Matryoshka Play

"No, don't you dare come yet. Not before me," I growled. And the big hairy ape of a man held off, as, crouched on his lap, facing him, rising and falling on his monster cock, leveraging off the balls of my feet placed on either side of his hips, I dug the fingernails of my left hand in his right shoulder blade and pumped my cock with my right hand, rubbing it up and down on his hairy belly.

With a shudder and a cry of "I'm coming," I did, shooting cum up into the dark curls on his bulging pecs. I arched back, grasping his knees as he sat on the end of the bed in the Amsterdam hotel room, with me in his lap, facing him, legs bent and feet flat on the mattress on either side of him, and rocked on his hard shaft.

"Yes, yes, drown me in cum now," I hissed, and he did, his strong, calloused hands gripping my waist and his fat, stretching cock pulsing, throbbing, me panting and him giving little grunts, as once, twice, three times, he tightened and released, tightened and released, blasting me deep with his strong gush of cum. He did this even better than his identical twin brother Brad did.

Ben's hands slid up to under my shoulder blades, pulling my torso back up to his, the hairiness of his twenty-six-year-old muscular chest rubbing against my two-year-older smooth pecs, as he leaned his handsome-ugly workman's face in for a kiss. I turned my head to avoid that, moved my hands to palm his pecs, and pushed him back, fighting to control my breathing, to bring me back from the heights of passion and release. He was much too dangerous. I couldn't let myself be enslaved by him again.

"No, I've gotten what I want from you," I growled and, twisting, I rolled off his lap, leaned down to scoop up my share of the clothes that had been shed at the base of the bed, and headed for the bathroom. "When I've showered, please be gone," I said.

He laughed, dismissed, but still victorious because I hadn't been able to resist using that monstrously thick and long cock of his again, as I'd done in New York, continually trying to break from him, always returning to the power of his huge cock over me.

It had been no different here than in New York. I had been lured to Europe, to Amsterdam, by my agent's secretive negotiations over an audition of a movie role--so secret that he wouldn't tell me much about it either, other than giving a price tag that was beyond enticing as well as a fee to show up for the audition that was three times what was sufficient for a weekend of auditioning. My TV series, Clouds over Antibes, was on hiatus. In this series I played the central role of an American wanderer, sailing a boat in the Mediterranean in the leadup to World War II, who sustains himself by selling himself to other men as he progresses across the Mediterranean and who has been stranded in Antibes with a group of like-minded men, including sexy Frenchmen, a Brit, an Italian, a Spaniard, and even a German. There were vibes the series run would not be renewed. A new movie role would be a lifesaver.

Ben Hayden had met me at the Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam and brought me to this hotel, saying I would be picked up at 5:00 p.m. the next day to be taken to the audition site. No other information had been given. I was disconcerted as I hadn't expected to see Ben again--ever--and certainly not here in Amsterdam. Ben was a lighting technician. He was talented in that, of course, but that's all he was, a young, rough, lower-class lighting technician. Ben was one of a set of identical twins, the other one being Brad, an actor I'd appeared with in different versions of a play I wrote. Ben had been the lighting technician for that. The two of them, both hairy, thuggish studs, had taught me how to take double penetration, which was quite sexy when the two men, one in front and one in back, were virtually identical. It also was overwhelming, and I had pledged to try to avoid it once I had broken away from it--especially after I'd discovered they'd surreptitiously filmed it and posted it to fee sites on the Internet.

Except that Ben had the cock of a god, and I had discovered that when I was appearing in the TV movie filming of Strings, a play I had written and been in in an Off Broadway production, with Ben doing the lighting, while his brother, Brad, acted in the play. Ben appeared on the lighting crew again when the movie was done, once again with me in the "younger man" role, Trevor Mattingly in the "older man" role, and Ben's brother, Brad, in the chauffeur role, as we all had taken in the play.

I hadn't been attracted to Ben. He was a monster of a man, though younger than I was--tall and broad, good looking, but in a coarse, dock worker way, always sneering knowingly as if his lower-class coarseness somehow was superior to the rest of us. He wasn't wrong in one aspect, though. He had a cock to command, and command me in New York it did. I had managed to break away from it only by having him removed from the production. His brother, Brad, hadn't seemed to minded that, as he had better luck with me being agreeable to him fucking me.

And here Ben had reappeared in Amsterdam, to transport me to the Hans Brinker Hotel in the South Centrum section of the old city, on Kerkstraat, a prime gay district of the city, and to come up to my room with me, neither of us having questioned or voiced why. I had thought I was in control. He let me think I was. He didn't do anything I didn't tell him to do. He followed my demands and instructions to the letter. But once he was inside me, stretching me, fully possessing me, and regardless of whether I was on top, controlling the fuck, he owned me--and we both knew it.

He obeyed to the last. When I came out of the hotel room bathroom after taking my time showering, he was gone, as I had commanded him to do. But I didn't fool myself. He owned me. I heard the laugh he gave before he was gone.

My dilemma with Ben was much the same as it had been with Trevor Mattingly, even though they were very different people, Trevor being aristocratic, elegant, and refined and Ben being a hairy, rough, almost thuggish. But they both had what it took to ring my chimes. I knew they were to be avoided, and I had been avoiding them, but I also knew that they were like the sun--I knew I'd get burned going there, but I couldn't help myself from making the journey when they were within sight. I was my own worst enemy in this regard.

* * * *

"Interesting, isn't it? Open it up. See the surprise within."

As Trevor Mattingly handed me the drink, I'd been toying with a painted balsam-wood box fashioned in the shape of two men holding a third in a double penetration position. It was cleverly fashioned and painted to make the act look three-dimensional but also to require the observer to look at it carefully to fully discern what was being depicted and that it actually was a container. I discovered it was a box about the same time Mattingly had told me it was.

We were in an office behind the stage of a small theater not far from the Hans Brinker Hotel in Amsterdam but deeper into the gay district centered on Kerkstraat. If I'd been surprised that Ben Hayden, a theater technician I'd briefly hooked up with in New York while filming a version of Strings, had picked me up here in Amsterdam, I was completely floored that he had brought me to Trevor Mattingly. Indeed, I don't think my agent realized just how far Mattingly and I had fallen out, but I don't know what Trevor had done to manage to keep my agent silent on who had brought me to Amsterdam to discuss a film role.

We'd kept it a secret so as not to rock the boat in stage and theater circles for both of us, but I had a serious bone to pick with Mattingly. We had written the original stage script of Strings together--or, rather, I had done the conceptualization and writing and Mattingly had gotten backers to help us stage it. He and I were lovers at the time and living together as we pursued theater roles. Mattingly, fifteen years older than I was, produced and directed as well. We put Strings together for the two of us to have a play we could do together, and, ironically, it pretty much mirrored what subsequently happened to us in life.

Strings is a three-man, single-set play, played out in a writer's study, much like this one, although perhaps quite a bit more plush than this office. The older character, which Trevor played, is a playwright who once had been famous and highly successful, but who is being robbed of ideas and writing ability by the effects of drink. He takes on a young male student--which was my role--to mentor in playwrighting. The student writes what the older man knows will be a blockbuster, and the older man realizes this can be the play that puts him at the top of the game--if he can claim it as his own. The peak of the play is the young man under the older one, being choked on a desk. There also is a hunky chauffeur, who forces himself on an intrigued and willing young student but who helps the older playwright solve his problem.

Up to the point of the choking, Strings had become my story with Mattingly. The spark of the play was his rejuvenation as a playwright, so he took ascendent writing credit for Strings and I let him do so to give the play life at the box office. His was the better-known name. I swallowed that. When he turned it into a TV movie, though, we had a falling out. Still, I appeared in the movie with him to ensure the sale of the project to backers and took my grievance to him privately. That hadn't been resolved. This was the first time we'd been together in the flesh since then. Trevor was acting like there was no outstanding grievance between us.

I took a sip of the drink he'd handed me. If there had been any "off" taste to reveal it had something in it that shouldn't be there, I was too focused on this whole situation and on the interesting box I held in my hand. If not for the box, perhaps I would have been more aware of the surroundings and how similar this was to the Strings plot. The older man had neutralized the age and fitness difference between the two in the play by slipping a drug in the younger man's drink before choking him on the desk.

"Oh, it's one of those Russian resting dolls," I said. "What are those called--Matryoshka dolls?" When I opened the box, there was another lacquered balsam-wood box. This one depicted one of the dominating men depicted on the first box covering the submissive man in a missionary victim. And then when I opened that box, I found a depiction of the other dominating man covering the submissive man in a doggy position.

"Like Matryoshka dolls, yes," Trevor said, coming over to me and touching me on the forearm. "But older. These are from China--and before the Russians were doing this. The Russians probably stole this idea from the Chinese."

I blanched, wanting to say something--something about how appropriate that was--that he'd stolen Strings from me and had renewed it by doing it as a TV movie, just like nesting it inside the original that was done with these figures--and now was proposing renewing it again. All of this without reference to who had actually written the play--whose intellectual property it properly was. I knew I should get up, indignant, and flounce out of his office. But I didn't. I didn't even shirk from his touch on my forearm. It's possible that that was the first inkling I had that he'd put something in my drink. I did feel a tingling and a weakness creeping in, although I attributed it to the anger I felt at what he was telling me. The question is why did I let him touch my forearm and stroke it. Was I still under his sexual sway as I had surprisingly found I was with Ben the previous day when I'd ridden his cock in the hotel room?

He had just hit me with the bombshell that had made this all seem like a Matryoshka doll situation. "I asked that you come to Amsterdam because I am launching a version of Strings for the stage here--for the gay district. I've rewritten it as a porn play. It always had homosexual undercurrents. That now comes out in the open. The play will be short, but it has four sex scenes--graphically acted. One as Clifford takes Neal on as a student, one when they have become established as lovers as well as collaborators, one where the chauffeur forces himself on the young student and Neal can't claim it isn't what he wants, and then at the end, when Clifford dispatches Neal on the desk. The dispatching will be done during sex."

"A play? You want to remake Strings in to a pornographic play? Clifford and the chauffeur fucking Neal on stage for a live audience every weekday night and twice on Saturday."

"Yes, precisely. This is Amsterdam. It will be a smash hit. Not just one cast, no. There will be two casts to give it flexibility. But the lead cast--I will play Clifford and I'd like you to come over for the opening run to take the role of Neal."

"You want to fuck me three times every week day and six times on Saturday for a live crowd?"

"Yes, although we're actors. And it wouldn't be performed that frequently. We'll manage to come across realistically even if we can't get it up a time or two. I always did you well, didn't I?"

Yes, he always had done me more than well, as a matter of fact. That complicated all of that. Even now, when he had moved behind me and was massaging my neck and shoulders, I was hard for him. That had muddled the whole issue up.

He wasn't finished, though. "And beyond that, I want to film the stage play too--make a commercial video out of it. Make Strings into something like a Matryoshka doll. It had started as a legitimate stage play. Inside that was a TV movie. Now, inside that will be an avant-garde gay play--and then, at the core, a porn video. Isn't that brilliant? We have film coverage from when we were together in the stage play. We'd just need to reshoot a couple of scenes to get the graphic sex in."

"But the third character," I said. "Brad Hayden isn't here to play the scenes, is he?"

"No, he's not. But Ben is his near double. Viewers will believe it's one person--Brad in the existing film footage; Ben doing the sex scenes."

Yes, I could see that. And, yes, it was brilliant. But that ignored the issue that it was mine--that I had written it--that he was deciding to do things with it when it didn't belong to him.

That's the first time I became fully aware that I had lost control of my body. I could feel everything. I could feel that Trevor had pulled my shirt over my head and was standing behind me, his hands on my pecs, massaging me there with his hands, toying with my nipples, getting me harder and harder. I was panting, but I could not control my movement. I was relaxing under his touch, stretching out my arms, spreading and turning my legs out, and elevating my hips. He slid my trousers and briefs off my legs and I did nothing to oppose that.

He had drugged my drink. Shades of Strings.

"Please come in and help me, Ben," Trevor called out, and Ben Hayden appeared.

"Let's carry him into the theater. I want to fuck him--to redo the chauffeur forced scene in the theater seats, but with both of us. They are rehearsing the death scene on stage. I want Rick to have that to watch while we have our way with him. I want to watch you fuck him too."

Why were they doing this, I was thinking, as Ben flung me over his shoulder, legs dangling behind and arms and torso in front, handling me like I was as light as a pillow. They'd both fucked me regularly before. I'd always done a good job of it. I wouldn't have turned them down even now, despite how I felt of them as people. As men, they had great cocks. But, this, of course, was the drugged drink talking. I knew why they were doing this. I knew where this was headed. My claim of proprietary rights blocked Trevor's clear sailing on doing two more versions of Strings.

* * * *

They carried me out to the theater, where lights were on on the stage but the rest of the theater was dimmed out. They put me into a chair in the center of the back row, spread my legs, and draped them over the arm. This matched what the play said about the chauffeur forcing himself on the character of Neal. I noticed then that lights and cameras were set up on tripods facing the chair I was put in. Ben turned them all on. They were going to film this. This was how I was going to be in their porn movie. They were going to shoot a couple of graphic sex scenes with me in them and edit it into coverage they already had from our TV movie version, for which Trevor owned the rights, having cut me out of that altogether.

Three men were on the stage, which was set up as a lavish, wood-paneled study, with a massive desk center stage. The set was identical to the one we'd had in the Off Broadway stage play version we'd done of Strings. The chauffeur had just entered the stage.

One man was perhaps in his fifties and dressed in a velvety burgundy dressing gown--identical to one that Trevor wore in our stage version of Strings. He looked very distinguished. The younger player--maybe in his mid-twenties--looked ruffled but gorgeous. He was a golden-blond, wearing only low-slung athletic shorts, and looking oh so vital and out of place in the setting. The chauffeur's costume, cut to bring out his hunkiness, made his role obvious and brought an ominous note to the scene because of how thuggish he appeared. The young man was drinking from a glass with the older man watching him intently. I wanted to scream, "Don't drink that," at the younger man, but when I opened my mouth, no sound came out--at least that I could hear.

They were speaking, but in my drugged state, which permitted me to feel everything but not able to do anything about anything--everything came across like they were talking underwater. Although I focused on Trevor's mouth while he was talking with Ben, I didn't understand anything they were saying either. I could hear myself panting and moaning, though, as both men ran their hands over my body. Ben moved in back of the row of seats and was behind me, working my pecs with his hands. I leaned my head back into his groin to discover he had unzipped himself and his hard cock protruded from his fly.

Trevor was stroking my cock and went down on his knees in front of me. He cupped my buttocks and lifted and rolled them up. I groaned and went into low moans as he buried his face between my butt cheeks and began opening my ass with his tongue. Ben grasped my head between his hands and arched it back, taking my mouth with his.

Coming out of the kiss, Ben lifted my head again so that my eyes went to the stage. The young man had fallen back onto the desk on his back. He was stretched out on the body of the chauffeur, who was naked, his cock clearly buried in the young man's anal passage. The older men, having unsashed his robe to let it open, revealing he was naked inside the robe, gaunt but hard bodied, and in thick, long erection, hovered over the young man from the front. He slid the athletic shorts and a jock off the younger man's legs, without resistance. The younger man appeared to be drugged out, his face turned toward the audience, an expression on his face that was half vacant, half sensual. He was a handsome young man. Grasping the young man's ankles, the older man wishboned his legs, raising and spreading them, mounted and penetrated the young man, and began to fuck him.

The actor playing the young student was being fucked, live, in a double penetration by the older actor and the one playing the chauffeur.

I lost contact with what was happening on the stage at that point, because Ben arched my head back again. He forced his cock down my throat and I gave him languid head. At the same time, Trevor stood, blocking any view I would have of the stage, grasped my ankles, raised and spread my legs, put himself into position, penetrated and slid his slender but impressively long cock up into the quick of me, and began to stroke. I felt it all, and being a promiscuous submissive, I enjoyed and went with it. Weak as I was, I was able to give Ben good head and to rock my pelvis with Trevor's fuck. The moaning involuntarily produced deep inside me told the pair of men that they could have their way with me--and they did.