Danny's Choice Ch. 02: His Story

"No use wastin' time then." Buford rolled me up on one hip, turned to the side between my wide-stretched thighs, took his hand away from the root of his half-lodged cock, grabbed me by the waist, and slammed the cock home to the root. I cried out to the ceiling, my hand fell away from the back of Buford's neck, and I propped my torso up on both elbows so that I could look down to see how much of him was in me.

All of it, my mind screamed. On, my god, now I'm fucked.

I arched my back, both my flexible spine and my head. Buford's head dipped down to my chest and his teeth latched onto a nipple. Buford started pumping, sliding in and out through the cum Sergei had already deposited there. I roared my surrender to the cock to the blank brick wall behind the workbench while the big black pumped me slow and deep. I knew in that instant that having a big black, no matter his age, working my channel with a giant cock was Nirvana.

The cock head came to the surface of my hole, Buford jerked and grunted, and his white cum creamed my crack and dribbled down my thighs. The cock went back in for several more strokes, and then the older stagehand was relinquishing position to the younger one.

Buford dropped back a couple of steps and Jerome moved into position, taking my legs and running them up his muscular chest.

"Hey, forgot to ask. This OK with you? Seen the way you been lookin' at me and Buford for a while, and word is out you're free game now."

A little late to ask was what flashed through my mind, but my moaned reply was, "Fuck me. Fuck me now."

Slipping down from my elbows as the young black stud pulled me to him with strong hands on my waist, I lay prone and shuddered in anticipation on the countertop, an arm thrown over my face, and moaning deeply. The bigger, thicker cock slid in through the added lubricant Buford's prodigious cum had provided. Still, I had to concentrate to open my channel further to the cock. Good thing the younger followed the older—and the older followed Sergei, I mused. What next? A telephone pole?

The big black set his muscular legs, encircled my slim waist with his bulging arms, and started pistoning my channel hard and fast in long, strong, deep strokes.

My body was bouncing up and down on the table with the strength of the thrusts. My arms went over my head, grabbing for anything that would steady me against the assault. My eyes were slitted and had, I knew, a wild aspect to them I'd never felt before. I looked over at Buford, waiting and watching, stroking his hard cock. I hiccupped and groaned at the realization that he wasn't finished with me.

And, indeed, he wasn't. When Jerome had given me his hot, full load—or, rather, loads—he stepped away from me, and Buford moved right back in. I arched my back and cried out as he thrust hard and deep, leaned over me with fists pressed into the workbench top on either side of my waist, set his legs for leverage, and, moving up to the balls of his feet, started giving it to me again in hard, deep strokes.

Laying there, panting, exhausted, but a silly grin on my face, I watched the glistening torso of Buford pull away, his hot cum running down my thighs, and the even more cut pecs of Jerome coming into my dull-eyed view. Lifting me and holding me in front of him as he sat on the counter and pulled me onto his lap, onto his cock. Lacing his legs in mine, encircling my waist with a strong arm. Lying back on the counter and taking me back with him, his feet rising to the edge of the counter, spread wide, raising and spreading my feet too—and rolling my buttocks up.

Buford appeared before me again.

"You had two at once before?" he asked.

I don't know how he could have interpreted my deep groan as a "yes," but they proceeded anyway.

Grabbing my ankles and raising and spreading my legs, taking them away from being entwined in Jerome's legs, he leaned into me with his forehead touching mine, his eyes boring into mine, his hard cock slowly working its way inside me, on top of Jerome's already-buried cock, my mouth slack in a silent scream, my eyes watering. The throbbing cock, pressed to another throbbing cock, slid through buckets of cum into my channel. Deep.

I could say I was conditioned now. I loved every cruel stroke of it from the hot black muscle studs. I also realized that sometimes in my fantasies, I had been doubled by two black studs.

* * * *

"You missed the matinee. Are you ill?"

"No, I'm fine. Just very tired this morning. But that's what alternate dancers are made for. It's the first performance I've missed. One of them will be thrilled. And I'm here for the evening performance." If it sounded like I was being defensive, I was. I was attracted to this man too, and didn't want him to know why I'd missed the matinee.

It was the day after the black stud stagehands had had their way with me in the stage workroom—or, rather, much later in the same day, as they had fucked me into the new day. They were both working nearby when one of the leads in the musical, Keith Winston, came up to talk to me. Keith had sought me out often in the last year, hovering around me, but, like all of the rest, respecting the barrier Even Yellen had established until I was eighteen. Buford and Jerome worked efficiently, but their eyes often strayed to me, confident, knowing, proud. I knew that anytime I stayed late at the theater I could have some black stud excitement.

"Well, that's good. You're looking good, I must say. Exceptionally good." He had a hand on my shoulder. He'd never touched me before.

I admit that he was looking good too. I was looking at all men with an assessing eye I hadn't been in touch with before Evan Yellen fucked my virginity out of me. Just two days ago, I told myself. Winston, a good half foot taller than I was, looked down into my face. His expression was inscrutable. But he was an actor; he could do that.

I could have picked Winston out in a line of actors as one who played a leading role. He'd always looked like the leading man, tall, well-built, elegantly thin, expensively dressed, and with those killer blue eyes, flashy white teeth, beach tan, and curly auburn hair. Mr. Self-Confidence himself. And he'd been one to buzz around me. But until now he hadn't laid a hand on me. Until now. As he talked in a low voice to me as we stood together at the edge of the flying curtains between the wings and the stage, where the director was talking through a couple of changes in the script with actors, for a scene Winston wasn't in, I felt the hand that had been on my shoulder stretch out to where he had the arm loosely around my shoulder.

"Seeing as how you are well, I wondered if you might like to have a drink with me tonight after the performance."

I knew for sure then. Evan Yellen had let the word out. He had lifted the restrictions. I don't know how he knew that I was horny as hell. And maybe he didn't. Maybe he just didn't enjoy me and had dropped both his interest and his shielding protection.

The drink—two drinks, actually, both strong—were at Winston's studio apartment in Manhattan. The one-room apartment wasn't large, but it was in a tony building that must have set him back a good many bucks. One wall was all window, looking out over a fascinating cityscape from a dazzling height. A large bed dominated the room, but there also was a sofa and a couple of club chairs facing the city view and backed by an efficient kitchen counter, an island with stools, and on the other side of the entrance hall from the kitchen alcove, a well-appointed bathroom.

I had barely finished my second drink, when, sitting close to me on the sofa with an arm around my shoulders, he turned my face to his for a kiss. I showed no hint of reluctance. In fact, I felt none. I knew what he wanted, and I was horny for it. He paused in the kisses long enough to pull my T-shirt over my head. He already had his shirt unbuttoned and spread, to show a finely developed chest. I'm sure his chest hairs had been trimmed for effect, the light matting swirling around his nipples and then cascading down his sternum and flat belly to disappear mysteriously under the waistband of his trousers. The effect was very nice.

The leaning kiss lingered as he slowly laid me down on the surface of the sofa with him on top of me. He was feasting on my nipples as I felt my belt buckle being undone, and my jeans being worked down my thighs. I heard the gasp when he discovered I wasn't wearing anything under the jeans. He'd slipped my socks off too. Our shoes had been left at the door, his on top of mine, which both amused and aroused me when he'd done that—I'm sure he was unthinkingly projecting ahead to his "plan." He had been nervously touching me—including brushes of my basket—and moving his hand away as if stung during the taxi drive to his apartment from the theater. He seemed to be forgetting that I wasn't some male whore he'd picked up while cruising. I had known better than he did that he was going to fuck me.

He coaxed my left leg up and between his left hip and the back of the sofa. He sat up off my torso then and looked down into my eyes, checking. Could he proceed or not?

He could . . . and did. He lifted my left leg and licked and kissed up it, bending the knee and sucking on my toes. Naked, engorging, I panted and moaned below him.

Another searching look. Yes, fine. This time I told him as well. "Yes."

He looked slightly surprised. All of this time of dancing around me, and here I was, saying yes to what he wanted to do to me. No reluctance. Although older, he was a hunk and a half. A real change from the black studs—and from Sergei and Yellen, for that matter—but worth the experience. Smooth and steamy at the same time. And hard. While he'd licked up my leg, he'd unzipped himself and taken his cock out. Not unusually thick or long by any means, but hard, standing right up from his trimmed bush. Wanting to be inside me. Me wanting it inside me too. his fly was spread enough for me to see that he had trimmed his pubes in a V pointing to the goods. Auburn and curly. I wasn't surprised how well groomed he was. He'd even shaved his balls.

"Can I jack you?" He whispered. "And then will you jack me?"

"You can do anything you want to me, as long as I can make tomorrow's performance," I answered. My mind flipped back to the previous night. As glorious as it was, the black stagehands had worked me over so much that I hadn't made the next performance.

He shuddered. "Oh, shit. Oh, fuckin' shit," he murmured, all signs of his Yale accent gone.

Leaving my leg raised between his shoulder and the back of the sofa, he lowered his face to my nipples and slowly worked his mouth down my torso, across my belly, into my shaved groin, opening up over my cock, and sinking on it. Raising up and sinking again. And again. I groaned, moving my left arm over my head and clutching the roll of the sofa arm on the reverse side. My other hand went to the back of his head. My right leg was draped over the front of the sofa, my foot extending to the floor. I dug the heel of that foot into the plush carpeting and used the leverage of that to move my pelvis so that I was face fucking him. He opened his mouth in a big O to let me fuck it loosely.

I warned him I was coming, but he didn't seem to care. When I did come, he took it in his mouth, moved up my body and gave me a cummy kiss. He continued moving, though, pulling my body up so that I was sitting, sideways, with my back to the arm of the sofa.

My turn.

His cock was at my face. Somehow he'd lost his trousers in the maneuver, but his shirt was still on his back, spread open. I opened my mouth to him, first, though, taking his balls into my mouth, sucking them, rolling them, distending them from his crotch—just to hear his deep moaning. I then ran my lips down the shaft of his cock and palmed his tight, rounded buttocks, while he face fucked me.

He didn't come then, though. He withdrew after a few minutes of sucking, reached for my right ankle and raised and spread my leg out over the carpet in front of the sofa, let his cock glide down my torso while he stuffed sofa pillows under the small of my back, rolling my buttocks up to the angle he wanted, and slid right into me—slowly, savoring the rippling of my channel muscles to pull him in and my tremble and long sigh. After the session I'd had with the big blacks, I hadn't closed up much. Plus, I was getting a quick course in how to control my sphincter and channel muscles.

His pumping continued to be slow to the end, waiting for my shudder when the bulb was just inside the entrance and then groaning with me during the long, slow slide back into the hilt. I let my nails scrape down his back to his buttocks on the slide in and then back up to under his shoulder blades on the long withdrawal. When he was finished inside me, he lay on top of me, while we both slowly recovered our breathing.

"That was so nice," he murmured. "You have such a great body. And you're a natural at it. And three days ago you were—"

"A virgin, yes. You're great for your age too," I whispered, realizing only too late what an insult that would be to an actor approaching the other side of the hilltop from his prime. But he took it well. I knew then that he wasn't finished with me. And I was right.

"Not too old to have it up, fucking you, in ten more minutes," he responded, a hint of laughter in his voice, telling me both that he forgave me and that he wanted me again. "Do you like it harder or like that?"

"Whatever you want."

"Can you spend the night?" The question was given tentatively, hopefully.

"If you want." Another first. Something more than "bang bang, thank you, boy; now get dressed and get out of here," which, more or less, Evan Yellen had said that first time. This man was a lover. My first one.

"I guess," I answered, looking over at the big bed that dominated the small studio apartment. I wondered how many other young men he'd asked this. But right now that didn't matter to me.

"You wouldn't get much sleep, I'm afraid."

"That's OK." It was more than OK. I'd already reached for his cock, feeling it rise in my hand, feeling my channel walls shimmering. They wanted company again. I was becoming such a slut for it.

He rose from the sofa and lifted me up and held me to his breast. I hooked my knees on his hips and encircled his neck with my arms.

He laid me down in a heap on the bed. "Do you know the doggie position?" he asked.

"Yes, but are you—?"

"Yes, I don't really need ten minutes this early in a fuck. I'm more than ready."

This early in a fuck, I thought with a moan, as I went onto all fours.

"What, you think I'm too old to fuck all night? Don't count on it."

He climbed up onto the bed, hunched over my hips, grabbed my waist between his hands, and slid into me.

Yes, he was fully hard again.

Putting his lips to my ear, he whispered, "You are so sweet. I'm going to be so good to you. We'll make sweet music together . . . all night long."

And, starting a slow, deep pump, he did just that. My first fully attentive lover.

* * * *

"So, did you enjoy Sergei and the two stagehands, Jerome and Buford?"

I looked up and across the desk sharply. Evan Yellen's face was showing a smirk.

"You knew. You probably even put them up to it." But he'd only named three. So, he must not know about Keith Winston. Should I tell him—throw that in his face? Not a chance.

"When I consider continuing with a young man—past that first time—I want them quickly seasoned. I can't think of anything more seasoning than big black cock to toughen up a new convert. I sensed in you a hunger for cock. Am I right?"

I didn't answer. I looked away from him to the window, where birds were flying by. We were in Evan's office half way up the Empire State Building.

"Yes, I think I'm right. I'm told you seemed particularly to like the black cock. Did you like the black cock?"

"Yes," I answered in a low voice.

"Discovered you really, really like big black cock, didn't you?"

"Yes," I repeated.

"And learning real fast too. They doubled you, I've been told. True?"

"Yes." What did it matter. My gaze turned to his wall of scripts. Still not making eye contact.

"And you loved it. I read you for being a real hungry bottom."

He waited for me to answer that, but I didn't. Yes, I loved it. Taxed me to the limit. Made me so I could hardly walk back to the rooming house. Kept me in bed through the matinee the next day. But, yes, goddamn it, I loved it.

"If you stay with me, of course, all of that has to stop—except for what I tell you you can have."

"Stay with you?" I turned my eyes to him then.

"Yes. Why do you think I had you come here today? Why do you think I've let you know that I've had men toughen you up and teach you fast how to give yourself to a man. I've got another proposition."

"A proposition?"

"Yes. It's really quite simple. You continue being available to me whenever I want you and I'll continue to get you spots in Broadway musical dancing ensembles and perhaps a small speaking role here and there. But I call the shots on who else can fuck you. There will, of course, be the occasional investor. But not unless I tell you you can."

"And if I—?"

"If you don't take the deal, it's so long and good luck from here. You are better able now to get your own parts by working for them on your back than you were before you met me, so it's still better than before you met me. But I won't lift a finger for you."

He had led me into a trap. My main question was whether I cared. I had sort of thought he'd continue fucking me anyway. I didn't know that he'd baldly state the conditions. But I'd told him years ago that I liked that about him.

"I can sweeten the pot. You've said before you wanted to be an actor too, not just a dancer. And I know you have a decent singing voice. While you're with me I'll pay for acting and voice lessons and make sure you get the best teachers."

I thought about that. "Can I think about it?" I asked.

"For an hour and fifteen minutes," he said.

"Why that amount of time?"

"Because I can sweeten the deal further. One of my 'OK, you can have him' stipulations will be the two black guys, Jerome and Buford. You can have them once a month while you're with me. Yes, I paid them to fuck you the other night."

"Uh," I said, flabbergasted and unable to think of anything better to say.

"And this can be the first month. They are outside, in reception. I have a meeting to go to for an hour. This will be a freebee while you think about it, but when I'm back, I want a decision."

He rose from the desk and shortly after he left the office, Jerome and Buford strutted in, all smiles. They were stripping their clothes as they advanced on me. They sandwiched me between them, standing and rocking back and forth, but only long enough for me to be stripped of my clothes and all of us to get hard.

Jerome sat on the edge of the studio couch, pulling me onto his lap and cock. Gripping my waist he bounced me up and down on his cock until we were both heated up real well. Then he was lying back on the couch, taking me with him, lacing his legs in mine and pulling my legs up and spread. Rolling my pelvis up. And Buford was working his knees in between our thighs.

I looked into the mirror across from the couch, seeing my tanned legs, but distinctly white in contrast to them, sticking up and out from the center, being held at the ankles by ebony hands, my hands palming muscular ebony shoulder blades, four beefy black legs between my thighs, two running down, leveraging off the floor as Jerome fucked up to me. The other two crouched between those legs running up to bulbous buttocks a slim waist and flaring up to the broad back, the butt cheeks constricting and expanding and thrusting forward and back. Me knowing they were driving another hard cock—Buford's—up into me. I shuddered and shot my load for the first time in that hour—but only for the first time.