Handed On

He needed a financial angel. And he needed the angel just to stop the hemorrhaging of costs and to cover accumulated debts. The show would have to close anyway.

He went to Henry Powl, a manufacturer with money to burn, and a colleague in the secret "doubles" society he belonged to.

"If you help me get out of this production in the black, you could be an equal investor in my next production without putting any money in," John McManus said.

"I'm not sure New York is ready yet to make any opera of high-quality production profitable. I don't know what would be in it for me to make it worth my while."

"I've seen you at the theater, Henry," McManus said. "I've seen the way you look at one of the male dancers."

"So?"

"He takes doubles," McManus said. "I've trained him to take the double in several different positions."

* * * *

McManus told Marc they were having dinner with a friend of his who also had an estate out on Long Island. This was the night after Faust closed. Marc was worried about work, but McManus said that, if Marc trusted him, McManus would take care of him.

The two were met at the door of Henry Powl's country mansion by Henry, who was wearing a cloth robe.

"I thought we'd take a swim before dinner," he said.

Marc's first thought was that the weather was much too cold to be taking a swim, but Powl anticipated that.

"I have an indoor pool in the conservatory."

Of course you do, Marc thought. What he then said, though, was. "I didn't bring a bathing suit."

"Neither did I," Powl said, with a smile. He opened his robe to reveal that he was naked underneath. And in erection. And better equipped, younger, more handsome, and with better body definition than McManus had. Longer even that McManus's chauffeur.

"I didn't bring a suit either," McManus said. But Marc didn't hear what he said. His attention was focused on the beautiful—if older than his—body of the financier and manufacturer.

McManus was sitting on the side of the pool, and Marc was in his lap, sitting on his fully sheathed cock. When Powl moved through the water toward them and said, "I want to fuck you too," Marc merely smiled, opened his legs, leaned back into McManus's chest so that his hips rolled up, and opened his mouth to Powl's kiss, as the manufacturer fisted and spread and raised his legs, and started working his cock inside Marc's channel above McManus's.

Powl was long and thick. This was the thickest combined taking Marc had received, but after the initial difficulty opening to it, he reveled in the fuck. Powl was more of a man than either McManus or Patrick were. And he did all of the stroking. McManus remained hard, but dormant, as Powl stroked hard and deep, his kisses, the touch of his hands on Marc's body, and the endearments he whispered in Marc's ears sending Marc over the moon. Not just once. Twice. The man had stamina and each man came twice before he was finished.

As they were dressing for dinner, McManus told Marc that this was the way he was taking care of Marc, unless Marc wanted to just go out into the city on his own. That the production was dead and McManus couldn't support Marc anymore, but that Powl would take care of him, if Marc didn't put up a fuss and just stayed here.

Marc didn't put up a fuss. And the tears he shed when McManus left him there with Powl were mainly to be polite and to show his gratefulness.

* * * *

They were in a latticework pavilion in the extensive, well-manicured Italian-style garden of Henry Powl's estate. Marc was bent over the side of a chaise lounge and Henry, his hands gripping Marc's waist and moving him back and forth, was fucking him from behind.

The man had been insatiable, fucking Marc constantly and on every surface of the mansion for more than a week. Marc's needs were being met—all of them. He missed dancing, but all of his other needs were being met. Slowly but surely he was forgetting his need for independence and to dance—dance on anything but one, or two, cocks.

If only Henry had the prowess of a McManus and the youth of Patrick, he thought. Or if Henry had a well-built friend.

As he was being fucked, Marc was looking beyond the pavilion, through the latticework. A gardener was working in a nearby bed. He was older than Henry, but even more heavily muscled. He moved with the grace of a dancer. He was stripped to the waist, and his flimsy-material shorts were pulled down in front to just below the line of curly hair, black, flecked with gray, of his pubes. They were held up in back by bulbous cheeks. When he stood and turned, Marc could see that the gigantic bulge of his basket was what pulled the shorts down in front.

He was a god. Not young, but Zeus-like, with perfectly defined bulging musculature and curly hair on his chest running down into his shorts and on the backs of his forearms and cascading out of his armpits. All virile man.

He was watching the fucking now that he'd seen Marc and Powl in the pavilion. There was a little smile on his face. He stripped off his shorts and Marc gasped at the size of his cock and his low-hanging balls.

Powl saw him too. "Tony. You want a piece of this too? He does doubles."

Marc felt a whisper at his ear. "You want Tony too?"

"Oh, yes. God, yes," Marc whimpered. "But, he's so big. And you are too. I don't know . . ."

Powl was lying flat on his back on the chaise lounge, Marc mounted on his cock, facing him. Tony pushed Marc down onto Powl's chest with a strong fist in the middle of the back. Marc cried out and begged for mercy as the horse-hung Italian gardener, straddling the chaise lounge and Powl's thighs with his legs, worked his cock inside Marc's channel above Powl's shaft.

Marc was panting and howling. Powl solicitously whispered in his ear, asking him if it was too much.

"Yes, it's too much," Marc cried out. "But don't stop, please. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!"

And Tony did. Once saddled, he began to stroke hard and deep and his arms embraced Marc's chest, his hands covering Marc's pecs, thumbs thrumming Marc's nipples, while Powl fisted Marc's cock and stroked him in rhythm to what, first, Tony was doing inside him. And then, when Marc had settled down and moans and panting and begging for the fuck replaced all of his fears and objections, Powl started stroking him in counter rhythm.

Marc no longer thought of being taken care of or when his next opportunity to dance on stage would be. He only thought about this double fuck—and the next one.

He thought he'd never have it as good as Henry and Tony, but when Henry handed him off to Tony to take home and they were met at the garden cottage door by Tony's young, handsome, muscled, horse-hung, and smiling son, and the two men put Marc on the cocks right there, standing, with him sandwiched between them, his legs hooked on the young son's hips, and the two men competing with each other on stamina and hard-stroking ability, Marc knew there were always new heights to reach in being double fucked.