by Ivy Oliver
“If it's your first time, I might be a little much for you.”
I crack a wicked smile and brush my fingers through my hair.
“Go big or go home.”
“You say that now.”
“Maybe I like a little pain,” I say, not sure where that came from.
Lucas shudders. I can see his pulse in a vein on his neck, and though it's probably my imagination, I swear it's mirrored in the pulsing of the raging, borderline frightening erection straining the denim of his jeans. I want to feel it so bad.
He presses a finger inside me and I shudder.
“You've got some?”
“Top drawer.”
He yanks it open and brings out a bottle of lube. I hope he'll grab a condom too, but he leaves those. A squirt of shockingly cold lube makes his finger slide inside me easily, and I tense up at the new, never-before-felt sensation.
I mean, I've done stuff to my ass. A lot. I've had girls do stuff to my ass. A lot. This is completely different, and I groan softly as he works his middle finger inside me, probing for something.
There it is. He finds just the right spot to press and my erection turns so hard it hurts. I moan and grip the sheets as he works a second finger in, stretching me open even further.
“My cock is thicker, and longer,” He says.
I shudder, just thinking what that would feel like. I want nothing more than to, shall we say, rise to the challenge. I contract my back and arch my ass in the air, silently screaming fuck me with my bedroom eyes.
Lucas grabs my cock between my legs and strokes it in rhythm with his fingers plunging into my ass. It feels incredible. I lick my lips and nip at my tongue, finally reaching over to grab his cock through his pants. He doesn't stop me when I pull down his fly and extract him from his clothes.
Fuck, he's huge.
I just like staring at it. I curl around and take him in my mouth, holding the shaft between my lips and working my tongue lightly as he pumps his hands on me, in me.
I let him fall from my mouth and cry out as he squeezes a third finger into my asshole and grip the sheets.
It's not long after that. I explode in a long, quivering orgasm that just doesn't seem to stop, rippling its way out from strained muscles deep inside my belly all the way down to my toes. It even feels different from usual.
Lucas pulls me around to the edge of the bed and stands up. I rise on my hands and knees and start to turn around, but he grabs my shoulders and brings his cock to my face, pushing into my mouth.
On all fours, my head pulled back hard, I easily take him down my throat and we fall into a steady rhythm as he pumps. He pushes almost to the root and withdraws, again and again, straining, his body growing hard with anticipation, muscles locked in pre-bliss agony.
He bursts loose with a massive orgasm in my mouth. It's like drowning in it. I cough and sputter and slide backwards just as someone pounds on the door.
“Timmy, are you in there?”
It's my freaking mother.
Lucas stumbles back, roughly shoving himself back into place. He looks at me and I stare back, rising with panic.
I'm naked, sweaty, just blew all over myself, and my face is in about the same condition. I grab the towel and start cleaning myself up, but there's a Lucas problem.
The trailer is big as trailers go, but there's really no place to put him. Asking him to hide in the closet would be like shoving a cucumber into a banana peel, it'd just burst.
There's no real alternative: He goes for one of the windows on the other side, throwing it open. Once he gets his head and shoulders through, he'll be fine.
The problem is getting his shoulders through. Whatever condition blessed him with a godly bull cock cursed him with a bull's everything else, and as he wriggles through the open window, the entire trailer begins to rock on its chassis.
“What are you doing in there?” my mother calls. “You'd better not be fucking around with some girl when you're supposed to be working.”
Lucas finally pushes through the window and lands outside with a grunt. I can hear Mom starting around.
“What was that?”
Taking one last swipe to make sure nothing untoward is on my chin, I throw the towel around myself and rush at the door.
“I'm here,” I shout, yanking it open.
Mom turns back and stands at the base of the stairs.
“What are you doing?”
“Sorry, I was in the shower.”
“I didn't hear it running.”
“It's very quiet.”
She plants her fists on her hips. “You're all sweaty and you stink.”
“Yes…I sat outside for a while, and I was going to take a cold shower. It's good for the pores. Can't have me reporting to the set with a big zit, now can we?”
She blinks a few times, and I hope Lucas has managed to get somewhere out of sight.
“Why are you in here and not working?”
“Have you been to the set?” I say coldly. “Jim collapsed from the heat.”
“Who?”
“Monstrothis?”
“What?”
I pinch my nose. “The guy playing the villain collapsed because it's burning death hot outside, and he was wearing a ninety-pound rubber suit.”
“I see,” she says. “So why can't you do other scenes?”
“Ask Nick,” I say. “I need to finish my cold shower now.”
Hoping that Lucas had enough time to get away, I slam the door in her face and actually climb in the shower, and yes, it is cold. Shuddering, I lean into the water until my teeth are chattering.
When I'm dressed and step outside, Lucas is sitting on one of Sandy's lawn chairs, right outside, chin propped on his fist.
“What are you doing?”
He looks up at me.
“The boss wanted to know why I wasn't guarding you. After all, what is she paying me for? She went on like that for a few minutes.”
I roll my eyes.
“Hey guys,” Sandy calls, “Nick wants everyone together for a production meeting, big tent.”
Shrugging, I jog down the stairs and Lucas falls in behind me. It feels fantastic to walk around in the desert with wet hair. The dry air sucks the moisture right up and leaves me shivering.
In the big tent, Nick is standing up. Mom is hovering behind him, looking thoroughly pissed.
“Here's the score,” he says when everyone is gathered. “The next four days, daytime temperatures are expected to hit the one forties. You heard that right. One hundred and forty degrees.”
He clears his throat.
“For everyone's safety, we're suspending daytime shoots until the temperature drops. We have plenty of night scenes to do. It's been a rough day, so everyone can rest until Monday evening. I suggest you start sleeping during the day, since we'll be up until the wee hours.”
He glances at Margot, then looks around at the rest of us.
“Jim had to be transported back to Las Vegas to a hospital. He'll be back on his feet in a few days, but we're missing a Monstrothis until he gets back.”
A collective groan rises from the production crew.
Nick raises his hand.
“Everybody, please. Simmer down. We have plenty to do. I'll be posting some schedules. Cast, I need you to stay so we can go over the upcoming shoots, then you're loose until Monday. Shuttle service back to Vegas, all that.”
Nick goes over the production schedule with me, but I admit, I start to glaze over pretty quickly. I'm tired, a little sore, and I need sleep.
Finally, I trudge back to my trailer. I wave off Lucas at the door.
“You don't need to sit outside all night,” I tell him.
He nods, with a smirk, and goes back to his tent.
I guess he isn't quitting.
The last I see of Mom is the sight of her over at the motor pool, climbing back into her limo to go back to civilization.
My night's sleep turns into a cat nap. I wake up with an itch.
&nb
sp; If we're off until Monday and Vegas is a forty-five minute drive away…
8
Lucas
I awaken at seven in the morning to a pounding on my trailer door. Not sure what to expect, I reflexively grab my sidearm and tuck it behind my back in the waistband of my jeans before I open the door.
When I yank it open, Sandy is standing in the morning sun. She stares at my bare chest for a half second.
“Jesus. Are there more where you came from?”
I sigh.
“Never mind. Matt is gone.”
My stomach does a backflip.
“Okay,” I say. “Can you clarify what you mean by 'gone'?”
“I think he took one of the Tahoes from the motor pool. I saw him getting in one before I came over here.”
I groan.
“Do you know where he'd go?”
“I'm going to hazard a guess and say…Vegas?”
I rub my closed eyelids with my fingers and let out a long, angry growl.
“Well, it could be worse. He's not 21 yet. How much trouble can he cause?”
Sandy gives me a flat look. With her hands on her hips, in a flannel shirt and capri pants, she looks like a disappointed, but unusually stacked, middle-aged mother.
“Point taken,” I mutter. “Do you have any idea how we'd find him?”
“Hopefully he has a phone, but there's no reception out here, so I can't call,” she says. “We could wake Nick—”
“No,” I say quickly. “Let's take care of this ourselves, quietly.”
She nods. “Alright. You want to drive?”
Half an hour later, we're tearing through the desert in a black Tahoe. I have both hands on the wheel at two and ten and my foot nearly to the floor.
“The speed limit sign said seventy-five,” Sandy says, “not ‘suicidal.’”
She's put on big goggly sunglasses and wrapped a scarf around her head. I don't know that she's that recognizable, but I'm not going to complain.
Bloody hell, driving out here is boring. The road is almost perfectly straight, seemingly forever. The last sign we passed said Las Vegas-46, so it should only be half an hour now.
“You've been to Vegas before?” she asks.
“Did some work there. Not a big fan.”
“Well, if the secret agent thing doesn't work out for you, Chippendales might be hiring.”
I just barely look in her direction. “Am I just a piece of meat to you?”
She bursts out laughing, harder and longer than I expected.
“Sorry. It's rare that I get to dish it out rather than get it. Besides, I know you're a safe target.”
“Eh?”
She clears her throat. “You're gay.”
I jerk the wheel and she screams.
“How did you—”
“Relax, relax,” she says, throwing up her hands. “I don't have a problem with that. Who am I to judge?”
“But how?”
She laughs. “Honey, you'd be shocked how many guys in the biz are straight for pay. Where do you think they find all the guys with the tools and the talent?”
I snort. “Fair enough.”
A cold tension grips the back of my neck. Is she hinting at something?
Sandy yawns, loudly, and tries her phone again.
“No service,” she sighs.
“Keep trying.”
After another ten minutes driving, she starts getting Matt's voicemail rather than a flat refusal from the phone.
“Matt, honey, it's Aunt Sandy. Answer your fucking phone.”
She angrily jabs the screen and hangs up, only to call again.
“Any idea where he might go?” I ask.
She sighs. “Where he can find the most trouble.”
Finally, the city comes into view. It shimmers into being, the heat waves giving the effect of a mysterious forbidden city revealing itself from behind a magical shield. In daylight, it's somewhat less impressive than by night, but the gleam and glitz of the whimsically shaped casinos are unmistakable.
Sandy keeps calling even as we exit the interstate onto the Strip, the main drag from the south of the city through the largest of the two casino districts.
“Unless you have some insight on where he'd go, this is pointless,” I say.
Sandy groans and keeps calling.
“I've left ten messages,” she mutters after leaving Matt a string of profanities on his voicemail.
“Keep—”
Her phone buzzes in her hand.
“Hello?” she says, almost slamming it to her ear. Quickly, she puts him on speaker.
“Aunt Sandy,” Matt says, his speech heavily slurred and barely understandable over shouting, ringing sounds, and slot machine noises. “Where you at?”
“Matt, where are you?” she says.
“I'm at Caesars at the craps table, sugar tits.”
“What did you call me?” she snaps.
“Sorry, Aunt Sandy.”
“Just stay there, we're on our way.”
I pull up out front and toss the keys to a valet, who bug-eyes a bit when he spots Sandy. She tips her shades down and looks over them at him, acidly.
“Yes, and no, you can't have an autograph.”
He hands me the ticket and slinks away.
I'll give the place this: It's not hot as the devil's taint in here, unlike outside. The rush of refreshing air wakes me up a bit as Sandy and I walk side-by-side into the casino. I mentally start playing music from a Tarantino film in my head until I remind myself that Matt has put my entire career on the line if his mother hears about this and bitches me out to my boss.
I'd love to get my hands on him…and other parts in him. Some background part of my brain starts calculating the odds that this is a performance designed to piss me off so I'll, ah, discipline him.
Sandy follows me over to the table games, but we don't see him there.
I circulate through the craps tables—even at nine in the morning, there is an assortment of old men in flat caps, popped-collar bros, and underdressed bar girls clinging to the tables, some sullenly watching the dice come up aces, others cheering wildly as their numbers come in.
No Matt.
“I know where he is,” Sandy says, her voice dragging with fatigue even as she shouts over the din around us.
“Where?”
“High roller tables,” she says, heading for them.
There's a whole other section of the casino roped off from the rest. When we get to the rope, an employee steps in front of me.
“This area is by invitation only,” he says, his voice a little weak. Poor guy is speaking into my chest.
Matt, at one of the tables, bellows “HARD SIX!” and tosses a handful of black chips to the dealer.
Casinos aren't uniform in how they assign denominations, but they're mostly consistent: White chips for a dollar, red for five, green for twenty-five, and black for one hundred. Matt just tossed about two grand across the table.
The croupier hastily assembles his bet—I can see him bent over the pit—and uses the long stick to send the dice to Matt, who lifts, blows, and throws. They bounce across the table and the other six or seven gamblers cheer.
“Holy crap,” Sandy says. “If he won that bet—”
“He won eighteen grand,” I mutter.
“Matt!” Sandy shouts. “MATT!”
“Aunt Sandy!” Matt shouts, his voice wavering. He sweeps from side to side on his feet and grabs the rail to steady himself. “Get over here!”
The attendant looks at us, at his bosses, at us again, and finally at Matt, who is motioning us forward. As if he were signing his own death warrant, he unclips the velvet rope and lets us through.
I try to mull over what to say on my way over. Sandy makes the call for me. She yanks off her sunglasses, puts her fists on her hips, and leans over him, rising on spiked heels that seem to be the only kind of shoes she owns. They give her a good three or four inches in height on him.
“
What the fuck are you doing?” she snaps.
Matt shrugs. “Trying to roll a ten. Big Dick from Boston, and he needs to come hard!” he yells.
I look at Sandy.
“Big Dick from Boston is a ten in craps parlance,” she says wearily.
Matt grabs the dice and tosses them.
“Five!” the dealer yells back, stopping to pay out bets.
“We need to go,” I tell Matt, “now.”
I do a quick estimated count of the chips he has on the rail in front of him. He's got so much money that a good part of it is not in the form of chips, but the soap-bar sized flat plackets that represent fifty grand and up.
There's three quarters of a million dollars on the table.
“How much did you start with?”
“Twenty grand,” he says, grinning. “I had a good run.”
“I can see that,” I say.
Besides the illegal gambling, to the tune of hundreds of thousands of dollars, he's got enough empty cocktail glasses to kill a small elephant lined up on the shelf under the rail. Even Sandy seems stunned by the herculean amount of booze he must have consumed.
She gently rests her hand on his shoulder.
“Honey, why don't you cash those out and we'll go somewhere and sober up. Maybe get a donut?”
“Oh, now you're being nice,” he says, his voice on that “about to black out” edge of being too slurred.
I can't grab him. I can't drag him away. I can't do anything too obvious that will bring down the wrong attention on us—a casino detective realizes that he's underage and hasn't been carded, then we're all up shit creek and the paddle factory is closed.
Somehow, I've been in firefights that were less tense than this.
“Matt,” I say softly. “Color out your chips, let's go, and you'll get what you want.”
He whips around to look at me so hard he almost falls, and I have to grab his arm.
“Oh,” he says. “Oh, okay.”
He turns back to the table, grabs the dice and makes a final toss.
“Ten! Hard ten!” the dealer shouts.
The nearest dealer counts out an obscene amount of money for Matt.
“Color me up,” he says, grinning.
The rest of the table is visibly disappointed. When all is said and done, Matt has a healthy stack of plackets.
