Mister Bodyguard

by Ivy Oliver

  “Those records are supposed to be sealed,” he says angrily.

  “Well, she unsealed them.”

  “Great,” he mutters.

  “Look, I'm not judging. I was no angel myself. Fought a lot with my mom before I enlisted, swore I'd never go back and I was done with all of them.”

  “Really?” Matt says.

  “Really.”

  He works his jaw for a moment.

  “You ever think about patching things up?”

  “My siblings are all over. The house has been sold. It's not there to go back to anymore.”

  “What about your mom…oh,” he says. “Sorry.”

  “You didn't know. It's alright.”

  “So I guess you think I'm a shithead for fighting with mine?”

  I laugh. “No. I know I'm a shithead for fighting with mine. Yours? I can see your point.”

  “You know all that stuff you read, the juvenile convictions?”

  “Yeah?”

  “That's not really me,” he says, looking out into the distance.

  “Then who are you?”

  He shrugs. “I don't know. I do know that I'm sure as shit not Prince Grabthar. Nobody's told me what a Grabthar is yet.”

  We both start laughing.

  Matt goes quiet first.

  “You were talking before about something feeling wrong with all this. What did you mean?”

  I shrug. “Just a gut feeling that there's more to what I'm seeing than what I'm seeing. Maybe I've been in the shit too many times and I'm just jumping at shadows.”

  “Is it just me,” Matt says, “or is the idea of staying out here for months existentially horrifying?”

  I slowly turn his way.

  “Don't think about running off. That's exactly why I was hired.”

  Matt smirks and looks at me, so fresh faced and yet so sexual, his eyes brimming with desires and possibilities.

  “If you keep threatening me I'm going to get the idea that you're looking forward to punishing me.”

  “The way you ask for it says I'd be giving you what you want?”

  “What's so wrong about that?” he says, moving closer.

  I start to pull away but stop as he skims his fingers down my arm.

  “Are you worried the skinny little twink can't take your big muscle dick?”

  I turn on him sharply, savoring the look in his eyes when I take him off guard.

  “You think you can handle me?”

  “If you can rise to the occasion, I can expand my limits.”

  He throws his hand forward and cups me through my jeans, pressing his palm into my stiffening cock and tightening balls.

  “You got me off. Turnabout is fair play.”

  “Not out here. Someone might see us.”

  Even as I say it, he's undoing my top button. I shudder violently as his strong but delicate fingers draw me out of my jeans, lightly teasing my shaft and balls as he strokes me to full hardness.

  He gives his soft blond hair a little flip, smiles mischievously, and crouches.

  I should stop this. I should make him stop. When I put my hand on his shoulder to push him away I pull him closer instead, putting my palm to the back of his head as he cups my balls and strokes my shaft, his breath tickling hot on my cockhead.

  His warm soft lips and wet, sucking mouth are an explosion of sensation, and I groan at the merest touch. He takes me halfway until I tickle his throat, then draws back, letting the desert chill attack me after the warmth, alternating hot and cold.

  Matt pushes my pants down a little bit more and snakes his hand under me. My balls rest on his wrist as his finger pushes into my ass, and I gasp.

  “Mpph!” he says, dropping my cock from his mouth.

  “Don't break my finger!” he laughs.

  “Shut up and swallow my cock,” I say, pushing him back down on it.

  The look in his eyes as he stares up at me with my manhood pressed between his lips is amazing, almost as good as the feeling of his swirling tongue and the heat of his mouth. I pull him closer and he presses his body into my legs as he sucks.

  I'm too close. I can't hold it back, even as I try. I grunt and grab his head, holding him as I orgasm explosively, the energy ripping through me like a bomb and pumping into his throat.

  Sweaty, red-faced, and panting, he falls back to sit on his ass and licks his lips clean, then his hand.

  “You could fuck me right here,” he says, twisting onto his side, his legs drawn up so his glorious ass presents perfectly.

  “Not yet,” I growl, tucking myself back into my pants.

  “Are you going to make me beg for it?”

  “I'm going to make you scream with it.”

  He pants as I pull him to his feet and he bounces against me, his hands on my chest, fingers digging into the muscle through my shirt.

  Fuck it.

  I grab him and kiss him, hard. I savor his body grinding against mine, our cocks mashed together. He's hard, and feeling him hard against me makes me fully erect again in seconds. He moans into my mouth and writhes like a hard fuck will save his life, begging without words.

  Matt is cock crazy.

  “You can do anything you want to me,” he says in the throaty voice of unslaked thirst.

  His hands move around my body, caressing me to a more and more powerful erection. It's torture. I already know the one thing that will give me the release I crave, but I'm not doing that. I won't. This is insane. I can't use the man I've been hired to bodyguard as my fuck toy, even if he's begging to take it.

  It's in his eyes. I can taste it. Deep down he craves my hands, my strength, my power. I need that like I need air, the feeling of him submitting. If I close my eyes I can picture him biting his lip and looking back over his shoulder at me with absolute awe and lust as I take him, pulling him in until I feel his ass pressed into my hips and he takes every throbbing inch, down to the root.

  Or lying him on his back and taking him that way, thrusting face to face as he uncurls in ecstasy. As he becomes mine to use, mine to have.

  I rip him away from me.

  “We're going back. You have to get up in the morning and fight a rubber lobster.”

  “Fine,” Matt snaps, throwing up his hands.

  He turns away, and I grab his hips, haul him back, and hammer my cock into his ass as hard as I would if there were no denim between us and I'd just taken him all the way for real.

  He groans, grinding on my erection.

  “I fucking need you in my ass,” he says.

  I grab his shoulders and arch him back, still pressing into him, so I can whisper in his ear.

  “If I just give it to you, it won't be as fun for either of us.”

  I give him a gentle push.

  “Let's go,” I say.

  7

  Matt

  If I don't get away from this movie set I am going to lose my mind.

  Standing in the desert under the baking sun, I'm watching two guys sluice water into a rubber lobster suit. Jim, whom absolutely no one is actually addressing as Monstrothis off set, has to be doused even as he drinks water vigorously from a canteen. He told me yesterday that he's been losing as much as five pounds per day while we shoot these outdoor action scenes.

  This is the most tedious part so far. The scenes with Sandy at least had some amusing dialogue I could joke about later with Lucas, but for the last two days it's been vigorous cardio in the desert. I've lost almost four pounds myself, all water.

  My mom hired a stunt coordinator to train me to use the sword I'm carrying. It's covered in green foam so they can make it glow with special effects.

  If you ask me, that's a little derivative.

  Lucas watches intently.

  Once Monstrothis is rehydrated, the makeup and props guys get his head back on. It's part mask and part prosthetic, some of it glued to his face with makeup around his neck, and he looks absurd. He doesn't look like an intergalactic conqueror. He looks like he should be standi
ng outside a restaurant, swinging a sign to advertise cheddar biscuits and all-you-can-eat clam chowder. When he approaches, he drags a giant foam rubber lobster tail behind him, flopping around bonelessly.

  “Okay,” Nick says, twirling his finger in the air. “Let's get set up. You guys good on the choreography?”

  “Yeah,” I sigh.

  Jim nods his big rubber head. He has to exaggerate all of his movements in the suit, and his voice is muffled. I guess they'll add that later in post processing. They probably hired a voice actor and didn't tell him, because I really doubt the radioactive lobster lord is supposed to have a thick Texan accent.

  “And, action!”

  “Ha ha ha ha!” Jim shouts, pronouncing it as words more than a real laugh, “I have you now!”

  “It is I who have you, crustacean fiend!” I shout back, swinging at him with my green foam sword.

  We've been through this ten times and one of us keeps screwing it up. Me, because I have no idea how to sword fight, and Jim, because he can't see more than twenty degrees of what is in front of him at any given time.

  Nick finally caved and said he'd quick cut in the editing room, so we don't have to get the entire sequence just right.

  Which means that instead of doing this twenty times, and maybe coming back tomorrow because we both get tired through repeated attempts, we're doing it all day. This is take six.

  My head is swimming. Nick calls cut after the fight and I down more water, quickly getting sick to my stomach.

  “He needs a break,” Lucas calls, handing me the canteen.

  “Alright,” Nick says.

  “You really should be filming this at night,” Lucas shouts back.

  Nick shrugs and gives a curt nod, but Maury stands up from his folding chair.

  “My vision calls for this fight to take place in daylight. I don't need advice from the help.”

  Lucas grits his teeth, turning a little red.

  “If you have visions of rubber lobstermen you need to re-evaluate your life.”

  “He keeps calling me a crustacean,” Jim says, muffled through his masks. “Are lobsters crustaceans?”

  “I think so,” I pant. “Right?”

  “I thought crustaceans were crabs,” Jim says.

  Then he keels over, unceremoniously toppling onto his side in a rubbery, sweaty heap.

  Lucas rushes over, thrusting the canteen into my hands.

  “Medic,” he bellows, “Where's the medics?”

  There are a crew of medical techs on the set, and they rush over as Lucas is tearing Jim's mask off.

  “Watch that!” one of the prop guys shouts. “That mask cost seventy-five grand!”

  Lucas gives him an irritated look and shoves his hand into the rubber suit with a grimace.

  “He's got hyperthermia,” Lucas says. “We need him out of this suit and into an ice bath now.”

  “No!” the prop guy howls.

  Lucas ignores him, peeling pieces of lobster away from Jim's body. I rush in and help him, pulling it apart, and Nick joins in, too, until we have him out in the air, lying on lobster pieces.

  A smelly pool of sweat pours from his body as he struggles for breath.

  Lucas takes charge, shouting orders at the EMTs. I do what I can to help until he's on a stretcher and they're rolling him across the set to one of the tents where a massive air conditioning unit is going full blast.

  “This is a fucking disaster,” Nick moans.

  The medical crew rush in with break-open cold packs. Jim moans, suddenly shockingly feeble for a man of his size and stature. I step back next to Lucas.

  Somehow, despite the air conditioning, the cramped tent seems hotter and more oppressive than it is outside, so I rush back out into the sun, lunging forward with a stomach clenched in desperation not to lose my lunch. In the chaos, I thread over to another tent, where Nick was set up to review footage. It's open on one side, but there's an AC unit going full blast, plus a good thirty-degree difference between daylight and shadow.

  I stumble and flop into Nick's chair. He's over in the medical tent with Jim and the medics. Lucas pulls up a chair and sits next to me, shadowing my every move, as always. The big man, when he hunches forward, seems almost inhumanly muscular in an epic, statuesque way. If Rodin could envision a ribbed tank top and jeans, Rodin would have sculpted Lucas this way.

  I swear, his shoulder muscles are as big as my head. If someone is going to be playing a musclebound space barbarian, it's him, not me. I look like I wandered in off the set of a cheap leather-themed porno.

  My hand comes away from my hair sodden. I hadn't realized how much I was sweating.

  “Should break anyway,” Lucas says, idly. “Hottest part of the day now.”

  “Do you think he's going to be okay?”

  “He'll be fine. Unless he keeps wearing that suit all day in this heat. Does anyone on this crew know there are cold deserts to film in?”

  “The way this is going, we'd all die of hypothermia,” I laugh and scrub my fingers through my hair again. My hands come away beaded with moisture, still.

  “He's going to be fine,” Lucas repeats, patting my shoulder.

  “I need to talk to my mom,” I say, standing. “This is her show.”

  Before I finish the words, they start to slur, and a wave of fatigue hits me, hard. It's like I took a step and sank chin-deep in warm pudding. I flop right back in the chair, and Lucas is suddenly over me, checking my pulse with rough fingers at my neck.

  “I think you're having a heat stroke,” he says.

  “That's nice,” I reply.

  Part of me, a distant part of me, is turned on. The rest of me is too busy being parboiled in my own skin to do much to protest or even comment as he grabs my waist and heaves me right up over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.

  I'm hanging over Lucas' back as he carries me past the tent.

  “Where the hell are you going?” I hear Nick say.

  “Your lobster man is overheated, and your star is about to have a heat stroke. It's a hundred and thirty fucking degrees outside. I'm taking him back to his trailer.”

  Nick lets out a long, anguished sigh.

  “We're stopping for the day, but that means another day before we get to the soundstage out in LA. The boss isn't going to be happy.”

  Lucas shrugs, which shakes me around wildly for a second.

  “Ow,” I mumble.

  “Sorry,” he says. “I'm taking Prince Grabthar back to his trailer.”

  “Fine, fine,” Nick mutters, letting him pass.

  As Lucas walks by, I twist to glance back at Nick, who has a “you don't see that every day” expression on his face.

  Lucas ends up carrying me past half the camp, including Sandy, who is very sanely sitting in the shade reading a book, since she has no scenes today. She watches me pass with a curled smirk on her lips and turns back to her book. Starship Troopers, by Robert Heinlein.

  Lucas yanks open my trailer door and finally deposits me on my bed.

  He turns, closes the door, and pulls off my boots.

  “What are you doing?” I say.

  When the boots are off, he detaches my leather…strappy…thing…from my pants and pulls those off, too. Slick with sweat, they slide right off my legs like an animal discarding shed skin. It's not exactly a pleasant image. With the leather straps off, I'm lying there in soaked tighty whites that make it look like I just climbed out of a pool.

  Lucas grimaces and pulls those off, too. My breathing quickens, until he grabs a dish towel, soaks it in cold water, and plops it on my chest. I yelp.

  “Roll that up and put it on your head,” he says, reaching over to crank the air conditioning all the way up.

  My body starts working again as I cool down, but there's an unfortunate side effect. I feel like I just scarfed down a gallon of ice cream in about thirty seconds. The deepest brain freeze I've ever had feels like someone stuffed a cinder block up each nostril.

  A cool
glass of water helps, somewhat. I tip it back to chug, and Lucas grabs it.

  “Slow,” he says.

  Annoyed, I take sips until my parched throat doesn't burn so much.

  I spread my legs and lie languidly on the bed, naked as the day I was born. Lucas pointedly doesn't meet my gaze.

  He's too busy looking elsewhere. His attention has a phantom weight, like a ghostly feather. The brushing touch of it draws energy to my cock and it starts to rise, pumping up harder with little twitches.

  “Do you shave your…” he starts to say.

  “I shave my everything,” I say, rolling over onto my back.

  I arch my back and contract my ass. I may not be a big stompy man mountain like Lucas is, but I have the ass of one. What's the point of having a legendary ass if no one is going to admire it?

  He throws a towel over my backside and I brush it away.

  “Trying to cool off, remember?”

  Lucas looks…less than cooled off. His dick is tucked sideways in his jeans, and I swear as it gets hard it reaches past his hip. I almost salivate at the thought of it, lifting my ass with little clenching motions.

  “You aren't going to just leave me like this, are you?”

  “Like what?” he grunts.

  “Like this,” I say.

  I snake my arm under my body and push my hard cock down, towards my feet, so it and my swollen balls rest on the bed. I can feel him staring, getting harder at the sight of my ass and balls and cock.

  He reaches over and my breath catches. His fingertips, so calloused and rough that they pull at my skin, drag down my back and the crack of my ass, a feather light touch that sends pulses of shocked need rippling through my body. He almost touches my balls and swings his hand back the other way.

  He keeps doing that, teasing a touch without delivering it, making me squirm. Then he grabs my dick and lets it glide through his fingers, instantly bringing me to full hardness.

  His voice is a deadly serious whisper.

  “Have you ever…” he starts.

  “I've never been fucked in the ass before. I want to try it with you.”

  He tenses, his finger pushing between my cheeks. I let out a little moan as the tight knot of muscle and nerves is stimulated by his touch.