Easy Come, Easy Go

I reached over and pulled on the strap that changed the position of the video camera at the side of the bed a bit.

“Whatcha’ doin’?” asked Delon, prone on his back under me on the bed, his beefy, tattooed, chocolate arms flung over his head, his fists gripping the brass rung at the top of the headboard.

“Just changing the angle of the camera a bit,” I murmured, turning my head to the side a skosh so that the camera didn’t see my lips move. These cameras Delon insisted on running, the one beside us and the one behind us, and the one he had installed on the ceiling above us, were cramping my style of straddling the big dancer’s hips and riding his cock, leaning over him, my hands gripping his wrists on the headboard after I’d finished adjusting the side camera.

Vanilla riding chocolate. Both hunks, both Chippendales dancers at the Highland Nightclub on L.A.’s Hollywood Boulevard, denoted here because we both had our tux bow ties and white tux wrist cuffs on—and nothing else.

Delon Barber, my roommate and dance mate on the club stage, had said we could make money from doing it in our own bed, at our own leisure, to our own pleasure. Our pimp, Ed Ellis, had agreed that videos on the Net would be good advertisement. I was all for anything making money, and I wasn’t ashamed of my body—or of using it to make money. Or of being filmed making money this way.

From across the room, Ed held up the “Change Position” sign, and I did so, turning around on Delon’s big black bull cock without losing it, to where I was facing his feet. He bent and spread his legs more, and I grasped his knees and vigorously pumped myself on the cock like I was a bicyclist pumping my way up a mountain.

“Oh, shit. Oh, fuck, I’m gonna come,” I cried out, taking my right hand off Delon’s knee, grasping my cock and stroking it. Tensing and jerking, I fired off my shots—three of them—and collapsed onto my face between Delon’s spread legs, my face turned toward the side camera to give it a shot of my “came big” release reaction. As I went down, Delon rose up over me from behind, grasping my hips between his hands, pulling me up onto my knees to a doggy position, my chest and cheek pressed to the mattress, mounted me high, and took over the fuck pumping.

Ed had said that unusual-position films sold well.

From across the room, he gave an Italian finger tips-to-lips signal of approval, grinned, lowered the hand to mimic cock stroking as he put his hips into motion. He clearly was pleased with how the scene was unfolding.

Delon pumped away until he arched his back and head, cried out his victory to the ceiling, and filled the bulb of his rubber. He collapsed on top of me.

“Great. Fuckin’ great,” Ed called out from across the room. “Now get a shower, Delon. We need to get to the club. You fuckers have a show to do.”

When Delon left the room, I remained in position, chest and cheek to the mattress, tail in the air. I knew where this went—time to pay the pimp his commission. Ed, a former Chippendales dancer himself, now too old for it, but still in fair condition, stripped off his trousers and briefs, climbed up on the bed, checked the position of the camera, mounted my tail, penetrated, and took up the fuck.

Both manager of the Chippendales dance revue at the Highland Nightclub and pimp for dancers of his choice, Ed demanded—and got—his slice of his guys.

Ed was still mounted on my ass, fucking me, when Delon came out of bathroom and stood there, naked, half hard, his half hard still enough to put most men to shame, and rubbed his hair with a towel. All of the guys on the dance line had hair coming down to their shoulders. Delon’s was in dreadlocks, mine in blond curls. It was one of our unifying signature looks—that and our finely sculpted bodies that we spent half the day maintaining.

Ed and Delon wouldn’t fuck after Ed was finished with me. They both were tops; they wouldn’t do each other. I bottomed with men and could be either dominant or submissive with women, depending on what they wanted to pay for. I was nominally bi, but I preferred a man’s cock inside me, given the choice. But sex was sex was sex with me, so either/or was fine.

Ed came and rolled off me. He slapped me on the ass, saying, “You’ve got one sweet ass, Brad.” I was glad I still had his approval. Once a guy had let himself go, Ed kicked him right off the dance line and the pimping list. Ed was not the maudlin sort of guy. He went around the room, switching off the cameras, reverting to all business. “It’s even later now than it was before, bitches,” he said, not mentioning that the needs of his dick were what had spun out the time. “Delon’s out of the showers, Brad. Your turn. Make it snappy.”

I made it snappy and we got to the club in good time to set up for the first show.

* * * *

There were ten guys in the Chippendales troupe, enough to field a full dance routine with guys left over who were sick or hurt or had some other excuse not to dance. I was good friends with most of them, made easier because most of the them were tops and on the make. Most of them had been on the make with me at one time or the other, and all of those who wanted me, got me. They were Chippendales. They were sexy and had great bodies. I was known to be easy. Sex was a cheap quantity, usually enjoyed, always renewable. I was known to be the one who laid around, legs open, ready to be poked as long as the stud was a stud. And all Chippendales men were studs. It was a requirement of the job.

We were all bi capable and willing. That was another requirement of the job. We could have preferences, but we were required to be ready to do it all and, while we were on stage, to be all things to all patrons. We weren’t all pimped by Ed Ellis, but we all were required to dance for the audience, each person in the audience, and there were shows for couples and shows for women and shows just for men, and our dance for each of them was to be a sexual experience for the individual patrons. Old or young, fat or slim, beautiful or ugly, woman or man, as long as they had money in their billfolds and purses that they were willing to exchange for sexual fantasy, we were to be making love to, having sex with, each of them individually in our dance on the stage.

The one guy I couldn’t say I was on good terms with was Erik Sonderlund, the Scandinavian hunk. That we didn’t get along well, I was sure, was mostly because we were near twins. Mostly, the troupe had been put together with an eye to contrast and variety—giving each gal and guy ogling us on stage someone special, gauged to their individual arousals, to watch. The exceptions in this troupe were Erik and me. We were virtual twins. We both were on the slender, yet still perfectly muscled, side, both smooth, good-looker yellow blonds. We were the best dancers in the troupe. We had the best moves. We were placed on the floor where, together, we grounded the dance and all the other guys were dancing around us. And we both were bi, but preferred to bottom. This placed us in competition with each other. We both recognized that, and we both played the role to the hilt. When either of us saw a desired target in the audience, our competition began.

This night was about the same as other nights in the competition for patron attention between Erik and me. As we danced, we watched to see if the other one was honing in on someone, usually in the first couple of rows from the stage and toward the middle to play to—to try to make look at us more than the other guy. On this occasion, it was a woman and she stood out. She was tall, thin, blonde, and money. She wasn’t young, maybe in her forties, and she was carefully made up, but she knew she was hot for her age and that she could buy the club or any of us guys dancing for her on stage just in our bikinis, bow ties, wrist cuffs, and boots. She posed in her seat more than sat, wore a white sheath with sparkles that glittered in the roving spot lights, with cleavage down to her navel and side spits up to the hollows between her ass and pelvic bone.

The seat beside the woman I thought of as “The Model”—because that’s how she carried herself, even if the peak of her modeling career had been fifteen years earlier—on one side was empty and a woman wrapped around a man on the other side of her was on the other. So, maybe all of her attention could go to the stage. Maybe it could go to the guys on the stage—and just maybe it could go to me rather than Erik.

Erik and I danced for all we were worth, shaking our booty, doing our best signature moves, and thrusting our pelvises to the front row. The Model remained cool as a cucumber, but she had a little smile on her face and her long, slender fingers toyed with her lips in a teasing way. Her eyes moved from Erik to me and back . . . and then to me and remained there.

I was grinning ear to ear at Erik as we came off the stage, and he slinked off with a scowl on his face. I thought it had ended there. It had been fun, but the woman was too old for me and well out of my league. She thought otherwise, though. It had been the last dance of the night and I was off now for two days. That was just as well, as my projects for the acting school I was going to were piling up and needed attention. At the same time, I needed some cash, so I’d try a hookup before I went back to the apartment. I already was out tonight. If I could score, I could stay in the next day and study—if Delon kept his hands off me and Ed, my pimp, didn’t show up.

I was finishing dressing in my “pickup” clothes—tight black jeans, a black mesh athletic T, and shiny black boots—when Ed Ellis came for me. Standing behind him, in the frame of the doorway, was a petite, standing no higher than maybe five foot three, but buxom black girl of about my age—early twenties. She was a cutie, all curves without quite being fat, her tits a big handful, the nipples clearly discernible through the material of her shirt. Her black hair appeared to be close cropped, but I couldn’t tell for sure, because she had a chauffeur’s hat on. She was dressed like a chauffeur too, so I surmised that’s what she was.

“This here is Tonya, Brad,” Ed said. “She’s got a car out by the stage door and a passenger in back who has engaged your services for the next two nights. When you’re ready—and I see you already are—go with her and do your stuff.”

So, like that, I didn’t need going to look for a hookup tonight but I also could kiss working on my school projects in the apartment tomorrow good-bye as well. Oh, well, that was life in the Chippendales world in Los Angeles.

The car was some British royal boat—a silver Rolls or Bentley—and the passenger in the back was “The Model” from the front, center row of our last show of the night.

Her name was Susan, she had a low, throaty laugh and husky voice I liked to listen to, she wasn’t wearing panties under that slinky white, sparkly sheath cut down to here and up to there that gathered up nice around her waist, and she straddled my lap, my black jeans and bikini briefs bunched up on the car’s floor; facing away from me while I cupped her small breasts with quarter-sized aureoles. Under her control I languidly took my cock on a ride deep in her ass, as her silver boat cruised the Hollywood Hills above Hollywood Boulevard, close to the Highland Nightclub. It was an arousing change of pace to take a woman in the ass, but it's how Susan wanted it.

When we got going real good, I let a hand travel down to her V, and I found her clit and worked her there and inside her cunt while she rose and fell on the cock I had up her ass. I was thick and long. She moaned in that deep, husky voice of hers, but she didn’t complain. All the time I was with her, she wouldn’t let me fuck her in the cunt, only the ass. And she only wanted me to bareback her there and come inside her.

She didn’t tell me where we were headed in the car, and I was surprised when we finally landed. The silver boat, Tonya at the wheel, not making a peep the entire time she drove and I fucked Susan, cruised into a dark side street and pulled up to the curb at a storefront that looked deserted. Tonya held the back door for us, and Susan and I, both somewhat dressed again, came out. Susan went before me, and by the time I staggered out of the backseat, she was ringing a bell at the storefront’s door, lights were coming on, and a little man in a black suit, with a tape measure dangling around his neck, came out and opened the door. He didn’t seem surprised we’d shown up after hours.

“So, what’s this all about?” I asked, as we moved into the shop.

“I have to go to a premier tomorrow,” Susan said. It was about the first thing she’d said to me since I’d gotten into her fancy car.

“The premier of what? So, you’re having a dress made?”

She laughed her throaty laugh. “I’ve forgotten what the premier is for. Where is it at, Tonya?” She turned to the petite chauffeur.

“Grauman’s Chinese Theater on Hollywood and North Highland,” Tonya answered.

“Just around the corner from the club,” I said, really meaning it wasn’t far from the apartment Delon and I shared.

“And I’m not having a dress made,” Susan said. “You’re having a tux made. I need an escort. You’re it.”

Oh. The little man measured me, promised to have the tux ready the next afternoon, and we piled back in the silver boat. We didn’t have far to drive. Tonya pulled up to Loew’s Hollywood Hotel, which, like the Highland Nightclub, was just around the corner on North Highland from Grauman’s Theater.

“We’ll stay here,” Susan said. “There’s no reason to be coming back and forth from the house.”

I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I soon was sure that the hotel room had already been booked, and it was only one room.

* * * *

I was lying on the foot of the bed, my legs spread, my toes touching the thick carpet of the hotel room. Both of the women, naked, other than Susan still wore her spike heels, and kneeling below me, were working on me. Obviously, Tonya’s chauffeur duties were far-ranging. I was on my back, arching it a bit, my arms outstretched, bunching up gobs of the silky bedspread. Susan was cupping my erection, touching the tender skin lightly with flaming-red fingernails and taking the cock in her mouth through flaming-red lips. Tonya was below her, a hand laced through my balls, distending them, and sucking on them.

I, of course, was moaning deeply and focusing on the ceiling tiles, trying not to explode. I knew, though, that they would keep this up until I did. Susan had said she would give me head until I came and that she wanted me to come in her throat.

I had already danced, naked, for the ladies, and I had already fucked Susan, doggy style on the bed, in her ass. I was just a plaything for them, but I was being paid well for the humiliation.

It was sometime after 2:00 in the morning.

Susan moved up on my body until she was hovering her cunt over my face. I took the hint, grasped her hips between my hands, and ate out her cunt, as, below me, Tonya took my cock in her mouth and gave me head. Tonya kept giving me head, going back to lacing my balls in her fingers and distending and squeezing them, while Susan bounced off the bed, came back with a bottle still a quarter full of champagne, dribbled that down my torso into my pubes, and then licked down my body, dispossessing Tonya of my cock when she reached my crotch with her lips. It was Susan who took me to a finish and received my cum deep in her throat, just as she said she would.

I lay there, panting and humming, while, beside me, on the bed, Susan and Tonya writhed in each other’s embrace, one body melting into the other, Susan doing quite a job in manipulating Tonya’s mammaries.

I woke up sometime later, finding the three of us stretched out in the bed, against each other, me in the middle. Susan seemed asleep. Tonya wasn’t. She had a hand on my dick, stroking it. I had gone erect before I went to sleep.

“Fuck me,” she whispered. “Be a man for me and do it the way you want to. Take charge. Please yourself.”

I rolled over on top of her, spreading her legs as I did so. She was soft and curvy, voluptuous. I slid inside her, buried my face between her pendulous breasts, and covered her tits with my hands, kneading them, as I fucked her. It was my turn on the magnificent mammaries. She cupped my head in her hands and moved her body to go with the rhythm of the thrusts.

“Yes, yes. Take what you want,” she murmured. I plowed her with vigor, plunging deep, making her jerk, pant, give me little cries of passion, and dig her fingernails into my shoulder blades.

Susan, wakening, had rolled off the bed, but she came back, in a strap-on harness, the phallus greased up. She crouched over me from behind, worked the phallus into my ass, and there we were, me fucking Tonya and Susan fucking me. I was back under their control, the two of them using me to make love to each other.

The next time I woke, I was alone in the hotel room. There was a thermos of coffee and couple of breakfast rolls on a table along with a note saying the women had gone shopping and that I’d find what I needed in the bathroom. I did, indeed, find the dressing area outside the bathroom supplied with my immediate needs. On the sink there was a soft-leather toiletry case with all of the expensive grooming items I needed. Slacks, a sports shirt, underwear, and socks were folded on the counter next to the sink. My new tuxedo, encased in a bag, hung from a hook.

The women returned as I was getting in the shower. Susan and I fucked there, she turned to the tiled wall, ass jutted out. I fucked her in the ass. Always in the ass, with Susan. I cupped her V with one of my hands, and rubbed her clit with a finger while I fucked her, taking her to liftoff. Susan had quick climaxes, often in succession, and a deep rumbling from inside her each time told me they were satisfying ones.

We went out. We lunched. We, or, rather, Susan shopped, and Tonya and I played the roles of pack mules. Susan and I had dinner in the hotel restaurant, fucked in the bathtub, and arrived on the red carpet of Grauman’s Chinese Theater, with me, at least—and Susan too, I suspect—not knowing what the occasion there was. We, or rather she, was expected anyway and ushered up to the balcony at the back of the audience, where we were very privately seated in one of four balcony boxes. How she scored these seats, I had no idea and I didn’t ask. I was just arm candy there.

She wore a slinky dress much like the one she’d worn at the Highland Nightclub the evening before—a sparkly, clinging sheath that was “down to there” in front and “up to here” on the sides. Last night’s was white; this night’s was blue. Everyone below was dressed to the nines. So was I. My tux fit me like a glove, and I knew I looked very presentable indeed. I already had a tux, of course, but Susan didn’t ask and I hadn’t volunteered that information. She had seemed intent on clothing me. In any case, the tux I had wasn’t anything like this tux. This was how the upper crust tuxed themselves.

The first half of whatever was happening in the theater happened mostly in the dark and consisted of ten-to-fifteen-minute outtakes of five different films. In the dark, Susan took my hand and inserted it into one of her side slits in in her dress. I found that, like the previous night, she wasn’t wearing anything under the sheath. She moved my hand into position, and I finger fucked her cunt right there, in the dark, as films played on the theater screen. The whole time I was with her she didn’t let me put my cock there, but she had no trouble with the penetration of my fingers.

She sighed and gave little mewing sounds and rocked gently in her chair, as I serviced her with my hand. She produced something from her purse that was the size of a lipstick case, but it had a slippery ball at one end. She clicked something at the bottom, and it became a minivibrator. She put it in my hand and, taking the hint, I applied it between her folds. she moaned, unzipped me, pulled my dick out, and stroked me. She came in a rolling climax. I didn’t come before the film showing was over and the lights came back up for the interval.

We went downstairs to the lobby bar during the interval. We got separated there, and I saw her off talking with a young male movie actor, Craig Somebodyorother, who I recognized from minor, “the boyfriend,” roles in various movies. So, this evening had something to do with movie awards, I surmised. I roamed, engaging in light, brief chitchat myself with faces that indicated that they probably should know who I was and decided to be friendly—briefly, but admiringly so, I was happy to observe—in case they did want it known they knew me. As I wandered, I noticed a tall, trim, distinguished-looking man following me with his eyes. He was maybe in his forties, very well put together, handsome, and he must have been someone important, because when he wasn’t looking at me, he was engaged in conversation with groups of people who sought him out. He was just standing in place and people were coming to him.

Sometimes you knew who wanted to be a hookup from just this—him or her following you around the room with their eyes. I was in the business of knowing when that was happening. It was happening here. When he knew I was looking at him when he was looking at me, I saw him smile and nod his head toward the stairs leading back up to the balcony.

I went up the stairs. I was two-thirds of the way up when I knew that he was on the stairs, coming up behind me, too. There were just the four boxes for seating in the balcony, but there were men’s and women’s rooms there. I was alone in the upper lobby when I ascended to that point. I went into the men’s room. He followed. No one else was in the room—or approaching it, as far as I could tell.

We did the ritual of standing at the urinals, side by side, flashing our goods, pretending to take a piss while looking down at the other guy’s cock. I was still hard from an “almost” under Susan’s stroking in the balcony before the lights went up for the intermission. He was in erection too—and he was hung. I was cut; he wasn’t.

I sat on the toilet in a cubicle, my pocket stuffed with the wad of cash he’d handed me, clutching his hips, as, still fully clothed, but his cock still hard and exposed, he leaned over me, palms against the wall behind the toilet, and I gave him head. Then it was me, standing in a crouch, hips jutting out beyond the toilet bowl, shoulder blades pressed to the wall behind the toilet, cupping his head in my hands, as he, on his knees, gave me head.

In the end, I was still in that position, but he had stood and, taller than I was, he was crouched over me. He was holding both of our cocks in one of his hands, frotting them. He had a white handkerchief in the other, signaling that he would catch whatever transpired with that—that we both could leave here with our tux unsullied. Our faces were close together, but we didn’t kiss. He was watching me intently, clearly wanting to show his dominance. I was quite willing to be submissive to him. He was a man of obvious command—and there was that wad of cash in my pocket.

I gave a little moan when I realized he was going to dock the cocks, which he did, making the glans kiss, and then pulling his foreskin over my bulb. Holding the cocks together like this, he stroked them, making the bulbs kiss, mingling their precum. Mesmerized by him and what he was doing, I just let my arms dangle at my sides, my hips jutted out into his hand, and let him stroke us, his handkerchief ready to receive and cover our mutual releases, which it did, to a shared ejaculation.

He left me there, in the cubicle, back pressed to the wall, pelvis jutting out beyond the toilet bowl. As he was leaving and before the door to the cubicle swung shut, I saw him dump the soiled handkerchief in a trash bin, wash his hands in the basin, and pause before the mirror behind the sinks to adjust his bow tie. He was cool as a cucumber. Our gazes merged through the reflection of the mirror, he gave me a little, satisfied smile, and then he was gone.

There was no hanky-panky in the balcony box with Susan during the second half of the program. The lights were up, there was live action on the stage, and she seemed interested in what was transpiring on stage. It was some sort of awards segment—connected with the film shorts we’d already seen, I surmised. I was a little chagrined with myself for not knowing what was happening here. I was in Hollywood, going to acting school, already having taken care of learning dance, scared of pinning down the singing part, and preparing, I thought, for a film career. I should have been more in tune with what was going on here.

What went on was a double surprise. First, the Craig Somebodyorother Susan was so closely engaged in talking to during the interval was part of a group called up to the stage and given awards. Beyond that, the docking man from the men’s room was called up with another group.

At the end of the program, Susan turned to me and said, “Go out on the street and find Tonya and the Bentley and have her bring it around. I have to talk to someone.”

And then she left me. So, it’s a Bentley, I thought. The silver boat has a name. I did as she asked. When Tonya managed to take her turn to pull the Bentley up in front of the theater, with me in the passenger seat, the door to the back was opened by a man in a tuxedo. Susan entered the backseat, followed by the man in the tuxedo . . . Craig Somebodyorother.

“We’ll drop you off, if it’s somewhere nearby,” Tonya turned and said to me. Her expression was one of “don’t make a fuss. You were paid for.” I caught the warning and took the hint—very well, I thought and very quickly, considering the sudden shock of it. I had been wondering about—and looking forward to—the wild night the three of us would have at Loews Hollywood Hotel. It seemed not, especially as, while we were pulling away from the curb, Susan already had the young movie actor’s cock out and they were kissing.

“It’s not far. Just over on North McCadden Place, near Hollywood High School,” I said.

It wasn’t, in fact, far away, but it was far enough that Susan was straddling the guy’s lap and was bouncing her ass channel on his cock before we got there.

“Come around to the trunk,” Tonya said when we’d come to a stop in front of my almost-tenement apartment house. When I met her there, I understood this abrupt parting wasn’t an impromptu move. She opened the trunk and handed me the leather toiletries case and a bag with both my cruising clothes and my “today’s shopping” clothes in it. The spoils of the engagement. My tip, I guess.

“Where should I send the tux?” I asked.

“Keep it. She wants you to have it,” Tonya said. “It was custom fit for you anyway.” And then, almost as an afterthought, she said, “This is how it goes. She likes you. You did great.” Then she went up on her tiptoes and brushed her lips against mine before she got back in the Bentley and drove off. Susan and Craig hadn’t even noticed I was gone. While I was retrieving my stuff, the big boat of a car had been gently rocking on its springs and I’d seen Susan’s blonde head rising and falling in the backseat through the back window.

Oh, well, I thought, as I stood on the sidewalk watching the Bentley glide back up toward Hollywood Boulevard, easy come, easy go.

Later I discovered the tip had been better than just a new tux and a “going shopping” ensemble. Five hundred-dollar bills had been slipped into the pocket of the tux. Quite a good day and a half take considering that Ed would have a big slice of what he’d charged for my services to give me as well.

* * * *

We were dancing on the stage and I noticed that Erik was zeroing in on a patron in the front row. That, of course, piqued my interest and my competitive spirit. Imagine my surprise when I looked down into the audience at the Highland Nightclub while we were dancing our last show on a Saturday night and found Mr. Mature but Handsome Docking Buddy, from the balcony men’s room at Grauman’s Chinese Theater, sitting there, looking oh so cool, in command, and interested—in Erik.

I couldn’t give this one to Erik, of course, so I turned on the afterburners, taking Mr. Docker’s attention from Erik to me. He looked surprised when his attention latched onto me, and I like to think that he’d seen Erik first, thought it was me, and didn’t look beyond Erik until I interjected myself. I worked hard at it, but by the end of the dance, it was me he was watching.

And afterward, it was he, identified as Elliot Carrier, a movie producer, who prompted Ed Ellis to visit me in the dressing room and inform me I’d been engaged in a “multiple” until Monday morning. A multiple meant that I’d have to lay down for more than one, and it usually was employed for bachelorette or bachelor parties.

Whatever. I was just happy to meet up with Mr. Docker again and maybe to be taken by him to completion this time. He was older, but he was intriguing and sexy as hell. And I was being told he was a movie producer—I’d seen him get an award for it without knowing precisely what for—and I was a would-be movie actor.

When Carrier came into the dressing room to collect me—and, I’m pleased to say, to cause Erik to scowl—he asked a strange question.

“This gentleman here,” he gestured to Ed, who was no gentleman, and the tone of Carrier’s voice indicated that he, who had just been in negotiations with the man over my body, understood that fully, “tells me you are an expert tennis player.”

Before I could answer, Ed interjected, “He was on the University of Florida tennis team the year it almost won the national championship.”

That surprised me—that Ed had looked into my past enough to know that I’d attended, if not finished at Florida, and that I played competitive tennis. I’d have to ask him what else he knew about my past. I’d left Florida at the end of my sophomore year, having been laid by most of the faculty of both the theater arts and physical education departments, male and female alike, having degree in hand to prove I was good at it, and having been encouraged to acquire the bug of thinking I could make it in the movies in L.A.

Carrier didn’t mention tennis further as he drove us straight up from Hollywood and Highland into the Hollywood Hills in a sleek red Maserati GT Convertible. His house was sleek and rich-looking too, hidden at the top of a ridge behind a long driveway and electronically opening gates. I didn’t have much of a chance to see the downstairs before discovering that he had a bedroom that went on for miles, a four-poster bed that made a little whooshing sound when it rocked back and forth, a cock to die for—which I already knew—a powerhouse backswing, and a fuck that went on forever.

He took me first missionary style, my arms stretched over my head, wrists restrained by leads secured at the posts at the headboard, my legs spread and bent, feet flat on the mattress, and Carrier’s knees pushed in under my buttocks, lifting my pelvis and giving him straight, deep access in his thrusts inside me. He fucked me vigorously and intensely the first time, as if he’d been thinking about it and obsessing over it since he hadn’t fucked me the other night in the men’s room at Grauman’s Chinese theater. I didn’t mind. I’d been regretting he hadn’t fucked me then too.

For a second fuck, he reversed the restraints on my wrists, and he lay on his back on the bed, with me straddling his pelvis, hovering over him, as he held my waist between his hands, my arms stretched out and secured, and me using the leverage of my knees to rise and fall on his cock. The restraints weren’t needed, but he thought they’d be a nice touch, and I didn’t disagree.

An even nicer touch appeared at the door to the bedroom. Susan—Carrier’s wife, it turned out—entered in just red spike heels and a phallus harness. She climbed up behind me, thrust up inside me on top of her husband’s cock, and I was being double spiked by the team of Elliot and Susan Carrier.

It became clear that Elliot Carrier had known where to find me in the Chippendales revue line at the Highland Nightclub because Susan had told him where I’d come from—and that I could easily be had.

I was easily had by them both—repeatedly—into the dawn’s early light.

Over breakfast, Elliot told me that I’d be playing tennis later that afternoon, but it would be best if I got some rest before that—and dressed for tennis, if I had the duds, and provocatively so if I could manage that. I could, if I could get back to my apartment to get to my wardrobe. Ed had been right that I was good at tennis. I played often and well and I had the wardrobe for it. It didn’t escape me, though, that Susan had outfitted me for the roles I was to play for her but her husband didn’t. I knew who the spender of the family was.

“Tonya will drive you back to your apartment,” Susan said.

“And pick you up at 3:30 this afternoon again,” Elliot added. “We’re playing doubles at 4:00.”

Tonya did take me back to my apartment, but I didn’t get much sleep. Delon was out on an assignment of his own, so Tonya and I fucked, me folding myself in her curves in a missionary, inserting myself deep in her, and kneading and feasting on her pendulous breasts. She didn’t mind, and to my query on whether Susan would mind, she said, “Susan assumed. It’s part of the perks of my job, if not yours.”

It was perfectly fine in the job I was doing with the Carriers too.

Tonya didn’t have to come back for me at 3:30 in the afternoon. She already was here, with me. She helped me pick out my tennis togs, making sure they were form fitting and that the line of my cock could be seen. I asked her why this was necessary, but she just hummed, like she knew something I didn’t—and she probably did.

She drove me back up into the Hollywood Hills and to the Mulholland Tennis Club on Crest View Drive. I’d played here before with a private pickup and I knew they had guestrooms in the clubhouse, with bathtubs that held more than one. The woman had been named Sylvia, she’d been a tennis pro from thirty years earlier, she was still fit in her early fifties, she had thighs of steel, and she was a cleanliness nut. She nearly consumed me in the tub, encased my thighs with hers and not giving me up until she’d gotten the very last drop of my cum deposited deep inside her.

The tennis was men’s doubles, with Carrier and me against a dumpy talent agent and an aging matinee idol, who wasn’t doing so bad in keeping himself in shape. It was well known that he was gay and kept young lovers, and I presumed that I was there to play tennis and to service him for some professional scheme of Carrier’s. I was right, but it was a little more complicated than that.

Off the top, Carrier had said that, if Garry Gare and his agent won a two-of-three match, Carrier would let them fuck me and would let Gare out of his contract for a movie Carrier was producing. They seemed impressed with me, especially since after all that tennis togs selection Tonya and I had done, I was told to play skins, and even more so when they were told I was a Chippendales dancer. If we won, Gare would take the salary offered without his usual cut of the box office profits.

“And young Brad here?” Gare asked.

Carrier laughed. “If you lose, you can still fuck him—as a good-will gesture—but Harvey here can’t.” The talent agent scowled. He also subsequently worked harder than Gare did to win the match.

“We outmatch them, I’m sure,” I whispered, as I walked with Carrier to the side where we were to begin.

“I want them to win,” Carrier whispered back. “Make it look good—and we can take the first set, but lose to them.”

“Lose to them?” I asked, confused. “You’ll lose the star of your movie.”

“I want to lose him. I don’t want him in the movie. I have someone else lined up for the part. But I don’t want to screw my relationship with him. I need him and his agent to think they won what they wanted.”

So, we lost to them. I made it close and I cried inside how many times I had to whiff the ball to keep it close, but we lost to them and I got fucked in one of the guest rooms in the Mulholland Tennis Club’s clubhouse. I danced for them first to affirm that I was a Chippendales dancer.

The agent was a piece of cake. He was obese for the job and not anywhere close to in shape. He just bent me over the bed and, wheezing, took me from behind, shooting off almost before he could get his dick inside me.

The movie star was something else altogether. He was in shape for his age, experienced in topping a young man, very interested in topping me, and professional in spiking men. He had me in a club chair, crouching over me, with my legs draped over the arms, and on the bed in a much more vigorous doggy than his agent had managed, and in the tub, with thighs of steel, encasing my thighs, and holding me captive, him inside me, until he’d given me every drop of cum he had left.

Later, after they’d gone, Carrier fucked me again. Then Tonya took me back to my apartment. Delon still wasn’t there, so I fucked Tonya again. And that was that. No tip from Carrier this time, confirming that his wife was the big spender in the family—well, no tip, unless the Carriers thought Tonya’s cunt and big tits constituted a tip for me.

But, my cut of what Ed Ellis would have charged would be hefty enough. As for the rest, easy come, easy go.

I did get a private phone number for Garry Gare—and I did later use it. He did help me get onto the sand in the background of a beach party film, and that was my start in the business.

* * * *

A week later and there had been no recalls from the Carriers. So, it was, indeed, easy come, easy go, I decided. No contact from Tonya either. Oh, well, this was Hollywood. I’d already gotten a call back from Garry Gare, so there was a lead there.

Imagine my surprise, then, when, as we started the last show on Saturday night and were out there humping the boards to a near full house, I saw them there, in the middle of the front row—Susan and Elliot Carrier. I danced my little heart out for them.

I waited for a while in the dressing room until all of the other guys were gone. Erik, giving me the same scowl he’d been giving me for a week, was the last to leave before me. I waited for Ed Ellis to come in. He did. There was a tall, heavy—but with muscles more than fat—guy standing in the doorway. He was maybe in his late forties and maybe had been a professional boxer at one time. He looked like he could—and would like to—take someone apart.

“This is Mr. Jackson, Brad,” Ed said. “He’ll be taking you for a spin tonight?”

A spin? Like a cycle in a washing machine? I wondered. It looked like the “someone” he’d take apart tonight would be me. My eyes dropped to his basket. Oh, Christ almighty it was going to be a rough night—but a glorious rough night.

As we were moving toward the stage door, I saw that Erik was ahead of me on leaving, standing right at the door. Susan Carrier was on one side of him and Elliot Carrier on the other. They both had arms entwining Erik’s. Beyond the open stage door, out in the alley, sat a silver Bentley, with Tonya at the wheel.

Oh, well. Easy come, easy go.