunt him with every word, and Charles couldn't keep himself from laughing out loud. Boy, he was asking for it!

"Ah, le bouffant est encore en train de rire," Director muttered. His little rat eyes stared down at Charles, but he didn't

budge from the riser this time, thank God! "Pourquoi, mon vieux? Why do you insist upon laughing again?"

Without the director standing at his knees, Charles felt a little bolder than he had before. "Well, you said this opera defies

synopsis." Charles even went so far as to imitate the Director's accent when quoting him. "It has a plot. I mean, some scenes
don't make a lick of sense to me, but there's obviously a storyline."

That smug bastard nodded and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "If you are such an expert, why not enlighten us?

How would you summarize Pelléas et Mélisande?"

In for a penny, in for a pound...

Charles leaned back in his chair, tossing one ankle over the other leg. His knee was touching Bo's again, but he didn't care

anymore. "Okay, well, there's this guy, Prince Golaud--that's Bo's role--and he's out in the woods one day, and he finds
Melissa's character, Mélisande, who's crying and lost. Golaud marries Mélisande and brings her back to the castle, where she
meets my character, Pelléas, who is Golaud's half brother. Right away there's an attraction, right? They get all flirty with each
other. Golaud doesn't pay any attention to it, at first, because he thinks of Pelléas and Mélisande as children. Golaud's kind of
a dumb guy." Charles quickly turned to Bo. "No offence."

Bo smirked and nudged Charles with his knee. "None taken."

Suddenly, Charles felt a flush come over him and he didn't know why. Maybe because all eyes were on him? No, he didn't

mind being the centre of attention. "Anyway," he continued, "when Golaud catches on, boy oh boy, watch out! He's
obsessed with finding the truth about Pelléas and Mélisande. He even asks his son from his first marriage to spy on them. Of
course, there isn't anything to report back. They're flirty and playful, but it's not like they're getting in each other's pants. Still,
Golaud wants to know what the hell's going on.

"Well, the tension gets so high that Pelléas decides to leave the castle, but before he goes he and Mélisande finally do the

big 'I love you' thing. They kiss and, of course, Golaud races out from behind a tree, guns blazing, and kills Pelléas on the
spot. From the stress, Mélisande goes into labour. I guess she was knocked up the whole time. She dies right after her baby is
born. That's it. The end. There's your synopsis."

The director stood on his riser, one hand on his hip, the other cradling his head as it shook left and right. "You are like a

child, mon vieux, with this love of simple stories, simple themes. Some opera were written for feeble-minded individuals." The
director's tone was like a finger pointing directly at him. "But Pelléas et Mélisande is not one of them."

The denigration only encouraged Charles to sit up a little straighter. "I did what you claimed was impossible. I broke your

complex symbolist opera down into basic elements."

"And in doing so, you have missed the whole point. You have stripped it of its essence. This is a grand-scale

psychological drama, a subconscious allegorical exploration of humanity itself, and what do your eyes see? A children's
storybook. No, mon vieux, c'est pas ça du tout!"

Charles wondered if the director was being ironic, calling him by that French term for "old man" over and over again. His

French might not be on par with Jean-Luc's or Melissa's, but he could always tell when he was being insulted.

"You made a grave error, too, I should point out." The director seemed obsessed with ragging on him, but Charles kind of

liked the attention. "Golaud did not kill Pelléas with a gun, but with a sword."

A smirk bled across the director's face like he was in on some secret Charles couldn't yet fathom. He was a little startled

when he turned to his left and discovered that very same smile painted on Bo's lips. Was everybody in on the same joke?
And, if so, when were they planning on telling him the punch line?

Chapter 2

Fifth Day of Rehearsals

Another day, another squabble.

El Capitano had an appointment in the afternoon, so rehearsal was scheduled in the morning with music review later in the

day. This opera wasn't all that technically challenging, at least not for the tenor role. The real challenge was trying to stay
awake! Debussy's music was just plain boring. Impressionist, their coaches said, but in Charles's mind impressionist was just
code for dull as dry toast. In fact, Charles would rather eat dry toast every meal for a week than pay two hundred bucks to sit
in the audience of this lacklustre opera.

Rehearsals with Jean-Luc Dick-ard, on the other hand, were anything but boring. Terrifying? Yes. Infuriating? Double yes.

Certainly not boring.

"Pause here," Director instructed Charles, holding his hand out like a crossing guard stopping cars. "Pause, hold, wait. I

want nothing but your silence."

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Charles moaned. He and Melissa were working on the Blind Man's Well scene, where

Mélisande loses Golaud's wedding ring in the fountain, and frustrations were mounting. "These scenes are long enough!
Why make them longer? This whole damn opera is like a labyrinth we're struggling to find our way out of. At this rate, do you
really think the audience will stay past the half?"

Melissa was looking away, as always, so Charles shifted his attention to Bo, who was seated off to the side. He wasn't in

this scene, but he always stayed to watch the others work. Sometimes Charles was able to draw sympathy from Bo, not in
words, but in that characteristic softening of his gaze, and sometimes not. Sometimes it seemed like Charles really was the odd
man out with no allies, no friends. A few times, he'd spent break with Melissa and Bo, but they mostly passed the time
reminiscing or gossiping about mutual acquaintances.

Strangely, the director had turned away from Charles. He'd walked over to the score sitting on the rehearsal table, and was

casually flipping through its pages. Why wasn't he fighting back?

"Well?" Charles finally asked, feeling on unsteady ground in light of the room's hush. "Is my question not even worth

answering?"

"I have answered it," Jean-Luc snapped. "I have responded with silence."

Charles pursed his lips and nodded. "Nice," he said with resounding sarcasm. "Oh, yeah, that's really nice. Way to

acknowledge your performers' opinions."

Turning on his heels, Jean-Luc raised one hand straight up in the air. It was a striking enough pose that Charles shut his

mouth, wondering what the director might say. For a further moment, he was quiet, and then, finally, he replied, "Pelléas is
always most profound in his silence."

Well, that's just stupid.

"Fine," Charles said, "then why bother singing at all? If my silences are so profound, why don't I just perform the whole

bloody opera without opening my mouth?"

The director's rat eyes closed to slits and he smiled like a fiend. "That, mon vieux, is your best idea yet. For the remainder

of today's rehearsal, you will perform your part without singing a note."

Malice bubbled in his belly like acid indigestion. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me!"

"Ah, ah, ah! And without speaking," Jean-Luc went on.

Charles's teeth clamped together, which would have made it hard to reply anyway, but he was resigned to meet the

director's challenge. He'd show Jean-Luc. He wouldn't say another word for the rest of the morning.

"That was quite a performance," Bo said, rubbing Charles's back in concentric circles as they descended the rickety

staircase leading out to the street.

"Thanks, man." After so much silence, it felt strange to speak again. Charles massaged his jaw and smiled at Bo's warmth.

He had to admit, it was a good rehearsal.

"Melissa has some errands to run today so it's just us," Bo went on. "Want to grab a bite?"

Charles felt his breath catch in his throat, and wondered why his heart was suddenly beating so fast. He felt hot now,

flushed and strangely nervous. "Yeah," he said, though it came out as a mousy squeak. There was really no need to feel this
way. Bo might be a bit of an opera star, but he was no diva. In fact, Jean-Luc was a bigger diva than any of the performers.

They walked a short distance to a sandwichy-salady sort of take-out restaurant. Bo asked for water with lemon, and when

they didn't have any, he said, "No worries, I always bring my own." They sat together in the restaurant's courtyard under the
late-summer sun, and Bo pulled a plastic baggie full of lemon wedges from his over-the-shoulder satchel. It was funny to see a
large black man with shoulders wide enough to carry the world on them sporting what amounted to a purse, albeit a masculine
one. Well, it was less funny than cute.

Bo snapped open the cap on his water bottle and jammed a lemon wedge through the relatively small opening. "So, this is

all new to you?" Bo asked, though he must have known the answer by now. "First time landing a leading role?"

With an eager nod, Charles quickly swallowed his first bite of turkey and swiss. "First time landing any role! Even in opera

school, I was always cast in the chorus."

"I'm surprised to hear that. You're very talented."

Charles flushed. His cheeks bristled with the heat of unexpected recognition. He felt somewhat relieved when Bo stopped

looking at him so intensely with those dark eyes and started stabbing at his grilled chicken and mandarins on a bed of spring
mix. "Well, that's the trouble with this line of work. Everyone's very talented. It's stiff competition."

"True enough." Bo took a sip of his lemon water. "So, how are you getting on? Answer me honestly."

"Honestly?" Charles rolled his eyes, and then took a quick bite of his delicious sandwich. "Honestly, sometimes I feel like

a huge jackass. I mean, I hear myself talking back to the director and I kind of think, 'Seriously? Why am I acting this way?' I'm
like that one brat in the classroom who drives the teacher nuts." He smirked, wondering whether or not he should say the
thought that had just flashed through his mind. "Though, in our case, the teacher's already nuts. Am I right?"

Bo smiled that noncommittal therapist-smile of his. The one that says, "I'm not going to agree or disagree with you, I'm

just going to nod politely." Charles saw that smile all too often in rehearsals, both from Bo and Melissa. Even the
understudies and the other performers didn't want to go out on a limb to agree with him when he stood up to Jean-Luc.

"Time will round out the edges," Bo said, after an extended swig of lemon water.

Chewing contemplatively, Charles finally smiled at Bo's statement. "You know what you just made me think of?" Charles

chuckled because he felt nervous talking to Bo about personal stuff. "I can't believe I'm telling you this, not that it's a
secret...just...I mean, it's not something I go around saying to a lot of people." He shook his head like it was an Etch A Sketch
and he could start over with a clean slate. Taking a deep breath, Charles began an unstoppable ramble. "When I was a kid,
see, my father drank a lot. He had a good job and all, worked all week, and then on the weekends it was nothing but booze. I'm
telling you, he'd hit the bottle Friday night, pass out by the end of Wheel of Fortune, and then wake up at midnight and hit it
even harder. The whole weekend was just drink, drink, drink, and the man was an unpredictable drunk. Sometimes he'd be that
I love you, man! drunk, and sometimes he'd be loud, and sometimes he'd be..."

Bo had been nodding the whole time. Now he filled in the blank, "Mean."

"Yeah. Mean..."

Charles tried to take a bite of his sandwich, but he knew the bread would never make it past the lump in his throat. He set

the thing back down on its paper bag. It was strange, how much things still hurt, even when they'd happened long, long ago.
He took a sip of Bo's water without asking, and when Bo didn't react in any visible way, he took another.

When the constriction in his throat cleared, Charles continued revealing himself. It felt a lot like stripping naked in front of

a co-worker, and it struck him as bizarre that he was so comfortable doing it. "On the days when Dad was really bad, my mom
would bundle my sisters and me into the car and take us to the beach. We loved it there. Right by the parking lot, there was a
marsh, and when Mom remembered to bring a bag of stale bread, we'd feed the Canada geese. My little sister Gabby was
scared as hell of those honking bastards. They'd bite your hand if you weren't careful."

Bo was still nodding, but there was a wistful smile on his face now.

"Anyway, if you walked past the marsh and across this little wooden bridge, you'd get to a long stretch of beach where

the sand was dark and...well, sandy. I mean, granular, not muddy like the wetlands. We'd walk along this long, long beach,
and all the way my sisters and I would stop and collect little souvenirs. Lots of little pebbles would wash up on the shore,
along with sticks and leaves and plastic bags. We'd pick up the flat rocks and skip them across the water. I remember my mom

could skip a pebble five times--one, two, three, four, plunk!--and for the longest time nobody could beat her record. The day I
finally did...well, I felt like a...like a man." It sounded so stupid he wanted to punch himself in the gut. "I'm a moron, aren't I?
It's okay. You can tell me. I can take it."

With a smirk, Bo shook his head. "You're not a moron." Charles very nearly flinched when Bo set down his fork and

cupped his hand on Charles's. Even if Bo was just trying to comfort him, it still weirded him out a bit. It shouldn't have,
because it was a nice gesture. But it did. The only way he could think to get away from that warm touch was to pick up his
sandwich. He took a bite too big for his mouth, hoping Bo would say something. But no. Jean-Luc would have said Bo was
profound in his silence and Jean-Luc would have been right. No words could have expressed more powerfully what Bo
communicated with his eyes.

Charles steeled his gaze against Bo's care and affection. It was too intimate coming from somebody he'd only just met a

few days ago. With a nervous chuckle, Charles asked, "Why did I start this story, again?"

Bo shrugged, his dark eyes soft and tender. "I can't recall."

"It bugs the hell out of me when I start telling a story and then I can't remember why. It's like when you walk into the

kitchen to grab something, and then once you're there you can't remember what you needed."

"A senior moment," Bo said with an impish grin. "Though, you're hardly a senior."

"We all have them." And then the reason for the story came streaking through Charles's mind. "The glass! That's what it

was. The glass!"

Bo furrowed his brow, mockingly. "The glass?"

Charles nodded. "You said time would round out the edges of my personality and that made me think of the little glass

shards I always collected at the beach. My sister Rachel liked the shiny pebbles, and Gabby liked the seashell-type things,
but to me the greatest miracles of nature were those little bits of frosty glass. You know what I mean? They were pieces of
beer bottles and Coke bottles that had been worn down over the years by the sand and the waves. All the sharpness was
gone and they were smooth all around." He shook his head, amazed at how well he could remember life twenty or twenty-five
years in the past. "I'd waddle back to the car with pockets full of glass. It was ridiculous."

"Cheers to mothers," Bo said, tipping his water bottle in Charles's direction before taking a sip. "Lovely memories."

Sometimes Charles felt like he wasn't as sharp as other people, but he knew exactly what Bo was getting at, despite the

subtlety. If it hadn't been for Mom's ingenuity, all of his childhood recollections would be mired in booze. Instead, he had
these gleaming pearls of beach memories to focus on. Oh, Mom!

"Nearly time to get back," Bo said.

"Christ, and I talked all through lunch!" Charles wouldn't be the first opera performer to call himself a narcissist, but he

hated the idea of other people seeing him that way. On the walk back, he'd eat the rest of his sandwich and let Bo make
conversation. He'd shut the hell up for once.

Chapter 3

Tenth Day of Rehearsals

"Non. Arrête. Ca suffit."

Melissa looked up at the director, wide-eyed, like a child anticipating a spanking. He hadn't instructed her to fall to her

knees. She'd done it all on her own. Despite her age, she would make a stunning submissive with those perfect blonde curls
tumbling like pure sunlight against her cheeks. She bore his abuse well.

"Quoi, alors?" she finally asked as Jean-Luc click-clacked slow circles around her in his hard-soled shoes. He probably

had an army of elves at home to clean, buff, and polish them to perfection, then press every garment.

"Is Mélisande a child, ma belle?"

Without moving an inch, Melissa replied, "A child? No...we've had this discussion before, have we not? She is childlike,

she is naïve, even innocent to some degree--"

"Non!" Director boomed, smacking his foot against the floor beside her like a flamenco dancer.

Melissa's blue eyes grew huge as a dairy cow's in light of his reprimand. It was only Jean-Luc and the three stars in the

room at the moment, along with their understudies and a couple of assistants, all of whom kept very quiet and took a lot of
notes. The director seemed even louder when there were only a few of them around, and Charles felt a little cockier every time
the guy shouted. To be honest, the squabbles were beginning to wear him down.

"What?" Charles asked. He was entering an argument that didn't involve him, and he just didn't care anymore. "Nobody's

allowed to have opinions but you? The rest of us have minds, too, you know. We're trained performers."

The director actually raised his snooty nose in the air to look down at Charles. "Circus monkeys are trained performers,

too, are they not? Sometimes I think I would rather see this opera performed by animals than by this untalented group. At
least a dog learns from his mistakes when you rap him on the nose."

"Mistakes?" Charles cackled. That was it. He'd now been cracked on the knuckles one too many times. "Everything we do

is wrong, and only you know why. If it was right yesterday, it's wrong today. What the hell? We'd need to be mind readers to
get this opera right. You instruct us to be thinking actors, then you tell us we're not fulfilling your artistic vision. What do
you want from us? Seriously!"

A silence dense as black smoke filled the room. The understudies and assistants huddled together, pens poised above

notebooks and scores. Melissa was still kneeling, and Charles could feel Bo move in behind him.

"Pelléas et Mélisande is not an opera of plot, but of impact! Charles, mon vieux, after two full weeks of rehearsal, how can

you not understand what Bo and Melissa and myself are attempting to construct? Tu ne comprends rien, toi! You are the odd
man out."

Was that true? Was he really the only person in this room who didn't know what the fuck their director expected of him?

Charles nearly jumped when Bo's hand landed like a warm brick against his shoulder. It took him a moment to realize it was an
act of solidarity.

"Charles has a point, monsieur le directeur," Bo said. Charles could feel the man's deep voice resonating in his core, and

he dissuaded the reaction it generated lower down. "Perhaps if you were to elucidate your directorial vision, we would better
understand what you expect of us and our characters."

Melissa, now standing, nodded in agreement. "Oui, precisement."

The director's shoulders slumped as he fell back into a chair. Setting an elbow on the rehearsal table at his side, he leaned

his bald head against his palm. His body angled on a diagonal from the floor, long legs crossed, one shoe dangling from a
foot in a black sock.

"How are we supposed to do what you want if you don't tell us what that is?" Charles prodded. "You just tell us when

we're doing it wrong."

If it had only been Charles complaining, the Captain probably wouldn't have taken him seriously. It was the three of them

teaming up that had given him pause. He seemed almost defeated. "Melissa," he said, "et les hommes, écoutez. You are
thinking too literally about your roles. These characters are not people. They do not represent people. Par instance,

Mélisande is not a woman, but rather a ghost, a longing, a memory of the men's heterosexuality, which they cling to, obsess
over."

Charles was glad Bo was still standing behind him so they couldn't make eye contact. The road Jean-Luc was headed

down made him all butterfly-bellied and he could feel a cold sweat trickling down his back. He didn't want Bo to see how
nervous he felt right now.

"Pelléas clutches to Mélisande, but he knows he may never take comfort in her elusive character. Golaud, for his part,

demands the truth, the truth, because he cannot face his own lust for Pelléas. These men long to be together, and are united
by their obsession over the spectre that is Mélisande, this beautifully sad ideal."

Bo cut in, bringing up the same point that had just crossed Charles's mind. "But Pelléas and Golaud are brothers. Why

would they lust after each other?" Bo's voice shook the butterflies from Charles's belly, and now warmth enveloped him.

Shaking his head like they just weren't getting it, Jean-Luc said, "You are still thinking literally. Your characters are

representative not of people, but of concepts, of emotions, of desires. Pelléas and Golaud are men of the human family, full of
taboo longing to explore each other sexually, to explore sexuality itself!" The director offered an uncharacteristically impish
smirk. "En tout cas, they are only half brothers."

When Jean-Luc leaped from his chair and clapped his hands together, he seemed like a different man. This interpretation

didn't make a hell of a lot of sense to Charles, but he was no less intrigued. He liked a controversial interpretation. The opera
got more buzz that way.

"Melissa, ma belle, levez-vous. We will go to Act Three, Scene Two. The vaults of the castle. Charles, you always have

some commentary. Tell me what this scene is about."

This scene always got him hot and bothered, and, in fact, Jean-Luc's interpretation might go some length in explaining

why. "Golaud takes Pelléas down to the castle vaults. There's a dungeon down there, like a big hole, an abyss that smells like
death. He tells Pelléas to bend over and look into the chasm, but Pelléas can't take the heat, so they leave."

"Yes!" Jean-Luc hissed. Charles had never seen the guy looking so excited. "And what chasm smells like death? What

does this scene represent, les jeunes?"

Charles knew what the director was getting at, of course, but he suddenly felt too shy to say anything. He hoped to hell

Bo would keep his mouth shut, too.

"La sodomie," Melissa replied. When everyone turned to look at her, eyes nearly bulging from their sockets, she simply

said, "C'est ça, non?"

Jean-Luc nodded. "Oui, certainment."

There were too many people in this room. Charles felt exasperated by their presence, and he quietly asked the rejuvenated

director if he and Bo could rehearse without the stares of so many eyes. Why was he so damn nervous? And hot? And faint?
And sweaty? God, he felt like an overheated pig, but Jean-Luc granted his request and sent everyone else home early.

"We'll use the rehearsal tape," the director advised. "You don't have to sing full voice, but do better than just marking it.

Find the soul of this scene, les hommes. Bo, express the attraction and the taboo desire, the raw sexuality of Golaud's flesh.
Mon Pelléas, you must tap into the longing, the despair, the weakness and the fear of a man about to be fucked up his
backside."

Charles's breath hitched. He didn't know why he felt so shocked by Jean-Luc's words. When Bo's heat struck his back, he

nearly jumped out of his skin. He knew the blocking and it made a hell of a lot more sense now. He knew Bo was about to take
hold of him, nearly put him in a headlock. The dungeon was such a dark place. They had to stay close together, touching
throughout the entire scene.

The moment Bo's hard front pressed against his back, Charles went spiralling into a daze. He could hear himself singing,

and it sounded damn good, but he didn't know where the hell those noises were coming from. All he could think about were
the huge arms holding him snug against a solid chest. He could feel Bo's breath hot against the side of his head. Bo's voice
reverberated though his core when he sang Golaud's part, encouraging Pelléas to bend over and gaze into the chasm.

Oh, the putrid darkness, the pain and the torture of that dungeon!

Pelléas struggled against Golaud, though there was nothing Charles would rather do than stay close, safe in those arms.

When Bo held his chest and bent him down and down and down, Charles felt the heat of Bo's crotch against his ass. It wasn't
just heat. No, it was...hard!

As Charles sang his role with more inspired longing than ever before, he pressed his ass back against Bo's erection. Even

through layers of clothing he could sense its raging steel sizzle. It was only natural to be turned on in such an intense
situation, right? It must be, because Charles's cock was throbbing, too. Thank God he was all bent over, because in his ratty
rehearsal sweats, his pounding erection would be amply visible. Strangely, he didn't care as much as he might have. So what if
Jean-Luc and Bo knew how aroused he'd become, singing this ode to ass?

His cock jerked against the cotton fabric of his jockeys as Bo's rock-solid prick jammed itself between his cheeks. Bo

writhed slowly as he sang, and Charles nearly forgot Jean-Luc was in the room. This act felt so incredibly intimate he could
hardly believe they weren't alone. His mind saw only the darkness of the castle dungeon. His feet felt only the stone floor,
and the aroma that filled his nostrils couldn't be mistaken for anything other than what it was.

When they reached the end of their scene, Pelléas's desperate need to escape his situation was echoed in Charles's strong

desire to remain close. He was so aroused, locked in Bo's arms, that all he could think to do was turn around and kiss him.
Kiss him! God, if he stayed in the rehearsal room even one second longer, he was going to do it. He was going to turn around
in the big man's arms and press his hard cock against Bo's massive erection. This was too much. It was all too much.

"Excuse me," he mumbled, breaking out of Bo's grasp to race, still hunched over, toward the bathroom.

The second Charles bolted to the end stall, he threw his sweats and his jockeys down to the floor, and tugged his T-shirt

over his head. It was pulled tight around the back of his neck and shoulders. His dick stuck straight out like the gate at a train
crossing. It was so goddamn hard it hurt, and when he grabbed it, his balls seized like he might come on the spot.

"Fuck," he muttered, tugging on the fat prick and throwing his head against the cement block wall. If he could stroke

himself off fast enough, he could walk back into rehearsal like nothing had happened. He wrapped his fist around his shaft
and tugged at it maniacally. "Fuck," he bleated like a horny little lamb. And then, "Bo..."

When the bathroom door squealed open, Charles's breath caught in his lungs. He tried to stop jerking off, since the

friction of hand on dick made him yelp and mutter uncontrollably, but he couldn't quit now. He was too deep into it. Even
when four thick black fingers curled around the top of the stall door and shook it, Charles didn't flinch.

The lock started to rattle and he just watched. It was hard to say whether this damn opera was rubbing off on him and he

was now incapable of surprise and responsiveness, or whether he'd anticipated Bo would follow. He watched the little metal
latch jiggle, jiggle, jiggle, until it retreated enough for Bo to hurl open the stall door.

Bo's eyes were ablaze, his huge shoulders heaving, and still Charles didn't react. Even with his top around his neck and

his bottoms at his ankles, he wasn't embarrassed or ashamed. He had no desire to cover up or stop stroking himself, and
judging by the lust in those deep, dark eyes, Bo didn't want him to stop either.

Like the heroes on the covers of all those romance novels, Bo swept a massive arm around Charles and pulled him in

close. Bo's chest was hard, vast, expanding up to those muscled shoulders and down to the steel heat of an erection. Charles
could feel it against the back of his wrist. Squished against Bo's body, he gripped his own dick, feeling the wet drizzle of pre-
cum and the throb of a swollen cock head against his fingers. God, he wanted to touch Bo's cock, too. He wanted to press
their flesh together, rub them side-by-side until Bo came on his belly.

In the movies it all started with a kiss, and life was no different. Crushing Charles in those great arms, Bo pressed hot lips

against lips and forced an insistent tongue into Charles's surprised but willing mouth. Charles was slow to react, lost taking in
the sensation rather than putting out any response. Bo's tongue was pure strength coated in velvet, and when Charles finally
recovered from the shock he'd denied, he not only returned that robust kiss but also tore into Bo's pants. His fingers fumbled
as he ripped at that brown leather belt, the button, the snap, the zipper down the front of Bo's respectable tan khakis. Bo
always looked good but now in Charles's hands, he felt even better. Like a wild thing begging for domestication, that solid
black cock had found its way out between the gap in Bo's blue jockey boxers, and into Charles's hands. He gripped it,
pumping and pulling. He didn't want to let go even as Bo pushed his bottoms down to his ankles. When he pulled his black,
skin-tight tee over his head, Charles stopped to watch. He wanted to get the full effect of Bo's brilliant black body in all its
naked glory.

Lord, he was stunning! Muscles everywhere, from his shoulders to his abs. He had a scar low down on his stomach,

probably from an appendix operation when he was a kid, and that beautiful flaw made his perfect body all the more desirable.
Of course, Charles didn't let his gaze roam straight to Bo's dick, but it didn't take long. That thing jutted out from a hairless
pelvis like a beggar asking for a little something, a little stroke, a little touch. Charles was happy to oblige in abundance.

When Charles reached out to touch that solid mass of cock, Bo pulled him into a sizzling embrace. Just before he shut his

eyes, he realized the stall door was still open. The thought of somebody walking in and seeing them together, naked, kissing,

pressed together body to body, made his dick jump into Bo's hand. Charles wouldn't have looked down, even if he could
escape their fiery kiss. He was sure his cock looked dwarfed against Bo's huge palm, but the sensation of that incredibly soft
skin against his prick fried his brain cells. No more thinking. Action only.

Wrapping his fist around Bo's firm erection, Charles stroked it base to tip, kissing those full lips all the while. Bo was

rubbing him, too, and he fumbled between their bodies until he managed to press Bo's shaft against the length of his. Oh, yes!
This is what he'd been wanting without realizing it. He rested his dick head against the smooth black flesh at the base of Bo's
cock, and finally gave himself leave to look down. Side by side, the difference was notable, but he just didn't care anymore. So
what if his white dick, now glowing pink, red, nearly purple at the tip, was a little smaller than Bo's smooth black cock? It
wasn't going to feel any less amazing when he came all over those rippling abs.

In fact, Charles was so wildly aroused from the rehearsal process, and from jerking himself off before Bo arrived on the

scene, that he was surprised he hadn't come already. As he and Bo pressed their dicks together and stroked them in unison,
he felt his balls tighten. Things were happening. His body was getting reading to explode like a jizz volcano, and he wouldn't
stop it for all the tea in China. When Bo reached down and kissed him again, hard on the lips, he couldn't keep his hips from
bucking forward. Both hands now. Four hands on two dicks, black and white on white and black. He was so ready. The
friction was high, the kiss sizzling, and all he could do was abandon himself to orgasm.

The open door had done it for Charles. Just that one tiny element of danger had sent him hurtling over the edge to be

tossed by those unstoppable waves of climax. Hot cream burst from his dick in endless spurts. He wanted to watch that white
jizz landing against Bo's dark skin, but his tongue couldn't escape that commanding mouth.

Bo had been making all sorts of encouraging noises, but he hadn't come yet. Charles would have felt the explosion of heat

against his belly.

Charles was still cradling his sensitive cock when Bo spun him around and pressed his naked chest to the painted

concrete wall. If Charles thought he was sweating before, this act sent him into a panic. "No," he pleaded when he felt Bo's
solid flesh against his crack. "Not in my ass, please."

What to do? Bo was stronger, more powerful, and if he wanted to fuck Charles, there wasn't going to be discussion on the

matter.

When Charles felt Bo's chest rise and fall in quick time, and then the heat of the man's laughing breath on his ear, he

asked, "What? What's so funny?"

Bo parted his ass cheeks and ran his shaft between them before closing those mounds around his hard dick. "Relax," he

said, his voice deep and lusty. "I'm not sticking anything anywhere, not in a ruddy bathroom, and certainly not without a
condom."

Charles was about to ask, "Well then, what the hell are you doing?" when Bo started thrusting up and down, up and

down. Wow. Bo was getting himself off between Charles's butt cheeks, but the slight pressure of that shaft against his
asshole and the rub of Bo's big, smooth balls against his flesh felt good. Damn good! Christ, ten years ago he'd have already
been hard again, but now he just shielded his happy dick from the concrete wall and moaned while Bo reamed his tight ass
crack.

"That good?" Bo cooed, his voice deep and dark as the castle dungeon he'd pictured while they rehearsed.

"God, yes," Charles groaned, his face smushed against the wall. That sensation of a firm cock riding his on his flesh, but

not in him, made his knees weak and his thighs strong. "I want you to come there."

"Where?" Bo asked, his tone teasing and low.

"Come in my crack," Charles replied. Those words seemed to turn Bo on to no end, and he thrust in double time, grunting

like an animal. "Come," Charles repeated with more authority. "Come in my crack. I want to feel it."

Bo was getting dirty now. He pressed Charles's butt cheeks together with both hands and said, "Yeah? You want to feel

my hot cum all down your ass crack? You want it on your hole and dripping off your balls? Is that what you want?"

"Yes, yes, yes, yes!" Charles cried, tightening his muscles in hopes that would bring Bo to orgasm.

It worked. Bo stopped moving all at once. He held Charles's ass cheeks tight as a spray of hot jizz erupted from his cock

head. Charles felt it on his flesh, spurt after spurt, as Bo pressed his cock slowly, spreading Charles's ass cheeks. Endless
spurts of cream landed against his ass and dribbled down his balls, just as Bo had predicted.

Now, as Bo fell against his back, Charles finally felt weak. How the hell was he supposed to face the director in this state?

After what seemed like ages of panting together, hoping for his breath to regulate, Charles finally said, "We'd better get

back or the Captain will come looking for us."

"Who, Jean-Luc?" Bo asked. He didn't budge. "No, he's gone. It's just the two of us now."

Bo bit Charles's shoulder and he hissed. He ought to be pleasantly surprised rehearsal ended early, but in truth he wanted

to revisit that chasm scene. "Want to stay and rehearse a while longer?"

"Rehearse? No." Bo growled and reached around Charles's body to see if he was hard again. He was.

Chapter 4

Dress Rehearsals

It was always such a huge transition, moving from the rehearsal space to an actual stage. Charles had never performed on

this particular one before, but the set-up was not unlike other houses he'd played. The biggest difference was performing an
actual role and being madly in love with a co-star, of course. He'd never felt like this before. Charles had been enamoured of
guys, had crushes on guys, hooked up with guys, and even felt a certain amount of love for them, but he'd never been head
over heels. It was awesome and frightening.

Bo was on stage now, waiting for the kid playing his son to arrive. They needed to run through their spying-on-Pelléas-

and-Mélisande scene. Charles actually gulped when he realized the last few rehearsals for this show were coming up at the
end of the week. And then into previews, then a couple more rehearsals if the reviews were negative, and right into
performance dates.

"Will I ever be ready?" Charles asked himself, watching Bo self-adjust in those skin-tight pants.

"Sorry," said the purple-haired wardrobe assistant pinning the shoulders of his costume. "I know it sucks to have some

chick hanging off you. I'll finish up as fast as I can, I swear."

"Hmm?" In truth, Charles had forgotten she was there. He was getting so used to assistants attaching themselves to his

person that he barely noticed it anymore. Of course, he hadn't been addressing this girl, just mumbling absentmindedly, but
he didn't want to admit that he was talking to himself.

"It's not a problem," he finally said to her. "You're doing a great job."

She blushed noticeably and started to say something, but his attention was drawn to a voice calling him from somewhere

out in the house. Charles poked his head onto the vast stage. "François? I'm back here, man."

Climbing up to the stage, François got close enough to speak without shouting. "Are you waiting around tonight until

Bo's finished?"

Everybody seemed to know about them. It was obvious in the way they flirted and played with each other. "I was going

to, yeah."

When François suggested they work on a few scenes in the meantime, Charles wanted to refuse and stay to watch Bo, but

how could he? François was right. His pronunciation still needed major help in places. His heart was probably more invested,
but this time his head won out. He let Bo know he and François would be working in the rehearsal space, and then they were
off.

Some days, it was really hard to focus on the task at hand. Charles played most of his scenes alongside Melissa, all the

while thinking about Bo. Jean-Luc said that was a good thing. He said this whole opera was about the relationship between
Pelléas and Golaud, so in fact Charles should be thinking about Bo. Still, he often felt like a lovesick slacker. Beyond that, he
still didn't understand what the hell this opera was about.

There was a lot to be said for Jean-Luc's artistic interpretation, even if Charles couldn't quite wrap his brain around it. A lot

of people were bound to disagree with its blatant homoeroticism, but in Charles's opinion even that was a good thing. He was
all for getting things out in the open. In fact, all those arguments with Jean-Luc in the first few weeks of rehearsals could
probably be chalked up to keeping things in. If the director had come out of the closet, as it were, about his artistic vision
sooner, none of those disputes would have happened. Once Jean-Luc was clear about what he wanted, everybody
understood and gave it to him. Rehearsal became easy, even fun.

Of course, once the frizzy-haired producer heard about "Jean-Luc's Gay Pelléas" she went on the warpath. Apparently, the

director had been trying to keep his artistic vision under wraps because he knew how the higher-ups would react to a
controversial production. And he was right. Frizzy had burst into rehearsals one day, summoning Jean-Luc into the hall and
chewing him out in not-so-subtle terms. Well, their director could give as good as he got, and when he finally waltzed back in,
he looked like the cat that ate the canary. They didn't change a thing. His vision was gold.

It felt like only a few minutes had passed when Bo knocked at the door and entered their old rehearsal space. How had an

hour and a half gone by so quickly?

"I'll just leave you two alone," François said, bowing out of the room.

When he was gone, Bo closed the door and locked it. This was almost becoming a routine for them. An impish grin bled

across Bo's lips as he turned off the overbearing lights. The sun hadn't quite set, but it was getting close. A dim orange haze
flooded through the skylights, illuminating Bo's path. He wandered over to the semi-circular ledge they'd used as the Blind
Man's Well in rehearsals. Charles smiled, and his cock jerked in his leather pants. Jean-Luc had insisted Golaud and Pelléas be
costumed as Leather Daddy and leather boy, like gay superheroes. They had similar outfits, though Charles's vest still had
pins in it--he hadn't let that wardrobe girl finish her job.

"I missed you," Bo said, straddling Charles as he lay back on the ledge. Reaching up, Charles set his palm against the

bulge in Bo's leather pants and rubbed it. No fly or buttons in the front, just in back, and the leather was supple as butter. Bo's
cock responded immediately, and he rocked his hips against Charles's hand, bending slightly at the knees. "Did you miss
me?"

"I always miss you," Charles said. "Every moment we're not together I miss you."

Bo leaned down until his palms rested on the ledge, one on either side of Charles's head. With a short, teasing peck of a

kiss, he said, "So come home with me. We'll do all this on a bed, for once, instead of on set pieces."

Still rubbing Bo's erection, Charles swallowed hard. Why did they have to revisit this topic with such frequency? "I'm just

afraid we'll get carried away," he said.

"We won't." Bo kissed him harder this time, shifting back, pressing his leather-clad cock against Charles. "Trust me."

Christ, that sensation threw him for a loop! Planting his feet flat against the ledge, he lifted his ass up and rubbed back

against Bo's crotch. "I do trust you," he murmured, breaking away from their kiss. "It's me I don't trust. I'll want to do it, then
as soon as it's in I'll regret it."

Charles had tried it once before, anal sex, but the second the guy had pressed that fat dick head in his ass, he was

screaming in agony. It hurt like hell, and he had to get it out. The guy had complied right away, but it was already too late.
Charles had bled for days. It was the most excruciating pain he'd ever encountered...and that was just the tip! He loved cock.
He craved it, but he would never allow himself to try it again. Sometimes it was better to be sensible.

"Take your pants off," Charles whispered, reaching around back for the zipper. "Sit on my face."

Bo complied in seconds, standing over Charles's mouth and feeding him hard cock. Charles took it in greedy slurps and

sucks, letting Bo get as deep and as fast as he wanted. Where his mouth was concerned, Charles was up for anything. It was
only down below he got skittish.

"Let me suck your balls," Charles said around Bo's dick. He was always amazed by Bo's ability to understand him, even

when he spoke with his mouth full.

When Bo pulled his cock from deep in Charles's throat, that dark shaft glistened in the muted light filtering in from above.

Charles felt his rock-solid prick surge inside his leather pants. He breathed a moan of relief when Bo turned fully around and
pushed them down without so much as undoing the zipper. When his naked cock met the cool evening air, he bucked his hips
up and said, "Oh, please, yeah..."

Straddling his face, Bo leaned down toward Charles's pulsing erection. Between their two bodies, he could see Bo's lips

perched above his drooling pink cock head. He could feel every breath against it, and his dick jerked toward Bo's delicious
mouth each time it sensed that warm air. Bo was a tease. He let his full lips brush Charles's cock head in passing so it would
jump and seize and even beg. Bo would lick him only slightly, lick the slit of his cock head or the base of his swollen tip,
before turning away like that was the end of it. Even though Charles knew it was all a game, the waiting drove him crazy.
When he bucked his hips, Bo slammed them back down on the ledge.

Bo looked into his face in that gap between their nearly naked torsos. Open, their leather vests didn't conceal much flesh.

A slow smile bled across his lips. "I'm proud of how much you've learned in this time," he said. "Patience, and silence. You've
got a ways to go, but you've come very far."

"Let me come again," Charles said, thinking his play on words was pretty damn clever. "I love it when you suck my cock."

In answer, Bo smiled yet more widely before dropping his massive nut sack against Charles's mouth. His bare flesh tasted

like leather and sweat. The thought made Charles's cock swell and he almost laughed when he felt it thwack Bo in the face.
Seconds later, a warm mouth enveloped him to the hilt, sucking hard.

All at once Charles struggled against the pleasure. He had the slow start, but he missed the intermediate steps, the long

licks and the shallow sucks. Bo had taken him all in one shot, deep-throating him like a porn star, and Charles could barely

breathe. He tried to fit both Bo's balls in his mouth, but they were too much. Drawing one inside, he sucked, feeling Bo moan
against his dick and thrust his hips a little. Bo's wet cock head rested against his own abs, but Charles felt it dripping great
dollops of pre-cum against his chest. God, he wanted to make Bo come all over them both.

How long could Charles possibly last at this rate? Not that he had anything against orgasms, but he much preferred

coming at the same time as Bo. All he could do was suck the hell out of those big balls one by one, struggling to keep his own
hips still as Bo devoured his dick.

When Bo rolled his hips forward, Charles growled with newfound delight. He grasped those flawless black ass cheeks.

Yes, this was even better than sucking balls, even better than sucking cock! In a frenzy of lust, Charles let Bo's balls fall from
his mouth. Bo's crack tasted faintly like that pink liquid soap in the bathroom, with only hints of work sweat and ass. The
thought of Bo's consideration nearly made his heart explode, and he licked that tight, puckered asshole with all the fervour of
a man hungry for flesh.

Moving his hands down Bo's trembling thighs, Charles let his tongue swim circles around that pulsing asshole. He

switched every so often--a few licks up and down, a few side to side, and then a whole hell of a lot of circles. That tight ring of
muscle clenched and released rhythmically, in time with Bo's piston thrusts on Charles's erection. His mind was hazy, and he
couldn't think of anything that existed outside this very moment. He ate Bo's ass like a pro, although he'd done it only once or
twice before. It was the sort of thing he'd never think to do with someone he didn't love, but in light of Bo's pleasure and the
affection they shared, Charles would do this every day if that's what Bo wanted.

And, God, did Bo ever want it now! He ground his muscled ass against Charles's face again and again. For a second it

reminded Charles of a girlfriend he'd had a very long time ago, who would sit on his face and ground her pussy against his
tongue. A poor substitute for what he had now.

Bo was pressing his ass against Charles's mouth as Charles held open those beautiful black cheeks and just took it. He

couldn't stop himself from thrusting into Bo's mouth, and Bo didn't seem to mind, so he didn't stop.

He didn't stop when he felt the telltale twitch and surge and jut of orgasm. Once he'd started down that road, of course, he

couldn't stop if he wanted to. He filled Bo's throat with hot cum, tensing his thighs and his ass above the set piece, his cock
head finally settling down against that large velvet tongue.

Charles had been inattentive during his own climax, and now he struggled to chase the sleepiness away so he could make

Bo come, too. Bo's face was a weight against Charles's thigh, but he raised his hips until that big, hard cock dangled like a
carrot over Charles's lips. It seemed to reach for Charles's mouth. Charles stretched his tongue for it, and the two met in the
middle. When Bo plunged his cock deep inside Charles's mouth, it was obvious by his grunting and shuddering, and the
trembling of his thighs, that he wouldn't last long. Charles knew just what would set him off, so he sent a wet finger down
Bo's crack and plunged the tip inside.

Arching his back, Bo tossed his head toward the skylights and howled, wolf-like, at the emerging moon. He spilled his

load all over Charles's tongue, and Charles struggled to swallow the ample flow of cum.

"Oh God!" Bo kept crying, whimpering, moaning. "Oh God, Oh God, Oh my God!"

They laughed in unison, after a long moment of blissful descent. Turning around, Bo set his firm body on top of Charles

and, though Bo was heavy with muscle, the weight didn't bother him in the least. It was comforting to cradle a big, strong man
in his arms.

"I'm sorry," Charles said after an extended silence. He always did this, and he knew it bothered Bo, but he couldn't seem to

help himself.

Bo's eyes were closed, his shaved head resting on Charles's chest. "Sorry for what?"

"Well, just sorry that we always have to do this--all sucking and no fucking." Charles was afraid he'd lose Bo if he didn't

loosen up, but he just couldn't stand the thought getting ass-fucked. He'd explained why. Bo was very understanding. "Not
that the sucking is such a bad thing."

"What makes you so sure I want to fuck you?" Bo mumbled in earnest. His eyes were still closed, his heavy head

deadweight.

Now Charles was a little confused. "Why, you mean you don't? I just assumed..."

Bo finally looked up and their gazes locked. "Hurting you is the last thing I ever want to do." Those dark eyes penetrated

him, right to his very core. When Bo stared into his eyes, he could only wonder what was going on inside that gleaming head.
Finally, Bo laughed wryly and said, "Listen, Charles, in theatre, in opera, acting in general, people fall for their co-stars all the

time. It isn't real love, it's just love refracting off the edges of their characters. Stage love doesn't translate well into real life.
That's why so many actors get married so fast and divorced just as quickly."

"But that's not us," Charles said, suddenly panic-stricken. "What we have is real."

"Of course it is," Bo replied, placing encouraging kisses along Charles's chest. "If this was only show lust in our veins, I

would turn you over and fuck you right now." He chuckled, cocking his head and winking. "Well, maybe not right now, but
I'd do it in a couple minutes when my dick comes back to life. Anyway, I want what we have to last, and how can it if I injure
you? You'll never trust me again. I'll become another 'that guy' like the one who hurt you last time."

Charles leaned down and kissed the top of his smooth head. "I know. This sucks, because I really, really want it, I just

know it's going to kill me and turn me off it even more."

"You had a bad experience, but it's not always like that." Bo laughed again. "What you really need is a good experience to

offset the bad and confirm your body can handle it. You need a man who will take you like he doesn't care, with the strength
of a forced submission and a technique that schools you. Then, after you've had your brains fucked out by a real master,
you'll develop a new appreciation for the one thing you thought you'd never do."

"I wish that could be you."

"I do, too," Bo said, smiling. "I just love you too much to risk causing you pain." He inched upward and kissed Charles's

lips. "Especially if causing you pain means risking our relationship. I love you too much."

"I love you, too," Charles said with a sigh. Why did sex have to be so complicated for him? The rest of the world had it

easy.

Chapter 5

Previews

Charles climbed the stairs to Jean-Luc's temporary office. It wasn't so much an office as it was storage room for old props

and set pieces, but there was an old wooden desk in the centre of the space with nothing but a phone on it. Charles had been
up here once or twice before, and he knew their director used his own laptop when he needed a computer. He remembered
being surprised that the WI-FI signal reached here. This office didn't just seem far from civilization, it felt like he'd been
transported back in time.

When Charles knocked at the heavy wooden door, Jean-Luc stood from a squeaky wooden Captain's chair. Charles smiled

to himself. Captain's Log, Supplemental.

"Don't linger in the doorway, mon vieux," Jean-Luc beckoned. "Entres, assis-toi."

Even after all the language coaching, Charles's French remained weak, but he knew Jean-Luc was asking him to come in

and sit down. He was too nervous to sit today, with the first preview performance looming, so he just stood by the desk.
"What's up? I've never been here so early in the morning. The security guard had to let me in."

"It was very important for me to see you here, without the possibility of spying eyes." Jean-Luc moved around the desk

so he was standing face to face with Charles. The look on his face was hard and unforgiving. It was like going back to the first
day of rehearsal. They'd built such a good rapport since then so Charles didn't understand what was going on.

Jean-Luc cut to the chase. "You realize Bo and I have known each other for many, many years?"

No, Charles didn't realize that, but he pretended he did.

"You realize, also, that we were quite close at one time?"

Charles hesitated, though he was certain his reluctance to respond gave away his answer. The butterflies in his stomach

turned to stone, filling his belly with a low ache. "What is this about?" Charles asked. "Are you trying to make me jealous? I
don't get it. What?"

A queer smile bled across Jean-Luc's lips and he tossed his bald head back, letting out a sharp cackle. " Jaloux. Oui, c'est

ça, exact."

Charles looked back at the door, wishing he hadn't closed it. There were other doors in this room, but they were set pieces,

framed but leading nowhere. What the hell was going on, here? Maybe he hadn't received a phone call from Jean-Luc at six in
the morning at all and this was a mad dream.

"There is jealousy at play, yes," Jean-Luc went on, standing full and strong with his hands on his hips. He was dressed all

in black. Charles had on only track pants, a Roots T-shirt, and his reversible hoodie. "But you are not the target of my
jealousy, Charles." It was strange to have Jean-Luc refer to him in English and using his real name. "If I felt any malice toward
you, it would be your understudy performing today and not Bo's."

"What?" Charles had to repeat that statement back to himself about five times before it started to make any sense. He felt

his face twisting into an expression of incredulity. "What are you talking about? You're pulling Bo at the last minute?"

Jean-Luc cocked his head and smiled like the devil. "Perhaps."

Despite the numbness in Charles's chest, his love for Bo propelled him into action. "Why would you do that?" he

shouted. "Bo is a box office draw. People are coming to see him--Christ, even his family is flying in! What the hell is this
about?"

In one quick motion, Jean-Luc grabbed the drawstrings on Charles's hoodie and before Charles had a moment to think, the

director's lips were on his, that acid tongue fighting its way past astonished teeth and into his mouth. If Charles had been
thinking, he would have protested, but it happened too fast to process. He was kissing Jean-Luc...why was he kissing Jean-
Luc?

When the director's hot hand slipped down the front of his track pants, Charles finally found the strength to back away.

"What the hell, man? What are you doing?"

Charles turned as Jean-Luc circled around him. His dick was hard, and he hated his body for that betrayal. "I want to have

you," the director told him. "Bo tells me you have never taken a cock in your ass."

The betrayal was all around him. "Bo told you that?" His voice was a whimper, and he felt like a kicked puppy. How could

Bo just go around telling people stuff?

Jean-Luc trapped Charles with his body. He couldn't deny how hot he was getting, or how badly he wanted Jean-Luc to

kiss him again. It was terrible of him, he knew, but he was tempted to no end. He didn't even know why.

"There is only one way to keep Bo in this performance," Jean-Luc hissed, rubbing his erection against Charles's hard

cock. "Let me fuck your ass."

Every muscle in Charles's body clenched, and his breath caught in his throat. He thought about the blood and the pain,

and it made him nauseous, but he was more baffled than anything else. "I don't understand why. Since when do you want to
fuck me? This doesn't make any sense!"

Jean-Luc took Charles's head in his hot hands and drove his tongue into Charles's mouth one more time. God, it felt so

good to be kissed like that, with a combination of malice and lust. Charles gave in to it completely. In truth, Jean-Luc was a
damn sexy man. "I love Bo. I would never betray his trust." Charles jerked his head away.

"Did he not betray yours by telling me your secret?" Jean-Luc shot back, digging his fist into Charles's jockeys and

finding his ready and willing cock.

Charles could hardly stand. His mind was so muddled he hardly knew what to say. "Pull me instead. From the show, I

mean. Take me out and put Bo back in."

Jean-Luc's expression softened for a moment. "How sweet of you, but no. I want your ass."

A growl emerged from Charles's throat. Frustration was boiling in his belly and he just didn't know what to do with it, but

he was frightened of the consequences for Bo should he try to prevent Jean-Luc's actions. "How could I do that to Bo? I love
him! I know there's a part of him that still thinks this is stage infatuation, but I know it's the real thing. I would do anything for
him."

"Then do this," Jean-Luc said, his breath hot in Charles's ear. "Let me fuck you, and he will perform his role today. I am

sure he would consider the act quite gallant."

"I'm not so sure he would." Charles wanted to laugh, but it just wasn't ha-ha funny.

"If I had put Bo in this position, what would he have done?" Jean-Luc asked, pumping hard as Charles's cock spilled pre-

cum across his fist.

Charles wondered what brilliant plan Bo would come up with, but his arousal made his brain hazy. "I guess he would give

you what you wanted."

Releasing Charles's erection, Jean-Luc took a step back. "Excellent choice." He squinted, looking Charles up and down,

nodding. "Undress."

Stunned, Charles watched Jean-Luc walk around the desk. He'd noticed that firm ass before, and he noticed it even more

now! Opening the top drawer, the director pulled out a tall tube of anal lube and some condoms. Charles's whole body felt
hot, and he stripped naked without another thought. He was doing this for Bo, he reminded himself, but shouldn't he feel
guilty for wanting it? God, yes! So guilty...

"You have a very attractive cock," Jean-Luc said, waving him over to the desk. "Young and sturdy, a slight curve...very

attractive indeed."

The compliment made Charles blush with pride. He felt like he should argue or protest to remind Jean-Luc he wasn't doing

this for anyone's benefit but Bo's, but it was still so early in the morning and he just didn't have the fight in him. "How do you
want me?"

Jean-Luc considered the desk, and then Charles's naked body. "On your back, I think." He sighed, raising his brow and

smiling. "It won't hurt. You are so afraid, you boys, but I assure you, you will find the experience quite pleasurable."

"Mmm-hmm," Charles grumbled, setting his back down the length of the desk. His dick stood at attention, leaning

somewhat in Jean-Luc's direction. The director looked like a surgeon at the moment, all business, preparing for the invasive
procedure. Charles heard himself whimpering before he could stop it. "I don't want to feel that way again." Christ, there were
tears in his eyes! He choked back the words, along with the tears. No way in hell he was going to cry. "It's going to hurt like it
did before, and God, it hurt like hell. I've never felt pain like that."

Jean-Luc watched him for a moment, meeting his gaze with a pitying look before squirting a good handful of lube into

Charles's palm. "Did your young man use any of this, that time when it hurt so badly?"

"No," Charles admitted. "But even if he had..." He trailed off when Jean-Luc unzipped his black trousers. He didn't remove

the black turtleneck tucked into the waist. He didn't remove any clothing at all, just dug inside his fly and pulled out a hard
cock. His tip was domed and deep red, but his shaft was very white, except where it was throbbing with veins.

When he snapped on a condom, Charles's hard cock pulsed at the sound of the latex smack. He didn't wait for Jean-Luc to

offer up that white meat. He reached for it, coating it with a thick layer of anal lube. The director's dick was long, but the girth
moderate enough that the prospect of having it in his ass wasn't overwhelming. When Jean-Luc stole his sheathed cock
away, Charles was a little disappointed. He made his way to the edge of the desk and lifted Charles's ankles to his shoulder.
The sight of that fully clothed man standing between his legs, only his dick exposed, made Charles's asshole twitch. God, he
wanted it. He wanted it not to hurt.

"Play with yourself," Jean-Luc said.

Charles did as instructed, wrapping his fist around his naked cock and squeezing around the ridge of the tip. He thought

about Bo's hand, how it looked and felt enveloping his erection. Charles wouldn't for a second lose sight of the fact that this
was all for Bo. After all the work he'd put into this opera, the idea that Jean-Luc would just take it away seemed the greatest
injustice. Even if this hurt more than any other experience in his life, it would be worth it to go on stage later today and
perform alongside the man he loved.

Charles twitched when he felt something against his asshole. "Relax," Jean-Luc said, using his "director in charge" voice.

There was such care in his eyes that Charles had to wonder what was really going on. It all seemed so... strange? Unlikely?
Like a blocking rehearsal. A practice session. When his director gave a slight squeeze, Charles realized it wasn't a cock head
pressing at the gate of his ass, it was the lube bottle. Jean-Luc was spraying the stuff into his hole! At first, it felt goopy and
strange, but then the liquid began tingling, warming, and Charles sighed, closing his eyes to the sensation. He stroked his
shaft with one hand, realizing it was warming, too, with lube from his palm. Rubbing the stuff against his flat nipples, he
tempted them to needle-like peaks and moaned at the intensity of sensation.

"How does that feel?" Jean-Luc asked, again his controlled voice demanding a response.

"Good," Charles cooed. "Wow..." The muscles in his ass seemed to relax with the warmth of the lube, and he found

himself moving his hips toward Jean-Luc's body, searching blindly for that sheathed cock. He crossed his ankles behind the
director's neck to give himself better leverage, and felt those hot hands propping up his ass cheeks. "You've got to fuck me,
man." He felt possessed. What the hell was in that lube? "Oh, please, please..."

Jean-Luc chuckled deep in his throat as he pressed his cock head against Charles's puckered hole. Like a snake unhinging

its jaw to swallow a rabbit, his ass ring eased up to devour that bullet-like tip. It was in him before he knew what had
happened, and when the realization washed over him that his muscles had stretched to welcome the bullet-tip of Jean-Luc's
dick, he thought he was going to hyperventilate. How could it happen so easily? Why didn't it hurt like before? He clamped
his ass down immediately, but that tightness made the man in black moan, and that unabashed arousal turned Charles on like
crazy. Rather than hindering the motion, he now wanted more, and he suddenly found it easier than ever to tighten and
release that fickle ring of muscle at will.

"Oh God, fuck my ass." He lifted himself off the desk, his ankles still tied around Jean-Luc's neck, and started the motion

himself. "Fuck it hard! This is amazing."

Jean-Luc pushed his cock in slowly, little by little, inch by inch. The massive amount of lube they'd used slicked the path.

It wasn't long before the director was buried to the hilt, and Charles was begging for more.

That's when he heard the door squeal open.

Charles froze, clamping down on Jean-Luc's shaft, which felt so indescribably amazing they both groaned like animals. His

heart beat like a hammer as he watched that heavy wooden door, eventually realizing that it was still closed and didn't seem to
be moving in the least. Had he imagined that noise?

"Bo," Jean-Luc said with a smile, gazing across the room. His fingers gripped Charles's thighs. "Ton jeune homme est prêt

pour toi, mon ami."

Turning his head against the desk, Charles spotted the love of his life stepping through one of those goddamn prop

doors, and closing it behind him like he was afraid he'd let in a draft. Suddenly, his heart dropped into his stomach and his
stomach rolled into his throat. He couldn't even speak to plead, "I can't explain! I did it for you!" Naked on this desk with the
director's cock filling his asshole, he felt exposed, like a baby getting its diaper changed. He wanted to conceal himself, or
better yet disappear, but he just couldn't move.

"Merveilleuse," Bo said, approaching the desk in slow steps. Charles melted when Bo spoke French, more so when he

sang it. Getting through this opera on jelly knees was a trial he hadn't foreseen.

In a daze, Charles asked, "What's going on?" He had no emotions left, except his love for Bo.

Jean-Luc moved slowly in his ass, in and out in extended thrusts, while Bo explained. "If I'd done it and hurt you, I'd

always be the man who hurt you. If Jean-Luc hurt you? Well, no love lost there."

The director chuckled, looking down to watch his shaft pushing in and pulling out, though never all the way. "It's all gone

very smoothly."

"Yes." Bo nodded. "It sounded that way. No shrieks or hollers." He leaned down to kiss Charles's astonished lips.

"Valiant of you to offer yourself up to keep me in my role. You're my hero now more than ever."

Those words of love made Charles's rock-hard erection strain, forgotten against his fingers. He was afraid if he rubbed it

any longer, he would blow his load. Bo must have sensed that, because he traced his lips all the way down Charles's chest
and took that begging cock in his mouth. He and Jean-Luc both paused for a moment, watching in amazement as that
beautiful black man lunged repeatedly into his crotch, sucking relentlessly. After a moment of sheer shocked pleasure, the
director held tight to Charles's thighs and fucked his eager ass, echoing Bo's frantic pace.

How was Charles supposed to think in the midst of all this pleasure?

"You mean you were never going to pull him from the previews?" he asked. "It was all a ruse."

Jean-Luc nodded. "Not a ruse, but a re-education."

Charles let his head fall back into the cradle of his hands. "Oh, for fuck's sake!" He wanted to be upset... furious... irate...

But he wasn't any of those things. He was just relieved Bo's part in the opera was secure, and that the man he loved wouldn't
be bothered that he currently had another man's cock lodged firmly in his ass.

Bo sucked him off in extended gulps, cupping his balls with one hand and pinching his nipples with the other. God,

everything felt so good that he was sure he wouldn't last much longer. Jean-Luc seemed ready to give it up, too, calling, " Oui,
c'est ça!" as he pushed Bo's shaved head down hard against Charles's crotch. Charles bucked his hips every which way, back
at Jean-Luc and then up into Bo's mouth, until he got into a jerky groove. They must have come at exactly the same moment,
he and Jean-Luc, because their gazes met and held fast, one to the other, like men afraid of drowning in lust.

The pulses and spasms continued, and he felt his ass ring clamping down on that waning erection while his own spent

cock expelled the last of its cream into Bo's receptive mouth.

Charles closed his eyes, just for a second, while Jean-Luc pulled out. He missed that dick as soon as it was gone, but

when he opened his eyes, Bo was stripped naked and grabbing a condom packet off the floor. "Think you can handle another
one?"

With a chuckle, Charles said, "I didn't think I could handle the first one, but I did it." He watched Bo fit the clear, thin latex

over his fat black cock. God, that thing was big. He gulped. "Give it to me. I want you more than I've ever wanted anything."

"Even a leading role in a big operatic production?" Bo winked as he slathered his dick with lube.

Sliding off the desk, Charles pushed Bo into the squeaky captain's chair. "I would have given it up for you." He climbed

on board, fitting his legs through the gaps underneath the armrests and setting his feet on its castored base. "I would do
anything for you."

With a smile, Bo said, "I know you would." He held his held his cock at the ready for Charles. They might have started

rolling around the room on this chair if Jean-Luc hadn't gripped the back of it. Charles suddenly felt overwhelmed by the
director's great show of love, lust, and friendship.

Blinking away his emotion, Charles lowered himself down until Bo's cock head was pressed right up against his hole. The

muscles felt tighter now than they had before, and all at once he felt despair take over. "I don't think I can do it again."

Bo pulled him close and kissed him, hot and sharp, velvet tongue probing deeply. That kiss, that contact, that did the

trick, and his ass ring eased up to allow Bo's cock head inside. His mushroom tip was much fatter than Jean-Luc's had been,
and it filled him up, even burned a little, but Charles told himself he could handle it.

"Slowly," Jean-Luc whispered as he and Bo kissed and touched. The director then turned the chair until he could reach

the base of Bo's cock. When Jean-Luc pumped the shaft, Charles felt its tip twitch inside his hole, like it had a mind of its own.
How could he say no? He bore down on the fat cock, slipping on lube, sinking until his ass cheeks met Jean-Luc's helping
hand. After taking the director's cock up his ass, he felt like he knew the score. Sure, Bo's was bigger, its girth greater, but
Charles had confidence now. He could do it. He was going to make his man come in his ass, damn it!

When Jean-Luc's hand slipped away from Bo's shaft, Bo let out a sultry moan and Charles just knew it was now cupping

Bo's balls. He didn't mind. In fact, he appreciated the help. He squeezed his ass muscles tight around Bo's shaft and evoked
the same reaction: a loud groan, head tossed back, eyes closed like someone was killing him with pleasure.

"You like that, huh?" Charles asked, tightening up his ass ring yet again.

"Mmm-hmm!" Bo hummed, bucking his hips lazily upward.

God, that felt so good. All Charles wanted was more, more, more! He leaned in and kissed Bo hard, thumping his ass down

on that merciless cock while Bo thrust up into him. It started out gentle, but when Jean-Luc grabbed Charles's balls, too,
coaxing his prick out of slumber, Charles couldn't tamp down his need of the rough stuff. His hardening cock smacked Bo's
killer abs with every plunge downward, and soaked his skin with pre-cum on every upswing. This was just too damn good.
How long could they go on?

Not long now, according to the tremble of Bo's thighs. Charles's were straining now, as he held his body aloft over his

man's firm lap. He wanted so badly to just let go and take the plunge that he finally just did it, falling ass-first on his lover's
cock. The fat erection filled him so full up he was surprised the tip didn't come surging out his mouth. As he milked Bo's firm
prick with his ass, Bo rolled his head left to right, squeezing his eyes shut and muttering incomprehensible strings of vowels.
It wasn't enough to have Charles just sitting on his dick, apparently, because Bo grabbed his ass cheeks with those huge
hands and lifted his body up only to drop him back down.

Bo's naked muscles surged, and Charles watched those twitching arms in amazement as he went up and down on Bo's

cock like a kid on a carousel horse. It felt incredible to be on top and still be taken. Jean-Luc had backed away and was
watching the scene from afar, but his presence in the room wasn't detracting from the occasion. He felt strangely special with
all this attention focused on him. He felt like people cared. They wanted him to be happy. And he was!

"Come, Bo," Charles whispered, squeezing his muscles tight, coaxing that churning jizz from those big black balls. "I want

you to come in my ass. Fill me up, Bo. Do it."

"Yeah. Yeah?"

Was that a question? "Yeah, come." Charles took both Bo's dark little nipples between his thumbs and forefingers and

squeezed. That did the trick, and then some! Bo shuddered and shook and trembled and swore. He dropped Charles down on
his orgasmic cock and pulled him in to a hot kiss that seemed to last forever and a day. Charles couldn't remember a moment
of greater bliss. As their tongues mingled and clashed, he felt tears welling in his eyes. He told himself not to let them fall, but
who the hell was he to command his body? Tears tumbled down Bo's cheeks, and Charles kissed them, licked the salt from his
skin, and hugged him so damn hard both arms felt like they were going to break off.

"I love you," both said at once, and they laughed when they looked up to find Jean-Luc smiling a blessing down onto

their faces. He was like their heavenly father, director, Captain. He cared so much. Weird. When Charles first started
rehearsals he never would have imagined he'd end up like this.

Charles held fast to Bo like a koala bear in a tourist's arms, only loosening his grip when Bo rose from the chair. "That was

amazing." Charles sighed. "I really can't believe it didn't hurt. The last time...God, it was the worst pain in the world."

Still naked, Bo hugged him, held him, rocked him as he sat on Jean-Luc's desk. There was nothing more to say. He'd

entered the next phase of life now. The phase where he was an opera star, where he had love in his life, where he wasn't afraid
of the things that used to scare the hell out of him. Preview day was already going great.

Chapter 6

Opening Night

Charles raced through the hallway like a rambunctious child, unable to suppress the ebullience burbling up in his chest.

Previews had gone spectacularly well. Some critics questioned Jean-Luc's interpretation, but that was to be expected.
Anyway, the important thing was that the vocal talent had been well received. There were those who didn't think an unknown
could stand up next to the likes of Melissa and Bo, but Charles had proven in previews that he could pull his weight in the
production. There would be nothing to prove tonight. It would just be the glory of performance.

Bo was off warming up and "centring" in the solitude of his dressing room, so Charles hopped into the wig room, finding

Melissa nearly naked. She jumped when she saw him, nudging the assistant setting a wig of long honey hair on her head.
Their "Rapunzel" scene where he wrapped her long tresses around the trunk of a tree just wouldn't be the same without it.
Jean-Luc had explained this symbolized phallic eroticism, but Charles still didn't understand most of what this opera was
about. He just performed his role as instructed, hoping to stir up some controversy and get more gay butts in those seats.

"Charles, mon ange," Melissa cooed, shaking off her surprise and pulling him to her body clad in nothing but a satin slip.

"Viens içi. Are you nervous tonight?"

"Not even a little bit. I want to go on now. I can't wait!"

She rested her cheek against his leather vest and hugged him tight around the hips. He was trying to avoid stepping on

the wig hair cascading down around his feet, and felt her shiver as she said, "I am. After all these years, you'd think the
nerves would subside, but they never do. The audience truly terrifies me."

"Oh, come on. You're amazing. There's nothing to worry about."

The wig assistant gave him a dirty look when he rocked her side to side, but he didn't care. Melissa had been his mother

when they first started rehearsals, Bo his father, and Jean-Luc...the evil wizard, perhaps? Now look what had happened! Bo
was his lover, Jean-Luc his friend, and Melissa the small child afraid of thunder.

Or maybe there was still some overlap. Maybe the roles people played in each other's lives were context-specific, and

tomorrow Charles would be the child once again. In a way, he hoped that was the case. He couldn't imagine playing the same
role all his life.

"Found you!"

Charles heard the low rumble of Bo's voice as a hot chest pressed firm against his back and a strong arm wrapped around

his shoulder, cradling Melissa's also.

"You're stepping on her wig!" the assistant squealed. When Bo apologized without moving, the girl said, "Oh, I give up!"

and stomped from the room.

Charles turned from Melissa to find Bo holding up a Mason jar full of...no, it couldn't be...

Charles took it in hand. "What... Where did you... Oh my God!" It was heavy. He'd never held anything so full of

memories.

"Melissa drove me out to that beach you talked about," Bo explained. "You see? There's a layer of shiny pebbles for your

one sister, a layer of shells and things for your other sister, and for you we picked up every piece of tumbled glass we could
find. They were few and far between."

"And in this weather!" Melissa interjected. "My God, my hands were freezing cold." Rubbing his bare arm, she issued a

warm smile. "But your first leading role is something you should never forget, and Bo wanted to give you something special
to commemorate opening night."

Charles tried to thank them, but his throat was closing up. Oh, this was no good for a singer! He shook his head, staring at

the little shards of bottles that had been worn down over the years so their edges were soft and smooth. "You guys..." He
shook the jar and its contents clinked against the glass. "Bo..."

When he looked up, Bo leaned down to kiss him softly on the lips. Smiling, Melissa stood beside them like a fairy

godmother, and all at once he understood Jean-Luc's interpretation a little better. Speak of the devil, he thought, as their
director leaned against the doorframe.

Gulping away his emotion, Charles gently teased the man in the tux. "Captain Picard, I see you're dressed to meet

Ambassador Tabor of the Andromeda galaxy."

Jean-Luc winked, pulling out a pocket-watch and smiling into its face. "Toujours le bouffon ," he clucked, pushing the

watch back into his jacket. "Are my children prepared for opening night?"

"Ready as we'll ever be, thanks to you." When Bo leaned in and gave Jean-Luc an extended hug, Charles's heart swam in a

pool of warmth. In different ways, he loved them both. "And don't worry about the young one. Time will smooth out the
edges."

Charles held the Mason jar tight against his chest. Dad didn't live long enough to see him on stage, not that the old drunk

would have approved of a career in opera anyway. Mom and Gabby were probably already out there in the audience, and
Rachel was flying in from overseas to catch a performance next week. They were all planning dinner together when she got
back, and that's when he would bring Bo home to meet the family. He couldn't wait. Mom was going to love his new man.

"Unfortunately, time is not on your side," Jean-Luc said, clapping his hands together. "Simone will call places in fifteen

minutes, and our Mélisande is nearly nude!"

"Just the way we like her," Charles teased, slapping her hip as she bundled up her hair.

"You wouldn't know what to do with me." She laughed and scampered from the room, likely in search of the wig assistant.

Charles let his head fall against Bo's chest and they released a thunderous sigh in unison. Lost for words, he gazed at

Jean-Luc's noble features. Bo rested a firm chin on the top of his head. He never felt so warm as when he was cuddled close to
his man. He hoped this feeling would never end.

Jean-Luc smiled, as if he knew exactly what Charles was thinking. "I ought to take my seat," he said, looking at them with a

knowing smile. "I would bid you bonne chance, but you fine men have no use for luck." He winked before stepping into the
hallway. "You have each other, and love is man's greatest fortune."

How right he was.

G. R. Richards

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Richards pens some of the world's hottest guy-on-guy erotica. Richards is no stranger to a bed damp with sweat, or the
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To Fernando, family means everything. He works as the brawn of his big brother Gerry's decking business, and he lives

with Gerry's family. Nothing in life could make him consider leaving his flesh and blood...except Malcolm.

Despite Gerry's rule against fraternizing with clients, Fernando can't hide his attraction to "Professor Hottie," the

young classics instructor who put himself through school working in construction. When Gerry takes an impromptu
vacation to save his marriage, he leaves Fernando to babysit the kids and the business.

Malcolm lends an expert hand around the jobsite and helps out around the house, but can he convince Fernando to

leave his brother's home and build a life together?

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Document Outline

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6

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