Ya Gotta Do Wha'cha Gotta Do Ch. 02

This is an original story in three chapters. All are written and will appear regularly, space permitting. Although I have used the character names of some of the cast of West Side Story and have mentioned at least one of the revival theatres, no specific correspondence to any person or place is intended. This is entirely fiction. All characters engaged in sexual acts are over 18, as should be any reader where local law so requires. The story is focused on the young star, Kirk Olsen, all told in his voice. AI was not used in the composition of this piece. © 2021, All rights reserved. Brunosden

The non-stop American flight to St. Martin touched down just after lunch. Customs and immigration were efficient. So Brent and I were on our way to his family's villa (now his and his sister's) at La Samanna, on the French side of the island and relatively far north. The resort was beautiful and isolated, containing about 120 luxurious hotel rooms, 2 restaurants, several bars, a spa, and a dozen single family villas with pools. Everything was modern, shiny and new—a hurricane had wiped out the previous hotel about six years before.

The family home was concrete, painted a brilliant white, with sea blue working shutters. It sat on top of a 30 foot cliff-promontory just to the south of the main part of the hotel—with a sheltered and private pool between the house and the cliff's edge, of course with a private infinity edge toward the sea. Tropical plants were everywhere. Views of the Caribbean were spectacular, particularly from the whole-floor owner's suite and terrace at the top. The house was not staffed as such, but the hotel concierge had stocked the grocery staples and there was daily maid service for the beds and baths. It was off-season, so we were practically alone. We had decided to rent a car so we could sample some of the famous French cuisine, particularly in Grande Casse, do some duty-free shopping, and visit a few of the remote beaches (including the largest nude beach in the world). The concierge met us, gave us the quick tour and introduced us to AC controls, security codes, etc. The villa was mostly open on the first floor with space for cooking, dining and entertaining; the second floor had three en suite bedrooms. The top floor was the owners' suite with a giant bath and a large terrace facing the sea. He took reservations for meals and spa treatments. By four o'clock we were relaxing poolside with cold drinks, planning to try the hotel's cuisine in a few hours.

Brent and I had met about six weeks before. I was then nearing the end of a two year run, playing Tony in a revival of West Side Story, having won a Tony. ("A Tony for Tony," the Daily News headlined.) Brent, by inheritance, was a producer/angel (owner) of the musical—although very young. I had invited him to my dressing room after a rehearsal. He appeared as I was sitting at the vanity mirror removing makeup, dressed only in boxer briefs. Angelo had already taught me that if I wanted to hook—or be hooked by a potential producer, investor, or anyone else who could further my career, this was the appropriate costume and venue to start the process. It left little of me or my intent to the imagination. I wasn't into coy packaging or "twenty-one questions." We talked a bit as I used the makeup pads. He was almost visibly drooling. He couldn't keep his eyes from drifting to my chest and my tight briefs.

Then he invited me to a post-show dinner. He knew the restaurant scene—we went to Sardi's where he was immediately given a choice table. (And where I was recognized as a Broadway up-and-comer.) We clicked immediately. Conversation flowed easily. And I think I was as attracted physically to him as he was to me. He was about my height, really down to earth for a New York society boy, blond, with sea blue eyes and straight dirty blond hair, which occasionally dropped over his eyes. He dressed like a JPress mannequin. And the fitted, French-cuffed shirt and tailored suit did nothing to hide his solid, muscular physique, tight ass and basket. Within a few days, I was in his coop and in his bed in the historic Montana on Central Park West. Within a week, this was a regular date on days when I didn't have a matinee. He was going to enjoy more than money dividends from his father's investment. I was already making sizable deposits on a regular basis.

The apartment had been his Dad's and was filled with Broadway memorabilia—including a large poster for our play, signed by all the cast. It portrayed me bare-chested, with a hungry seductive look, staring into Maria's eyes. Both of us were seated on rumpled sheets which conveniently "almost" hid our X-rated parts. It was shot from the side (underwear conveniently removed for the shot), the rounded globes of my ass peaking above the sheet. My ab cuts were deeply shadowed by the lighting—and many of the cast had signed on the bulging ab muscles, seeming to be claiming title! It still is one of the sexiest pictures ever taken of me—or any other actor—short of full frontal porn. (So the "chance" meeting in the dressing room was not his first view of my near naked body.)

It was the only dark night in the theatre's week—and I was prepared to invest it in Brent. It was going to be our first real date after the late Sardi's supper. We had met for drinks and an early dinner, and he had offered to show me the iconic coop where he now lived. While neither of us had exchanged personal information (specifically our sexual preferences), we both assumed the other was gay. Brent did the full tour. The ceilings were ultra-high, the floors old dark wood, the moldings authentic. It was furnished post-modern and with exciting modern art interspersed with the memorabilia. It was masculine (Brent's mother had died years before and his father had redecorated then) and comfortable. He finished the tour in the lavish bedroom "on the park" with an enormous king bed and a recently remodeled spa-bath. "I had to taxi directly to the restaurant from the office. So I haven't had a chance to clean up and change. Please make yourself at home," he said, as he pointed to the chrome and glass bar and a comfortable leather sofa facing the park, both in the alcove of the bedroom.

Brent removed his jacket, tie, belt, and shoes. Then he dropped his trousers and unbuttoned and removed the white French-cuff shirt. Everything was placed carefully on a wardrobe tree—he was obviously meticulous with his outfits. (I realized at that moment that this bachelor pad was spotless. Everything was in its place.) Then, he turned toward me, wearing only a pale blue boxer brief which he seemed to fill nicely. He was tanned and lightly muscled with a light coating of peach fuzz on most of his body. He was narrow hipped with a nice high squat-built bubble butt. His blond hair was obviously not from a bottle. His six-pac and the deep muscular vee which disappeared into the waistband betrayed hours in the gym—and a careful diet. All was nicely set off with a curly treasure trail that pointed the way. "Can I interest you in a shower? Will you join me?" So he had taken the first step.

I rose from the sofa, removed shirt and slacks—but I was commando, so I was presenting myself naked. "I guess I'm over-dressed, as usual." With these words, he hooked the band of the briefs and pulled them down, giving me a nice view of his cute little ass as he did so. He turned back. He had a beautiful cock, cut, about 8 inches long and reasonably thick, but with a nice dark piece of fruit topping his shaft. "Here I thought I was going to be the size guy. Look at you. You're a fucking god with a very divine piece of meat hanging between your legs. It's no wonder you are a star. The shower is that way. Clearly, you're the biggest dick in the room." He walked into the bath, his ass cheeks bouncing seductively before me as he did so. I was intrigued. He was a producer—entitled to certain considerations, and a junior shark investment banker—accustomed to dueling and getting his way. I wondered how this was all going to work. I knew the routine. I was ready to receive, but I waited for him to give the cues.

The shower was large and hot. We were hotter. We soaped. We stroked. We caressed. We hugged. He turned to the marble wall, spread arms and legs and bumped his ass back into me. Of course, I answered the invitation and carefully soaped and washed his cheeks, crevice and hole before reaching under to fondle his low hangers. I grabbed some conditioner and inserted a few fingers. He pushed his ass into me, a nice big implicit "welcome home." Then, in reciprocity, I followed his lead—and he replicated my seduction. Finally, I took him into my arms and we kissed. I probed with a tongue, and he opened. My hands went to his ass and pulled him into me. Our cocks battled for space since we were practically glued to each other. Finally, breathless and aroused we stepped out. It is always so much more fun to shower with a friend. And when the friend is built like Brent, the pleasure is doubled. We toweled off, and Brent reached into a closet and brought out two short terry robes, handing one to me.

"I'm usually a bottom, Kirk. But, I could top if that's what you usually expect from a producer. You get to call the play."

"I prefer to top—but in this business, I've learned to be anything I must be. Tonight, being top suits me just fine. That is one of the nicest asses I've ever seen." Looking at our fully-exposed nudity, I laughed, "Actually, there are no suits involved, are there? Shall I wrap?"

"I am not a player, really. Typically, I'm too busy. But, I always wrap and require my partners to do so, and for safety, I get tested every few months. I'm reasonably sure that I'm clean."

"I am too. In show business, I'm often expected to "perform" for an agent, a director, an investor—but I always insist on wrapping. And I get tested often, last week in fact."

"Does that mean you want to do me bareback?"

"I think maybe we wrap until we decide where we are with each other."

"That's fine with me. I want to take this slow. I think we could have a future. Let's not screw it up. But let's screw, now. There are condoms and lube in the bedside table."

Brent moved to the bed, pulled the duvet off, dropped his open robe and stretched out—on his back. I too stripped and followed. I had decided already. If this had a potential to be long term, my first was going to be long and loving. I was going to take him places he had never been. I pushed his legs apart and lay on top. My hands went behind his head and I reached in to kiss those rosy lips. At first, Brent was a little passive, but his tongue was soon dueling with mine. Meanwhile, his hands were roaming my back, massaging the muscles, finally cupping my ass cheeks and squeezing them, like ripe melons. A finger slid into the crack and started to rim me. His legs crossed over my thighs, and although I was on top, I was clearly his prisoner. He proved it by deeply inserting his index finger. It felt so good. I released his lips and began to kiss and tongue his neck. His eyes hooded and his cheeks colored in passion

Finally, I rolled back on my thighs and lifted his calves to my shoulders, placing his gateway within inches of my tongue. I rimmed, blew on the opening, and he shivered, causing his anal opening to quiver like a little flower opening. It was tiny. So I lubed a finger and slowly entered to open it enough for the next act. My tongue darted in and he began to grab the sheets with his fists. Then it was more lube—one, two, three fingers, deeper and deeper, reaching and tapping the prostate; petting it like a nice warm chestnut. He was reasonably open now, but nearly over the top. I could tell. So I released him and placed my deep red dickhead at his entrance. I knocked and he breathed deeply and opened. He didn't seem to be feeling pain, only pleasure. So I continued to drive to the bottom with long slow strokes. Our musk began to fill the air. His nipples hardened and darkened. His abs tensed. So did mine. I was almost there. So was he. Brent drew his legs around my ass and his heels pulled me in deep. He was smiling, and the lust in his eyes suggested that this guy was a sensitive, passionate partner—and not so inexperienced as he had implied. He might be a bottom, but he was an active, participating bottom.

Then I exploded into the condom bulb head—but with enough force and heat that surely he felt it. That tipped him and he sprayed his white creamy spunk onto both of our chests while he tightened his ass muscles around my cock. I dropped down, squirmed in the cum, and once again took his mouth in mine. I think we're a good fit, a really good fit. I liked being in his bed and his arms. And I had the feeling we were having the same thoughts. He was so different from Angelo and the others who had taken me in the previous years, all assuming I owed. This guy was hard and soft—and capable of deep emotions. In short, he was lover material, not yet hardened by the industry.

A few minutes later, we untangled, robed and Brent made us a couple of drinks. We moved to the sofa enjoying the post-coitus aromas and watched the twinkling lights in the condos on the other side of the park. It was amazing. We were in the largest city in the country, only blocks from the entertainment capital of the world. Yet, outside his window were treetops, a lake, and gardens. The tall condos on Fifth seemed miles away.

We talked and he described his background which was so different from mine. He had spent his whole life as a big city boy with wealthy parents: private schools, nannies, summer camps in New Hampshire, travel, Yale and Wharton. Then he was recruited by Goldman. (He couldn't join his Dad's smaller firm because of strict anti-nepotism rules.) When his Dad died, he had moved—into the coop and into his Dad's firm. He wasn't yet a partner, but was clearly expecting to be one soon. Rather than buying him out when his Dad had died, the partners had "escrowed" the share and were paying monthly profit sharing "dividends" on the escrow. So with the inheritance, he really didn't need the money—but he did very much need the challenge of working and "earning" a partnership.

I told him about my more mundane upbringing in Fairfield County. Then, I admitted that I only had an Associate Degree—having withdrawn from Byrd after only a few months. I talked extensively about my show biz experience, but clearly my formal education did not match his. We realized we were almost the same age, although each of us had followed a very different path to our present successful positions. It did seem that we had a common interest: the theatre, all of it, classic and new, drama, comedy and musical. And, we were also both gym rats.

He asked about the future.

"I'm really not sure at this point. As you know, my run as Tony will end in a few weeks. They asked me to stay. But, I'm afraid to get stale—and also afraid to be type-cast as Tony for the rest of my career."

"As of now, my agent has presented several opportunities: join one of the three road companies that will take WSS nationally, a six to twelve month commitment (and maybe a step down after staring on Broadway, but very lucrative—if I stayed with the company for a full year, it would mean a million dollars); consider a TV series—I've already auditioned for the little screen, and apparently they were pleased, as I was invited to begin work as soon as my run ends; or, wait for another Broadway part. I love the theatre. I like having an audience to energize me—so I'm really not sure about TV, although it obviously also pays well—and keeps on paying if the series is successful. And, right now no one is offering me another big Broadway part. I can't afford to rest for long. Entertainment people—and fans—have short memories. In a year, they will forget me, unless I'm acting again."

"There is even a long shot option: maybe I should go back to Byrd and finish up. I can afford it easily now, and I'm sure they would take me back."

"I've got a lot to think about—and not much time to do so." I couldn't believe that I had confided all of that on one of our first dates. He already owned my potential. I had been honest and open—both were rarities for me.

"I'm not going to offer advice. But, I will say that when Dad died, I was really bummed. He was my best friend and my mentor. I loved him, really loved him. He had been mother and father to me since I was a teenager. Now, my younger sister has become dependent on me to supply her with the funding to maintain an active social life. That won't be hard. Dad had left enough for both of us. Then, I realized his death was going to force me to decide on a future much earlier than I had ever expected. Should I stay at Goldman—and make my name? Or should I move to my legacy slot in Dad's firm? After weeks of deliberation, going one way, one day; the other, the next, I decided to honor my father and move. Now it's about six months later, and I'm so happy that I made that decision. I've already got a little more control over my time—and the things that I get to work on. It really is corny, but if you can, follow your dream. You'd regret anything else, and it might be too late if you wait."

All the while we were talking, our hands were searching and caressing. We were both hard again—and the robes did little to hide that. Brent put his glass down and leaned in for a kiss. "Do you want to spend the night? I realize you have a performance tomorrow, but I'm guessing that your morning is free. I can make mine free if you're interested."

And so, there it was. Our first time together became our first night together. This was moving much faster than I had anticipated. But, I really liked this guy. And apparently the feelings were mutual.

I grabbed his dick through the open robe and pulled him to the bed. After embracing for several minutes while I sucked on his warm smooth neck skin, Brent broke the clinch and positioned himself into the "take-me" shoulder-down pose. I got up behind him, pushed his legs apart and dove in for my midnight snack. The atmosphere was perfect. Hormones and cum scented the air. The room was lit only from the outside lights flickering on the off-white walls of the bedroom, flickering in the mirrors and metal picture frames. And, he was delicious. My fingers reached under to his shaft and were soon coated with his precum. I added that spice to the mix. Nicely salty with a touch of sweetness. Having cum only an hour before, both of us were ready this time for a longer session. I edged him several times to near completion. Finally, he started pleading, "I need you inside now, Kirk. I need to be filled with your big cock. Do it. Do it now."

I wrapped, lubed both of us again and began a slow penetration. Brent was having none of this. He slammed back into me and pushed me onto my thighs. Then he planted himself in my lap. "Yes. I can feel you deep inside. You're the biggest I've ever had. I love it. Fuck, it feels so good. I love the stretch." I pulled out, moved to the edge of the bed and positioned him in my lap, this time facing me. Our chests touched. Brent reached around my neck and used the leverage to drop back, deepening his impalement. This brought me into hard, direct contact with his prostate. He hissed, slid up and down a bit and then he shot—hitting my lips and cheeks. I stood, pivoted and dropped on top, my legs stretched out toward the floor. He straightened his legs and squeezed his thighs, trapping my cock hard inside. I was cuming, but he was tightening the pressure. The effect was perfect—he managed to strangle my orgasm and stretch it out. Finally, I grabbed his ass cheeks, and, using my legs, lofted him off the bed and filled. He sat up, pressed out chests together and began to lick his cum from my face. This guy was an erotic animal. Probably the best bottom I've ever taken—because he didn't really act like a bottom. He was a man, not a twink. I could be rough—and I could be tender. He'd love both. Soon he relented and rolled to my side. I slipped behind him, spooned him into my chest, planted my head at the back of his aristocratic neck, and moved my leg protectively over his. Then I reached over and pulled him in close. I could feel the shiver, then the relaxation. I had my boy, my lover. This was Kismet. Before long, we were asleep.