Once Is Not Enough

When I was open to him, he fucked me slowly at first, giving it to me to the root, pulling it all back, and giving it all to me again. He was handsome and his brown, Asian body was beautiful—slim but well-muscled—his countenance exotic, arousing. I liked brown a few times a year. This would satisfy that. He was my first Jap, though. All the other browns I'd taken had been either African or Caribbean in origin.

There was no denying, either, that he was impossibly long and used every inch. And he was a screen star. I laid there and moaned as he pulled his pelvis back and withdrew slowly, more than eight inches, and I groaned as he pushed his pelvis forward and buried it all. His pubic hair was curly and silky. I knew each time when he was fully inside me by the tickle of his pubic hair on my inner thighs. I trimmed my bush close. All the men I knew did too. That he had a bush was arousing. I moved my pelvis with him, riding on the waves of want with him. He could have fucked me like that for hours. But he didn't.

As we got into the intensity of the fuck, he moved his hands from where his fists were bearing down on my nipples to my shoulders. I was pushing up on my pelvis, swaying with him in the ride, as he pumped me deep. I looked up into his eyes and saw a change in him. His eyes were flashing and he took on a cruel look. Unexpectedly, he slapped me twice on the face, first in one direction and then the other. I started to object, to roll out from underneath him. But he was powerful. He was pinning me to the bed. His hands went to my throat and he squeezed. He started with breath play. I'd heard about it, but never had it done. I had it done to me now.

He had his hands around my throat, tight, and was controlling my breath—squeezing to deny me air and then releasing, letting me take deep gasps of breaths before closing off my air passage again.

"This will send your arousal higher," he explained when I gave him a frightened look. I wasn't sure my arousal with him could go any higher. I was dancing on the clouds.

His thumbs were pressed up into the soft tissue behind my jaw. The breath control was being coordinated with his deep thrusts inside me. I was gagging and gasping. I wanted to tell him to stop but I couldn't catch enough breath to do so. He was fucking me good below, but this breath control crap was scaring the shit out of me.

I could tell we were both coming to a climax. We reached a point where I was sure he wasn't going to stop squeezing, wasn't going to let me take a last breath. But the spell was broken by a knock at the door and a called out, "De'Andre? You in there De'Andre?" Mori held there, let enough air into my lungs so that I didn't pass out. He remained hard and deep inside me, but not pumping.

Had we locked the door when we came in? I couldn't remember. If it had been left up to Mori, I'm sure he'd have left it unlocked. Are we going to be discovered? A chill traveled up my spine. Was some black bruiser going to come in? Would he snort and leave or would he stay and watch Mori rough fuck me? I wasn't destined to know. The door knob rattled but the door held closed and then footsteps outside shuffled on down the corridor.

Mori's grasp on my throat tightened. I had been digging my fingernails in his shoulder blades, trying, ineffectively, to push him off me. I was seeing stars before my eyes. He was pumping hard. He tensed and held and then released into the bulb of his condom. I ejaculated at the same time, and, as I did, I blacked out.

* * * *

When I came to, I was sprawled, naked on the bed, and Mori and his clothes were gone. One of his address cards slipped off my chest. It fell beside five crisp hundred-dollar bills. I picked it up from the surface of the mattress and turned it over. Scrawled on the back was the message, "Sorry. Wanted you bad. Not so rough the next time. I'll call Horace tonight. Promise."

Next time, I thought. I don't think so.

He called the next day. "You OK, Billy? You were great. It won't be as intense the next time, I promise."

"I'm OK, I guess," I answered. "But, umm—"

"I called Horace. He says for you to call him. Got a pen? I'll give you his number."

I took the number down. "Uh, Mr. Mori. About last night—"

"When can I see you again?"

"About that. I don't think—"

"Uh, sorry. I've got to ring off. I think a call I've been expecting is coming in."

I got the four-appearances part in All Is Relevant. And I got my Equity card too. I was a Hollywood actor now. And I could float the studio apartment on my own for four more months.

* * * *

Three weeks later I almost didn't answer the telephone. "Do you know who Earl Stanley is?" Mike Mori asked right off the bat when I did answer the phone.

I had expected that he would mention something about having choked me in sex to the point of making me black out. That had disturbed me greatly, especially since, otherwise, that had been the best sex I'd ever had. God, he could fuck deep. But then Mr. Mori had suggested that it was the best sex because the choking had been involved. I didn't know what to think. I thought that it should be mentioned, should be discussed, and I suspected that it was a dangerous perversion, but I just didn't know. I'd never been fucked by an important, sophisticated man, like a television star, before. I just didn't know. But he didn't mention it at all, which left me somewhere between confusion and thinking that it was a standard sex technique that I was too naïve to know about and appreciate.

"No, I don't," I admitted. If he hadn't launched immediately into the pitch, I don't know what I would have said before disconnecting from his call. I didn't want to be rude, though. The man had gotten me jobs. He'd gotten me my Equity card. He probably would be a bad enemy to make in Hollywood. He'd given me the best sex I'd ever had, and he'd provided a breather on my rent. But, speaking of breathing . . .

"He's a TV producer. A powerful one. He's looking for an actor to play an older teen in a family sitcom he's putting together for Fox. He's willing to talk to you."

"Me? A sitcom. A speaking role?"

"A regular on the program. Maybe a major part if you win audience appeal. I believe you can."

"Do you have a number for me to call?"

"He wants to meet you. To audition you personally. He wants me to set it up at my house. A small pool party, just the three of us. This Saturday afternoon. Say, at 2:00 p.m.?"

Silence. We both knew what that meant, what he was proposing. What this producer wanted. What Mori wanted again.

"I don't know where you live." I was playing for time. My chance for a continuing role. My step up.

"I live in Eagle Rock, east Los Angeles, near where I-2 and I-134 meet. I'll pay for a taxi, coming and going. It's on Lockhaven Avenue."

"What's the address?" I asked. "And you say 2:00 p.m. Saturday?"

"Yeah." He gave me the street address. "Wear a tiny Speedo and a winning smile. And practice saying 'yes.' This could be your big break if you play your cards right."

"You're saying I'll be—"

"Yes, you most certainly will unless Stanley decides right off the top he doesn't like you."

* * * *

Earl Stanley was a walrus of a man and was ugly as sin. He blustered and undressed me with his eyes and crudely made clear from the beginning what I was going to do for him to get this part. I shuddered and put myself on autopilot to the extent I was able to.

He had the balls to wear a tiny Speedo too, his stomach drooping over it so that you could only tell from the side and back views that he was wearing one at all. But he knew who had the power here. He didn't care what he looked like. He was only interested in what I looked like—and what I'd do for him. He did have the big balls for it, though, and what we called a beer can dick—impossibly thick, not that long.

He told me what he wanted me to do for him, and I did it.

We swam in the pool, cavorting a bit while he made crude sexual remarks and I responded in words and ways that increased his arousal. I knew what was what here. Mori, also in a Speedo, sat on the end of a lounge bed and watched us. Stanley wanted to play touchy-feeling, and I said yes. He pulled my back into his belly, and I whispered, "Yes, yes," for him, knowing that's what he wanted to hear.

I shuddered as he rubbed and pinched my nipples and closed his teeth on the back of my neck. I arched one hand back to hold the back of his balding head to me while I covered the hand working my nipples with my hand, and whispered, "Please, please," because I knew that's what he wanted to hear. And when his hand moved down my sternum and across my belly and under the waistband of my Speedo and covered my genitals, my hand was still covering his and I was shuddering and I whispered, "Please. Fuck me, please. Fuck me. Put it in me," because I knew that was what he wanted to hear. I willed myself to go hard for him as he fondled my genitals, showing that he could arouse me. There didn't seem to be any trouble arousing him; he was wheezing and shaking and his thick, hard cock was pressing into my crack behind.

One of his hands went down between us, pushed my Speedo down midway onto my thighs, and positioned his cock head at my hole, and then he was inside me, stretching me, moving inside me just a couple of inches in my passage. I panted, expected him to open me up at any moment and sink inside and start to pump. I panicked a bit, wondering if he was wearing a condom, but there wasn't anything I could do about that now.

After a while, Stanley hauled me up out of the water and laid me on the terracing at the edge of the pool on my back, my legs dangling down into the water. He indeed had been sheathed. He pulled that one off his cock and rolled another one on.

"We're gonna make fuckin' music," he said, and I said "yes." He pulled the Speedo off my legs, came between them, and took my cock in his hand and mouth. And I said "yes." He moved my legs so that they draped over his shoulders. I let him manipulate me like I was a rag doll.

In a gravelly voice, he said, "I'm going to fuck the shit out of you." And I said "yes."

Throughout, Mori stood nearby as a witness that I had said "yes" to everything.

I gave Stanley the expected moans and groans as he sucked my cock and balls and ate my ass out. Mori came over to the side of the pool, went down on his knees, leaned over me, and fed his cock into my mouth.

Stanley sucked me off until I came. Then he came out of the water, laid me on my back on the lounge bed, straddled the bed with his legs, wishboned mine with his fists grasping my ankles and raising and spreading my legs, forced his sheathed cock inside me, and fucked me. I concentrated on the role I was auditioning for and on the fat cock inside me, filtering out the reality of the crude ogre the nicely filling cock was attached to. By doing so, and demonstrating my acting ability, I was able to fool him that he was the best cocksman on the planet.

The memory of declaring to Mori just a short time before that I wasn't a rent-boy with the knowledge that I now was a male whore giving everything that was demanded of me to get what I wanted flashed through my mind, and I grimaced. But this was getting me what I so badly wanted, what I knew I'd do anything to get—even to the point of putting my life in danger. I wasn't fooling myself about what lying under Mori meant I was risking. "Yes, yes," I cried out. "Fuck me. Fuck me hard! You're a brute. You're a stud. Give it to me!" and, with a grunt, the satisfaction that I was reveling at having him inside me, and renewed strength, Stanley did so. His girth was taxing and he seemed to grow in length. He was fucking me good. I closed my eyes and thought only of his cock, stretching me and pounding me. No need for acting anymore, and the heat of me conveyed to the ogre, who was getting what he wanted from a younger, fitter, beautiful man-boy.

"Yes, Yes! Oh, shit, fuck me. Get it, get it, get it!"

At length Stanley turned us, him on his back on the bed, and me riding his cock in a crab position, my arms behind me and bent and my legs bent and on either side of his fat torso as I raised and lowered myself on his cock. He obviously wanted me to demonstrate that I'd work at giving him whatever he wanted. I gave him the performance he wanted.

It was only after that that we discussed the part I was auditioning for. Mori's house was a Japanese style one. The living room, dining area, and kitchen all ran together in one large space overlooking his swimming pool, and down toward the ocean, the city of Los Angeles. All of the furniture was austere and low slung.

He had red vinyl bean bag chairs in the living area, and we sat around in them, in dressing robes, discussing the projected TV series and the parts in it and the various actors already involved and planned. Stanley sat close beside me and fondled my genitals while we talked. We also discussed finances, and my mind was spinning from the figures Stanley was throwing out. We didn't settle anything, though.

That wasn't the last time my head was spinning. Mori served us drinks. As I was drinking my second one, my head started to spin, I lost motor control, and I was seeing stars before my eyes. I wasn't so out of it, though, that I didn't know when Stanley rose from his chair and turned to mine. He brushed my robe away from my naked body on both sides, wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling my pelvis up to him and straddled the chair. He forced his beer-can cock inside me again and pulled me on and off his cock. He was barebacking me.

I had the presence of mind to realize that Stanley had wanted to bareback and drugging me was Mori's only assurance that I would go that far with the man. I had no idea whether I would have with full control of my body, but it didn't matter, he was fucking me now, raw flesh in raw flesh. It was done—or at least after a heavy screwing it was done.

Later I asked Mike Mori if I was right about why I was drugged into paralysis, and he said, "That's partially why. Stanley likes to fuck them when they are totally vulnerable to him, as well—when they are unconscious and he can do with them what he wants."

"And is that why you like to use the breath control—to make me pass out? Do you share that fetish with Stanley?"

Mori laughed and said, "I don't think you want to know what I do with you while you're passed out."

I thought he was probably correct in that assumption.

Stanley fucked me for a good fifteen minutes, as paralyzed, I just lay there and took him, stars flashing in front of my eyes, my head spinning, but being able to fully feel the sensation of his thick cock inside me, slow pumping me, bringing me and him to the brink, but then holding off until the urge to blow had subsided. Then pumping me again, building to an explosion, and then, eventually, both ejaculating. Me first and then him, him coming to the surface to shoot his wad and then pushing it inside me again and pumping a few times before he stopped and held, breathing heavily. After several minutes, with his breath having turned regular and his cock reengorging, he turned me, face down into the bean bag chair. He fucked me doggie style there, barebacking me again, from behind. This time when he came inside me, he pulled out of me and was gone.

Stanley was replaced by Mori, in a condom, pushing in where Stanley had been, but deeper, pistoning harder and faster, putting his hands around my throat and squeezing, rhythmically. He was controlling my breath as he had done before, and coordinating the squeezing with the rhythm of his pumping inside me. My body flopped around helplessly under him as, like Stanley before him, he fucked me like a dog.

I blacked out. When I came too, the effects of whatever he'd put in my drink wearing off, we were on a bed in a bedroom. Just Mori and me. I was on my back, and he was between my bent and spread legs, his dick inside me, pumping, and his hands on my throat, his thumbs pressed up under my jaw, controlling my breath again and fucking me hard. His thumbs blacked me out again.

When I came to, he was sitting by the bed, in his dressing robe. I was still on my back on the bed, my legs bent and spread. But my butt was raised high on three pillows and there was a string of greased tear-shaped graduated balls strung out on the sheet between my legs. I don't know for sure if Mori had been playing with those inside me while I was unconscious—and I didn't ask—but my channel felt like it was gaping open, so . . .

"You OK, Billy?" he asked. "You did great. Stanley is ready to sign you."

I didn't answer. I just groaned.

"Maybe you want to go shower now," he said. "The bathroom's right over there."

I was standing in the shower, starting to soap myself off, when he came in, naked, behind me. "I thought you'd like someone to soap you up," he said, as he took the bar of soap out of my hand and ran it across my back. He came in close and kissed me on the nape of my neck. I could feel his hard cock at the small of my back. I shuddered, both wanting him and not wanting what he did to me.

"I could fuck you all day," he murmured into my ear.

I didn't doubt that one bit. I stiffened, though, scared he'd put me out and I'd hit something hard in the shower.

"You going to deny me, Billy?" he asked, "after what I've done for you—what I can do for you? I want only the best for you."

"And what do you want, Mike? What do you want from me?"

"You know what I want, Billy. I want your trust, and your submission. I want you to give me what I want, whenever I want it—whatever it is."

"No, Mike," I said in a whisper. "I'm not going to deny you."

He placed a hand on my belly, coaxing me to move my legs back and spread them, to jut my buttocks back into his pelvis. His erection was hard and long. It pushed under my balls and between my thighs. His other hand went to cupping my chin, pulling my head back into the hollow of his shoulder. He raised his pelvis and pulled back, his sheathed bulb searching for, finding, and positioning itself at my entrance. I was still gaping open from Stanley and him team fucking me earlier.

"Mike," I whispered.

"What?" he responded in a low voice.

"Take what you want. Do whatever you want."

I heard him groan and then me moan as he slid up into me, deep, and began to pump. His hand at my throat closed on my windpipe, and he controlled my breathing as he pumped me. The tightening of the hand, me holding my breath for as long as I could, even longer. The release of his grip and me raggedly sucking in air. The tightening of the hand. Me trying to concentrate all of my sensations on the long cock deep inside me—and on the next granted breath. Hoping for a soft landing when I blacked out. No longer fighting the idea that I would black out.

But I didn't black out in the shower. After he'd come, he held there. He loosened the hold on my throat and I brought my breathing under control.

"He wants you to come back to sign the contract," he said in a low voice. "Here. Next Saturday at 2:00 p.m."

I didn't answer at first, knowing why the signing would be here, knowing what I'd have to do for the walrus to get his signature.

"But will he want—?"

"We'll have you checked. This week. I'll refer you to my doctor and pay for it. And then again next week, after you've been with him. Yes, he'll want to bareback you. There's a risk, but it's minimal. I know he has himself checked. If there's anything, we'll catch it fast. There's never been a hint about him being anything but clean; such things get around here fast. This is Hollywood. We're ahead of the curve of what is generally available out there. But, yes, he will bareback you."

"You knew he'd want to bareback me before I came here today?"