He had been hired for a cycle of the Beethoven symphonies, our chorus were required for the finale of the Ninth. At rehearsal, the wonder boy wasn’t...happy. His problem was with our contribution to the last movement. He put down his baton, leaned on the podium and surveyed us, flopping lock, dark eyes sweeping along our rows. “Listen,” he said, “I know you can sing the notes. So why do you give me no passion? All the pictures we see of Ludwig make him look angry. I know. Angry – not sexy. We. Mother was panting now, her eyes watching me carefully for signs that I was about to finish. Yet I knew she was in heat herself - feeling the pleasure of having a man in her mouth, the expected anticipation of feeling his incestuous seed upon the skin of her face. If I wanted to get mother hot - I just shoved my dick into her mouth. A lady doesn't do that - she had told me often enough, along with a host of other things... like fornicating facing away from her partner, my personal favourite. More

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