Gay Erotic Stories

“Please, please, don’t stop,” Marc whimpered between pants. “Finish me, please. Don’t make me wait.”

“Now you want it,” the dance master laughed. “We’ll see how badly you want it.”

The two young men were lying on a pile of old costumes in the dark corner of the back of the stage behind the wings. The dance master, Patrick Moran, only a couple of years older than Marc, was mostly on his back, although listing to the left, and underneath. Marc was stretched out on top of his body, Patrick’s cock up his ass, and Patrick grasping Marc’s cock. Patrick held the back of Marc’s head so that their faces were close together, the eyes of each staring into those of the other. He said he wanted to watch the expression in Marc’s face as he was being fucked, even though the dimness of the light in the back corner of the stage made this difficult.

Patrick’s tights were rolled down to his knees, keeping his legs close together. Marc’s tights had been stripped off him as, overtaken by lust in their practice on the darkened stage, Patrick had lifted and carried Marc into the shadows, and the tights were now laying to the side of the pile of clothes, legs suggestively spread as wide as Marc’s were to accommodate the cock inside him. Very theatrical, Patrick thought. And he laughed. It was working out well, and right on schedule.

“You weren’t so eager for the fuck two weeks ago. It was murder seducing you.” Patrick was holding Marc’s cock but had stopped stroking it, holding it steady despite Marc’s efforts to move his hips in rhythm against it. Similarly, Patrick’s cock was buried, but he wasn’t stroking with it.

“Please, please fuck me,” Marc plaintively moaned. “Finish me. Please.”

It indeed had been quite a campaign to get Marc into the male dancer’s ensemble of the recently founded Metropolitan Opera, established in 1883 and now only in its third season—and third production.

Patrick had been on the prowl with the impresario chosen for that season’s production of Gounod’s Faust, John McManus, when they had come across Marc doing acrobatics in a Vaudeville skit and showing grace of movement and flexibility that made him stand out on stage and assure Patrick that the handsome young man had received classical training. The production of Faust required a team of male acrobat dancers, and Patrick’s team was lacking a man who could perform as well as they found Marc doing in an inferior skit.

Patrick would have worked to recruit Marc just for the needs of the troupe and didn’t think he’d have any trouble doing that—why would any male classically trained in ballet, as this young man obviously was, not want to work in ballet and opera rather than Vaudeville? But John McManus had thickened the brew. McManus, who had brought Patrick in as the dance master for his Met production as much because Patrick was his procurer as for Patrick’s unquestioned dance talent, had declared, wetting his lips and slitting his eyes as he watched Marc glide across the stage, that he wanted to fuck Marc too—and not just once. And not just by himself. John McManus had a fetish, one that he wasn’t able to feed nearly as much as he wanted to.

As Patrick worked at seducing Marc to his sexual charms—seducing him to come to work at the Met was, as he figured, no problem—he decided that Marc had been fucked before but that, quite possibly he’d been in a relationship that had gone bad and was skittish about involving himself in another.

It was only after Patrick had first successfully spiked Marc—on this same pile of costumes after Marc’s addition for the Met troupe, when he was euphoric over being able to find a classical dance job in New York—that Marc told him that he had been brought to New York by a rich, older man, who had abandoned him here after a couple of months, with no safety net, and gone back to his wife and children. Marc had convinced himself that the man would take care of him forever—financially as well as sexually—and he’d been hit very hard by reality. He’d had a rough time picking himself up and getting enough work to barely live on in New York. He’d planned on going back to western Pennsylvania but hadn’t saved enough for the fare yet.

Thus, Marc was happy to have sex with another young man like Patrick just for the enjoyment of it. But he was skittish of becoming mixed up with an older man again. This presented a problem for Patrick in conditioning and handing him over to John McManus, but Patrick was up to the challenge.

Patrick had held Marc close and kissed him. And he’d assured the younger man that someone would take care of him now. And then he’d turned Marc on his belly and fucked him again. He didn’t tell Marc that it would be John McManus who would take care of him and he was already calculating how little to pay Marc to keep him on the edge of starvation and prepare him for willingly going with the impresario.

“Tell me, was this man of yours—the one who brought you to New York—a big man?”

“A bit heavy, yes, and tall,” Marc had answered.

“That’s not what I meant by big,” Patrick said.

“I don’t . . . oh, you mean his staff?”

“Yes. His dick, his cock, Marc. We must loosen you up, take any guilt in this away from you. His cock. Thick? Very thick?”

“Umm. Very thick, I guess.”

“Thicker than mine?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Yes. Tell me.”

“Please, Patrick. Give it to me. Stroke me. Make me come. Don’t hold me off any longer.”

“Tell me, for true, and I’ll give it to you again. You won’t get the cock until you tell me.”

“Yes, then. Yes, he was thicker than you. But you’re—”

“Good. Good that you’ve had it thick,” Patrick had said and then he embraced Marc close and began stroking hard inside him.

Through the moans and groans of Patrick’s fucking, Marc had been confused. Why had he asked that? Patrick wasn’t all that thick, but Marc hadn’t mentioned it; hadn’t complained.

Patrick’s reason for asking that started to become apparent weeks later, when Marc found himself being fucked again as an extension of his one-on-one practice session in preparing for the soon-to-open Faust production. They once more were on the pile of costumes in the back corner of the stage area. And once more Patrick was fucking Marc. One difference between this time and when he’d done it to cap Marc’s successful audition with the Met troupe, was that this time Marc had begged for the fuck. This was the second time, Marc had begged for it—and had whined for it to continue when Patrick had put it into suspension.

Another difference this time was that more than just Patrick’s cock was inside him. Patrick had three fingers running down the sides of his cock inside Marc too, and, as Mark huffed and puffed, was stretching the channel wider than needed just by his cock.

This was also the time that Patrick had told the impresario, John McManus, the scheme they had concocted could proceed. That Marc was ready, in more ways than just emotionally.

“And what is this we have here?” McManus said gruffly from the edge of the light on the stage. Patrick had told him to come no farther—to be enough in the light for Marc to instantly recognize who had “caught” them fucking.

“Mr. McManus!” Patrick called out, and he rolled over on top of Marc as if he intended to hide Marc’s identity.

“Patrick? And is that young Marc you are fucking?”

McManus said no more; he just stood there in the light under the stage light after he’d uttered that expression. By design then, he turned and jumped off the stage and marched up the aisle to the theater lobby.

“Oh, god, we’re undone,” Marc wailed. “We’ll lose our jobs. I’ll lose my job.”

“There, there, little one,” Patrick said, embracing Marc, smoothing out his blond curls, and kissing his teary cheeks. “I think it will be OK.”

“OK? How could it be OK?” Marc answered through snuffles.

“I think it could work out because Mr. McManus likes young men, small, lithe, flexible men—in the same way I do—and I’ve heard him admire you.”

“Admire me?” Marc asked.

“Yes,” Patrick answered, the exasperation clear in his voice. “McManus fucks young men. I’m sure he’d fuck you given the chance. If you are willing to cultivate his attraction to you, I think we might manage this. You wouldn’t lose your job here. Neither would I. If you aren’t willing for yourself to make the sacrifice and to try to get him to want you and to keep you in the production, could you consider doing it for me? I would have almost as much trouble finding another position this good as you would—and the sacrifice would be for everyone in the production. Faust is too close to opening to replace us.”

Marc sniffled, but didn’t answer. Patrick thought perhaps that he was resisting the proposal in his mind, but Marc was actually thinking about McManus and assuring himself that the man had his attractions. He was big and gruff—a bit on the heavy side—but he was a handsome and commanding man. And he obviously was rich and important in Marc’s chosen world. Marc had already thought about being fucked by the impresario. He looked on all well-heeled middle-aged men in a “what if?” way since he’d let one bring him to New York.

“You mean if I get him to fuck me,” Marc said.

“Right. I think he already wants to fuck you, and I fuck you, so we both know you’ll let a man do it. Do it for him and you’ll solve a lot of problems. If you could get the man to want you, it might even be better for your life,” Patrick said. “You said an older man brought you to New York and said he’d keep you. I’ll bet if you work hard to please Mr. McManus, he might set you up somewhere too and improve your life’s lot. Young men like you and I have to make our opportunities where we can. What do you say?”

Marc couldn’t say much of anything at the moment, because Patrick had been working his body back up to a need. Patrick took the sighing and moaning—and lack of an objection—as victory. As well he should. To seal the deal, he turned Marc on his stomach and fucked him again.

An hour later, Marc was in the back of McManus’s closed carriage riding out of the city toward Long Island, where McManus said he had a country house. Patrick had cajoled Marc to go with him to the front of the theater to find McManus in the theater’s offices so that they could both beg to keep their jobs.

Without telling them what he’d had in mind, McManus granted them the opportunity to talk more to him about it, but he said that he was late for driving to his home. He gruffly told them to ride in his carriage with him. Chastened and Marc visibly worried, the two young men climbed into the back of the carriage with him. There were facing seats in the carriage and Patrick went to the one behind the driver, facing the rear, while McManus and Marc sat on the forward-facing seat.

With Patrick’s help, Marc threw himself on the mercy of the glowering impresario and did what he could to make McManus know that he was available to him.

As the carriage rolled out onto Long Island and out of the city, McManus fucked Marc, with Marc sitting on his cock in his lap and facing him. McManus’s cock was thick, but not overly so. But, when McManus put his hands under Marc’s thighs and lifted and spread them and rolled them up and, upon McManus’s command, Patrick crouched behind and started to work his own cock in on top of McManus’s, Marc suddenly could understand why Patrick might have asked him about how thick a cock he’d taken from his previous patron. It wasn’t being able to handle the thickness of one cock that was in question—it was the ability to take two at the same time.

“Patrick!” Marc declared as the dance master’s bulb breached his hole.

“Shush,” Patrick whispered in his ear. “This is what he likes best. This will assure the success of our plan. You can take both. Just relax and breathe. Breathe and relax.”

Thus revealed was John McManus’s special fetish that he had such difficulty fulfilling and that he had enlisted Patrick to serve.

Marc had started to make a ruckus of being violated as he panted and wailed at Patrick’s grunting efforts to enter him on top of where the older man already was buried deep in his channel, but passersby didn’t hear or care and neither did McManus’s driver. The carriage never wavered in its journey and, four inches sheathed along with McManus, Patrick leaned into Marc’s ear with his mouth and whispered, “There, it is done; the rest you can handle well enough,” and begged Marc to think of their need to keep their jobs—not just for Marc or even Mark and Patrick but for the entire production. McManus had it in his power to dismiss them both immediately.

And it had been McManus who had barked for Patrick to join in the fuck. It hadn’t been any more Patrick’s idea, as far as Marc knew, than it was his. They were both just trying to save their jobs. It had been McManus who had demanded this.

By this time, they were both in to the root and Marc realized that he could handle them both—even when the two, grunting and groaning above his moans and whimpers, settled into a rhythmic counterpistoning. It was dark in the cab, and if Marc relaxed and stopped tensing up and flopping about between them, he could manage this. The longer it went on, too, the more pleasure filtered in to counter the subsiding pain. Two men wanted him, both men who had power over him. Both desirable and powerful enough themselves to have anyone they wanted. And they both wanted him. Together.

This must have been McManus’s idea—his demand—Marc thought. And the older man obviously was enjoying it. And maybe wouldn’t fire either Marc or Patrick. Might even make Marc’s life better if he stopped fighting this and started making McManus believe he wanted it—which, to some extent—a growing extent—he did, he realized. His own hardened cock and approaching ejaculation assured him of this. And that he took pleasure from it wasn’t hidden from the other two men either. They could feel him hard. They could hear the moans and sighs and the involuntary expressions of pleasure he was giving as the cocks worked him inside—the pleasure of realizing he could take two cocks and that two men wanted him together.

And he could feel that Patrick melted to it too. He had been party to Patrick almost losing his job. Patrick, who had been such a good friend in giving him this job, and then such a good lover. If Patrick enjoyed it too . . .

With a cry, he came up the belly of the impresario’s silk waistcoat. With a grunt of his own, McManus came as well. Patrick came last, and what was it to Marc, if McManus and Patrick kissed each other over his shoulder before they disengaged? Patrick had told him that they both had to do what they could to get into the good graces of McManus.

Nearly tossed into the corner of the seat by McManus when they were done and Patrick had fallen back into his own seat and was buttoning up the fly to his trousers, Marc lay in a heap of soreness and exhaustion as McManus barked for the driver to stop and to hail a cabbie.

Marc was able to see street lights from the side windows of the carriage, so he knew they hadn’t gotten completely out of the city yet. He looked on dully and a bit confused as McManus and Patrick put their heads together between the seats and conversed in low tones. McManus took out his purse and gave Patrick some money, and Patrick exited the carriage, which started up again almost immediately.

As they were wheeled out into the darkness of the estate areas of Long Island, McManus pulled Marc back onto his lap and fucked him roughly again.

For the next four weeks, covering the last week of preparation of Faust and the three weeks the opera ran, McManus kept Marc at his country house—and in his bed when Marc wasn’t at the theater performing in the opera. McManus would fuck him in a big four-poster bed in the late morning when they both woke up. Frequently the young carriage driver, who obviously did much more for McManus than drive his carriage, would join them in the bed, and Marc would gain more experience in the double-penetration fuck. It seemed to be a favorite fetish of McManus’s—he murmured at one time that he was in a secret club cultivating the practice—and Marc himself increasingly became accustomed to it. Patrick had slowly trained Marc to beg for the fuck. Even Marc realized that McManus was having him on the way to begging for the double fuck.

To his surprise, McManus and the chauffeur showed Marc that there was more than one position—the bottom man sitting, the middle one in his lap and facing away, and the top coming in facing the middle one, as performed in McManus’s carriage—of the double fuck. They took him with them facing each other, legs overlapping and cocks held together, with Marc lowering himself on the cocks, either facing McManus or facing the chauffer. They took him standing, with Marc’s legs hooked on the hips of the crouching McManus, and the chauffeur fucking him on top of McManus’s cock from the rear. And when they had gotten Marc’s hole well stretched, they even took him with McManus on his back at the end of the bed, his legs stretching to the floor, and Marc reversed on his body, his head toward the floor and McManus’s ankles hooked behind his neck, and the chauffer sitting on McManus’s belly and stroking inside Marc’s stretched channel.

McManus would take Marc into the theater with him in his carriage in the late afternoon and Marc would remain there, dining out with McManus and the other dancers seeing that Marc was in special favor—with Marc not being able to complain about how McManus took care of his personal needs while he was with the impresario. And then, after the running of the Faust performance and another after-the-theater meal, McManus would fuck Marc again in the carriage on the way back out to the Long Island house, all the time whispering to Marc what form of the double they later would be using.

Patrick didn’t fuck Marc again. He no longer told Marc that Marc needed any private sessions to brush up his dancing, and Patrick’s attention now went to another dancer. Marc was disappointed, but he thought no thoughts that perhaps Patrick’s work with him was done—and McManus more than kept his sexual life occupied. Marc was not particularly the contemplative kind of a young man. As long as his personal needs were met, he was allowed to dance, and he was in the minimum of pain, life for him was fine. He did miss Patrick’s fucking, though.

He wasn’t sure, however, if he got off more on being fucked by a single man than by two. He had enjoyed Patrick, better than he enjoyed McManus alone. But he wasn’t really sure anymore that he preferred Patrick alone to Patrick and McManus or McManus and the carriage driver together. When he was being doubled, he had two men wanting him—and after his channel had been conditioned to open to two at once, a double stroking was maybe more arousing than having a single cock inside him. He wasn’t sure and was half afraid of thinking about it. But he thought that just maybe . . .

And he enjoyed having an older man, a rich man, taking care of all of his needs. He hadn’t been the least happy starving and living in hovels waiting for something good to happen to him in New York. Patrick had been something good. McManus was something even better. McManus plus his carriage driver or Patrick . . .

He sometimes wondered how he’d react to two muscle-bound hunks, not just one beautiful body like Patrick’s or the carriage driver’s plus a middle-aged man like McManus.

* * * *

Life was good to Marc—even with the heavy-demand fucking and the snide, jealous comments behind his back in the Met troupe that he almost was able to hear. But life didn’t stay all that good. As good as Faust was as a production, it was an extremely expensive production to put on stage, and New York society in the mid 1880s was prepared to take only so much of it. The seats could only be filled to break-even capacity for two weeks. The production went on for a third week before McManus realized that production costs were bleeding him far more than he could manage.

He needed a financial angel. And he needed the angel just to stop the hemorrhaging of costs and to cover accumulated debts. The show would have to close anyway.

He went to Henry Powl, a manufacturer with money to burn, and a colleague in the secret “doubles” society he belonged to.

“If you help me get out of this production in the black, you could be an equal investor in my next production without putting any money in,” John McManus said.

“I’m not sure New York is ready yet to make any opera of high-quality production profitable. I don’t know what would be in it for me to make it worth my while.”

“I’ve seen you at the theater, Henry,” McManus said. “I’ve seen the way you look at one of the male dancers.”

“So?”

“He takes doubles,” McManus said. “I’ve trained him to take the double in several different positions.”

* * * *

McManus told Marc they were having dinner with a friend of his who also had an estate out on Long Island. This was the night after Faust closed. Marc was worried about work, but McManus said that, if Marc trusted him, McManus would take care of him.

The two were met at the door of Henry Powl’s country mansion by Henry, who was wearing a cloth robe.

“I thought we’d take a swim before dinner,” he said.

Marc’s first thought was that the weather was much too cold to be taking a swim, but Powl anticipated that.

“I have an indoor pool in the conservatory.”

Of course you do, Marc thought. What he then said, though, was. “I didn’t bring a bathing suit.”

“Neither did I,” Powl said, with a smile. He opened his robe to reveal that he was naked underneath. And in erection. And better equipped, younger, more handsome, and with better body definition than McManus had. Longer even that McManus’s chauffeur.

“I didn’t bring a suit either,” McManus said. But Marc didn’t hear what he said. His attention was focused on the beautiful—if older than his—body of the financier and manufacturer.

McManus was sitting on the side of the pool, and Marc was in his lap, sitting on his fully sheathed cock. When Powl moved through the water toward them and said, “I want to fuck you too,” Marc merely smiled, opened his legs, leaned back into McManus’s chest so that his hips rolled up, and opened his mouth to Powl’s kiss, as the manufacturer fisted and spread and raised his legs, and started working his cock inside Marc’s channel above McManus’s.

Powl was long and thick. This was the thickest combined taking Marc had received, but after the initial difficulty opening to it, he reveled in the fuck. Powl was more of a man than either McManus or Patrick were. And he did all of the stroking. McManus remained hard, but dormant, as Powl stroked hard and deep, his kisses, the touch of his hands on Marc’s body, and the endearments he whispered in Marc’s ears sending Marc over the moon. Not just once. Twice. The man had stamina and each man came twice before he was finished.

As they were dressing for dinner, McManus told Marc that this was the way he was taking care of Marc, unless Marc wanted to just go out into the city on his own. That the production was dead and McManus couldn’t support Marc anymore, but that Powl would take care of him, if Marc didn’t put up a fuss and just stayed here.

Marc didn’t put up a fuss. And the tears he shed when McManus left him there with Powl were mainly to be polite and to show his gratefulness.

* * * *

They were in a latticework pavilion in the extensive, well-manicured Italian-style garden of Henry Powl’s estate. Marc was bent over the side of a chaise lounge and Henry, his hands gripping Marc’s waist and moving him back and forth, was fucking him from behind.

The man had been insatiable, fucking Marc constantly and on every surface of the mansion for more than a week. Marc’s needs were being met—all of them. He missed dancing, but all of his other needs were being met. Slowly but surely he was forgetting his need for independence and to dance—dance on anything but one, or two, cocks.

If only Henry had the prowess of a McManus and the youth of Patrick, he thought. Or if Henry had a well-built friend.

As he was being fucked, Marc was looking beyond the pavilion, through the latticework. A gardener was working in a nearby bed. He was older than Henry, but even more heavily muscled. He moved with the grace of a dancer. He was stripped to the waist, and his flimsy-material shorts were pulled down in front to just below the line of curly hair, black, flecked with gray, of his pubes. They were held up in back by bulbous cheeks. When he stood and turned, Marc could see that the gigantic bulge of his basket was what pulled the shorts down in front.

He was a god. Not young, but Zeus-like, with perfectly defined bulging musculature and curly hair on his chest running down into his shorts and on the backs of his forearms and cascading out of his armpits. All virile man.

He was watching the fucking now that he’d seen Marc and Powl in the pavilion. There was a little smile on his face. He stripped off his shorts and Marc gasped at the size of his cock and his low-hanging balls.

Powl saw him too. “Tony. You want a piece of this too? He does doubles.”

Marc felt a whisper at his ear. “You want Tony too?”

“Oh, yes. God, yes,” Marc whimpered. “But, he’s so big. And you are too. I don’t know . . .”

Powl was lying flat on his back on the chaise lounge, Marc mounted on his cock, facing him. Tony pushed Marc down onto Powl’s chest with a strong fist in the middle of the back. Marc cried out and begged for mercy as the horse-hung Italian gardener, straddling the chaise lounge and Powl’s thighs with his legs, worked his cock inside Marc’s channel above Powl’s shaft.

Marc was panting and howling. Powl solicitously whispered in his ear, asking him if it was too much.

“Yes, it’s too much,” Marc cried out. “But don’t stop, please. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!”

And Tony did. Once saddled, he began to stroke hard and deep and his arms embraced Marc’s chest, his hands covering Marc’s pecs, thumbs thrumming Marc’s nipples, while Powl fisted Marc’s cock and stroked him in rhythm to what, first, Tony was doing inside him. And then, when Marc had settled down and moans and panting and begging for the fuck replaced all of his fears and objections, Powl started stroking him in counter rhythm.

Marc no longer thought of being taken care of or when his next opportunity to dance on stage would be. He only thought about this double fuck—and the next one.

He thought he’d never have it as good as Henry and Tony, but when Henry handed him off to Tony to take home and they were met at the garden cottage door by Tony’s young, handsome, muscled, horse-hung, and smiling son, and the two men put Marc on the cocks right there, standing, with him sandwiched between them, his legs hooked on the young son’s hips, and the two men competing with each other on stamina and hard-stroking ability, Marc knew there were always new heights to reach in being double fucked.