by Ivy Oliver
My mind catches the action in slow motion. Buckle first, then it slides loose of the loops with a tug of his hand. My eyes flit everywhere at once, trying to soak in every movement of his massive body.
His pants fall just slightly, tugging his shorts down to the hip, exposing a delicious V cut down the front and the top curve of an absolutely massive ass, huge boulder muscles that could fuck his cock through a concrete wall. He stands there rolling up his belt and his pants sink incrementally lower with every movement.
Then he bends, all at once, and reveals strong legs, that massive ass, and the biggest penis I have ever seen. I go instantly rigid, my knees buckling and my head swimming as my dick goes from half-chub to full on, uncontrollable, just-breath-on-it-and-I'll-come super hard-on.
Watching that thing swing around all I can think about is getting on my knees, feeling his big hands on my head as he rams his cock down my throat.
I start touching myself without realizing it. I need to get out of here. I pull my hand off my shaft and try not to let it wander again as I watch him move around until he finally disappears and the trailer wall thrums with the running water of the shower.
My body aching for release, I rush back to my trailer, knowing that whatever I do to myself wouldn't be as good as feeling him.
2
Lucas
“You're getting paranoid,” I tell myself as I circle my trailer again.
I heard someone out here, I know it. The night is freezing and I'm in a towel and flip-flops, but I pace around three times anyway, gun in hand.
“What the hell are you doing?”
I turn around and find Sandy Pines staring me down.
“God damn,” she says, letting out a soft whistle as she looks me over.
“Not interested,” I say.
“I wasn't asking,” she says defensively, folding her arms. “Just observing.”
“Sorry. Guess I'm a little jumpy. I thought I heard something out here.”
“So you grabbed your gun and raced out here in your towel? Hot.”
She shakes her head and walks past me, drinking from a flask. I almost ask where she's going, but I'm on security for the star, not the production, and I head back inside.
My trailer is pretty cramped. I can only stand up if I walk along the very short axis of it lengthwise, and it's really just a bed, a small shower cabinet, and a dresser. Margot's people brought my luggage and unpacked it for me. It's just clothes, so I didn't care. I keep everything that really matters on my person.
Production schedule says we start at oh-eight-hundred, so I set my alarm for seven and lay back.
After everything I've done in the last couple of days, all the travel and time to get here, sleep comes fast, rolling out over me like a warm and welcome blanket. Cramped as this trailer may be, it's a big step up over a sleeping trench.
Next thing I know, my alarm is going off. I rise, admit that there isn't much point in showering before a hundred and ten-degree day, and lay out my clothes. I'll be sticking with polos and lightweight khakis from here on out so I don't sweat to death in wool. Usually I'd throw on the Secret Service look, since this job is more about looking useful than being useful, but it's too damned hot here.
I lock up my primary sidearm, too, and just carry my backup in an inside-the-waistband rig. I doubt I'll need even that, but old habits die hard. With my shades on, I head outside.
Vic called this assignment a cream puff, but let me be absolutely clear.
I hate the desert.
It pretty much hates me, too.
The kid is in his trailer. I should stop calling him that, since he's a grown-ass man and this entire setup is weird and ridiculous, but it's becoming an internal mental habit. On my way over, I stop by the cafeteria and grab a bottled protein drink. I don't want to eat too heavy. Sandy is already out of her trailer eating a croissant and reading An Actor Prepares by Constantin Stanislavsky.
“Good book?” I ask.
She grunts.
After downing my drink, I head over to the kid's trailer and pound on the door.
“What?” he yells through the metal.
“Reveille,” I shout back.
“Revlon?” he says.
“Reveille. It means get your ass out of bed.”
I hear him tumbling around in there for about five minutes before he opens the door, holding up his jeans by the button. Bleary-eyed, he looks like I woke him up at six in the morning.
The little silver spoon shit is gorgeously perfect. Usually that sexy just rolled out of bed look takes makeup and effort, but he actually gets it just by rolling out of bed. When he lets go of his pants to scrub his fingers through his hair, the waist droops almost down to the base of his damned cock and I want to get my mouth on him, run my tongue up that perfect twink stomach to his chest and back down again.
“What?” he says.
“It's time to get up, sunshine. Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey.”
“Oh fuck you,” he mutters, stumbling back into his trailer.
I follow him inside.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure you stay awake. Off the bed. Dress. Put on a freaking belt.”
“If you make me call you daddy, I'm out,” he mutters.
Fuck, I'm getting hard, and it's worse when he turns around and bends over the bed, practically offering his luscious ass to me. I fold my arms and look big and imposing and stare into the middle distance, trying to think of my grandma at the beach to strangle off the blood flow to the annoying weight between my legs.
He stands up and wriggles into a tight shirt. Watching the act of dressing turns me on even more. There's something weirdly intimate about it, both uncomfortable and alluring.
To get him on that bed…
Once he's dressed I step out. He tries to close the door, presumably to flop back in bed and go to sleep, but I push it open and half-drag him outside.
“Ease off,” he says.
I give him a little push. “You're not the one signing the checks, kid.”
“Don't call me kid.”
By the time we finally make it to the mess, the crew and other cast members are together and eating. Sandy looks up at Matt.
“What are you doing here?” she says.
“I work here.”
“At this hour? It's eight-thirty in the morning.”
“There shouldn't even be an eight-thirty in the morning,” Matt hisses.
I leave him to it and stand to post while they all eat. The shade is glorious. Out here it makes a real difference. With the shockingly dry air, eighty-five degrees is enough to make you shiver, and it's thirty degrees’ difference from light to shadow.
As Matt gets up, I shadow in behind him.
“You ready for this?” Sandy asks him.
“More table reading,” he sighs. “This is pointless. Have you read the script?”
“Honey, I don't think the guy who wrote it has read the script. Look at this,” she holds up the massive phone book-sized documents. “According to this, my character is part bee. What the fuck does that even mean?”
Matt bursts out laughing. I just roll my eyes.
Inside and out of the heat, I sit on a stool and try not to draw attention to myself as the actors go around the table reading out their parts. The director skips reading the stage directions and motions them to go faster if they take too long emoting, especially the stunt guy playing the baddie. Dude wants to take five minutes for every line. I never got what the phrase “chewing the scenery” meant until he started standing up and pacing.
“It's a table read, Jim,” Matt says, annoyed.
He looks up from his script.
“I have an announcement. In order to fully immerse myself in this role, I am going to employ the Method. Everyone is to call me Monstrothis at all times. Until this production ends, I am Monstrothis.”
I've never heard so many people groan so openly at the same time. Even the director gets in on it, plu
nging his face into his hand to rub at his closed eyes.
“That's great, Jim.”
“Monstrothis.”
“Please sit down.”
Matt is nearly asleep before he has a line. Sandy jabs him.
He clears his throat, loudly and theatrically. “Right. You'll never get away with this, Monstrothis.”
“Wrong page,” the director sighs.
He leans over for Sandy to show him where they are.
This goes on until lunch, at one in the afternoon. Then it goes on until dinner, at six in the evening. Then it goes on after that, until I want to start screaming.
I swear to God, I don't blame Matt for losing his spot. “You'll never get away with this,” is practically his catch phrase.
By nine o'clock, everyone is done.
“That was great, everybody. We'll start late tomorrow, at ten. We'll be doing makeup and wardrobe tests.”
Matt, visibly exhausted, slinks out of the tent, and I follow him.
“How much are you getting paid for this?”
“You'd be disgusted if I tell you,” I say.
He snorts. “Seriously.”
“Well, for just me? I don't see all of it, but my boss will be charging your mom sixteen grand a day.”
Matt almost trips over his own feet. “What? Are you serious?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “Why couldn't she have gone into charity or something? This is just—”
His mother strides across the sands, doing that iPhone sashay that is her trademark. She offers, and receives, an air kiss to Sandy before the former adult star stalks off, yawning and shivering in the Nevada desert night.
“How are things going, honey?”
“Mom, I think you're going a little overboard,” he says. “Also, did you know the script has this movie running over ten hours?”
“It does?” she says, mildly surprised. “Well, they fix that in post, right?”
Matt narrows his eyes. “Do you know what 'fix it in post' even means?”
She laughs cheerily. “Of course I do, sweetie. Aren't you excited? You're going to be a big star.”
Why is she talking to him like he's a six-year-old about to go on stage for the first grade talent show?
Before I can think on that too long, she turns to me.
“Is he behaving himself?”
“So far,” I grunt.
“Well, don't let anything happen to him! I need to go talk to Nick.”
She brushes past us, and Matt makes a motion to hit her in the back of the head with his rolled-up script.
As we walk up to his trailer, he sighs.
“You know what makes me feel bad? Some of these people are like, serious. Jim the Monstrothis dude thinks he's going to become a legit actor off the back of this, and Sandy sounds pretty desperate.”
“They're at least getting paid,” I say, then bite it off before I add more. “Nevermind.”
“Nah, it's alright,” Matt says. “I'm not going to rat you out. I can just see Nick seething with lust to tell my mom how fucking stupid this is.”
“What's his story?”
Matt shrugs.
“There's worse places to be,” I say. “And they get paid.”
“Yeah. Still feels like this is my fault.”
I glance at him. “How so?”
“I started working on a script when I was twelve,” he admits, scratching the back of his head. “I kind of did want to be in movies, but as a writer, you know?”
“Why didn't she have you do a script, then?”
He snorts. “Because she doesn't think about what other people want, man. She thinks about what she thinks other people want. It's like she can't get that other people aren't extensions of her. If you tell her an opinion she doesn't want to hear, she'll tell you you're wrong, but that's not the worst part. It won't be a 'fuck you' for disagreeing, it'll be a 'fuck you' for challenging her idea that she can read your mind.”
I walk a few paces beside him.
“Is that a metaphor or does she think she's psychic?”
“See how you had to ask?” Matt says. “That right there is the problem, big man.”
We're at his trailer. I stop at the foot of the short staircase while he grunts out his exhaustion and fumbles with the lock.
“You're off duty,” he says as he slips inside.
The lights click on and I turn, freezing in the path between trailers. When he turns on the light, it turns the drapes in the trailer transparent and I can see him. The very first thing he does is turn his back to me, bend, and shove his jeans down, then stand up and arch, flexing that beautiful ass and those magnificent legs of his. Then he wriggles out of his shirt, dragging it over his head.
Shamed like a peeping schoolboy, I turn hard and march back to my own trailer, my woody bouncing furiously in my pants. I slam the door, shut off the lights, and strip in the dark. It's freezing in here, but I prime a cold shower anyway.
It doesn't matter. When I look down my cock rages, arched up almost painfully, so strained with need that it sticks straight up and bounces against my belly despite its weight. The cold water does nothing.
I jerk off angrily, trying not to think of Matt, succeeding only in picturing that sweet, sweet ass swallowing my cock as he moans in pleasured pain, shuddering as—
“Fuck!” I shout, shocked by my own orgasm. I rocked the damn trailer.
After I clean up, I throw myself into bed, still bare-assed.
I've run miles with a loaded ruck in desert heat, dug a sleeping hole, then got up and done it all again. My record was four days without sleep, moving from desert to an MRAP to a chopper and off again, all without real rest.
Yet, I'm exhausted from sitting around a hut in the desert listening to a bunch of dorks read the worst script ever and a quick jerk. I'm going soft.
Well, mostly. The most annoying part of my anatomy right now doesn't have “soft” on its mind, and it does seem to have a mind of its own. I roll over onto my back and the general stands at attention. I'm horny, that deep down, bone aching, I-can-feel-my-balls-clenching horny, the kind that is not going to be satisfied completely until I thrust into another human being. Hard.
I can't touch the little rich prick, and it's driving me insane.
This time I set my alarm for five.
When it goes off, I run out my morning wood with a run in the desert, past the edge of camp. The crunch of sand and gravel under my feet is old times, and the concentration required not to tumble down a defile or stick my foot in a sinkhole and bust my ankle is enough to keep me from thinking about Matt's ass and his gorgeous face and soft inviting lips and how fucking fantastic they'd feel wrapped around my shaft.
Fuck!
I'm back before the sun is up, shower, and decide to do a “security check,” patrolling the camp.
The makeup and wardrobe tent is set up off to the side of the camp. When I walk up, at about nine-thirty, Sandy is standing outside.
She's wearing a black and yellow striped metal bikini, high-heeled strappy sandals, and has plastic wings glued to her back.
“You want to know the worst part?” she says, between drags on a cigarette. “Seriously? The script says I have stingers in my wrist. Bees don't sting with their fucking wrists. The stinger is in the ass, and the bee dies after they use it.”
“Do you die after you use yours in the movie?” I ask.
“Fuck if I know, who's read the script?”
I leave her to it and go to fetch Matt from his trailer.
“It's not ten,” he shouts as I pound on the door.
“It's close enough. The later you come out, the earlier you get done.”
“You say that like it matters,” he yells.
“You better come out, or I'll huff and puff,” I say, hammering the door with a heel-handed cop knock.
“Alright, alright,” he shouts. “Give me a minute to shower.”
I sit on the steps until h
e opens the door and comes out, shivering as the desert sucks the water from his hair. As he shakes and shivers in front of me, back turned, I reflect on how much I would like to feel my cock buried in his ass to the root, grab him and jerk him, and bite the back of his damned neck like a lion in heat, all at the same time.
He turns back. “What?”
“You ready for another day's work in paradise?” I say, channeling a little of one of my old CO's.
“What?”
“Every day in the Corps is a vacation, every deployment a paradise, every meal a feast.”
“Whatever, man,” he mutters, wandering off to breakfast. Brunch. Whatever.
It's ten-thirty by the time he graces the wardrobe and makeup tent with his presence.
He looks over Sandy as he enters the tent. She's arguing loudly with one of the makeup guys.
“You are not covering my entire body in paint!” she bellows, stamping her feet and clenching her fists. “It's a hundred and ten fucking degrees outside. I'll fucking die.”
“Honey, honey, that's my artistic vision you're trashing,” the screenwriter says, brandishing his script at her.
She rounds on him. “Okay then, let's see you drop trow, have this asshole paint you up like a bee, and go jiggle your tits out in the desert sun and we'll see how long you last. Shit, yours are bigger than mine.”
“Hey,” I say. “Why don't we tone it down a notch.”
Sandy looks at me and folds her arms, mashing her cleavage together again. She has a hard, sarcastic edge, but she's almost on the verge of tears.
“The fuckin talent,” Maury says. “Why are you even here? I told Margot I wanted an actress, not a fluffer.”
Sandy rears back to throw a punch, but Matt grabs her wrist.
“Okay, okay,” he says, stepping between them. “Let's just simmer down, see what Nick says. Maury, get a grip on yourself, man. You're arguing with her about painting her to look like a bee. This isn't Citizen Kane.”
“How dare you—”