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There was quite a scene on the set of Paradise Ranch on Dillon’s first day. He was driven to the studio by the big financial backer, Craig Townsend. That happened because Dillon was in Townsend’s bed the night before and he didn’t finish with Dillon until it was too late for the young actor to go back to his room and change before he had to show up on the set. It wouldn’t have done to be late on his first day and it was in Townsend’s financial interests not to lose production time.

From the night Delores Mendez and Malcolm Strange took Dillon home until that first day on the set of Paradise Ranch, he had spent more time at their Hollywood Hills home—and in their bed—than anywhere else. Walt Whalen was still ticked at Dillon, but not in public, and certainly not within view of Delores. He wasn’t about to cut the young actor loose when he had a speaking role in a movie that produced a paycheck, though, so Whalen did his agent thing—and made sure he was going to take his agent cut even though he hadn’t lined up the job himself.

To celebrate Dillon’s coming appearance on the set, Delores had arranged a small dinner party in his honor at her home. She’d invited Whalen and also Craig Townsend. She later was to say that inviting Townsend was a mistake. He came. He saw Dillon again. He remembered he’d had Dillon’s male cherry and that the young man had been a sweet fuck. He remembered that he had intended to have Dillon again. And he knew that he held all the cards on Dillon. Not knowing that Dillon and Townsend already had a history, a short but memorable one, Delores had brought Dillon to his attention to take up the part in Paradise Ranch, but it had been Townsend’s money that had made it happen.

Townsend didn’t let Dillon forget that, bottom lining on that several times during the meal. When the small party was breaking up and Whalen and Dillon were in the foyer preparing for Whalen to drive Dillon back to his room, Townsend showed up.

“No need for you to go out of your way, Walt,” he said. “I’ll drive young Dillon.”

“Do you know where he lives?” Whalen asked.

“Does it matter?” Townsend said, smiling a little smile. “I’ll be driving Dillon. As you should remember, I’ve driven him before. I want to do it again.”

“Ah, yes, that’s fine,” Whalen said, catching the meaning Townsend was revealing. Considering the pecking order here, it had to be fine with him.

Dillon looked from one to the other. He’d known that Whalen wasn’t planning just to take him back to his room either. And at this moment Townsend was more of an asset to Dillon than the reluctant agent was. Still, it irked him a bit that they weren’t consulting him about this at all—just talking between each other like they were deciding what do to with a slab of meat when the steer was standing right next to them.

The finance man obviously wanted a great ride this time, better and longer than he’d gotten when he’d deflowered Dillon. Dillon went on his knees and sucked Townsend off as Townsend sat, naked, at the foot of his bed. Then he pulled Dillon up on the bed on his belly, pushed Dillon’s right leg up into his stomach, and, sitting next to him, leaned over and spent a good twenty minutes opening Dillon’s hole up with his mouth and tongue, until Dillon was quivering, begging for it—if only to get it over with—and open enough for Townsend just to slide in.

And slide in he did, kneeling on the bed, holding Dillon in front of him, also kneeling with his calves streaming back alongside Townsend’s, with a hand pressed into the young man’s belly and the other one cupping Dillon’s cheek and arching his torso back while Townsend fucked him, slowly at first, and then faster and faster and harder and deeper. He pushed a moaning Dillon down on his chest on the bed, ran an arm under Dillon’s belly to raise his knees to Townsend’s, mounted him, and fucked him doggie style from a high crouch position. After ejaculating and recharging, he took Dillon in a side split. Then with Dillon on his belly and Townsend riding his hips. The fucking went on all night, with interludes of cuddling and dozing, like Townsend was going to take all of the money he was investing in Dillon out of the young man’s ass in the one night.

And, as chance would have it, there was just that one night no matter what Townsend’s original intentions were with where Dillon was going to be sleeping—and with whom. Shortly after delivering Dillon to the movie set the next morning, Townsend was called away to London on short notice to fight to save one of his big investments.

Dillon didn’t have time to miss him once on the set, though, or to wonder who he was going home with after the day’s filming. The first explosion came when Cory Corbin showed up on the set and made a scene about no longer being in the film. Corbin flew at the director first and then at Delores, as his agent, Whalen, had fingered her for insisting that Dillon replace him. She ran, screaming and sobbing, from the set.

The leading man on the picture was Fletcher Farwell, who Cory was sleeping with. Farwell, more than Whalen, was the probable reason Cory had gotten the part to begin with. When Cory went after Dillon, scratching and punching, it was Farwell who came between them—along with Whalen, who was invested in both young actors. While Whalen managed to pull Corbin away and escort him off the set, Farwell helped a stunned Dillon to Farwell’s trailer to check out the scratches and to give Dillon comfort.

Farwell was attracted to a “type.” Cory Corbin had been that type. It was Dillon’s luck that he was that type too. In pulling Cory off Dillon, he had placed his hands on Dillon. This aroused Farwell and made him want to explore Dillon’s body more. He was a fresh version of Cory.

“Can I get you a drink?” Farwell asked when he’d checked over Dillon, which had required that the young man take off his shirt and that Farwell run his hands over Dillon’s chest and back. “I’m going to have one. It will calm us both down.”

“Sure,” Dillon had said, although he didn’t think that “calm down” was the direction the two were going in. And he didn’t mind. A link-up with yet another man in Hollywood with power would only be helpful to him. And, despite his age, Farwell as in great shape. More than that, the word was that he was hung like a bull.

“Ooo, it certainly is hot in here, isn’t it?” Farwell said, stripping off his shirt. He rolled the cold can of beer he’d taken out of his countertop refrigerator over his beefy pecs. If he wanted Dillon to focus on and approve of the musculature of his torso, he succeeded. Of course Dillon already knew that Farwell didn’t need to work at seducing him if that’s what the movie star had in mind.

“Yes. Something’s hot,” Dillon said, throwing out the signal that he didn’t mind where this was going. “You’re hot.” Both men laughed. Farwell flexed for Dillon. “Credit goes to my personal trainer,” he said.

“But your personal trainer isn’t here,” Dillon said. “It’s just us two here in this trailer. And you’re hot.”

“I’d say we both were hot, then,” Farwell came back with. “I’d say that’s how we both got into this movie. If we’re going to be working together, we’ll need to become close friends,” he continued, sitting down on the loveseat sofa that Dillon was already sitting on, hunched over a bit, legs spread and elbows on his knees. He was nursing the beer Farwell had given him.

“Intimately close,” Farwell whispered, snaking an arm around Dillon’s shoulders.

“Fine with me,” Dillon answered, raising up, turning toward Farwell, and putting a hand on the older man’s knee.

Farwell moved into Dillon, cupping the back of the young man’s neck and leaning down over him to take his mouth in a kiss. Dillon rotated his body and pulled his right leg up onto the cushion of the sofa, bringing Farwell down on top of him. As they kissed, each reached for the crotch of the other and the unzipping of flies came in unison.

Dillon was bent over the arm of the sofa, his head and arms dangling down the side as Farwell crouched over his back, mounted him, made Dillon realize with a deep groan that Farwell was as hung as reputed, and also made Dillon realize that he was virile and had far more stamina than one would think of a man his age.

That evening, it was Fletcher Farwell who drove Dillon home—to his home—and Dillon was introduced to the pool house apartment behind the main mansion Farwell called home that Dillon could use. The last tenant—Cory Corbin—had vacated the place so quickly that some of his clothes remained. It wasn’t exactly a surprise that they fit Dillon well or that Farwell told him he could keep them because Farwell had paid for them.

Unraveling

“What nifty digs,” Scott Black said, waltzing around the living area of Dillon’s pool house apartment.

“Yeah, well, don’t make too much noise, and if we hear Farwell coming, you need to disappear—and not into the bedroom,” Dillon answered. “He’s the jealous type and I’ve only been here for a month and a half, and it’s already seeming like a prison. It’s to the set and then back here, and I have to pretend I’m not around unless he wants me. Farwell just shows me off up at the house. When he wants me, he comes here to get it.”

“Speaking of getting it, I hear he’s terrific in bed, even for his age.”

“He’s good enough,” Dillon asked.

“Really bizarre about Cory Corbin.”

“Yeah,” Dillon said, his voice real quiet.

“Plowing his car into a steel power pole like that. I hear they found enough drugs in his system to choke a horse, but they are trying to keep that hush hush. It’s almost like—”

“Let’s not talk about that. I don’t want to talk about that. Did you bring beer?”

“Yes, but I brought something even better.” Scott sat down on the sofa. “Got a piece of stationery?” he asked, and then, when Dillon had produced one, he took a packet of white powder out of his pocket and ran a few lines of it on the paper.

He was rolling up a dollar bill when Dillon asked, “What’s that? What’s that shit?”

“You ever been fucked high?” Scott asked.

“Drugs? You brought coke here?”

“Fucking when you’re high is like nothing else. You gotta try it at least once. Come over here and take a hit.”

They sat close together, taking turns sniffing lines.

“You wrapping up on Paradise Ranch this week?”

“Yeah, it’s nearly in the can.”

“Anything lined up?”

“Farwell’s taken pity on me—and I guess he wants me to stay around for a while. He’s bought the script to another Western, a daddy and son one, called Fire Down the Valley. He’s going to do the father and I’m going to do the son. It’s as close as you can get to an Indie and still have studio backing. I think they’re doing it to humor Farwell.”

“Does he do you in the movie?”

“The public version isn’t porn; it just isn’t slated to be anything special. I hear, though, that there will be a underground version where the father’s really going to do the son. That’s where the real money will be.”

“Well, it keeps you in town with money coming in.”

“Yeah, but it’s a good thing Farwell’s putting me up here. Otherwise I’d have to move back in with you.”

“And that would be so bad?” Scott asked.

Dillon didn’t answer, but, yeah, he was moving up so slowly—clawing up, he thought—that a fall back would be just about enough to send him home. He had to screw someone more important than the last one to get anywhere and it seems they took more out of him in a screwing than he got back.

“Feelin’ sexy yet?” Scott ask, using a thumb to brush some white powder off Dillon’s nostril and then sniffing it up his own nose.

“Always feelin’ sexy with you, Scott.”

“Then down on the floor, tail in the air,” Scott growled. “Now.”

“I’m the star here now, Scott. I’m not taking orders—”

Black had his meaty cock out, waving it with his hand. “You asked me to come here. You said you wanted black cock. You want black cock, you’ll go down on the floor now and present your ass to me.”

With a whimper Dillon went down on his hands and knees on the floor.

Scott mounted and fucked Dillon right there on the carpet between the coffee table and the sliding glass doors out onto the pool terrace. Dillon was moaning and groaning and calling for “more, deeper,” as he’d never done before, as they moved to the bed and Scott lay on his back, with Dillon lying stretched on top of him, with Scott’s arms laced through Dillon’s and his legs holding Dillon’s legs raised and spread. Scott plowed Dillon’s channel vigorously from below. Dillon was even more animated, riding Scott’s cock like a rodeo clown after he’d taken the second hit of the cocaine and had a couple of beers.

It was Scott now who had to admonish Dillon not to trumpet how good the fuck was at a volume level that could be heard up at the house by Farwell and whatever guests he was entertaining that evening.

Dillon decided that Scott was right—that there was no sexual high in a fuck that put a guy into the clouds like a lot of booze and a little bit of drugs did—that and the attentions of a black bull. He didn’t let Scott go without setting the place and time of their next session.

Late in the night, Dillon felt a hand moving down his belly and possessing his cock. He turned in the bed toward the figure sitting on the side of the bed, now working both Dillon’s cock and his own.

“Party broken up?” Dillon asked in a groggy voice.

“Yes. A good night. I’ve got the backing we need for Fire,” Farwell murmured.

“Good. Anyone there I know or what to know?”

Farwell rattled off a few names.

“Art Marshall? Art Marshall, the producer? He was here? And you don’t let me come up to the house even long enough to be introduced to him? You know I’ve looked for an introduction with him.”

“Art would suck you dry and kick you to the curb.”

So, who wouldn’t in this town, including you? It was what Dillon sorely wanted to say, but he was learning what one could and could not say in Hollywood on their way up—or when wanting to be on their way up. “Still, I’d like to meet him,” Dillon said, the whine evident in his voice.

“Here, I’ve got something better for you.”

“What are those?” Dillon asked, sitting up in bed. Farwell had a couple of bright green pills in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

“Just try them. They’ll make you dance on the clouds.”

And dance on the clouds Dillon did as Farwell lay in his bed and Dillon rode his cock, fairly bouncing on it and rotating on it like he was riding a bull, which in some ways he was. Farwell was holding his waist and helping him in slamming himself up and down on the cock. Farwell’s pills plus the remnants of the cocaine liners from earlier were giving Dillon an explosion of colorful bursts in his head and the feeling that not only was he sheathing a telephone pole but one that also was a nest of snakes, filling and working him, moving up into his stomach and beyond until, with a cry, he tasted the cum hitting the back of his throat, not so much in a fantasy but because he now was sixty-nining with the older man and deep throating him.

* * * *

The buzzing in Dillon’s ears matched the sound of the surf on the Malibu Beach below his cottage, a small bungalow perched on the cliff above the beach that probably had been the guest house of some mansion long ago leveled to provide the footprint for two more expensive mansions. He was in a haze—his perpetual condition now—and watching the rolling of the surf while he lay on the massage table and had his back muscles kneaded was pretty much the limit to what he was capable of at the moment.

He’d had a busy week with the premier of Fire Down the Valley. It had gotten more hoopla than anyone had thought it would, helped by the sudden heart attack and death on the set of Fletcher Farwell. This luckily had happened after they’d had all of Farwell’s scenes in the can.

Art Marshall, the producer, had been standing at the sliding glass windows out onto the narrow deck, watching the surf, as the masseur did his thing.

“Where’s the—?” He suddenly asked, pushing off from the window.

“The beer’s in the frig. I’ll take one too,” Dillon said.

It wasn’t a long walk to the kitchen area. Marshall retrieved two beers, popped the lids, handed one to Dillon and went back to the window. “Nice view from here. The house could be better, but it’s a good place to have you tucked away.”

It’s as good as you wanted it to be, Dillon thought. The studio was picking up the tab. Dillon knew this meant Marshall. The producer had been dancing around Dillon for weeks, as soon as the early reviews of Fire had come out. Paradise Ranch was already in the theaters and was being touted for awards—even for Dillon. Suddenly it had been Marshall who had wanted to meet Dillon. He’d fucked Dillon in his office, Dillon splayed out on the man’s desk and Marshall doggie fucking him, at that first meeting.

“The reviews are surprisingly good for Fire,” Marshall said.

“Are they? For the underground version too?” Dillon asked.

“Yes,” Marshall answered tersely.

Dillon was surprised the movie had done so well. He hoped that his performance wasn’t being upstaged by Farwell’s death. It had been quite a time wondering where he went next. Farwell’s kin had him out of the pool house before Farwell’s body was cold. Luckily Marshall and the studio came back into the picture more at that point.

“You were good in it. Very good. And in Paradise Ranch too. The studio can’t back your nominations with much money. It’s already committed to other actors. But we’re watching the process closely.”

Thanks heaps, Dillon thought.

“But if you stick with us here—with me—and give me what I want, we have several other films in mind. Homeward Bound, a takeoff on Thomas Wolfe, set in Ashville, would be a very good vehicle for you. It’s Wolfe as a homo. We don’t have to be subtle with such things as they were back in Wolfe’s day. But it’s still touchy. Viewers like to see fictional homosexuality, but not in reality that much. They won’t mind knowing you’re gay in real life and even in seeing you act a gay part in a movie. But catch you in a porn flick, and there will be a backlash. They want to keep it all in some realm of fantasy.”

“If I give you what you want,” Dillon said, his voice a bit dull, focusing in on that part of what the producer had said.

“Well, if you keep it at my beck and call and don’t embarrass me too much,” the producer said, with a laugh. “I guess you’ve already given me what I want.”

“I guess I have,” Dillon said.

“Here, I’ll take over from here. Your money is on the table by the door. You can leave now.” Marshall was talking to the masseur. When the masseur was gone, he stripped down to his briefs and started kneading Dillon’s back, buttocks, and the backs of his thighs. He was surprisingly good at it.

Dillon was still in his drug-induced buzz world when he felt the cock rub against his cheek. Marshall’s briefs had come off. He was well endowed. In fact, Dillon couldn’t complain about the man’s body. He was in great shape for his early forties. Dillon opened his mouth to the cock, and Marshall slipped the shaft inside, puffing the young man’s cheek out with the bulb of the dick. Dillon gave him suck until Marshall pulled out of his mouth, deftly pulled himself up onto the massage table, mounted Dillon’s hips, penetrated his asshole, and began to pump.

It was a good fuck. Other than the interview in Marshall’s office, Dillon hadn’t been fucked by anyone after Farwell except for a couple of beefy construction workers who had been renovating this bungalow before he moved in. That had been a gas; they’d set up a couple of video cameras and captured a threeway from three different angles. Dillon was just enough into another world with pretty colors and minor explosions to open well to the producer and give the man a good fuck.

Afterward, they sat out on the deck and watched the sun set over the ocean.

“I’m worried about you,” Marshall said. “I doesn’t show in your acting—yet—which is quite fine, as I said.”

“You seem surprised I can act. Everyone seems surprised—like they think my only talent is being fucked.”

“No use being testy, Dillon, and it wouldn’t be good to show that to your fans. Just watch the recreational stuff. I’m not the only one at the studio who’s worried. So, we’ve decided you need a roommate.”

“A roommate? I hope it’s not some bimbo to make the world think I’m hetero.”

“No, the world is beyond caring about that as long as they don’t catch you being spiked on the Internet, and we have some roles in mind that are gay. Taking cock will be an advantage at the box office there. No, we think you need someone to be with you, to help you cope.”

“A babysitter?”

“If that’s the way you want to think of it, we don’t care. As long as you accept it. We’re thinking of a friend of yours—Scott Black. He’d mainly be here to keep you sober and responsible with the drugs. Think about it. Here, you need another beer. Don’t get up. I know where to find them.”

Dillon snorted when Marshall disappeared into the house. Scott Black. Who did they think got him on the drugs to begin with? Who did they think was his supplier? Well, it was OK with him if they wanted to play that game.

He looked out into the surf. The way the setting sun was playing colors on the water, Dillon fancied he almost could see the face of that dead actor, Cory Corbin, in the water. He shook his head to get the image out of it, though. He didn’t want to think of Cory Corbin now—or ever. He wasn’t going to be a Cory Corbin.

* * * *

“Up on the bed,” Marshall growled. Dillon gasped as the man released his choking grip on Dillon’s throat. Marshall had been fucking him brutally, bent over the side of the bed on his stomach, the producer jabbing him hard and deep with cruel thrusts in his ass from behind while he choked Dillon almost to the point of the young man blacking out. Dillon had known Marshall was angry about something as soon as he had arrived at the producer’s house, having been summoned perfunctorily.

Marshall climbed up on the bed and plopped down on his back in the middle of the bed, his chest and head raised on a pile of pillows. He spread and bent his legs, pressing the soles of his feet on the sheets. “Get on top of me. Take my cock again. No, facing up at the ceiling. On the cock, your feet pressed into the tops of my thighs.”

Dillon complied, worried about what was the matter, what had set Marshall off. Just before he’d been called here, his agent, Walt Whalen had called, as angry as Marshall was, and said the Dillon’s contract for Homeward Bound had been returned, unsigned, and that Whalen himself was reassessing his representation of Dillon. Dillon had no idea what had gone wrong. His box office was at the top, despite the rumors about his drinking and the drugs. And he could stop those anytime he wanted. It would help if they got rid of Scott and brought in someone else as his companion. Surely they knew that it was Scott who was providing the booze and the drugs. It was almost like Scott was controlling him.

“Oh, god. Oh shit. You’re killing me,” Dillon moaned, as Marshall pounded his long, thick cock up into Dillon’s channel. He had put Dillon into a full Nelson, trapping Dillon’s arms above his head, completely immobilizing the smaller man on top of him. And his cock was churning inside Dillon’s passage. Dillon wanted him to stop; he didn’t like to be fucked in anger. But he was in no position to tell one of his meal tickets to do anything. Dillon had thought that being a star would free him, make him his own person. It had only hopelessly entangled him in other men’s agendas and wants. He had become a prostitute. Not a cheap prostitute—an expensive one—but a whore none the less. There seemed no way out of this. He was trapped in his own ambitions and grasping for the brass ring. He understood that; there just was nothing he seemed to be able to do about it.

“You love it. And you love this position. The only thing that would make it better is if my cock was jet black.”

“Shit. Fuck. What do ya mean, man?”

“This is what I mean,” Marshall said. He had a remote in his hand and, with a click, he’d turned on a TV set on the wall beyond the foot of the bed. Both men could see what was running on the TV.

“Shit,” Dillon exclaimed.

“Shit is right,” Marshall responded. “What did I tell you about porn flicks? You have no idea what I paid for the master of this or how likely there are other copies that will hit the Internet. What did I tell you about porn flicks?”

On the TV screen, Scott Black was fucking Dillon in this same position. It was a high-quality porn film, and it clearly was Dillon being fucked. It had been made in those weeks that Whalen hadn’t gotten back to Dillon on a movie role at the beginning of their deal and when Scott was tapped out too. They’d had to do something to pay the rent.

“God, that was before the movie roles,” Dillon said between pants. Marshall wasn’t letting up on pistoning his ass. “We were both broke. We would have had to go home. We were told it was for a private collector—that it would never be shown anywhere.”

“Luckily I know the private collector,” Marshall retorted, “but how about this one?” He clicked the remote again and up came the not such a high-quality video of two hunky construction workers fucking Dillon on his own bed in the cottage.

“Oh, shit,” Dillon whimpered.

“Oh, shit is right again,” Marshall said. “And you know where I got this one from? Right off Pornhub on the Internet. Maybe not everyone knows that’s you from the poor resolution, but I sure as hell do. This goes viral and all bets are off on your future career, Dillon. You damn well better land that Golden Globe award on Saturday night.”

“Oh shit, oh fuck,” Dillon gasped, not only from the continued brutal fucking but also because now he saw his future slipping out of his hands in this, the cruelest town, Hollywood.

Well, fuck it, he thought. The awards ceremony. He had a nest egg now. If he could get anywhere close to the stage during the awards ceremony, he’d give them all something to talk about.

- FINI -