“No reason why I shouldn’t, I guess.”
“Good! I’ll have my people talk to your people,” Brent promised.
Brent was as good as his word. Fausto’s “people” consisted, essentially, of Jake, who drove his usual shrewd bargain. Jake insisted that Fausto be cast as a character who appeared not only in the series’ pilot, but briefly in each of its first few episodes. Fausto was almost disappointed. He’d rather been looking forward to playing the kind of “expendable” tough guy who would no doubt be killed off, in spectacularly gory fashion, in the pilot.
When he received his scripts, he was alarmed to discover that he was actually expected to deliver lines of dialogue—lots of them—in addition to doing the demanding physical stuff he’d anticipated. The show was titled Gradivus, and, so far as Fausto could tell, he played some sort of a space cop. Treating the whole thing as just another fleeting self-promotional opportunity, Fausto dutifully showed up on the set, put on the costumes that had been made for him, allowed the makeup man to work on his face, and did his best to follow direction.
The irony, of course, was that Gradivus turned out to be an instant, runaway hit. Some reviewers were lukewarm, even scornful, in their appraisals, but audiences loved the show and embraced its deliberate enigmas. It was the kind of show that inspired office conversations around the water cooler every morning after an episode was aired, and Internet blogs. Fausto was soon receiving so much fan mail that the writers of the show were instructed to beef up his role. Brent, who also found himself the focus of intense media attention, was delighted by these developments.
The second season of the show was now being aired, and they would soon begin shooting the third. Jake, not one to have his client rest on his laurels, was already busy negotiating for Fausto to appear in another feature film—a romantic comedy, this time, in which Fausto would play the male lead.
“We’re going to prove to everybody that you’re no Johnny One-Note,” Jake said. “I don’t want you to be typecast in these tough-guy roles.”
“But I’m still not a real actor,” Fausto protested. “I’m not like Brent.”
Jake was unimpressed by this argument. “Every gay guy who’s spent any time in the closet is an actor,” he retorted. “And usually a damn good one. Anyway, you’re learning. You keep on sticking close to Brent and the others, and watch what they do, and something is sure to rub off. Think of it as just like learning all those football plays. You’ve been handed the ball, so run with it.”
Fausto was not ungrateful. Gradivus had given him a whole new audience. People who had little or no interest in football now knew who he was.
He was still riding the merry-go-round. Despite the financial security and the adulation, it could be a rather lonely ride, much of the time.
This book tour was typical. Airport after airport, bookstore after bookstore, radio or television interview after interview—and, after these activities, when night fell, restaurant after restaurant, and hotel room after hotel room.
Fausto sighed. He paused on the sidewalk in front of one display of expensive items. He could, if he wished, go into that store, buy out their entire stock, and have it shipped to his apartment back home in LA. He could afford to do that—but what would it prove? Would it give him any satisfaction? He’d never allowed himself to get too hung up on material things. There was no point in starting to do so now.
Sex gave him satisfaction, at least most of the time, and at least temporarily. Fausto idly wondered if there were any decent gay bars in this town. He could go to one, and he’d no doubt be recognized. Guys would be fighting one another for the privilege of buying Fausto Mardones-Gil a drink, of coming on to him. He could pick up some starstruck local number, take him back to his hotel room, and fuck his brains out.
No, he truly was fatigued. What he needed was a good night’s sleep. Sighing, he headed back to his hotel, alone.
In his room, he turned on the TV and channel-surfed idly. He was about to get undressed and go to bed when the phone rang.
“It’s the front desk, Mr. Mardones-Gil. There’s a young man here asking to see you. Are you expecting him?”
“What’s his name?”
“He says he’s ‘Marc with a C.’ He says you forgot something back at the restaurant.”
“Oh. Send him up.”
As Fausto hung up the phone and used the remote control to turn off the TV, he wondered what he could possibly have left behind at the restaurant. A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Fausto admitted Marc, who grinned sheepishly at him, then held out a brown paper bag, its top neatly folded over.
“You forgot your doggy bag.”
“I didn’t have a doggy bag.”
“I know. I just wanted to see you again. It was the only excuse I could think of, on such short notice.”
Fausto wanted to look indignant, but had to laugh. “I ought to throw you out of here, you know.”
“I’m sorry. But at least take the bag first. There’re some really good leftovers in here.”
Fausto took the bag from Marc’s hand. “Come in.”
“You’re not going to throw me out?”
“Not yet. You get credit for resourcefulness, if nothing else.”
Once Marc was inside the room, Fausto closed the door—and, on second thought, locked it.
“I’m not going to go to bed with you, Marc, so get that idea out of your head right this minute.”
“All right. I just hoped…we could talk.”
“That, we can do. So sit down and talk.”
Marc sank down into a chair near the bed, unlaced his shoes, and pulled them off. “God, my feet are killing me." He wriggled his toes, inside his black silk socks. “This is the first chance I’ve had to sit down in hours.”
“I know how you feel. Once, when I was even younger than you, I waited on tables, myself. Not in a nice restaurant like that, but in a greasy spoon diner. And I washed dishes, by hand, back in the kitchen. But I bet you make out okay with tips,” Fausto said, slyly, “especially from the gay guys.”
“Well, I’m not a whore,” Marc replied, bluntly. “But sometimes they do ask for my phone number.”
“Or invite you back to their hotel room.”
Marc grinned at him. “Let’s just say it’s not the first time I’ve been here. That’s probably why the desk clerk was giving me such a hard time. He probably can’t decide if I’m a drug dealer making deliveries, or a hustler peddling my ass.”
Fausto laughed. “When you don’t go back downstairs right away, he’s going to think something’s going on up here.”
“I’d say your reputation can survive it—if half of what they say about you is true.”
Fausto was amused by the younger guy’s candor. “It’s your reputation I’m worried about. You’re the one who has to live in this town.”
“Don’t sweat it.” Marc paused. “Why not?”
“Huh? Why not what?”
“Why don’t you want to go to bed with me?”
Fausto sighed. “Look, you’re a cute kid, and I’m sure it’d be a nice little one-night stand. But I’m tired, for one thing—and you’re much too young for me, for another. You’re jailbait.”
“I’m older than I look.”
Fausto had heard that one often enough before, from teenaged male football groupies.
“I’m nineteen,” Marc specified. “Want to see my driver’s license?”
“Sure.”
“Man! You don’t believe in taking any chances, do you?”
“Once burned, twice shy, as they say.”
Marc pulled out his wallet, and matter-of-factly prepared to subject his license to the older man’s scrutiny.
“Thanks,” Fausto said. “But put it back in your pants, for Christ’s sake. I’m prepared to take your word for it.”
“Okay, now that we’ve established I’m over the age of consent—are you still feeling tired?” Marc asked, with a teasing inflection in his ton
e of voice.
Hot, Fausto had to admit. This is one hot little number! And he seems very sure of himself. I like that. I like a guy who has confidence, who doesn’t believe in playing games. But some instinct made him continue to stall for time.
“I’m beginning to bounce back,” he admitted. “But I still don’t think you should rush into anything. Because…well, for another thing, you don’t really want to have sex with me. You want to act out some fantasy you’ve got inside your head, of what it would be like to trick with Fausto Mardones-Gil. You wouldn’t be interested in me if I wasn’t a celebrity.”
“That isn’t true. I’ve had the hots for you for years, even back when I was just a young kid and didn’t even know I was gay yet, and you were just another rookie. I used to cut your pictures out of newspapers and magazines, and jerk off over them, when I was barely old enough to make jism.”
Fausto hadn’t heard that one before—and, if Marc’s logic was suspect, the mental image that flashed through Fausto’s brain, of the boy masturbating, began to excite him.
This is crazy, he told himself. I should just make some excuse—tell him I’ve got a headache, or something—and ask him to leave. I can’t afford to get mixed up with a kid his age! But then, from some other part of his mind, a voice seemed to whisper, He does seem awfully mature for his age. He acts as though he knows how to be discreet. You’re going to be flying out of here the day after tomorrow, anyway, whether you fuck him or not! So why not go for it? Why not fuck him? Don’t send him away! He wants you! Go for it!
“Listen,” Fausto said, slowly, staring into Marc’s eyes. “If I do let you stay here for awhile…am I going to regret it later on?”
“No,” Marc assured him, as though he could read Fausto’s mind. “You’re not going to regret it. Not if, by ‘regret it,’ you mean because I’m going to blab to all and sundry about my night of sex with Fausto Mardones-Gil, or sell my story to some tabloid. Nobody ever has to know what goes on in here tonight. It’s just the two of us—it’s just you and me.” Marc stood up beside the bed, and tugged at his bow tie to loosen it. The gesture, with its promise of stripping, further excited Fausto.
He suddenly felt slightly embarrassed, which was unusual for him, but he decided that it was because the lighting in the room was too bright. “Wait a minute—”
Fausto reduced the illumination in the room to a soft, dim glow from the lamp beside the bed, then went over to where Marc was standing. He bent over to kiss Marc, who was a head shorter than he was, on the mouth. Fausto’s hand began to stroke the younger guy’s knee and thigh, easing its way gradually up toward his crotch. When he reached it, Fausto began to unzip Marc’s fly.
Moaning against Fausto’s lips, Marc opened his mouth and let the other man push his tongue inside his mouth. Fausto began to caress him much more intimately, grasping one of his ass cheeks in one large, calloused hand and taking hold of Marc’s cock with his other fist. He stroked it from base to tip, his fingers rubbing the stiffened flesh in a steady milking motion. With another moan of desire, Marc felt himself not only swelling even harder, but also leaking a drop of jism from the pulsating, overexcited tip of his rigid prick.
“Let’s get naked,” Fausto whispered. When he began to undress him, Marc offered no resistance. He helped Fausto to relieve him of his shirt, pants, and socks, and finally of his jockey shorts, which were already smeared with jism from his drooling dick as it poked itself through the gap of the briefs’ fly.
Then, lying naked and shivering with anticipation on the unmade bed, Marc watched as Fausto quickly undressed, flinging his own clothes into a heap on the floor. As the athlete’s truly exceptional body was bared for him in the soft lamplight, Marc sat up to get a better look.
“You’re so hot,” he breathed. “So hot-looking, I mean!”
“You’re not so bad, yourself,” Fausto retorted.
Fausto paused for dramatic effect, then shoved his last remaining piece of clothing—his boxer shorts—down his legs and stepped out of them. He stood there naked, his hands on his thighs, displaying himself.
“Like what you see, kid?”
Marc’s mouth literally watered at the sight of Fausto’s nudity, his massive muscularity and potent cock. The football star’s body was fantastic—he’d looked hot enough in his clothes, but now, naked, he was sheer cruelty to animals!
He was a large man, all right, but so well proportioned that his physique looked taut, symmetrical, and even graceful. Those enormous shoulders and that barrel chest of his, with its twin slabs of solid pectoral muscle, narrowed down to an improbably trim waist and hips—only to flare out again into vigorously carved thighs and calves. Fausto stood there, posing, with his legs spread wide, flaunting himself. Marc couldn’t take his eyes away from the man’s genitals!
He was sure that Fausto Mardones-Gil was hung bigger than any guy he’d ever seen naked, or tricked with! His testicles were like two hen’s eggs, dangling quite low in their furry pouch. The long, thick hose of his cock stuck straight out from his groin above those two big nuts, like a flagpole protruding from the side of a building. His cock seemed to stiffen and twitch even as Marc stared at it. The boy sucked in his breath sharply, then let it out slowly, in a long-drawn, shuddery moan of pure lust, of helpless cock-hunger!
Fausto was flattered by the boy’s admiration. That photographer, who’d taken his photo for the book, had begged Fausto to pose nude for him. Fausto had refused. But now he wondered if he’d made a mistake. Maybe he ought to contact the guy and tell him he’d changed his mind!
Fausto chuckled at the thought and relaxed. But even in repose, his physique looked titanic. “I won’t tease you anymore, Marc. Let’s get right down to it. Let’s fuck!”
He knelt on the mattress, took Marc in his arms, and rolled heavily with him over the bed, with Fausto’s muscular weight on top of Marc’s slim, athletic frame and almost crushing him, as the horny younger guy rubbed himself eagerly against all of the mature man’s hard but smooth-skinned muscle.
“Kiss me!” Fausto took Marc’s head between his strong hands and pressed his mouth down against the boy’s. His tongue forced Marc’s panting lips apart and plunged lewdly between them, deep into the warm cavity of Marc’s mouth, meeting Marc’s tongue and toying with it lasciviously as the two naked men kissed wetly and breathlessly for long minutes on end.
While they kissed, their hands got busy, groping at each other’s limbs, and especially at each other’s crotches. Marc felt Fausto’s colossal hard-on rubbing over his belly. He reached down and grasped it possessively. It was every bit as huge as it looked, filling his fist and throbbing violently in his grip as he masturbated it clumsily. Fausto grunted and, without breaking their kiss, began to dry-hump his big body against Marc’s as the boy played with his big cock.
“I have a confession to make,” Fausto said, breathlessly, after he had finally moved his lips away from Marc’s.
“What’s that?”
“I’m usually not attracted to guys as young as you.”
“Sorry.”
“Oh, don’t apologize. Because I am attracted to you. You’re no twink. You’re all man.”
“Thanks.”
“Still…I almost feel as though I’m robbing the cradle.”
Marc grinned at him. “Listen, big guy. I stopped sleeping in a cradle a long time ago. And, for your information, I stopped sucking on baby bottles and pacifiers a long time ago, too. Now I’ve found other things I like sucking on.”
“I bet you have.”
“Want a demonstration?”
“I can’t wait,” Fausto declared.
And, as things turned out, he didn’t have to wait for long. They were still lying side by side on the bed, with their limbs loosely intertwined. Now Marc tightened his arms around Fausto’s waist and pulled their bodies closer together. Marc hugged Fausto’s head down to his and kissed him hard on the mouth. His hands rubbed restlessly up and down the older man’s strong, naked shoul
ders, feeling the muscles in them ripple as their bodies ground hotly together. When the kiss was broken, he rolled Fausto onto his back, and the football player offered no resistance.
Marc kissed him again on the mouth, then kissed his eyelids and the tip of his nose as well, and drilled his tongue into the depression of one ear. His mouth trailed down Fausto’s face and he licked his mustache and lips, then licked away the salty sweat from the hollow of his shoulder and neck. Wriggling his knees into position between Fausto’s widespread thighs, he moved his mouth lower. His lips fastened in turn on each of the big brown nipples, sucking them until they pushed out as firm and hard as two solid cones.
Fausto’s hefty cock bobbed up forcefully against Marc’s belly as Marc drew himself down, moving his tongue in a straight line from the man’s chest to his navel. He pressed his mouth squarely over the deep hole and rotated his tongue into it, wetting the few strands of hair that grew around it, then following the hair growth down Fausto’s rock-solid lower belly until it flared into the thick patch above his cock.
Marc ran his tongue through the pubic hair, licking deep into it until he tasted the flesh underneath. When he lifted his head, he grinned at Fausto, who nodded.
“Don’t tease me,” Fausto whispered. “Don’t make me have to beg for it. Oh God, I’m so turned on already!”
Marc answered him not with words, but with action. His head dropped again, and he smothered his flushed, sweating face between Fausto’s legs, pressing his nose right into the heavy sac of testicles and licking his tongue in under them, almost to the football player’s ass. Then he backtracked, and, letting out a muffled gasp of reckless desire, he gripped Fausto’s dick at the base and pushed his mouth down on it. He swallowed more than half of it on his first stroke down.
He took the erection straight to the bottom, grinding his mouth in the brush of pubic hair. He held his lips firmly around the base, lashing his tongue slowly across the weight of the thick shaft which pressed it down.
The Fortunes of Fausto (Siren Publishing Allure ManLove) Page 2
