Danny's Choice Ch. 02: His Story

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 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 fired up his arousal by following his commands.

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 meant 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. And now I'd have another skill to help me get what I wanted from men in power.

"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."

* * * *

After an experience such as Evan Yellen gave me for a first taking—and the second and third before he let me out of his office—it would be reasonable to think that I shrank away from having sex with a man, but I wantonly went in the other direction. Within the next three days I'd been fucked by four men and had made my next late evening appointment to be with Yellen in his office. I would never have thought I could be so wildly after it and wanton, but I eventually learned I had help getting there and that it was all part of a big plan by Yellen to maneuver me to where he wanted me.

Of course he wasn't responsible for me wanting a lot of sex once that barrier had been crossed. He frequently told me later, though, that he had gauged me for one who would want it constantly, which was no small part of him being interested in me.

The first man was Sergei, the gnarled, but highly toned Prussian-strict dance master for the staging of Kiss Me, Kate. The dancers were practicing constantly to remain limber for the performances. We had our own dance studio, with floors that matched the somewhat springy and cantilevered surface of the raked stage itself and, all along one wall, a full-length mirror and a barre, the thick, wooden railing at chair-top height that dancers stretched out their legs on.

Sergei was an imposing and fearsome dance master. He no longer could dance himself. He nearly was crippled in his early sixties from too many years of springing off his knees and straining his muscles to the limit. As we practiced and did our stretches, he moved around the room, his cane tapping on the floor to tell us where he was if he wasn't barking out insults and commands to this dancer or that, which was most of the time. He was a tall man, and strongly built, his body on the thickish side, although one would be taxed to find fat on him. He still drove himself as mercilessly as he did his dancers.

I knew he fucked his dancers when he could—or whenever he demanded it; dancers felt too lucky to be under his tutelage to deny him sex—both men and women. I heard him remark more than once in my hearing that "to dance for me, I demand total control, and there is one sure way of showing that." He had sniffed around me and I'd been surprised that he hadn't demanded I give him his due as the dance master, but I had learned back when I'd been dancing in Kiss Me, Kate that there was a bubble around me. It was like everyone knew of my "saving it" contract with Evan Yellen and were just waiting for the fruit to drop off the tree, floating around me, giving me looks, talking in double entendres, but not reaching out to lay a hand on me.

Sergei had been like the rest, but I could tell that it was a strain for him. And, truth be known, if he had demanded sex from me, even though I was only seventeen when I started dancing in Kiss Me, Kate, I would have given it to him—just like other dancers wanting to work under him—if I didn't have the protection of Yellen's deal. I was not unaware, then, that my loss of virginity might well have come sooner than Yellen snatched it from me.

The day after Yellen had taken my virginity, though, it was like the restrictions had lifted for Sergei and other men. The men on the set who had previously teased me and flirted with me from afar were up closer, touching me and giving me sultry and lusty looks. Sergei was more direct.

We were doing our stretches on the barre after the evening's performance of Kiss Me, Kate and before dispersing. Sergei was moving behind us and barking orders, the last for the whole troupe being, "That is it for the night, boys and girls. You may go now . . . quietly . . . but for you, Danny. I wish to see you stretch that leg out further on the barre before you go."

Even as the last of the dancers was filing out he had come in close behind me, one hand on my lower belly and the other gliding down my left leg, which was raised and lying on the bar.

"The underside of your knee isn't touching the bar, Danny. That won't do. Why are you having trouble extending fully tonight? Are you stiff?"

Yes, I am stiff and ache all over, I wanted to scream. I have, just yesterday, been fucked hard—for the first time, and the second and third time, as well. My whole body is screaming from the experience. And, speaking of stiff, you randy old man, I can feel the stiffness of your dick at my back.

Just as the rest of us, Sergei, his leg muscles bulging and well defined, wore a skin-tight leotard in dance practice. Unlike the rest of us he wore no cup under it. He wanted his dancers to know he had a thick, if not overlong, cock—and that there was a thick Prince Albert ring in the head of it.

"Yes, I'm a little stiff tonight," I answered and then winced, as he put pressure on my knee, forcing the leg flatter on the barre.

"And yet there is something more fluid in your movements tonight, a maturity I haven't seen in you before. Like you have crossed some barbican in your life. Like you have finally let a man fuck you." From that moment, I understood that he knew Yellen had fucked me.

He was holding me close, breathing heavily in my ear. I looked into the mirror and saw his ruggedly featured Russian face looking into my face, a bit of a sneer and determination in his countenance. "That is it, isn't it? You have let a man fuck you. Evan Yellen has called in his contract on you, hasn't he?"

"Oh, god. How did you—?"

"Don't speak," he barked at me. "I will speak." I shrank into him and watched, in the mirror, his tongue rim my ear and then move inside the passage and flick. I moaned and the muscles of my body tensed.

"Relax, little one," he cooed in my ear. "I am going to fuck you now too. You know that I fuck all of my dancers, and now it seems I can fuck you too. Yellen has had you first, but there are always other firsts. Yellen doesn't have a thick ring in his cock, does he?"

I moaned again, and my muscles, which had been calming down, clutched again.

"I said relax," he barked. "It is done. I will fuck you now. No use fighting it." Although this normally would make me further tighten up, it didn't. I surrendered and, in doing so, was able to relax my muscles. "Da, very good," he whispered in my ear.

I both heard and felt the splitting of the seam of my leotard at the crack of my buttocks, and of Sergei's large, strong hand ripping the material away until it was in tatters lower on the thighs. I heard the waistband of my cup snap, and that fell to the floor. His hand was roughly grabbing and squeezing my balls and the base of my cock, which was engorging for him. I was panting hard. The hand that had been pressing down on the knee of the leg I still had on the barre moved to my throat and he held my head, face into the mirror, making me watch the lustful expression on his face as he ravished me.

His cock was free and beating against the small of my back as he roughly stroked my cock, making me groan—and making me come quickly in his hand. He laughed and moved his hand to behind me, smearing the cum around and into my hole, pushing it inside me with a long, thick, strong finger. Fucking me with his finger, nearly as big, I felt, as Yellen's cock had been. I writhed under his grip, but had very little capability of doing so—certainly not of escaping from him. He found my prostate and worked that, hardening me up again and producing another, weaker, discharge of cum, which was transferred to my hole, although with several gobs of Sergei's spit.

Then, while maintaining his throat hold on me, he moved the cock head to my hole. The PA was so thick, as was his cock, that I couldn't see how he was going to get it in. But, strangely enough, I wanted him to get it in. And remembering the previous evening with Yellen and how much easier it was when I learned to release my entrance muscles and slacken my channel, I did so now.

"Open to me," he was commanding. "Ah, da, da. Very good. You want me to fuck you don't you?"

"Yes, fuck me!" I cried out, wanting to arch my back, but only being able to do so slightly in his tight embrace, as, preceded by the thick PA, he moved up inside me, held ever so slightly to allow me time to open more to him, and then started pumping.

The rest was as before as he built up to a release and gave me his cum—except that the rubbing of that PA on my channel walls was definitely another first for me. A glorious first.

After he had finished and was holding there, giving us both a chance to cool down before releasing me, I looked in the mirror to see one of the black stagehands I'd been watching admiringly, Jerome, standing in the doorway to the dance studio, bare-chested as the stagehands often were after hours when adjusting and repairing sets. His hand was on his crotch.

Jerome didn't let me leave the building. It was like "open season" was plastered across my forehead—and, of course, I later found out it was.

He was there near the stage door when I was dressed and ready to leave. And he wasn't alone. Buford was there too. Jerome was a young black, maybe four years older than I was. Buford was older, maybe early forties. Both were magnificent specimens, though, showing beefy torsos with bulging muscles. I'd watched them for months, being aroused by them, but not knowing, until after I was initiated the previous day, just how arousing they were. Plus, here in the post-WWII era there was the definite divide between the two races, with a good bit of fear on both sides. My wet dreams of the previous night were not of Evan Yellen, I now realized—they were of two magnificent blacks who had been teasing me with innuendo for some time.

Each taking a forearm, they hustled me into the stage workers' workroom just off the wings of the backstage. Buford pushed me over to a wooden work counter, cleared the space with a swing of his beefy arm, hoisted me onto my back on the counter and started scrabbling at my belt buckle.

I heard the door to the room slam and the lock turn, and then Jerome was there too.

I didn't have time to think. I don't know what I would have thought if I had had the time. This was all new to me. I was opening up—fast—to a life I'd thought about—dreamed about—for years. I'm sure that normally I'd have been well into the fuck scene by now. That had been arrested by Yellen's "hold off" contract. Now it seemed I was making up for lost time. And if I'd had time to think about it I'm not sure I would have thought anything in terms of "stop."

Many had been the nights, I now realized, I'd gone home from the theater and masturbated to the memory of watching the hunky Jerome and Buford—and other stage hands—working on repairing the sets after a performance, bare-chested and flexing their huge muscles. All those times I thought it was just a general image of hulky men doing not fully understood things with me—to me—that aroused me. After the previous night I now knew what a man would and could do with and to me, and my thoughts were turning to more specific men who could do this. Jerome and Buford were high on that list. Therefore, my resistance already was low.

With a moan I laid back on the work bench as Buford stripped off my trousers and briefs and Jerome pulled my T-shirt over my head.

All of the tension and reluctance and any sense of guilt or of resistance—or, for that matter, not wanting what they both seemed determined to do, I released them of all uncertainty or fear of my response. I parted my legs and rolled my buttocks up, toward the hulking Buford. I'd just been fucked by the dance master. I already was in the groove. My channel was open and squishy with cum.

"Yes, yes, fuck me, you big strapping studs. Fuck me hard, both of you. I've wanted you both to do that for months," I cried out.

Their faces split with big grins, they proceeded to do just that.

Naked now, on the small of my back at the edge of a counter, I was stiff-arming the palm of one hand into the surface of the wooden counter to prop my torso up and my hand was cupping the back of the neck of the older of the black stagehands, Buford, bare-chested, the fly of his work pants unzipped, his ebony torso heavily muscled and glistening with sweat. Buford, in turn, was fisting my left ankle, holding the limber dancer's leg up his torso with the ankle on his shoulder. I had gasped at the size of his cock—not just the look of it, but the feel of it when it was only partially in. Buford was concentrating hard with a fist around the root of the beast, to get the shaft deeper in my channel. Huffing and puffing, I was concentrating hard on making my channel walls yield to him. Sergei had just been in there; I hadn't closed up yet. But Buford wasn't Sergei. He was Sergei and a half.

Jerome, the younger stagehand, was standing on the other side of me, holding my other leg up and spread wide. Jerome's work trousers fly was open and the pants were flared wide at the waist and riding very low on the young man's bulbous buttocks. His torso was even more muscular than Buford's was and the cock, jutting out of his groin in an upward curve, that he was holding in his hand and stroking was longer and much thicker, if that was humanly possible, than Buford's.

Only half in, Buford muttered "Fuckin' shit, he's wide open."

"Told ya so," Jerome responded. "Saw Sergei screwin' 'em. Screwin' 'em real good."