Ya Gotta Do Wha'cha Gotta Do Ch. 02

We woke late the next morning to the bright light streaming through the east facing windows. We were covered only in a sheet and it was a bit chilly. But we were still spooning and sharing warmth. My cock had of course hardened and was planted firmly between his legs. My fist was holding his rock hard shaft like a subway pole. As my eyes opened, his face broke into a sleepy sexy smile, and he pushed deeper into me and said, "Good morning, lover. I could get into sleeping like this easily—very easily. But, I need to take care of some business before we play again."

I released him, but got up behind him and followed into the bath. He stood to empty, but I reached around and took his shaft to aim it. "You do know that's not going to work. I'm so hard it hurts. Let me finish and I'll be right back." So I stood back and waited my turn. We shared his toothbrush and hair brush and headed back. Within seconds, he was riding my steel hard rod, pinching my nips, as his cock bounced off my abs. It didn't take long. We both shot, again almost simultaneously, and he collapsed on my stomach.

"Let's shower and I'll buy you breakfast."

"Great. But remember, my diet is very restricted—breakfast is usually a three-egg-white veggie omelet with black coffee. Then I need to go home to get a change of clothes."

"That works for me. I should try to get in by 10. I'm ready to do this again. Just name the time and the day."

"We have two performances today. That means by 10:30 tonight I'm a limp rag."

"So long as it's not a limp dick, I can handle it."

"Seriously, I really can't handle a date on days when we have matinees. I'm just too exhausted. But, I'm certainly not blowing you off. How about Thursday?"

"I'm not sure I can wait 48 hours for another dose of Tony's tonic."

"I'm afraid you'll have to."

And thus over the next few weeks, Brent and I were together—sometimes at his place, sometimes at mine, but typically three or four nights a week. The sex got better and better. And we were becoming best friends. After two weeks, we decided to test and we started going bareback. We hadn't discussed exclusivity, but it was understood that we were—although Brent knew that my job might occasionally require me to perform some off-stage performance-duties. He wasn't happy about it. But, I promised to tell him when it happened and absolutely to wrap. Reluctantly he agreed. "Maybe sometime in the future, I can do something about it. But, I understand that a young actor like you—looking to find and keep hunky acting parts is going to have to perform off stage once in a while. Even my money can't change that reality."

We were approaching the last week before WSS shut down for two weeks, to reopen at another theatre with a completely new cast. That cast would not include me. Several members of the cast were understudying us already—and so I often had a shadow. Fortunately, that didn't give him presence in my dressing room or any proprietary rights to my body!

We had just finished an incredible night. I had taken Brent three times—and I had asked him to fuck me. He begged off, and changed the subject. "How about we take a short vacation after your last performance? My sister and I now have this house on St. Martin. I've checked and it's not rented, so we can have it. Let me make the arrangements. It'll be my gift to you, a celebratory trip. It'll give you time to think. And, yes, I'll be anxious to flip with you in the romantic Caribbean."

"Yes, absolutely yes. I'd love it. Fortunately, I have a passport. It will be great to get away. And getting away with you seems like a dream."

"I'll check on the details and we can talk later in the week."

**********

And so here we were, drinking cold white French wine, at the edge of a beautiful pool which seemed to pour off into the aqua waves of the sea. It was dry and cool; the sea air was salt-scented and perfumed with night-blooming jasmine; and we were totally relaxed. Both of us were nude and stretched out in the late afternoon sun on the chaises. "Let's try out that king upstairs before dinner."

Without another word, we climbed off the chaises and headed inside. The owner's suite was on the third floor, so we used the spiral staircase which seemed to be carved of coral rock. I let him lead. I loved watching the muscles of his ass move as he took each step. So, I was "coral rock" hard by the time we reached the top landing. The bed was on a platform—so that even when reclining in bed, you could have a view through the massive sliders and glass half walls at the edge of the terrace.

I reached over and took Brent into my arms, pulling his lips to mine. He responded slowly, then he attacked. I think he's going to follow through on his promise. I dropped to my knees and drew his manhood into my mouth, sucking and caressing him to long hardness. "Kirk, you are really a great cock-sucker. But, I want to fuck you. Don't push me over the edge yet." I released and moved to the bed, stretching out on my belly, spread-eagled over the center. Brent moved over me, carefully positioned his cock between my legs, poking my balls and began what felt like a full body massage. I hadn't seen him do it, but his front was covered in tanning oil, scented coconut. He moved his arms and legs, cocooning me as he nipped my neck—likely leaving marks (but I didn't need to be on stage for at least the next two weeks). Then he licked my ears. The room was fragrant with the heady, sexy coco scents of the Caribbean. Rising just a little, he wrapped his legs around my thighs and repositioned his cock into my crevice and began to slide the proverbial hot dog into my hot buns. My emotions and passions were rising. He was making love. I could feel it. He could cocoon me anytime; this was different, he was drawing me completely into his being, painting my crevice with his pre-cum which joined the coco oil.

Soon, he rose onto his knees, pushed the French bolster under my gut and used some of the oil to begin to lube my entrance. I felt his fingers, then his tongue. Finally he positioned and popped in. There was no pain, only pleasure. "Keep it coming. I'm ready." So he started to pump, carefully stroking the love button with each downstroke. I squeezed my ass muscles and he pushed harder and fell onto my back, molding completely. One hand reached under and fisted my cock; the other coddled my balls, kneading the contents to release. I really love a good ball massage and he was both gentle and insistent. His hips were rhythmically pushing in and pulling away from my ass. I could picture it even if I could only feel it. He was magnificent, I'm sure.

"I'm coming, Kirk. This is my first time without a wrap. I think it's going to be a big one. Tell me you can feel the heat and the volume. My balls are boiling and so full."

With those words, he started pumping—and pumping. I counted six shots. I was very full—with his nice sized dick and the cum it had deposited in my gut. I was going to drip for hours. Each time he pumped, he massaged my balls, pressed on the taint, and stroked my dick, pulling my cum into his hand. He wanted me to ride the same train with him. "Brent, that was terrific. I'm sorry that I waited so long for this." He stretched out and continued to cover me completely. I was content to rest beneath this guy and let him feel the pleasure of being in control. He was possessing my body—and maybe my soul.

Finally, he rose. "Let's get a shower and test the quality of the food here." We showered, dressed in identical white linen slacks (commando, of course) and button up shirts—very cool and very sheer. Leather sandals completed the look. We were both pink from the sun (and the recent time in bed), shining clean, perfumed in island coco, light-haired and obviously big-dicked—two Olympian visitors to earth. We approached the sea-side restaurant, hand in hand. The French are very romantic—and very understanding when it comes to same-sex relationships. But, we were over the top. The dim landscape lights were shining through our clothes—so we appeared naked, draped in gossamer veils. All eyes followed us, obviously silently measuring our dicks. More than a few licked lips.

We were led to a nice sea view terrace table, beautifully appointed in floral linens and exotic tropical flowers. The food was fusion: France meet Caribbean. We had a seafood chopped rillette (a coarsely chopped smoked shellfish pate with remouade sauce), steak-frites (but the steak had been marinated in jerk), and profiteroles stuffed with coco cream. I had not eaten so much in years. "We'll need to work this off. Or my options will be greatly limited when we get back to New York."

"I can think of a few ways to do that. And we do have a session with a trainer in the gym tomorrow followed by a joint massage. We can be more cautious tomorrow."

Later we walked back, hand in hand, to the villa as the night birds called out to their mates. We had both eaten too much to enjoy another encounter immediately. "Let's try a late night swim. I bet the water will feel great." As we entered the villa, we each undressed. Brent carefully folded his garments and placed them on the entry bench, ready to take them upstairs later. I on the other hand dropped everything to the marble floor.

"If we're going to live together, I'm going to have to train you, Kirk."

"I'm up for that. What kind of training did you have in mind?"

"Not the kind you're imagining. You need to respect your clothes and your environment. You don't have a wardrobe mistress at home. And my housekeeper only comes twice a week. It's one of my things. I can't live with a slob."

"I never thought of you as my mistress or my housekeeper—or myself as a slob. And I've never had a mistress who can fuck me to oblivion as you did earlier. I guess the jury is out about my tendency to leave clothes where I take them off."

"That's not what we're talking about and you know it." So I carefully picked up the trousers and shirt, folded them (not really so neatly) and placed them on top of Brent's.

He watched and frowned. "I'm guessing this is really going to take some time—and discipline. But, I've got the time. And I know how to discipline." Brent sat on the bench. "Okay, boy, bend over my knee." He was smiling, and I was certainly up for a new game. So, I bent over his knee and arched my back, presenting my butt deep into his lap for his inspection or whatever elese he had in mind. And inspect it he did—with his big open palm. He started whacking each cheek, harder and harder. Then he pulled them apart and probed the rim with his fingers. He wetted them with saliva and then pushed in until he reached the prostate. He poked, scraped, and using his thumb and index finger squeezed toward the taint. My cock was rigid as he squeezed it between his thighs. I nearly fell to the floor. "Oh, no, boy. I'm not through with you yet." He tapped a few more times and reached under and squeezed my dripping dick. "Are you going to be a good boy and hang up your clothes?"

"Yes, Daddy. For you. But, I guess you realize that if this is my punishment for failure, there are going to be many failures you'll have to punish."

"Enough. Let's go to the pool and you can cool that ass off. Then I'm going to destroy that ass with another baton."

*******

Later that night, we were stretched out on the bed, watching the stars glisten off the sea, holding each other closely and idly stroking each other. Brent had taken me missionary, deep and hard. "I wanna talk about the TV option if you're up to listen. It is planned to be a series. They will film 24 episodes—about 20 hours of product, which means, I am told, at least 80 hours in the "can" so to speak."

"In the past, episodes would be aired over a TV year and then rerun during the summer. Now, of course, they will also be streamed—so folks can binge and do the entire series in a night or two—so it's more like a long movie. It's a drama, really almost reality-TV with a small cast. It's topical and set in the recent past. Almost all the action takes place in a large house—almost like a halfway house—for young Marine vets who are suffering so badly from PTSD that living in family or alone is not possible. They are either a danger to the family or susceptible to suicide in the other. It's located on the Upper West Side. It's not a prison or even an institution, but the cast does not leave the house much during the series—and the times away are not filmed. The six co-star guys are all hunks, twenty-somethings, a little crude, mostly in speech, and haphazard in dress—mostly tees, cargo shorts, and combat boots.. Superficially at least, very macho. They've all had years of desert combat experience. They all have killed and been shot at. They all suffer from severe PTSD."

"The house is nominally supervised by a staff of therapists, two women and one man, all docs. So the guys are really in constant group therapy, each helping himself by helping house mates. There's lots of dialogue—sometimes crude, sometimes cruel, sometimes pathological. It's a little grim. Women are really incidental in the cast—two therapists, a cook and a housekeeper. None are sex objects, but the story is rigidly hetero. The men are not macho (except in dress and physical shape) or homophobes, but they may have been in the past. They are vulnerable and scared that things will never be the same again. There is no HEA—and at least in the first episodes, very little optimism. There is some violence, but no one is hurt—typically outbursts of brutality. It's all really very heady and black—only careful attention shows progress and change in the personalities and mental health of the six actors over the first season."

"All the filming will be done in New York, and the entire project might only take three months. The pay is good—and the potential for residuals and additional episodes is just okay—unless TV audiences are ready for a new kind of realism and a downer."

"What do you think?"

"I can only repeat your word, 'grim.' Do you know the director? Is this a chance to try out real character development? I'm sure you can find an acting coach who could help you turn this into a learning exercise. You could treat it like a semester at Byrd. It could be a great opportunity to grow. These guys are experiencing reeal pain with little anticipation of recovery. Can you do dark drama? Can you get into the part without destroying your own equanimity? Do you think it might hurt your career?"

"Great questions. The director has a good rep, but mostly in indie productions. His films tend to be cult films that win critical acclaim, but aren't box office burners. If the show is wildly successful, it could result in some typing. TV shows with wide distribution, serialization, streaming and repeats tend to reach a very large audience—and they can "doom" a popular actor to a single kind of role. But, I doubt that a show like this will be anything but a cult series."

"Over the last two years, I've become Tony—but Tony is not a complex character. He is an urban child of semi-poverty, growing up in a neighborhood in turmoil. Sort of an early version of lower class white antagonism to immigration—except that Puerto Ricans are really Americans. He's essentially a good guy, optimistic and going nowhere—and then he meets his love who changes his life. There isn't much new or subtle in those ideas. And Tony's persona doesn't really grow. It tempers a bit, but he's trapped in poverty and a violent city—and love. My success as Tony is the result of a good deep baritone voice, a good sense for classical/modern dance, and my body—not from my acting."

"I'm not sure any of those would even get me to first base in the series. Except, maybe, the body. I think they are planning quite a bit of nudity—or at least teasing shots. I've already told them I won't do nude scenes—at least not full frontal. The series is for Netflix—so they won't be concerned about a probable R, possible X rating."

"You amaze me, Kirk. You think very strategically. You'd make a good investment banker. And, by the way, the critics didn't agree that you are not a good actor."

"I doubt it. Don't ask me the square root of 100."

"That's not what I mean. I'm talking about looking at a deal—or your life—as a chess game. You've got to be many moves ahead strategically if you're going to succeed."

"I'm guessing you have already decided that continuing as Tony in the touring company is the least likely and least attractive option you have. Right now, another Broadway chance hasn't been presented. This is only three months. Unless you think it has negative potential for your image, I'm guessing you are considering it seriously. If so, let's make the most of it. Let's find a coach and treat this as a learning experience—which might pay off. But if it doesn't, we will have learned a lot about you. And we won't have lost much."

I was beginning to notice that almost all of his statements used "we" rather than "you" or "I." "This is the second time tonight, Brent, that you've played my Daddy. I'm a sucker for an authority figure. That's probably what attracted me to Angelo." With those words, I rolled over. I'm ready for the fuck of my life. Do me Dad. Take me hard."

As I rolled onto my belly, I pulled a pillow under my gut and pushed my ass (still a little red from his beating) high into the night air. "You asked for it, son."

I was ready for a little role play. Brent had started it. He was now going to finish it. He lubed me and opened me up—while putting on his most threatening, dominating face (a tough role for him as he had usually bottomed and was always a sweetheart). He entered slowly. "Fuck, old man, don't you have more than that?"

"I sure do. And you're gonna feel it deeper than ever." He rolled me onto my back, grabbed my calves and placed them on his shoulders. He pulled me to the edge. Then, he plunged. He stretched out his arms to my calves and rolled me up on my shoulders. He was standing at the foot of the bed, drilling down into me. I was impaled in the ultimate submissive pose—where the sub looks into the eyes of his dom and understands control, lust and passion—with the sub's hard dick pointing straight down into the sub's mouth. Deeper and deeper, harder and harder. He was bottoming with every stroke and pulling his dickhead out at every peak, his big heavy balls pounding into mine with every stroke. We were oozing testosterone. The bedroom air was polluted with it. I was breathing it in great gulps—each making me harder, longer and thicker. I was leaking pre-cum like never before. Then he stiffened and allowed all his hip weight to rest on my ass. I felt him bottom and stay there, pulsing. He was pushing on my gut and crowding my prostate—sending waves of pleasure throughout my body. I felt his ass muscles tighten and saw abs draw in. Then I started pouring out more precum. It was dripping onto my face. He withdrew a bit, punched the prostate again and I exploded. And he finished deep inside. Both of us collapsed, exhausted. I was covered with my cum and dripping his. "That, boy, is how your Daddy can take you. Better remember before you ask for it again."

"And now I'm going to show you how I handle my possessions. He pushed off, dragged me to my side and up to the head of the bed. His fingers entered my hole and emerged soaking with his cum. Then he dropped onto the bed and pulled me hard into a spoon. He stuck his fingers into my mouth. "Suck these boy." His dick was still hard as he poked it between my legs. He grabbed my dick and took ownership. No shower for you tonight, boy. You're gonna taste, smell and drip my cum all night. I want you to dream of your loving Dad. If I let you sleep at all, that is."

It was a long night. He was pumped. I was energized by our conversation—and his lame attempt at taming me. And I was beginning to think about how I might portray that Marine in the series. At least it would tide me over until a new project materialized. And it would keep me in New York and Brent in my bed. We joined again that night—and again he took control. I think I might have set a personal record for cum production, but certainly for cum reception. I was dripping allnight. And I had discovered another whole dimension to our relationship.