Scorched by the Sun

by Habu

24 Jul 2019 2041 readers Score 8.9 (46 votes) PDF Mobi ePub Txt


I watched Scott roll out of bed and walk to the bathroom. Rather, I watched his buttocks sway as he moved. He rolled the condom off as he walked and dropped it deftly in the trashcan under the sink before going over and standing in front of the toilet. He was in great shape for being just past thirty, and he was a lucky find for me. We were quite a contrast—me on the smallish and slender side, a dark Mediterranean-type Jew, with curly hair and a sultry face that Scott wasn’t the only one who said would serve me well in being a photographer’s model. I was told I could pass as Israeli, Greek, or Italian, which helped for commercial purposes, but I had never been to any of those places. I had been to—been raised in—New Jersey, nearly on the Toms River boardwalk.

I was in my third year at the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising here in Los Angeles, studying not only modeling in commercial photography but to be able to do layouts myself as well. I owed a lot to Scott, who had picked me up on the beach in Malibu; propositioning me for a photo shoot, saying he’d provide professional photos for a portfolio in exchange for sex; and who not only had given me jolt after jolt of sexual pleasure but had also gotten me a part time job with a TV studio his entertainment industry publicity firm worked with.

Scott Stewart was a tall, burly, sunny-disposition Nordic type. He could glad hand with the best, which made him a success in the publicity world. He could fuck with the best too. And, to my good fortune he was generous to a fault. He liked me well enough that he gave me a place to live in expensive L.A., which would help me complete my degree, and he helped me bring in some extra cash—a few modeling jobs already. This helped in my college classes. And now he’d steered me to this production assistant job, essentially as a gofer, for the Grant’s West television show.

We didn’t usually fuck on a weekday morning, but Scott’s hours were flexible and I didn’t have any classes today and wasn’t due at the TV studio until later in the morning. And we’d both awakened with morning wood. Scott had no trouble figuring out what to do about that, gathering me under him—he was nearly twice as big as I am—pulling me up to my knees, and fucking me in a deep doggie.

He was an exhibitionist, as happy strutting around and swinging his meat in the apartment as going to work dressed like a men’s fashion plate. He left the bathroom door open, and I could see him, naked, piss in the toilet, shower without closing the curtain, and then stand at the sink and shave and groom himself. He was a hunk—ten years older than I was, but he kept himself in shape. We worked out together at a gym he paid for. I certainly couldn’t complain about life in L.A.

He came out of the bathroom and we looked at each other. He was half hard, and I could tell that he was thinking what I was—that he’d be up for another round. I wanted him to come back in the bed. I’d never had it so good in the terms of sex. He was hung and could ding my bell.

“When do you have to be in?” he asked.

“10:30,” I answered. “They want me to take a studio car and pick Grant Thorn up in Beverly Hills.” Grant Thorn was the star of Grant’s West, which was evident from the program’s title. The show was a situation drama set in a Western ranch in the mid-1950s. Grant Thorn, forty-eight and a real hunk, was cast as the patriarch of a family that couldn’t keep itself out of trouble.

“I guess there isn’t really enough time then,” he said. The regret in his voice sent a chill up my spine. I was one lucky submissive. “Did you say you’ll be driving Grant Thorn?”

“Yes, it will be the first time, but that’s what they said they use me for most—deliveries and transporting the actors and the crew, as needed.”

“Well, be careful with Thorn. Watch yourself around him.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s got a reputation. It’s all hush hush because of his box office persona, but just watch yourself with him. Be careful.”

I wondered what a lowly gofer being careful with the program’s star would entail.

I found out what wouldn’t work.

* * * *

I had to sit in front of Grant Thorn’s house for half an hour before he appeared. The assistant producer who sent me to Beverly Hills to pick him up, Brad Luck, was quite explicit that I was to wait until Thorn was ready to appear and not go ring his doorbell. Luck had also said, “And just bring him here. Nothing else. You’re just part of the furniture; don’t get friendly with the actors or you’ll get bounced out of a job.”

Well, OK. I certainly won’t do anything to delay us. I sat there in his driveway, biding my time and wondering how he was supposed to know I was here. Then I saw drapes flutter in a window on the second floor, and after a few minutes he was coming out of the door. He was a real hunk for his age and was dressed the part—tight, worn jeans; a plaid flannel shirt with brass studs on it, the pockets in a V cut; and cowboy boots—but he was clean as a whistle, every hair in place, and walking like he owned the town.

He threw some boxes in the backseat of the car and climbed into the front seat, which surprised me. I expected anyone I drove to be chauffeured in the back. The guidelines the studio gave me said the same thing. He flashed me a smile, which showed a fortune in dentistry.

“Haven’t met you yet. I’m Grant Thorn.” He reached his hand out and I had to take it. I wouldn’t have been polite if I didn’t. When he took my hand, he folded his thumb between our palms. That meant something in my world. I didn’t want to presume it meant the same thing in his, but it’s not how someone gives a handshake by accident. In my world that said he gave cock and was asking me to declare.

I looked at the house before putting the car into gear. The drapes in the upstairs window fluttered again.

“Hello. My name is Jacob,” I said as he settled in the seat beside me. I figured that I was too low on the totem pole for him to care about a last name.

“Yes, you are,” he answered. “I understand that Scott Stewart recommended you for this job.”

“Yes, he did,” I answered as I got on the road. What was with this? The big star had checked me out?

“Scott’s a good friend of yours then, is he?” It was a knowing question. The thumb in the palm was beginning to make a little sense now. So was Scott’s admonition to stay out of this man’s orbit. The thumb in the palm trick during a handshake was a dominant male shopping device for a submissive male.

“Yeah, I’m a student at the Fashion Institute and I’ve done a few layouts for his company.” Keep it general, I told myself.

“You’re a college student and male model then too? You don’t just drive folks around for a living . . . and you live with Scott?”

“I’m doing some work as a photographer’s model at least until I graduate. Then I hope to be doing layouts.” I wasn’t about to answer the “live with Scott” leading question.

“So, you’re what? Nineteen? Twenty?”

“Twenty-one. Say, do you prefer that we try a freeway to work or are these backstreets OK?”

“The backstreets are fine, Jacob. Jacob. That’s a Jewish name. You’re—?”

“Yes, I’m Jewish. From New Jersey.”

“Ah, a pretty little Jewish boy. I’m from Pennsylvania myself, but you wouldn’t know it from what I’m wearing, would you?” Then while I was pretending I needed to concentrate on a couple of tricky turns, he said, “These aren’t the duds I’m wearing on the set. Wearing these helps put me in the mood for the filming. I’m a method actor. What about you, Jacob? Do you do any acting?”

“No, I suck at anything like that,” I said.

“A guy with looks like yours has a chance out here. I bet I could help you get into acting.”

“I’m afraid I’d still suck at it,” I answered, keeping my eyes on the road. That is until I noticed him reaching over a pulling something out of my lap. He lifted it up and laughed.

“What’s this? Good thing I found this for you, isn’t it?”

If I had been the blushing kind, I would have blushed. He’d pulled a black curly pubic hair out of my zipper. It apparently had gotten trapped in that the last time I’d taken a piss. Now why he noticed I had a stray hair in my zipper . . . and why he went to the trouble to mention it . . .

He moved the hair around in the air in my peripheral vision, looking at it from all sides, and he was smiling. “Wouldn’t be good to let your girlfriend see that in your zipper, would it? You have a girlfriend?”

“Not here in L.A.,” I answered.

“That’s right. You live with Scott Stewart, don’t you?”

I don’t know if I would have answered the second asking of that, but any intention of doing so was overtaken by him turning toward me and putting his right hand on my basket. I froze.

“Just relax, Jacob,” he said in a low, hoarse voice. “I know you live with Scott and that he does you. You’re really cute.”

“Mr. Thorn, please don’t . . .”

“Oh, come, Jacob, you can call me Grant. We can be good friends.” He was working my zipper. I put my hand down on top of his.

“Seriously, Mr. Thorn. I would be fired for doing anything with someone like you. And I could have a wreck if I don’t pay attention to the driving. It’s particularly congested around the studios. And we’re just about there.”

“So we are,” he said, taking his hand away from my basket. “Wouldn’t want you to get fired, would we? Not when we’ve just met and haven’t had time to get friendly. You haven’t denied that Scott does you. And you haven’t said you wouldn’t let me do you too, have you?”

No, I hadn’t. But I didn’t answer that.

I needed Grant Thorn as a special friend as much as I needed a cactus up my ass. Not that I wouldn’t like to go a couple of rounds with the hunk.

He sat back in his seat and smiled at the phalanx of guards we had to pass through to get on the studio lot. I drove him to his trailer and left the car in idle, waiting for him to get out. He got out, but he turned and said, “Could you bring the boxes into the trailer for me?”

Before I could answer, he was climbing the steps of the trailer and entering his dressing unit. He held the door open for me to follow him with the boxes. With a sigh, I turned the ignition off, came around to the back door on the other side, retrieved the boxes, and climbed the steps.

“You can put them down right over there for me, please.” As I did so, he closed and locked the door. He was to me and embracing me in his arms before I knew what was happening. He was nearly a head taller than I was and had me by a good fifty pounds. One arm went around my back, his lips took mine in a deep kiss, and the hand of his other arm went between us. He cupped my basket with it. And while he was still kissing me and I was frozen from surprise and confusion—and, yes, because he was a hunk and a major TV star—he had both of us unbuckled and unzipped and he was frotting our cocks together.

I let it go on longer than I should have, although I don’t know what a lowly gofer like me was supposed to do to stop the production’s big star. His cock was thick and long. My butt twitched from the thought of him being inside me—of a big production star wanting to fuck me.

If he hadn’t said anything and burst the bubble of arousal and surprise, I wouldn’t have been surprised if I hadn’t gone with him there and then. But he pulled out of the kiss and murmured, “Let’s go over to the couch. I want you to suck me off. You give good head, don’t you?”

That gave me impetuous. “Uh, sorry, Mr. Thorn. I was told not to mess with the actors, and Mr. Luck, he said to come right back and report to him when you had arrived. And . . . sorry . . . sorry.”

I managed to pull away from him, rebutton my trousers, and zip myself up as I reached the door. And, fortuitously, I turned the lock the right way the first time. In the doorway, I turned and plaintively said, “Sorry,” again. “It’s just that I was told . . . sorry.”

Thorn was standing there, looking amused. He laughed as I shut the door, stumbled back down the stairs and into the car, revved the engine, and trembled my way to the parking area for the Grant’s West set.

I was given busywork gofer jobs for the rest of my part-time shift. Frequently when I looked into the set, where the actors were rehearsing, though, I saw Grant Thorn giving me hard looks. I also caught Brad Luck looking at both of us and wearing a pensive frown.

Luckily, my shift was over before the rehearsal was. Someone else drove Thorn home. It wasn’t me.

I was thinking “Damn Grant Thorn” that night as Scott latched on to my upper arms and raised me up from where I was kneeling before him as he sat on the foot of the bed and I was blowing his cock. When he turned me onto my back at the foot of the bed, I had trouble keeping my mind on the hunk I had here, in front me, because flashes of images of Grant Thorn exploded in my mind. Scott had a beautiful cock, but I thought, from the limited exposure I’d had, that Thorn was longer and thicker. I’d just gotten a hint of him and was blotto while that was happening. So, of course, my imagination made the TV star huge and lit up in flashing lights.

I couldn’t deny that huge was important to me.

Scott leaned over me, between my spread and bent leg and took my lips with his. He was a great kisser. I gasped and arched my back as a finger entered my ass. I began panting heavily as he worked me with the finger and then encircled my cock with his other hand and began to stroke me. The kissing continued.

When he released my lips, I murmured, “Fuck me. Fuck me now.” And he did. The finger came out and I felt his bulb at my entrance. He pushed in just to bury the bulb, and I gasped and whimpered, “Yes, yes, yes.” Scott gripped my ankles, raised and spread my legs, took up the classic fuck position between my thighs, and slowly entered me deep. I moaned as he began to pump me.

Now. Now, like this, with Scott inside me and working my channel and me beginning to roll my hips, moving with him, I was concentrating just on Scott and me—and the fuck.

He hadn’t asked about my driving Grant Thorn that day, and I told him nothing about the experience.

* * * *

I would be lying if I said that thoughts of Grant Thorn hadn’t intruded in my thinking for the work week, especially when I was thinking of or moving into having sex with Scott Stewart. I kept thinking of the man—a TV star, an acting legend—frotting our cocks together in his studio trailer and of how much larger he seemed to be than I was. And I didn’t think I had any reason to be ashamed of what I was packing.

Size shouldn’t matter. But it does with me. And I’m as star struck as anyone else in California is. I came “this close” to giving a TV legend a blow job. How many guys coming to L.A. to make their way wished they could say the same?

I knew that chances were good that I’d be together with Thorn alone in a car sooner or later, if I didn’t get my ass fired sooner. Still, I was blindsided on Friday when informed that I was to drive someone up to Snow Valley, in the San Bernardino National Forest, a two-hour drive southeast of Los Angeles, that afternoon and leave him there for the weekend. It wasn’t Brad Luck who gave me the assignment. If it had been Luck who gave the transport order, I don’t think he would have assigned me to drive Grant Thorn that far. He’d been giving the two of us assessing looks for days, catching us looking at each other, and I’m sure he’d decided to try to keep us apart. I had wondered why he bothered, but the gossipers told me that the studio had recently paid off—and gotten rid of—a gofer who had threatened to expose Thorn as gay, which would have been a PR disaster.

Luck probably didn’t get rid of me off the bat because if it wasn’t me he had to look out for with Thorn, it would just be some other young guy they hired as gofer. It included some heavy lifting, or Luck might had gone with an ugly woman. He had put some older women in other jobs around here that Grant Thorn had to work closely with.

Mentally, I was more than good with the keeping Grant Thorn and me apart idea, but emotionally I was being rubbed raw the more I thought about that brief encounter with him.

After lunch on Friday, I packed a studio sedan trunk with what the star would need in an isolated mountain cabin in Snow Valley. Apparently, this was routine with Thorn when he had scripts he had to memorize close enough to be able to act without a teleprompter he couldn’t always be looking at. He isolated himself to study them. He hadn’t had time to go over next week’s scripts well and wanted the weekend alone to do that. Or that was his story. I don’t know if he had arranged to have me drive him and had done so behind Brad Luck’s back or not. But that’s how it worked out. I drove his car and he drove my ass.

When I picked him up, I waited in the car for him. He opened the door to his house and shoved a large suitcase out. Getting the hint, I got out of the car and hauled the suitcase to the back of the sedan and rearranged everything back there to fit it in. I looked up at the house before lowering the trunk. The drapes were moving in that second-floor window again, but this time I saw a young man up there. He was naked, staring down at the car. My arousal mechanisms gave a little jolt—not for the young man, who looked a lot like me, I thought, but for the thought that he had probably been with Grant Thorn, in bed, not long before. And because I hadn’t been.

When I closed the trunk, Thorn was already in the car—in the backseat.

“Hello, Mr. Thorn,” I said, as I slid behind the wheel. I kept it as bright and cheery—and lowly gofer to god—as possible.

“Jacob.” The tone was flat, neutral, as if he was thinking of something else altogether.

And that was it for the drive through Friday afternoon traffic up to Highland, just short of the entrance into the national forest area and the rise up into the mountains. At least he remembered my name, I thought. Checking in the rearview mirror every once in a while, I saw that he was concentrating on his scripts, so at least there wasn’t tension in the air. I was just a minion. That he’d kissed me and had my cock frotted with his and had come close to having my mouth on his cock apparently wasn’t anywhere in his thinking. He probably had just been toying with me for his own amusement. I was just furniture—to be used, as convenient.

Once in the park, on 330, headed for Bear Lake, although we weren’t going that far, he spoke for the first time since we’d left Beverly Hills.

“Pull over into the rest stop coming up,” he said. “I need to take a leak. I think you’ll want to too. It’s still a good distance to the cabin.”

And then, when I did pull into the rest area, which was practically deserted, he said, “No, not right here in front the building. Over there, where fewer would get curious about the car. I’m not in the mood to smile for fans.”

I parked over to the side, almost out of sight from the building, behind some hedges.

“You’re coming too?” as he climbed out of the backseat. “As I said, it’s still a good distance to the cabin, and it’s slow going from here, over rough road.”

I went too. We were the only ones in the men’s room. He stood back while I selected a urinal and then he saddled up to the one beside me, away from the door into the restroom. He waited for me to unzip, pull it out, and start an arc of piss into the urinal before he rolled his out. We stood there, me trapped in place by my pissing cock and him showing me his. My mind hadn’t played tricks on me. He was huge—both in girth and in length.

He waited to piss until I had finished doing so. I started to reel mine in and zip up, but he touched my arm with his hand. I mentally heard the sizzle of that touch. It was as effective as if he had touched my cock—which he’d already done nearly a week earlier.

“No, wait. Keep yours out while I piss,” he said. And I did, mine stiffening up as I watched him urinate into the urinal out of that monster cock.

“Can’t keep it from stiffening up for me, can you?” he said, with a knowing laugh. I looked around to see how private the stalls were, but he didn’t. He just laughed again, stuffed his cock back into his jeans, and went over to the wash basins to wash his hands.

He had his hand on my arm as we walked back to the car. Just that much of a touch kept me his captive. This time, as I was getting into the driver’s seat, Thorn was getting into the passenger seat.

“Does your seat recline?” he asked, his voice hoarse. I knew the look he gave me, and my first thought was “about time.” “If it reclines, do it,” he said. I reached down for the levers at the side of the seat and found the one that made my seat recline a bit. “Good.”

He twisted toward me, putting his left arm around my neck. His face came down to mine and we were kissing. He unzipped me with his right hand, fished my half-hard cock out, and stroked me off. When he felt me tense, he pulled his arm out from around my neck, leaned over my lap, and took my cock in his mouth, going down on me nearly the whole length of my shaft.

“I’m gonna come,” I hissed, giving him fair warning to pull off me in time, but he just made a muffled noise and kept sucking. I jerked three times in shooting off my load. He took it all in his throat.

He’d been beating himself off too, and when I’d come, he twisted back around, reclined his own seat, and stroked himself to completion, expelling his ejaculate into a handkerchief he had in his left hand.

I lay there in my seat, turned toward him. I had reached out to take his cock in my hand to jack him off, but he had brushed my hand away.

When he had come, cleaned himself off with his handkerchief, folded his cock back into his trousers, and zipped up, he returned to the backseat and I resumed the trip up into the mountains. It had started to snow.

And that was it. I’d had sex with one of the big-time TV stars. I had arrived in Hollywood in yet another dimension of tinsel land success.

* * * *

The cabin was made of logs and looked rustic on the outside, although it was quite modern and well-appointed inside. There was a view down into southside Los Angeles and its suburban areas. It wasn’t dark, but it was promising to be so in another couple of hours. The cabin contained two bedrooms, each with bath, and an open living-dining-kitchen area. Thankfully, someone had already been in and turned on the heat and some lights and had laid a fire, ready to be started.

Thorn stood, looking around at the walls, in the middle of the great room while I brought the provisions and his suitcase in. He gestured toward the bedroom he would occupy but neither of us spoke. Neither of us had spoken as the car rose in the mountains, under the lightly fallen snow. I don’t know what he was thinking of as we drove, but I was thinking of that big cock of his—and was aching for him. All thoughts of this not being a good idea were pushed out of my mind.

He followed me into the bedroom when I took his suitcase in. He stood at the foot of the bed and started taking his clothes off. I couldn’t help but watch him.

“You too,” he said. He was going to fuck me. He wasn’t going to ask if I’d let him.

I stood just inside the door to the bedroom, by his suitcase, and stripped. We looked intently at each other, enjoying the look of the nakedness of the other, as we disrobed. No further words were spoken. We both knew where this was going and that he was going to top me—that had been conveyed by him back when he’d first shaken my hand and signaled he was a top and interested.

When he was naked, he sat on the foot of the bed, his legs spread. I walked to him, knelt, and took his cock in my mouth. He was too big for me to take all of him, and he was engorging further, but he showed that it was important to him that I try to deep-throat him, so I tried. I gagged and kept coming off the cock in defeat but then tried again. He mercilessly buried his fingers in my black curls and held me there, pushing in every deeper, as my eyes watered and I gagged, but then he relented and let me pull off his cock. When I tried to take it with him being less insistent and forceful, I managed to sheath it all.

When I’d done that a couple of times, he put his hands in my pits and gently nudged me up onto my feet. I stood there, dumbly, head lowered in submission, still both of us silent, as he stood and turned me and pressed me down onto the foot of the bed, on my back. Putting his hands under my thighs, he lifted and spread them, went down on his knees, and, as I moaned for him, he buried his face in my ass crack.

When he stood, he let my legs, spread, lower themselves. I watched as he rolled on and smoothed out a condom. His shaft was humongous and I already was groaning and moaning.

“You’re going to lay there and let me do this,” he said, almost as an afterthought.

“Yes. Please hurry,” I murmured.

He just grunted at the belatedly voiced acquiescence. I raised and spread my legs and lowered my hands to grasp and spread my butt cheeks, as he leaned over me, taking my mouth in a kiss and, with his right hand, positioned his cock and entered, entered, entered me. His hands went to my throat and he controlled my breathing while he started to pump me deep.

He fucked the shit out of me. Not more than a couple of words had been spoken since we’d left the rest stop at the foot of the mountains. He had assumed I’d take him, although, almost begrudging, he done the legal of thing of asking me. And I gave him what he wanted. I gave him what he wanted in the car, and by deep-throating him, and then by opening my legs to him and taking his cock. I gave him everything he wanted. And then, after we’d rested, I gave him everything he wanted again. He was the star. Whatever he wanted, he got.

As he went off to the bathroom for a shower, he spoke for the first time since the rest stop.

“Fix us some coffee. I trust the studio included coffee in what they sent. Stay naked. I like to see a young man moving around nude.”

Luckily for Thorn, I knew how to make coffee if most everything else you could do in a kitchen was a mystery to me. Thorn showed me what else you could do in a kitchen. He padded out from the bedroom, still naked and in sheathed erection, while the coffee was still perking. He bent me over the kitchen island and covered and fucked me from behind.

Long after the coffee had perked, he pulled out of me, poured a cup, and took it to a table by the window, looking down into the valley. He immersed himself in his scripts. I went into the bedroom and on to the shower. He took breaks to fuck me throughout the afternoon—on the sofa in front of the fire . . . bent over the dining table. Each time his mind was still half on his script work until we were well into the heat of passion. Then he went into overdrive. And then I let him have whatever he wanted and danced on the clouds for him, laying there, gasping and open and vulnerable to him until he’d finished me and returned to his work.

He was not shy about what he wanted me to do for him, just positioning my body as he wanted it and taking his pleasure as and when he wanted it. He assumed I was there fully for his pleasure, and I proved that I was. He treated me like I was a rent-boy, with no mention of rent being paid, and I was totally submissive to him. I asked no questions about where this was going beyond today and he showed no indication there was anything beyond today. When he was inside me, stroking, I didn’t care.

“I’d better get back before the snow accumulates,” I said, as we stood at the picture window of the cabin and looked out over the spread of twinkling lights in the city below early that evening. It wasn’t snowing too hard, though.

“Let’s see what the studio provided for dinner before you go,” Thorn said. “No, stay naked.”

I rummaged around in the meals the studio had packaged and zapped a couple in the microwave, being too jumbled up mentally to even know what they are. Afterward we stood, with snifters of brandy, still naked, both of us erect again, and watched the snow begin to stick. This time we were looking out toward the road, the gravel still visible under the dusting of snow. The car just dusted as well.

“Call the studio and tell them you’re snowed in and will drive back down to the city in the morning. Don’t ask to speak to Brad Luck when you call.”

“The snow isn’t accumulating too much. I can make it down this evening,” I said.

“Call the studio,” he insisted.

He doggie fucked me on the bed, me on my knees, my tail raised, my chest plastered to the mattress, and Thorn saddled on me high, riding me hard with that monster cock of his, when we first went to bed. Later in the night, him on his back and me stretched out beside him, turned to him, I woke to him embracing me and kissing me. He nudged me in the direction he wanted me to go in, and I took the hint. I reversed myself on him and moved over him. Each of us took the cock of the other in our mouth. He entered me with a finger and finger fucked me as we sucked each other engorged.

Then I saddled myself on his cock and rode him in a cowboy. The snow had stopped falling. I could have left the cabin at any time and made it down into Los Angeles without trouble.

I remained in the cabin, fucking, fucking, fucking. I didn’t think of anything but the here and now.

When the left for the solitary drive down into L.A., leaving Thorn there to study his scripts, I lingered a bit, thinking he would say something about how much he’d enjoyed his time with me—how accommodating and satisfying I’d been. I’d given him everything he wanted, and he certainly didn’t complain about my looks or my body. But he was absorbed in his scripts and just waved me off with a distant smile.

I was one with the furniture.

* * * *

“Sorry I wasn’t here last night,” Scott said Saturday afternoon, when he came into the apartment. He was carrying an overnight bag. He hadn’t been there when I returned. I didn’t know what to tell him about not having been home the previous night myself. Now I didn’t have to tell him. “We were in the middle of a meeting and realized we had to fly down to Las Vegas to put a fire out. It turned out not to be much of a fire. I tried calling you on your cell to let you know I’d be gone last night, but you didn’t pick up.”

“Sorry, I was on the job and told to go cellphone silent,” I said.

He bought it. “I missed you. I was horny for it,” I said, to get the conversation into a path I knew would distract him every time. He was highly sexed. For that matter, we both were.

“We can take care of that right now,” he said.

He did. He covered and fucked me on the bed in a missionary, his knees pushed up under my buttocks, lifting my back up high, and my ankles hooked on his shoulders.

He did me well—as good as he had ever done me. And I don’t think he perceived the difference. But, alas, I did. All the time he was pumping me, I was thinking of Grant Thorn dominating me with that monster cock of his. I couldn’t help it. I wanted to think of Scott and me together, but the image of Thorn kept intruding. I participated in the fuck and came as readily and copiously as I ever did with Scott. But it just wasn’t the same. I didn’t know if it ever would be the same again.

He had opened his suitcase but hadn’t unpacked when he went off to the shower after fucking me. A slip of red-silky material caught my attention in the corner of the open case. I pulled it out. The bikini briefs weren’t Scott’s style and they were smalls. At least they were a men’s brand. Then I caught sight of the small section of a split condom packet. I put the briefs back. I couldn’t say I was surprised. Scott wasn’t as lonely last night as he’d claimed to be. No way I could bring that up, though. He couldn’t have been more astray than I was.

Served me right, I decided.

After I showered, I called the studio to find out when on Sunday I should pick up Thorn in Snow Valley for the return trip. I already was figuring out how much earlier I should be at the cabin for us to get in a couple of good fucks before we left. I felt less guilt about Scott now.

Brad Luck came onto the line. “Other arrangements have been made to pick Mr. Thorn up. And you’ve been moved over to another program. On Monday report to the set down at Malibu Beach. You’re working on the Mandy Spicer production now.”

“A changed assignment?” I asked, dumbly.

“Yes, Mr. Thorn called in this morning and asked for a different driver—and that you be transferred.” He didn’t explain. As far as Luck was concerned he didn’t have to explain. The looks he’d been giving me and Thorn before made complete sense now. He knew where this was heading. He’d been there before. He’d known what Grant Thorn would do—and then do thereafter. Grant Thorn was a one-and-done man. It was up to Brad Luck to do the cleanup now—to contain any fallout that Thorn’s prey might cause. I was just a loose end for the studio now, one who had to be handled to be kept quiet.

“It’s OK, Jacob,” he said when I wasn’t giving him anything back in response other than attempts to control my breath. “You’re not in trouble or anything. You’ll do fine on the Mandy Spicer production. It’s just the way it is here.”

At least he was showing concern about how I would react. I had some power in this circumstance.

I clicked off and looked at Scott, in just a robe, wolfing down a sandwich and smiling at me as he perched on a stool at the kitchen counter. I knew it was going to be what he called a “lazy Saturday”—that we’d spend it in bed, fucking.

I’d fall in with that, remembering how good it was back before I’d touched the sun and been scorched. Thorn’s world might be the way it was at the studio, but, because of my own weakness, the way it had been here, with Scott, was never going to be the same, not nearly as satisfying, as it had been before. I wouldn’t be like the last guy who flew to the sun with Grant Thorn and got scorched, though—and became a nuisance to the studio then. I was a true go-along-to-get-along submissive. I’d do everything I could to keep in the good graces of Brad Luck and the studio. But I’d be more careful about keeping Scott happy with me too.

I wondered how Brad Luck swung and what his sexual tastes were.

by Habu

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