by Zack
Nathan was left splayed out across the wrecked chair, long legs dangling down, and laughing, as he said, “like a drain.”
Mike picked himself up, straightened out his rucked shirt, and helped Nathan to his feet … and into his arms.
“There is the bed …”
Mike looked over Nathan’s shoulder. “Hmm …”
Nathan giggled and felt floppy as Mike pulled him toward the bed. The boy undid his stage pants and left them where they fell as he stepped unsteadily out of them. Mike reached out and caught his shoulder as Nathan shrugged free of his shirt, leaving him only in the silk drawers ridiculously, Mike thought, expensively made for the film, even though the underwear would never be seen—not, at least, in this motion picture. Nathan more flung himself on the bed than fell on it, arms agape, inviting.
“Are you on anything?” Mike sounded concerned.
Nathan giggled. “Nothing. Come to Nate, Mikey.” He pressed his head back into the pillow and gave vent to a series of coughs mixed with laughs. The shape of his hard cock made a shelf in the underwear, pointing to Mike’s right. Then Nathan pushed hands beneath the waistband and shucked them off down his legs, so his cock bobbed upright.
Mike hesitated no longer, but ripped his jeans and denim shirt off in three quick movements, and his briefs fell by the wayside as he dived down on top of the starling. He’d given up trying to reconcile responsibility with need, and the strange sensation of pressing his flesh to that of probably the most valuable being on the planet swamped any common sense left to him. A mad vision of Mr. and Mrs. Heathcliffe flashed before his eyes as his lips met Nathan’s. The pair towered above the bed and jabbed their arms in unison from the midriff in a ghastly parody of male masturbation. Mike rolled his tongue across Nathan’s parted teeth and tested the sharp points of his canines, long enough that in the non-effect scenes he needed no prosthetics to make them show in his predatory smiles.
Nathan chortled wildly as Mike yanked the boy’s legs high in the air either side of his own knees, and with little more than a gob of spit on his fingers and a quick work-around, pushed his dick deep inside the glorious body so desired of millions of hot-headed girls and not a few gay boys.
Nathan twisted, turned, and pulled himself more onto the rigid shaft until Mike was buried up to his balls in the singer’s ass, and every squirm from Nathan under him heightened the sensation of the hot fuck. Nathan, he was sure, was high on something he’d gotten between finishing filming and leaving the studio, and Mike was high on the smell of the boy’s over-heated body and the way his prick seemed to poke into every bit of his insides.
“Squeeze me, you little fucker,” Mike wheezed.
Nathan did. Kid maybe, but one hell of a practiced fuck. Mike thought for a moment he’d be sucked right inside, balls and all. His cock felt like a ribbed cylinder of iron, pushing in, out, slamming in, and Nathan, now thrashing around almost out of control on the bed, egged him on. “Fuck me, fuck me, oh, yeah, stick it in me real hard.”
Firmly gripped in Mike’s right hand, Nathan’s cock leaked pre-cum and the beautiful mouth which gurned and churned around a phallic microphone on stage and telly for the teeny-boppers, now hung open helplessly and moved spasmodically like a fish out of water. The golden eyes had rolled up so Mike saw only the bloodshot whites. The drug, whatever he was on, and a rational part of Mike’s mind registered it as coke, had his body in its thrall and Mike at the center of the emotional whirlpool.
Mike bent down over Nathan, grabbing one of the boy’s steepled nipples between his teeth. Nathan screamed in pleasure, and Mike intensified his screwing until with a croak, more than a moan, he started shooting his load.
“Fill … me … fucker … oh …”
Nathan represented the height of excited dichotomy—pure innocence distorted by extreme and knowing lust. The palpable layer of corruption laid over sweetness threatened to overwhelm Mike as he pumped his spunk into the boy’s asshole and jerked his vibrating cock. He pulled out in time to fall forward, still spewing cum over Nathan’s belly, and take the spectacular orgasm in his mouth. Cum spewed with force between his lips and the cock head, and then he was right down as Nathan unloaded fully and he, Mike, swallowed ravenously.
After languorous minutes, Mike hauled himself up and off to the bathroom. He cleaned up swiftly and then went to dress. Nathan lay spent, stretched out like a broken doll, wanton in his sticky nakedness. Mike could discern little of the world famous teen popster and soon-to-be movie star. The starling lay winged, if not a bit singed. Mike bent to pick up the boy’s discarded stage pants and felt in one embroidered pocket, then the other. He pulled out a small plastic packet with a residue of white powder, dipped in a finger and brought it to his tongue. The sharp, lemony tang was familiar from when James Rosen had forced him to take it. Cocaine.
Mike wondered from where he’d gotten it. For chrissakes, the kid’s a pop star. They’re all on the stuff. Be a bit amazing if he was really as clean-cut as the PR … and anyway, I know he’s not. But Mike’s thoughts drifted nearer to home. The filming schedule was insane, and with appearances in over eighty per cent of the scenes, Nathan was in hock to the studio for virtually twenty hours of every day, including the prescribed gym work-outs, seven days a week for months. The likelihood of his getting hold of stuff anywhere else was remote. Mike’s thoughts turned to Mundy. Gerald Mundy, the “fixer.” He still had no clear idea what the man’s role at Pinewood was. Short of stature, generous of breadth, pugnacious, and with a short fuse, he was an amalgam of a hairy ape and a hungry dinosaur—a horrid combination of hair and leather—he reminded Mike of a television East End gangster and had the temper to match. He’d done business with Rosen in the past and through that contact got Mike a job on The Wall. But whatever arrangement the two gangsters had went sour soon after. When Mike gave Mundy information that Rosen was in Miami, the fixer used it with “his” people there and, boom … someone blew up the movie producer’s private jet, which freed Mike of his slavery to Rosen, the bastard. Convinced that Gerald Mundy would not be at all pleased to see Mike back at the studio complex with a more important job, Mike had prudently kept out of his way so far.
But there was no getting away from the probability that Mundy was supplying Nathan Cliffe with drugs. Which was a serious problem for Mike. He would have to check out his suspicions somehow He hadn’t really wanted the job of being the brat’s chief on-set minder, but that was what Wolfgang Henze wanted, and Wolfgang must be obeyed. Now, here was the star of this massive-budget vehicle out of it on a studio make-up room bed, and knowing his luck, Mike would soon get a call on the phone over there requesting the starling’s presence immediately.
“Nathan!”
A slight stir of a limb. A twitch of a muscle, oddly in synch with a jerk of the boy’s limp cock. Mike went and fetched a wet flannel and a towel from the bathroom and sponged Nathan’s chest and stomach, then dried him.
“Come on, Nathan—”
“Cor me Nate …”
“Okay, Nate. You have to get up and going. You might still be needed.”
“Ca … tired.”
A star is born. The show must go on. Be a man …
“Look, you little fuck, if you don’t get your ass off that bed and back in those fucking clothes, and get your shithead sorted out, I’ll …”
Nathan rolled onto his side and propped his head on his palm. He looked up blearily, but the faintest of smiles hovered at the corner of his oh so utterly kissable lips. “Or what?”
Mike sighed. “Please Nate. Pull yourself together. And stop taking shit from … well, whoever you’re getting it from.”
The boy snapped a sloppy salute from his temple. “Yessir. S’long’s you take me home with you,” he slurred.
“I can’t. You know.”
“Ah. Yank.” Nathan flopped his legs over the edge of the bed and made an attempt to stand on unsteady feet. Mike helped him up. “Fuck him as well, then.” He grinned with half his mout
h. “So, when?”
Mike sighed again. “If you get yourself together right now, I’ll … let you know. Go and wash up. Steph may be here any second to check you out.”
He was glad he made Nathan take Terry’s discarded clothing with him for the bathroom door had only just closed when there came a sharp rap at the door and Steph’s voice boomed through its thin panels.
“Nathan. You decent?”
Mike opened the door. “Please tell me Wolfgang doesn’t need him.”
She gave him a probing look. “Why?”
“He … he’s a … hmm, not feeling all that well. I think this morning’s efforts took too much out of him and it’s time someone had a word with Wolfgang … what?”
Steph’s expression spoke volumes: amusement, surprise, wonder, and a hint of lust. Mike whirled around.
“Hey, Steph. You dropped in for tea?”
Mike gaped. Nathan stood in the bathroom doorway, dripping from the shower, stark naked, unless the towel hanging over one arm counted; not that it hid anything important.
“Nathan!”
Steph snuffled a small laugh. “It’s okay. I came along to tell you that Nathan won’t be required. He’s free to go home.” She leaned close to Mike, who turned haunted eyes on her. “Please don’t tell me you did not take advantage.” And from the corner of her mouth she hissed, “I guarantee if you shag him every morning before we start, he’ll behave much better.”
Mike opened his mouth to say something rude in return, but Steph sashayed off down the corridor with a widdly-tiddly wave over her shoulder.
“I don’t want to go home.”
Mike closed the door and turned to regard his charge. “Of course you do. Chance to rest up for tomorrow. You remember the Fangball game scenes start outside. Yes? The gym, all that boot-camp stuff you’re going through to build those muscles up?”
Nathan continued idly drying himself, clearly enjoying making Mike uncomfortable with his posing, humping his middle so his cock and balls bounced. “I’ll be fine tomorrow. Right now, I don’t want to go home.”
“There’s no need to shout. Why don’t you?”
The boy breathed in deeply as he wrapped the towel around his waist. He went back into the bathroom and came back with his stage clothes, which got dumped on the bed. He went to a closet and pulled out briefs, jeans, and a seersucker shirt.
Mike waited.
“I bet you wouldn’t if you were me. You know, all those out there, they look up at me and see Nathan Cliffe, superstar, rolling in money, famous, amazing, whatever the fuck. They can’t see mummy’s little baby boy, daddy’s little mechanical soldier, all tucked up safe and sound, the one who keeps the moolah rolling into the coffers. Do you know, Mike, my future wife is already marked out and being groomed to take her place at my side. We’ll be singing lurve duets in no time.”
Mike flinched as Nathan spat the last words out. “Who … who is she?”
Nathan stepped back, eyes wide. “Fuck knows! Do I care? It’s enough to make you puke. Do you wonder I take every chance I can to screw around? It’s my only rebellion. My only freedom. Thank God Wolfie banned them from the studio.”
Mike realized he was speaking of his parents. He’d caught the vibes of the difficult relationship Nathan had with them, so at odds with the public image, but put that down to natural teen angst. It seemed he resented their managerial hold over him more deeply than had been apparent. He spoke quietly. “So, if you came home with me, what … spent the night, your … parents would … cheer?”
Nathan missed the irony and shook his head. Half dressed, scrubbed of the make-up and period vampire college clothes, he suddenly looked like what he was, a rather lost and lonely teenager. But also still a performer. Mike spotted the glint in his eyes. He’d twist anything any way to get his way. Mike suspected that once Nathan had had his fill of fun with him, the kid would throw him to the wolves (for Canis lupus read Mr. and Mrs. Heathcliffe). The boy’s jailbait, what, three years under twenty-one. I’d be done for.
Nathan finished dressing, and slipped his bare feet into a pair of expensive loafers. “Call Lewis the Drive, would you Mike?” he asked, referring to his chauffeur. “I’ll see you tomorrow, ready for flicking stupid balls about the tank with the other assholes.”
As Mike reached for the wall-mounted phone with an inner sigh of relief, Nathan came up behind and slipped hands around Mike to fondle his cock. His voice came softly. “I’ll get in very early, if you will, and you can screw me again.”
Mike was on the point of refusing, when his cock stiffened at the thought.
CHAPTER TEN
Snow in the Wings
Gil was on the point of making a coffee to help the third cigarette of the day down—Mike’s bad influence—when the door bell chimed. He dropped the small smoothing he was using on the colored modeling clay and glowered sourly at the script. Doctor Leo Brady had him stumped, and Jim had phoned only yesterday wondering how was he coming along.
Cropped light brown hair, broad face, hooded eyes, broken nose …
“Steve!”
“Sorry to barge in.” Steve said with an unapologetic half-smile.
“I was about to get a coffee. Want one?”
Steve gave Gil his best sexy eye crinkle. “Yeah. Thanks. I thought I’d drop by. Been too busy before, but I wanted to see how you was settling in.”
“I was a bit nervous, at first. We had a good Christmas, though.” Gil led the way through to the kitchen.
Steve halted beside the large dining table, its plasticated white surface a mess of small lumps. “You playing with Plasticine?”
Gil backed up. “Uh, that’s what you call that stuff here. I asked for some modeling clay at the toy store up on Finchley Road and the guy told me to go to a builders’ supplier if I wanted clay. Then Mike told me what I wanted is called Plasticine.”
Steve grinned crookedly. “Well I know how good you are with yer hands, but I didn’t know you were a talented sculptor.”
Gil laughed lightly. “I’m not. I find it helps me with constructing a scene if I have a sort of set laid out. I’m writing a … er, a film script.” He decided not to confide what the script was about. Steve didn’t strike him as a kind of Thunderbirdy nerdy. Instead, he carried on into the kitchen, checked the water level in the kettle, and switched it on. “How’s your wife and kid?”
Steve took up position on the other side of the island counter and leaned on it. “Wallowing like pigs in shit.”
“Trade been that good, huh?” Gil grinned amiably, but he still found the hustler’s lifestyle a bit weird.
“Can’t complain, mate. So you and that Mikey of yours, yer getting along okay? He was really sick as shit when … well, y’know …”
Gil poured water into two mugs. “It’s only instant.”
Steve didn’t seem to mind Gil’s not following up on the question. “If it’s hot ’n’ wet I don’t mind. So what you up to?”
Gil came around the counter, put down the mugs, and encountered Steve’s lazy eyes which reminded him of Robert Mitchum’s (he and Mike had seen a re-run of Joe Losey’s Secret Ceremony, starring Mitchum and Liz Taylor the week before). Steve’s eyes were knowing and somehow innocent at the same time, and definitely high up in the come-to-bed category. “I’m working on some movie scripts.” His voice sounded husky, as it usually did when he was this close to Steve, with his chunky, bent-nosed boxer’s face …
The kiss came at the same time as the light hand grope.
Gil drew in a sharp breath and Steve’s blunt tongue. After a moment he broke free enough to say, “Is there ever a moment when you’re not horny?”
Steve blinked slowly. “You get the fastest hard-on I know.” He licked Gil on the cheek while undoing his jeans. “Can’t stay, I’m on the way to a customer, but I reckon you need blowing hard, and I’ve got a minute or two for that.” He pressed Gil back against the kitchen counter and dropped to his knees. In seconds he had Gil’s cock out a
nd swallowed deeply. It was fast and dirty. Just the sight of the rent boy doing him, the unexpectedness of it, the speed and urgency Steve put into his work, the brushy feel of his buzzcut hair under his scrabbling finger tips. It was too much.
Even the crash of his coffee mug when it hit the linoleum floor after Gil swiped it uncontrollably off the counter as he began to unload in Steve’s mouth didn’t disturb the flow.
“Made a bit of a mess of the floor,” Steve said with a cockeyed grin, indicating the mug and spilled coffee. He stood up, close, and lightly kissed Gil on the cheek again, lips still moist from Gil’s ejaculation. “Mmm, good Yankee-boy cream.” Then he took a swallow of coffee, put his mug down, and patted Gil on the shoulder. “I’d better be off. See meself out. Glad yer back in town.”
* * *
Wolfgang Manfred Henze had that look on his lugubrious face, the one that said, “this is going to hurt you much more than me.” He pointed at his wristwatch, a humping great Rolex Mike thought was probably waterproof at the bottom of the Mariana Trench. “What is this time, Michael?” he asked with a Teutonic rhetoric.
Mike raised his hands, all too aware of the stand-ins, cast, and crew glowering at him as though it were his damned fault. “I know, I know. He’ll be out any minute. I just came to let you know.”
“We are waiting already an hour! Now is the time!”
“Right, Wolfgang, Mr. Henze, yes. I’m going.”
“Wait …” The director caught Mike’s sleeve. His face managed to soften a fraction as he leaned in close and lowered his voice. “Michael, I know he is the problem, but he is worse this week than before. Do you know why?”
Mike felt torn between telling his director the truth and protecting the charge which Wolfgang had thrown him in the first place.
“Is it drugs?”
“He’s really ready, Wolfgang …”
“He’s your responsibility, okay? I ban the minders, the entourage, even the … parents.” Henze managed to make the word sound like a curse. “So he is all yours to mind in the studio, you are loco parentis to the boy. You must keep him clean.” He waggled his eyebrows in a knowing way.