Boy of the Westend

by Zack

  At the disturbance, all eyes turned up, and then it came again. Henry “Thunderlegs” Chambers was on the top floor lecture room doing his famous How I Got the Elephants to Stampede demonstration for a new intake of students. Mike caught Tom’s eye and grinned as the other rolled his eyeballs heavenward. Henry was inordinately proud of his stampede in the 1954 Elephant Walk, a Paramount flick starring Elizabeth Taylor ( Who replaced an ill Vivien Leigh, don’t you know ), Dana Andrews, and Peter Finch as the haughty plantation owner. Oh, they knew it all. Unfortunately the film school’s studio facility was not only small, its wooden ceiling was the floor of the general student gathering room above, which made shooting sound film a fraught business, particularly when Henry was thundering through the Ceylonese jungle…

  Tom waved at Chambi. The Bolivian nipped up onto his dolly seat and dipped his head to the camera’s side viewfinder. Jill took post on the other side to pull focus, while the two other crew members, a Canadian guy called Don (acting as film editor) and Bob (lighting cameraman) shared the task of pushing the dolly along the short wooden track to move into a close-up on the actors. Down on the floor out of lens view, Mike pointed a big Sennheiser directional gun-microphone up at Jason and Fiona, students from the Central School of Drama. The cramp he kept easing in his left foot was worth it for his interesting position. He was well into the exceptionally good looking, almost ethereally beautiful Jason, and from the floor he had a just below-crotch-height view of the young actor’s substantially bunched front. It was hard to concentrate on his audio meter when that lovely parcel flexed and prowled enticingly only two feet away as the two actors did a quick rehearsal.

  “Okay, let’s go again,” Tom said quietly. “From the top, guys. Lights up, please. Roll sound and camera…”

  “Speed!” Mike said.

  “Speed,” Chambi’s accented voice echoed.

  “Mark it!”

  Don stepped in front of the camera lens with the slate. “Rebels of Catalonia, scene twenty-three, take four—” He slapped the clapper down on the board and stepped smartly back to his dolly position.

  “Action!”

  “Charmian… please, let me explain.”

  God, even his voice is sexy… concentrate, Smith!

  While Jason had the faint Spanish accent his part required off pat, normally posh-sounding Fiona tended to pile her German on a bit thickly.

  “Choseff, I haff giffen you efery chance, und yet efery time you…”

  “But Charmian, my love— Oh shit!”

  It seemed the pachyderm horde had broken loose again.

  “Cut, fuckin cut, cut!”

  As a faint echo of Tom’s anguish, a trickle of dust fell like a small jungle waterfall from crisscross struts between joists which held up the embattled floor above. Jason pulled away from Fiona and treated Mike to a full-on vision of a coiled dick-and-balls bump in his Berman & Nathan-hired velveteen tights. The terrible thing was Jason’s affability, an easy charm he practiced on everyone without favor. He could so easily be gay that it was driving Mike around the bend with unrequited lust, and then again he was probably as straight as a die. It even made him envious of Jill doubling as make-up. Damn it!

  Which is why he was feeling as horny as a rebellious Catalonian fighting bull as he crossed Seven Dials and headed for Soho. Worked up enough that he wouldn’t even mind a session with James, and that was saying something these days. And it had been days, weeks, even. James was away, somewhere in the States doing whatever producing things he did, which was a relief in many ways. Left to his own devices for a bit—with the dire warning ringing in his mind “to behave and not screw around… not with anyone”—Mike could concentrate on being a student. The film school had an arrangement with Rex Sound Facilities on Dean Street for making sound transfers from tape to magnetic film ready for the editing process. Mike had visited only once before with the first reel of tape and wasn’t looking forward to a second encounter with the crabby older guy who worked in the sound transfer bay. Overweight, he had a fashionable hair cut that didn’t suit him and a snide attitude which did. He’d made it clear he didn’t approve of film students, nor of doing the work for a greatly reduced price. Not that what Rex charged the film school was any of the man’s business. After all, Mike reckoned, the grump got whatever Rex paid him whoever he did the work for.

  Mike ignored the small elevator and took the echoing stone stairs two at a time, up two floors, and pushed the Rex door open. Facing him, two tall windows overlooked the well between this and the next building. A waist-high reception desk occupied half the depth between the door and the windowed wall. Beyond the desk, facing the windows, a row of 16mm and 35mm sound recording units for magnetic film covered the wall to his right. But no Mr. Cantankerous. Instead a lad Mike’s age looked up from filling in forms, and his two intensely green orbs focused on Mike from under a page-boy fringe of fair hair. He certainly hadn’t been around last time. Mike wondered which eye to look into: they were widely spaced, which gave the boy a fey appearance Mike instantly found attractive, or was that the image of Jason’s package thrust out just above his mental eyeline fucking with his mind?

  He cleared his throat and looked away from the disconcertingly calm appraisal. “I, er…” Mike dropped the reel of BASF tape on the counter and rummaged in his jacket pocket for the paperwork. Looking up again, he concentrated on the peachy cheeks which framed a slightly upturned nose rather than engage those weirdly cat-like green eyes again. “It’s for the London Film School.” His voice rose into a question at the end. Perhaps this lad didn’t know anything about the deal.

  The slightest curl of what might have been a smile creased the left of the boy’s mouth and pulled into a neat dimple Mike instantly wished he could stroke. Without looking down, he reached for the filled-out transfer sheet and lifted it so he could read the detail without really dropping his gaze from Mike. He nodded once. “Rebels of Catalonia…”

  It speaks!

  “What kind a film is it?”

  The faintest presence of a lisp only made the quiet London voice the more entrancing. Mike lifted his eyes straight back into the jade gaze and realized his questioner hadn’t even blinked yet. And then he did, slowly, just before letting his irises rove like searchlights down Mike’s front until they rested on his button fly. Mike felt the scrutiny as a physical pressure, and his cock stirred. “Oh, it’s something about the Spanish civil war. It’s not my film, my script.” He shrugged and instinctively stepped closer to the counter, which hid him from the belt down.

  “Mike Smith. That your signature?”

  Mike nodded.

  “Thirty-five millimeter, twenty-four frames per sec. I’m Trevor.”

  Mike coughed nervously. What was wrong with him? Dilly stud, kept boy, man about town, devastated by the glare of this strange boy. Trevor.

  “You can call me Trev. Most do, whether I like it or not.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Like it?” Trevor shrugged and rolled his expressive eyes. “I don’t mind.”

  Mike relaxed, leaned back, thrust his hands down his jeans’ back pockets, and gave a couple of heel bounces, a hopeless attempt to get back in control. He wanted to dive into those green oculi, swim in the depth of Trevor’s eyes. Instead, he nodded at the room. “Where’s the other guy?”

  “The Other Guy, Mike Smith, is on his traditional extended lunch break.”

  Mike freed his left hand and glanced at his watch. “It’s not even twelve.”

  “Quite.”

  “How long will that take, to transfer I mean?”

  “Depends how much is on the tape.”

  “’Bout fifteen minutes.”

  Trevor fixed him with another unblinking stare, but with more lip curl at both ends of his mouth and now two little delectable commas on either side. “One minute to set up, fifteen to transfer… about. Two minutes to cut the film and rewind it and the tape.”

  “Eighteen minutes, then?”

 
“About. Did maths at school, huh?”

  “Ha ha. Can you do it now, or will I have to come back?”

  The tip of Trevor’s tongue slipped between his parted lips and he stroked it left, right, left again, his eyes never leaving Mike’s. Then he turned, tape in hand, and stepped over to a narrow bench in front of the big upright reel-to-reel machines where a Nagra waited. He threaded the reel of tape around the heads of the tape machine, then switched two leads around on the large patchfield to the side of the 35mm film recorder.

  “Click. There we go. Eighteen minutes.”

  A couple of bleeps from the Nagra signaled a synch-lock with the film recorder as its large wire spools began to revolve.

  “Is it always this quiet?” Mike strolled to the end of the counter and came around to lean against its end, facing into the main space of the bay.

  Trevor gave another slight shrug. “Varies. Around lunchtime, it’s usually quiet. My boss has gone over to Elstree Studios to negotiate some deal or something. So, what shall we talk about?’

  The abrupt change of subject and the bald question took Mike aback almost as much as Trevor crossing the room and leaning his firm butt against the counter, too close to Mike for comfort. There was more than his eyes to Trevor’s feline vibe, like how cats sense when someone’s nervous of them. Mike loved dogs but distrusted cats. He disliked the way they always ignored anyone who enjoyed petting them, to come instead and torment him by brushing their bodies and tails against his legs. The lightest touch of Trevor’s arm on his fired a static discharge through him. He just knew Trevor relished how agitated he was making him. What to say?

  “Is your boss called Rex, then? First name, or Mr. Rex?”

  Trevor raised a hand and rubbed the upturned tip of his nose with the back of his fingers, for the world like a cat grooming itself. “Actually, his name is King—”

  “It’s a Latin joke, then.”

  “Is it? You must have gone to a posh school.”

  Mike decided not to answer that one, and flanneled around for something else to say. “Were you at the film school or something?”

  Trevor slowly swiveled his head so the green searchlights lit on Mike’s cheek in close proximity. In the background, the tape transfer machine whirred quietly to itself. “No. Nepotism. Mr. King-Rex is an older cousin.” Trevor narrowed his eyes a fraction. “Do I make you nervous?”

  Again, out of the blue. Mike swallowed uncomfortably “Er… no,” he lied. “Why?”

  “You seem a bit… skittish.”

  Mike froze as Trevor lowered his hand to the front of Mike’s jeans.

  “You got a bit of lint caught there.”

  The fingers stroked Mike’s thigh dangerously close to the fly and where his dick was fighting a state of repose. Trevor’s move was blatant. Mike felt the scrape of nails across the warp of the coarse fabric, and realized with a start that he wasn’t any longer used to dealing with guys his own age. Most of the johns who picked him up off the Dilly had been over thirty, the piano bar clientele were almost all in their fifties or more, and James was in his early forties, Mike guessed. It must be that, this shaky feeling Trevor’s touch induced, just not used to being seduced by a kid. He was being lured, was he not? And Trevor wasn’t in any hurry to move his damned hand from “lint collecting.”

  In a sudden antsy movement, Mike did a quarter turn against the counter, which had the opposite effect of what he intended by running his bunched up cock right under Trevor’s probing fingers. And their eyes clashed. Mike saw twin viridian reflections of his startled expression. Trevor’s odalisque smile widened. He leaned closer, bent his head until the tips of their noses touched. Mike responded to the light brush of Trevor’s other hand snaking around over his shoulders and burying fingers in the short hair at the nape of his neck. He leaned in too and pressed dry lips to Trevor’s. The lint collecting fingers spread, then closed and gripped his rapidly stiffening dick. Mike forced his free hand down between them and grasped Trevor’s cock, which twitched into a good length of hardness between Mike’s thumb and forefinger.

  In moments they turned up the heat and their kissing became frantic—tongues pushed, gave way, attacked again and yielded as they jerked each other through Mike’s blue jeans and Trevor’s light fawn-colored cords. Trevor seemed frantic to get inside. Mike felt the zipper give and then Trevor burrowed in, found the fly in his briefs, and pulled his cock out. He forced Mike’s head around so he could attack his left ear lobe to nibble it between sharp teeth and lick at the small stud there as he began jacking Mike hard and urgently. He released his hold on Mike’s neck to bring both hands into play and jacked with the right while he explored under the rigid shaft to rub at Mike’s balls with the fingers of his left hand. Mike felt more than heard Trevor’s voice husk in his ear. “Far out! Huge balls. I bet you come a ton-load.”

  And then the boy fell to his knees and without hesitation took Mike’s considerable length and girth between his lips. The speed at which this happened dazed Mike and the expert mouth-wank he was getting from Trevor predicated a quick conclusion to an unexpected session. Trevor worked up and down in rapid sucks, purring softly with each stroke. As Mike’s balls began to fizz, Trevor gripped the base of his cock to press down on them and then clamped his lips around the root of the shaft. Mike erupted, all the recent frustration of hopeless proximity to the glorious Jason let loose in a fountain of release. He fed Trevor, who gulped and swallowed. Mike could hardly believe this was happening… so quick, such a surprise… so fucking wonderful.

  Mike fell back against the counter again, ruffling both hands through Trevor’s thick mat of hair, rubbing the boy’s head, and then reaching down a little to tuck hands under his chin and haul him up. “Shee-it,” he managed to gasp out. “That was the best cum I’ve had in a long while.”

  Trevor smiled as he wiped fingers across his glistening mouth, tucked the finger which collected the last of Mike’s spunk between his lips and then licked them in appreciation. “I get the sense you needed that.”

  A deep shuddery breath and a wry nod of the head answered the question. “What about you?”

  “That stupid cunt Hugh will be back any moment. The ‘Other Guy’,” he elaborated.

  “Oh.”

  “Never mind. You can make it up to me later.”

  “Like, when?”

  “I get off at five-thirty. How about we meet at the Nellie Dean a bit after and take it from there. Do you have a place we can go?”

  The question made Mike feel immediately inadequate. “Um, not really. I’m living at home.” I wish I still had the Boltons studio…

  Trevor zipped Mike up. “That’s cool. I’ve a squat nearby. We can go there and have a proper session… if you want?”

  It was the first time Mike saw his strange new companion look uncertain. He kissed him quickly on the lips. “You bet. Be about six for me.” He turned to go and reached the customer side of the counter as the door opened to admit Hugh the Grump. The man shuffled in and glanced at Mike as though encountering an intruder.

  “Hey, haven’t you forgotten something?”

  Mike turned to see Trevor cutting a length of magnetic film off the take-up spool of the transfer machine. He felt his cheeks burn. “Ah. Yes, Thanks.” The Other Guy stumped across the room and disappeared without a word through a door connecting to an office at the other end of the transfer bay.

  Trevor deftly split the wire spool, freed the plastic core, and dropped the roll of film into a hundred-foot can. He slapped the lid on and ran white tape around to seal it. Mike leaned on the counter top as Trevor came to the other side to hand over the can and the reel of BASF tape. A swift glance back over his shoulder at the partly open office door and then back. He reached up across the counter on tiptoe, pecked Mike’s lips, and gave the ear stud a quick fondle.

  “All part of Rex customer service.”

  Mike snorted, but as he skipped down the stairs to Dean Street, all he could see was the last Cheshire
Cat smile that wreathed Trevor’s face, at once both calm and mobile. My transfer bay boy—the cat who got the cream…

  Which is why he didn’t see the man until they’d run into each other in the doorway. The can with the magnetic film clattered to the marble entryway floor.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Mike stammered as he bent down to retrieve the transfer, aware that Tom Pincheon wanted to start cutting the rushes in the later afternoon and damaged mag film would not go down well. He straightened up to see his assailant grinning at him.

  “Shouldn’t bang that stuff about too hard. Don’t they ever tell you at that film school of yours that you can shock the audio off it if you bang it about?”

  Mike stared back with a blank expression. He thought the guy was acting very familiar, though he couldn’t place him. His features were ordinary to the point of plainness and his stature—stocky and short—suggested someone who didn’t look after his physique over much.

  “Cat got your tongue, sunshine?”

  The phrase resonated. Mike almost burst out laughing. “Sorry, I was thinking of something else. I have to get this back to the film school.”

  “From Rex?”

  “Er, yes.”

  “I know you. You’re…” The man hunted his memory. “Rosen’s young friend.”

  Mike stiffened at the slight emphasis.

  “Hi. I’m Alan. Sound recordist? I’m working on some promotion thing for Rosen, may blessings rain down on him. He had a photo of you.”

  “Oh.” The words threw Mike even further off balance.

  “Yeah, it was in a pile of stuff on his desk down at the Pall Mall office. Said he was putting you through school. Mike, isn’t it?”