by Zack
Mike stared out the expanse of departure lounge window in Heathrow’s East Terminal at the stand below and the British Airways jet splayed out like a fat, downed insect below. From up there, the plane looked small and fragile. He decided to ignore Alan with a knowing smile, which the sound recordist returned with a satisfied smirk.
They had been housed in a hotel across the road from the airport for the night prior to the flight to Rome. Mike had driven over from Swiss Cottage, with his father in the passenger seat to take the car back home. He loved driving their new bright-white Alfa Romeo Giulietta, and its license plate seemed particularly appropriate: HRN-762-Y spelled out “Horny” in his mind. After all, it’s how I always feel.
At the hotel, as he got his kit out from the trunk and Adrian Smith switched places to take the wheel, Mike warned him, “Now you drive Horny carefully, Dad!”
“Don’t I always?”
Mike smiled warmly, leaned in through the open window and kissed his father’s cheek.
“Be good, Mike, and… break a leg.”
“Dad, that’s only for actors!”
Adrian Smith smirked happily. “I wouldn’t let that lot yank your handle as easily. Cheery-bye!”
At his father’s outstretched hand, Mike turned from the car to see Alan walk out from the foyer to give him a hand with his suitcase. Mike gave a final wave and watched anxiously as Horny swept out into the Bath Road traffic. After signing off into the keeping of the freight forwarder all the equipment hired by the production from Samuelson’s, Alan, Billy the boom swinger, Johnny-Ray the assistant recordist, and Mike as their runner were free to relax in the bar. “Then we can look forward to a paid-for slap-up dinner in the hotel restaurant,” Alan said, rubbing his hands together. “Not that this is the finest establishment around the airport,” he added in a grumbling voice.
In any case, it wasn’t last night’s merry drinks or indifferent meal Mike remembered as he stared out at the scurrying ant-sized men around the aircraft which would soon fly them to Rome, it was Alan’s incredibly inventive and surprisingly long tongue.
Last evening, as the others grew more loquacious with drink and food, in whispered asides Alan made it plain to Mike that he expected to slip over to his room later and do to him the kinds of things he’d told Mike Trevor so enjoyed. Mike wasn’t at all sure he felt anything in that way for Alan, but there was a quality to the way he spoke, the timbre of his voice and the heavy suggestion laced in his delivery that brooked no refusal. Besides, the Big Punishment had an undesired effect, so far as James might be concerned: it had made Mike feel more rebellious, not less.
In any event, after a quick shower, Mike opened his door to the knock and let Alan in. Wrapped only in a damp towel he was completely at Alan’s fully dressed mercy, who established in five or six practiced actions what he required. In seconds, Mike was face down kneeling over the edge of his bed, ass humped up in the air, naked, and with Alan also on his knees and snuffling between Mike’s ass cheeks.
And then the tongue…
Oh, fuck, the tongue—
The airport announcer speaking over public address brought him back to the present from his heated reverie. “British Airways announces the departure of flight seven-five-nine for Rome, departing from gate twelve. All passengers on—”
“Here we go,” Alan said cheerfully, drowning out the indistinct Tannoy announcement. He hoisted a large carry-on bag over his shoulder with one hand and gathered Mike up in the other. “The adventure begins, at least for you, Greenhorn.”
Mike couldn’t help but recall the end of last night’s adventure. It turned out that Alan got all his jollies from “the doing,” and all Mike had to do was kneel there until the expert rimming, tongue stabbing, and chewing at his asshole brought him to the point of bursting. With his head strained up from the bed, neck muscles corded, knees trembling at the stress, and Alan’s hand reached around his waist jerking his cock relentlessly, Mike exploded all over the hotel’s bed linen.
It was certainly an experience he would not be sharing with James Rosen when he got to Rome, he thought with a smile as he struggled into his seat on the left side of the plane and nervously fastened the unfamiliar belt. Alan had insisted on swapping seats so the first-time flyer could sit beside the window. Mike was less sure of this benefit. He was also nervous of seeing Rosen again, for the first time in more than a month. And then he had something more to worry about: a distinct jolt shook the fuselage and Mike’s fixed world moved. The plane backed away from the terminal, and its turbo-fan engines whined into life.
The flight approached Fiumicino from the north, which gave Mike a view of dark sea and a strip of beach before the jet banked inland and straightened up for the final approach. Mike knew he was flying in a Trident from the terrifying Safety On Board card tucked into the seat-back in front of him. He could have happily done without the explicit graphics of what to do if the machine landed on water. Below passed a series of isolated houses, all white walls and red roofs, with larger conurbations farther into the haze. He wondered where Rome lay, though he knew from looking at a map that the coastal airport was some way from the eternal city. It looked hot out there in the afternoon sunshine, and the ground appeared baked.
In the terminal, which smelled strongly of foreign cigarette smoke, Alan took charge, and Mike was happy to follow his guardian footsteps through passport control to baggage claim and customs. For some reason, or maybe entirely at random, one of the customs officers in his military-style uniform waved Johnny-Ray to stop for a check. They all stood around as the man rummaged through Johnny-Ray’s clothes (roughly thrown together, Mike noted with some smug pride at his own neat packing). The officer once looked up and caught Mike’s eye. While still busying himself in the depths of the case, he gave the slightest lazy wink. Mike looked away quickly. Two years on the game had attuned his radar to high sensitivity and there was no mistaking the Italian’s look.
Damn it, why do I always get the attention? I’d feel sorry for someone else coming through here on their own and without my experience…
A perky American girl was waiting for them beside the counter for oversize baggage, holding a cardboard clapperboard as identification. She greeted Alan like an old friend.
“Sheila, my darlin’. How’s it hanging?”
“Better than yours, you old reprobate!”
She shook hands with the others and then with Mike. He thought he detected something in her regard, a slight hesitancy coupled with a quick examination. Her first words confirmed his suspicion that the production assistant knew everything about him and was wary… unless he was overreacting. “Hello. Mike Smith, isn’t it? I have a message for you from Mr. Rosen’s private assistant in the Glendale office. He had to go back to the States in a hurry for some reason. She doesn’t yet know when he’ll be able to get back.” Her American accent came out as brisk, warm but also cautious.
Mike caught the guarded expression on Alan’s face. Well, of course he did know pretty much everything.
“Er, right. Thanks.” He tried looking blank, as if the message wasn’t really for him, just everyone.
Sheila soon had the crew aboard a cranky minibus with the bulkier items of sound equipment they’d brought with them stuffed in the back. Mike was already pouring with sweat in the ferocious heat and decided he would be wearing his khaki shorts the second he could change. He was pleased to have had the foresight to go into town the other day to find something. Pleated so that they rode loosely on the upper thigh and neatly cuffed in the new fashion, they were cut tight across his butt and bulged happily out in front when he checked himself out in the store’s changing room mirror. He couldn’t wait to slip into them.
As they set off, Alan whispered in his ear. “Her job title might sound lowly but, like all production assistants, Sheila runs the outfit.”
Then I’d better use all my charms to get on her right side. Mike had no intention of pissing off someone as important as Sheila. To his disapp
ointment, their route toward the hotel booked for the production in the vicinity of the studios cut well to the south of the city, so ancient Rome went by the board.
“Welcome to your home away from home,” Sheila announced in the rich Californian tones Mike found irresistible. “I give you the Hotel Vittorio Emmanuele. It’s not too bad, all things considered, and there are daily buses to and from the studios—about a five-minute ride if we were birds, but fifteen with the traffic. You Brits are about the last to arrive, and Kennith has had a week’s rehearsal time with the principals, so we’re about ready to start shooting footage in earnest.” She glanced at Mike. “You know Kennith Mitchener?”
Mike nodded and wished they could get checked in, showered, and urgently changed into something lighter. “I know of him. I don’t know him personally.” And I do know he’s not going to be my John Schlesinger, sadly…
“Okay. Just a warning. He’s a bit tough on gofers, even those with connections. Know what I mean?”
Mike shuffled from one hot foot to the other and wished he could get his briefs unstuck from his crack, where they were wedged in by the plane seat and the minibus ride and the heat. Sheila’s words hit home. Connections, yeah.
Then she seemed to relent, and as the others went up the three steps and into the hotel lobby she closed on him. “Just do your job and you’ll be fine, Mike. Any problems, I mean any, come to me.”
“Hi, and who have we here?”
Mike looked up to see a strikingly handsome guy looking down at him from the top step. The frayed hems of his faded black denim cut-offs indicated a lack of couture sense, but they clung to solid-thewed thighs, and his tank top showed off every toned muscle edge. Definitely a narcissist, Mike decided with a burst of interest. The man wore a bright smile which radiated from teeth to glinting dark eyes under heavy brows and tousled dark hair. Mike felt his newly acquired rebel streak flare.
Sheila gave the man a dirty look, but she obviously liked him. “This is Mike Smith, runner with the Brit sound crew.” She glanced at Mike with a nod of the head at Mr. Sex on Legs. “Our focus puller, Mike, and puller of many. Hails from the City of Angels. The randy sumbitch goes by the name of Jeff and, you take my advice, you’ll steer well clear of him.”
“Here, let me.” Jeff grinned broadly at Sheila as he reached down a brawny arm and grabbed Mike’s suitcase.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A Right Shower
“Hi,” Mike managed weakly. Dark-haired, but what the hell? Sex appeal poured from the American like sweat from Mike’s face, and James Rosen wasn’t around to say a thing. The naked interest Jeff was showing in him made him feel like a kid wanting to turn and stick his tongue out of his rebellious mouth at James H. Rosen. Before he really knew it, the paperwork was done, passport taken “to be returned domani,” key handed over, and Jeff in Mike’s room up on the fifth floor to dump his suitcase down.
“I’m two rooms down the hall,” he said. “We have Harry the camera operator in between and a view of the forecourt. Molto romantico. Watch out for Harry. He comes across as a really nice fella, but turn your back and he’ll have a nice fresh Englishman like you for breakfast and not leave much over for lunch.”
Mike smiled uncertainly and gave his room a once-over. It was clear from the tone of voice and gut-busting shit-faced grin that Jeff was teasing… at least Mike thought so. A big space some eighteen feet by fifteen and with high ceilings—it felt almost square, dominated by a large and somewhat antique looking bed and two tall windows with railings guarding fake balconies. Heavy brocade curtains hung down either side of the windows, topped by scalloped pelmets in the same material. Thin rugs lined either side of the bed, sitting on mercifully cool ceramic tiles. Mike dumped his holdall on the bed and wiped sweat from his eyes. He looked longingly at the gray rump of what he prayed was an air conditioning unit. Jeff saw his look
“No air-conditioning, I’m afraid. Not unless you pay for it to be switched on, or you could bribe one of the concierges.”
“Oh, right. How much does it cost?”
Jeff tapped the side of his nose. “There are ways and means, which I’ll tell you about, but meantime slip the guy at reception a hundred lire and he’ll send up l’ingegnere to put in the missing part that makes it work. I guess you’re from London?” Jeff said in a careful drawl.
Mike smiled. “You ask that of everyone from England you meet?”
“Isn’t it the place?” Jeff raised the hem of the tank top and absently scratched just under his diaphragm to reveal a hard, flat stomach, covered with a light down of dark hair which coalesced in a vertical trail leading to the low-slung waistband of his cut-offs. The action disconcerted Mike.
“There are more places in England than London, but yes, I’m from there. And you’re from Los Angeles?”
Jeff raised his stroking hand up under his armpit to clasp the bulging side of his left pectoral. “I was born and raised in Boise, Idaho, but nowadays, yeah, Los Angeles. It’s where most of the work is but, man, it’s nice to get somewhere exotic like Rome.”
“Uh-huh…”
“Exotic but hopeless as well. I mean, I’ve been waiting two days for il riparatore to come fix my shower. Domani, domani, the guy in reception keeps saying. I guess I’d better check yours out.”
Mike’s mouth dropped open. Jeff walked into the bathroom and Mike heard a screech followed by a knocking noise and then a gush of water. “It works,” Jeff announced with cheerful amazement. “And it’s getting lukewarm. Vunderbar.” He came back into the room unbuttoning his shirt. “You don’t mind?”
Mike closed his mouth and shook his head helplessly. This was moving fast, and he wasn’t even certain that a seduction was under way. Kind of hoped it was. He didn’t even have to watch covertly as Jeff bared his chest. The focus puller seemed sublimely uncaring of Mike’s presence and eyes on him as he tugged at his fly and unpopped the buttons in one go. Mike tried to avert his gaze, but couldn’t. Jeff was going commando—a phrase he’d read in HIS Exclusive for the first time only a few days ago. A brief glimpse: a huge cock, cut and halfway hard, swung away as Jeff turned and strode back to the bathroom. The sound of water increased.
Mike pulled off his sticky shirt, which is when he thought he heard Jeff say something through the part-open door. “Sorry?”
“I said there’s no soap in the shower. Could you grab a bar off the wash stand and hand it in to me?”
Mike swallowed. He had the distinct sense Jeff was replaying a well-worn scenario. “Um, yes, sure.”
Jeff had looked good standing there suddenly naked. Mike wanted to see more. He went into the bathroom, looked around, and found some soap on the side of the basin. He unwrapped it and dropped the waxed tissue in the small pedal-trash can. The shower stall door stood ajar. He slid it further open, held out the soap, and felt blissfully cool spray wet his arm. Jeff faced away from him and Mike saw an acre of rippling muscles channel water down his broad back. Through the spray he could see the way Jeff’s spine ran as a straight line down into the dark cleft between his ass cheeks. Then Jeff swiveled the upper half of his torso and water splashed from the shower all over Mike.
“Shit! Sorry. Did I get you wet?”
“A bit, yeah,” Mike said, flicking soaked hair out of his eyes.
“Well you were going to have a shower anyway, weren’t you?” Jeff replied easily, still facing away. “Why don’t you come on in and bring the soap with you? There’s plenty of room.”
Well, smoothly done, I have to say… In a foreign land ten minutes and already sex is being thrown in my face.
Mike grinned inwardly and wasted no more time in unzipping and shucking out of sneakers, sweat-drenched jeans, and underwear. Even before Jeff could throw out the next line Mike was ready, so when he said, “Got the soap?” and reached out blindly behind him, his questing hand bumped into semi-erect cock. Mike dropped the soap into his hand. “Thanks.” Jeff turned around slowly, beginning to soap himself, a broad grin str
etched across his wet, handsome face.
Mike returned the shit-faced grin for a split-second before switching to innocence. Two can play this game, Mr. Yankee-Doodle-Dandy.
Jeff continued to lather himself. Mike watched, wanting to touch but purposefully holding back. He didn’t want this guy to think him so easy a lay. Any residual niggling thoughts of what kind of a mistake this might be, contemplating sex with a crewman of a James Rosen picture, he shoved forcibly from his mind. Jeff lathered his chest and stomach and then down to his thighs, bending slightly to do so. Mike stood helplessly by. The pulse of the water was getting to him. Jeff reached between his legs and soaped himself. Mike watched the swing of big, hairy balls swaying from side to side between the trunks of Jeff’s legs.
“Hey, buddy, can you do my back? I can’t reach so well.” Jeff held out the soap.
Blinking under the shower’s spray, Mike took the proffered bar and commenced working up a good head of froth on Jeff’s broad back. Close up it looked so wide and long he felt like a jet-fighter could land on it.
So much of it, too… all the way from the neck down to his—
“Ah, that’s good,” Jeff muttered encouragingly. “Don’t stop,” he added as Mike paused because of water getting in his eyes and spoiling the view down Jeff’s spine to where it curved gently into the crack of his ass where the naval aircraft-carrier analogy disappeared between the powerful swell of the man’s glutes. Mike continued, leaned closer and closer to Jeff’s hard, knotted body, lost in rising excitement but slightly bent to avoid bumping his erection against that beautiful ass. He almost didn’t notice when one of Jeff’s hands stroked absently along the flank of his thigh. After a minute Jeff said, “Okay, turn around and I’ll do you.”
Jeff started soaping his back, working the lather harder and harder into Mike’s skin. Lost in a daze of pleasure, Mike turned his head up rapturously into the spray. Soapy hands stroked lower until the lightest brush of slippery fingers against taut skin made Mike start. He turned his head until they were looking into each other’s eyes.
