Also Want to Thank Ch. 05-06

Afterward, they sat out on the deck and watched the sun set over the ocean.

"I'm worried about you," Marshall said. "I doesn't show in your acting—yet—which is quite fine, as I said."

"You seem surprised I can act. Everyone seems surprised—like they think my only talent is being fucked."

"No use being testy, Dillon, and it wouldn't be good to show that to your fans. Just watch the recreational stuff. I'm not the only one at the studio who's worried. So, we've decided you need a roommate."

"A roommate? I hope it's not some bimbo to make the world think I'm hetero."

"No, the world is beyond caring about that as long as they don't catch you being spiked on the Internet, and we have some roles in mind that are gay. Taking cock will be an advantage at the box office there. No, we think you need someone to be with you, to help you cope."

"A babysitter?"

"If that's the way you want to think of it, we don't care. As long as you accept it. We're thinking of a friend of yours—Scott Black. He'd mainly be here to keep you sober and responsible with the drugs. Think about it. Here, you need another beer. Don't get up. I know where to find them."

Dillon snorted when Marshall disappeared into the house. Scott Black. Who did they think got him on the drugs to begin with? Who did they think was his supplier? Well, it was OK with him if they wanted to play that game.

He looked out into the surf. The way the setting sun was playing colors on the water, Dillon fancied he almost could see the face of that dead actor, Cory Corbin, in the water. He shook his head to get the image out of it, though. He didn't want to think of Cory Corbin now—or ever. He wasn't going to be a Cory Corbin.

* * * *

"Up on the bed," Marshall growled. Dillon gasped as the man released his choking grip on Dillon's throat. Marshall had been fucking him brutally, bent over the side of the bed on his stomach, the producer jabbing him hard and deep with cruel thrusts in his ass from behind while he choked Dillon almost to the point of the young man blacking out. Dillon had known Marshall was angry about something as soon as he had arrived at the producer's house, having been summoned perfunctorily.

Marshall climbed up on the bed and plopped down on his back in the middle of the bed, his chest and head raised on a pile of pillows. He spread and bent his legs, pressing the soles of his feet on the sheets. "Get on top of me. Take my cock again. No, facing up at the ceiling. On the cock, your feet pressed into the tops of my thighs."

Dillon complied, worried about what was the matter, what had set Marshall off. Just before he'd been called here, his agent, Walt Whalen had called, as angry as Marshall was, and said the Dillon's contract for Homeward Bound had been returned, unsigned, and that Whalen himself was reassessing his representation of Dillon. Dillon had no idea what had gone wrong. His box office was at the top, despite the rumors about his drinking and the drugs. And he could stop those anytime he wanted. It would help if they got rid of Scott and brought in someone else as his companion. Surely they knew that it was Scott who was providing the booze and the drugs. It was almost like Scott was controlling him.

"Oh, god. Oh shit. You're killing me," Dillon moaned, as Marshall pounded his long, thick cock up into Dillon's channel. He had put Dillon into a full Nelson, trapping Dillon's arms above his head, completely immobilizing the smaller man on top of him. And his cock was churning inside Dillon's passage. Dillon wanted him to stop; he didn't like to be fucked in anger. But he was in no position to tell one of his meal tickets to do anything. Dillon had thought that being a star would free him, make him his own person. It had only hopelessly entangled him in other men's agendas and wants. He had become a prostitute. Not a cheap prostitute—an expensive one—but a whore none the less. There seemed no way out of this. He was trapped in his own ambitions and grasping for the brass ring. He understood that; there just was nothing he seemed to be able to do about it.

"You love it. And you love this position. The only thing that would make it better is if my cock was jet black."

"Shit. Fuck. What do ya mean, man?"

"This is what I mean," Marshall said. He had a remote in his hand and, with a click, he'd turned on a TV set on the wall beyond the foot of the bed. Both men could see what was running on the TV.

"Shit," Dillon exclaimed.

"Shit is right," Marshall responded. "What did I tell you about porn flicks? You have no idea what I paid for the master of this or how likely there are other copies that will hit the Internet. What did I tell you about porn flicks?"

On the TV screen, Scott Black was fucking Dillon in this same position. It was a high-quality porn film, and it clearly was Dillon being fucked. It had been made in those weeks that Whalen hadn't gotten back to Dillon on a movie role at the beginning of their deal and when Scott was tapped out too. They'd had to do something to pay the rent.

"God, that was before the movie roles," Dillon said between pants. Marshall wasn't letting up on pistoning his ass. "We were both broke. We would have had to go home. We were told it was for a private collector—that it would never be shown anywhere."

"Luckily I know the private collector," Marshall retorted, "but how about this one?" He clicked the remote again and up came the not such a high-quality video of two hunky construction workers fucking Dillon on his own bed in the cottage.

"Oh, shit," Dillon whimpered.

"Oh, shit is right again," Marshall said. "And you know where I got this one from? Right off the Internet. Maybe not everyone knows that's you from the poor resolution, but I sure as hell do. This goes viral and all bets are off on your future career, Dillon. You damn well better land that Golden Globe award on Saturday night."

"Oh shit, oh fuck," Dillon gasped, not only from the continued brutal fucking but also because now he saw his future slipping out of his hands in this, the cruelest town, Hollywood.

Well, fuck it, he thought. The awards ceremony. He had a nest egg now. If he could get anywhere close to the stage during the awards ceremony, he'd give them all something to talk about.

- FINI -