Boys of Vice City

by Zack

  There was a scramble from the next stall and the door of Gil’s own cubicle flew open. Italian locks are no guarantee of privacy, Gil thought randomly. The older man, still fully clothed, stood in the opening and glared down at Gil. Slowly, as the evidence of his eyes told him the story, a smile spread across his face.

  “You enjoy, Americano!” he laughed.

  Gil got to his feet, embarrassment written in his expression. Behind the man the thin kid appeared, still pulling his cord pants up. He peered around the man curiously and grinned broadly when he saw Gil’s cock, still hard, poking up from the unzipped denims.

  “C’mere,” the Italian stagehand demanded, reaching out and grabbing Gil roughly by the shoulder. He pulled Gil out into the washroom area and made him lie down on the lone wooden bench. Gil tried to protest but the skinny kid grabbed him from behind, forcing him down on his back with surprising strength. As he went down the older guy yanked the denim shorts from under Gil’s ass and threw them aside. He forced the American’s legs apart, holding him under the knees so that Gil’s legs were pulled up into the air and over the Italian’s shoulders.

  Gil struggled to get free but found himself pinioned to the narrow bench as the Italian kid held his arms and knelt on his shoulders, bent over him, and began kissing his mouth. Both man and boy, between mouth slurps, were laughing as though it was all a great joke. Gil was now lying on the bench only on his shoulder blades, the rest of his body helplessly jack-knifed over the Italian stagehand’s broad thighs.

  The man swiftly unbuttoned his overalls and pulled out a fat dick which rapidly grew stiff as he worked at it with one hand while hanging onto one of Gil’s legs with the other. Gil fought with the kid to free his hands and prevent what was about to happen, but the boy merely chuckled and bent over to kiss Gil’s mouth. Gil tried to avoid it and shook his head aside, but the boy giggled and pursued the contact, slipping his tongue between Gil’s lips. Gradually Gil calmed down, beginning to enjoy it. The kid’s tongue worked deeper in, getting more passionate. Gil tentatively responded, pushing his tongue back up until it was right inside the kid’s mouth, rubbing against the sharp little canine teeth.

  While this was going on the other Italian had got his dick nice and hard. It was thick and dark, like the rest of his body, a powerfully chunky weapon. He eased himself down onto the bench, sliding his hands down Gil’s body. Then he entered Gil, making the American grunt with pain. When he was fully in he stood up again, pulling Gil’s body further up off the bench. Gil felt himself rise, the fat cock meat still in him, its pulsing thickness very evident. The Italian began to fuck him in long rhythmic strokes.

  Gil was really getting off on this double attention. The Italian kid was still kissing him but understood he no longer needed to restrain his victim and hold Gil’s arms to keep him still. His hands freed, Gil reached around above his head and began to give the kid’s cock a good feeling. It was still semi-hard from its previous orgasm, but it soon stiffened nicely under Gil’s fingers and he could feel its spiky length pushing against his pants. The boy groaned and Gil felt rather than heard the passion in the sound because the boy’s tongue was deep into his throat. And Gil could feel the man’s meat pummeling the inner passages of his asshole, a luscious hot pushing and withdrawing and pushing again.

  The kid pulled away from Gil’s fondling but only to undo his pants and slip them off. Then he knelt down at the end of the bench and took Gil by the shoulders, pulling him along. The other guy paused in his fucking and slipped out of Gil to help slide him along. Gil’s head which had been supported on the bench, came over the end and hung down. The kid grunted his satisfaction and the man resumed his fuck, only working harder and faster now that the pre-cum fluids had thoroughly lubricated Gil’s ass.

  The kid cupped Gil’s head gently, bending it further down. In this upside down position and eyes almost closed as he endured such ectsasy, vision blurred and bouncy anyway from the jostling as the stagehand’s hips slammed into his ass, Gil sensed more than saw the Italian boy take his shaft in one hand. Still holding Gil’s head with the other, the kid gave the cock long, leisurely strokes to get it to optimum hardness. Esophageal ripples followed each stroke along the eleven-inch rod. The arrow-head was only inches from Gil’s face. As he watched, a dribble of juice appeared at the tip and ran down in the V-shaped valley between the two purple lobes. Gil swallowed wetly and licked his lips. The stagehand’s ravaging thrusts into his now slick and hungry hole made him achingly hard and desperate to shoot.

  Very slowly and very sensuously the Italian kid knelt up off his haunches, still wanking himself. Gil had to put his hands down to the floor to support his straining back. The cock got closer until the kid was almost kneeling upright. Gently he rubbed its sweet tasting tip against Gil’s wet lips, neatly matching every violent jerk of the American’s bouncing head, letting the juice moisten them further. Then he inserted the cockhead between Gil’s lips, which parted eagerly to let the entire dick in. But the Italian was an expert despite his young years and he wasn’t quite ready to go the whole way in. For two minutes he teased Gil, letting him only lick and kiss the tip. Then he stopped pulling himself and took Gil in a firm grip under the chin with both hands. Pushing down and at the same time kneeling forward, he shoved inch after inch of solid flesh into Gil’s mouth. Gil nearly choked until he discovered that in this unusual position he could breathe easily through his nose.

  The tip of the cock touched the back of his mouth and the kid paused, slowly swaying and giving Gil a delicious tickling at the top of his throat. The ass-pounding caused his gullet to clench and tease the boy’s cockhead. From his upside down position the shaft of the boy’s weapon was just above his upturned eyes. He could see the pulsing veins and at the same time feel it in his mouth. From so close it appeared massive. Only half of it was in him. The tightening balls danced in their scrotal bag. Then the kid leaned forward again, terrifying Gil that the cock would go right down his throat—which was exactly what happened.

  He felt its fleshy thrust as his mouth widened to swallow the thicker root of the kid’s dick. The boy’s balls banged against the tip of Gil’s nose. The Italian straightened Gil’s throat, the better to get the last quarter of an inch inside him. Gil could not believe it. All eleven inches of cum-drooling teen cock were down his throat. The boy started to fuck his face, softly at first but increasing the tempo until the head of his cock was almost back into Gil’s mouth before thrusting it down the tight passage of his gullet again.

  This rhythm combined with the man fucking his ass brought Gil to a height of unfulfilled agony. As though he read Gil’s mind, the man grasped Gil’s waving tool and began rubbing it. The fuck really got into overdrive now, with all three writhing and groaning in their ecstasy. Gil began to fear his back would snap from the strain he was suffering.

  The kid was the first to let fly and although it was his second in only a few minutes the power of the surge was hardly lessened. He pulled back so that his cockhead remained in the mouth below and doubled over Gil’s face, deliberately watching Gil feed on his hot cum. His skinny body convulsed with the exertion. He reached out to support himself by one hand pressed firmly on Gil’s chest, communicating by the shuddering pressure the power of his orgasm. That, and his choked grunts of pleasure enraptured Gil. The sight, sound, and taste of the kid coming brought him to the brink. The sweet-tasting jizz was thin and copious and, as jerk followed jerk, Gil’s mouth couldn’t hold it all. A mixture of saliva and cum trickled from between his lips and the shafting cock. The smooth and slippery globes of the cockhead rubbed against Gil’s tongue as the last jets of cum ran out over its tip. The kid pulled out of him and Gil’s head fell back with exhaustion, jism trailing stickily from his lips. The kid bent down, kissing Gil and licking at his own stuff with obvious relish. Gil was gasping uncontrollably and still shaking with the violence of the other Italian. He could hear the man’s
grunts as he fucked and fucked him. Then he whipped his meaty cock out and leaning over Gil shot his load over the boy’s prone chest. The heavy drops splashed into Gil’s navel and finally Gil could hold off no longer. His own cock shot a frustrated stream into the air. Some of it caught the Italian man in the face and shouting gleefully he finished his own orgasm while going down hard on Gil and swallowing every thick jet.

  It took all three of them a few minutes to recover after these exertions. The man went out first without a backward look, but the Italian kid hung around as Gil dressed himself and washed his face off. As he was combing his hair in the mirror, the kid slipped his hands round Gil’s waist in a tender embrace. In a rush of affection Gil ruffled the boy’s lank hair.

  “You buy present, Americano?” the boy lisped in poor English.

  Gil laughed. “Why do I want to do that?”

  “Americanos, all rich. You buy me present. I give you plenty good times at night. I find other boys who do it good.”

  “No thanks,” Gil said, putting his comb away.

  “All the other men buy me presents when I do for them.”

  “I was under the impression I did for you. Well, we’ll see. Perhaps another day.” He shook the kid off and strolled out of the rest rooms and back to the production office. When he entered Mike was there.

  “Where the hell have you been? Mitchener’s been looking for you everywhere.”

  “Who?” For a moment Gil looked perplexed.

  “The director!”

  “Oh. For me! I didn’t even know he knew me. Shit. I’d better get in there.”

  Mike gave a short laugh and walked up to Gil, reaching out a hand and wiping at some mark on Gil’s T-shirt. “Whoops, what’s this? You been splashing soap over yourself, or…you been doing naughty things behind my back?”

  Gil shuffled uncomfortably. “Whadya mean?”

  Mike grinned and shook his head. “Watch out for those Eye-ties, they expect to get something for services rendered.”

  Gil looked up furiously. “I’m not like that.”

  Mike turned to leave and under lowered eyelashes said, “Pity, I thought perhaps you were.”

  Gil stood alone a moment, feeling confused but certain deep down that the English boy was interested in him.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Balling Buddies

  The film’s director, Kennith J. Mitchener, was a forty-five year old veteran. After a hard apprenticeship in M.G.M. he had moved to Universal, churning out hundreds of television specials and series. It had been James Rosen who gave him the big break in his career. Rumors abounded as to why but the most popular was that Mitchener provided Rosen with a line of hunky young men. Television series literally eat up young hopefuls in the guise of guest-star roles, and Mitchener was well placed to get his hands on the ones Rosen fancied. The favorite bit of gossip concerned the procurement of a certain young actor who caused hearts to throb every week in his role as the eldest son to a family of mountain-dwellers living through the Depression.

  Since Rosen was committed to a line of financing in Europe, it was to Rome that Mitchener had been sent for his first feature for the producer. The film was a modest box office success and acted as a passport to Rome’s decadent film society, presided over by the gay auteur Pier Paolo Pasolini. The present film was Mitchener’s fifth for Rosen and purported to be an exposé of Fascist crimes in Rome during the Second World War, but in fact it appeared to Gil, from reading bits of the script, to be more concerned with the private sex lives of the ruling Fascists and their lackeys. Homosexuality came high on the list.

  The camera crew seemed to be the central post office for the collection and dissemination of unit gossip, so Gil, who spent a lot of time hanging around them, heard most of the stuff straight from the grapevine. It didn’t take him long to learn of Mitchener’s fabled “parties,” which were held every couple of months or so. As a reward for good work, odd members of the crew were invited to attend from time to time, and the tales they had to tell caused constant ripples of interest to run through the unit.

  “Have you ever been to one?” Gil asked Jeff during a pause in shooting for lunch one day.

  “Not this time,” Jeff replied, as he lit up a Muratti.

  “Two years back I was a clappers-loader on Midnight Story, which Kennith did, and I went to a couple-a his parties.”

  “Were they as bad as they say?” Gil asked, trying to prevent the interest he felt from showing in his voice.

  Jeff laughed mildly. “Nothing’s ever as bad as a film crew will make it sound in the retelling. But they were, well…different, I guess.”

  “They say he’s gotten worse in two years.”

  “They do say that,” Jeff said in mock amusement. “You ought to ask Harry. He’s the only privileged person on this film.” And Jeff nudged Harry’s arm.

  Harry was drinking his coffee and chatting with the second camera operator, a dark thick-set guy called Steve. Gil hadn’t talked much with him. He tended to keep to himself, communicating mostly in monosyllables. In a way he reminded Gil of a younger Harry, same kind of grizzled appearance only with a well-clipped beard and a passion for black leather, which the Roman heat made largely impractical. Harry turned and gave Jeff a quizzical look.

  “Young Gil here’s wanting to know what Kennith’s parties are like, and I told him you were the only one of us to have been lately.”

  Harry grimaced at Gil. “Don’t ask what you don’t want to know about.”

  “What does that mean?” Gil said with an aggrieved tone.

  “Means you wouldn’t want to know, son. Especially when the Big Man’s in town, there are those who have gone to a Mitchen-orge and never lived to tell the tale.”

  Gil scowled at Harry and glanced at Jeff for assurance.

  He couldn’t quite tell whether Harry was putting him on or not. “Who?”

  “Oh, no one from a crew. Kennith’s not that stupid to feed Mr. Rosen another American, but if you haven’t yet noticed, this city’s full of randy and money-greedy youths who’ll put out for any American, especially if he’s well off, a film producer, and a friend of Pasolini, and most of them don’t have proper homes to miss them if they just never turn up again. Mitchener’s job is to handle the cleanup.”

  “Who’s this Pasolini guy everyone keeps talking about?” Gil asked.

  Harry sighed briefly. “Thought you young cineastes were supposed to know your film history. Strange guy, a communist poet turned movie-maker. He made several pictures, usually with a bit of faggot-ness about them and each a bit gayer than the one before. Then two years ago he got murdered by a casual pick-up. It was only a kid, but these Roman brats have a lotta street sense. They can be vicious. Twenty dollars is a lotta bread to them and they know the cops will say the guy was a fag so it was his own fault.”

  “And that’s the sort of person Mr. Mitchener and Mr. Rosen pick up for the parties?”

  “Some, just to liven things up a bit. You don’t wanta go to one of his things, kid. If you get lonesome anytime, just give old Harry’s door a knock,” he said, pinching Gil’s butt playfully and winking at Jeff.

  Gil smiled and pulled away.

  Harry gave a gust of laughter. “Oh, I forgot. You don’t do that sort of thing.” And he turned away to resume his conversation with Steve, still chuckling to himself.

  Ten minutes later the first assistant director’s voice could be heard shouting that everyone should be back on set. Gil’s first job of the afternoon was to go and fetch Emmanuelle Lai from her private dressing room. The female lead in the film was as awkward a bitch as it was possible to imagine. She had already tried to lay Gil twice, which he wouldn’t have minded were it not for the stink of sour whiskey on her breath fighting for supremacy with the garlic she consum
ed in absolutely terrifying quantities. Her renowned sexual drive was only matched by her famed inability to complete due to inebriation. On the other hand, sober she was simply impossible to handle. Her reputation, based on two phenomenally successful soft-core sex movies, had more than gone to her head, and drunk she couldn’t stand up on the set. Mitchener’s strategy was to get her high enough to be malleable, then shoot as fast as possible while she took ounce-sized nips between takes, and get through with her before she keeled over.

  Born Ester Bunt in Peoria, Illinois, she had spent money on a fake French education and acted most of the time with a phoney French accent. “Acted” wasn’t quite the word. Emmanuelle Lai was terrible, but as soon as she reached optimum intake of booze she could wiggle her tits and fanny like no one else. She was superstar material: totally dumb and great in the dailies. Everyone hated her with a profound passion, especially her private secretary, whom she reduced to tears almost daily. The production had had to pay for a brand new I.B.M. golfball electric typewriter for the secretary, as well as pay the secretary’s salary and hotel bills. They were already on their third typewriter, the other two having suffered demise at Emmanuelle’s hands. The first got chucked out the dressing room window during a slanging match with Mitchener; Emmanuelle was nothing if not strong when in her cups. The second was dumped, still plugged in, into the bath after the secretary was discovered using white-out on a top copy of Emmanuelle’s autobiography. One of the unit sparks nearly got electrocuted when he reached into the half-full bath to retrieve the machine.