A Life of Yes

Chapter Five: Last Cyprus Day, at Rita’s

Rita’s-on-the-Rocks was a pool and outdoor restaurant on the coast—right on the rocks leading down to the Mediterranean waters—east of Girne. The pool and terrace area were large, the restaurant tables were set at the edge of the rocks, above the Mediterranean to the east of the pool, under latticework-supported grape vines. A two-story building set beside the enclosed pool area between the restaurant and the parking lot included a kitchen and pool changing rooms on the first floor and rooms for the waitresses and waiters who also were for rent on the second floor. Rita was a blousy British woman who floated around jollying everyone up and generally making it known that “anything goes” as long as you didn’t get violent or impinge on the pleasures of others.

Occasionally, Rita put on special days that opened the pool and restaurant to limited categories of people so that they would be comfortable doing what they liked to do in company with others doing the same. This Sunday, my last day on the island, had been designated as gay male day, with a special invitation going out to the UN soldiers. I don’t know if Kadir bribed her to declare this day as she did, but it was quite convenient for the purposes of the movie we were making that she did.

I did know that Kadir had paid two hunky Danish UN soldiers to be at Rita’s before lunch to play with me in the pool and fuck me on a pool bed for the movie camera. The muscular, blond, and quite happy young soldiers were part of the contingent protecting and monitoring the Green Line zone dividing the Greek and Turkish zones of the island that had existed for the previous twenty years since the Turkish invasion of Cyprus and occupation of the northern third of the island. They were known to be a fun-loving, boisterous, uninhibited, and hunky lot.

There were other gay men there, enjoying the freedom of a pool day, but, after being told that the movie camera would carefully avoid them—and the editing of the film would do so if the camera captured their image, they paid us little heed. The Two Danish soldiers, Neils and Johan, however, flirted with me from the outset and went into the pool when I did, playing with me and, eventually, trapping me between them and kissing and fondling me. They maneuvered me over to the shallow end of the pool, perched themselves on the rim, sans swimsuits, with their legs dangling in the water, and I went from one to the other blowing their cocks, both of which were prime cuts of meat.

I didn’t finish either one of them. I just got them gloriously hard. They pulled me out of the pool, carried me to a pool bed, and each of them fucked me, Niels in a missionary, and Johan in a doggy. Tari, on the camera, of course, caught it all and Kadir and Edric sat off to the side, watching and drinking beer.

After doing me individually, they put me between them, Niels lying on his back on the pool bed, me initially riding his cock in a cowboy, facing his face, and then Johan came in behind me, penetrated me, with his cock sliding up Niels’s, already inside me, and they fucked me in a double. After laughing and giving each other congratulatory hand slaps, the Danish soldiers left and the camera ran up and down my body, lying, face down, on the pool bed, me panting slightly, my appendages flung out akimbo, purposely leaving the impression for the camera that I had been exhausted. First Kadir and then Edric came into the photo and fucked me separately, Kadir in a slow doggy and Edric pulling me up and fucking me against a wall of the compound, my back against the fence and my knees on his hips, as he thrust up inside me. They manhandled me like I was a rag doll, continuing the impression that I was spent and couldn’t put up resistance if I wanted to.

Even one of the East European men there just for the day with his young Turkish submissive got into the act—and the movie—when he liked what he was seeing of the filming. I saw him make a deal with Kadir off to the side, in which money exchanged hands that I got a share of later. After Edric did me and returned me to the pool bed, the Slav took a turn. He was a walrus of a Slavic guy, massive and paunchy, of powerful, intimidating build, in his late forties or early fifties, and hirsute and hung. I made to rise as he approached, but he backhanded me across the face, which sent me reeling back onto the pool bed. And then he was on top of me and inside me and fucking me furiously. He slapped me a couple of more times while he was pounding my ass, and I knew the camera view would be of me being taken whether I wanted to be or not. I just lay there and took it.

He was good with the cock, and after the initial bit of struggle, I lay back, submissive to him, digging my fingernails into his hairy shoulder blades, widening my stance as much as possible to take what he had to give, panting hard, and crying out at some of the deeper thrusts. Tari declared later that the Slav had provided some of the best footage of the day and it had come across as very natural and raw. Kadir had to flag him down to get a release signed, and money went back to the Slav.

During all of this a very (Very!) cute Turkish waiter not any older than I was floated around serving drinks as various men were fucking me. He kept giving me friendly and interested looks. He was the waiter at my lunch with Kadir, Edric, and Tari in the grape-vine-covered restaurant by the pool as well.

As he was delivering fruit to us for desert, he leaned down, smiled at me, and said, “Benimle gezintiye cikmk ister misin?” I smiled back, but not knowing what he said, I didn’t answer him.

“He’s asking if you would like to take a ride with him,” Kadir said. “He says he saw you admiring his car in the parking lot as we came in. It’s the1956 red Ford Fairlane convertible that’s been kept in tip-top condition. It probably was one of the cars abandoned here by a Greek or foreigner six years ago, when the Turks invaded—not far from where we are now—in 1974.”

“He wants me to take a ride with him?” I asked.

“He probably wants to ride you,” Edric said. “All of the help here are prostitutes. You should go with him. It could be fun.”

“Genç arkadaşımıza binmek ister misin?” Kadir asked the waiter, who grinned and answered “Evet.”

“Kadir asked him whether he wants to fuck you, and he answered—”

“I know what he answered,” I said.

I turned and looked at Kadir. I was told the waiter’s name was Cael, that he was from Kusadasi, on the Turkish coast, the port for the Ephesus early Christian city ruins. He was gorgeous, close to my age, muscular, but not overwhelmingly so, and dark and sultry—as sexy as Edric but without the aspect of cruelty that Edric exuded. “Do you want him to screw you?” Kadir asked.

I just gave him a smile.

“Yes, go ahead, then,” Kadir said, with a smile of his own.

I went with Cael. He drove me up into the foothills of the Kyrenia Mountains below St. Hilarion Castle, occasionally turning and looking at me with moon eyes. He also reached over to touch me on the arm or thigh. We both knew why we were taking this ride.

He stopped above a Turkish military camp on the road up to St. Hilarion and turned onto a dirt road leading into an olive grove. He stopped the car, turned and smiled at me, and gestured to the backseat of the car. We necked and fondled each other there long enough for me to wonder if he was going any further. But then he did.

“Senin horoz emmek itiyorum,” he said, and when I gave him a quizzical look, he said in good-enough, but careful English, “I want to suck your cock.”

“Evet,” I answered with a smile and unzipped myself.

“O zaman seni becermek istiyorum. Then I want to fuck you.”

I answered evet to that too as I settled back into the seat underneath him.

He was an expert at the suck, taking me all the way and then coming up and embracing me as we lay across the backseat of the old convertible.

At length, he whispered to me, “I want to ride you. I want to fuck you.”

“Say it to me in Turkish again,” I whispered.

He laughed and said, “Sana binmek istiyorum. Seni becermek istiyorum.”

“That sounds beautiful,” I said. “Evet. Yes. Ride me, fuck me.” I was back to saying yes to everything. “How do you say ‘screw me’ in Turkish?”

“Lanet olsun beni,” he said, with a smile.

“Lanet olsun beni,” I said.

He didn’t do it there. He exited the car, opened the trunk, and took out a blanket, which he took into the olive grove, picking out a soft, shaded place between two trees. I followed him into the orchard. We kissed and disrobed each other as we stood, facing each other, embracing. After we were naked and he’d frotted our cocks until they were hard, he gently guided me down onto the blanket on my knees, knelt behind me, and pressed his face into the crevice of my buttocks, opening me up to him.

We made slow and languid love, him mounting my ass as I was on all fours and slowly fucking me for a while and then sitting cross-legged and bringing me down into his lap, facing him, with me sitting on his cock and him rocking me back and forth and forward and backward on the cock, working me deep with a long, throbbing cock. We each came twice as we fucked.

It hadn’t been long—while we were still in the backseat of the convertible—that I noticed that Tari was off to the side, filming the encounter. Kadir and Edric were there too, watching. So, this had all been a setup for one last fuck scene for the movie. I didn’t care. This wasn’t just fucking, this was a love scene, an appropriate way, I thought, to end the movie. Kadir admitted later that this was the type of scene, something romantic, that he liked to end all of his movies with.

* * * *

As they put me on a plane for Istanbul, I was humming. There was a blip when I landed in Istanbul, because the big, fat, ugly, but commanding and undeniable, Altan Tilki was there to meet me. He was ecstatic with how the filming had gone and I think more than once, as he took me to dinner and then up to his penthouse apartment on top of his hotel overlooking the Bosporus, he’d come close to offering me a permanent position in Turkey. But he must have realized that he would be cutting in on the territory of the London fashion designer, Nigel Standish, who had made me available to him. He only went as far as asking, “Would you be willing to come back to Turkey for filming if I proposed future movie possibilities with your school in New York and Nigel in London?”

I reverted to type and answered with “Yes.”

“Your plane to New York is tomorrow afternoon. There is plenty of time. Will you come upstairs with me this evening?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“I will show you new sexual positions. I will fuck you as you’ve never been fucked before.”

“Say it to me in Turkish, please,” I said.

He Laughed, but he humored me. He embraced me in the back of his limousine as we cruised from the airport into the city. “Sana yeni cinsel pozisyonlar gosterecegim. Daha once hic sikismeden seni becerecek.”

“Evet,” I said, not really believing that there were any new sexual positions he could show me after the dozen or so scenes I’d done for his movie. He didn’t give me time to think about it, though, as he unzipped and freed himself and pressed my face down into his lap.

I was wrong about the positions. He showed me the Bully, him standing with me draped in front of him, my passage sheathing his cock, and his arms laced under my armpits, his fists locked behind my neck, putting me in a full Nelson, and my legs hooked on his thighs, as he bounced me up and down on his dick. And he showed me what he called the Afternoon Delight, where I was perched on the top of the bureau in his room, my ankles hooked on his shoulders, as he crouched over me, my arms thrown around his neck, and pistoned me with his thick cock. The Bully was painful with him, as the bulge of his belly in the small of my back caused me to arch my torso painfully. The Afternoon Delight allowed me to jut his pelvis forward enough that the press of his belly into mine wasn’t too oppressive.

“Do you like these positions?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said to extend my chain of “yeses” and because we’d already done them and were lying next to each other on his bed, me hoping to be able to get some sleep before having to be at the airport the next day.

“Good. We will use them in future movies. You will be well fucked.”

“Say it to me in Turkish,” I whispered.

“Iyi. Onları gelecek filmlerde kullanırız. Iyi duzusecek,” he murmured. Then he laughed, rolled over on top of me, almost smothering me, and fucked me again.

Marcel, my performance art coach, met me at the airport in New York.

“Did you have a good time?” He asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Will you do it again if they want you?”

“Yes,” I answered immediately, without reservation. My transformation was complete. I was a male whore.

Chapter Six: Two Years Later, Revelation

The scene setup was sometime in the eighteenth or nineteenth century, at an English country estate. Nothing pinned down on that except to allow for billowy white cotton shirts, their tails knotted in front at the belly, and tight breeches—cotton for me and linen for the “Master”—with laced codpieces. The hairstyle for both—mine a red that would wash out easily and the Master’s in salt-and-pepper gray denoting the late forties or early fifties—called for shoulder-length hair tied off with a ribbon in back until, in a dramatically meaningful gesture caught by the camera, the ribbon would be undone, the hair let down, and the cock inserted in the hole. The country house, nearly a castle of seventeenth-century vintage, as well as its stone-construction stable yard, was borrowed from a builder, who was turning an unmanageably large country castle turned into a former secret-agency operational headquarters into a country hotel for an Arab investor. The stable was still outfitted in a style that would represent the period. One bedroom of the mansion had been furnished appropriately.

It was to be a three-scene light BDSM film, lasting no more than forty minutes total.

The action started with me, a stable boy, coming out of the stable entrance, carrying a bucket of dirty water. I was barefoot and wearing just the brown cotton breeches and a blousy white cotton shirt, open to show my smooth, slim, but nicely muscled torso denoting an early-twenties submissive. After emptying the bucket, I looked up and out, across the rolling green pastureland, the shot cutting across the façade of the country house on a rise to the right of the picture frame. What had caught my attention was a middle-aged, very muscular man riding confidently and with command on a massive gray steed—the Master. The man was wearing tight breeches, a billowy white-cotton shirt, and shiny black riding boots. Nearly a minute of film time was spent with me, the stable boy, watching the hunky, glowering Master approach on his stallion.

When he reached me, it was the Master growling, “Has my wife’s carriage left yet?” and me answering, eyes cast down, that it had.

“Did I tell you what you would be doing for me today?” he said, growling and glowering again. He was a handsome brute over twice my age. As he spoke, he unlaced his shirt, took it off, and draped it in front of him. He had a massive, barrel chest and the torso of a Zeus. He was hirsute, covered with curly salt-and-pepper-shaded hair. He also was covered in swirls, curves, and angles of a primitive black tattoo pattern, completely out of character for the period, but directly centered on the interests of the target audience for the film.

“Yes, Master. Mistress’s carriage left for London an hour ago.” Dialogue was scant in the movie, only enough to set the scene and establish that the stable boy was going to be royally fucked by the Master. No attempt was made to use period dialect. We weren’t being paid for award-winning acting.

“Come here, boy,” the Master growled, and I went over close to him. He cupped my chin with one hand and ran his riding crop across my cheek with the other. He tapped my cheek with the crop. Thus, it was established that this was going to be a BDSM film.

“My boot is dirty, boy,” he said, and ten seconds was devoted to me tonguing his black leather boots as he remained in the saddle. He reached down and untied the ribbon of my ponytail as I looked up at him with my green-shade-contact eyes, and my film signature red hair cascaded down to my shoulders, signaling to the audience that I was going to be naked and writhing under the Master in, oh, about six minutes of film time.

The Master came down off the horse, pressed me down on my knees in front of him, and the next four and a half minutes were of me unlacing his codpiece, taking out his cock and giving him head, and him pulling the shirt off my back and stroking my cheeks and shoulders with his riding crop.

The scene changed to inside the stable, with me on my back on a hay bale, naked as, at the scene opening, the Master pulled my breeches off my legs. Two minutes were devoted to the Master, still in his breeches but with a magnificent erection jutting out of his open codpiece, leaning over me, kissing down my much smaller, slimmer body, flicking my body in the process with his riding crop and stroking my cock hard. He spent several key seconds kissing and tonguing the tattoo of a gecko on my lower belly—highlighting one of my signature aspects for the fan club I had accumulated over the past two years. The rest of the first ten minutes of the film, which started from my exiting the stables and seeing the horse and rider in the distance, was spent with the Master on top of me, vigorously fucking me in a missionary position. In an incongruity that the film director realized but ignored and the audience would accept, the Master reached up and undid the ribbon on my hair (again), and the camera caught the fall of the hair and went immediately to the cock penetrating the hole.

The bow to the BDSM was that he had the loop leather handle of the riding crop encasing my throat and was pulling and releasing on that, causing me to gag and writhe under him, my hands to clutch at the restraint, and my eyes to bug out as he fucked me.

Scene two opened with me draped over a saddle on a low stall fence, naked, with my wrists secured low on the fence on one side and my ankles low on the fence on the other. The Master also was naked now, his body massive, powerful, muscular. A minute and a half were devoted to the binding and my frightened, but submissive response. For two minutes he beat me on the back and buttocks with his riding crop, alternating with kneeling behind me and either milking my cock with his hands and distending and squeezing my balls to listen to me cry for mercy and to sucking me off. For the last three and a half minutes of the scene, introduced with the release of the hair ribbon and the penetration of the cock, he was mounted on my ass as I was doubled over the fence, his feet pressed into the fence on either side of my thighs, his hands grasping my waist, and riding my ass high like a jockey in a race.

I was being barebacked, which was a signature of this movie studio and director, so close shots were taken not only of me coming for the work the Master had done behind and below me, but for the Master to rise in the saddle, hand his own cock, which had slid out of me, and jacking off on the small of my back.

The impression being given was that, although the stable boy had been expected to be fucked by the master, this was rougher, more demanding than anticipated—and that maybe, just possibly, this would go farther than the young man could and would endure. Maybe these were the final moments for the stable boy. A few seconds were devoted of the stable boy looking around in panic, as if there might be help available from some quarter—help that never materialized.

We moved to the house and to the bedroom that had been sumptuously appointed in period furnishings for a ten-minute segment of me spread-eagled at the foot of a four-poster canopy bed, with massive, carved wood posts and red-velvet drapes. The posts were tall and sturdy enough that I was hanging above the surface of the mattress, arms and legs spread and tied off high and low on the posts. I was facing the room—and the cameras. The Master had a hand whip and, naked and in massive erection, was moving around me, on the floor at the foot of the bed and standing on the mattress. He was whipping me, much less strenuously than it appeared on the video, and I was writhing and screaming, again more stridently than I need do, from the apparent damage being done. The last half of this scene was the Master standing on the bed, behind me, releasing the hair ribbon, thrusting up inside me, and fucking me from behind, as he painfully pulled my head back into his shoulder with a grip on my hair and chewed on my throat.

The film ended ambiguously, with the master standing at the door of his mansion, watching a carriage moving toward the house from a long way away. The return of the wife to a more conventional, benign life? The stable boy was nowhere to be seen. The shot turned to the stable area, where a stable boy walks out of the stable, carrying a bucket of water. This isn’t the same young man the master fucked in the film. What was the film viewer to make of this?

The last eight minutes of the film was a signature bonus feature of this particular director. The Master and I were lying, side by side, in an embrace, on the bed, propped up by pillows to give the camera a good full shot of our nakedness. The director asked us questions about the scenes and each other from off camera to establish that this had all been playacting and jolly good fun. What this director added, however, that other directors using this technique didn’t, was, as the interview drew to a close, the Master leaned over into me for a deep kiss and then rolled on top of me and provided four minutes of a deep missionary fuck—again, I guess, to show just how much I and the other guy liked each other.

This was my tenth movie in the two-year period after I had made Kibris Delight on the arrangement of the fashion designer, Nigel Standish, who had seduced me in New York City. After the filming of Kibris Delight in Cyprus, I had returned to the school in New York, where, as a twenty-year-old, I was training to dance in Broadway productions. Once back in New York, though, Nigel Standish had invited me to come work for him as a men’s fashion model in London. The man mesmerized me, and so I gave New York up and flew to London, hoping and expecting to wind up in Standish’s house or flat and in his bed. I did wind up in his bed often enough, but he had arranged for me to room with two other male models of his in a small London flat.

In the ensuing years, I endeavored to get Nigel to make more of a commitment to me while doing anything he wanted me to do. One of his plans for me was to continue making gay male porn films. To please him, I did. He had driven me out to the country estate near Maidenhead where we filmed this movie, The Stable Boy. I had assumed he would stay and watch the filming. When he did that, he was particularly attentive to me in a sexual way for days afterward. It was one of the incentives I had for doing the films he got me into. But he didn’t stay on that day.

“This is Francois, Lee,” he had said, introducing me to one of the cameramen, a black buck with a French accent and, presumably, French citizenship. He was an ugly devil, but he had a great, body-builder’s body. “I can’t stay today,” Nigel continued. “Francois has agreed to drive you back to London. He’s the one who set up this filming stint for us. If he likes your performance today, I’m sure he’ll help us get more work.”

“Us?” I thought. I was the one who got fucked in these movies. Nigel didn’t. But then, the movies aroused Nigel and then he fucked me more often and more passionately, so there was that.

“Remember that we’re going to the theater tonight. Covent Garden. There’s a man I want you to meet. Stewart provides some of the best silks we use in our fashions. He’s very important to us. I’ll have a car take you to the theater to meet up with me at 8:00.” After Nigel told me this, he folded himself back into his Jaguar and was on his way back to London.

Francois obviously liked my performance and he didn’t drive me directly back to London. He had a van, with his company logo on it. An office van, I assumed. It was closed at the back, with smoked windows in the back door. When I got into the van and looked into the back, I could see that it was set up for action—not an office van; a disguised personal pleasure van. Thus, I wasn’t all that surprised that, before entering the main road from the country estate where we’d filmed The Stable Boy, he drove off onto a narrow track that went through a stand of trees and ended on the bank of a pond.

“You’re a real looker, you are,” he said as he shut off the ignition and turned to me. “Et un petit morceau sexy. I’m sorry, I said you are a sexy little piece. I nearly came in my shorts a couple of times in filming that movie back there. Look what a state you put me in.” He unzipped himself and released a monster of a thick, long, jet-black cock. The Master in the movie had had a respectable shaft, but it was nothing like what this big black bull had.

“Que pouvons-nous faire à ce sujet?—What can we do about this? You have put me in misery, you have,” he said. “I’d like to help you get more movie work. I’ve got connections. How about you helping me out here now.”

He didn’t wait for an answer but cupped the back of my head with a big mitt and pulled my face down into his crotch.

“Suce,” he growled.

I didn’t need a translation to know that he wanted me to give him head. I took care of him, but not all the way. He pulled my head off him when he was huge and throbbing and sat. “Are you going to give me trouble, or are you going to go in the back of the van with me?”

I went in the back of the van with him, and, after stripping me and sucking me off and eating out my hole, he said, “Try to get out of the van now.”

“What?” I’d said.

“Try to escape. Bats-toi—Fight me. I can tell how you like it. I want to take it from you.”

“I don’t think I can. I don’t want—”

He slapped me across the face, and then when I gave him a shocked look, he slapped me again, harder. From somewhere he pulled a black dildo so thick I knew it would split me. In panic, I crawled toward the door at the back of the van. He grabbed me by an ankle and jerked me back. He turned me over and slapped me across the face again. I pushed at him and he wrapped his arms around me and rode me to the floor of the van. He was in enormous erection. I was hard too, and panting hard, and whimpering.

After he laughed and tossed the dildo aside, I went for the lesser challenge. I spread my thighs, with his pelvis folding between them. I bent my legs, dug my heels into the floor of the van, and pushed my pelvis up. There was no mistaking that I was voluntarily putting myself into position for him. “Fuck me. Fuck me now,” I cried. “Stick it in me. Pound me.” He had been right. I wanted it now like I’d never wanted it before.

He hooked my knees on his hips, encircled my waist with an arm, let my torso stream down to the carpeted floor of the van, and cried out “Prends-le! Prends-le! Prends la bite!—Take it! Take it! Take the cock!”

He stuffed me with his cock, and fucked me and fucked me and fucked me. I felt my passage open to him as he invaded me, deep, into the quick of me, where few men had been given entry. He was impossibly thick, but my channel walls grasped the shaft, the muscles of the walls undulating over the hard, black, throbbing cock. He went deeper. I screamed my want, and he went deeper yet. He pulled back, nearly all of the way, and then plunged. Back and thrust, back and thrust.

“Shit, yes! Fuck, fuck, FUCK!”

“Donne-moi! Prends-le, prends-le, prends-le!—Give it to me! Take it, take it, take it!”

I knew this was what Nigel wanted me to do. I pretended it was a movie and that I was just performing for the French man and an audience. But it became quite real. He was fucking me and I was fucking him back. At the same time I looked occasionally where he’d tossed the killer dildo just to be sure that it stayed there.

He was hard and vigorous and cruel and I loved it more than anything the Master had done to me on the movie set.

I lay there next to him, almost in a fetal position, when he had blasted me with his cum, barebacking me, pushed me over to the side, and crouched there next to me, glowering at me, breathing heavily, a big black bull. He was all Africa now, no France. No pretty words. All primeval taking.

“That was—” I started to murmur.

“No talking,” he commanded, backhanding me across the cheek and sending me sprawling off against a wheel well. “You want it again,” he declared, as he pulled me under him.

“Oh, god, yes. Fuck me again!” I cried out.

“À genoux. Montrez-moi votre trou. Donne-moi ton trou!—Up on your knees. Show me your hole. Give me your hole!” He pulled us both up on our knees. He covered my body with his, and a strong arm encircled my belly.

“Fuck me, fuck me, Fuck me!”

And then he did, mounting me in the doggy position, thrusting inside, and pounding, pounding, pounding to a second ejaculation.

After the second fucking, I lay on the floor of the van, legs spread, knees bent, feet flat on the carpet. Francois was reclined next to me, his head propped on his bent left arm, the fingers of his right hand tracing the temporary tattoo of a gecko on my lower belly.

“Vous avez un beau corps.”

“What did you say?” I murmured, unable to disguise the weariness in my voice—not really wanting to as it marked how well and completely I’d been taken.

“I said you have a beautiful body. And that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” he asked. “That was the fuck you needed and that you didn’t get while filming the movie.”

“Yes,” I answered.

“I could tell all the time I was filming you that you wanted more than the pretend you were getting when the other guy was getting rough. This is what you needed.”

“Yes,” I whimpered.

“You let me in. You opened all the way and let me fuck you dans le noyau—in the core; at the center.”

“Yes.” I moaned as his right hand drifted down to under my balls. He understood. He knew what it meant to reach the center and fuck a man there. I raised my buttocks slightly to give him access to my now-gaping hole. A finger penetrated me.

“Oh shit. Are you going to fuck me again?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes.”

He gave a low laugh. A second finger went in.

“You don’t let many men deep inside you, do you? You don’t open like that for many men.”

“No. Oh, fuck.” A third finger had entered me and he was starting to move them. In and out, in and out.

“You should. You would enjoy it more. And you’d have men worshipping you.”

“I don’t know if I can. I’m scared.” His knuckles were working the rim of my hole and I was moaning deeply.

“Shush now, don’t be afraid.” He had his fist inside me now and I was fully open to him. I had come a long way from that first movie in Cyprus; I was capable of taking far more now after years of practice and hard use.

I moaned as he fisted me—pressing in, holding, flexing, fingers opening, me moaning deeply, fist withdrawing, the feeling of loss, pressing in, holding, flexing . . . After less than a minute of this, though, he pulled his hand out, rolled over on top of me, entered me strongly and deeply, oh so deeply, and made slow love to me deep in the center of me, as I gasped and sobbed and dug my fingernails into his shoulder blades matching the rhythm of the fuck with the pressure of my fingers.

* * * *

Francois got me back to my London flat in time for me to get the red coloring out of my hair, flip out the green contacts, peel off the temporary gecko tattoo, and soak my tired body in the tub before dressing for the theater with Nigel.

I was on a high, more from the fucking in the back of Francois’s van than from the movie. He was hung and forceful and cruel, something that I had learned in Istanbul and Cyprus put me into a higher gear of arousal. It was a level of sexual nirvana that Nigel, no matter how much I wanted to be with him, only rarely put me into now that I was experienced and had access to variety. The movie BDSM had been tame, most of it mostly pretend. The welts from the whippings were just superficial and would be gone before I was finished soaking in the tub. Francois had told me to fight him, had slapped me around a bit, and had conquered me with and had me rocking on his fist when we’d gotten in the back of the van. His overpowering and cruelty had been real. When I’d surrendered and opened fully to him, he’d shown no mercy. He had fisted me and then dove down into the quick of me and cock fucked me, open and vulnerable, deep inside hard and vigorous. He had torn it from me and left me whimpering and fully, totally fucked.

He had been a man with me—my man.

When my roommates, Tony and Seth, returned from the fashion house, they brought me down several pegs, though. They may not have known I was at home and in the tub or they may not have realized that their voices had carried.

“You were off someplace for the longest time this afternoon, Tony. You weren’t . . . ?”

“Yes. A special fitting. A new idea Nigel wanted to try out,” Tony answered.

“He gets so . . . you know when he’s excited about a new design.”

“Yes, he sure does.”

“He didn’t . . . ?” Seth said, with a giggle.

“Yes, he did. He fucked me good.” They both laughed.

So, I thought, deflated, that’s why Nigel couldn’t stay to watch the filming. He had a tryst with Tony. Tony was only nineteen. I knew that Nigel’s type was small and blond and young. I no longer was as young as I had been when he had wanted me so badly. Two years could make quite a difference in our world. I was trying my best to work my way into Nigel’s bed permanently. But time was working against me. Was it even worth it when a bruiser like Tilki in Istanbul and a couple of the guys in Cyprus and Francois pulled me to a higher realm of arousal in the fuck?

No, there was so much more to be had with Nigel Standish. Nigel was a future; the other guys were just fleeting events. I just had to try harder with Nigel.

The opera Nigel took me to at Covent Garden that evening was Mozart’s Don Giovanni. He said that he liked the opera because it was about Don Juan and seduction, but I didn’t see why Nigel would be interested in the seduction of women.

“Is there a seduction opera for men?” I asked, as we went to the bar for a drink at the interval. “What if Don Juan had conquests of young men too?”

“I’m not aware of one,” Nigel said, “but that sounds like a good subject for an underground opera. In fact, it sounds like a basis for one of my special fashion shows. All Spanish silks and satins. You bring out such good ideas in me. We’ll have to see if we can work designs around that theme. And speaking of which, Carlos is coming our way now. I’d said there would be someone here I’d want you to meet.”

And then it became obvious why we’d come to the opera this evening. Not because Nigel wanted to see Don Giovanni or because Nigel wanted me to see Don Giovanni, but because one of his important vendors was in town who wanted to see Don Giovanni—and, not incidentally, wanted to fuck me.

“Ah, Carlos, there you are,” Nigel said, as an elderly fat man waddled over to us. He wasn’t ugly, but he was grossly overweight. He was expensively dressed in evening clothes, but he was so big that they were rumpled. Still, the black silk material was stunning, and I realized that this probably was his own product and I could understand why Nigel prized his wares. He was staring at me as he approached.

“Carlos Sores, this is one of my models, Lee Prentise. Mr. Sores is Spanish, Lee. He lives in Barcelona and is a very important supplier of material to my fashion house.” He gave me a meaningful look. Sores was fairly leering at me.

“Once I knew you were one of Nigel’s models, I wanted to meet you,” Sores said, sticking out his hand. He had three large-gem rings on that hand alone.

“You wanted to meet me?” I asked, a bit confused. I wasn’t exactly high profile in Nigel’s fashion house.

“Yes, I know your work well.”

“You’ve come to fashion shows? I don’t recall having seen you at one.”

“Oh, no. Your other work. Your movie work. Tell me, do you really have that delicious lizard tattoo? I’ve always wanted to kiss it.”

Not too subtle that. But before I could answer, Nigel broke in and said, “They are signaling to return to our seats. Carlos has invited us to dinner afterward, but, unfortunately, I have other plans. I told him you would be happy to go to dinner with him. He has a hotel car.”

And that was that.

I was dined at Stringfellow’s, an expensive restaurant in the Covent Garden area, and then it was on to the Soho area gay clubs until 3:00 a.m. I must say the man was resilient and could hold his liquor. I was ready to wilt at the end of the clubbing, but he was revving right along. At the last club we visited, he took ten hundred-dollar bills out of his wallet and fanned them out on the table in front of me. We both knew what they were for. I was a porn star now. My rates had gone up significantly.

He took me to his hotel, in the same Soho area, the Piccadilly London West End. At 3:30, after his brief moment of disappointment that I didn’t have the gecko tattoo, I opened my legs to him, he reached back and loosened my hair, which I had let go long for the movie, so that it cascaded to my shoulders, and he put his dick in me as I lay on my back on the foot of his hotel bed. He crouched over me, pressing me to the bed with his huge stomach and snorting his pleasure as he fucked me. He had a long dick, luckily, or we couldn’t have managed some of the positions he tried. At 4:30 he was mounted on me in a doggy. At 5:15, I was riding him in a cowboy, having had enough of being crushed by his blubber. At 6:00 he was fucking me against the shower wall where I had gone mistakenly thinking that his snoring meant he was out for the count. He was old and fat, but he had stamina, he was excited by having a porn star under him, and he had a long dick. And he was in high heat. After the day I’d had, I wasn’t, but I dutifully took the dick.

I got back to my flat at 9:00 a.m. after he called Nigel while I was still in his hotel room and they settled on a supplies deal. I hope Nigel got a very good deal. As far as I was concerned, though, this pimping me out in addition to the arranged movie work and finding out that Nigel was screwing Tony, a younger fashion model, got to me. The last time I’d truly enjoyed a fuck—before Francois that afternoon, that was—was when I was in Turkey and Cyprus two years earlier. Nigel didn’t even ask me about the night I’d had when I saw him the next day. He was taking for granted that I’d do whatever he wanted me to do.

The next day I went to a travel agency and booked flights through Istanbul to northern Cyprus. I didn’t know whether I was leaving London and Nigel permanently. I needed to get away to figure that out. I had fallen into a “yes” life—yes to other men’s desires—that I probably deserved, but I wasn’t at all sure it was a life I wanted to have.