04

Chapter Three: The Pool Party

"You weren't shitting me? You haven't been fucked by a man before?"

Whalen was standing just inside the door of his bedroom—a large room dominated by a gigantic bed. Dillon hadn't failed to see the restraint leads curled on the floor at the four corners of the bed. He had stripped down to his briefs as Whalen had ordered him to do. Whalen was dressed in a lounge suit, though, of some sort of diaphanous material that showed the red Speedo he was wearing underneath. This supposedly was a pool party, but they were in his bedroom. He was barefoot. He was in great shape for a man of his age and appetites for the good life. His "good life" obviously included a lot of painful hours in the gym. Appearances were everything in Hollywood.

Dillon had been the first to arrive and had been ushered right up to the bedroom. He assumed that his new agent, Whalen, wanted a crack at him before the pool party started and the guests started filing in. He'd been told to arrive an hour earlier than Scott had.

"No, I haven't," Dillon answered.

"But, in order to stay on my list, you'll—?"

"Yes, I understand."

"You'll be restrained. There won't be any backing out. If you wind up doing a lot of yelling for mercy, he's likely to like that and step it up."

"Uh, OK, I guess."

When Dillon had been spread-eagled, face down, on the bed, sans briefs, tied off at the four corners, and a wedge stuffed under his lower belly, Whalen opened the door and let a middle-aged man in who was big—as in close to, but not quite, obese. He was a good six and a half feet tall too, which, with his age, saved him from quite being called fat. He was nearly bald, with a fringe of reddish gray hair around his head. His face was craggy, but it had an aspect of command about it. He was wearing a dressing gown, but it was hanging loose on him and didn't hide either his reddish blond bush or his presentable erection.

"This is Mr. X, Dillon. You don't need to know his real name. All you need to know is that he's a big backer of movies and you'd be good to make a friend out of him." With that, Whelan left the room.

After a somewhat slobbering ass eating and opening exercise, Mr. X fucked Dillon doggie style, crouching high over Dillon's hips with his hands gripping Dillon's waist, and bouncing up and down on the young man's pelvis. Dillon had done what he could over the previous day and a half with a lathered dildo Scott had given him, but still the pain at first was excruciating. It got better, though, and Dillon got the inkling—as he had with the dildo—that over time it wouldn't be that bad at all.

Fighting through the pain, he concentrated on the phrases "big backer" and "make him your friend," and he put his acting skill into high gear.

"God, you're huge. You're killing me. Yes, yes, screw me to the bed. Give it to me. Give me your cum. Shit, you're a stud. Fuck, I'm glad my first time is with a stud like you?"

"Your first time?" Mr. X asked, with awe.

"Yes, my first time."

"Well, shit," Mr. X said and took it a little slower—was more solicitous at least at the beginning. He took his time getting inside Dillon, understanding now that the young man to be a virgin and having a hole tight enough to confirm that. He knew what he was doing, and his guidance to Dillon to relax and open to him—and how to do that—eventually worked. He obviously was pleased that he was giving the young man first-time instructions and benefiting from the tight fit.

He wasn't particularly thick or long, although Dillon had nothing with which to compare it to other than the dildo. And other than the opening to it, that actually was better with the real dick than the rubber one, there was little to prepare Dillon for the real dick. He controlled the dildo and could pull it out when it became too uncomfortable. It was just the point of it becoming too uncomfortable that Mr. X pushed his in further—and pulled it out further and then in deeper—and when he picked up the pace.

"God, you're sweet," the man exclaimed through gritted teeth, and then they were off to the races. Mr. X lost control and pounded Dillon's ass like he was a rent-boy. Dillon endured. This was just the beginning of his career.

With a yelp of victory, Mr. X gave Dillon his cum. Taking Dillon's word for it being the first time, there was no protection, so it had been skin on skin and cum in passage core. The man had pledged extra money to a movie deal Whalen was involved in for that extra privilege.

"Big backer; make him your friend," Dillon was thinking, as they were cooling down and Mr. X was going flaccid inside him, Dillon murmured, "I need you again. But not tied up like this. Untie me; let me make love to you. I want to learn to do it right. Teach me, Daddy."

Mr. X sighed through the second blow job Dillon had ever given a man, but Dillon was careful not to let him come. The man was sitting on the end of the bed, and Dillon climbed up into his lap, facing him, and swallowed the cock with his channel. Groaning to accompany Dillon's moans, the man clutched and spread Dillon's butt checks and pulled his passage up and down on the cock until he creamed Dillon again deep inside.

"He was very pleased," Whalen said, when the man was gone and Whalen had reappeared—this time still in the diaphanous lounge suit but not the red Speedo, which revealed, by the lighter area now not covered by the Speedo, the tanned body of the agent in erection. "I want to be pleased too before we go downstairs."

Dillon was kneeling at the end of the bed, facing the headboard, as Whalen, standing at the foot of the bed, fucked him from behind, one hand on Dillon's belly, pulling and releasing to match the rhythm of the fuck, and the other hand cupping the young man's chin and pulling Dillon's head back into the hollow of Whalen's shoulder. Whalen sucked on Dillon's earlobe as he fucked him, again bareback.

Dillon enjoyed this fuck more—indeed, he was feeling that he would increasingly enjoy the fucking as he did more of it. Whalen was younger and more fit than Mr. X was. He was more expert at working his cock inside Dillon to his pleasure, and there was more lubricant—Mr. X's two ejaculations—inside Dillon now to aid the slide of the shaft. Dillon was also beginning to get the knack of going with the rhythm of the fuck and manipulating his passage walls to make love to the invading cock. Whalen remarked on how Dillon was quickly improving his technique as they fucked on.

Whalen declared he was as pleased as Mr. X had said he was when he was finished—and Dillon again had given what he thought was an award-winning performance of wanting what he got and moaning deeply to it.

"Pick out a swim suit that fits—but fits tight—from that drawer over there and come down to the pool," Whalen said as he pulled on his own red Speedo under his lounge suit and left the room. Dillon hadn't come with a swim suit, apologizing and saying he didn't have one that met the specifications Whalen had given him. Whalen didn't seem to mind; he had plenty of swim suits in his guest room to hand out—as well as other forms of sexy clothes for young men.

Downstairs, on the pool terrace, about a dozen men, more of them middle aged than young, were milling around the pool, glasses and beer cans in hand, and eating off trays that a couple of young, cut men in Speedos were passing around. One of them was Scott. Whalen leaned over and whispered in Dillon's ear, "Tell Scott to lose the tray and then I want the two of you to do a couple of circuits of the pool. Then you can go into the pool and horse around with each other for a while. When I signal, I want the two of you to go back upstairs on the bed. Remember that these all are men who can promote your career. You'll pull a train, won't you?"

"Yes, sure," Dillon asked without knowing what that meant.

As Scott and Dillon walked around the pool, sometimes arm and arm, sometimes in single file and catching the eyes of men and smiling at them, Dillon saw that the rising star, Cory Corbin, who he'd lost his name to, was there. And he was busy. There was an older, chunkier but still hunky, and deeply tanned Western movie star, Fletcher Farwell, there, lying on a chaise lounge. Cory Corbin was straddling Farwell's hips. Both of them were naked, their Speedos on the stones beside the lounge bed. Corbin had the palms of his hands pressed into Farwell's beefy pecs and he was using the leverage of his feet on either side of the chaise to raise and lower his channel on Farwell's cock.

There was other sex going on around the pool too, but as Scott and Dillon dove into the pool and started tossing a ball to each other and then doing some wrestling, most of the eyes turned to them.

It was nearly a pied piper parade when Whalen gave the signal and Scott and Dillon got out of the pool, dried off and, at a signal from Whalen and accompanied by gasps all around, stepped out of their Speedos and went into the house and up the stairs to the bedroom.

The two of them lay on the bed on their backs on opposite sides. They embraced each other's heads with their hands and kissed as a progression of men stepped up to split their legs, move in between their thighs, and fuck their asses.

The kissing and fondling continued between the two when they'd finally been freed from the party and had returned cross town to their shared room. Dillon lay on his side on his mattress on the floor, with Scott lying behind him, kissing Dillon on the lips as the young man swiveled his torso to the black bull—proved to be a bull by the size of his cock. Pushing Dillon's right leg up into his stomach, Scott entered his ass with that big black cock and plowed him to eternity.

Yep, we'd do a great porn flick, Dillon thought as he moaned and Scott pumped his ass. He had been initiated to the hedonist world of L.A. Thanks to Scott Black, Walt Whalen, and Mr. X.

Chapter Four: The Full-Service Car Valet

Dillon had some interesting experiences to talk about from his job as a car valet at the Black Panther Club, but none that knocked him off his pins like this one. And it took something like this to keep him from stewing about not having heard from his agent, Walt Whalen, for three weeks following that pool party where he'd lost his virginity—big time. His roommate, Scott, hadn't had work for six weeks either. They were both living from day to day on money reserves and the tips from their minimal employment, and they had to scrounge to pay the rent.

What irritated him the most was that he had seen no return from letting half of L.A. fuck him. Whalen obviously got something big from that Mr. X for letting him take Dillon's virginity, but there was no indication that Dillon would be getting any benefit from that. It was for more backing in some movie Whalen was involved in. Before Dillon had left Whalen's house, he'd overheard him talking to the movie actor, Cory Corbin, and it sounded like the movie involved included some breakout role for that actor—the guy who had denied Dillon the use of his own name.

Thus, he wasn't even completely tuned in when the big, black Cadillac sedan pulled up to the door of the club. The tall, thin, old guy, looking like a plastic surgeon's meal ticket, who got out of the driver's seat and handed Dillon the car key, looked familiar. A lot of the people coming to the club looked familiar to Dillon, like he'd seen them at the movies or on TV—under more favorable lighting. That wasn't a surprise. This guy was a little long in the tooth, though, but still distinguished looking, especially if you didn't come up close to him. He had a great head of gray hair and a brilliant, somewhat mischievous, smile that probably had carried him a good bit of the way in his film career.

Surprisingly, he didn't just go into the club, but he opened the back door of the Cadillac and stuck his head in there. Even more surprisingly, he pulled his head out again, closed the door, smiled at Dillon, told him in a smooth baritone voice with a British accent, "Have a good time, sport," and went into the club.

It took Dillon all the time driving to a back, secluded, badly lit section of the valet parking lot where the Caddie was unlikely to get dings—something he did when the tip was big—to realize that there still was someone in the backseat of the car.

"Oh, excuse me, miss. I didn't realize anyone was still in the car. I'll drive you back to the club."

"Sweet, you called me miss," a melodious voice came from the back. "Don't drive me back yet. I'm not in the mood for the club. Come in the backseat with me, sweetness. I have a bottle of bubbly and two glasses back here."

The one thing Dillon had been told to do to keep his job was not to tick off any of the club's clients. They were all to be assumed to be important enough to close down the club if they weren't given good service. Every employee was to give them the service they expected.

The service that Delores Mendez, star of the coming projected blockbuster film

Paradise Ranch

wanted and expected from the luscious and sexy-looking car valet was to be fucked in the backseat of her Cadillac.

She looked lovely in this lack of light. Dillon was mesmerized by her elbow-high white gloves as she masterfully moved her arms, welcoming him into the web of her cushy backseat, handing him a glass of champagne, and running her gloved hand with the sparkly diamond rings through his auburn curls—and eventually through his chest hair and then his pubic hair.

Her dress was red and sparkly and was cut down to "there" and up to "here." Her flowing hair was raven black, her laugh was throaty and infectious, her lips were ruby red and delicious to the taste, and her hands were everywhere on Dillon's body. She expertly undressed him as she embraced and trapped him with kisses, laughter, and champagne. The sedan rocked as she pulled the hem of her dress up, sat facing him in his lap, and fucked herself on his hard cock.

When her husband, the British character actor, Malcolm Strange, found the car in the parking lot, he good-naturedly retrieved the car keys from the pocket of Dillon's tux trousers, and drove them up into the Hollywood Hills to the small chateau he and his wife shared, Delores was still fucking Dillon in the backseat as Strange drove them home.

In the light of their foyer, Delores looked closer to the fifty-plus years she had logged in than she looked either in the darkened backseat of her Cadillac sedan or on the movie screen with the help of film technology, but by then Dillon was lost to the talent of her labia and vagina and her two well-sculpted breasts. Among Dillon's "first" sex experiences he now could include hovering over her in the backseat of a Caddie, his knees planted on either side of her thighs, and stroking his cock in the cleft between her pendulous breasts.

Giggling as they entered the French-style villa, she said she had to freshen up upstairs and that the men should go ahead and have a drink. She tittered up the winding staircase, disappearing around the tinkling crystals of the huge chandelier hanging in the two-story foyer.

"Come through to the back with me," Strange told Dillon, ushering him to the back of the house, where there was a den with a bar in it and French doors overlooking a terrace and lit swimming pool.

"Would you be so kind as to fix us a couple of drinks?" Strange said, motioning Dillon to the bar. Dillon was wearing his trousers again and his tux shirt, but he had lost a couple of studs to the shirt somewhere in the car, so the shirt was open, showing swirls of curly hair on his chest that had been tongued into tight curls by Delores. His suspenders were still drooping down at his sides. "I'll take Glenfiddich neat, please," Strange said with a low growl. "Take whatever you want. After all, you've taken my wife."

"Look, I'm sorry. I didn't—"

"Oh, yes, you did, young man. Although it surprises me a bit. I would have taken you for having other preferences."

"Excuse me?" Dillon was searching the shelf behind him for the Glenfiddich. He'd keep it simple by having that too—whatever it was. When he turned back around, Strange was there, with him, right behind the bar. "I didn't really. There's a rule at the club. I couldn't really . . . and what do you mean by 'other preferences'?"

"You are much too good-looking, I think, to be interested in women—only women—in Hollywood. It would be such a loss. Tell me that men fuck you too. I'm a member of the club too. I also deserve the best service." He put a hand on Dillon's hip and gave a little laugh when he heard Dillon's intake of breath and Dillon hadn't moved away from him. "Yes, I can tell. Men fuck you too." He wasn't young, but he had a charisma about him—a definite movie star quality and command. Dillon wasn't just out of his league; he was out of his depth.

Strange turned Dillon toward the bar and covered him close from behind. He reached down and took Dillon's hands in his, lacing their fingers together, and he put his lips on the back of Dillon's neck. Dillon moaned, but he did move as if to pull away from Strange. The older man gripped him harder, though, and held him there. He may have been appreciably older, but he had the strength of steel in him.

"Yes, I can see that you will go with men too. I understand what Del saw in you that's appealing," he whispered into Dillon's ear. "You let my wife fuck you; it's only fair, if you want to avoid unpleasantries, that you let me fuck you too. I think you would be amenable to that." He released Dillon's right hand with his and raised his hand and ran it through Dillon's curls. Then he palmed Dillon's cheek, pressed his middle finger at Dillon's lips, and the younger man instinctively open his mouth to the finger and sucked it. He could feel the hardness of the older man at the small of his back. There didn't seem to be any problem of virility there.

Strange's left hand came around and ran briefly into the opening of Dillon's shirt and rubbed and tweaked Dillon's pecs and nipples through the curly matting of hair there. Dillon turned his face for a kiss, which permitted Strange's right hand to unbuckle the young man's trousers, unzip him, and push his trousers and briefs off his hips.

Dillon was leaning over the bar top, stiff-arming the surface of the bar in a wide stance as, grabbing Dillon's dangling suspenders on either side and using them as handles to move Dillon's pelvis back and forth, Strange fucked him from behind.

When the older man had ejaculated, he pulled back, zipped himself up, and said, "Perhaps we should drink up. I believe that Del is waiting for us upstairs."

Delores Mendez indeed was waiting for them. Wearing just a bustier, rising to under her pendulous breasts, lifting them; red high heels; and a smile, she was posed at the foot of the bed, buttocks on the bed; legs spread, with rouged vulva displayed; and her torso, breasts prominent, propped up on her elbows.

While Dillon crouched over her and fucked her, Strange stripped down to just a dressing gown, which he didn't close, came over behind Dillon, grasped the young man's hips, mounted him, and fucked him from behind while Dillon fucked Delores.

The three slept in the canopy bed, Dillon in the middle. Dillon woke to Delores leaving the bed and wafting off to the bathroom. An arm came over from the other side of him and then a body. Strange teased Dillon's legs open, slid his knees under Dillon's buttocks, and gave him a morning fuck.

The three of them had breakfast, scantily dressed in robes, Dillon's on loan from Strange, on the terrace with a maid floating around them, showing no surprise at a young man's scantily clad addition to the tableau. In the harsh morning light, Dillon could barely look at Delores. She looked so much older here than either in the back of the Cadillac or in the careful lighting of the bedroom. He found less trouble in looking at Strange. This, of course, was another signal to him.