by Zack
Gil thought he understood the reference through the Scottish accent. He frowned in concentration. Stage three wasn’t going that well.
Duncan chortled quietly, perhaps a bit threateningly. “Kinda bondage thing. Ye’re trapped.”
“I’m really busy here, Duncan.”
“Mmmm…” the busboy came around behind and laid his hands lightly on Gil’s shoulders.
Stage four complete. Gil took a breath and moved the core from spindle to spindle—an easy bit—as Duncan’s hands slipped down his front, clawing at his abdomen.”
“You’re not helping,” Gil said.
“That I am, I’m helping meself, just a wee bit.”
The next stages were the most fiddly, getting the new film in and seated properly.
Duncan flexed his fingers, lower, and began fondling the shape of Gil’s bunched up cock under the denim.
“Jeezus, Duncan! Leave me alone.”
“Och, this is too good to miss.”
The boy found the tip of Gil’s cock and began rubbing it between finger and thumb. In spite of himself, Gil felt a stir down there. He coughed, and intensified his concentration on threading the film loop. Duncan pulled back on him slightly so he could free some space to unfasten the top of Gil’s jeans.
The fucking film wouldn’t lock on the take-up sprocket.
Duncan forced the zipper down.
“Stoppit!” Gil almost shouted.
Duncan backed off a bit, but he wasn’t giving up. He reached out over the change bag. “Would it be a wee disaster if I unzipped this one then?” He gave Gil an evil grin.
“Don’t fuckin dare.”
Duncan resumed his position behind Gil.
“Better this one, then.” He reached down, leaning his head close to Gil’s, and pushed his hand into the gaping fly. What he sought after sprang fully hard into his waiting hand. “Och, that’s a bonny prick.”
“Oh shit,” Gil spat. But then he had to laugh. He really was completely trapped.
Duncan began jacking him gently, rolling his thumb over the glans as it began to peel free of the foreskin sheath. He raised his fingers to his mouth and gobbed a copious supply of spit on them, then went back to rubbing Gil’s hard cock.
Perhaps it worked. Suddenly stage ten was done and Gil began clearing up inside the bag.
Duncan reached around his waist with the other hand to cup under Gil’s balls, still buried under denim and speeded up his lubricated masturbation. Gil leaned back, head turned toward the canny, narrow face slightly above him, and Duncan pressed his mouth against him. “Ye’re a lovely wank, Yank,” he breathed.
Gil gave in. Hands trailing from the change bag, he leaned as far back as he was able so Duncan could really get at him properly. Duncan obliged, grasping him firmly and rubbing up and down furiously. Gil gurgled into the boy’s mouth, his body going rigid as Duncan brought him off violently. Ropes of jizz splattered up, catching him under the chin and trailing gossamer threads across both their mouths. Duncan backed off a touch to lap greedily at it, and then back to share with Gil.
Gil gave a start and struggled out of the change bag. “Shit! I’m running outta time. Gotta get this magazine back to my cameraman. He zipped himself up.
Duncan rubbed ineffectually at the front of Gil’s shirt. “Whoops. That’ll stain.”
Gil scowled down at himself and the darker blue marks on his denim shirt where his cum had landed. Duncan kissed him sweetly behind the ear. “It’ll ne’er show in the disco… unless you hit some ultraviolet light.”
“Thanks,” Gil said shortly, pointing at the change bag and film can. “I’ll clear this stuff away later.”
With the magazine in his hand, he paused at the door and turned back briefly to Duncan. “Thanks… I’ll have to get an account of the British technique for film magazine changes written up for the American Society of Cinematographers. I think they’ll find it most fascinating.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Fall of the Roman Empire
Rod and Mike had managed to clear just three feet or so of space in front of the scaffold cage by the time Gil literally fought his way back across a dance floor jammed tighter than a can of sardines. In fact he might not have seen them were it not for Mike’s ear little stud glittering in the overhead lights, acting like a small beacon.
Rod thrust the Arri BL into Gil’s hands to hold while he locked the magazine back in place and laced the film loop through the exposure gate. Just in time. A turbulence in the sea of expectant faces resolved itself as the centurion and his men bashing open a path for the two gladiators to make their way to the side of the cage.
Peter and Winston leaped lightly up onto the stage through the open door, followed by the centurion, who slammed it shut. The voice of American actor Doug Lambert, Paradise’s MC for the night, boomed out through the suddenly lowered volume of music and announced the gladiatorial fight. The cavernous room rocked to a barrage of cheers and not a few camp shrieks. Gil just spotted Jerry the fight director lurking in the deepest shadows in the back corner of the cage by the gate.
“Petrus fights Juba the Nubian. No quarter will be given, folks, because on this night, only one of our brave gladiators will leave the arena alive!”
On cue, Peter and Winston strutted forward into the brilliant theater spots that sprang into life—prime beefcake. Cheers grew into roars of admiring approval as they flexed their oiled musculature and made obscene gestures at the crowd, which included Winston brandishing his sword in front of his out thrust crotch and waggling it suggestively. Two campy queens standing immediately behind Gil kept jostling him in their excitement. Every time he had seen them, these had been engaged in bitching at each other, often in the foulest of terms. Best friends, obviously. He’d heard one call the other a “fat cow,” even though both of them were short, spindly numbers who barely filled their sporty lycra gear. They were getting into screaming mode now that the fight was imminent. “Oooooh!” the smallest shrilled. “Black on White, just delicious. Those dusky muscles make me go all wobbly—”
“Dear, you’re such a dinge queen.”
The rest of the exchange went lost in the mounting tumult. Gil kept position just behind Rod, and tried to force the space open for him to move up and down the length of the cage. Every now and then, Rod swung the camera to get close-ups of the perspiring faces eagerly watching the action develop, while Mike bravely tried to record the sound. “Do we know yet who’s gonna die?” Gil shouted at Mike, who just shook his head.
Juba and Petrus faced up to each other as the over-amplified voice of the MC echoed out. “We who are about to die salute you… TO THE DEATH!”
The muscle guys were hardly attired as real gladiators, wearing only speedos, Peter in red, Winston in blue, but they each had helmets, a small round shield, and their evil looking short swords. The bout began with a clash of crossed blades, followed by a circling and exchange of vicious blows to sword and shield. Jerry had coached them well, and the fight looked terrifyingly real as the combatants flowed up and down the length of the cage.
At one point Juba-Winston aimed a powerful hack at Peter’s head and clouted him soundly on the side of his helmet. Peter staggered back and fell to his knees as his opponent moved in for the kill. The sword flashed in the light as it stabbed down and went right through the other’s chest.
Huge gasps erupted from the dance floor. Peter rolled sideways and it became apparent that Winston had missed.
A moment later and Winston was on the deck, rolling desperately this way and that to avoid the rain of blows Peter dealt out. At appointed moments the action moved toward the back corner where dark-clad Jerry applied brush lashes of stage blood to their glistening torsos like some demented priest anointing his flock. He kept spraying them with water as we
ll, so that it stood out on the oiled bodies like sweat, to run mingled with the blood in rivulets over bunched muscles. The DJ accompanied the action with a hypnotic bass riff that gradually built as the combat neared its bloody conclusion.
With a mighty swipe, Peter struck Winston’s helmet and the black guy dropped to his knees, Peter’s sword at his throat. He stared out helplessly at the crowd, now pressed up against the bars of the cage. Rod had the camera’s zoom lens through a gap in the bars right in front of the two gladiators. Peter placed a booted foot on Winston’s back and forced his head down to the floor. He raised his sword on high and glared out, questioning his audience.
“YES, YES, YES!” came the screaming chant.
And Peter’s sword arm twitched once, then arced down. At that exact instant, all the lights in the disco went out. An amplified wet thunk rang out. A white-hot spotlight flashed on, catching Peter in its glare. In his left hand he held aloft Winston’s dripping head, ragged and gory at the torn neck, with gobbets of trailing flesh and windpipe hanging from the cut.
The ear-splitting screams of horror from all around deafened Gil. Some at the front fell back into the press of bodies behind them.
“He killed him!” shrieked a clone in Gil’s ear.
Then the spot went out, leaving everyone in blind darkness for a moment. The disco music started up with a strong Donna Summer number, and distant strobes flashed as the overhead gantry began very gradually to resume its dancing blaze, leaving the cage shrouded in darkness.
Rod lowered the camera, and wiped a hand across his brow. He tapped Mike on the shoulder. “I need something cold to drink, and a bit of quiet before the big finale,” he announced. Mike nodded, happy to get rid of the Nagra’s weight for a while. The three of them forced their way like boats forging against the current across to their production office, through a crowd still stunned by what they had witnessed.
A few minutes later Jerry, Pete, and a perfectly alive Winston joined them. Jerry carried a bucket with the decapitated head in it. A strong wiff of oil and sweat came in with them… and elation. Both muscle guys grinned and laughed like schoolboys.
So you got it,” Rod said to Winston.
The big black guy smiled ruefully. “I coulda taken this pansy out inside a minute,” he answered, affectionately buffing Pete’s arm, “but Jerry tells us the props reckoned a black head would be easier to fake up than a pale whitey. How discriminatory is that?”
“Well, you died bravely.” Rod grinned as he checked the footage counter on the magazine. “I think we’d better change this one over, Gil. There’s only about a minute’s worth of film left on it.”
Doing as he was bid, Gil straightened out the change bag again and sat down. “Can you turn your backs, guys? I always think this feels kind of obscene, fiddling around in here with an audience.”
As Pete separated Winston’s head from his body, up in the relative quiet of the manager’s office Damien Foot had a guest with him. The gay circuit celebrity list was pretty incestuous and the man seated beside him was well connected to several of the gay A-listers. Damien knew his reputation, though they had never met before. The powerful, square-jawed man with a thick topping of black hair, receding at the temples, seemed to stare back, palely reflected in the glass. Damien thought he looked like Jack Nicholson in The Shining, which he had just seen; a bit scary.
The growly American drawl brought Damien back from his absorption in the scene below. “I guess you were nervous about that last act?”
“I was a bit. You know how it is with a live show like that. But I thought it went pretty well.”
“Sure. Looked real good. I saw a movie crew down there.”
“Mnh hmm, we’ll put together a short promo for some of the New York discos. Try to encourage the Manhattan disco bunnies to get over here. Why, do you happen to know any of them, the crew?”
James Rosen turned to look at Damien. “As a matter of fact I do know a couple of them. Small world, isn’t it? Which gives me an idea.”
Damien raised enquiring eyes.
“I got this business partner in the Big Apple, runs a string of smaller clubs and one really big one… bit like Paradise, maybe even bigger. I’m sure I can persuade him to run your movie when it’s finished and do something similar for you to present over here… a sorta mutual interest.”
“I’d be happy with that, James. I guess your partner can put together a gay film unit to do something the same.”
Rosen pursed his lips in a tight smile. “That may be harder than you think. What’s wrong with taking your men over. Won’t be any union problems if we keep it under the radar. Your guys already know their stuff, so it’ll save time… and cost. Even after flights and a hotel, they’ll be cheaper than anyone in New York.” He leaned forward to gaze down at the tops of Mike and Gil’s heads as they disappeared under the DJ booth. “Besides, I like the look. They seem very professional.”
“Well, if that works better, I’ll have a word.”
“Thanks, Damien. I’d prefer it if you didn’t let them know of my involvement, though. You handle this end and I’ll make the arrangements. I’m due in New York in a couple of months’ time. That should work out just fine.” Just fine, Rosen’s mind echoed, especially when you two little shitheads are on my territory.
The temple was due to collapse at one o’clock, although Paradise would be remaining open until the last revelers departed at some godforsaken time in the morning. Surprisingly, the end of the floor immediately in front of the temple remained relatively free, most clubbers having congregated nearer the bar and the cage, so Rod managed to get a good position to film the action. To while the time before the event Mike and Gil went to the bar. Duncan worked at one end, and he served them sodas (“Alcohol-free tonight,” Mike had warned). As he pulled more drinks for others, Duncan leaned over. “Have you clocked the celebs here tonight?”
“Been too busy, mate. So who’s in?”
“Phwaor, loads. I seen Marc Almond, Boy George, and—so Bill down there says—that Yankee film star… Rock whatsisname… Hudson has been spotted with a posse.”
Mike raised his eyebrows. “Really?”
Duncan nodded. “Och e’s bin in before noo. I’ll ’ave ter get introduced. Maybe he’ll whisk me away from all this…”
“I didn’t know you were into older guys,” Gil said dryly.
Duncan leant forward conspiratorially and rubbed forefinger against thumb. “Not the sex, the money…” He gave a sly smile, his eyes drifting down to the faint pale stains on Gil’s shirt. Gil instinctively lifted a hand to cover them. Mike gave him a sidelong glance through one narrowed eye then swiveled to Duncan, who returned the look with one of pure angelic innocence before being called away to more customers.
“Did you?”
Gil flushed. “No… well, not really. I was trapped in the fuckin change bag and he came along and took advantage.”
Mike guffawed. “Oh, Gil, that’s up with ‘the dog ate my homework, miss.’ He’s cute enough, but you want to watch out—Duncan’s known as a bit of a whore on the side, doncha guess.” Mike put an arm around Gil and hugged him tight “Next time, shine a Bat-light on the roof and I’ll come and rescue you again. Time to get ready.”
The first that anyone knew something was up was when the pompous centurion and his mini-cohort began to batter their way through the dancers. It wasn’t immediately obvious what was happening, because they were not making great progress. Then the reason became clear. Four of the legionaries struggled with a fifth guy and Gil recognized Peter, now wearing a ragged loincloth around his middle. Also a set of chains shackled to his ankles and wrists, held by the legionaries and by which they were trying to drag him toward the temple. Dancers stopped twirling and an avenue of bodies opened up to allow the group through. Peter snarled and roared
incoherently, and lashed out at anyone he came close to. The crowd loved it. “Oh my, it’s Samson, isn’t it?” several cried out.
The centurion waved his sword imperiously to open up a wider path to the four steps placed at the stage’s center. The DJ segued the music into a tolling drumbeat as the soldiers dragged Peter up the steps. Gradually the clubbers began to press forward around Rod’s position, Mike close beside him.
Gil forced his way to the right side of the stage, where a narrow gap ran to the back. He could now look up at the side of the temple. Behind its back wall he could see its bulk rested on pressed fiberboards which stuck out beyond the back edge of the stage. Four of the Paradise team were posted in the narrow gap there, out of sight of the dance floor. One of the promoting magazine team was also stationed at the side. He gave Gil an appreciative grin. “Now the fun starts,” he shouted above the din.
Samson-Peter was still putting up a fight as the soldiers secured his chains to the temple’s two central columns. He aimed a sideswipe at the centurion and received the flat of the sword against his thigh for his pains. The legionaries backed off the stage, leaving room for the centurion to threaten Samson with a wicked looking whip. At this, the drumbeat faded into an eerie silence, except there was a sort of noise—a sound so low it felt more like a physical vibration. As it mounted in intensity, it throbbed and shook the very bone marrow, created an unworldly sense of disorientation. The lighting, which had calmed down during the chaining bit dimmed out, leaving only the jagged neon lightning flashes overhead and a series of strobes. These started flashing on and off slowly, but speeded up as the unbelievably low powerful bass sine wave increased in power.
Up on the stage, Samson roared and pulled at his chains. He strained every sinew of his spectacular body as the centurion continued to lash him with the whip. It all looked very real.
Suddenly Samson sprang forward, arms akimbo, and gave his tormentor a mighty shove that sent the Roman flying backward off the stage to crash down into the front ranks of the screaming audience. Several went down in a welter of arms, legs, scarlet tunic, and shiny armor plate. There was no time to see what happened to them, for instantly a chorus of alarmed shouts rent the air, then others took it up farther back as the central columns began shifting inward with Samson’s exertions. Suddenly, he gave a final tug and fell to his knees.