Mister Bodyguard

by Ivy Oliver

  Matt rolls his eyes. “Maury. Shut the fuck up.”

  He looks at Matt, then at me, looming over him.

  “Amateurs,” he mutters, storming off, “no conviction.”

  It takes another ten minutes to get sorted. Nick the director and Margot show up, argue, and finally it's decided that Sandy's torso, only, will be painted, as she is only part bee, and all due care and consideration will be taken to keep her from overheating.

  The costume director waves Matt over and hands him something.

  Matt holds it up.

  “What's this?” he says of the leather straps.

  “Your costume,” the costume director says. He's an overweight, balding man in jean shorts, smoking a cigar. “Got some props, too.”

  “Uh,” Matt says. “Where's the rest of it?”

  “That's all of it. You can change behind the screen over there.”

  Matt glares at him, at the…thing in his hands, and back at the casting director.

  “What is this, Bob? Seriously?”

  “Just put it on,” the man grunts.

  I stand nearby while Matt undresses a few feet away, obscured by a screen. When I look over, I can see his silhouette against it. He grunts as he struggles into the costume, then steps out.

  There's…not much of it. I can see where they were going with it, sort of a barbarian hero vibe, but Matt is…well, a twink, and he doesn't pull it off that well. It only highlights his slim, slender frame. He doesn't look like a warlord. He looks like he should be clinging to the warlord's leg, hungry for…

  Stop it.

  The costume consists, almost entirely, of leather straps, a leather codpiece, a thong, and a metal plate strapped over the right side of his chest.

  He looks down at himself.

  “How am I a space prince if I can't afford clothes?”

  Maury stalks over.

  “On your homeworld, the most important aspect of personal attire is display of masculine power.”

  He looks down at himself.

  “This doesn't look like masculine power. This looks like I'm about to get leashed in a parade.”

  My cock stirs. I remain still, like a statue. Don't think, don't move, don't get an erection.

  The thong of his costume is sucked so deep into his ass it's like he's not wearing anything. Sandy walks over. The artist has only applied the yellow stripes to her surprisingly muscular belly, so she looks more bruised than bee.

  “So,” she says, snorting. “Now you know how it feels.”

  Matt glares at her.

  “Can you…can you just not look at me like this? It's like walking around in my underwear in front of my aunt.”

  “Aww,” Sandy says, turning. “Poor baby, everybody can see your ass crack. I don't know how you manage.”

  She turns around and walks off, throwing down a model-on-catwalk strut that draws attention to her own marginally covered backside, and Matt turns red.

  “I want a new costume. At least some fucking pants.”

  “Fine, fine,” Bob the Costume Director gripes. “Take these.” He tosses Matt a pair of leather pants. “Your mom is going to eat my ass.”

  “Jesus,” I snap, recoiling.

  “Metaphor, big guy.”

  “What do you mean?” Matt says.

  Bob shrugs. “She designed the costumes.”

  “She what?” Matt says, halfway into pulling on his leather britches.

  I'm a little sad to see his legs, ass, and nice big bulge disappear into the leather pants, but as soon as he gets most of the way into them, he has to hop to jam his butt into the seat. Once they're up, they make the nice bubble curve of it even more mouthwatering.

  Easy, Lucas. Don't stare.

  “This is fucking ridiculous,” he mutters.

  Margot storms back into the tent and walks up to him, looking him over.

  “What are you doing? Take those off.”

  “Mom!” he shouts, “Jesus Christ, I am not doing a movie with my entire ass hanging out.”

  She gestures with both hands. “Don't you understand? Your ass is going to sell this movie!”

  “To who?” he shouts.

  “You're going to be a teen heartthrob. All the girls will love you,” she says, resting her hands on his shoulders.

  He brushes her off. “Do you really think the girls will even see this?”

  “Of course!” she says, throwing up her hands. “They love this comic book crap now. You should talk to Maury, he has a whole cinematic universe planned out!”

  Matt's groan is almost funny.

  After she's left, he looks at me.

  “This isn't even funny. I should put a stop to it.”

  “Not until I get paid!” Sandy shouts.

  Bob the Costume Director says, very quietly, “Kid, this isn't my first rodeo. You think every movie sees the light of day? Rich nuts like your…” he trails off.

  “Speak freely,” Matt says, softly.

  “Rich nuts like her blow small fortunes on crap like this all the time. Nobody will ever see it, trust me.”

  “You'd better be right,” Matt says. “The last thing I need is to see my own ass in IMAX.”

  3

  Matt

  Someone shoot me.

  We're going through a rehearsal.

  I'm standing out in the desert, where it's a hundred and ten degrees before the hot lights shining on me. As Nick explained before we started, most of the “night” scenes you see in older movies are shot in daylight with no additional lighting, so to make everything picture perfect, we need hot lights boiling down on us.

  In between short takes, one of the makeup crew runs out and dabs sweat off our bodies. Sandy, at least, is lucky that her arms and legs are exposed. The paint on her torso, part of her stupid bee woman costume, keeps her from sweating there…for a while, until it melts and has to be re-applied, so after the third time, we just gave up and she's basically standing around in a plastic bee-kini.

  Jim…errr, Monstrothis, is in part of his costume. I don't know how he's not going to die with the full mask and prosthetics on, or even with a partial bug suit. They're doing this all practical with limited CGI.

  Which means rubber suits. He looks absurd. This is like something out of the late fifties. I half expect Captain Kirk to run across the set trading blows with a rubber lizard.

  I can't keep my eyes off of Lucas.

  Earlier today he gave up on wearing a polo shirt, so he's down to a tank top that molds to his amazingly muscled body with sweat. I can't tear away from him. Every time I have even a second of downtime, my eyes turn back to him and Nick yells that when the camera is rolling, I'm going to have to watch where I look. As if it matters.

  Sandy is sitting this one out in the shade. I'm facing down Monstrothis with a fake sword in my hand, which makes no sense because the prop master strapped an oversized, goofy-looking gun to my hip.

  I keep looking over at Nick.

  “Why can't I just shoot him?”

  “It's been done,” he shouts back, wearily. “Let's run through it.”

  Jim hams it up. “You'll never defeat me, boy! My power is absolute! Globette will be my bride, and you will be in the grave!”

  Then he comes at me, swinging wildly with his own prop sword.

  I try to fight back, and he ends up knocking it away and landing blows on my arms and sides in quick succession.

  “Yowch!” I shout, dancing back. “Time out!”

  “Monstrothis knows no mercy!” he shouts, charging at me.

  “Cut!” Nick yells hastily.

  “I shall!” Jim laughs, swinging the dull blade at me.

  Lucas moves viper quick, seizing Jim's wrist.

  “That's enough,” he says sharply.

  “Interloper!” Jim shouts, swinging his rubber claw hand at him.

  It sort of…boops Lucas, who gives Jim a withering look and shoves him.

  “Watch it!” Bob bellows, “That costume cost sixty thous
and dollars!”

  Everyone, even Nick, looks at him.

  “What?” I say.

  “Have at thee!” Jim shouts.

  Lucas squares up and gets ready to put him on the ground, but I grab his arm.

  “I said cut, goddamnit!” Nick shouts, “Jim!”

  “I know no Jim! I am Monstrothis the Terrible!”

  Lucas ducks a sweeping…claw attack and yanks the dull sword out of Jim's hand, and gives him a sharp shove. The unbalanced, overweight costume sends him right on his ass with an oof.

  He looks up at Lucas, furious, until Nick almost dives in front of him.

  “Jim, cut the method acting horseshit. You're playing a giant radioactive space lobster, not Abraham Lincoln. Just say the fucking lines and shut up.”

  Angrily, Jim rises, wobbles, falls again, rises, stumbles, keeps his balance this time, and storms off.

  “Monstrothis will be in his trailer!”

  I groan. Lucas pinches the bridge of his nose. Nick looks at the two of us.

  “Everyone involved with this is insane,” he says, almost giddy. “Totally insane. Sandy, let's do some of your scenes with him.”

  We spend the next ten minutes reading the script.

  “Oh no,” she says, before I can.

  “What?” Nick groans.

  “Have you read this?” she says.

  “I skimmed it,” Nick says. “That's like reading, but without comprehension.”

  “Attempted reading,” Lucas says, cutting us in on some private joke. I laugh.

  Sandy looks deadly serious.

  “The script calls for me to suck you off,” she says to me.

  “What?” I shout, “Let me see that.”

  I yank it from her hands and read the stage direction.

  Grateful, Lady Globellette, Queen of the Bee Pirates, her body slick with royal jelly, throws herself into Prince Grabthar's arms. She grinds her ample bosoms against his manly chest, sinking lower, lower, her head bobbing as she worships his—

  “Who the fuck wrote this?” I shout. “Royal jelly?”

  Nick pinches his nose.

  “That explains why the prop master ordered a fifty-five-gallon drum of lube from Amazon.”

  “I need to talk to Margot right now,” Sandy says. “No offense, Matt, but I am not even pretending to go down on my best friend's kid, who happens to be the right age to be my own son.”

  “None taken,” I say.

  “We're done for the day,” Nick says loudly. “Sandy, I'm going with you. We'll sit down with Margot and Maury and work this nonsense out. No more rehearsals, tomorrow we start the shoot. The longer I have you guys out here in those unbreathable costumes the more likely it is someone is going to have a heart attack. Break.”

  He storms off, motioning Sandy to go with him. After what she just said, even catching sight of her bethonged ass jiggling as she walks away makes my stomach turn. She's my Aunt Sandy!

  Lucas looks at me.

  “It's a hundred and ten fucking degrees outside,” he says.

  “Yeah, tell me about it. Let's see what we can do about being not-outside.”

  “Hoo-rah,” Lucas says.

  I blink a few times. “What?”

  “Marine thing,” he says. “You wouldn't understand.”

  I follow him off the set as the crew takes down the lights and to a tent nearby where Lucas tosses me a towel.

  I stand up and wriggle out of my leather pants. They make a disgusting slorp sound and sweat puddles around my ankles. I must have lost five pounds today.

  Lucas is staring at me. For the briefest moment our gazes touch, like two opposed magnetic forces brushing invisibly against one another, and my dick stirs.

  He forces his expression neutral, the hunger in his eyes replaced by something different. I could swear if he was looking at my ass any harder, I'd be able to feel his gaze pushing inside of me.

  Shit, I can't get a hard-on in this thing, my dick will be flapping everywhere.

  After I towel off, I grab a pair of jeans and pull them on.

  “Why can't I dress like this?” I sigh. “Like people are going to see the rubber lobster man from Mars and complain that the hero is wearing jeans.”

  “Walk you back?” Lucas says. “If this crew was smart, we'd all sleep out the hottest part of the day and work at night.”

  “If this crew was smart,” I snarl, “the bad guy wouldn't be named 'Monstrothis.' I need a beer.”

  “Aren't you too young to drink?”

  “By like six months. Besides, if I'm old enough to fight a monstrous lobster from beyond the moon, I'm old enough to crack a cold one.”

  “Where are they?” Lucas says. “I could go for one.”

  “Drinking on the job?”

  He smirks. “Boy, I'd put you under the table and not even get a buzz. Are you going to rat me out? Or worried about Monstrothis taking advantage while I'm indisposed?”

  “I know you've got my back.”

  Some blessed crew member has a case of mid-shelf beers chilled in a cooler by the food stand. I grab one, offer it to Lucas, and take one for myself. As I fumble around for something to open mine, Lucas grabs the cap on his and yanks it off, event though it's not a twist off bottle.

  He passes his to me and does the same for mine. Our hands brush, shockingly hot against the cold, sweating bottles.

  I tip back half of mine at once.

  “Easy,” he says, sipping his. “Try to taste it.”

  “I'm hot,” I say, eyeing him.

  Just fucking say something. I can't stand this. I should make a move. What's he going to do? Worst that could happen is say no. If he goes to my mom? So what? Hitting on my bodyguard is far from the worst thing she's caught me doing.

  So I stand there and nurse a beer in this ridiculous outfit, staring at him while he stares at me.

  “Where's your gun?”

  “Sweat is bad for the finish. Not like I'll need it out here.”

  “That's too bad, I wanted to see it.”

  “It's not a toy.”

  “Are we talking about the same gun?”

  He flinches just slightly when I say that, as if I caught him off guard, but he adjusts too damned fast. He's good.

  I need to test this. Fuck it, it's time for the girlfriend trick.

  Reaching for another beer, I don't crouch or bend at the knees, but rather bend at the hips, arching my ass back as I keep my legs straight.

  There. There it is. I just barely catch it as I stand up, but it's unmistakable. My thighs, my ass, my calves, his eyes were all over me, drinking me in. When I stand up they rake up my back like caressing fingers and linger on the back of my neck for a moment before he turns away, like nothing happened.

  After using the opener on the side of the cooler (duh) I use the act of tipping back the bottle to cover it as I look.

  Either he's hard as a rock or he's got a bowling pin smuggled in those khaki pants.

  “If we're done for the day, I might as well go back to my trailer,” I say.

  “Fine, I'll walk you,” he says, as if it were necessary.

  I take it slow, easing through the camp as I nurse my beer. Lucas chugged his and left the bottle behind, probably so my mom won't see him. Everyone else must be taking his advice and holing up inside. The place is a ghost town. Even Sandy is nowhere to be seen, her chaise lounge missing from outside of her trailer.

  My heart thumps faster and faster with every step. A swig of beer makes my head swim, the complex taste enveloping my tongue as the bubbles rise to my head. I toss it in the wastebasket as I step into my trailer.

  Lucas turns to leave, right at the threshold.

  I grab his belt and pull him in by it.

  He stumbles inside.

  “What are you doing?” he says, shocked.

  I don't answer. Instead, I crouch in front of him, yank on his belt, and get his pants open with deft, practiced hands, my entire body ringing with tension as I know that big fat
cock is coming for me. Where is it?

  He goes rigid and still as I tug the waistband of his boxers down, exposing it slowly. Pulling. Pulling. Pulling. Damn, but he's huge. I hope my eyes aren't bigger than…wherever this goes.

  It springs free and swings at me, like it's trying to get in my damn mouth, and I'm ready to oblige. Lucas makes a grunting noise but does nothing, other than swing the door shut.

  Grabbing his cock in both hands, I feel the heat of it through my palms, and give it a little stroke. Somehow he gets harder…and bigger. His cock arches when he's erect, curving up, presenting a too-thick head. He's not stopping me.

  Even when I open my mouth wide and push his cock into it, gliding it between my lips as I let out a low, satisfied moan. An explosive jolt of need runs through my body and my own dick rockets to full hardness, painful inside my jeans.

  Lucas rocks, moving his cock with me as I stroke and suck. Oh my God this is good. A shocked sound of pleasure escapes around his shaft when he grabs the back of my head. I look up at him and run my hands up under his shirt, feeling his hot sweaty skin, his raw manly power as his cock pushes deeper into my mouth and tickles my throat.

  If I try to take this thing all the way, it'll be in my esophagus. I don't care, I push, taking him deeper, fighting the gag, my head swimming from lack of air before I pull back and do it again.

  The thought rockets through me: I want his cum. Now.

  His ass thumps against the wall—pinning my hands, as I dig my fingers into that outrageous meat. He groans and rolls his hips, his massive stomach flexing. I look up at him as he takes my head in both hands and grunts as he pushes.

  Suddenly his cock is all the way in, and his balls are on my chin. My head is swimming, but I only care about one thing—swirling my tongue around his shaft and tickling his balls.

  He keeps my hands pinned with his ass, pulls, pushes, fucks my throat. The sheer animal force of him is overwhelming and all I want is to please him. He groans loudly and bucks, and my hands are free.

  I pull back as I taste salt on my tongue, knowing he's about to cut loose, holding his shaft in both hands as I lightly work the tip with my lips and tongue, keeping him on the edge of release. His moans and soft sounds slide towards pain, growing whimpery and weak as his knees shake. I know how much edging can hurt, but he rammed his dick down my throat and facefucked me, so turnabout is fair play.