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Easy Sundays Ch. 04: Los Angeles

Amateur

“Isn’t this romantic?”

Gene looked over at Aaron Trimble to see if he was being sarcastic, but he looked like the comment was straight. They were late getting to the ranch party up beyond Santa Clarita on I-5 toward the Los Padres National Forest, because Gene’s agent was anxious to pull off into a rest stop so that Gene could give him a behind-the-wheel blow job. To Gene it was considered paying the rent and Trimble, though twenty years older than Gene, had a nice enough cock, and this was, after all, Sunday. Gene had long thought of Sunday as an “easy day”—one on which he would let himself be easily made.

Trimble’s excuse had been, “You look good enough to eat. Like bees to the honey, baby. With you it’s like bees to the honey—especially dressed like that.”

It hadn’t been Trimble who’d done any eating though. He’d force fed Gene his cock.

Trimble had been the one to tell Gene what to wear to the party—where Gene was supposed to hook up with an assistant producer who was sitting on his novel manuscript, holding it hostage for getting filming started because he wanted something from Gene first. The clothes were from Gene’s House of Oliphant period. While Gene was modeling there, he got to keep most of the clothes he wore on the catwalk. This was from Oliphant’s adult male collection—the one he’d shown in Chicago five months earlier, the last time Gene had seen Oliphant. Oliphant had sent Gene’s stuff out to Chicago, to Kenton Blackburn, Gene’s publisher and new master—at least that’s how Gene saw it—after Gene left his fashion house.

The top was a cut-off black mesh athletic T, rendered in shiny material and showing Gene’s very nice six pack. Below he was wearing skimpy, red silk athletic shorts over a red silk jock strap. His feet were in sandals. He’d come out of Trimble’s Santa Monica beach house with a small red swimsuit, but Trimble had said he wouldn’t need it despite the fact that they were going to a pool party. Gene tossed it in the backseat of the car anyway, just in case.

Trimble was pointing to a hilltop they were passing on I-5. “Looks like Tuscany, doesn’t it? It’s a winery. Have you ever been to Italy, Gene?”

“I’ve been to the Little Italy section of New York City,” Gene answered.

Trimble laughed. “You need to get around more.”

“If you’d get this movie deal on solid ground, I’d be happy to do the world tour. I could write my next novel.”

“Patience, little guy, patience.”

Gene was out of patience after five months out here with the sale of his novel to the movies being on again and off again, often determined by how recently he’d been laid on some movie mogul’s audition coach. Who knew how many of these fuckers out here fucked young male hopefuls? Even Aaron Trimble, the general agent Kenton Blackburn had brought Gene out to L.A. to hook up with to handle the movie rights sales had had him on his office coach and by his pool and in his bed—and now, when he felt like it—in the pool house at the Santa Monica beach house. Trimble was giving Gene a room in exchange for privileges. Gene was making ends meet while he waited for something to happen on the movie deal by renting his body out.

If Gene hadn’t made the room-in-exchange-for-sex deal with Trimble, he’d have run out of money long before this. He’d spent his advance money on the novel quickly out here, which wasn’t hard to do. There would be more when the royalties came in—the novel was selling well enough for this dickering to happen on movie rights—but that wouldn’t start for a few more months.

Gene had essentially been abandoned in Los Angeles. Blackburn had brought him out here, saying they’d have a movie deal quickly. But he hadn’t told Gene what “quickly” meant in California parlance. Gene and Blackburn had reached a parting of sexual interest fairly quickly, though. Blackburn had discovered he had more of an appetite for rough sex than he had realized and Gene had discovered that he didn’t. So Blackburn was back in Chicago now. Gene was still in his stable of writers and was working on a second novel, but they were waving at each other from half a continent’s separation.

Now it was Hollywood and Gene trying to scrape up enough money to get back to New York. Today was attending to two needs at once. One of the last hurdles in formally signing a movie deal on the novel was a producer, Cory Kadowski, who had signaled his interest in Gene. And Trimble had worked out that they could get to Kadowski today, as he would be at a ranch pool party up near Santa Clarita by also taking care of the expressed interest in Gene by the ranch’s owner and party host.

“You only have to do two of them today,” Trimble said, as he roared past the Tuscan-style winery compound on the hill overlooking I-5. “It’s a stag party, though, just randy men into young men. I’ve gotten you in as one of the roaming chickens—guys like you who look young but aren’t too young and will lay around with their legs open to any guest wanting to plug them. But if you let anyone other than Kadowski kilis escort and Danner do you, that’s up to you. I’ll be playing elsewhere. I can have you at home.”

“You make it sound so delicious,” Gene said.

“This is where the world of fake meets the world of reality, kid,” Trimble said, with a laugh. “You’re just fortunate that you got looks and the right pheromones—honey to the bee, that’s you. You got a leg up on most other young guys out here. With you, it’s just like honey for the bees.”

“I’ve heard something like that before.”

“You’re just lucky you got both Kadowski and Danner who want to get into your pants. We’re just about home free on this. Kadowski’s that last cock that needs sucked, I promise.”

“I sure hope so,” Gene said. “I’m just about tapped out.”

“Not like most young guys out here,” Trimble shot back. “As long as you take my cock, you’ve got a roof over your head in L.A. That’s more than most young hopefuls can say out here.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

The door of the ranch house was opened to them by a butler, but the rancher himself, Cliff Danner, a regular star of an L.A.-based soap opera, was close behind, gladhanding them into the house, welcoming them both but with his eyes plastered to Gene only, obviously liking what he saw.

Danner had been on the soap opera for over twenty years, his character having developed from a young, teenage heartthrob who was making a mother out of all of the young girls drifting in and out of the script plots to one of three brothers vying for control of a Mafia-financed international restaurant chain upon the death of the family patriarch. This storyline had been approached and retreated from on the television program for the last two years.

Danner was in his late forties, and he had aged extremely well, thanks to all of the handling and sculpting and grooming that the television studio could apply. He was thickening a bit around the middle but, thanks to careful attention to his six pack, he was on his way to becoming a Zeus rather than a fatty, and he had retained his chiseled ruggedly good looks and a healthy head of now gray-blond hair. He was just wearing a Speedo, flip-flops, and a beer can. This was a pool party. The distinctive curve left down his thigh in the Speedo material made quite clear that he was hung, which had helped him maintain position in his role over the years. He had a hairy chest, but it was tastefully groomed. He looked handsome, tanned, and plastic. It fit right in to Hollywood.

A large number of very expensive cars had been parked haphazardly around a large graveled motor court at the front of the house, and Gene and Trimble had been able to hear a raucous party going on in the pool area at the back of the house. They could tell what sort of party this was before they even got to the door. Two men, the bottom young and the top middle-aged, were fucking on the hood of a Lexus convertible not far from the front entry.

“Hal Taggert is here, out at the pool, Aaron, and said he wanted to know the minute you arrived. He wants to talk to you.” Danner was speaking to Trimble, but he was looking at Gene and had a hand on the young man’s forearm. “I’m sure that your young friend here would like a tour of the house before I bring him out.”

“Did Cory Kadowski come? Has he arrived yet?” Trimble asked somewhat anxiously.

“Yes, he’s here, but I want it first,” Danner answered.

There wasn’t much question in Gene’s view what getting a tour of the ranch house would entail.

He was quite right. The house was huge, of course. It had a bedroom level that a small hotel would be proud of. Danner showed Gene a couple of the rooms with beds, including the master bedroom. At another one in a wing away from the pool terrace, He stopped, and said, “This is a room that you alone can use today. You’ll find there are restraints on the bed, if . . . I’ve heard Cory . . . well . . . you know. God, you’re beautiful,” he suddenly added. He pulled Gene to him, slipping the black mesh belly T over his head as he did so, and they went into a kissing and fondling embrace there in the doorway to the bedroom.

“Here? Now?” Gene asked.

“Yes, quickly,” Danner answered, his voice breathy.

It wasn’t long until Danner’s Speedo slipped to the floor and Gene went down on his knees in front of him and took the TV star’s cock in his mouth.

The bedroom had its own en suite commodious marble-lined bathroom. Danner fucked Gene on the bathroom vanity. Gene was perched on the expanse of marble between two wash basins, his tail on the front edge of the ledge, his shoulder blades pressed into the mirrored wall behind the vanity, and his ankles on Danner’s shoulders as, leaving Gene in his red silk jock strap, which didn’t encumber access to Gene’s channel by Danner’s thick cock in the least, the TV star pounded away at Gene’s ass . . . and pounded and pounded and pounded. He kept looking over Gene’s shoulder into the mirror, admiring his kilis escort bayan role as a top. Once a TV actor always a TV actor.

The man had marvelous control and took his time, giving all of his attention to Gene even though there were maybe a hundred guests and rent-boys downstairs at the pool party he was hosting.

Gene went with him, showing him a good time, taking the cock deep, moving his pelvis with the rhythm of the fuck, telling the man he was a master and was killing him—but killing him good.

“You’re very good. I want to see you again,” Danner said when they were back in the bedroom and pulling their scant clothes back on. “If Kadowski signs off on your movie deal, you owe me, and I’ll collect,” he added.

“Yes, sir, I understand,” Gene answered.

At the door, Danner turned and said, “If I want you to stay the night, after the party, you will, won’t you?”

“If you want,” Gene responded. “I’d like that,” he added, knowing it’s what Danner wanted to hear and what his agent, Trimble, would want Gene to say—unless Kadowski wanted to take Gene home with him.

One down, at least for now, Gene thought. And it wasn’t so bad. One more to go. But, what the hell, it’s easy Sunday.

* * * *

Gene’s head was spinning and the world below him was swirling with the bodies of men in all of the colors of the rainbow dancing around the swimming pool. He had taken the pills offered to him when he was by the pool and the gross whale had his flippers around him and was pulling him to the house, but he didn’t do drugs—usually. He wouldn’t have taken them normally. But it seems he did. The world around him was in a slow churn and his head felt like it was lifting off his body. But he didn’t care. He was happy. Why would he take? . . . Oh, right, a slimy rhino was pulling him to the house. Anything to counter the expectation of where that was leading.

The window pane behind the headboard of the bed he was riding the rhino on was cool, and he alternated between pressing his cheek and his forehead to it. When he pressed his forehead to it, he could look down into the pool area, where the party was in full swing with the undulating figures of all of the beautiful men revolving to the throbbing beat in his brain. But not all of the men were beautiful. Some were fat and old and gross—and grabby. And it wasn’t a rhino he was riding. It was the gross man’s face. He was sitting on Cory Kadowski’s face, and the rhino was gripping his waist and eating his ass out.

Then Gene was scrabbling at the window behind the headboard as he was being pulled away. And then he was being pulled from the brass top rung of the headboard. He was sliding down the gross man’s hairy chest, dragged up and over his huge belly. Gene was the size of a mere child in contrast to this blubbery mountain of a man. The man had the strength to do whatever he wanted with him, though. And the man was doing that—positioning Gene’s anus over the man’s erect club. Gene was howling as his ass was lowered onto Kadowski’s cock. He had the cock of a bull, a horse, an elephant. Gene’s head was throbbing and spinning with all the swirl of colors. His ass hurt like hell. It was spread to the limit of splitting by a throbbing baseball bat. But Gene was laughing, calling out, “Fuck me, big boy! Give it to me with that monster cock, daddy!” as he was being lifted and slammed down, lifted and slammed down.

He swiveled on the cock, grabbing for the headboard, his knees dug into the mattress on either side of the tub of lard, using his knees as levers to rise and fall, rise and fall, fucking himself on the monster shaft, his body reversed on the reclining whale. He was looking at anything he could other than the massive, jiggling mound of flesh under him. He concentrated on the cock—on being able to ride it. That, at least, was arousing—to be able to sheath it and service it.

Kadowski lay on his back, head toward the headboard, feet toward the footboard, with Gene now on top of him, pointed at and grasping the top of the brass rung footboard with his hands. The fat man still gripped Gene by the waist and, in consort with Gene’s leveraging off his knees to rise and fall, pulled him back and forth hard on his cock, grunting and groaning, while Gene moaned and cried out and watched all the pretty colors swirling before his throbbing head—and delivered as promised.

* * * *

Earlier than that, after the TV actor, Cliff Danner, fucked Gene in the guestroom bathroom and left him, Gene took a shower, pulled his clothes back on, and went down to where the party by the pool was in full swing.

He moved around the terrace, smiling at other guests, flirting with them, and politely, with smiles, slipping away from groping hands as he walked the perimeter of the pool, getting his bearings. It was Sunday; he could let loose on Sundays and pretend the rest of the week that he hadn’t. Most of the men were beautiful and muscular and California tanned. He would have happily escort kilis gone with most of the men here if they were the movie producer he’d been brought here to fuck. None of the good-looking men at the pool were Kadowski, though, and Gene knew they weren’t.

Most of them were uninhibited this late in the party as well. As many were naked as were wearing bathing suits, and the naked ones almost universally were hung, whether they were young, old, or middle aged. Some of them were “chickens,” as Gene was deemed to be. These were young looking and were there to service the men buzzing around them and manhandling them. The least inhibited ones were fucking. The hedonist atmosphere and scent of spunk and testosterone floating across the pool area was contagious.

Gene’s beautiful small body was getting attention with the bold colors of the shiny black mesh belly T and red silk mini shorts he wore as he walked the rim of the pool, and frenzy only increased when he slipped off the shorts and was just wearing the red silk jock strap below.

He accepted drinks—more than he should have—but staved off the free-flowing offer of brightly colored pills—at least to that point.

The bona fide party guests took note of Gene when he drew near and buzzed around Gene like bees to the honey, just as his agent had said they would. Gene recognized a few of them from TV. Two of them, in particular, a Jeff and a Steve, were ones Gene melted to when he saw them on TV. He stopped beside them and gave them a smile. In just pausing and acknowledging Steve’s catcall, Gene was saying “yes.” Jeff embraced him from the front and Steve from the back. Steve murmured in Gene’s ear, “Can you hear the music? Dance with us.”

“It could be fun to do you together,” Jeff said as the three of them were dancing together beside the pool to the beat of rock music, naked and hung Jeff in front of Gene and hung and naked Steve close behind Gene. The three were laughing and flirting and trying to keep the drinks in their glasses from sloshing out as them writhed against each other’s bodies.

“You can if you like,” Gene answered. His agent said he could take whatever pleasure he wanted from the party as long as he fucked the two men he was here to service.

“Seriously?” Steve said. “You’re just shitting us, aren’t you? You do doubles?”

“Sure, I do.” Gene answered. That was the truth. He did.

“Prove it,” Jeff challenged.

Gene, having had two drinks too many, did prove it. It was a chore, because they were both bigger than the average, but Gene was open from Danner’s cocking and the relaxing effect of the drinks, and he managed them. And he enjoyed managing them. Steve sank to the adjacent chaise lounge, bringing Gene down with him, as, standing behind Gene, Jeff ran his hands under the waistband of Gene’s jock strap and pulled it down his legs.

Jeff and Steve fucked him together on a chaise lounge bed, Steve on his back on the bottom, holding Gene’s small, lithe body on top of him and fucking up into Gene’s passage, and Jeff straddling the lounge bed behind Gene, palming the young man’s belly, and pumping Gene’s ass above the buried cock of Steve. The black mesh T went the way of the red silk jock strap. Gene was naked in all his glory, a glory that voyeurs applauded as they gathered around to watch him be double fucked by the two naked hunks. Gene had a nice cock, which onlookers took turns stroking while he was being fucked, but it didn’t rival any of those swinging free around him. It certainly didn’t match up with either Steve’s or Jeff’s.

Toward the grand finale three-way shoot off, Gene froze for an instant, recognizing someone on the other side of the pool. But this had progressed too far for him not to get back into the action of two big cocks on two gorgeous young television personalities churning inside him, and Gene shelved the surprise viewing and went with the glorious fuck.

“Hello, Manny,” Gene said when he’d worked his way to the other side of the pool later. “I certainly didn’t expect to see you here, although I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised.” The man Gene had seen from across the pool that had given him pause in the middle of the double penetration fuck by the two TV hunks was his roommate in New York of three years earlier, Manuel Rodrigues, a fashion house photographer by day and a porn filmmaker by night. Gene had needed money enough that he’d been in a couple of Manny’s films. He’d also been in Manny’s bed.

“I think I was the more surprised of the two,” Manny said. “I never figured you as ever being outside of New York. You’re lookin’ good and I see that you’re as easy as ever. I saw you earlier, but seein’ as how you were the meat of a big boy sandwich, I didn’t interrupt.”

“You’re looking good too,” Gene said. He was being polite and they both knew it. Manny hadn’t aged well over the last three years, and he’d gone to fat.

“Good enough that you’ll go over in those bushes and let me hump you—for old time’s sake?” They both laughed, but there was no reason for Gene not to think Manny was serious. He’d always been randy, ready to go at any time. He was wearing swimming trunks now, but his erection was pushing them out. He might had gained weight, but his cock most likely was still highly rideable. He’d given Gene some good times.

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