Boys of the Fast Lane

by Zack

  Gil assumed he meant the shirt, but wasn’t sure. The light pressure of Hassan’s hand on his hip was getting him hard and somehow he knew the boy knew this too. Illias simply fixed him with a bright blue stare, and then to match his friend, laid a hand on the nearest of Mike’s knees.

  “We must … how you say, tea? Mint tea, we must get now, then eat. What room?”

  Mike’s imperceptible negative head shake warned Gil off saying anything.

  Illias turned his chin up and looked appealingly at Mike. “Vous me donnez belle chemise?”

  “He mean, we come see you later, for you give us a shirt?” Hassan elaborated. He let his fingers play a light tarantella over the edge of Gil’s hip bone, almost into the dip of the groin. When Mike raised one eyebrow in surrender, Gil gave in too.

  “Three-three-six.”

  “Ah, this block?” Hassan pointed to the correct wing, and Gil nodded.

  “This isn’t a great idea, is it?” Mike, sat on the edge of his bed, chewed a fingernail and glanced up at Gil. Gil didn’t seem so concerned about the thought of their entertaining two local boys in their room. Part of him worried about what the hotel staff might think, if they found out; part nibbled at the thought that the boys were not trustworthy. “After all, what do we know about them?”

  Gil frowned at him. “It’s not like you, Mikey. You’re usually the adventurous one and I’m the cautious fumbler.” He came and sat on his bed, facing Mike across the narrow intervening space so their knee caps bumped together. “Still, you might be right. We can always turn them away… that’s if they turn up at all.”

  Mike huffed a laughing breath. “Worry-pants Smith. Shame to miss out on a bit of Moroccan ass.”

  “I bet they don’t let us screw them, probably want to fuck us.”

  Mike looked out above Gil’s shoulder at the darkened window and got up to close the curtains. At that moment there came a light tapping at the door. Gil drew in a breath and said he’d get it. As Mike pulled the second curtain across, he saw Gil open the door reflected in the window and heard his intake of breath. He turned to see young Hassan, now neatly attired in pressed jeans and a button up shirt, push past Gil, followed by two complete strangers, one quite young, the other a bit older, and then Illias, also neatly dressed.

  “Well …” Gil said. He shut the door quickly once Illias was in the entryway to the main room space.

  Mike turned to smile uncertainly. Hassan pushed toward him. “Bon soir, Meek. This Kamal and Youssef.”

  “Ah, hi …” He saw Gil’s wide-eyed stare of helplessness beyond the four boys.

  “Kamal, he twenty-one,” Hassan continued.

  “And I speak Inglish well,” Kamal boasted as he threw himself onto Gil’s bed as though he owned it and leaned up against the headboard. Hanks of black hair tumbled like dyed sheep’s wool over his brow and ears.

  “Youssef is no experience,” Hassan said, pulling the boy in front against his chest as though presenting him. Youssef smiled nervously, glancing up at Hassan and back at Mike. He thought the boy didn’t understand English. “He like to learn.” Hassan didn’t elaborate on what his lack might be, nor what he expected to discover. Youssef looked around the hotel room curiously, and then went to sit close to Kamal. Gil followed Illias into the main room space. Illias sidled up and possessively took Mike by the hand. As the only unoccupied space. Mike sat on the edge of his own bed and Illias promptly followed suit. Hassan rather cleverly corraled Gil up against the corner of the bathroom wall. He looked vaguely concerned at his isolation.

  “I am working on the roads,” Kamal suddenly announced. Mike looked across at his handsome face expectantly. “You will let me have a shower?”

  “Erm, yeah, why not …”

  Without more ado, Kamal stood, toed off his ragged sneakers, tugged off his shirt, unzipped his jeans and shucked them off, and stretched his hands toward the low ceiling so that his light musculature bunched enticingly and his skimpy underwear made a pronounced bulge in the front. Mike saw immediately from their broad grins that Hassan and Illias were complicit in this brazen display of sexuality. Kamal’s return smile showed off a powerful set of very white teeth, upper parted from lower enough to reveal the moist tip of his tongue. He shook his head like a catwalk model so his ebony locks flew. As he passed Hassan on the way into the bathroom, he patted Gil on the bottom, and winked. “I shower, then … there is fun.”

  Youssef seemed a little forlorn without the towering presence of Kamal and kept throwing glances at the wall behind which the shower soughed loudly. It looked as though the kid was admiring the sweepingly facile painting of an Arab dhow, which bounced a bit whenever Kamal’s elbow or butt banged against the tiled other side. Mike was burningly aware of how Illias leaned against him, the boy’s hand pressed high up on his thigh, and his fingers playing under the hem of Mike’s shorts. Gil and Hassan appeared to be in some kind of staring match and Mike could see the intensity of sexual longing the Moroccan youth radiated from his dark eyeballs reflected in the hall mirror.

  The shower shut off. A moment later the door clicked open and Kamal emerged, glistening and still dripping, a large towel held around his waist, from which a cock-shaped bump tented the front. He tucked an end of the towel in at the waist to secure it with a broad, almost predatory smile at Gil. “Come. You want this boy, no? I help.”

  Hassan giggled as Kamal proceeded to strip the youth’s neat jacket off and yank the shirt tails from his jeans. Reaching around half-stripped Hassan, he captured Gil’s hands and led them to the boy’s fly. As though in a dream, Gil began unzipping. Kamal looked back at Mike and jerked his head.

  Mike felt the power of Kamal’s mesmerising personality and the aroma of eroticism in the air as though he’d come from the bathroom with an aerosol of canned man-sex. And he felt the seductive pressure of Illias’s hand pressing down on his growing erection.

  Kamal helped Gil strip Hassan completely naked. On Gil’s bed, huddled up against the headboard, Youssef stared with wide open eyes at the sight. Kamal grinned and walked back between the beds to sweep Youssef into his arms as he hunkered down beside the boy. He smiled across at Mike. “Come on now. Illias, he like to get sucked, like Hassan.”

  As though instructed, Illias stood in a loose-limbed sexy pose facing Mike and began a striptease. He pouted his red lips seductively in his pale-skinned face—though becomingly flushed at the cheeks—and flicked the straight fringe of fair hair from his blue eyes. Across the way—behind swaying, jeans-peeling Illias—Kamal pulled Hassan down onto Gil’s bed. The Moroccan boy stretched out languorously, head and shoulders propped on Kamal’s naked thigh, while Gil fell between the boy’s legs. Mike saw Hassan’s hard cock disappear between his lover’s lips. And then Illias was pressing up hard against him, and they rolled back together on his own bed. There was something intensely arousing as Kamal’s role of whoremaster became apparent. He reached out his hands to both parties to stroke exposed skin and heads, all the while holding a wriggling Youssef tightly corralled to his chest.

  In a quick, brutal movement, Kamal reached across Hassan and partly stripped Gil from his shorts. The sight of his lover’s bared butt rising and falling in rhythm with Gil’s mouth movements up and down Hassan’s dusky dick acted as a big turn-on for Mike. Illias’s fat dick jabbed at him and fitted neatly into his grip as he desperately tore at his own shorts and briefs to get them out of the way. He spat on his fingers and thumbed saliva over the Moroccan boy’s neatly circumcised cock, back and forth. Illias threw back his head and moaned quietly in Mike’s ear.

  “You like?” Mike breathed back.

  Illias had less English than his friend, Mike knew, but he seemed to understand. “Oh, oui, oui … yes.”

  A quick glance across at the other bed and Mike saw Gil licking his way down Hassan’s lithe body as Kamal tortured the boy’s right nipple. Still contained within the arc of Kamal’s free arm, Youssef was having a go at Hassan’s other nipple.

 
Mike returned his gaze to the fair-haired youth now stretched naked beneath him and gasped when Illias took hold of his cock and began to rub him up and down. Just like a delicious dessert … I want to run my hands all over the silky smooth skin and lick every bit of him.

  And Mike did. First he attacked his bunched nipples, hard tumulus mounds in dark brown aureoles against fair skin. Illias gasped as Mike nipped the rounded tips in turn. Then he licked his way over the top of Illias’s left pectoral and dipped down into the boy’s hairless armpit. Instinctively, Illias raised his arm to allow Mike’s tongue and lips better access.

  Again Mike risked a glance over to where Gil was hunched over Hassan’s straining torso. Illias looked across too and his eyes went round in a picture of suppressed excitement and surprise at the sight of his friend’s hard cock slipping in and out between Gil’s busy lips. He turned back, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Do same, you?”

  For an answer, Mike reached down and fingered the boy’s incredibly hard erection. “Relax. Let me show you.”

  The sounds of Gil’s sloshy guzzling and Hassan’s sharp, harsh breaths heightened Mike’s desire to take Illias in his mouth and suck the cum from his gathered balls. Kamal’s fingers played a light dance over the back of his neck and when he stopped Mike became aware of Youssef’s scrutiny. The kid had slid to the carpet and now kneeled close to where Mike wiped his tongue down over Illias’s sternum, onto the flat, gently heaving belly, and up over the bell-end of his cock. From the tail of his eye, Mike could see Youssef’s fascinated stare, his eyes following each tongue lick with the intensity of a chess player working out his next move. The boy’s mouth fell open and worked slightly, as though he were short of breath.

  Illias’s cock jerked convulsively at the touch of Mike’s drooling tongue. He ran the wet tip down the twitching length of the shaft to the taut scrotum, and then back up again to mash the head down onto Illias’s stomach. The Moroccan boy tossed his hips from side to side and his first moans mingled with Hassan’s … and Youssef’s. The kid’s forehead was almost pressed against Mike’s. Around it Mike caught sight of Gil looking back. He gave a salacious wink without stopping from doing Hassan really hard. Mike grinned back around a mouthful of rock-hard cock and it became a competition to see who could bring off his boy first. All the while, Kamal’s breathy race commentary added an incredibly erotic overtone.

  Mike wriggled around and forced Illias’s legs wide apart so he could kneel between them. Youssef leaned hard over Illias, all the while watching intensely what Mike’s hands were doing. His little tongue flickered over his full lips. Oh ho, he wants a taste of Illias as well.

  Mike hefted Illias’s butt up off the bed onto his thighs, which arched the Morrocan’s middle high up and at the apex jutted his cock like a tower on a hill, which gave Mike so much more to swallow. He slid it across his flattened tongue until the flaring crown slipped into his throat and Mike’s squeezing lips reached down to the root. And here, at last, Youssef pushed in, sticking his tongue out as far as it would go to lick with panting excitement at the saliva-slicked join of Mike’s lips on Illias’s shaft. This intrusion went straight to Mike’s dick.

  By forcing his tongue out between his lower lip and Illias’s smooth but rigid cock, Mike managed to lap at the top of the boy’s balls. As he pulled back, Youssef took over like a frantic puppy with a doggie-treat. Illias jigged up and down on the bed in almost perfect rhythm with Hassan across the gap, whose head was forced back so far into Kamal’s lap his Adam’s apple stuck up and jerked with every stertorous breath as Gil brought him to the edge of the sexual precipice.

  Gil’s head jackhammered up and down and his saliva glistened on Hassan’s slight pubic hair. Illias had hardly any, but it was also wet from Mike and Youssef’s busy mouths.

  Illias began to moan and squeeze out words in incomprehensible Arabic as Mike heard Hassan jerk out, “Suce-moi … plus fort …”

  Kamal gasped a laugh. “S–suck his thing harder, he ask … ahh …”

  Mike saw Kamal lift Hassan’s head so he would see himself unload inside Gil.

  The race was on. Gil was going at it furiously. Mike gave Illias all his tongue at the sensitive slit of his cock and hard lip squeezes down and back up, as fast as he could, while Youssef tongued as furiously at every glistening inch of Illias’s dick revealed by Mike’s parting lips. The boy bucked against every move, his hands scrabbled in Mike’s hair. And then Mike heard Hassan’s long strangled groan and Gil’s gulping.

  Damn! He’s won. By a second.

  Illias shuddered convulsively on the bed and a jet of hot cream filled Mike’s mouth. He gripped the root hard and kept the cock head in his mouth to lash his tongue tip over the flooding cum slot as Illias thrashed about helplessly, his upper torso strained up. Illias met every greedy swallow with another powerful jet of cum, sweet and with an exotic cinnamon flavor. Mike took pity on poor, frantic Youssef and allowed a trickle of hot, white sperm out from between his lips. The boy was on it in a trice, blowing hard through his nose as he sucked up what he could.

  Illias slowed. A last hard jerk and then the soft outflow of aftermath. He relaxed his hold on Mike’s hair, and Mike matched the rhythm and gently polished him off. Kamal got out from under Hassan, who collapsed back, exhausted, with a faint, “Oh, merci.”

  Mike licked his lips and sat back on aching haunches. He turned and smiled at Gil. “You look like the cat that got the cream, ol’ ballin buddy.”

  Gil grinned happily, licked his lips as well. “I did. Oh, I did.”

  “Lie back!” Kamal commanded, indicating that they should roll over. Now it was Illias holding up Mike and Hassan doing the same for Gil. Kamal knelt between the beds and reached out with both hands to grip their erections. After the burning excitement of the past few minutes it didn’t take long for him to jerk them off. This time Mike won by a hair’s breadth. As his spunk flew, Youssef dipped his head down eagerly and greedily licked at the stuff as it pooled on Mike’s chest and belly.

  He lay back damply, as satiated as Illias, and let Youssef continue cleaning him up like a hungry kitten. He was only vaguely aware of Kamal rummaging at the chest of drawers.

  “Mmmm. Very nice shirts. And Nike trainers too. They are real, no …?”

  * * *

  As they staggered with the heavy roll of carpet up the steps to the aircraft’s rear doorway, the British Caledonian stewardess fixed them with a grim stare that spoke volumes of how many times she must have had to cope with idiot passengers.

  Since he was at the front, it was Mike’s responsibility to smile his apology as charmingly as he could. “It was our rep—you know, your guy on the ground. He said we couldn’t check it in as hold baggage because it would never reach the aircraft. They go missing, apparently …”

  He trailed off as she managed a tiny smile, the sort reserved by asylum nurses for their near-normal charges. “I just wish ‘our guy on the ground’ would stop taking damnfool tourists to the carpet factories.” She sighed. “Well, we’re not actually packed out this afternoon, gentlemen, so I suppose I can find your friend a spare seat and strap him in. Just park him here for a minute and find your seats.”

  Gil nodded gratefully as he lowered his end of the roll and went to follow Mike along the aisle.

  “Thanks,” Mike said to her

  “I’m surprised,” she added with some asperity, “you felt able to turn down the camel.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  All TooWilling

  Mike didn’t even bother repressing the shudder of anticipation that entering Pinewood’s R-Stage always caused. He was on his third week and the atmosphere, the scale, the massive lighting rigs overhead in the thirty-five foot high stage, the damp smell of fresh plaster on fiberboard and the tang of water in the central tank, and the clatter and banging of final preparations on the complex set always got to him.

  The second shiver of excitement felt like an old friend, occasioned by the magnificence of the set, the way fr
om one angle it was clearly all fake—scaffolding and timber-frame supports—from the other a dark, dank, dripping forest clearing with a stagnant pool at its middle. At the other side of the clearing a footing of the castle towering above (and way above the actual height of the sound stage) thrust out from the parasite-hung trees. From up above came the cheery shouted insults and commands of the sparks. Mike craned up, always thrilled at the sight of the electricians clambering like giant monkeys through their own forest of beams, cradles, and supports

  The detail each department went into, from weapons to greens, pleased Mike’s sense of order. When the director informed him that as a part of his function he’d be looking after small props, such as door keys—there were a lot of different keys in this production, from intricately small ones to giants it took two to hold—he had marveled at the process. He watched in fascination as one of the many model makers showed him how they were cast from impressions of sculpted maquettes pressed into modeling clay. “I shall have to remember to bring all my house keys in so you can make me some spares.”

  “Sure.” The model maker winked and nudged Mike’s ribs. “Mates’ rates.”

  He consulted his time notes. The director wanted Nathan out on set no later than eight. There were six different camera set-ups to get through this morning, involving as many as forty-eight separate sequences. Give it an average of five takes per, that was—Mike did a quick mental calculation—about two hundred and forty times the clapper board would slam down before lunch. Mike didn’t think they would get anywhere near as far as that, even though Wolfgang Henze was a director with a reputation for super-fast shooting.

  Nathan Cliffe could be a bit of a cunt at times, although, to be fair to the kid, he worked hard on set and generally did as he was told when out there. But that was mostly down to the power Henze had over Nathan. The enfant terrible of West German arty cinema seemed the only person who could control the young actor. Those in the know muttered that the German might knock off works of impenetrable density, but helming the biggest-budget movie of the decade would be his downfall, and that of First Metropolitan, who’d been crazy to hire him. So far, as far as Mike could tell, Henze was doing a fine job … well on schedule, if a bit over budget. He had recently surprised his critics by shooting an out and out fantasy block buster, which put him in line for the current movie. Certainly, he took no stick from his juvenile lead, who gave everyone else hell.