by Zack
“Er, I was next door to pick up some material for Pinewood, but they’re not finished yet. Not until after lunch…” He trailed off and shuffled awkwardly in the doorway. He saw there was someone else in the room, over at the far desk, a rather overweight man with fashionably cut hair that didn’t suit him. He glanced round idly.
“Come on in for a moment,” Trevor offered.
The other guy stretched hugely. “That the time?” He got to his feet laboriously. “I’m off for me lunch.”
“Kay. See you,” Trevor said evenly.
Gil walked around the long desk and stood aside for the other man to get past him. Then they were alone.
Trevor glanced up from the paperwork he was filling out and waved the pen in the direction of the door. “You want to lock it.” Not a request, a command. Again Gil felt the draining of his will power in the presence of this strange boy.
He paced over and pushed the door shut, bent and twisted the brushed-metal locking handle. Snick. The decisiveness of the action seemed like a release from the mesmerizing effect Trevor had on Gil. He straightened up, strode the length of the desk and came up behind the boy. He encircled his waist and pushed his hands down on the firm shelf of cock and balls bunched between Trevor’s legs on the chair.
Trevor dropped his pen and sat back, pressing the top of his head on Gil’s rib cage. “Hi,” he murmured through parted lips, those green eyes looking up through a fringe of light brown hair. “I was wondering if I’d see you again.”
Gil grinned wickedly. “Huh, sure. I’ve come to get that fuck.”
“Well you’re early enough.” Trevor began to stand and Gil helped, lifting him by the bulge in his pants. He thrilled to the feel of swelling flesh there. Trevor slipped his hands behind him and pressed against Gil where he too was getting hard with arousal.
Trevor purred and squeezed harder. “I want to undress you. I never saw that much of you last time.”
He took hold of Gil’s stiffening cock and led him by it across the transfer suite to the back office.
“Stand there,” Trevor commanded as he sat on the edge of the sofa, reaching up to undo Gil’s shirt buttons, pulling the hem from his jeans.
“It’s my turn to be in charge, buddy,” Gil ground out as Trevor reached up to tweak his nipples through the cotton of his singlet.
“Just wait,” Trevor muttered. He slid the shirt down over Gil’s arms, and rucked up the undershirt. Gil felt sharp nails ( claws? ) rake tantalizingly over his abdomen and lower chest. Trevor raised the T-shirt up until Gil pulled it over his head. The boy leaned forward and buried his face against the front of Gil’s jeans, nuzzling at the hard cock shape beneath the creased denim.
Gil let his arms dangle at his sides, as he swayed gently back from the hips, mouth parted, head thrown back, losing himself in the sensation of Trevor’s sharp teeth biting at him. Trevor began undoing the fly buttons. He took his time. Gil saw in his concentration how he drew out the pleasure of discovery under his slowly exploring fingers.
He reached down and unlaced Gil’s sneakers, and pulled them off before lowering the denim. Gil stepped out, naked now but for his boxers. Trevor quickly returned his mouth to work on the tented shape, his spit wetting the cotton. He slid his hands up under the shorts’ legs on the outside of Gil’s taut thighs to hook fingers out over the waistband. Then slowly, he drew the shorts down. The fabric caught up Gil’s stiff tent pole at the front and dragged it down, until it sprang free and straight into Trevor’s waiting mouth.
After a minute, he leaned back, holding onto Gil’s thighs and with a heavy-lidded gaze scanned him from feet to head. His voice came out as a lazy hum. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a gorgeous American hunk?”
Gil made no response, but he pulled Trevor to his feet and began stripping him, all the while maintaining eye contact. Trevor hardly ever seemed to blink. As he slipped the boy out of his briefs he whispered. “My turn now. You do as you’re told.”
Trevor’s odalisque smile broadened a mite. Gil turned him to face the sofa, knees pressed against the low seat.
“Lift your left leg up high on the arm of the sofa,” Gil commanded. He helped him into position, while ducking around to sit down so he trapped Trevor’s supporting leg against the sofa back with his knee. Now Gil had easy access to his beautiful balls and cock, and the erotic place behind them, with a seam running up into the crack.
Gil leaned his head sideways, lowered himself until he could suck and lick up there. Trevor gave a low, appreciative moan as Gil probed with his tongue farther back, then forward again to suck the balls. After a minute of this simple pleasure, he maneuvered Trevor back to his knees on the sofa, and forced him forward to rest his elbows on the armrest, which made his butt stick out, all lovely and vulnerable.
Gil knelt behind him, pressed his cheek against the downy ass cheeks, licked first one globe then the other, slowly working in toward the hot spot. He nuzzled up into the fleshy cleft and began to eat the boy’s ass. Trevor swayed back and forth with the ecstatic cadence. When he had lubricated the pucker with his saliva, Gil pointed his tongue and pressed against the button. For a second there was resistance, and he strained harder until finally the tip pressed home and slid up inside Trevor’s hole.
“Ohh, that feels good.” A quiet sigh.
“This’ll feel even better.” Gil lifted himself up and greased his cock head from the froth of his own saliva beading Trevor’s asshole. He shifted forward and eased himself up against the boy. Trevor pushed slightly back and buried his head in his arms as Gil pressed his slippery cock against the yielding orifice and then pushed in.
Trevor gave vent to a long shuddering moan as all of Gil’s eight inches tunneled in and pressed up against his prostate. Gil shared the electric thrills that ran in waves up and down Trevor’s body. He held on to Trevor’s hips just where leg bone joins pelvis and upper leg muscle rounds into ass cheek, and began to fuck, slowly at first, then faster and harder. Trevor released a muffled grunt with each thrust.
Gil freed one hand to reach between the boy’s legs to grasp his bouncing cock and started jerking it. He lost count of time as he fucked and fucked, aware of just how badly he wanted to lose himself deep inside this hot property.
Even a fleeting thought of Mike didn’t dampen his ardor. After all, didn’t Mike screw around when he felt like it? This was no different, and it wouldn’t come between them anyway. In fact, thinking of his lover drove him into the zone—the feeling was melting him. “I’m gonna cum, can’t hold it longer…”
Suddenly, Trevor bucked up off the sofa’s arm, and the straightening movement cantilevered Gil’s humping cock with exquisite pain and the first spurt came. “Ohhh yeah… mmmm… yeah…”
“Fill me, you hunk,” Trevor gasped.
And Gil did; jizz followed jerk until the effort drained him.
“For god’s sake, turn me over and take me, take me…”
Trevor squirmed around to fall on his back with Gil kneeling between his legs. Gil almost collapsed onto the enervated form beneath him, but Trevor’s cock was far from limp, drizzling pre-cum and ready to shoot. Gil dropped his lips to close over the fat oozing cock head just as Trevor gave a loud gasp and came. Gil forced himself all the way down, the better to take every drop of jism as it pulsed like a tropical mountain spring into his throat, while he reached down to jerk himself.
He was so wound up that his cock responded and he felt a second orgasm boiling in his distended balls.
He licked up the last dribble of Trevor’s cum, then thrust the boy’s knees up and out so he could kneel between them, while pushing the boy’s flopped head back up onto the armrest. With a quick last shuffle he rammed his urgent cock into Trevor’s gooey ass again.
“I can’t believe it… but I just gotta… again…”
“Ho, that’s good. I… I’m shooting again…”
Trevor gasped in pleasure as the stream of cum filled him. He clenched, relaxed, and clenched his ass muscles again and again to suck every spurt of Gil’s second explosion.
Spent and panting from the exertion, Gil sank down beside Trevor. They both looked up blankly at the tiled ceiling, their bodies glued with mutual sweat.
“That was pretty fantastic,” Trevor said finally.
“Mmmm, here too.” Gil felt a bit evil. “I wonder what whatsisname—your boyfriend—would say about your lunchtime trade?”
Trevor turned his head slowly so that their noses were inches apart. “I love those gray eyes of yours. It’s a rare color, you know.” His slight lisp added extra sexiness to the words.
Gil smiled. “Yours are damned unusual as well. And don’t change the subject.”
Trevor chuckled and cleared his throat. “Actually, you’re the first—well, if I’m honest, only the second. And certainly my first American boy ever.”
“Really? You seem so… er, accomplished.”
“Thanks,” Trevor responded simply. He got up suddenly and began to dress. “You are very good, you know. Look, no mess again.”
It was Gil’s turn to chuckle. “All part of the service, and now hadn’t you better have your sandwich? What is it?”
“Ham. Do want a half?”
“Oh, no thanks. Wouldn’t want to spoil the taste of one piece of meat for a mere ham sandwich.”
The night time scene in Leicester Square was extraordinary, even for a public space used to glittering movie premieres. A massive line of club-goers, three to four deep, ran back from the edge of the Odeon theater along the edge of the square, around the corner into Bear Street, and then doubled back into lower Charing Cross Road.
Anyone thinking the crowd might be awaiting the arrival of stars for a premiere would be surprised at the preponderance of men in the line. In fact, two policewomen represented the only female presence, part of the six-strong force to ensure good order and prevent any entrances being blocked.
Bit by bit, the small doorway next to the movie theater swallowed the front of the human snake and the next rank shuffled forward. Most carried sports bags or backpacks. A few sported full Roman togas or military regalia.
Inside the entrance hallway chaos reigned. Extra bodies were taking money and handing out tickets. Beyond, the crush of men waited to get through the double doors set beside the main club entrance into the locker room, which ran the length of the bar area below. Everywhere guys were stripping off their street clothes to reveal gaudily bright sport shorts, loincloths, crotch-high tunics, slips, denim cut-offs, leather briefs, and every manner of skimpy underwear.
Rod was shoulder-holding the Arriflex, his face hidden from Gil behind the 400-foot magazine. Mike, with a Nagra tape recorder hanging on its strap from his shoulder, wielded a long Sennheiser directional microphone out in front. Rod kept dodging into the incoming crowd, getting atmosphere shots. Gil attempted to watch the cameraman’s back and help guide him when he lost himself in the viewfinder.
A commotion behind Gil caused him to turn. The club doors banged open in the face of guys waiting their turns to descend to the club’s bowels and out strutted a figure garbed in a scarlet tunic overlaid with the armor of a Roman centurion, complete with plumed helmet, chinstraps, and leg greaves. He waved a short sword imperiously and snarled at the bemused queens.
The happy screams of mock fear swelled even louder as five legionaries marched out behind the centurion. With a clatter of swords against shields, they fanned out around their commander and began thwacking naked thighs and proffered asses with their javelins. Rod swung the camera to take in the scene.
“Ow! That really hurt!” one little clone complained. “Hit me on the bum, he did.”
Amid a combination of jeers, cheers, and laughter, the legionary crew snapped to attention, smartly wheeled about, and disappeared back through the doors with the centurion shouting out. “Make way! Get your arrrses on the move. C’mon, move it sluts!”
With enough in the can from the entryway, Rod suggested they go back down to get some shots of the dance floor, which was beginning to fill up as more patrons made their way in. At the foot of the stairs, a line of Roman columns with dark red drapes strung between them hid the black brick wall, only giving way as they reached the bar area.
Through the gloom at the far end of the dance floor an amazing sight met their eyes. A massive Roman temple rose from the stage. Rod had already shot several feet of film around it before the crowds began coming in. Its immense towering bulk impressed Gil. The back wall, which rose some fifteen feet above the stage, was built from sealed-up empty television packaging boxes, arranged in alternately offset rows. In front stood four columns made from drums of tightly rolled corrugated cardboard. These supported a towering triangular pediment, also made from television boxes, with the side ones cut back to form the angled edges. The pediment overhung the columns and stretched back to the rear cardboard wall. The whole had been painted a stone gray, the pediment also decorated in lighter and darker tones with faux-sculpture.
Under the house lights, it had looked every bit what it was, a fake—but now in the disco lighting it was startlingly solid and realistic in appearance. Gil knew from talking to one of the Paradise guys that the boxes had been filled with fuller’s earth, a fine inert dust used in movies to create atmosphere. Its purpose wouldn’t be revealed until the climax of the theme night.
A few “slave boys” in nearly nonexistent tunics were stationed at the foot of the columns nearest the side door to the washroom corridor. Their primary purpose—other than to look pretty—was to prevent anyone from thinking they could safely lean against the columns. Quite a few guys attempted to lean on the slaves, only to be swatted off by a legionary’s spear.
Within the space of an hour it had become almost impossible to get from one side of the club to the other. Rod shouted to Gil to help him take off the magazine. “This one’s run through, mate. Time to get it reloaded.”
“Good luck!” Mike shouted in his ear, indicating the packed bodies. Gil nodded and took the magazine from Rod. He began to shove his way through the dancing throng toward the management offices, one of which they had commandeered earlier to act as a production base.
After what seemed like an age but probably about three minutes in reality, Gil managed to push through the last of the beer-swilling wallflowers and through the door marked NO UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY. Beyond the swing doors, the long hallway that ran behind the dance floor could hardly be called quiet, but after the raucous din in the club it felt almost silent. The thick walls cut the mid and treble sounds of the music, leaving the physical thud of the bass beat to shake the air.
Gil passed the narrow stairway leading up to the massive DJ booth above, and the light and mechanical control center. He knew the manager Damien Foot had his office up there, next to the DJs, in a thickly glassed-in aerie that looked down on the dancers below. He slipped into the office designated for the purpose and sat down at a table, pulling the large change bag into shape.
He opened a drawer under the table and took out a new 400-foot can of film and removed the tape sealing the lid. Then he unzipped the back of the large bag to reveal a second zipper, which he pulled back. Next he placed the new can of film inside, followed by the magazine. Once the two zippers were closed again the square bag, made of several layers of heavy-duty cloth, was lightproof.
From the bag’s nearest edge, two long sleeves jutted out from the corners, with several elastic bands sewn along their length to cinch in against his arms and prevent any light seeping in.
Gil took a deep a breath, concentrated his mind on the task ahead, and then slid his hands into the sleeves, a process that took a considerable amount of wriggling and pulling one sleeve over to the other to grip through the material, until finally the tops were up to his shoulders and his hands were in the bag’s depths. Order of events, he thought.
Because the complex operation necessitated opening the sealed magazine to exchange the film that had been exposed in the camera for a fresh unexposed roll, Gil had to use the specially constructed light-proof change bag to prevent light from spoiling both the exposed film and the fresh roll. He had to remove the exposed film from the take-up spindle and seal it safely in the can from which he took the new film, then thread the new roll from the feed spindle, through the magazine’s drive sprockets and onto the take-up spindle, leaving enough of a loop outside the magazine to engage with the camera’s exposure system. He would have to do every, step in the correct order, working only by touch.
Now, Gil Graham, concentrate. Thankfully, there seemed to be no one on the corridor to disturb hi,
He was having difficulty with the third of ten steps when a figure flitted past the open door. Gil was in “change bag mode”—a strange kind of zen blankness where, because he couldn’t actually see what his hands were doing he stared ahead into the middle distance. He didn’t even notice when the Little Angel of Paradise backed up and peered in at him.
“Wow! A fetish scene.”
Gil switched his attention to the doorway and the diminutive form of Duncan watching him with evident amusement. Gil nodded recognition. “It’s not what it looks like.”
Duncan glanced either way along the corridor, and then stepped in, coming up beside Gil.
“I’m changing film.”
“I see,” Duncan lied. “Wharrever floots ye’re boot.”
