02

[This is one of four entries of a completed eight-chapter novella that will finish posting within two weeks.]

Chapter One: Saying Yes

"You've done this before, haven't you, Lee?"

"Yes," I whispered and then gasped and tightened up as he pushed the bulb of his cock deeper inside me. No, I'd never done this before, although I'd contemplated doing it almost constantly for the last several years. But the last thing my performance arts teacher said to me before I went away with Nigel Standish, which had led me to come up here to his New York hotel room, was "Just say yes to what he asks. It's time for you to move ahead in this business."

"Is it going to be that easy? No pain?" I had asked the drama teacher.

"Nothing in this business is easy, Lee," he'd answered, "and it's full of pain. If you can't take it, go do something else."

I wanted to be in Broadway shows with every fiber of my being, so, I said "yes" in Standish's hotel room and tried to follow the man's guidance when the English clothing designer then told me to relax and take it. I controlled another gasp and groan as the shaft followed the bulb inside my hole. Relax, relax, I commanded of myself. Think of something else. But I wanted to think of this. I wanted to experience and savor this. Completely independent of wanting to make it on the stage and understanding what, given my looks, was the most direct route, I had already decided I wanted to go with men--older, powerful men who could take care of me.

I just didn't want this much pain. The feeling of stretching and filling to the limit was alien, painful, and I whimpered and groaned at the invasion. But there was exhilaration too at the thought that I was doing it, that I was letting a man do it to me--that I was letting the famous, suave London clothier Nigel Standish do it to me. I'd been thinking about doing it. Now I was doing it. I was being fucked by Nigel Standish. A titan of the clothier industry wanted to lay me.

"Is it OK? Can you take it? Relax and it will be easier." I think then the English clothes designer realized that even if I'd done it before, it hadn't been frequent or a great success. That didn't stop him from fucking me, though.

"You do want this, don't you?"

"Yes," I whispered through clinched teeth. "But do you want it from me? Am I good enough to--?"

"Oh, yes, you are so sexy. Yes, I most certainly want to fuck you."

"Then do it. Do me. Whatever you want. Take whatever you want from me." I did try to relax, and it did help. Think of the pleasure, and more to come, I told myself, not just the pain. Think of this important man wanting it from me. It was still painful, but not as much. I still felt filled, but there was arousal in that feeling. I'd been told by those who did this that, in time and with practice, it would mostly be pleasure.

He sank a bit further inside me and I did groan then, arched my back, and dug my fingernails into his shoulder blades. My butt was on the edge of the foot of the bed, my back on the mattress, and my legs drawn up with my knees almost pressing into my pits. I was young, only twenty, and flexible to the max, as I was a dancer, so the position itself wasn't taxing.

As if he could discern my thoughts, we whispered, "So nice. So flexible. Sweet."

The throbbing shaft inside me definitely was taxing. The Englishman was standing on the carpet reclining into me, his fists buried in the mattress on either side of my biceps and his eyes staring down into mine, reveling in every effect reflected there of what his cock was doing inside me. I pulled away from the eye contact, turned my head to the side, and emitted a low moan. He was inside me, thick, filling, still stretching my channel.

"So tight; so nice," he murmured. It was only in hindsight that I realized that it wasn't that he was big, thick, but that I was unused. I later was able to take thick and long cocks easily. I took enough of them to be able to open to them. The thrill for him here was that he, as he surely grew to realize, was first and I was yet to experience a large cock. It indeed was a tight fit for him; he was doing the initial stretching. Nigel lacked experience with virgins. All of the young men who had been going under him were experienced and using their bodies to get ahead with men like him. I was just at the beginning of the cycle.

He'd been so refined and sophisticated. I'd expected this to be less demanding and cruel.

Nigel was tall and thin, an elegantly handsome man in his late forties. He moved with grace and cut quite a figure of a slender, but hard body in the nude. His body was tight; there was no fat on him. I had no way at that time to gauge a man's relative equipment other than that he was thinner but longer than I was in erection. I almost hyperventilated at the thought that he intended to sink all of that into me, and, although I did try, I didn't manage to get much of it in my throat when I gave him stumbling head before he fucked me. I was later to realize that he wasn't appreciably long at all, and that I was much longer in erection myself than he was when flaccid.

He held when it seemed he had pushed into my intestines, giving me time to adjust to him and to stop my trembling. I did manage to bring that under control, although I shuddered and moaned deeply when he put his hips into a slow motion, moving the cock in and out of me. I moaned deeply and he whispered, "It's good. I'll be good to you." And he quickened his pumping action.

He was concentrating on being good to himself.

I moved my hands to his sides, squeezing hard, pushing on him when he drew back, really wanting him to withdraw and then groaning and squeezing when he pushed in again. I knew there was a grimace on my face, although I was trying to bring my acting lessons into use to give the impression I was enjoying this. I knew I'd enjoy it after the first couple of times. I wanted him to think that I was beyond the first couple of times. But I wasn't.

"Am I hurting you, Lee? You'll tell me if I'm hurting you, won't you?"

I couldn't answer "yes" to that; Marcel had said to only say "yes." Instead, I whimpered, "Fuck me. Be good to me."

His had been a rhetorical question, though. He knew he was hurting me. He knew he wasn't going to stop before he got what he wanted. He was thrilled that he was hurting me. He reveled in taxing me, breaking me in. He so rarely got to do that. He set up a steady rhythm then, and it progressively got better. I even managed to put my own hips in gear and roll with him in waves of the in-and-out movement of his cock inside as he sank lower and lower inside me. As I relaxed, I felt my channel opening to him, the sliding of skin on skin making him harder, making him tremble as I was trembling, making him whisper, "Yes, yes, yes," just as I was. "It's good now," he whispered. And it was at least better.

I moved one of my hands between us, grasped my hardened cock, and took care of myself in fewer than a dozen strokes. He wasn't too far behind me, jerking and releasing, jerking and releasing, giving me his warm flow deep up inside me.

We remained there, in position, panting, waiting for us both to cool down.

"That was good," he whispered.

"Yes," I answered. And I had to admit that once we got into it, once I got beyond this being my first time and the pain and uncertainty that was attached to that, it had been quite satisfactory. I hoped that the next time...

"It

was

your first time, wasn't it?" he said.

"Yes," I admitted.

"Sweet. You can use the shower and then leave, if you like. You said you lived not far from the hotel. Or you can stay for the night or however long into the night you wish. If you stay, though, I'll be... again."

"I'll stay," I whispered. "And, yes, fuck me again. I can shower later." I wanted him to want me, so I needed to give him the impression I couldn't get enough of him.

He did screw me again. My first doggie-position fuck. It went easier than the first time. He was more insistent, rougher this time. I opened quicker for the cock and moved with him better. When I cried out, it was in passion this time. I decided I could handle this. Just another tool on my skills belt now.

* * * *

Nigel Standish was in New York for a series of runway shows that included the fashions he designed in London. He did men's fashions as well as women's. He had been invited to my school of performance art, homed in Manhattan, to talk about modeling. Marcel, the resident teacher at the school, which enrolled no more than forty students, most of whom were living hand to mouth, getting part time jobs where they could until they broke through in the entertainment industry, was quite open about how we could get established.

"Use what you have," he said. "In most cases that's your looks, your bearing, and your performance skills." He guided us through it all--music, dance, acting, self-confidence, self-assertion, and projecting ourselves. "As you work on breaking into Broadway--notice I didn't say as you wait for it to drop in your laps--you'll have three basic safety nets to fall back on: your parents' or sugar daddy's support, modeling, or selling yourself for casual sex. Consider them all and use what you can and what you have to. You can put your acting skills to good use. Make whoever is laying you think they are the best thing that ever happened to you. In this business you have to concentrate on yourself, your needs. Just as soon as you become a Florence Nightingale, you are going to sink to the bottom."

I pretty much was falling back on my parents' support, with their financial support more forthcoming than their individual attention. I'd excelled in performance arts, including dance, which most boys don't do, in a high school in the suburbs of Philadelphia that was known to feed into the New York theater. And, happily, I had the good, blond looks and well-developed, but willowy, body to succeed. I had been in one Broadway musical already, in the chorus and dance team, but that had been in rehearsal longer than it ran on stage, and the money reserves I'd built up from that were dwindling.

I hadn't considered the rent-boy route yet, not having had sex with anything but my own hand, as surprising as that would have been to Marcel. He had assumed--he'd even said it and I hadn't said "no"--that a male dancer with "my divine looks" surely hadn't come to him as a virgin. Marcel didn't hit on me, but he was forever trying to help me go the giving sex route, which was what my night with Nigel Standish was all about, I'm sure. "You could get a rich and powerful man," he'd said. "One who had a position in the arts and could promote your career," he'd added. I thought, though, to look into the model route instead. That too led me to Nigel Standish and his lecture to my classmates on a career in modeling. He, as a designer, of course was much experienced in the ways of models.

He gave his lecture, which was quite helpful and informative and followed closely the instruction Marcel already was giving us in walking the runway, in the morning. Marcel had brightly announced that, "One lucky student will be selected to follow Mr. Standish through the afternoon fashion shows he's attending and to receive pointers from him." I had no inkling then that Marcel and Standish had already decided I was that lucky student and that Marcel had understood why it would be me. Most of the other students were female, and Standish's interests were pretty obvious. Surprisingly enough, Marcel, for all his flamboyance, was into the women students, not the men, so I hadn't gotten any advances from him in the year I was in his program.

After the lecture, Marcel came to me and said, "Would you like to be the one who goes with Mr. Standish, Lee?"

I of course said yes.

"This isn't just an evening observing the life of an international clothing designer. He will be demanding and will want something from you afterward," Marcel said, and I still said yes, even when he became more direct in saying what Standish likely would want in the "afterward." The opportunity was too much to pass up and I'd have to get a break soon or I couldn't stay on in New York.

I also needed to let myself be broken soon, now that I had decided that it was men I wanted to lie with.

Throughout the afternoon as Standish escorted me around and received deference from the fashion show organizers that reflected that he was an important designer, he would point to this and that and give me advice. He'd ask me if I understood, and I said "yes." I quickly learned that his own designs, prominently shown on the runway, were both stylish and sexy. He was well represented in clothes for younger men. When what was shown got down to underwear and swimwear, I blushed and felt tingly inside. As I stood beside him and he touched the models in pointing this out and adjusting that, he was intimate with them without a hint of embarrassment, and the models responded in kind.

The last show was at 6:00 p.m. He asked me if I was hungry. I answered "yes" honestly, not being sure if it was leading to an invitation from this important man, but it was. "Would you like to go to supper with me and to a dance review afterward? I designed the costumes."

"Yes, of course, that's very nice of you to invite me," I said.

After the review, he asked if I would stop by the bar in his hotel for a drink with him.

I said "yes," understanding where this was leading, and, steeling myself and with Marcel's "Say yes; move ahead" admonition screaming in my brain, deciding it was time. I was flattered that I was pleasing him enough for him to ask.

When he asked if I wanted to come up to his room, I said "Yes."

When he asked if I would model some of his new men's wear for him to give him an idea how it would look on the runway, I said "Yes," although for a fleeting moment I was a bit deflated, thinking that all of the lead up was just because he wanted someone to model his clothes for him. The menswear was underwear, and once again I was on the beam of where this was heading. He insisted in being right there, watching me strip and change clothes. As with the models at the fashion show, he touched me intimately in adjusting and testing the clothes.

When he asked me if he could take the underwear off me and touch me more intimately, I said "Yes." When he did so, he found I was hard and then he stopped asking me if he could touch me.

When I was lying on my back on the bed and he was touching my inner thighs and asked me if I would open my legs for him and let him make love to me, I said "Yes."

When he said he'd really like for me to spread my legs wider, elevate my tail, and show him my hole, I didn't say "yes," but I did it, and I just moaned when he touched me there--and then when he leaned down and kissed me there, moving his tongue inside me.

While I was lying on the foot of the bed, the ankles of my spread legs resting on his shoulders, and he was hunched over me, sucking my cock and finger fucking my hole, I murmured "Yes, yes, yes."

When he asked me to give him head and whether I'd done that before, I said "Yes" and did the best I could even though I hadn't done it before.

When it was evident that I'd sucked him well enough for him not to send me away, he laid me back down on the foot of the bed and coaxed my legs spread and raised by stroking my inner thighs again and murmuring, "You know what I want, don't you?" I answered with a "Yes" of acceptance. And, as he took my lips in lingering, deep kisses, and asked me if he could fuck me and if I'd done it before, I said "Yes" and "Yes," although I'd never done it before.

He fucked me twice and I stayed the night.

I woke in fear that I had done it all wrong and that he wasn't satisfied, but he asked me if I was OK with what had happened the night before, and I said I was. He then asked if I'd take breakfast with him down in the hotel dining room and I said "Yes." And during breakfast he asked me if I might like to do a trip to Turkey in a couple of weeks' time to wear his designs on the runway at an Istanbul fashion show. I said "Yes, that sounds interesting."

When he said, "Actually it involves doing a movie and going on from Istanbul to Turkish Cyprus for a weekend. Would you still be interested in going? All expenses paid, of course, and something extra for you to come home with." He made clear it was as a favor to a Turkish clothes manufacturer who was a friend and made some of Nigel's clothes.

I said, "Yes." I was afraid to ask what kind of movie would be made, but he told me.

"It's a sex move. A gay male sex film. Are you still interested? You are so good looking and you respond to the sex in such a fresh, innocent way. The movie is about testing innocence such as that. You would be modeling my clothes, but you'd be taking them off--or letting someone else take them off of you."

I hesitated, Marcel's command "Just say yes to everything if you want to get ahead" reverberating in my brain.

"It pays $5,000 plus all expenses. No more than five days' work. You'd be flown from and returned to New York, all arrangements made. If this goes well, I'll have work for you in London."

This was 1980. Five thousand was a fortune. And he was offering me future work. "Yes," I said.

When we reached the end of the breakfast, Standish extended a hand and stroked my inner forearm, sending shivers up my spine. "You really are an extraordinarily beautiful young man. You'll be very photogenic in the movies. Would you like to come back up to my room with me or do you need to be somewhere else?"

In other words, was I going to accede him priority?

"Was I... last night... did you...?"

"Dear, Lee," he said, putting a hand on my forearm and giving me an indulgent smile, "for a submissive, it's not so much how well you do it as it is what you let your man do with you. You were quite satisfying, yes--or I wouldn't offer you the Turkey opportunity. You played the virgin very convincingly, just as will be wanted for the film. If you just continue saying 'yes' to a man when he tells you what he wants from you, you'll do just fine. Will you come back up to the room with me? I would like you to."

"Yes," I said.

"I want to take you in new and challenging positions."

"Yes," I said.

"Good boy," he said, patting me on the forearm.

In his room, he told me to take my clothes off and sit at the foot of the bed. As I did so, he went into the en suite bathroom, leaving the door open as he urinated in the toilet, and that took a bottle of pills out of his kit bag and knocked back two. When he came out of the bathroom, naked, he was in full erection. He sat down on the bed beside me.

"The last time I took these pills, I was hard for three hours," he said. He cupped my cheek and nuzzled it and then came in for a soft kiss.

"Shall we begin?" he said. "Lie back on the bed, spread your thighs, and roll your hips up, please. Can I hear a 'Yes'?"

"Yes."

"Good boy."

He leaned over and kissed me, his left hand moving from my cheek down my body, pausing at my groin to encase and stroke my cock briefly and the down lower, the heel of his hand pressing under my ball sac, a finger rimming my hole.

Coming out of the kiss, he whispered, "Such a beautiful dancer's body. Firm at the foundation, yet pliable, flexible, resilient, glowing. The men are going to love you."

Again the deep kiss. He took my hand in his and led it to his erection. Then it was the finger back at my hole again, invading, sinking in, searching for and finding my prostate. Moaning, I dug the heels of my feet into the edge of the mattress and raised my tail higher. The pad of his finger was stroking my prostate and I began to rock my pelvis on his digit. He could do anything to me now that he wanted to do.