A Life of Yes Ch. 05-06

We moved to the house and to the bedroom that had been sumptuously appointed in period furnishings for a ten-minute segment of me spread-eagled at the foot of a four-poster canopy bed, with massive, carved wood posts and red-velvet drapes. The posts were tall and sturdy enough that I was hanging above the surface of the mattress, arms and legs spread and tied off high and low on the posts. I was facing the room--and the cameras. The Master had a hand whip and, naked and in massive erection, was moving around me, on the floor at the foot of the bed and standing on the mattress. He was whipping me, much less strenuously than it appeared on the video, and I was writhing and screaming, again more stridently than I need do, from the apparent damage being done. The last half of this scene was the Master standing on the bed, behind me, releasing the hair ribbon, thrusting up inside me, and fucking me from behind, as he painfully pulled my head back into his shoulder with a grip on my hair and chewed on my throat.

The film ended ambiguously, with the master standing at the door of his mansion, watching a carriage moving toward the house from a long way away. The return of the wife to a more conventional, benign life? The stable boy was nowhere to be seen. The shot turned to the stable area, where a stable boy walks out of the stable, carrying a bucket of water. This isn't the same young man the master fucked in the film. What was the film viewer to make of this?

The last eight minutes of the film was a signature bonus feature of this particular director. The Master and I were lying, side by side, in an embrace, on the bed, propped up by pillows to give the camera a good full shot of our nakedness. The director asked us questions about the scenes and each other from off camera to establish that this had all been playacting and jolly good fun. What this director added, however, that other directors using this technique didn't, was, as the interview drew to a close, the Master leaned over into me for a deep kiss and then rolled on top of me and provided four minutes of a deep missionary fuck--again, I guess, to show just how much I and the other guy liked each other.

This was my tenth movie in the two-year period after I had made Kibris Delight on the arrangement of the fashion designer, Nigel Standish, who had seduced me in New York City. After the filming of Kibris Delight in Cyprus, I had returned to the school in New York, where, as a twenty-year-old, I was training to dance in Broadway productions. Once back in New York, though, Nigel Standish had invited me to come work for him as a men's fashion model in London. The man mesmerized me, and so I gave New York up and flew to London, hoping and expecting to wind up in Standish's house or flat and in his bed. I did wind up in his bed often enough, but he had arranged for me to room with two other male models of his in a small London flat.

In the ensuing years, I endeavored to get Nigel to make more of a commitment to me while doing anything he wanted me to do. One of his plans for me was to continue making gay male porn films. To please him, I did. He had driven me out to the country estate near Maidenhead where we filmed this movie, The Stable Boy. I had assumed he would stay and watch the filming. When he did that, he was particularly attentive to me in a sexual way for days afterward. It was one of the incentives I had for doing the films he got me into. But he didn't stay on that day.

"This is Francois, Lee," he had said, introducing me to one of the cameramen, a black buck with a French accent and, presumably, French citizenship. He was an ugly devil, but he had a great, body-builder's body. "I can't stay today," Nigel continued. "Francois has agreed to drive you back to London. He's the one who set up this filming stint for us. If he likes your performance today, I'm sure he'll help us get more work."

"Us?" I thought. I was the one who got fucked in these movies. Nigel didn't. But then, the movies aroused Nigel and then he fucked me more often and more passionately, so there was that.

"Remember that we're going to the theater tonight. Covent Garden. There's a man I want you to meet. Stewart provides some of the best silks we use in our fashions. He's very important to us. I'll have a car take you to the theater to meet up with me at 8:00." After Nigel told me this, he folded himself back into his Jaguar and was on his way back to London.

Francois obviously liked my performance and he didn't drive me directly back to London. He had a van, with his company logo on it. An office van, I assumed. It was closed at the back, with smoked windows in the back door. When I got into the van and looked into the back, I could see that it was set up for action--not an office van; a disguised personal pleasure van. Thus, I wasn't all that surprised that, before entering the main road from the country estate where we'd filmed The Stable Boy, he drove off onto a narrow track that went through a stand of trees and ended on the bank of a pond.

"You're a real looker, you are," he said as he shut off the ignition and turned to me. "Et un petit morceau sexy. I'm sorry, I said you are a sexy little piece. I nearly came in my shorts a couple of times in filming that movie back there. Look what a state you put me in." He unzipped himself and released a monster of a thick, long, jet-black cock. The Master in the movie had had a respectable shaft, but it was nothing like what this big black bull had.

"Que pouvons-nous faire à ce sujet?--What can we do about this? You have put me in misery, you have," he said. "I'd like to help you get more movie work. I've got connections. How about you helping me out here now."

He didn't wait for an answer but cupped the back of my head with a big mitt and pulled my face down into his crotch.

"Suce," he growled.

I didn't need a translation to know that he wanted me to give him head. I took care of him, but not all the way. He pulled my head off him when he was huge and throbbing and sat. "Are you going to give me trouble, or are you going to go in the back of the van with me?"

I went in the back of the van with him, and, after stripping me and sucking me off and eating out my hole, he said, "Try to get out of the van now."

"What?" I'd said.

"Try to escape. Bats-toi--Fight me. I can tell how you like it. I want to take it from you."

"I don't think I can. I don't want--"

He slapped me across the face, and then when I gave him a shocked look, he slapped me again, harder. From somewhere he pulled a black dildo so thick I knew it would split me. In panic, I crawled toward the door at the back of the van. He grabbed me by an ankle and jerked me back. He turned me over and slapped me across the face again. I pushed at him and he wrapped his arms around me and rode me to the floor of the van. He was in enormous erection. I was hard too, and panting hard, and whimpering.

After he laughed and tossed the dildo aside, I went for the lesser challenge. I spread my thighs, with his pelvis folding between them. I bent my legs, dug my heels into the floor of the van, and pushed my pelvis up. There was no mistaking that I was voluntarily putting myself into position for him. "Fuck me. Fuck me now," I cried. "Stick it in me. Pound me." He had been right. I wanted it now like I'd never wanted it before.

He hooked my knees on his hips, encircled my waist with an arm, let my torso stream down to the carpeted floor of the van, and cried out "Prends-le! Prends-le! Prends la bite!--Take it! Take it! Take the cock!"

He stuffed me with his cock, and fucked me and fucked me and fucked me. I felt my passage open to him as he invaded me, deep, into the quick of me, where few men had been given entry. He was impossibly thick, but my channel walls grasped the shaft, the muscles of the walls undulating over the hard, black, throbbing cock. He went deeper. I screamed my want, and he went deeper yet. He pulled back, nearly all of the way, and then plunged. Back and thrust, back and thrust.

"Shit, yes! Fuck, fuck, FUCK!"

"Donne-moi! Prends-le, prends-le, prends-le!--Give it to me! Take it, take it, take it!"

I knew this was what Nigel wanted me to do. I pretended it was a movie and that I was just performing for the French man and an audience. But it became quite real. He was fucking me and I was fucking him back. At the same time I looked occasionally where he'd tossed the killer dildo just to be sure that it stayed there.

He was hard and vigorous and cruel and I loved it more than anything the Master had done to me on the movie set.

I lay there next to him, almost in a fetal position, when he had blasted me with his cum, barebacking me, pushed me over to the side, and crouched there next to me, glowering at me, breathing heavily, a big black bull. He was all Africa now, no France. No pretty words. All primeval taking.

"That was--" I started to murmur.

"No talking," he commanded, backhanding me across the cheek and sending me sprawling off against a wheel well. "You want it again," he declared, as he pulled me under him.

"Oh, god, yes. Fuck me again!" I cried out.

"À genoux. Montrez-moi votre trou. Donne-moi ton trou!--Up on your knees. Show me your hole. Give me your hole!" He pulled us both up on our knees. He covered my body with his, and a strong arm encircled my belly.

"Fuck me, fuck me, Fuck me!"

And then he did, mounting me in the doggy position, thrusting inside, and pounding, pounding, pounding to a second ejaculation.

After the second fucking, I lay on the floor of the van, legs spread, knees bent, feet flat on the carpet. Francois was reclined next to me, his head propped on his bent left arm, the fingers of his right hand tracing the temporary tattoo of a gecko on my lower belly.

"Vous avez un beau corps."

"What did you say?" I murmured, unable to disguise the weariness in my voice--not really wanting to as it marked how well and completely I'd been taken.

"I said you have a beautiful body. And that's what you wanted, isn't it?" he asked. "That was the fuck you needed and that you didn't get while filming the movie."

"Yes," I answered.

"I could tell all the time I was filming you that you wanted more than the pretend you were getting when the other guy was getting rough. This is what you needed."

"Yes," I whimpered.

"You let me in. You opened all the way and let me fuck you dans le noyau--in the core; at the center."

"Yes." I moaned as his right hand drifted down to under my balls. He understood. He knew what it meant to reach the center and fuck a man there. I raised my buttocks slightly to give him access to my now-gaping hole. A finger penetrated me.

"Oh shit. Are you going to fuck me again?"

"Do you want me to?"

"Yes."

He gave a low laugh. A second finger went in.

"You don't let many men deep inside you, do you? You don't open like that for many men."

"No. Oh, fuck." A third finger had entered me and he was starting to move them. In and out, in and out.

"You should. You would enjoy it more. And you'd have men worshipping you."

"I don't know if I can. I'm scared." His knuckles were working the rim of my hole and I was moaning deeply.

"Shush now, don't be afraid." He had his fist inside me now and I was fully open to him. I had come a long way from that first movie in Cyprus; I was capable of taking far more now after years of practice and hard use.

I moaned as he fisted me--pressing in, holding, flexing, fingers opening, me moaning deeply, fist withdrawing, the feeling of loss, pressing in, holding, flexing... After less than a minute of this, though, he pulled his hand out, rolled over on top of me, entered me strongly and deeply, oh so deeply, and made slow love to me deep in the center of me, as I gasped and sobbed and dug my fingernails into his shoulder blades matching the rhythm of the fuck with the pressure of my fingers.

* * * *

Francois got me back to my London flat in time for me to get the red coloring out of my hair, flip out the green contacts, peel off the temporary gecko tattoo, and soak my tired body in the tub before dressing for the theater with Nigel.

I was on a high, more from the fucking in the back of Francois's van than from the movie. He was hung and forceful and cruel, something that I had learned in Istanbul and Cyprus put me into a higher gear of arousal. It was a level of sexual nirvana that Nigel, no matter how much I wanted to be with him, only rarely put me into now that I was experienced and had access to variety. The movie BDSM had been tame, most of it mostly pretend. The welts from the whippings were just superficial and would be gone before I was finished soaking in the tub. Francois had told me to fight him, had slapped me around a bit, and had conquered me with and had me rocking on his fist when we'd gotten in the back of the van. His overpowering and cruelty had been real. When I'd surrendered and opened fully to him, he'd shown no mercy. He had fisted me and then dove down into the quick of me and cock fucked me, open and vulnerable, deep inside hard and vigorous. He had torn it from me and left me whimpering and fully, totally fucked.

He had been a man with me--my man.

When my roommates, Tony and Seth, returned from the fashion house, they brought me down several pegs, though. They may not have known I was at home and in the tub or they may not have realized that their voices had carried.

"You were off someplace for the longest time this afternoon, Tony. You weren't...?"

"Yes. A special fitting. A new idea Nigel wanted to try out," Tony answered.

"He gets so... you know when he's excited about a new design."

"Yes, he sure does."

"He didn't...?" Seth said, with a giggle.

"Yes, he did. He fucked me good." They both laughed.

So, I thought, deflated, that's why Nigel couldn't stay to watch the filming. He had a tryst with Tony. Tony was only nineteen. I knew that Nigel's type was small and blond and young. I no longer was as young as I had been when he had wanted me so badly. Two years could make quite a difference in our world. I was trying my best to work my way into Nigel's bed permanently. But time was working against me. Was it even worth it when a bruiser like Tilki in Istanbul and a couple of the guys in Cyprus and Francois pulled me to a higher realm of arousal in the fuck?

No, there was so much more to be had with Nigel Standish. Nigel was a future; the other guys were just fleeting events. I just had to try harder with Nigel.

The opera Nigel took me to at Covent Garden that evening was Mozart's Don Giovanni. He said that he liked the opera because it was about Don Juan and seduction, but I didn't see why Nigel would be interested in the seduction of women.

"Is there a seduction opera for men?" I asked, as we went to the bar for a drink at the interval. "What if Don Juan had conquests of young men too?"

"I'm not aware of one," Nigel said, "but that sounds like a good subject for an underground opera. In fact, it sounds like a basis for one of my special fashion shows. All Spanish silks and satins. You bring out such good ideas in me. We'll have to see if we can work designs around that theme. And speaking of which, Carlos is coming our way now. I'd said there would be someone here I'd want you to meet."

And then it became obvious why we'd come to the opera this evening. Not because Nigel wanted to see Don Giovanni or because Nigel wanted me to see Don Giovanni, but because one of his important vendors was in town who wanted to see Don Giovanni--and, not incidentally, wanted to fuck me.

"Ah, Carlos, there you are," Nigel said, as an elderly fat man waddled over to us. He wasn't ugly, but he was grossly overweight. He was expensively dressed in evening clothes, but he was so big that they were rumpled. Still, the black silk material was stunning, and I realized that this probably was his own product and I could understand why Nigel prized his wares. He was staring at me as he approached.

"Carlos Sores, this is one of my models, Lee Prentise. Mr. Sores is Spanish, Lee. He lives in Barcelona and is a very important supplier of material to my fashion house." He gave me a meaningful look. Sores was fairly leering at me.

"Once I knew you were one of Nigel's models, I wanted to meet you," Sores said, sticking out his hand. He had three large-gem rings on that hand alone.

"You wanted to meet me?" I asked, a bit confused. I wasn't exactly high profile in Nigel's fashion house.

"Yes, I know your work well."

"You've come to fashion shows? I don't recall having seen you at one."

"Oh, no. Your other work. Your movie work. Tell me, do you really have that delicious lizard tattoo? I've always wanted to kiss it."

Not too subtle that. But before I could answer, Nigel broke in and said, "They are signaling to return to our seats. Carlos has invited us to dinner afterward, but, unfortunately, I have other plans. I told him you would be happy to go to dinner with him. He has a hotel car."

And that was that.

I was dined at Stringfellow's, an expensive restaurant in the Covent Garden area, and then it was on to the Soho area gay clubs until 3:00 a.m. I must say the man was resilient and could hold his liquor. I was ready to wilt at the end of the clubbing, but he was revving right along. At the last club we visited, he took ten hundred-dollar bills out of his wallet and fanned them out on the table in front of me. We both knew what they were for. I was a porn star now. My rates had gone up significantly.

He took me to his hotel, in the same Soho area, the Piccadilly London West End. At 3:30, after his brief moment of disappointment that I didn't have the gecko tattoo, I opened my legs to him, he reached back and loosened my hair, which I had let go long for the movie, so that it cascaded to my shoulders, and he put his dick in me as I lay on my back on the foot of his hotel bed. He crouched over me, pressing me to the bed with his huge stomach and snorting his pleasure as he fucked me. He had a long dick, luckily, or we couldn't have managed some of the positions he tried. At 4:30 he was mounted on me in a doggy. At 5:15, I was riding him in a cowboy, having had enough of being crushed by his blubber. At 6:00 he was fucking me against the shower wall where I had gone mistakenly thinking that his snoring meant he was out for the count. He was old and fat, but he had stamina, he was excited by having a porn star under him, and he had a long dick. And he was in high heat. After the day I'd had, I wasn't, but I dutifully took the dick.

I got back to my flat at 9:00 a.m. after he called Nigel while I was still in his hotel room and they settled on a supplies deal. I hope Nigel got a very good deal. As far as I was concerned, though, this pimping me out in addition to the arranged movie work and finding out that Nigel was screwing Tony, a younger fashion model, got to me. The last time I'd truly enjoyed a fuck--before Francois that afternoon, that was--was when I was in Turkey and Cyprus two years earlier. Nigel didn't even ask me about the night I'd had when I saw him the next day. He was taking for granted that I'd do whatever he wanted me to do.

The next day I went to a travel agency and booked flights through Istanbul to northern Cyprus. I didn't know whether I was leaving London and Nigel permanently. I needed to get away to figure that out. I had fallen into a "yes" life--yes to other men's desires--that I probably deserved, but I wasn't at all sure it was a life I wanted to have.