by Ivy Oliver
When he does it again, I submit to it gloriously. I almost think I'll cream my own pants when I feel the hot rush and he blows his load down my throat. Gulping, I swallow hungrily and attack his cock until he almost rips me off, panting and staring at me as I fall to sit on the floor, my mouth and chin still wet from him.
“Do you want to fuck me?” I whisper, hoarsely.
“Yes,” he says.
Then he has me up, pulling me by the arms. He pushes me into the wall and shoves my jeans down. I still have the stupid costume on—the leather harness proves useful now. He grinds his wet dick against my back and a wonderful terror ripples through me, maybe he's going to fuck me with that missile using just my spit and his own cum as lube, but he stops.
“I don't have a condom.”
“I don't care,” I whimper.
God, I don't care if it hurts, fucking use me!
“I do,” he says.
He wraps both arms around me and both of his hands attack my hard, aching cock, swirling a bead of precum around the head. He strokes me viciously, always almost but not quite too rough, as he grinds his cock into my back. His sweaty stomach glides against me and I can feel his dick and balls rubbing on me, delirious at the thought of how they'd feel inside. I want it, I want it, I want it!
I cry out and buck between him and the wall and suddenly his hands and my body are covered in hot sticky lust. I've never come this hard in my life, it just keeps pumping from me, the pleasure constantly ramping…and then he comes again, all over my back, rubbing it on us both and I'm just in ecstasy.
“Can you go again?” I say, twisting in his grip. “I've got more. Why don't you—”
He lets go and steps back, looking down at himself. His beautiful cock hangs out of his pants, slick with lust. I reach for it but he pushes me back.
“Let me clean it for you,” I purr, shocked by the need in my own voice.
“No,” he says, grabbing a dish towel from the little galley kitchen in my trailer. He cleans himself hurriedly and yanks his pants up.
“Stay,” I say.
“No, someone might see me leave.”
“I want you to.”
“I can't.”
He brushes past me and out the door, leaving me standing in my trailer with our cum all over my body and still hot in my mouth and my dick hanging out, still hard, not satisfied. The itch is worse now, and…I didn't even know it was possible to feel a weird horny fuck-me sensation in my asshole, but I do, a squirmy itch as my body demands to be spread open, filled, hammered with thrusts.
I slam the door and scream in unspent sexual frustration, rip my outfit off, and storm into the shower. It's hot as fuck outside but I storm into the hottest head of steam I can and let it all sluice off of me. The tide of emotions just won't stop.
I need more of that. I need him inside me.
I just wish I'd been thinking. I have a box of rubbers, damn it. Always do, have to be ready for fun. I want to do everything to him and have him do everything to me. I want all that force and energy unleased upon my most sensitive places. That rush I felt when I relaxed into his unrelenting force and power. I want that back so desperately that its absence is as painful as the deepest thirst or most vicious hunger.
I can't even play with myself. It won't be good enough now.
As the hot water runs out, I scrub my fingers through my hair. What's happening to me?
4
Lucas
The first thing I do when I arrive back at my trailer is strip off all my clothes, hurriedly, popping some stitches in the garments along the way. Then I pace around nude, my cock still throbbing hard, its hunger unfulfilled, my thirst unslaked. I stalk around the tiny space like a caged animal, and the more I try not to think about Matt, the harder I become, until the discomfort of my engorged cock bouncing between my legs makes me want to scream again.
I can't get him out of my mind. He lives there now totally. I can smell him, feel his skin, his heat, taste him, replay his moans and cries in my mind as they consume me with throbbing want.
Trying to satisfy myself is pointless, even frustrating, but I try anyway. It can only be an appetizer. I don't even finish, because it won't ever be good enough until I'm in him, thrusting, writhing, feeling him around me and against me, his body wringing pleasure from mine as I hammer him to climax.
Still nude, still hard, I storm around my trailer in circles until I gather enough presence of mind and start packing. I tear my unworn clothes from the small dresser and layer them in my folding garment bag. Halfway through, I realize the problem: Where the hell am I going to go? It isn't a matter of finding a place to be so much as getting there. I'd have to get a ride back to the city.
So I stop, and sit, and think. I'll make arrangements in the morning. Talk to Margot, my nominal boss: I'm wasted here, she doesn't need me or my skills, I can find more useful practice for my craft somewhere else.
Besides, this whole place is nuts and so is everyone here. So am I. I was this close to pinning down Matt and railing him hard. Not that he was objecting—the way he melted into a thirsty little slut when I—
Stop it!
Cold shower does almost nothing. Only time works. After I dry, I dress, storm into the desert air, and stand outside to let it scour the rest of the moisture from my skin and air. I'm alone, for the moment. It's not even dark yet. Shit, I'm going to have to go to dinner. I'm supposed to be watching Matt all the time. When she hired me for that, did Margot figure on me staying in his trailer, too? Or sitting outside like the bored ex-mall cop that is my only backup on this security detail?
Flustered, I walk around the camp. My pacing takes me past Matt's trailer. I should go talk to him. Say something, explain. We're both adults, and he actually seems pretty mature, more so than I expected. We can come to a reasonable understanding. Then I'll find Margot and quit.
I find Sandy instead, lying back on her chaise reading another acting manual. She's slathered in sunscreen and hides under an enormous straw hat.
“What's with you?” she says as I pass.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Bored?”
“Stir crazy. Isn't really anything for me to do here. No one is in danger.”
“Oh no, you have a bullshit job,” she says, flatly. “How terrible you must feel.”
I grit my teeth and ignore her, pacing up and down the gravel.
“Are you trying to wear a trench in the ground?”
I ignore her.
When I pass again, she says, “What's your story, anyway?”
I stop, scuffing some gravel across the ground with my feet without meaning to.
“My story? Grew up poor on a dilapidated farmhouse. Too crowded. Joined the Marines to see the world. Didn't like what I saw. Got offered better pay. Took it.”
I start walking again.
“You sound more interesting than a radioactive space lobster.”
I snort.
Continuing to pace, I say, “What about you?”
She shrugs. “I always wanted to be an actress. Waited tables for a while. Had to move back north, ended up stripping, one thing led to another, boom.”
“Boom,” I say. “One thing led to another.”
“Story of the world,” she says. “You have something on your mind.”
“What makes you say that?”
She sits up. “You look tough. You think you are tough.”
“I know I'm tough,” I say matter-of-factly.
She nods. “Nobody's all the way tough. To survive in my line of work, you have to know how to read people. It's too easy to end up with a needle in your arm or a fist in your face. Wind up a junkie or shacked up with a pimp and fall off the face of the earth. So you have to have soft eyes.”
I stop and turn to look at her. “What did you say?”
“Soft eyes.”
I give an involuntary jerk of my shoulders and make an appreciative grunt. “Heard that phrase before. What's your point?”
“Well,” I say. “That's very…yeah.”
She smiles and lays back.
Just as I turn to walk away, Matt's door bangs open. He looks at me.
“Are they serving dinner yet? Go get me something. I'm not coming out.”
He slams the door shut and locks it, leaving me standing there.
“Well,” Sandy says, “I think he meant you.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Got anything better to do?”
“Not really,” I admit, shrugging.
Twenty minutes later I'm carrying a plate back to Matt's trailer, covered with an inverted plate on top to keep the dust out. When I knock on the door, he opens it, glares, and takes the plate.
“Come in,” he says, a defiant twist to his pouty lips.
“No,” I say. “I made a mistake.”
“Oh, you did,” he says, annoyed. “Goodbye, then.”
He slams the door and leaves me standing there.
Sandy has vacated her lounger, so I take it, leaning back in front of her trailer. She left her book on the folding metal table next to me, so I pick it up and thumb through it, careful not to lose her place.
How hard can acting be? I think to myself. It's just reciting stuff you memorized. I've memorized plenty of stuff in my day. The book isn't especially interesting, so I set it aside. She has a whole stack of them: acting manuals, economics textbooks, a notebook. Looks like she's taking some kind of correspondence course for a business degree or something like that.
Matt's door bangs open and he waves his empty plates at me.
Sighing, I walk over and take them. Standing above me at the entrance to his trailer in nothing but boxer shorts, themselves pushed dangerously low on his hips, he gives me a withering look of challenge. My eyes keep falling to the taut muscles of his lower belly, exposed to the very base of his dick.
He's absolutely gorgeous, the archetypal blond surfer twink. My cock starts to throb. I just want to get my hands on him, get him face down, ass up in front of me and show him what I've got.
“Anything else?” I ask politely.
He frowns and slams the door, locking it a second later.
I take the plates back, grab a quick bite, and carry a chair with me. I plant it outside Matt's trailer and sit there until dark while Sandy reads and does homework, first by daylight and then by lantern-light until she yawns and goes back inside without a word.
Nick, the director, comes by as I'm about to leave.
He bangs on Matt's door several times, then turns to me.
“We're starting early, at seven. I need him out for some setups. Make sure he's there.”
I nod and walk past him for my trailer.
There, I look over my half-packed clothes. I pick up a shirt, fold it, and start to put it in the bag, reasoning that I'll get the kid up in the morning, get him where he needs to go, and explain to Margot then that I'm quitting, thank you for your time, but my services are not required here.
After the bag is packed and I secure my sidearm and backup, I lay out on the narrow bed, close my eyes, and go to sleep.
One of the strange disciplines that military life teaches is how to go to sleep nearly instantly and wake up just as quick, jumping from dead slumber to full alertness, fast. You might need to, if someone is trying to kill you.
No such luck today, but I'm on my feet at my alarm going off, right at six. Two minutes later, I'm out the door, storming over to Matt's trailer. When I arrive, there's no answer to my knock at the door.
So I stand there and wait. It doesn't have a back door, so he has to come out sometime. At least, in theory.
By six-ten, I'm banging on the door again. Finally, at twenty minutes after the hour, I use my palm to force the window open and unlock the door again.
Matt is dead asleep, snoring loudly, and buck-ass naked, lying face down and twisted to the side as if presenting his ass at me. I bang on the wall above his bed, and he rolls fully onto his belly, arches his back, and rests his chin on his folded arms. At the same time, he tenses his thighs and ass, drawing my eye.
“What?” he says.
“You're on set at seven for setups, whatever that means. Move out.”
He smiles. “That gives us what, half an hour?”
“It gives you half an hour to get ready. Up.”
The longer he lies there like that, the worse it gets. He rolls onto his side, drawing up one leg, his flawless muscular physique flexed, his fiery eyes locked on me as his soft mouth parts slightly, dick-sucking lips if I've ever seen them, pursed erotically.
“Get. Up.”
I step outside.
“Make me,” he calls back.
“Grow up,” I snap back. “Put on some goddamn clothes and get out here.”
A moment later, he comes bouncing down the steps in jeans and sandals and nothing else, looking at me in challenge. With no belt, the button of his jeans sags dangerously low even as the seat grips his deliciously round ass.
Sandy steps down from her trailer as she passes, turning a little red as she looks at him.
Then she looks at me.
“He looks like he's planning trouble,” she says quietly.
I snort.
“I have a real soft spot for that kid,” she says absently.
“Is that why you took a role rubbing your royal jelly on him?”
She glares at me.
“Him and his mother are the only people I know that treat me like a human being, not a criminal, an oddity, or a piece of meat.” She smiles absently. “If I put on a sweater and jeans, I was just Aunt Sandy to him.”
I nod. “I see.”
“You're not so bad, either. At least you look me in the face when you talk to me.”
Matt walks over to the caterers first, eats, and lazily saunters to the filming set, arriving at five after seven.
The director gives me an appreciative nod.
“I'm stunned,” he says. “Usually seven means noon, on actor time.”
“I always get up for Lucas,” Matt says, coquettishly. “What are we doing today?”
“Setups, first,” Nick says. “I need to get everything in place and then we're filming…” his face twists in disgust, “Grabthar's first meeting with The Pirate Bee Queen, Glabella.”
“What the fuck?” Matt says.
Nick shrugs. “I'm getting paid a lot for this. I keep telling you, kid, it'll never see the light of day. Just go with it until your mom gives up.”
“Where is she?” I ask.
Nick shrugs. “Went back to town yesterday afternoon. Haven't seen her since. I'm sure she'll show up at exactly the wrong time and ruin the one good take we get out of the cast and crew today. Such is life.”
Resigned, he walks over to talk to the camera operator while Matt reviews his script.
“Bee pirate queen,” he mutters.
“Could be worse. She could be a wasp.”
Sandy sits over in the makeup tent reading while a bored technician paints her bare stomach in black and yellow stripes.
Matt steps into the costuming tent and appears moments later in his absurd outfit. I can't help but stare at him. Hell, savor him. It's like it was designed to make him look sexier. Matt glares at me while he belts on his laser pistol and sword.
The next several hours melt into boredom as I stand around while the director moves the cast around, sets up the cameras and lights, and finally moves everyone into position. The crew bunch up behind the camera as Nick gets ready to start the ball rolling.
He sighs loudly. “Action.”
An assistant snaps the board in front of the camera and dashes off. The crew swing the camera from the smoking wreckage of a spaceship—which looks like it's mostly made from balsa wood and tinfoil—over to Matt, lying on the ground face up.
He blinks a few times and sits up, hi
s hand clutching his head. It comes away smeared in fake syrup blood, and he stares at it for a moment, then stands, looking around.
“I must have crashed,” he says out loud in an overwrought voice. “I must reach the ship before—”
Someone picks up a huge piece of sheet metal and rattles it.
“Alright,” Nick says, “We'll get the shot of you reacting to the explosion later. Go over there and lie down on the mark. Makeup!”
The technicians run in as Matt lies down and cover him carefully with dust and more fake cuts.
After they're all out, Nick calls for action again and Matt gets up, stumbling and brushing himself off. He walks, the camera panning around to follow him, and stops, looking up at a tall rock.
Sandy, in full costume, stands on top of it, her very obviously, ridiculously fake wings flapping in the desert breeze. She aims an absurd looking space-rifle at Matt.
As she does, her left breast pops out. Annoyed, she grabs the cup of her top and yanks it back to place, then looks down.
“Aren't we going to catch that again?”
Nick lets out a long groan.
It takes four tries before Sandy's bosoms stay where they belong and she actually gets to recite her line.
“Halt there, man-human,” she says, melodramatically.
Snickers and guffaws erupt from the crew. Maury the screenwriter looks on, nodding approvingly.
“I come in peace,” Matt says, falling to one knee. “I mean you no harm.”
“Like you meant no harm to the spider-women of Articulon IV?” Sandy demands, angrily.
Matt…clutches his hands in front of his chest and looks down.
“It was not I that destroyed the planet of the spider-women.”
Someone leans over and whispers, “What is it with this guy and the bug ladies?”
I shake my head and shrug my shoulders.
It goes on like this. It takes five takes for Sandy to gracefully climb down from the rock because she can't keep her chest in her costume and she keeps rubbing the makeup off her stomach and has to stand in the baking hot sun for half an hour while the makeup techs fix it.
