Stills

I could hear Stella Langer braying from across the room. And the noise was getting closer, so, without turning around, I knew she was headed in my direction. I steeled myself; I wanted to have this conversation with her, but it was such a chore to keep her on topic and to see that she kept her hands to herself.

She had called to tell me that she had a proposition for me—a business one, for a change, thank god. She thought I'd be perfect for publicity director on a new film. I'd done a whole lot of commercial and TV work since I'd hit the West Coast, but thus far I hadn't broken into films, so of course I was interested. But I was standoffish on the phone until she told me we could talk at a gathering she was having. This would be OK; whenever Stella got me alone, she tried to undress me—and she was too important in Los Angeles for me to coldcock. Thus far I'd kept a step or two ahead of her—if just barely. A gathering should be a neutral enough venue, though—Stella's idea of having a few friends over ran into the hundreds.

"Oh, there you are, Paul. I want you to meet—"

I turned at the sound of her whinny and faced Stella. She looked the horse part herself, so facing Stella took some extra control of the laugh reflex. And then I froze—because of who she had on tether.

"—Frederico Nolo," Stella finished. "I'm sure you know his work. Academy nomination last year. No longer just a fast-rising star."

Those piercing dark, hooded eyes, reaching right into me and pulling my gut out. "Ah, yes, Paul Ortez," he was saying in that silky, petulant boy voice of his. "Stella has been telling me that you're just the man I need." Nolo's eyes were sparkling, his mouth set in a mocking smile, as his strong hand refused to let mine go—or rather a finger of my hand. He somehow, without it looking awkward, had wrapped a couple of fingers around my middle finger and was squeezing it and rubbing the tip of it with the tip of his forefinger. As I'm sure he intended, I felt the stirrings of another tip. "But it seems we've met before. Have we met before, Paul?"

"No, I don't think so," I said in a voice rather weaker than I meant it to be. My knees were a little weak too.

* * * *

Yes, yes, I wanted to scream. We most certainly have met before.

Italy, seven years previously. I had been on a "let's try anything" fully free-form lark between my commercial art undergraduate work, which had been an intense slog, and the startup of my MBA program, which promised to be just as intense and focused. I was off to Italy for a fling and to experience life.

Perhaps my wildest experimentation in that brief hiatus had been Pepe—or least it had begun with Pepe. It had ended with Frederico Nolo.

Pepe was from Ghana, or so he told me. A smiling hunk, towering over me, full of life and infectious good humor and bubbling over with everything I wanted to discover about the art of Florence for the short time I had there. I ran across him in an art museum. I thought he was a guide there, because of all he was expounding on in front of a Renaissance painting of the nativity. But, no, he just proved to be a graduate student in art, completing his education in Italy.

We discussed art—or rather we both ran on at great lengths and regardless of what the other was simultaneously saying about Italian Renaissance art—over coffee at a nearby sidewalk café. Pepe was steeped in fine art, and I was studying it for its application in commercial art. We were like night and day—Pepe hulking and a rich chocolate and so very, very outgoing. And me, slim, despite the gift of naturally good body tone; blond; shy. But, if anything, the difference—and the sense that this was a brief encounter—was what made us instantaneously comfortable with each other. Pepe had so much bubbling inside him, and I wanted it all—and he gave it all to me.

I told him of my "experience it all" fling through Europe between long, intense study periods. He asked me if I'd ever been to a nude beach. I said no. We frolicked like young kids in the surf of the lightly populated beach, and then he led me to an isolated spot surrounded by rock outcroppings and fucked me languidly into realization that there were things a man could and would do to bring the sexual arousal and fulfillment of another man to greater heights than normally happened between a man and a woman—at least in any experience I'd had heretofore with a woman.

He prepared me at great length and lovingly for my first anal possession. We lay on his beach blanket, stretched out full length against each other, on our sides, me cuddled into his chest. And we kissed and fondled each other until I had stopped trembling and was comfortable for him to move his face down to between my thighs to work his lips and tongue on my cock, balls, and hole. Then he was stretched out along my body again, and embracing me tight and making love to my ear lobe. He lifted my thigh with a strong, chocolate hand, and then that was it. He was slowly entering me, and stopping and holding until my pantings and groans subsided, and then moving deeper again. Soon our hips were moving in unison in slow waves of pleasure; and his hand was on my belly, holding me close to him; and the wild churning of his cock inside me stood in stark contrast to the smooth undulation of our hard, firm, young bodies against each other. And consummation—almost a holy experience—came on me in waves and waves of heightened lust as I mewed and sighed and moaned and groaned and cried out in ecstasy at the giving and taking of him.

Later, on the main beach, as we returned to playing in the surf—both trying to cool down and step away from an experience that went much farther beyond the pleasant afternoon fling we surely both had intended, an experience I was confident that neither one of us wanted to lead to a complication in our lives—I was approached by a man saying he worked in films. Would I be interested in doing a screen test for a small film he was making—something that would require no more than a couple of days of my time if I was found to be filmable?

I hesitated. He offered the equivalent of $150 for an hour's screen test. Just some stills. Then, if I was deemed suitable for filming, the equivalent of $200 more for the minor role I would be playing. Not more than a couple of days altogether. It wouldn't disrupt my travel itinerary in the least.

I wavered and looked at Pepe. He smiled that smile of his and reminded me that I was on an "experience it all" fling.

So I said why not. I could make good use of an extra $150—even more of $200 more.

The man told me that was terrific, and, oh by the way, the film involved a bit of nudity and sex. Did I have a problem with that?

I turned to Pepe, who still had that reassuring, "go for it" smile plastered to his face.

I didn't say no.

The man was Frederico Nolo.

I never saw Pepe again.

A bit of nudity and sex was a gross understatement—and the "minor role" suggestion was a bit exaggerated as well. The studio I was led to was set up as a beach scene, sand and the sound of lapping surf, and all. I was fascinated by everything. It fit right in with my commercial art background and my aspirations of working in movie publicity. I was lost in trying to observe and mentally record every aspect of how they had brought a beach to a cavernous, otherwise bleak building in the Florence warehouse district—how they had set their lighting and cameras to serve and yet not intrude upon the scene.

Perhaps I was too lost in observing the staging craft. I spent more than an hour being prepared—my hair shortened considerably and darkened, brown lenses, body shaved—the only up side was that, after they finished, I didn't think this actor would ever be identified as me. I stripped upon Nolo's direction without giving it much thought. And then I encountered the actor who was to take the major role—to my supposed minor role—in the screen test. A hulking black monster of a man—twice my size; one and a half times the size of Pepe even. All muscle and brutish power, hanging low, greased up like a body-builder in a competition. Just exactly like a champion heavy-weight body builder.

Soon he was manhandling me and fucking me three ways from Sunday, in multiple positions, most of which I had never even known existed. All the time, Frederico Nolo was dancing around us, at the edge of the set, clicking his camera, taking his stills. "Yes, good, struggle, resist. Just like that." He didn't have to tell me to struggle. I was doing so with all my might—but without effect.

Nolo was moving around, excited, on the balls of his feet, murmuring, "Very good," "Just like that," "Now slowly pull it out and stroke it back in, hard. Yes. Again. And again. Very good." "Now, change position. No. Show us the entry. Yes, like that." "Can you put him on his shoulders on the sand and crouch over him and fuck down into him? Ah, yes, very good. Here, let me zoom in on his face. Ah, very, very nice. All the expression of a first taking."

At the last click of the still camera, I was laying at the feet of the big, black brute. Me collapsed, totally exhausted on the floor after deep, prolonged taking under the hot lights, and the bruiser standing over me with dripping cock. I was on my back, arms akimbo and thighs still spread, head flopped to the side with an expression of having been fully and very satisfactorily taken. I couldn't help myself. Not half way through the assault, I had given into it because the pleasure had far overtaken the pain and humiliation. In the final position, he had taken me standing and me being held up off the floor and pinned to his pelvis—and, upon his ejaculation, he had just let me fall slowly to the floor when the picture was snapped.

The humiliation was that I had given in to it—had enjoyed it and had realized that it brought me to an intense peak of passion and fulfillment that no experience with a woman had. With no more than incoherent mumblings, I grabbed my clothes, quickly pulled my trousers over my legs, and buttoned my shirt while I was still struggling toward the exit. For two days, I walked around, blushing and only half aware of my surroundings—deeply humiliated and disturbed, but moved as never before.

Frederico called me on the second night. Would I like to see the stills?

"No, I think not. I think I want to forget it all."

"You left without your test money. If you can come by my flat now, I will give that to you."

At least I could have the money to justify it, I thought.

At the flat, Frederico, dressed only in a robe and looking oh so satisfied with himself, offered me a drink, and I sat on his sofa as he went into the other room to get my money. When he handed me the equivalent of $350, I looked at him quizzically.

"We shot the movie at the same time I was taking the stills," he said in a matter-of-fact, very-pleased-with-himself manner. "And it turned out beautifully. You could be a star in Italian films, if you were interested. Do you want to see the video."

I told him in no uncertain terms that I wasn't interested.

"Perhaps you'll think otherwise when you see these," he said, and he scattered still photographs out on the coffee table in front of me.

My mistake then was to pick them up. They were the stills that Frederico had been taking of the big, black stud fucking me on the studio beach. My hands began to tremble but I couldn't take my eyes off the photos. I almost didn't notice that Frederico had flipped on a TV set, which was showing the video of my scene with the black stud. Nor when he returned and sat down close beside me, did I fully notice his hands go inside my shirt. Almost. I almost didn't notice. I noticed enough to be aroused, though, I'm sorry to say. He was thrumming my nipples just like Pepe had done. He had undone the sash to his robe and it had fallen open, and a long, thick, upturned, throbbing, ruby-bulbed cock was rising up between the folds.

I had gotten to the last photo. The one of the black hulk hovering over me, cock dripping, as I lay, exhausted at his feet. The expression on my face. Not the face of violation, but the face of peaceful, fulfilled satisfaction. Frederico had gotten my cock out of my pants and was slow pumping me, the tip of his forefinger planted on the slit in my cock head.

When he first took me, I was stretched out on my side on his sofa, facing the sofa back. He had one of my legs raised high, running up his naked, heaving chest. His knee was slung over my other thigh, holding me in place. And his cock was a couple of inches inside me, stroking me rhythmically as he rubbed his dick head across my prostate. I had my cock in my hand and was close to ejaculation. My head was turned into a pillow to muffle the sounds of my sobs. But I was not crying at the violation. I was crying at the humiliation of not wanting him to stop.

Later, after another drink and a recovery period, he took me into his bedroom and, as he put it, gave me a "proper fucking" in his bed.

As we lay there, waiting for our breathing to return to normal and his cock to rise again, he asked me how long I'd be in Florence. He wanted to fuck me again—and, if I was willing, to film another movie.

He seemed a little sad when I said I'd be moving on to Rome the next day.

"How did you like the beach scene we set up for you?" he asked, out of the blue.

I turned my face to his in surprise, something inside me clutching at me. He had that mocking smile on his face that I later, in entertainment news reports, saw him show to the world when he had put a little joke over on someone. Then it dawned on me. The beach scene; the big, black stud; the effect of the first taking. He had seen us that day on the beach; the soon-to-be-great Nolo had been playing with reality in his film—a little personal joke that he was often to use subsequently in his highly successful international films, probably all the more successful because of the little joke he was playing with them.

"Pepe?" I asked, sudden realization flooding in.

". . . works for me," Frederico said with a mischievous grin. "We could do a film with you and Pepe, if you like. Although I'll admit I have the original beach scene on film as well."

But I didn't like. I never wanted to see Pepe again. I struggled to get out of the bed.

But Frederico liked me struggling. He overpowered me and fucked me even more vigorously and forcefully than before. And I loved every thrusting stroke of it.

* * * *

"Stella is producing my new film," Frederico was saying as I came out of my reverie and into the reality of her Hollywood Hills lounge. "I suggested that we use you as publicity director. She was ecstatic. Said she thought you were ripe for it." The mocking smile; he had no shame whatsoever. And I was no match for him.

"I don't know . . ." I stuttered, completely knocked off guard. I had wanted films. Why was I hesitating? I knew why. I had put all of that behind me. Never taken that sort of risky plunge again. Gone on for my MBA and then a quick rise in commercial advertising. I had a fiancée, damn it. A good looker, daughter of a major movie producer, even someone I enjoyed being with and liked immensely. I couldn't . . .

Stella had returned to us and Frederico was telling her that we'd had our little chat and he was sure we'd all be working together. But that he had to go now. He had another pressing engagement.

"Oh that's too bad," Stella whined. "There were others I wanted you to meet. But I'm so glad he is interested in having you," Stella gushed and then she brayed that laugh of her, which snapped me back into full reality. She was holding both of our hands in hers—Frederico's and mine—with equal intensity. And I knew then that they were fucking each other. I didn't know who was doing it to capture the other for this film project—perhaps both; they were both at the height of their own particular contribution to the movies.

I mumbled something. I have no idea what. It didn't matter. My wishes and wants were incidental to the agendas—separate and shared—of these two.

"Have you a ride back to your hotel?" Stella asked Frederico. She was still in pressing possession of our hands.

"I was hoping that young Paul here would give me a lift. We could talk shop at greater length."

I demurred in a whisper, but neither of them was paying a bit of attention to what I said.

Later, in the turning circle of the hotel, off to the side, where Frederico told me to stop the car, he asked me to come up to his room.

I demurred.

But he was already unzipping me and fishing my embarrassingly half-hard cock out. He hand pumped me to very hard, right there in the car in the hotel's parking circle, while he told me how much he had missed me in all these intervening years. How much he wanted to work with me on this movie. He knew it would be the making of me. All of the directors would be clamoring for me as publicity director for their films after this.

He told me to park the car in the guest lot. That there was something up in his room that he wanted to show me.

I was under no illusions about what he wanted to show me. But it turned out that it was more than that.

As I sat in an upholstered chair in his hotel suite and he slowly undressed in front of me, I fanned out the still photo shots he had dropped in my lap and let my eyes drink them in. The still shots of that scene he had seduced me with seven years previously. I reached the one of me lying in a heap at the feet of the big, black stud, and my eyes went to the expression of intense satisfaction on my face in that still photograph. My hands began to tremble.

After Frederico had fucked me—twice—in the big, soft hotel bed in even more fulfilling and passion-zooming fashion than I had remembered over the years, he asked me if I would work on his film and come to him whenever he asked.

I gave him the answer he wanted. He probably thought he was blackmailing me with the still photographs. I knew, however, that the expression on my face in that last still photo spoke volumes about me—that I would gladly and freely return to Frederico's bed whenever he summoned me.