by habu
I knew I was being vocal, and I tried to tone myself down. But nothing like this had ever happened to me before. I was in full force in fucking his mouth. And now I wasn’t trying to pull his head away, I was holding him close to me. I felt my balls being ingested into his mouth along with my cock and being moved to his cheeks on each side, and he began to hum, the vibrations driving me crazy and pushing . . . me . . . over the edge in a torrent that matched the race of the churning waters in the nearby Potomac.
He released me then and sat up over me and looked down at me with the most loving, tender look in his eyes. I lay under him, exhausted and panting, and looking up with an expression that mirrored his. I was horrified and exhilarated all at once. I loved him. That was the last thing I should be doing. But I couldn’t hide it from myself, even if I could try to hide it from him. I was hopelessly in love with Gil Johnson.
He was on the move again, lifting my buttocks with his strong brown hands and rolling my pelvis. His lips went to my channel entrance, and I reached a whole new level of arousal as he tongue fucked me.
After that, when he covered my body with his and slowly, stopping as I found necessary, panting to open to him, to accommodate his gigantic size, slid his cock into my channel. As he promised, he possessed me slowly, moving massively inside me, giving me the sensation of doors opening willingingly, welcomingly to him and walls stretching, sighing their love and crying out their jubilation in the progress of his possessing cock, bringing me to ejaculation again while he was still inching to the center of me. There was little pain even though he was so long and thick. And then, totally sheathed, he began to move in and out me, as every nerve in my body ran to luxuriate in the full possession of me by that moving, mastering cock. But as nice as his slow, easy, eternal fucking was, it was almost a sideshow to that glorious blow job Gil had given me.
* * * *
Three weeks later, the production was coming together. The script rewrites were finished, which was a good thing, because most of my time was now spent in dance rehearsals. And the dance routines were also about as close to perfection as they were going to get.
Mr. Masters was brooding, no longer the center of attention, and spent much of the time during the day in the townhouse, going through papers he wouldn’t let me see. Often at night he was on the Boxoffice, however, and those nights he came home too exhausted to mess with me when he got into bed. I knew that this was something Gil was doing—for me. He was occupying both Mr. Masters and Handelsman, and keeping them off me.
It also meant, however, that the occasions when Gil and I could meet were rare. But meet we did, where we could. And we made love whenever there was an opportunity.
Although Gil was helping to minimize the demands on me from Mr. Masters and Handelsman, there was little he could do with Miloslav Cersenka. I had become the dance master’s favorite. He frequently would call me into his room at the theater after dance practices and would fuck me on the chaise lounge there.
I worried about him, though. The closer the dance sequences were coming to perfection, the more ravished his body appeared. He was dragging to the rehearsals in the end, and he was asking me to show the other dancers what he meant when he was trying to correct their positions. His eyes took on a haunted look, and his fucking was labored and almost perfunctory, even though he cried through each one as if it was his last.
Thus, it was bound to happen on that day, when, face flushed and excitement bursting out of him, Cersenka ended a dance rehearsal by saying we were ready. He trumpeted the fact that he had fulfilled his responsibilities a good week before the dress rehearsal and while Handelsman was still yelling at his actors and calling them fucking dumb donkeys.
He took me by the arm and led me to his room, bubbling over with pride at just how perfect the dance sequences were. As I stripped for him, I could hear him behind me, wheezing, but still talking up a storm, barely intelligible and slurring his words, although I knew he was congratulating himself on cheating death—on having taken on another production, prepared another dance ensemble, when everyone, all of his doctors included, had warned him it was too much. How he had snatched his victory and produced a masterpiece of dance work.
He died in my arms, his cock inside me, his face buried in the hollow of my neck. He jerked, and I thought he was coming. But, he wasn’t. He was going.
I dressed him and sat him up at the dressing table, as if he had slumped over dead there. Then I dressed myself and went to the front of the theater and told them I’d found him unconscious in his room and that they should call 911.
The sounds of the sirens were coming closer as I left Arena Stage through the lobby entrance and crossed Maine Avenue
for the short walk to the 7th Street
townhouse.
Mr. Masters was sitting at the desk in the living room, looking through some papers. I walked over to where he was sitting and looked down and recognized envelopes from a Realtor in New York City and saw at once that they concerned the sale of our apartment in Manhattan.
He swept other papers over those, but he hadn’t been fast enough. I’d seen them. And I was in shock. But as I’d already been in shock, the import of the papers didn’t occur to me until later.
Mr. Masters looked up at me, a wary, guilty look on his face.
“You’re back early,” he said.
“Miloslav Cersenka is dead,” I said. I knew I sounded flat, too matter of fact. That’s what shock was doing to me. “Just now. I found him in his room. I suppose those sirens we’re hearing are for him.”
“Had he finished preparing the dances for Defiance?” Mr. Masters asked. No “Oh my God,” no “Oh, I’m sorry you had to be the one to find him,” no “I’m sorry we pushed him like that,” no “What a great loss to the theater.” Just, “Had he finished his part of my fucking play?”
I had never hated Creighton Masters as much as I did at that moment.
Chapter Seven: Final Curtain
Dress rehearsal for Defiance was exhausting—for me, at least, since I had to dance in it. But I’m sure it was nerve-wracking for Masters and Handelsman, too, because this was their last crack at making it right before the drama critics descended on them. They were so pumped up on reviewing and celebrating and agonizing over minutia on the production that they went straight to Handelsman’s yacht, the Boxoffice, in the yacht basin near the theater. And Masters told me I had to come along.
Before we left the theater, I called the Gangplank restaurant, which was close to closing time, and cajoled them into preparing a late supper to send over to the yacht for the two men. I myself wasn’t hungry. I was just exhausted. And after I’d accepted the meals at the gangplank and taken them into the salon, where the two men barely noticed they were even there they were so animated and excited, I sat back into the cushions of the curved bench lining the fan tail of the yacht, and then I brought my legs up onto the cushion, stretched out, and gave myself up to sleep.
I couldn’t go to sleep, though. I was exhausted beyond sleep. I shut my eyes tightly and tried controlled breathing, but it just didn’t happen. It was both a bad thing and a good thing that I couldn’t go to sleep. First came the bad thing.
Masters and Handelsman must have assumed I’d gone to sleep, because they made no attempt to moderate their discussion.
“So, you’ve done it, have you?” Handelsman said.
“Yes, the apartment’s sold and I’m having the clothes sent up to your place in Connecticut,” Masters said.
My ears perked up. I hadn’t heard anything about this sale—although I’d found he was trying to sell his apartment—no, our apartment. I lived there too.
“And you’re sure you’re done with it?” Handelsman said.
“Yes,” I heard Masters speak. “I didn’t much care for it anyway. As long as I had Lawrence for those earlier plays—and Sean now—the attention was pleasant, but those empty years between the time Lawrence died and I took on Sean were frustrating. I’m happily done with it
. Your invitation to come live out my days with you couldn’t have come at a better time.”
“And to think that no one in the theater ever knew who was writing your plays.”
“That was part of the pleasant part,” Masters said. And then he laughed. “Such a joke on all those pompous theater people.”
“Including me,” Handelsman said.
“Oh, no, never including you, Lenny. You were special. There’s never been anyone like you.”
“And Sean?” Handelsman said, followed by his own laugh. “What will we do with sweet young Sean up in Connecticut?”
“Oh, I’m sure we’ll think of something,” Masters answered. “You know how we shared Gil. Sean has charms of his own. So small and yielding. I wonder how he’d do with doubling. Gil wouldn’t stand for that. But Sean will do anything I tell him to do.” His voice suddenly sounded husky, and I opened my eyes, lifted my head, and peered into the salon through the window. The two were sitting close together, and Handelsman had one hand inserted in Masters’s shirt front and the other was stroking Masters’s exposed cock.
“Shall we retire to the cabin?” Handelsman said in a hoarse voice.
“Yes, I think so,” Handelsman answered.
“And Sean, shall we wake him and take him with us?”
“Later,” Masters answered. And then they both rose and, laughing and joking, embraced and entered the corridor leading back to the staterooms.
I could hardly wait for them to be gone. I was suddenly alert and believed if I didn’t get off the yacht and away instantly, I would begin to hyperventilate. My whole world was shattering. What a complete bastard Masters was. And Handelsman wasn’t far behind.
I slipped off the yacht and loped blindly up the grassy embankment. I had to find Gil. I needed Gil—now more than ever before. Where could he be? One place was a good bet—adding to his escape fund. I started walking briskly toward the elevated Southwest Freeway, both what I had just heard and the brisk evening breeze making so much clear to me now.
* * * *
“Am I interrupting anything?”
I turned and was surprised to see Sean standing next to me at the bar in the Bachelor Pad gay club. He looked more like his favorite uncle had just died than that he been part of an almost-flawless dress rehearsal for a production we had all been slaving on for months.
“What’s the matter, Sean?” I asked. “You look sorta like shit.”
“I said, am I interrupting anything, Gil,” he repeated. His eyes were flashing and his nostrils were flaring, and he looked like he was thinking of picking a fight with me.
“Just a drink, Sean,” I answered. “I haven’t been in here for any other purpose since before we took that car ride up to Great Falls. I wouldn’t do that to you.” I reached out and put my hand on his forearm. He was trembling like a high-strung racehorse.
“Sorry, Gil,” he whispered, and he just sort of collapsed on the stool next to me. “I’ve just . . . I can’t . . . oh, shit.”
“Come, let’s go back to the townhouse,” I said. “We’ll have privacy there, and you can tell me what the matter is.”
But when we got back to the townhouse, Sean didn’t speak. He was at me like a bitch in heat, crawling up my leg and rubbing his chest against mine, and unzipping my jeans and digging for my cock.
I decided, without any trouble, that talk could come later, and I picked him up in my arms and mounted the stairs and gently laid him on the bed. He moaned as I undressed him and cried out as I knelt between his legs and started making love to his cock and balls and hole and not stopping, not letting up, until he had given me what I wanted, his total release. Then I stood and held his legs out wide by the ankles and mounted him, this time in a swift thrust that almost lifted him off the bed and made him cry to the ceiling, and rode him hard and deep to my own ejaculation, skin on skin, no niceties, full commitment. He cried for me like an animal in heat, digging his nails and the heels of his feet into my butt cheeks and holding me close inside him and yelling crudities of the fuck that I had no idea he even knew.
We were stretched out on the bed, in an embrace, when he broke down and started to cry.
“What is it, Sean?” I whispered. “What has you worked up? The play is great. Your dancing was great. It made me harden right up. I’m glad you came looking for me to fix that.”
This didn’t brighten him up a bit. I never was much of a comedian.
“Come on, you can tell me.”
“A sham, all a sham,” Sean whispered. I was relieved that I’d started him talking about it.
“What was a sham?”
“Masters. Just a big fake.”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “Of course he is. That was always apparent—to anyone who bothered to look.”
“You don’t understand, Gil,” he said. “He didn’t write any of those great plays. The guy he had living with him before, Lawrence, the guy who was killed in the automobile accident a couple of years before Masters hired me—he wrote his plays for him. I can see that now, he hired me just to write his plays for him. This Lawrence guy was the one who wrote his earlier plays. The only plays Masters wrote himself were the ones that didn’t work.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” I answered. “But speaking of plays, Sean. I read your latest one. It’s brilliant. It’s gonna be a hit.”
“Thanks, Gil, I needed to hear that,” Sean said. He sat up beside me and leaned his face down to mine and we kissed. When he rose back from the kiss, he looked more in control now, and the sadness had evaporated from his eyes.
“And I overheard him and Handelsman talking on the yacht. They are going to Handelsman’s place in Connecticut after this. They are moving us to Connecticut.”
“Ain’t no way I’m fuckin’ movin’ to Connecticut,” I muttered.
“And Masters is giving up the sham of writing plays. He said he’d never been interested in that anyway—he just liked living off the playwrighting talents of others. He’s just a big fraud. And he’s retiring to Connecticut to live with Handelsman. What are we going to do, Gil?”
“Didn’t you hear me?” I said. “There’s no fucking way I’m going to Connecticut.”
“But—”
“Or you either, if you are thinking straight,” I continued. “What held in you thrall to Masters, Sean? You said you loved him. What about him did you love?”
He sat there, looking confused. Then his face cleared. “I loved him because he was the lion of the theater,” Sean said. “Because of his writing talent. Because I believed in his writing talent.”
“Which is what, Sean?”
“All a sham,” Sean whispered.
“Exactly. Can you hear your lion go meow now?”
For the first time that evening Sean laughed. And it was a good, throaty laugh. I guess I wasn’t as much of a loss as a comic as I thought I was.
“And what do you need Masters for now, Sean?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you hear and understand what I said about your play script? It’s great. It’s a winner. I’ve been working with Handelsman in the theater long enough to know a winner when I read one. We could take it to Broadway. But I suggest we take it to the West Coast. We both said that’s where we’d go if we could follow our dream. There’s work and a life for us both out there—together, if you’ll have me.”
Sean wasn’t slow in giving me a definitive answer on that. He rolled me to my back and mounted my pelvis, holding my cock as he descended on it, and he fucked my cock until he’d come on my belly and I’d reciprocated deep inside him.
“Pack quickly,” I whispered when our breathing had returned to normal again and we lay in each other’s embrace. “We can be out of here and on our way in a half an hour.”
“The play—Defiance. Opening night tomorrow,” he murmured, and I was pleased to hear the regret in his voice. “And your escape fund.”
“You were right about my escape fund,” I said, with a low laugh. “I’ve had m
ore than enough money saved for some time. I just needed a greater reason to leave than to stay. You’re my reason. And, as far as the play, what do they do when someone’s sick one night?”
“We can adjust the dances for one, or even two, missing,” Sean answered.
“So, you’re sick,” I said. “Permanently sick. Sick of walking behind Masters and Handelsman and cleaning their asses for them. I mean, what’s the fucking play mean to you now? Other than that you wrote it. It’s tainted by Masters’s shit. You’ve got another play here that will launch you out of his shadow. What’s the play Defiance to us now, other than a symbol of our own defiance—of us sticking it back at Masters and Handelsman at last?”
“Nothing. Nothing, I guess.” Sean answered. And there was none of the indecision in his voice that came out in his words. That had been my one worry. That, knowing Defiance was more his play than Masters’s—much more—that maybe he couldn’t just leave it, even knowing we were done here. That we’d been done here for some time, that we’d just been wallowing in a rut.
“Let’s us get out of here, then.” I was up already and half way to the shower.
“How, Gil?” Sean said, with a laugh. “We’re both city boys in the city. Are we going to try to hitch across the country?”
“Nope, we’re going in my new Mustang,” I said. And I grinned. This may be the first inkling that Sean would have that this plan wasn’t all that impromptu. He had fallen into my own already-formed plans perfectly. “Not a new Mustang, but mine—ours—now. Bought it off the lighting technician guy. Hoped you’d relent and let me fuck you in it one day. And maybe you will. It’s a long way by road to L.A. from D.C. How’s that sound, Sean?”