I was alone, isolated from everyone, left to stew in my own juices far too long in the Malibu house. It was quite a shock treatment after the freeing debauchery I'd experienced the past week. Grayson stayed for two nights. But Grayson was no help to me. He was a fat, ugly, old man--completely sexless. If I were to cast a eunuch for one of my parents' foreign locale fantasy films, I could have done no better than Grayson. I'd been fucked almost nonstop since my eighteenth birthday. And I had loved it. And I had been made to go cold turkey. I could have come down from the high--if it was gradual. I'm sure I could. But cold turkey was making it worse, keying me up. I needed a man between my legs.

The day in between the two nights I had to lay in bed alone, listening to his hoarse snoring and knowing there wasn't anything he could do for what I needed--at least Robert would have held me in his arms and rocked me to sleep--Grayson went shopping for enough food for me to fix for myself for the next two weeks and to fetch my airplane ticket for Philadelphia and the instructions for the line of credit that had been set up for me to draw upon. My mother didn't call; my dad didn't call. I had no trouble understanding that they were separating from me. No one else knew I was here--no one with muscles and a smile and a hard cock.

I lay at night, continuing the scene with my dad that my mother had interrupted. Remembering what I had requested of him--being surprised that I had. I had thought I wanted from him what he gave Emilio that last night. But that wasn't the case, I realized. That's what I wanted from Charles Tilton. I wanted tenderness from my dad. I wanted him to pick me up from the couch and carry me up the stairs and to one of the guest rooms--not to his room, where he and Gordon slept, or to my mother's room, where she and Magda had made love. And not to my room either. But to one of the guest rooms, with no memories other than those that my dad and I would build. And then I wanted him to lay me on the bed on my back, take a pillow and put it under the small of my back, raising my channel to him--like I'd seen in a video of his, not like what the hunks had been doing to me for days, attacking me like animals in heat, not being able to fuck me hard and fast--and often--enough.

Then I wanted him to go down between my legs with his head and make love to my entrance with his lips and tongue until I moaned and begged for him. And then kneeling between my legs, never taking his eyes off mine, slowly, ever so slowly, entering me and entering and entering and entering, holding there, deep inside me, his eyes telling me of what a special experience it was for him, as it was for me. Holding--until I begged. And then starting a slow pump as I writhed under him and cried out for completion. Filling me with his love and his essence.

Sweating, having brought myself to a troubled, release, I flopped back on the bed and moaned. I thought it unfair. It wasn't my fault--well, not wholly. At least not completely.

There was no indication that my mother had split from my dad either. I had Grayson set up newspaper delivery for me--and I did so solely to peruse the entertainment section for any hint of a break between Scott Sloan and Laura Lake. All I found were reports of the crew for the movie-in-the-making High Timber departing for northern California, for Eureka. The actors and the producer, Theo Kline. No mention was made of Charles Tilton in the earlier reports. And then, days later, I saw a brief mention of Rex Barnard as the director of the film. Just the one, though, and that always could have just been a one-off mistake in reporting, I thought. One of the reports said the Scott Sloan's wife, Laura Lake had gone up the coast as well.

Neither one of them contacted me about that; I had to read it in the newspaper.

I did receive another telephone call. It was from Theo Kline's office. On behalf of Kline, one of his secretaries thanked me for assisting him for a brief time on setting up the organization for the movie. He had a new assistant now, though, and he knew I would be entering a university back East for the fall session. A check for $5,000 would be in the mail. She didn't flinch at naming the amount. I'd put in less than a week of work on that job. No doubt, though, she was well versed in how Hollywood worked. I was the son of two major actors. Favors were done, palms were greased. She saw the $5,000 as a typical good-will gift signaled to my parents. I saw it as the cost of my virginity. I'd only been given the job so Kline could maneuver me into the mountains and be the first one to get his cock inside me. I was truly a whore now. I'd given it up for $5,000. I wondered what the going rate for it was in Hollywood.

I didn't resent that, though. It was probably a sign of the weird value system I'd been raised to, but I appreciated the work Kline had put into being the first one inside me. In some ways he'd been more of a dad to me than my dad was. He--along with Robert, of course--had been the only one who actually spent time trying to find out who I was, what I wanted to become.

It didn't bother me in the least that Theo had done this or claimed his "first" prize. If I didn't shrink from the thought of my dad fucking me, why would it bother me that Theo did? He had taken me out on the ocean several times on his yacht, the Final Curtain, as I was growing up. And although while we chatted during these outings he was quick to tell me that there was a place for me in motion pictures if I wanted it, he spent some time and effort asking me what I wanted to be.

I remember, no doubt being influenced by a movie my parents had just made, telling him once that I thought I'd like to be a police detective. Theo had a collection of Ellery Queen magazines on his yacht, and, impressionable lad that we all are at that age, I had been mesmerized about the prospect of being a detective. When I'd said that to my dad, he had laughed. Theo didn't laugh. He just told me that there were no bad jobs--just people who couldn't do jobs needing done very well. He looked hard--in a playful, grandfatherly way--at me then and told me he thought I'd make a splendid detective. And I never forgot that.

The shock of moving from an orgy to isolation had the unfortunate--or fortunate maybe, who can say for sure--effect of making me think over the events of the past couple of weeks.

Robert had been right about me--so right. All of the things he said would be set loose inside me when I turned eighteen and gave vent to my natural desires and frustrations had come to pass. He'd also told me not to fight it--to enjoy it to the extent I could--but to try to start learning to protect myself. I had to think about that. I didn't think I'd done too well about protecting myself yet. But it was so hard. Obviously my mother and even my dad had been pushed over the edge when my dad had finally come to me. I would have to think about that. Apparently there were some limits that I hadn't been taught--that I should think about and start developing.

But I was still the innocent. And I remembered what Robert said about that too. That I'd be the innocent until I begged for it. That not fighting what other men wanted, going ahead and letting them take it, wasn't marked against my innocence. It would be when I went to them--and begged them for it--begged them for what I knew would be degrading.

Thinking about such things was really too much for me at this age, and if I hadn't been left all alone, in a stark switch of activity, I wouldn't have thought even that deeply. And thinking that deeply started developing the doubt in my mind. The doubt was about Robert. It was Robert who had me thinking about the state of my innocence, and, at length, my thoughts turned to focusing on Robert.

How could he have murdered Emilio? Robert wasn't like that. My dad was the last one I knew to have been with Emilio, and he was beating Emilio. And there was the figure in the corridor that night. A man or a woman? I couldn't remember which--if I'd ever known. And there was something else, something that had prompted me to leave my bed in the first place. But what was it? I couldn't remember. I remembered calling out Robert's name, but that's only because the person could only logically have been Robert--or Efenia. Only Efenia had a room in the house, though. Robert's cottage was on the other side of the pool. But Efenia wasn't that tall--or slim. It was someone else, I was sure of that.

And jealousy. What jealousy? Emilio was a bottom--I never saw him topping anyone. He was always the one being fucked. And Robert. That had been our problem, the two of us--why we'd never made love. Robert said we were both exclusive bottoms. I just didn't know. I didn't know enough about these matters.

Wanting to clear my brain to take another cut at the logic of it all, I stood and went out to the balcony overlooking the ocean.

The kiters were out, flying their fancy-structured, many-colored kites along the beach, taking advantage of and using the breezes coming off the water to make their kites dance high in the air.

They looked so free and elegant. I loved watching them. I wanted to be free like that--to dance on the breeze like that.

One of the kites went off balance and careened down to the sand up the coast from the house. My eyes followed the line of descent.

I never saw the kite hit the ground, though, because I first saw him. Slouching against his car on the road above the sand dunes, dressed just in shorts, loafers, and sunglasses. Just standing there, looking at me. Bad boy incarnate. The forbidden enticement every parent warned their child to beware.

Charles Tilton.

He didn't gesture. He didn't have to now. The isolation had been too much for me. I descended the deck steps and started to walk toward him--and then to run, feet digging in, pounding on the sand, stumbling as I lost my footing, but rising right back up and recklessly running on.

He stopped the car ten miles up the coast toward Ventura on the Pacific Coast highway, turning away from the beach into an isolated picnic area, deserted on this weekday. He parked the car as far inland as possible, the trunk pointed away from the ocean. He roughly pulled me out of the front seat of the car and around to the trunk and slammed me down on my back on the trunk and jerked my shorts down.

He fucked me hard and long and deep there, each thrust moving my bare back on the sun-baked surface of the trunk. Seven, eight, nine. He didn't stop. He kept pumping. I had held my breath until he reached eleven strokes, afraid he'd tease me again and pull out. But he didn't. He kept on fucking. And my spirit flew up into the air and floated like a kite on the beach. He lowered his teeth to my nipples and punished me. I gasped and groaned and moaned and loved every deep stroke of it.

I came fairly quickly. He didn't.

After arousing me for a second time, he pulled out of me and I slid, exhausted, off the trunk and into a heap on the hot pavement. I begged him to continue fucking me. He laughed.

Tilton opened the trunk then and took out a car blanket. He walked away from me, into the verge of some spindly-trunked trees gasping for life in the salty ocean breezes, opened the blanket out on the ground, and laid down on his back, his erection still reaching ambitiously for the sun.

Then he just stared at me. After a moment, I walked over to the blanket, straddled his hips with my knees, positioned his cock head at my entrance--and fucked him to his completion. Doing it all myself. One more step away from innocence.

He said nothing as we drove up the coast toward Ventura.

I, though, couldn't get enough of him. I asked him to pull into another picnic area and fuck me again, but he just laughed. Then I begged him, reaching for his cock as he drove and trying to take it in my mouth, but he roughly pushed me away, into the corner of the seat and kept on driving.

When we reached his beach house, he dragged me up the steps and into the house and pushed me into the cushions of a couch. He went into the kitchen and took a beer from the fridge and popped the top. Turning, he leaned against the kitchen counter, took a deep swig, and then stared at me, holding the beer poised in his hand, half way between counter and his mouth. He was wearing a sneery smile. A victor's smile.

I stood up from the couch and started to roam around, checking out the layout of the beach house. The living room, dining room, and kitchen were on the upper level, where the best view of the ocean was, with two bedrooms and two baths below. Everything was tastefully and expensively furnished--at least until I got to the room on the road side of the downstairs, which must have been the second bedroom. The room was bare of recognizable furniture. The floors and walls and even the ceiling were covered in thick carpeting, in black. I don't know why I knew, but I did know that it was for sound proofing. The two windows were shuttered tight.

I stood in the doorway, trying to figure the furnishing of the room out. It was very much out of synch with the rest of the house. There was a sling of shiny black leather suspended from the ceiling by chains in one corner. And, in the center was a vinyl cube-like thing. Wide strips of heavy-duty webbed material were attached to the four corners at the bottom and straps hung down from the upper corners as well. There was a closet, with folding doors, which were half open. I walked over to the closet and folded the doors out. The back wall of the closet was a Masonite board with attachments on it holding a panoply of sex gadgets and toys--whips and restraints and leg separators and dildoes and balls on strings--all things I'd seen in my dad's stash of magazines and had fantasized about. At the corners of the rooms were stands with video cameras on them, backed by other stands with studio lighting dishes on them. Wires ran from these back to the corner of the cube, wires with clickers on the end.

I felt him behind me, close behind me, chest touching my back, knees touching the back of my thighs, a powerful cock rubbing on my back. He was naked. His arms came around me and he was palming one nipple and my belly with his hands.

"Come into the other bedroom." He whispered to me.

"What do you do in here?" I asked.

"What do I do? I do my special guests in here. You aren't ready for this. Come into the other bedroom."

"Please, I want to know. I want to know it all," I said.

"You have no patience," he said. And then he laughed.

"Please, I beg you," I whimpered. And then I turned and went down on my knees and rubbed my cheek on his dick.

"Oh, very well . . . since you begged," he said.

And then he gathered me up in his arms and carried me over to the vinyl cube and pushed me down on it on my belly. My wrists and ankles were bound to the restraints at the bottom corners, and he was behind me, hunched over me.

"You want it, boy, you got it. We begin." I was blinded by the studio lights when they flashed on, and I heard the whirring of the video cameras start. I heard him laugh and then I felt the coldness of the beer bottle at my entrance. He worked the neck of it into my ass, tipping it over until beer flowed down inside me and around the neck of the bottle and down the insides of my thighs.

I cried out and then whimpered as he began to slow pump me with the neck of cold beer bottle.

"Had enough? Want to go home?" he asked in a gruff voice. And then that deep-throated laugh again when I whispered no, that I wanted to stay.

He pulled the beer bottle out of my channel and then he grabbed my hair in one fist and arched me back sharply while slamming his cock deeply into my ass and making me cry out in pain, surprise, and passion.

I didn't care. I begged him not to stop--ever. And he didn't for nearly a week.

* * * *

One Sunday morning, three weeks after I started at Penn State--having already declared that I wanted to study toward a criminal investigation degree--I heard a tentative knock at the door of my small, off-campus apartment.

I rose from the bed, trying not to disturb the football player deep in sleep from the exertions I'd put him through. He snorted, but didn't awake, just rolled over and embraced a pillow and moved his pelvis in a motion that had become a habit in the night. I quickly and silently pulled on jeans and T-shirt and padded out into the living room in my bare feet, closing the bedroom door gently behind me.

I opened the door to two serious-faced men in well-pressed black suits standing patiently in the outer hall, probably hoping that no one was home.

My dad's Bentley had careened off the Pacific Highway between Ventura and Malibu and down onto the rocks at the edge of the surf in the early hours of the morning. Indications were that my mother was driving and that the car had left the pavement at high speed. They had both died instantly. Magda Nadar was organizing the memorial service. It would be a major Hollywood event.

I knew my dad and mother would have liked that.

I was truly all alone in the world now--and now completely dead to innocence.

Numb after the two black suits left, I padded back into the bedroom and rolled the football player over onto his back. He was hard, in the throes of a wet dream, and muttering dirty words to himself. I'd picked him because he was one big muscle of glistening dark chocolate, could go ten thick inches, and for the tattoos. I mounted him, easily slid down his pole, and began slowly to ride his cock. He didn't fully waken, but he responded naturally, encasing my waist with his big hands and helping to raise and lower me on his staff. I lowered my lips to his chest and traced the lines of the tattoo there with my tongue. Then, I moved my face to the hollow of his neck, the tears from my eyes rolling down his neck onto his tattoo, while I rode and rode and rode. The only way I could think of to combat this numbness I felt.

(Note that the saga continues with the forthcoming Death in Manhattan, which finds Clint a police detective in the NYPD.)



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