Chainsaw Sculptor

I knew it was coming, but when I was hit with the bucket of water, it still made me gasp. It was cold water straight out of the Atlantic down at the cove I'd had my back to while Doug was taking his brandy commercial shots. Both Jason Jax, the shoot director, and Holst Bayer, the sponsor, laughed. Randy Blu, the top talent, was standing next to Bayer, but he was chatting up the young woman the Terrestrial Conservation Officer had sent with us to make sure we didn't mess up his precious island. She was going to get an eyeful pretty soon if she didn't go off to check around the island for evidence of illegal visitors as she said she was going to do.

The water did its job. The light, billowy white cotton shirt, now open nearly to the navel, and the white linen trousers were soaking wet and clinging to my body, going transparent, with my tanned "nearly all together" showing through. This was for a commercial for brandy that Holst Bayer's company made, but he also had companies making sexy men's clothing, men's jewelry, and, on the side and down low, porn films. He was combining all of those in this photo shoot in Bermuda. He'd paid to get the whole crew out here from New York on Royal Caribbean's

Adventure of the Seas

on a five-day trip, with only a day and a half here in Bermuda for the photo shoot, so it wasn't surprising that he wanted to hit all of his bases. He hadn't kept the project secret from me and was paying appropriately. The commercial shooting segments were where the big money was that I was making for this.

I'd already posed for the travel magazine version of the brandy commercial, leaning into the spreading thin branches of a banyan tree, clothing sexy enough but not revealing what they did after being soaked. A rock-enclosed small, pristine beach of the usually closed Nonsuch Island on a peninsula out beyond Bermuda's airport shimmered in the background behind me. In that one, I was leaning into the tree, holding a glass and a bottle of Bayer Brandy, dressed in my Bayer-fashion line bright whites, and wearing a Bayer jewelry company gold medallion on a gold chain around my neck, the shirt open two buttons down so that the medallion, nestled between my pecs, could be seen. I'd had to shave everything but the hair on my head and my eyebrows for this shoot.

After I'd been soaked with the bucket of seawater, Jason Jax called out, "Hand off the snifter, Nate, lean more provocatively into the web of banyan roots, while still on full view, unbutton down to your waist, and heft the brandy bottle so it looks like you're drinking directly from it. Shades of a marooned pirate theme."

With my light-material clothes soaked, my body underneath was in nearly full view. Now it could be seen that all I had underneath was a red string sock thong. The gold bars in my nipples, both Bayer jewelry items, were also discernible. This commercial would appear in skin magazines, both ones for women and for gay men.

As in the first shoot scene, the photographer, Doug Dunner, floated around me at all angles shooting off film and having me change the pose.

And then came what I was being paid the big bucks for—and it was what, I am sure, paid all of Bayer's expenses for creation of and placement of the commercials as well as the travel costs from New York City to Bermuda and back. This was where Randy Blu came in. He was a big bruiser, muscled-up, tattooed Marine bad-boy type. In contrast, I was a well-formed, but slender, All-American type blond "pretty boy." At this point in the filming, Randy was hit with a bucket of water too. He was wearing flimsy and sexy white linen trousers too, but was shirtless. I set the bottle of brandy down in the sand by the tree, label toward the camera shots, and leaned farther back into the gnarled elbow roots of the banyan tree. At the same time Doug changed from his still camera to a video camera and Jason Jax picked up a video camera as well.

The scene became Randy finding me at the tree line on a deserted beach at the end of a rainstorm that had soaked us both—the hunky rival pirate captain who had saved me off a sinking ship he was scuttling to be used by him personally. He had pursued me to this point, where I had retreated, seemingly hiding in the banyan tree, but not really. It was clear, really, that I had wanted Randy to find me. I didn't want the pirate captain to leave me here; I wanted him to take me with him. I wanted Randy to manhandle me. I wanted Randy to fuck me.

Which he did—after he reached me and we struggled. After he slapped me around a bit and subdued me. After he'd forced me to my knees in front of him; I had unbuckled, unzipped, and flared his wet trousers, which were plastered to his beefy thighs, the muscles clearly showing through; and I had taken his massive erection in my mouth and given him suck.

Randy stripped off my wet trousers as he possessed my mouth with his, lifted me and laid me in the webbing of banyan tree roots and branches, raised and spread my legs, mounted and penetrated me, and, while the video cameras moved around in all angles, careful not to capture each other, Randy fucked me and fucked me and fucked me.

It was a brilliant move on Holst Bayer's part. He got commercials that touched on all of his businesses and that built on each other. Those reading the skin magazines would have their "I've seen this before" senses played if they also read the travel magazines. And then, all of the gay men's sites where Bayer placed the video in either teaser or full fuck version would refer the viewer back to having seen the commercial in other contexts. The selling of the brandy—and the clothes and jewelry too to those who were discerning—would settle in in several dimensions. And the porn film would earn Bayer enough to cover all of the expenses of filming and placing the commercial.

I did all right financially too. I didn't do porn often. Not doing it often helped me not to be overexposed (so to speak) and had me earning higher fees. My commercial persona was that I was a clean-cut, handsome, vulnerable, but athletic, neighbor type. Whenever I was paired with a big, bad bruiser like Randy, big bucks were made.

That's not why I'd agree to do this gig, though. When I'd left Georgia and come to New York for dance, acting, and model training after getting through high school, my mentor in Athens had advised me to find the best-looking, richest older man I could who wanted to bed me and to get under him as fast and for as long as possible. Although Holst Bayer hadn't bedded me yet, he fit the bill.

I didn't have sex with men just for personal gain, I must say in my own defense. I wasn't that mercenary. I liked to think that I was just honest. I liked having a man's cock inside me. I wanted him to be commanding and forceful, which gave me a feeling of being wanted and of being in control of his responses to natural needs. And I liked older men, as long as they were either in great shape, wealthy, good-looking, or hung like a bull. I was in heaven if they were all four. Of these, I posit that being big inside me was more important than being rich.

* * * *

I chose to ride Jason Jax's cock in our shared cabin on the

Adventure of the Seas

as we sailed back to New York from Bermuda. Jax was a large, heavy man. On the sail to Bermuda we had tried it with him on top of me, but he was just too heavy for me; I had trouble breathing. There was no question, of course, that I was going to let Jax fuck me on this commercial photo shoot trip. He was the reason I had gotten this gig. I had wanted it not only for the money and the work credits but also because I'd watched Holst Bayer from afar and heard about him and wanted to get close to him. He was what my mentor in high school had told me to look for to ease my way into the New York commercial art world.

Jason Jax was a project director in the advertising firm I did work for when I could. He got me work because I let him fuck me. He wasn't an ogre, but he wasn't a handsome prince either. He was in his forties, hirsute, with a bit of a beard and more than a bit of a handlebar mustache, and he'd liked his beer too much for too long to keep himself in shape by whatever exercising he did, which I gathered mainly was doing pushups on young men like me. If he did it that way—missionary style—with others, they must be tanks like him, though. I could only manage him in a doggy position, which he could only do for a little while before cramping up, or as we were doing it now, me riding him in a cowboy, in cabin 7268, on Deck 7, one day at sea between Bermuda and the cruise boat terminal at Bayonne, New Jersey.

He was lying on his back on his twin bed—we shared a cabin—and I was saddled on him, facing his head, leaning back, with my hands palming his knees, and raising and lowering my passage on his hard cock. There was nothing wrong with Jason's cock. He was gliding his hands over my stretched torso and giving my nipples attention, which helped my arousal.

He was a good seven plus inches and thick, and, thanks to pills, he could keep it hard for hours. So, as usual when he wasn't doggying me, I was fucking myself on his shaft, using the leverage of my bent legs, while he played my torso with one hand and jacked me off with the other. I came first, with his stroking hand, and then he took over the thrusting to his ejaculation, with me rising a bit off his pelvis with my weight on my knees and my hands palming his hairy pecs, as he bent his legs and stroked up into me, pushing off his feet, until, with a shudder, he released his cum.

After coming, Jason pushed me off him into a sitting position on the side of his bed. He stripped the condom off his cock and tossed it into the trashcan by the nightstand between our twin beds. It wasn't the first used condom tossed in there today. We'd come back to the cabin after lunch in the Windjammer Café and Jason had been randy. He said he'd gone over the films from the session on the beach in Bermuda with Randy Blu the previous day and they'd turned him on. We were at sea and there wasn't much to do if neither of us wanted to vegetate in the ship's casino. So, we fucked. After this trip, Jason was going to owe me a couple more good photo shoots.

I was contemplating going out on the balcony and catching some rays—I usually had to use the tanning booths to keep an all-over tan and the sun was shining as the ship cut through the waves and there was no one to see me unless someone worked hard to look around the metal shields between the balconies—when a knock came at the cabin door.

"You get it," Jason said, with a groan. "I can't move a muscle."

I pulled on my shorts and went to the door, opening it to find Randy Blu standing out in the corridor. When we'd left him and Doug Dunner, the cameraman, after lunch in the Windjammer, they'd been off to the casino, although Randy said he had to check in with Holst Bayer first. Bayer, of course, didn't eat in the café or with the rest of us. They had someplace fancier for the suite crowd like Bayer to eat their lunch. I hadn't thought Randy was being summoned to Bayer's bed. I was pretty sure both were strictly tops.

When I opened the door, Randy was leering at me "that way." He could see beyond me into the cabin and see Jax lying there on his back, still ramrod erect because of the effect of the pills he took. Randy had a suit bag draped over his shoulder.

"So, you're having a good afternoon, I see," he said, with a smile. He reached out with his free hand and brushed across the bar in my left nipple with his fingers. I couldn't object to the intimacy as he'd been about as intimate as one man could be with another one when he'd fucked me in the Bermuda beach film. I shuddered at the touch, because he was a magnificent hunk. I would certainly have preferred spending the afternoon riding him—if there was anything he could do for me as far as getting ahead in life.

But there wasn't.

"Those parts of the afternoon's activities have floated by, Randy," I said. "You were great, but I really don't—"

"These clothes are for you," he said, interrupting. "Mr. Bayer wants you to wear them this evening. He wants you to meet him in the Viking Lounge at 6:00 for drinks and then you'll have dinner with him in the Chops Grill. Don't make plans for the night, he says." Randy was smirking. I didn't know if he thought I would be upset or would feel trapped that I was being summoned by Holst Bayer to provide services that obviously went beyond a drink and a fancy dinner, but if he did, he was way off base. I'd been trying to get into this position with Bayer for months.

"Thanks," I said, reaching out and taking the suit bag from him, "if you see him, let him know I'm looking forward to it." I didn't exactly shut the cabin door in Randy's face as he was about to say something else, but I was awfully close to that.

"What did he want? What's that you've got in the suit bag?" Jason Jax asked, raising his bulk on his elbows.

"This just might be my future that I have in this bag," I said. "Don't count on me for dinner." Smiling, I headed for the shower. "I've got a hot date."

* * * *

Holst Bayer knew how to make sexy clothes for men. When I walked into the Viking Lounge, the bar at the top of the ship that's pretty much reserved for those in suites or who were Diamond Club frequent cruisers with this cruise line, most of the eyes found me at the door and followed me to the table where Holst was sitting, also dressed for style, comfort, and show. Thanks to my clothes, some women and men wanted to do me and others wanted to be me. My shirt was a light cotton and linen blend, long-sleeved, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. It was in an attention-arresting salmon color and was gauzy enough that what was under it could be discerned. I had gold bars in my nipples. The lapel was flared open to the first button that started at the bottom of my sternum. I wore the Bayer-design gold medallion I had on in the Bermuda photo shoot that, if you looked at it closely, showed a homosexual version of a yin and yang design. In this one both yin and yang had phalluses piercing the other. My close-fitting, gauzy cotton trousers were of an off-white color with a hint of yellow to them, delivered in random gold threads that picked up the light. They too gave a tease of the flesh beneath and the curve of the muscles. I was wearing a flesh-colored bikini sock thong to continue the tease. Sandals, no socks, on my feet. I was dressed provocatively enough not to be escorted out of the Viking Lounge or Chops Grill, where we would be having dinner, but sexually attention getting and arousing. I did what I could to make the most of my looks, and, happily, my looks were great.

Holst was wearing the same, his shirt being a pale blue and his trousers white. His jock was blue as well, giving more of a hint than my flesh-colored ones did. He clearly was hung, and when, sitting across from me in the Viking Lounge, he spread his legs, I could discern the length and curve of his cock and the meatiness of his balls as seen through the glass top of the table.

He was a beautiful man. He was either pushing or had just broached fifty, but he was tall, slender, and tightly muscled. He was a Nordic blond with solid, ruggedly cut features. Or he had once been a natural blond. He was a silver fox now, with wavy hair and a gray-blond curly thatch of hair swirling around his pecs and down his sternum. He was tanned and perfectly groomed. And he was smiling at me as I approached his table. One of his hands descended to his crotch as I approached, and, being able to see him through the top of the table, my first thoughts were wondering how he groomed his pubes, whether they were as carefully considered and rendered as the rest of him, and whether he was a cruel lover.

I arrived knowing that he would fuck me if he wanted to. He seemed to be a slower boat in that direction, though, which I found to be both charming and a bit off-putting. I was used to a man knowing instantly when I was willing to submit to him and taking his pleasure—those fulfilling mine of being taken forcefully and as by right. Holst didn't seem quite so sure that I was his for the taking. He courted me, which I found charming. His reticence gave me a bit of concern on whether he really swung toward men.

As I approached and I looked away from his groin through the tabletop, I saw that his eyes had gone to a blue velvet box laying on the table. He was fingering it with one hand. I focused on the long, slender, sensual fingers of his hands and tingled from the prospect of those playing my body. I was beyond ready for him. He didn't have to work at seducing me.

But it did add to the arousal that he did work at it.

"It was good of you to agree to having an evening with me, Nate," he said, as I sat down. "You did very well in the commercial shoots and you look great in those clothes."

"And the jewelry too?" I asked, fingering the medallion his company had provided, as I sat down across from him. A waiter instantly appeared and, feeling exotic, I ordered a Black Russian. After the waiter had gone, I added, "Of course I would come when and if you called. And it isn't because you have sponsored this trip."

"It isn't?" he asked. "You know what it means to have an evening with me, don't you?"

I didn't answer right away because the waiter was already back with our drinks. Bayer was having a beer. It took a minute for Bayer to sign off on the bill, during which I looked again at the blue velvet box on the tabletop. He saw me do that and moved the box closer to me. When the waiter was gone, he said, "Here open this. If you say yes to me, this is yours."

"Yes to you?" I asked, trying to add "amused" in my questioning look.

"Yes to me laying you. I'm sure you know I want to fuck you."

"It's a 'yes,' of course," I said. "You don't need presents like this, as nice as they are. You are a beautiful man."

"Just open the box," he said, but I could tell by his smile that he was pleased with my answer.

I opened the box. It was a gold watch, a distinctive Bayer-design watch with the same design on its face that was on the medallion around my neck. I knew it to be a very expensive watch—in the neighborhood of a couple of thousand bucks.

"This and the clothes on your back—all if you give me everything I want from you this evening."

"I would give you anything you want just for the asking, Mr. Bayer," I said. "You don't have to give me gifts, although of course I like to receive them. You are, as I said, a beautiful man. I wanted to lie under you since I first saw you. I signed on to this photo shoot hoping that would happen." I was surrendering to him totally, with no need for gifts. That didn't mean, though, that I didn't take the watch out of the box and put it on my wrist.

Bayer beamed at me. "So, you will—?"

"What time are the dinner reservations for?" I asked, holding my wrist up for him to see the watch on it and then lowering my arm, touching his forearm with my fingers and lightly stroking him there. I felt him shudder. I was trembling as well.

"Our reservations are for 8:30."

"Which leaves us plenty of time—both before and after dinner."

"Yes, it does," he responded.

We fucked on a queen-sized bed in a very nice eighth-deck one-bedroom suite, much nicer and more spacious than the cabin Jason Jax and I were in. Of course Bayer was paying for our cabin as well as this one. There was no reason why he shouldn't treat himself to the better cabin. I had plenty of time to appreciate the cabin because Bayer took his time in fucking me.

We both got naked quickly, each of us helping the other, and he got a blow job right off the top, standing in the middle of the cabin, pushing me down on my knees, and rocking his hips back and forth as he massaged the inside of my throat with his very nicely thick and long cock. I discovered then that he was as fastidious about grooming his pubes as he was about everything else. He had a bit less than a three-inch line of close-cropped curly gray-blond hair descending from his waistline down to the root of his cock. Otherwise his groin was newly shaven. After I had sucked him off that first time, he had me pose in various places in the cabin while he took still shots of me and recovered from having ejaculated. This was work I was accustomed to and I knew the poses men like him would like.