Once Is Not Enough

I knew who he was as soon as he sat at the bar and smiled expectantly at me. It was obvious that he was picking me out to serve him. There weren’t that many successful and recognizable Japanese actors in Hollywood. Mike Mori was one of the stars of the long-running series, Hollywood Vice, the series having run long enough to put him into his early forties. Still he’d taken good care of himself and was still handsome and in good shape after all these years on the unforgiving television screen. He was tall for my concept of a Japanese man and broad of chest but slim of waist and hips. I could appreciate how much effort he had to put in to keep that figure past forty.

I knew him for more than being in a long-run television series. Even in high school I’d been star struck and knew I wanted to come out to Los Angeles from Indiana to make my way into movies. I had devoured everything Hollywood. He’d been in the press for more than his television work a couple of years back. A young actor he’d been dating had been found in a shallow grave in the desert out toward Las Vegas. He’d been strangled. Another body was found in a nearby grave, another victim of strangulation. He’d turned out to be a young male hooker from Los Angeles.

Photos of a grieving Mori, who had been outed as gay from that point, were the money shots for that case and took the case into the national news. As far as I knew, they’d never solved those murders. I remember that, when I saw photos of the victims in the newspaper, both glamour shots of hopefuls in Hollywood, I was struck with how much they both looked like me. We could have been brothers—the same coloring, curly blond hair, and facial features. And eyes looking toward the future, with hope, determination, and confidence.

It wasn’t that surprising to see Mori here at the Blue Onion, on North Hollywood Avenue. This was a trendy gay bar for the actor set. I was here, delivering drinks, on a temporary shift, deferring the mixing of a real drink to a real bartender, mainly serving as delivery boy. I’d been out here in southern California for a year and, at twenty, I took what I could get in trying to keep up with my modeling and acting school tuitions and my share of the rent for a studio apartment. I shared the apartment with one of the instructors at the IMS Modeling Academy, Doug Daniels, who I also slept with from time to time when he wasn’t courting some society cougar. He wanted to marry rich in the worst way. I wanted to get into movies in the worst way. Well, not the worst way. I’d been offered gay male porn movies, but I didn’t want to go that route, and I wasn’t that easy. Well, I have to laugh at that, I guess, considering that the porn movie offers came after a session in a porn movie producer’s bed. I was an occasional-casual sex submissive, but more monthly than daily—and more because I got hungry for it than that I was trying to use it to get ahead.

Doug wasn’t the best cocksman I’d ever had. He wasn’t prepared to commit to one side over the other and he was in love with his own looks more than anything else in the world. But I supposed the same thing could be—and was—said about me. He usually just laid there on his back and I rode his cock in various positions. But he was better—safer—than taking a casual stud from off the street, and I sometimes wanted more than my own hand in getting my rocks off. I’ll admit that sometimes I was in the mood for a berry-brown body covering me.

“Good Evening, Mr. Mori,” I said to him as he bellied up to the bar. “May I get a drink for you?”

He smiled, flattered, as I intended him to be, that I recognized him and addressed him by name. And speaking of berry-brown bodies . . .

“Yes, thanks, ah—” He paused, looking at me expectantly.

“Billy. Billy Worth,” I said. “What’ll you have?”

“Billy Worth. William Worth. Yes, they should be able to keep your name for the movies,” he said. He flashed me an all-white-teeth smile. They had to be Hollywood caps.

It was my turn to beam, even though he was using what was just a variation on a pickup line out here in Hollywood.

“You are going to be in movies, aren’t you, Billy?” he said.

“Sure thing. I’m busting my balls with modeling and acting classes now. That’s what I’m doing working a temporary shift here.”

“Ah, so that’s why I haven’t seen you in here before?” he asked, continuing to give me vocal strokes. “I would have remembered someone as good looking as you are. I’ll have a scotch, water, and rocks, please. I have to go light. An early filming call tomorrow. Have one yourself too, on me.” He put a fifty-dollar bill on the bar top. He was traveling a well-used route on Hollywood pickup lines. That doesn’t mean that it wasn’t effective with me, however.

I turned, made his drink, which was within my zone of capability, and surreptitiously poured myself an iced tea, watering it down so that it was close to the color of the weak scotch rocks. He gave a little laugh when I returned to him with the drinks and handed him his.

“You don’t have a real drink, do you?” he said.

“Sorry,” I said, blushing, “we’re not really supposed to drink on duty. And—”

“And you really need the money the drink costs more than you do the drink, right?” I hung my head, and he laughed again.

“And you’re not really old enough to be drinking here in California, or serving it for that matter,” he added.

I blushed. “Got me again. Please don’t complain to the management. I’ll lose my job. He knows, but he said I’d have to go if anyone calls him on it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of complaining, especially that you aren’t old enough to drink, as long as you’re old enough for other things—like serving in the military.” He’d added that, with a wink, but we both knew what he really meant. I knew then that he was flirting with me—maybe even hitting on me. That flattered and aroused me. He was a TV star.

“Nineteen?” he asked.

“No. I’m twenty,” I said.

“No matter. I’ve been there in this town myself. It doesn’t matter. And keep the change. Where are you from, Billy?”

I told him. I was really down and Doug didn’t listen to me. Mike Mori did. I told him about being a big fish, with my looks and acting ability and football prowess, in Kokomo, Indiana, and of coming out here to make my break—and being just another good-looking blond close to being broken. He listened to it all, and as he finished his drink, he said, “I wish I could stay around to talk longer, Billy. Hang in there, though. You’ve got the looks to make it in this town. You have a good speaking voice too. Don’t underestimate how important that can be in this business.” His voice was great, and I took that on as good advice. He then added the icing to the cake. “I’d like to see you again sometime—in more private circumstances, if you know what I mean.”

A major television star wanted to see me again—privately.

He put his card, with his telephone number and address, out on the bar top. “Here, if you need anything or you want to . . . well, you know . . . call me. Is there a number I can call you at?”

A major television star was coming on to me—and one who still had the looks—the exotic looks of the Orient even. The thought of doing it with a Japanese guy floated through my mind, and I gave a little shudder of arousal. I heard Japanese guys had sensual moves.

I wrote my cell phone number on a bar napkin and gave it to him. He put it to his lips, smiled at me, folded it, and put it in his wallet. Then he slipped off the bar stool, turned, and left the bar. I forgot about him then. Usually when they want to get into your pants in this town, they make the move the first time they see you. I’d been in L.A. long enough to know it was a fast town.

Four days later, he called me on my cell phone. “How are you doing, Billy?” he asked.

“I’m getting by,” I answered, guardedly. I was just barely getting by, though, and my tuition bill for the Scott Sedita Acting Studio classes was coming due in the next week.

“Say, I was talking with a friend who’s directing a play at the Pasadena Actor’s Studio,” Mori said, “and he has a small part for a guy who can pass as an older teen and hasn’t cast it yet. Not many lines, but he’s getting antsy about filling the role. I mentioned that I knew someone who looked the part and was taking acting lessons. He’s interested in talking with you. It’s just twenty-five dollars a performance, but it’s credits toward an Equity card and doesn’t require one. You interested in taking down his number?”

I certainly was and did.

“I also was wondering, Billy. I’m going to a party Friday night, and I was wondering if you’d like to go along.”

“Oh, sorry, Mr. Mori,” I answered. “I’ll be back at the Blue Onion doing a temporary shift that night.”

“Well, sorry you aren’t available. You give that director a call. And maybe I’ll call you again on an evening you’ll be available.”

It hung there in the air. I could cut it off here if I wanted. This was a yes or no point. “Yes, I’d like that,” I answered. “I’m really sorry I can’t do it this Friday.”

“Good,” he answered, and I could tell he was pleased. It wasn’t a no—at least not yet. We both knew he wanted to fuck me, and we both knew that this acting gig he sent my way was a “fuck for free” card if I got the part.

I did give the guy a call and I did get the gig at the Pasadena Studio Theater. The play didn’t run long, but long enough to cover my acting courses tuition.

I owed Mr. Mori one, but I was afraid to call him. I wasn’t sure about what he really wanted and where that could go. A straight fuck would be fine, but one never knows what kink these actors in Hollywood were in to, and him being Japanese just increased the question of that. Who knew what Japanese guys wanted to do in a fuck? I’d heard they could do special things—tie guys in knots and things. Some bondage. A friend had said you hadn’t been totally fucked until you’d done it with an Asian.

* * * *

“I hear you got the part in Gibson’s play.”

“Oh, hi, Mr. Mori. Yes, I did. Thanks for that. Would you like a drink?”

“Yes, Billy, the same again please—a weak scotch rocks for me and an iced tea for you at the scotch rocks price.” We both laughed. He put a hundred-dollar bill down on the bar top. It was Friday night at the Blue Onion.

“I thought you were going to a party tonight,” I said when I came back with the drinks.

“You remembered,” he said, clearly happy that I had. “It would have been dull . . . going alone,” he added, giving me a “you know why” smile. Yep, he was determined to make me. I had mixed feelings about that. Sure, I was flattered, though.

I picked up the hundred-dollar bill. “I’ll be back with the change in a few minutes,” I said.

He took my hand that was holding the bill in one of his and said, “No need for change . . . if . . .”

“If what, Mr. Mori?”

“You know if what, Billy. Just a jack off. I’ll do it all. We can stay on our feet. I know there are some storage rooms in back that are private. I know you’re getting off your shift. I know you need the money. Just a jack off. You just have to stand there and come for my hand.”

“Uh, Mr. Mori. I really don’t . . . not here at work.” It wasn’t a no; it just seemed a bit crazy right here where I worked.

“I have a contact at the studio who is looking for a young guy to do a four-program stand-behind in the All Is Relative TV series, Billy. He’s a good friend. I could put in a good word for you. That’s all you’d need to get your Equity card. The path is open when you have an Equity card.”

“But here, somewhere in the bar. We might be—”

“That’s part of the thrill of it, Billy—that someone might see us. I actually get a little extra boost if someone is watching.”

So, the Japanese guy did have his kinks. Whether he knew it or not, though, he was asking at a fortuitous time—for him.

Doug had told me that afternoon that he was getting married—he’d finally gotten one of his society cougars to propose and to move ahead in discussing favorable prenuptial agreements. I’d lose his share of the rent. I’d been stewing about where I was going to find money for a bigger rent bill all afternoon. There was nothing cheaper than what I already had. I held a hundred-dollar bill in my hand and there was a good possibility of more from a TV job. And Mori had already gotten me the gig with the Pasadena theater. And I needed an Equity card. I knew Mori wanted to fuck me—and he was a well-built, good-looking man. It was only a hand job, and it was his hand, not mine.

I turned and motioned to the bartender, Steve, that I was taking off a few minutes early. He looked at Mori and then me and waved me away. I saw Mori motioning to a guy looking at us from a table as we passed and the guy stood up. I didn’t want to know any more about that.

Mike Mori jacked us off together in the semidarkness of a storage room in the back of the Blue Onion. I’d locked it when we entered the room, but Mori reached over me and unlocked it again, saying, “The thrill of possible exposure,” and flashing me a smile. I shuddered, not thinking of it as a thrill, but being surprised that it was, in fact, an arousal boost.

There was a window in the door, letting a dim light into the room, but he had me backed up to a wall behind some big cardboard boxes that partially screened us from the door. Someone looking in the window could see movement at the edge of his vision. And that someone could enter the room and see us if he was curious enough. And someone did enter—the guy Mori had motioned to in the bar. He stood off to the side, leaning against a wall, and unzipped and stroked himself while he watched Mori Jacking me off. But he remained off to the side. Mori had me in such a state that I managed to forget the guy was there.

Mori was fully dressed other than his trousers and briefs being down around his knees. My jeans and briefs were puddled on the floor and my T-shirt front had been pulled up over and in back of my neck to expose my chest and belly. I think he would have liked to have me fully naked and him almost fully clothed, but he was too anxious to carry all of the way through with that. When he’d partially stripped and exposed me, he spent a couple of moments sucking on my nipples, and, moaning, I let him. When he came to sexiness, he had it.

He had one arm around my shoulders, his chest pressing into mine. He held my lips in a kiss. He was a great kisser, taking command and melting me into submissiveness. My body relaxed in his arms. My pelvis jutted forward from the wall and my legs were spread. His knees were between mine and he frotted our cocks together with his free hand, stroking them together. He was longer than I was; I was a bit thicker. He’d said he’d do all of the handling, but he’d taken one of my hands and made me feel the hardness and length of him and brushed my fingers through his black, silky pubic brush.

“I want you to know we’re having sex,” he had whispered. “When I want to fuck you totally, I want you to remember that you let me do you before.”

He worked us in under ten minutes before we came, me first and then Mori.

“That was nice,” he murmured when he was done. “I liked that.”

I said nothing. But I was breathing heavily. I’d quickly gotten hard and had come for him. Neither one of us needed more evidence that I was gay and would do that for him than that. And I had responded to his kisses. I would go with a man. That was clear to us both. I had sucked my breath in when I got the measure of his cock. I had been moving my hips with the rhythm of his hand stroking. I’d been into the jackoff.

I looked across the room then. The other guy was gone.

I expected Mori to let me go then, but he didn’t. One of his hands went to my buttocks. He squeezed one of my cheeks and stroked it with his fingers.

“Um, Mr. Mori,” I whispered.

“Lift your knee to my hip,” he murmured. “Give me access.”

“Uh. Enough,” I whispered.

“Never enough,” he growled. “You want this.”

Whimpering, I lifted my knee and hooked it on his hip. The fingers he’d been stroking my butt cheek with went to my hole. I moaned as he rimmed me with a finger and pressed it inside me, penetrating me to the knuckle and then further.

“Oh shit. Oh fuck,” I moaned as he stroked my prostate with the tip of the finger. But I stayed with him. I didn’t try to twist away from him. He had me and he knew he did. He took possession of my mouth with his again and I opened to his sensuous kiss. In and out; he was finger fucking my ass. I flinched as the second finger went inside me. I felt my channel muscles giving way, spreading open for him. He felt it too. He pulled off my mouth and gave a low, “now I’ve got you” laugh.

“Fuck, yes,” I whimpered. Wanting more now. Wanting his long dick inside me.

A shadow passed across the window in the lighted corridor beyond the storage room and we both froze and then relaxed as, after pausing, the shadow moved on. I gave a low moan. He’d been right. The possibility of discovery had been highly arousing. Knowing that another man had come in with us and stroked himself off while watching us had been arousing. Mori laughed as he felt my sphincter grasp his finger and then blossom open for him.

“I want you to go upstairs with me,” Mori murmured.

I knew there were rooms rented by the session upstairs at the Blue Onion. I hadn’t known Mori knew that.

“I don’t really do that, Mr. Mori,” I said, my voice breathy. “Not here, not where I work. They’ll know and take advantage of it.”

“Your body tells me otherwise. Your body tells me you are aching for it, here or anywhere. I’ll give you five hundred and I’ll put the call into Horace at All Is Relative as soon as I get home from here.”

“Not upstairs,” I whimpered.

He misconstrued. “You want it here, on the floor? Because I’ll do you right here if that’s what you want. If you like it rough, I’ll do you rough.”

“I don’t have a key to any of the rooms upstairs,” I said.

“I do,” he answered.

“I’m not a rent-boy, Mr. Mori. It would have to be just this once . . .  because I need the money and because I’m grateful you’ve helped me get the acting role.”

“You’ve been fucked before, though, haven’t you, Billy? This wouldn’t be a first time for you or a last, would it? Don’t make such a big deal out of it.”

“No, it wouldn’t be the first time,” I admitted.

“Let’s go upstairs, Billy.” He took my hand and led me out of the room. I docilely followed.

He fucked me on what wasn’t much more than a cot. We both were naked. He was in good condition and would have been hanging low if he hadn’t been in stiff erection. He seemed to be quite pleased with me in the buff, and he’d explored every curve and crevice of me before he’d laid me back on the cot. I lay on my back, my butt at the edge of the foot of the bed, my legs spread and bent and my heels dug into the edge of the mattress. He crouched between my spread legs and fucked me deep in a missionary. I nearly hyperventilated and writhed under him when he first entered me. He ran up into me to the hilt and held there, staring down into my eyes, capturing me totally, as, panting, I slowly opened completely to him with him holding steady, long and ramrod hard inside me. Eyes locked together, we both could feel my passage open for him as he held there, inside me.

There, holding inside me, deep, me panting hard, trembling almost uncontrollably, he whispered to me, “Am I hurting you? Can you take me?”

I was taking him. He was in to the hilt, and the muscles of my channel walls were rippling over his ramrod hard shaft. I got the impression, though, that he wanted to hurt me—maybe just a little.

“Fuck me. Fuck the hell out of me,” I hissed through gritted teeth.

And then he did.

I had never been fucked by a man that long—or that patient to wait for my channel muscles to spread open for him. He must have been over eight inches. Everyone who had ever fucked me before was a boy. This was a man.

When I was open to him, he fucked me slowly at first, giving it to me to the root, pulling it all back, and giving it all to me again. He was handsome and his brown, Asian body was beautiful—slim but well-muscled—his countenance exotic, arousing. I liked brown a few times a year. This would satisfy that. He was my first Jap, though. All the other browns I’d taken had been either African or Caribbean in origin.

There was no denying, either, that he was impossibly long and used every inch. And he was a screen star. I laid there and moaned as he pulled his pelvis back and withdrew slowly, more than eight inches, and I groaned as he pushed his pelvis forward and buried it all. His pubic hair was curly and silky. I knew each time when he was fully inside me by the tickle of his pubic hair on my inner thighs. I trimmed my bush close. All the men I knew did too. That he had a bush was arousing. I moved my pelvis with him, riding on the waves of want with him. He could have fucked me like that for hours. But he didn’t.

As we got into the intensity of the fuck, he moved his hands from where his fists were bearing down on my nipples to my shoulders. I was pushing up on my pelvis, swaying with him in the ride, as he pumped me deep. I looked up into his eyes and saw a change in him. His eyes were flashing and he took on a cruel look. Unexpectedly, he slapped me twice on the face, first in one direction and then the other. I started to object, to roll out from underneath him. But he was powerful. He was pinning me to the bed. His hands went to my throat and he squeezed. He started with breath play. I’d heard about it, but never had it done. I had it done to me now.

He had his hands around my throat, tight, and was controlling my breath—squeezing to deny me air and then releasing, letting me take deep gasps of breaths before closing off my air passage again.

“This will send your arousal higher,” he explained when I gave him a frightened look. I wasn’t sure my arousal with him could go any higher. I was dancing on the clouds.

His thumbs were pressed up into the soft tissue behind my jaw. The breath control was being coordinated with his deep thrusts inside me. I was gagging and gasping. I wanted to tell him to stop but I couldn’t catch enough breath to do so. He was fucking me good below, but this breath control crap was scaring the shit out of me.

I could tell we were both coming to a climax. We reached a point where I was sure he wasn’t going to stop squeezing, wasn’t going to let me take a last breath. But the spell was broken by a knock at the door and a called out, “De’Andre? You in there De’Andre?” Mori held there, let enough air into my lungs so that I didn’t pass out. He remained hard and deep inside me, but not pumping.

Had we locked the door when we came in? I couldn’t remember. If it had been left up to Mori, I’m sure he’d have left it unlocked. Are we going to be discovered? A chill traveled up my spine. Was some black bruiser going to come in? Would he snort and leave or would he stay and watch Mori rough fuck me? I wasn’t destined to know. The door knob rattled but the door held closed and then footsteps outside shuffled on down the corridor.

Mori’s grasp on my throat tightened. I had been digging my fingernails in his shoulder blades, trying, ineffectively, to push him off me. I was seeing stars before my eyes. He was pumping hard. He tensed and held and then released into the bulb of his condom. I ejaculated at the same time, and, as I did, I blacked out.

* * * *

When I came to, I was sprawled, naked on the bed, and Mori and his clothes were gone. One of his address cards slipped off my chest. It fell beside five crisp hundred-dollar bills. I picked it up from the surface of the mattress and turned it over. Scrawled on the back was the message, “Sorry. Wanted you bad. Not so rough the next time. I’ll call Horace tonight. Promise.”

Next time, I thought. I don’t think so.

He called the next day. “You OK, Billy? You were great. It won’t be as intense the next time, I promise.”

“I’m OK, I guess,” I answered. “But, umm—”

“I called Horace. He says for you to call him. Got a pen? I’ll give you his number.”

I took the number down. “Uh, Mr. Mori. About last night—”

“When can I see you again?”

“About that. I don’t think—”

“Uh, sorry. I’ve got to ring off. I think a call I’ve been expecting is coming in.”

I got the four-appearances part in All Is Relevant. And I got my Equity card too. I was a Hollywood actor now. And I could float the studio apartment on my own for four more months.

* * * *

Three weeks later I almost didn’t answer the telephone. “Do you know who Earl Stanley is?” Mike Mori asked right off the bat when I did answer the phone.

I had expected that he would mention something about having choked me in sex to the point of making me black out. That had disturbed me greatly, especially since, otherwise, that had been the best sex I’d ever had. God, he could fuck deep. But then Mr. Mori had suggested that it was the best sex because the choking had been involved. I didn’t know what to think. I thought that it should be mentioned, should be discussed, and I suspected that it was a dangerous perversion, but I just didn’t know. I’d never been fucked by an important, sophisticated man, like a television star, before. I just didn’t know. But he didn’t mention it at all, which left me somewhere between confusion and thinking that it was a standard sex technique that I was too naïve to know about and appreciate.

“No, I don’t,” I admitted. If he hadn’t launched immediately into the pitch, I don’t know what I would have said before disconnecting from his call. I didn’t want to be rude, though. The man had gotten me jobs. He’d gotten me my Equity card. He probably would be a bad enemy to make in Hollywood. He’d given me the best sex I’d ever had, and he’d provided a breather on my rent. But, speaking of breathing . . .

“He’s a TV producer. A powerful one. He’s looking for an actor to play an older teen in a family sitcom he’s putting together for Fox. He’s willing to talk to you.”

“Me? A sitcom. A speaking role?”

“A regular on the program. Maybe a major part if you win audience appeal. I believe you can.”

“Do you have a number for me to call?”

“He wants to meet you. To audition you personally. He wants me to set it up at my house. A small pool party, just the three of us. This Saturday afternoon. Say, at 2:00 p.m.?”

Silence. We both knew what that meant, what he was proposing. What this producer wanted. What Mori wanted again.

“I don’t know where you live.” I was playing for time. My chance for a continuing role. My step up.

“I live in Eagle Rock, east Los Angeles, near where I-2 and I-134 meet. I’ll pay for a taxi, coming and going. It’s on Lockhaven Avenue.”

“What’s the address?” I asked. “And you say 2:00 p.m. Saturday?”

“Yeah.” He gave me the street address. “Wear a tiny Speedo and a winning smile. And practice saying ‘yes.’ This could be your big break if you play your cards right.”

“You’re saying I’ll be—”

“Yes, you most certainly will unless Stanley decides right off the top he doesn’t like you.”

* * * *

Earl Stanley was a walrus of a man and was ugly as sin. He blustered and undressed me with his eyes and crudely made clear from the beginning what I was going to do for him to get this part. I shuddered and put myself on autopilot to the extent I was able to.

He had the balls to wear a tiny Speedo too, his stomach drooping over it so that you could only tell from the side and back views that he was wearing one at all. But he knew who had the power here. He didn’t care what he looked like. He was only interested in what I looked like—and what I’d do for him. He did have the big balls for it, though, and what we called a beer can dick—impossibly thick, not that long.

He told me what he wanted me to do for him, and I did it.

We swam in the pool, cavorting a bit while he made crude sexual remarks and I responded in words and ways that increased his arousal. I knew what was what here. Mori, also in a Speedo, sat on the end of a lounge bed and watched us. Stanley wanted to play touchy-feeling, and I said yes. He pulled my back into his belly, and I whispered, “Yes, yes,” for him, knowing that’s what he wanted to hear.

I shuddered as he rubbed and pinched my nipples and closed his teeth on the back of my neck. I arched one hand back to hold the back of his balding head to me while I covered the hand working my nipples with my hand, and whispered, “Please, please,” because I knew that’s what he wanted to hear. And when his hand moved down my sternum and across my belly and under the waistband of my Speedo and covered my genitals, my hand was still covering his and I was shuddering and I whispered, “Please. Fuck me, please. Fuck me. Put it in me,” because I knew that was what he wanted to hear. I willed myself to go hard for him as he fondled my genitals, showing that he could arouse me. There didn’t seem to be any trouble arousing him; he was wheezing and shaking and his thick, hard cock was pressing into my crack behind.

One of his hands went down between us, pushed my Speedo down midway onto my thighs, and positioned his cock head at my hole, and then he was inside me, stretching me, moving inside me just a couple of inches in my passage. I panted, expected him to open me up at any moment and sink inside and start to pump. I panicked a bit, wondering if he was wearing a condom, but there wasn’t anything I could do about that now.

After a while, Stanley hauled me up out of the water and laid me on the terracing at the edge of the pool on my back, my legs dangling down into the water. He indeed had been sheathed. He pulled that one off his cock and rolled another one on.

“We’re gonna make fuckin’ music,” he said, and I said “yes.” He pulled the Speedo off my legs, came between them, and took my cock in his hand and mouth. And I said “yes.” He moved my legs so that they draped over his shoulders. I let him manipulate me like I was a rag doll.

In a gravelly voice, he said, “I’m going to fuck the shit out of you.” And I said “yes.”

Throughout, Mori stood nearby as a witness that I had said “yes” to everything.

I gave Stanley the expected moans and groans as he sucked my cock and balls and ate my ass out. Mori came over to the side of the pool, went down on his knees, leaned over me, and fed his cock into my mouth.

Stanley sucked me off until I came. Then he came out of the water, laid me on my back on the lounge bed, straddled the bed with his legs, wishboned mine with his fists grasping my ankles and raising and spreading my legs, forced his sheathed cock inside me, and fucked me. I concentrated on the role I was auditioning for and on the fat cock inside me, filtering out the reality of the crude ogre the nicely filling cock was attached to. By doing so, and demonstrating my acting ability, I was able to fool him that he was the best cocksman on the planet.

The memory of declaring to Mori just a short time before that I wasn’t a rent-boy with the knowledge that I now was a male whore giving everything that was demanded of me to get what I wanted flashed through my mind, and I grimaced. But this was getting me what I so badly wanted, what I knew I’d do anything to get—even to the point of putting my life in danger. I wasn’t fooling myself about what lying under Mori meant I was risking. “Yes, yes,” I cried out. “Fuck me. Fuck me hard! You’re a brute. You’re a stud. Give it to me!” and, with a grunt, the satisfaction that I was reveling at having him inside me, and renewed strength, Stanley did so. His girth was taxing and he seemed to grow in length. He was fucking me good. I closed my eyes and thought only of his cock, stretching me and pounding me. No need for acting anymore, and the heat of me conveyed to the ogre, who was getting what he wanted from a younger, fitter, beautiful man-boy.

“Yes, Yes! Oh, shit, fuck me. Get it, get it, get it!”

At length Stanley turned us, him on his back on the bed, and me riding his cock in a crab position, my arms behind me and bent and my legs bent and on either side of his fat torso as I raised and lowered myself on his cock. He obviously wanted me to demonstrate that I’d work at giving him whatever he wanted. I gave him the performance he wanted.

It was only after that that we discussed the part I was auditioning for. Mori’s house was a Japanese style one. The living room, dining area, and kitchen all ran together in one large space overlooking his swimming pool, and down toward the ocean, the city of Los Angeles. All of the furniture was austere and low slung.

He had red vinyl bean bag chairs in the living area, and we sat around in them, in dressing robes, discussing the projected TV series and the parts in it and the various actors already involved and planned. Stanley sat close beside me and fondled my genitals while we talked. We also discussed finances, and my mind was spinning from the figures Stanley was throwing out. We didn’t settle anything, though.

That wasn’t the last time my head was spinning. Mori served us drinks. As I was drinking my second one, my head started to spin, I lost motor control, and I was seeing stars before my eyes. I wasn’t so out of it, though, that I didn’t know when Stanley rose from his chair and turned to mine. He brushed my robe away from my naked body on both sides, wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling my pelvis up to him and straddled the chair. He forced his beer-can cock inside me again and pulled me on and off his cock. He was barebacking me.

I had the presence of mind to realize that Stanley had wanted to bareback and drugging me was Mori’s only assurance that I would go that far with the man. I had no idea whether I would have with full control of my body, but it didn’t matter, he was fucking me now, raw flesh in raw flesh. It was done—or at least after a heavy screwing it was done.

Later I asked Mike Mori if I was right about why I was drugged into paralysis, and he said, “That’s partially why. Stanley likes to fuck them when they are totally vulnerable to him, as well—when they are unconscious and he can do with them what he wants.”

“And is that why you like to use the breath control—to make me pass out? Do you share that fetish with Stanley?”

Mori laughed and said, “I don’t think you want to know what I do with you while you’re passed out.”

I thought he was probably correct in that assumption.

Stanley fucked me for a good fifteen minutes, as paralyzed, I just lay there and took him, stars flashing in front of my eyes, my head spinning, but being able to fully feel the sensation of his thick cock inside me, slow pumping me, bringing me and him to the brink, but then holding off until the urge to blow had subsided. Then pumping me again, building to an explosion, and then, eventually, both ejaculating. Me first and then him, him coming to the surface to shoot his wad and then pushing it inside me again and pumping a few times before he stopped and held, breathing heavily. After several minutes, with his breath having turned regular and his cock reengorging, he turned me, face down into the bean bag chair. He fucked me doggie style there, barebacking me again, from behind. This time when he came inside me, he pulled out of me and was gone.

Stanley was replaced by Mori, in a condom, pushing in where Stanley had been, but deeper, pistoning harder and faster, putting his hands around my throat and squeezing, rhythmically. He was controlling my breath as he had done before, and coordinating the squeezing with the rhythm of his pumping inside me. My body flopped around helplessly under him as, like Stanley before him, he fucked me like a dog.

I blacked out. When I came too, the effects of whatever he’d put in my drink wearing off, we were on a bed in a bedroom. Just Mori and me. I was on my back, and he was between my bent and spread legs, his dick inside me, pumping, and his hands on my throat, his thumbs pressed up under my jaw, controlling my breath again and fucking me hard. His thumbs blacked me out again.

When I came to, he was sitting by the bed, in his dressing robe. I was still on my back on the bed, my legs bent and spread. But my butt was raised high on three pillows and there was a string of greased tear-shaped graduated balls strung out on the sheet between my legs. I don’t know for sure if Mori had been playing with those inside me while I was unconscious—and I didn’t ask—but my channel felt like it was gaping open, so . . .

“You OK, Billy?” he asked. “You did great. Stanley is ready to sign you.”

I didn’t answer. I just groaned.

“Maybe you want to go shower now,” he said. “The bathroom’s right over there.”

I was standing in the shower, starting to soap myself off, when he came in, naked, behind me. “I thought you’d like someone to soap you up,” he said, as he took the bar of soap out of my hand and ran it across my back. He came in close and kissed me on the nape of my neck. I could feel his hard cock at the small of my back. I shuddered, both wanting him and not wanting what he did to me.

“I could fuck you all day,” he murmured into my ear.

I didn’t doubt that one bit. I stiffened, though, scared he’d put me out and I’d hit something hard in the shower.

“You going to deny me, Billy?” he asked, “after what I’ve done for you—what I can do for you? I want only the best for you.”

“And what do you want, Mike? What do you want from me?”

“You know what I want, Billy. I want your trust, and your submission. I want you to give me what I want, whenever I want it—whatever it is.”

“No, Mike,” I said in a whisper. “I’m not going to deny you.”

He placed a hand on my belly, coaxing me to move my legs back and spread them, to jut my buttocks back into his pelvis. His erection was hard and long. It pushed under my balls and between my thighs. His other hand went to cupping my chin, pulling my head back into the hollow of his shoulder. He raised his pelvis and pulled back, his sheathed bulb searching for, finding, and positioning itself at my entrance. I was still gaping open from Stanley and him team fucking me earlier.

“Mike,” I whispered.

“What?” he responded in a low voice.

“Take what you want. Do whatever you want.”

I heard him groan and then me moan as he slid up into me, deep, and began to pump. His hand at my throat closed on my windpipe, and he controlled my breathing as he pumped me. The tightening of the hand, me holding my breath for as long as I could, even longer. The release of his grip and me raggedly sucking in air. The tightening of the hand. Me trying to concentrate all of my sensations on the long cock deep inside me—and on the next granted breath. Hoping for a soft landing when I blacked out. No longer fighting the idea that I would black out.

But I didn’t black out in the shower. After he’d come, he held there. He loosened the hold on my throat and I brought my breathing under control.

“He wants you to come back to sign the contract,” he said in a low voice. “Here. Next Saturday at 2:00 p.m.”

I didn’t answer at first, knowing why the signing would be here, knowing what I’d have to do for the walrus to get his signature.

“But will he want—?”

“We’ll have you checked. This week. I’ll refer you to my doctor and pay for it. And then again next week, after you’ve been with him. Yes, he’ll want to bareback you. There’s a risk, but it’s minimal. I know he has himself checked. If there’s anything, we’ll catch it fast. There’s never been a hint about him being anything but clean; such things get around here fast. This is Hollywood. We’re ahead of the curve of what is generally available out there. But, yes, he will bareback you.”

“You knew he’d want to bareback me before I came here today?”

“Yes. Sorry.”

“And you?” I asked. “Do you want us to go back to the bedroom and you bareback me?”

“Would you let me? Will you let me? Oh, by the way. I was talking to Bruce Eaton the other day. You know who he is, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course.” He was a major MGM movie producer.

“He might be interested in screen testing you for a movie he’s putting together. If I tell him you would be good for the part.”

“Yes,” I said. He was stroking my bare buttocks with his fingers. He ran his fingers over my hole a couple of times and I moaned. He sank a finger inside me and I groaned. We were going to do this. He was going to fuck me raw and I was going to lay there, open, vulnerable to him, and take his cum deep. I would do it to get a screen test for a movie. But I would also do it because Mori owned me now.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, you can bareback me. Whatever you want. Take me back to the bedroom and bareback me. Lay me out, fuck me raw, ride me hard.”

He laughed. “Barebacking is not my fetish.” He withdrew his finger and patted my buttocks.

I blushed having been caught by his tease, by his testing how far raw ambition would take me. No, I knew it wasn’t his fetish. But his was equally as dangerous.

“So, this wasn’t all it needs—the one time?” I asked.

“No. This is Hollywood, Billy. Once is never enough—not with Earl Stanley; not with me; not with many other powerful men in this town. Once isn’t good enough if tge man with power wants you again—and if he doesn’t, your future in this town is screwed anyway. It’s good for you to absorb that lesson early. You still have time to go back to wherever you came from in Indiana and make a different, safer, life for yourself. If that’s what you want—after you’ve seen the big screen.”

At the door, where we said out good-byes, I asked the question that had been perplexing me. “I don’t understand why, Mike. Why you’ve done all of this for me. Why you have pursued me. You could have any number of other young men.”

“You have that aura about you, Billy,” he said. “You are the type I want. And you will go with me, all the way to the end. I am as lost to you as you are to me. You are ambitious and malleable and you are mine. I am your end and you may be mine.”

Somehow I didn’t find that comforting.

“Will I have to fuck Eaton to get the movie screen test?”

“Yes. And, if he wants, again to be chosen for the part and then again to get a contract signed. It’s the norm here.”

“Is that why men fight to gain power in Hollywood?—to command easy sexual domination over others?”

“Yes, of course. Live in the moment. Live for present pleasure. There’s no greater pleasure to be had than satisfying sex. Men in power demand it from you and you give it to become a man in power.”

It was a hard reality to absorb. As I got into the taxi outside of Mike Mori’s house, I knew, though, that I would be back here the next Saturday. I wanted to be in movies that bad. I knew what the gambles were and knew that I would take the risk. This was Hollywood. Live moment by moment. And, no, once is not enough.