Matt rubbed his hand over his chinos. There is nothing quite as obscene as a stud deliberately raising a hard-on to show other guys. It's so fucking show-offish. I was ashamed of my buddy in front of a gent like Alec.
Ignoring Matt's lewd gestures, the director ruminated. “Maybe I could show him doing the actual beating, for authenticity. Then at the last minute you can jump in, Doug, to do the reaming.”
I try to lead a quiet life. Yet, I seem to get these offers and assignments. Take it as it comes, come as it takes you. That's my philosophy. Matt didn't know from philosophy. He had achieved the height of his powers, unzippered, and held it up proudly.
“You bastard!” Alec barked at me. “Not you, Matt. You're okay. Super! You'll go far. Put it away now. Careful! Don't let anything happen to it.” The solicitous tone was notably absent when he turned to me again. “So he's short on talent, huh?”
“Well, I forgot.”
“Come on, before the sun goes down. Let's see what we can salvage.”
Matt adjusted his belt, Alec toted his camera. We went out to locate Davey.
Davey was in ecstasy-in Beth. They were doing it dog fashion on the grass within sight of the cabin. I had to admit that they made a well-matched couple. A study in light and shadow. Beth's body gleamed pale under the thrusts of the hairy truckdriver. She must have sensed we were there because she held up one hand with all five fingers raised. Then she made a fist and extended two fingers. Totaclass="underline" seven. I couldn't tell whose score she was keeping. His or hers. Either way, they were properly mated.
Alec watched them rut, appraisingly. “Next time I'm just gonna shoot what I see happening. When I see it, I shoot it. No more advance planning.”
Davey banged, came, rolled, grinned, and requested a cigarette. Beth didn't even blink at us. She curled up on the grass, sow-fashion, and fell asleep.
“Isn't she wonderful!” Davey demanded, aggressively. “Looka that cunt on her!”
Alec squinted down at Beth's cunt. Dripping lather shone in the sun, the wet blonde hair sparkled. “That shade's tricky to photograph,” the producer observed. “We might hafta apply some mascara.”
“Mascara! You wanna poison me?” Davey bowed down like a Gaullist over the sleeping beauty. “Mmm, I c'n suck it an' suck it an'-” He lapped up some of the excess froth. “I'm gonna marry this cunt. First I'm gonna wake 'er up the way she likes it.”
He tickled her twat hairs with his limp, reddened prong.
“You won't wake her up that way. Better let her rest while you're recuperating.” Alec was solicitous again. “Er-while you're recuperating, you can help me out.”
“Sure, Alec.”
“Good boy. I'm just planning a modest one-reeler. Nothing to it.”
“Me an' Fran?” Davey acknowledged his temporary shortcomings. “Look, Alec, maybe I better take a few minutes to recuperate.”
1440 minutes, I estimated. Davey's dick had the chewed-up appearance of a tool needing 24 hours of unbroken bed rest.
“This deal is so fucking easy,” Alec lied, “You don't hafta have a hard-on. I'm not using Fran for this one. It's just two guys futzing around. I call it Friendship.”
“Me an'Doug?”
“You and Matt.”
Basking in the glow of the multiple tumbles with Beth, the caveman might have consented to share the wide screen with his rival. With the best of intentions, Matt aborted that particular Friendship. The husky ex-farmer decided to enter into the ecumenical spirit. Beaming at Davey, he described his Very own scenario. Improvising, expanding, proud of his progress from artist to author-actor.
“See, we're buddies. Walkin' along, friendly, as shipmates. Then we stop on the road an' I ask you to suck my prick. You don't wanna, your gums hurt or somethin'. I don't go for excuses: I start punching. You fall like a sack of shit. That gets me real mad. I string y' up between two trees, pull off your clothes, an' wham ya with my belt. I'm not like some guys-queers who'll break your legs an' stomp on your spine for kicks. I'll just whip ya good an' solid. Then I'll fuck your ass for ya.”
Matt punctuated his recital by taking out his turgid thumper.
When you've got it, don't flaunt it!
Davey raced off in the direction of St. Louis.
Matt contemplated his erection with the sulky expression of the little boy thwarted. “Whassa matter with that guy anyway?”
“He's temperamental.”
My buddy had by-passed the stage where facile explanations are accepted with a smile, a shrug, a fastening of the fly. He let it hang out, stand up, shake two ways for emphasis.
“Temperamental, is he? My prick's got a mean temper, too. Goddamn it, Doug, you were the one who said, 'No quickies.' You promised we'd spend the afternoon balling. Everybody but me. Honest, I haven't come since seven fuckin' o'clock this morning. Suck it!”
“Please, Matt. How can you stand there and give away our secret! In front of a stranger!”
“Then lemme put it in your ass.”
Fatso insisted on remaining Matt's ally. “Let him, Doug,” he urged me. “The camera's all ready. You take Davey's part and we can still shoot Friendship. The second male lead isn't important-as long as I can get that whopper in focus.”
“In that case, you take Davey's part. I'll be the producer.”
Impasse. You'd think three guys could resolve their little problems without quarreling and without dragging in perversions. “Show him jerking off, and call it In Need of Friendship.” The allies vetoed my suggestion. Impasse, getting stickier, and in Matt's case desperate. That's what happens when you try to solve a problem without female assistance.
The Marines landed!
Fran hove into sight. Reeling. Something white dribbling down her lips; something that wasn't toothpaste. Ernie had been productive.
A sensitive, sensible girl like Fran require explanations. She saw the problem, liked what she saw, and solved it. On her knees before my buddy, she stuck out her problem solver. Her tongue gazed Matt's ramrod, testing. “I'd better just suck it,” she decided, “there won't be time to-”
Matt didn't give her time to change her mind or to count up to one or to exhale. He pressed his prong into her mouth and kept pumping till Fran's neck seemed in danger of snapping.
True to his word, Alec was shooting it as it happened. He had started the footage with Fran's timely arrival. Now he pleaded, “Make it a sixty-nine.”
34/2.
Matt's gism had already left his balls, made the long journey down the length of his labe, and squirted out to clog Fran's windpipe. She squirmed, either to avoid choking, or to permit Matt's cream to make its movie debut. He held her head clamped down, keeping his poker in place. “Swallow it, bitch!” he ordered.
If you're thinking of starting a career as cocksucker, for money or pleasure, whatever your sex or persuasion, you can expect to hear that phrase repeated constantly. It's a poor return, I admit, for a good suck job. Or even a bad suck job. But what can you do? If a guy sends his cock to the cleaners, he wants to be sure he gets the full treatment. Including the wrap-up, the swallowing. Hence, the injunction, “Swallow it!” “Bitch” isn't strictly necessary. Use of the word indicates the superiority of the speaker. Shit; if he wasn't superior, he'd be doing the blowing.
After the blow job on camera, Fran and Matt went into a strip act. For the first time that day, Alec was enthusiastic. “This will revolutionize the cinema. First they have sex, then they take their clothes off. If that doesn't click, all we hafta do is run it off in reverse.”
“Looks like you'll get your sixty-nine after all.”
Matt stretched flat on his back, Fran on top of him, in a cozy position for mutual lapping. His tongue darted between her twat and her asshole. Less venturesome, Fran concentrated her energy on Matt's rising rapier.