Third You Die (Kevin Connor Mystery)

by Sherman, Scott

  The boys were complaining about the various indignities being forced upon them.

  “Did he make you, you know, touch it?” Brent asked his co-star.

  “Yeah,” the handsome, shaggy-haired actor answered. He was bigger than Brent, probably about five eleven. More muscular, too. Rounded, plump muscles, like a wrestler’s. Despite his size and weight advantage, though, he seemed submissive to the younger Brent.

  He ducked his head and looked at Brent through dangling bangs. “He did.”

  Brent leaned in, placing his elbows on his spread knees. “And . . . ?”

  Shaggy shook the hair out of his eyes and regarded Brent with a quizzical shrug. “And . . . what?”

  Brent bit his lower lip thoughtfully. “And . . . did you . . . like it?” He idly let his right hand drift halfway up his thigh.

  Shaggy’s chest rose and fell more rapidly as he started to breath heavier. “Kind of. It was all right.” He dropped his hand to his crotch and squeezed.

  “Oh, yeah?” Brent scooted forward on his cot, till his knees touched the other boy’s. Shaggy was almost panting now.

  “Watch this,” Freddy said.

  The boys touched nowhere other than at the knees, unless you counted the heavy eye contact, a come-fuck-me stare from Brent so intense you wouldn’t be surprised if Shaggy spontaneously combusted. They stayed there almost a full minute, silent and motionless, until you wondered why the director was still holding the shot.

  Then you knew. Under Brent’s unwavering gaze, an expanding, twitchingly jerky elongation grew and snaked down Shaggy’s leg. Shaggy was wearing a pair of thin cotton drawstring pants, almost like hospital PJs but white.

  Seeing Shaggy’s dick stretch and grow was like watching one of those stop-motion shots of a flower blooming, but in real time. Soon, Shaggy’s casual confession was betrayed by the untouched but massively throbbing hard-on that now pointed upward, trapped in his pants but with enough room to rise upward and point accusingly at his chin. Shaggy looked at his own lap in surprise—how did that get there?—and Brent’s eyes followed.

  “Yeah,” Shaggy answered, looking at Brent again.

  “Looks like you liked it a lot.” Brent’s tongue flicked across the lip he’d just chewed on. Shaggy’s cock gave another leap and, at its tip, a tiny damp spot leaked through the fabric. It was clear whoever chose Shaggy’s “costume” for this scene knew what they were doing—the pants were loose and sheer enough to conceal the details but hide nothing.

  Shaggy’s eyes widened and his jaw went slack as if he was being hypnotized by the irresistible sexual pull of his friend. Although he was probably a foot taller than Brent and had fifty pounds of muscle on him, he appeared completely at the younger student’s mercy, spellbound and lost in a fog of thickening lust. The dichotomy of this little Brent so completely dominating the muscular, older stud only made the scene more thrilling.

  “Fuck, that’s hot,” Freddy said. For once, he wasn’t talking about the ice cream.

  He was right. I’ve seen the “behind the scenes/making of” extras that come with adult films, and they always show the actors “prepping” for their scenes by getting themselves hard just before the camera starts rolling. Either they’re only gay for pay, or they just find it difficult to get excited on the artificial, uncomfortable environment of a movie set. In any case, there’s always a cut before the pants come off to reveal an erection.

  I couldn’t remember ever seeing someone get excited “before your eyes” like this. And it wasn’t just the boner, which now pulsed with a steady intensity that matched Shaggy’s increasingly loud breathing. It was everything—Shaggy’s glazed but somehow alarmed expression, his half-open mouth, the way his body tensed as if about to spring forward or leap away.

  Brent reached out and put just the tip of his finger against Shaggy’s knee. “Did they make you jerk them off?”

  Shaggy nodded.

  Brent’s finger traced a fraction of an inch higher.

  “Did they take off your clothes?”

  “Yesss . . .” Shaggy hissed. His cock gave another massive lurch and the spot at its tip spread wider, the stain now the size of a quarter.

  Still just teasing with the tip of his finger, Brent slowly ran it up the inside of Shaggy’s thigh, stopping midway between knee and balls. He leaned closer, too, his face inches from his friend’s, close enough that I imagined Shaggy felt his breath against his cheek.

  “Did you get hard?”

  Shaggy groaned. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe?” Brent leaned back an inch.

  “Yes!” Shaggy corrected.

  Brent smiled and brought his other hand inside Shaggy’s legs, too, matching its partner’s placement. He laid them both flat against Shaggy’s thighs, making small circles with his thumbs.

  “Like I’m making you hard?”

  “Yesssss,” Shaggy panted.

  Brent ran his hands higher, up and down, almost touching Shaggy’s balls then sliding back down. Over and over while he made Shaggy talk.

  “Tell me what I’m doing to you, buddy.”

  “You’re making me so fucking hard, man,” Shaggy moaned.

  “Like this?” Brent spread his legs and displayed his own tented shorts.

  “Aw, fuck.” Shaggy sounded like he was going to cry. His hard-on seemed to stretch almost to his navel as it discharged another round of precome, soaking his white pants to the point of transparency, the pinkness of the head now evident against the see-through cotton.

  “You’re so sensitive down there,” Brent said. “Did they touch you anywhere else?”

  Shaggy could only nod.

  Brent took his hands and brought them to Shaggy’s nipples, which strained against his light blue tee. “Here?” He alternately squeezed and flicked them, playing them expertly. Shaggy’s hands gripped the bedspread in an attempt to keep them from doing god-knows-what, while he unconsciously humped his hips into the air, unable to keep them still, causing his clearly overstimulated cock to thrash around in his pants.

  “You like that, man?” Brent asked.

  Shaggy nodded.

  “Tell me.”

  “I like it.”

  “What about this?” Brent squeezed Shaggy’s nipples harder.

  “Oh, fuck,” Shaggy cried.

  Brent twisted them. Shaggy threw his head back and let out a high keen. His lap jerked upward, desperate for contact, but Brent sat back.

  “What do you want?”

  “Come on,” Shaggy moaned. “Do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Don’t.”

  Brent kept one hand alternating between Shaggy nipples while bringing the other to Shaggy’s lips. He lightly traced them with his index finger.

  “Don’t what, baby?”

  “Don’t make me say it.”

  Shaggy tried to catch Brent’s finger in his mouth, but Brent teased him, moving it just out of reach.

  “What do you want, baby?” He took the finger not at Shaggy’s mouth and returned it to the inside of Shaggy’s thigh, this time running it right under his balls. Shaggy humped uncontrollably, spastically, like a man receiving an electric shock.

  “Oh,” he panted. “Uh-uh-uh.”

  “Tell me.” Brent was insistent.

  “Everything,” Shaggy shouted. “I want everything.”

  “Good boy,” Brent said. He put one finger against Shaggy’s lips, then slipped it inside. Shaggy sucked vigorously, like a man dying of thirst.

  Brent stood, his grin triumphant, his own crotch bulging insistently in Shaggy’s direction. He removed his hand from Shaggy’s crotch and unzipped himself, letting his own oversized hard-on pop free and point at Shaggy’s hungry face, an angry crimson sword that had its own dew gathering at the tip.

  Shaggy moaned around Brent’s finger. Brent stepped closer, straddling his sex-dazed captive. He removed his finger and replaced it with the tip of his cock against Shaggy’s now glistening, plumped lips. “Did they make y
ou do this? Did they make you suck their dicks?”

  Shaggy nodded again. He lunged forward, but Brent stepped back.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Come on, man,” Shaggy pleaded. “Give it to me.”

  Brent took his cock in hand and wagged it in small circles. “Give you what, man?” At the same time, he gently, gently cupped Shaggy’s balls, eliciting another mewling cry.

  “Your cock, man. In my mouth. I gotta have it.”

  Brent stepped forward and let just the tip of his dick slide between Shaggy’s lips. Shaggy’s eyes flew open then fluttered ecstatically as he nursed like a baby, trying desperately to swallow more while Brent controlled the pace.

  In the meantime, Brent extended a finger again and placed it at the base of Shaggy’s long dick, still encased in his pants but now completely visible through the drenched cotton. Slowly, agonizingly, he slid it toward the head.

  “Oh god, oh god, oh god,” Shaggy cried, his words intelligible but muffled by the mouthful Brent was feeding him.

  Brent began a fucking motion, back and forth, in and out, using Shaggy’s mouth like a sex toy while teasing him mercilessly.

  “Oh! Oh! Oh!” Shaggy humped against Brent’s lazy finger like a crazy man, rubbing his ass against the bed and sliding his pants down just enough that his raging hard-on broke free, popping from his pants like a jack-in-the-box, splattering precome all over his T-shirt and Brent’s hand.

  “Yeah, baby,” Brent said, “that’s it. Good boy.”

  Brent drove in deeper while still running his finger up Shaggy’s pole, but now skin against slick skin.

  “Uuuuh!!!” Shaggy wailed. I was willing to bet he was incapable of speech at that moment. The sound that came from him was primal, animalistic.

  Brent slid all the way in, pubes to chin. Shaggy’s eyes bugged open as if he couldn’t believe what had found its way inside of him. But, if anything, his cock got even harder, stretched beyond what I’d have thought possible.

  Brent’s finger finally reached just below the tip of that extended member, his finger right in the triangle where head meets base, the most sensitive spot on a man’s body. He quickly reached it up to gather the freshest, thickest precome flowing from Shaggy’s dick and brought it back to that juncture, circling it once, twice, three times.

  Giving one last push into Shaggy’s throat, he said, “Come for me, baby,” and with a quick flick of his finger against Shaggy’s hot spot, he got what he wanted.

  Shaggy arched his back and screamed around Brent’s cock, shooting a stream of come so strong that it arced over Brent’s head and fell on to his own. Subsequent shots were equally massive, drenching Brent’s back with a flood of thick white liquid. The whole time, his body jerked spasmodically and his throat clenched out of control. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, and Brent pulled out, stroking his dick for a few seconds before he also shot, grunting lustily, painting Shaggy’s face with his own hot juices.

  He collapsed on to Shaggy’s lap and they kissed voluptuously, rapturously, like two men who, at the least, just had the best sex of their lives. Again, this was the part where a director usually cut away, but in this case, the afterplay was almost as exciting as what had come before.

  You wanted to see this, the aftermath of an encounter that in some ways was tamer than the movie’s earlier scenes—no orgies, no anal—but in other ways was the most scorching encounter I’d ever seen on screen. Their kisses were hungry, then tender, then almost sad.

  Shaggy was still trembling, but Brent’s weight seemed to relax him. They settled into each other like two parts of a whole. Brent pulled his head back and Shaggy’s eyes brimmed with an emotion I hadn’t expected to see.

  I couldn’t imagine a film set was a place you could achieve a real emotional connection. Sure, you could go through the mechanics of sex, and, our bodies being what they are, it might even feel really good. A warm mouth is always a welcome place to be, and being paid to receive even a bad blow job is more fun than painting houses for a living.

  But how could it be possible to be truly intimate with all those cameras and crew around? Yeah, you can believe the love scenes in mainstream movies, but those are some of the most talented actors in the world working with great scripts and highly skilled directors. Plus, those actors aren’t actually Doing It, which exposes you in ways that makes it hard to maintain the illusion of a character.

  Yet, what I’d just witnessed put the lie to my presumptions. Maybe the scene between Brent and Shaggy had started off as a performance, but, by the end, it looked like love.

  12

  More of a Man

  The screen faded to black on the two boys as the credits began to roll. Smart choice. What could have followed that?

  “That was very . . . wow,” I said.

  “The wowest,” Freddy agreed. He extended his once-again empty bowl to me. “Only one thing could make it any better. You mind?”

  “Don’t you have legs?” I asked. Actually, I wouldn’t have minded getting him more ice cream, but I didn’t want to stand up. There was no way he’d miss the unexpected tenting that had occurred in my pants. I don’t usually get hard from watching porn unless I’m playing with myself, but that scene really got me going. I think if Brent ran his finger along me at that moment, as he’d teased it out of Shaggy, just that slight stimulation would have had me hosing down the place, too.

  Meanwhile, I tried to ignore that I had an even hunkier specimen lying right next to me who’d be only too happy to relieve my suffering. But Freddy and I agreed long ago that we were better off keeping things platonic, and I wasn’t about to blow that.

  Okay, that was a bad choice of words to talk myself off the ledge. Don’t think about “blowing” anything, Kevin.

  “What’s his name?” I asked. “The one who wasn’t Brent.”

  “Lucas Fisher,” Freddy answered. “Not bad, huh? He’s got that whole hot, semi-stoned surfer thing going on, he’s ripped to shit and has an ass like two delicious, oversized scoops of ice cream, which I wouldn’t mind right now, thank you very much.” He passed his bowl to me.

  I put it to my side. “It’s not just that. He can also . . . act. I mean, he totally sold that scene. He wasn’t just going through the motions—he seemed genuinely turned on. Infatuated, even.”

  “That wasn’t acting,” Freddy said. “I’ve seen him in plenty of other movies—he’s always snackable, but a little boring. Put him in a scene with Brent, though, and he comes alive. Comes a lot, too.”

  “They worked together before?”

  “After. A couple of movies and, eventually, when the studio realized the chemistry between them, they capitalized on it.” Freddy scooted over to the end of the bed and reached into the cabinet under the TV that held his DVDs. Sure, he couldn’t be bothered to feed himself, but for this he was Mr. Get Up and Go.

  He handed me the case for Brent & Lucas: More Than Friends.

  What happens when two of the hottest adult video stars realize their feelings extend beyond when the director calls “cut”? When super-cute Brent Havens teams up with fan favorite Lucas Fisher, what starts out as fireworks turns into a nuclear blast of naked desire that can’t be contained. Even a steamy bathhouse encounter with mega-hung Pierce Deepley and a jizz-draining three-way with Freshboy cover model Ashton Pusher aren’t enough to keep Brent and Lucas from discovering their true feelings for each other and coming together in an explosive climax that will leave you drenched and begging for more, too.

  “Wanna watch?” Freddy asked.

  Yes. “No.” There was only so much temptation a boy could take. “Can you tell me what happens?”

  Freddy gave me a “duh” face. “They play research scientists who discover a cure for malaria. There’s a lot of talk about gene therapy and the ethics of stem-cell research. In the end, they triumph over the evil pharmaceutical companies and distribute the lifesaving vaccine via crop duster over the plains of Africa.”

  He
smacked me on the head. “What do you think happens? They have sex with each other, with a few other people, and then with each other again. Cut, print it.”

  “No, I meant between them. Are they always that intense?”

  “Pretty much. But it’s kind of one-sided. They wrote about it on some of the gay porn blogs.”

  “There are gay porn blogs?”

  “There’s a blog for everything,” Freddy asserted. “I read one the other day for people who like to cook with crickets. As ingredients, mind you, not assistants.

  “Anyway, there was a lot of gossip in the industry that Lucas had a big crush on Brent, but his feelings were unrequited. Supposedly, Lucas was the one who got SwordFight to make More Than Friends in the hope that more scenes between them would get Brent to fall in love with him.”

  “Life imitates art,” I said.

  “Or not. The studio tried to put it out there that the two were really a couple, sending them to industry events and circuit parties together, but the blogs said it was just to build publicity for the movie. There was another rumor, though, that it was Lucas who arranged to be where he thought Brent would show up.

  “Probably there was some truth to both versions. SwordFight might have been pushing them together to build excitement for the movie, but it isn’t hard to believe Lucas had a bad case of the unrequiteds for your friend Brent. It’s there on screen—Brent looks like he’s having a good time and all, but Lucas looks like he’s found a new religion.

  “In any case, a few weeks after More Than Friends’ release, you never saw them together again. The movie was pretty successful and won some gold at that year’s Gay Video Awards. There was talk of a sequel, but it never happened. My guess? After a while, Brent got creeped out by Lucas’s affections.”

  “Or maybe he just didn’t want to lead Lucas on,” I offered, realizing that I was once again trying to defend Brent by ascribing to him the best possible intentions. Over-identify much?