Date: Sun, 8 Dec 2002 18:14:56 -0000 From: canadianpilot2002@hotmail.com Subject: Music of The Night - Part 1 Music of The Night by CanadianPilot Codes: t/b ---------------------- WARNING: This story contains vivid descriptions of homosexual acts between a teenager and a prepubescent boy. If such material offends you, or if you are below the legal age of consent in your locality, please stop reading here. This story is fiction, and any resemblance to real world events is purely coincidental. NOTE: 08/12/02 - For those of you that have been reading my other story - 'Boy Vacations Inc.' - hold tight! Part Three will be out soon. ---------------------- PART I: It sat there, waiting as I burst in through the door. My fourteen-year-old frame froze suddenly, knowing that the long, brown envelope could be the key to success, and knowing even better that it would more than likely ruin my self-esteem. Why did I enter the damn competition?! How could I?! I bent down and grasped the envelope, slightly wet from the Seattle rain. I rubbed my finger over my name, proudly displayed on the front of the envelope. I decided that I should sit down, and walked, with somewhat of a stagger, into the living room, where I sat down on the sofa. To heck with it! I opened the flap at the end of the envelope, and peered into the opening, trying, in vain, to glimpse it's fateful contents. Slowly, gently, I pulled the paper from the envelope, and unfolded it. 'Dear Master Crowley, Further to your recent audition in Seattle, the panel has chosen to allow you to attend the final of the 57th Annual International Singer's Competition in Paris. You shall compete in the Tenor category, and also in the Duet category with your friend, Master Jones. The competition commences on the 3rd January, so you will be required to be present in Paris on the 1st December for promotional work, masterclasses and rehearsals. The organizing committee will pay your travel expenses and accommodation expenses. Spending money will also be provided as a gift for sacrificing time with your family, especially on Christmas Day. You will be accommodated with Master Jones, most likely in a twin hotel room. Your family will be flown over the day before the competition at the expense of the committee. I wish you the best of luck, Jacques Desmoulin Secretary Paris Singing Competition Committee' I ran to the phone, almost crying with joy. I quickly punched in Alex's number. 'Hello?' He answered. 'I love you Al! We're in!' I said, incoherently. 'Pull the other one Dave.' 'I'm serious! Come over and see the letter!' 'OK. I'll be right around.' 'Seeya!' I returned the handset to it's cradle, and went beck to the living room. I couldn't believe it! Me - a fourteen year old whose voice broke when he was eleven - in an international competition! The best thing, though, was that I'd get to spend a month with the obscenely cute Alex. The ten-year-old god had been coupled with me by my vocal coach for some duets a few years previously, when he was seven or eight, and we'd been firm friends since. His boy soprano voice mingled beautifully with my deeper, tenor voice. Did I mention that he was really cute? Indeed, I was spectacularly homosexual, but in a discreet way. I was out to nobody. I didn't have any sexual experience, apart from masturbation, but I hoped Alex would want to learn about sex together in Paris. I loved him so much. If only he knew. He cycled into my yard and abandoned his bike on the lawn, before running inside to find me sitting in the living room at my family's large Steinway grand piano. I'd been playing it while waiting for Alex. The letter sat on the music stand, and Alex grabbed it. He digested it's contents, and ran over to hug me, which was an unexpected move, but I made the best of it, cupping the cheeks of his cute little ass in my hands momentarily, before he got up and started jumping about in excitement. We rang our parents immediately, and they were absolutely ecstatic. They weren't even put off by the fact that we'd be spending Christmas in Paris, alone. When my parents returned home, my father gave me his vote of confidence, saying that he was sure I could look after Alex and myself across the Atlantic, and he pacified my ever so slightly anxious mother by reminding her that we'd be able to contact someone from the Competition Committee at any time. Meanwhile, I was upstairs packing. Alex was wandering around my room, admiring my collection of musical instruments, given to me in my grandfather's will. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. I just couldn't wait to go. I wouldn't be able to last the week until December 1st. But I did. Barely. The two of us were wished well by the townspeople and our vocal tutor, and fretted over by our mothers. 'Mum, we'll be fine!' I reminded her as we climbed out of the taxi, which deposited us at the airport. Our parents came with us to the check-in desk, where we said goodbye and were escorted to our gate. The flight boarded and we were seated in first class. The plane journey was uneventful, and Alex slept for most of it. I read the sheet music for my competition piece for quite a while, penciling in little 'artistic observations'. We landed at Charles DeGaulle airport a few hours after we departed. A man was waiting for us in the arrivals hall, and he brought us to a black, new Mercedes. Inside, Mr. Desmoulin was waiting and he greeted us politely. 'Salut garcons! Bienvenue en France !' He exclaimed. I hoped he wouldn't speak French for the remainder of the visit. Though fluent in French, I hated speaking it around people who hadn't a clue what I was talking about, like Alex. 'Thanks - we're glad to be here.' I replied, hoping to restart the conversation 'en Anglais'. 'Brilliant. We'll drop you off at the hotel, and you can lounge around for a while. The concert hall is opposite the hotel, so you can pop in whenever you want and take a rehearsal room. The hard work doesn't begin for a few days, so feel free to go sightseeing.' He produced two bank cards from his jacket pocket. 'These are preloaded with your spending money. You can use them at any automatic bank machine in the city.' 'Thanks.' We said as we took the cards. We arrived at the hotel - a stylish, modern building with similar decor. We said our goodbyes to Jacques as we were shown to our room. The room was a penthouse room. It was amazingly large, and, far from the suggested 'twin room' mentioned in the letter, this suite had three double rooms with king-sized beds, two bathrooms, a dining room, a sitting room and a music room with piano, not to mention the roof terrace, from which exquisite views of Paris could be seen. Alex seemed almost hyperactive - he was so excited about the room, the city, the competition... After some more exploring, we sat ourselves down in front of the extremely large television in the sitting area of the suite and grabbed the cordless phone in the process. 'Hi - room service? Service d'etage?' I said into the receiver. 'Oui?' came the reply. 'Could you bring the dessert trolley up? Parlez-vous francais? Non? Hmmm. Pourriez-vous envoyer le chariot a dessert vers le haut?' 'Oui.' 'Merci beaucoup.' I said, slightly annoyed. For a people who were made out to speak very good English, the opposite was the case. I was not impressed. A few minutes later, a man appeared with the trolley, which he left standing in the entrance hall of the suite. I slipped a five Euro note into his pocket and thanked him. We turned the TV on. 'Et dans d'autres nouvelles aujourd'hui, on le repand que l'impot sur le revenu augmentera cette annee, aussi bien que l'impot sur d'autres articles, comme les cigarettes et l'alcool. Dans les affaires, l'euro vaut la peine quatre-vingt-dix-neuf cents des Etats-Unis et le marche des actions a un jour terrible...' 'Does NOBODY speak English in this fucking country?' I yelled at the television. Alex broke into a fit of giggles on the couch and I joined him. He was so cute when he laughed. His face creased and his dimples showed. His perfect little smile was kissable, and I had to restrain myself from ripping his clothes off and making love to him right there on the couch. We sat and watched some French movies (to which I provided sketchy translations) and pigged out on the contents of the dessert trolley and then the little fridge, which was home to many varieties of ice cream. It was so erotic watching his little lips suck the ice cream off his spoon, and I was dying to kiss the ice cream moustache from his face. He caught me looking at him a few times. I froze each time, but he just smiled and kept watching TV. I had a look through the cabinet below the TV and found some DVDs. Finally! Some movies in the English language! I found some more at the back of the cabinet. I took them out and flicked through them, giggling to myself. I had a plan. ----------------------------------- Comments and criticisms on this part are welcome. You can email me at canadianpilot2002@hotmail.com - no flames please. For one-handed readers: Sorry about the lack of sex in this part, it will come soon!