Mae Me a Star

"Just settle down and stop pushing at me, Danny. I'm in now."

He wasn't in as far as he was going to get, I was soon to learn. The pain was excruciating, not least because it was so strange compared to anything I'd experienced before. But I'd been assured that it would lessen and that, eventually, I usually wouldn't notice it much at all—not compared with the pleasure it would be giving me. And there was some of that already. The expectation of it; the "it's finally happening" of it.

"Stopping pushing on me. I'm in. You're fucked already. Got your cherry. No reason to fight it. Open to me and enjoy it. You're a dancer. Dance on the cock."

I was on all fours on the studio couch in his office—the proverbial casting couch—and he was standing behind me, between my calves that jutted out over the end of the couch. I had twisted around and swung an arm behind me, the palm of my hand extending through his open and separated dress shirt and pushing at his muscular, hairy chest. I was bearing the weight of my twisted torso on a fist buried in the surface of the couch. He was crouched behind me, his hands gripping my hips, his dick inside me. Only a few inches, it turned out. He was going to be much deeper than that soon.

I know I was giving him a wild look. The look in his eyes was one of determination and of being a bit perturbed. I know I was crying out something, but I was trying my best that it not be a demand for him to stop. He wasn't raping me. I'd agreed to it—I'd agreed to it months earlier, in fact. It's just that now it was happening, it was overwhelming.

"Oh, for Christ sake," he growled. And I felt the hands leave my hips and he was twisting around to the nearby chair that he'd hung his coat over. The hands came back with a long, cashmere neck scarf, which he whipped over my head; pulled my wrists together, causing me to collapse my chest on the surface of the couch—my tail still in the air, still skewered by his dick—and tied my wrists together with it.

"That'll keep them out of the way," he muttered. The hands went back to my hips, grabbing, pinching. And that's when I discovered he'd lied about already being in—and already having been fucked, for that matter. All of my sensations went to my ass channel, which his dick was penetrating more deeply. God, it was big.

"You're going to split me!" I hadn't meant to cry out, but I hadn't been able to keep it in.

Soothing shushing. "It will take it; I won't split you. Open to me; you'll be fine."

"There, in to the root," I heard him whisper in my ear through heavy breathing. "When you learn to open to it faster, there won't be this pain." And indeed, now that he was all in and had stopped pushing at me—and I began to relax, knowing that I wasn't resisting anything that hadn't already happened—the pain was a bit less. "Turn your head, look into the mirror over there. Here, I'll turn your ass a bit. Look at what's inside you. You can take it. You have taken it."

I moaned at the sight of how thick the root of his dick looked to be as reflected in the mirror, where just the base of it was visible in my hole. And my hole. Who would have known it would open that wide? I didn't find his "help" in showing that to me in the mirror reassuring. Well, not immediately, but there was a little thrill of having taken all of that. And that's as big as his dick would get—surely. But maybe it would get bigger while he fucked? I moaned again.

And the pain. When the hell does the pain lessen, I wondered as I moaned and groaned and voiced every variation of "ouch" and "oh, shit" that bubbled up to my lips. "Ouch" didn't express a fourth of the pain, though.

"So sweet, and fresh. I've wanted to do this for months. And so tight. I'm the first one, right? Tell me I'm the first one. I paid to be first."

"Yes," I answered through shallow pants and clinched teeth. "You're the first one."

He was. Would I be doing this if he didn't have something I wanted badly? I wanted a speaking part in the Broadway play he was producing to go on stage in 1964.

"Good boy." His hands were off my hips and gliding over my torso, patting and pinching. "Sleek young body—if I hadn't seen your birth certificate myself, I'd—"

My groan covered what he was saying. Not only had a hand found and encased my dick, but I also felt movement in the throbbing dick inside me—or at least I thought the dick was throbbing; I knew my channel walls were throbbing from the alien invasion. He was beginning to move the dick inside me. Drawing back, pushing in, drawing back, pushing in farther than he'd reached before.

"Take it, take it, take it." Each thrust punctuated with a command.

"Oh, shit, Oh Fuck! That hurts like hell!" All senses returning to my ass channel. What he'd done before tying my wrists together wasn't being fucked.

This

was being fucked! Pumping me as I writhed under him. His grip on one of my pecs and on my dick vice-like now. The grip eased and he was stroking me with his hand to the rhythm of his dick stroking my channel.

I shot out onto the nice red vinyl of his studio couch. "Good, good, come for me. Good," he growled. He let loose of my dick and lifted his hairy chest off my back. He had been holding me close and covering me.

Standing behind me now gave him more thrust leverage. He was pumping me hard and deep. I felt a hand running into the curls on my head, gripping my hair, jerking my head back toward him, arching my torso back in a tight bow.

And fucking, fucking, fucking. I was groaning and moaning to match his grunts and crying out who knows what. At that stage it must have been variations of "too much" and "please stop." But he didn't stop right away; he was too taken up with enjoying the ass of a young dancer-would-be-actor being fucked for the first time.

He did start to calm down and slow down after a short while, and he lowered his chest on my back again, tickling my shoulder blades with the coarse, salt-and-pepper hair swirling on his chest, and whispered, "Sorry, you're just so sweet. Have trouble remembering it's your first time—and that you're eighteen. But I paid for this and you want even more from me. Say that I paid for this."

"You paid for this," I said, with a gasp. "But It hurts, it hurts," I whined softly. The reminder helped me focus. He'd paid for this and hadn't taken the privilege until I wanted more. He wasn't raping me.

"It's going to hurt the first couple of times. But it will get good for you. Just bear with me—and work on relaxing, opening. I know, maybe this would be better."

He was pulling out of me—such a relief—and carrying me over to an overstuffed chair in a dimly lit corner of his office half way up the Empire State Building. He sat in the chair and pulled me down into his lap. He started to pull my shirt up and off my back, encountered my bound wrists and took the time to unbind them and then rebind them with the scarf once I'd been stripped of the shirt. I was naked except for my socks, and he was still fully dressed except for his shirt gaping wide open and his dick jutting up out of his open fly. Somehow the discrepancy made me feel doubly vulnerable and this whole situation seem sordid.

I'm not being raped; I'm not being raped, I chanted in my mind. I want something he can give me badly enough to do this.

His fumbling with my shirt and the binding was a pause I probably didn't need. The fear of the first taking and what might yet to be coming flowed back in.

Once my wrists were rebound, my arms went over his head, my wrists lodged behind his neck. "Run your legs up the back of the chair on either side of me," he commanded. "You're a dancer; you can do it."

When I'd done that, he lifted and spread my buttocks and speared my now-more-open ass entrance with the bulb of his dick. I panted hard as he pulled me down on the shaft, whispering all the time, "Breathe, breathe, relax, open to me, baby. You're doing fine. Oh sweet Jesus you are so nice. And I fucked you first."

I fought hard to relax, to open to him, discovering how I could do more of that, how I could relax my channel muscles and start letting the tension flow out of me. He was right. I had nothing to protect. I was fucked now. I had agreed to it.

He began to lift my torso and pull it back down, his shaft moving up and down inside me again. It was better than before. Still painful, but I was becoming more resigned to it, more aroused by what it was we were doing. Now even that I was naked and he was clothed was making me feel sexy.

"There, good. Better for you?"

"Yes," I answered in a small, labored voice. He continued for a while and I could hear his breathing becoming more ragged. If he'd just blow. There must be relief from this if he'd just fire his wad.

"Kiss my nips," I heard him say, and I pulled my face into his hairy chest and kissed one of his nipples after brushing the hair aside with my tongue. "Yes, lick them. The other one too." His shirt front was wide open, his muscular, hairy chest pushing out at me. "Bite them lightly. Oh, fuck. Yes, yes." They were engorged, hard. I felt him shudder. And maybe ejaculate? No, maybe not. Would I be able to tell when he had?

I lost contact with the nipples and was arching my back and crying out to the ceiling because he was slamming me up and down on his dick with the hands gripping my waist in response to my having followed his command and fired up his arousal.

This didn't last for long, though. He slowed down and dipped his face to my chest and did the same with my nipples that he had commanded me to do to his. "Perfection," he murmured. "Young, sleek body. Dancer's body. Just the right hard muscling. Nips are hard too. You like this."

And I did like it. For the first time, I was whispering, "Yes, yes, like that," and moaning a moan of pleasure. And I felt my ass muscles relax even more. He no longer was too taxing for me down there. He moved his face up to mine and took my mouth in a deep kiss. I sighed behind the possession and, involuntarily, my channel was coming to a life of its own, caressing the shaft inside it, my pelvis beginning to move, almost imperceptibly. Rising and falling on the dick, sliding up and down on it, caressing it. So this is what those I'd asked about sex said on how glorious it could be to be fucked.

He broke from the kiss and gave a low laugh. "Yes, you want it now, don't you?"

"Yes, yes," I whispered. And I did want it.

"Fuck yourself. Move your feet down to where the arms of the chair meet the back. Use those feet for leverage. Fuck yourself on the cock."

I did so, and unless my sensations were deceiving me, he was going harder inside me, and throbbing harder too. So, he

could

get bigger during the fuck. And with my controlling the stroking, the pain was less, the pleasure more. More throbbing slide along undulating walls, as the fear and tension drained from the core of my body and I opened more to fit the shaft better.

We were both calling out variations of "Yes, yes, fuck me." I gave him my load again up his belly and heard him laugh and mutter something like "Oh to be young again." I kept sliding up and down on the shaft, pumping my knees and pushing off on the crease where the chair arms met its back, getting better at it and being more in tune with it with each stroke. He growled a "Got you interested now, don't I?" in a strangled voice, went rigid, and cried out a final, "Oh, Fuck!" I felt the entirely new, and not unpleasant, sensation of being creamed by his cum high up inside me.

Yes, I would know when he dropped his load inside me. And when I thought the spurt had ended, another one came. And then another one. He resumed the stroking, and the slide was looser, aided by the added lubricant. I experienced a flash of arousal. "Yes! Fuck me, fuck me. Harder, deeper."

But as if I now was too much into the coupling, he was slowing down, his dick losing its hardness—just when I could have been lifted to a new level of want. "No, no," I whined.

He laughed. "There will be more."

We held there, forehead to forehead, our eyes locked, while, panting shallowly, we cooled down. At length, he asked in a low voice, "So, it was good for you in the end, wasn't it? You can take it now? You want it, right? Because we're going to do this again."

"Now?" I asked in mixed fear and anticipation.

"In a bit. But soon. I promise. You get over these first couple of fucks and you'll want it bad and will have it good, very good."

"Yes, I want it again," I answered in a small voice. I wanted what I'd come for and been prepared to take this for, but I wasn't lying. I wanted him to fuck me again. I'd gotten over a barrier I'd worried about for months. I wanted it again, until I was comfortable with it—and then I wanted it again and again. He'd creamed me. Now I could really say I'd been fucked by a man.

"Your choice, Danny. You want the part in the play or not? This, whenever I want it, if you do."

"Yes, I want the part."

His hands pulled my arms above my head, and he untied my wrists and let my arms fall to my sides. I became aware that I was near exhaustion. Letting my arms dangle at my sides, I arched my torso back, away from his chest, and let my head drop back. I could feel him going flaccid inside me. I no longer feared this dick of his. I wanted to feel it hard inside me again.

"Beautiful dancer's body," he murmured, and I felt his mouth return to one of my nipples. And then the other. Sucking.

"Fuck me. Please fuck me again," I whimpered.

"We'll get back to that. Now, go down on your knees between my thighs. Clean my cock with your mouth. Then start showing me how fast you can learn to give a great blow job."