Just a Little Respect

Jake hissed his release, holding my hips between his hands, me bent over the lower bunk in his room. A dozen thrusts and he was done, releasing his load in the bulb of his rubber. He then immediately pulled out of me, picked me up and put me on my knees in front of him. "Clean it off," he demanded.

It hadn't really been about sex, it had happened so fast. I hadn't come. It was about anger and control. Jake hadn't cared if I did at all as long as he released his tension and anger. He'd had an argument with the filming boss about an angle of filming and that he'd gotten someone's foot in the frame. At the first chance he had, he just grabbed me, pulled me into his cabin, and covered me to relieve his tension and ire. I wasn't part of his argument with the filming boss. It wasn't my foot in the frame.

And I had let him. I always let him and anyone else in the production who wanted a piece of me. I was the production piece. That's what I was here for--providing my ass to relieve tension.

Jake Jones was the youngest and hunkiest of those regularly covering me while we were on location. But he was just a cameraman. He had to take backseat to the needs and command of Kevin Kolter, the star actor in the TV series Island Detective; and Clive Peterson, the assistant producer, who had hired me as a gofer and the production punch, with the title production assistant. I guess if I was a woman he'd hired to keep the main star and himself happy, I'd probably have been given the title script girl. I did help Kolter memorize his lines in the TV production.

"We don't have time for more, Jake," I said. "The break will be over. I'll need to be on set."

"So will I, but we'll take time. I haven't had a crack at you in a while, and we both know I'm the one who drives you crazy."

I wouldn't have gone that far. None of them drove me crazy and none of them gave me an ounce of respect. But he was there, pressing the head of that thick, young cock at my cheek. We certainly didn't have time to discuss it. So, I opened my mouth over his cock and gave him head and cleaned it up.

When he was satisfied, he pulled his dick out, pushed it back into his shorts, zipped up, and left the two-bedroom bungalow--larger than the one I bedded down in when neither Kolter nor Peterson wanted me for the night--and sauntered out onto the beach near the town of Le Malin on the French-possession island of Martinique and over to the shack where the American police detective supposedly lived and that was the setting for the scene from Island Detective that we were filming today. My cabin was smaller than the others and I was the only one on the lower end of the production crew who didn't have to share. That was because I had to be available to entertain and service any guys who came to me at night.

We all were on a one-year contract to live here together to film two seasons' worth of this laid-back murder mystery series set in the Caribbean. After the two years of forty-five-minute programs were in the can, the first year would premier. We'd already been told that the cast would change if a third year was optioned. We weren't told whether production support staffers, like me, would have our contracts renewed then. I guess it depended on whether they thought they still needed that employee. If they didn't replace the homo top, Kevin Kolter, with another one, chances were good I wouldn't be kept on.

Clive Peterson had hired me in Los Angeles specifically because Kolter had included in his acting contract being provided a good-looking, small-bodied, young submissive blond to service him. I'm sure those weren't the actual words used, but I'm sure the actor's wishes were taken care of. Peterson had picked me up from a gay club, where I was dancing the pole. I'd caught his fancy and had caused his dick to harden watching me dance the pole at the club. The next time he came to the club, he'd sent flowers and a note to me backstage, saying he'd be at the stage door if I wanted a good late-night dinner. It was how I supplemented my meager income at the time--maneuvering men into feeding me before they fucked me. He wined and dined and laid me. It was all good. He was satisfied.

He shared the stage photo of me, combined with the smartphone pics of him fucking me, with Kevin Kolter, and I caught the actor's fancy too, so Peterson offered me the job. I grabbed at the opportunity. Kolter was getting long in the tooth, but he was an established TV star and had been a real hunk at some time. I'd come to Hollywood from Pennsylvania to land a job in the movies or a sugar daddy, and this would be a job in TV at least.

I thought too that there was a chance of landing Kevin Kolter as my sugar daddy.

Peterson clarified that I'd be servicing anyone wanting a male prostitute, which obviously included him because he was fucking me while he was explaining the job, and I'd also have to do whatever odd jobs on the set that no one else wanted to do. The job didn't sound as good then, but it still sounded a whole lot better than what I was doing to hang on in L.A. as long as I could.

And it would be on a lush Caribbean island.

When I stumbled out of the cabin after bending over for Jake Jones and headed for the beach area, where the set for the detective's beach house was located, I could hear the voices, set to high volume. The director and the leading man, Kevin Kolter, were at it again. They were best buddies when they were drunk, but they got into it incessantly on the set. They were both "last chance" guys in the business, which put them both on edge. In recent years the director had had a string of misses in TV series, a few that hadn't even made it to first-season trial in recent years. He was hanging on to Island Detective like it was a life line, constantly saying, with hopeful conviction, that it was going to be a winner.

For his part, Kotler was definitely on his way down. He'd been a heartthrob guaranteed series sustainer for decades. The "for decades" part was the kicker. He had once been a handsome, body-beautiful devil, muscular, sexy, mildly hirsute, great torso, infectious smile dude who could move from drama to "oh gosh" amusement at will and on the strength of that mischievous smile. Closely approaching fifty now, he had maybe one more sexy and amusing leading TV series role in him now before having to turn to cameo mature-man appearances in movies and TV commercials--if he didn't take his shirt off during filming anymore. He was fighting hard for Island Detective to be this series. At the same time, he was tired of being in the closet all these years. He was less careful, at least in the context of this production, in hiding himself--to the extent that he had demanded, if he was going to spend a year or more on location on a remote Caribbean island, that he be accorded a young man to take care of his sexual needs. That would be me for this production.

As I approached, Kolter and the director were arguing about the weakness of the dialogue and plotline that they were supposed to be filming today. The argument, though volatile, because each man wanted to prove to the production people milling about that he was the most creative and commanding of the two, didn't last long. Secretly, the director agreed with Kolter on the shortfall of the script and had been about to call a halt to filming himself. He was most irked that Kolter had gotten there first.

"OK, if you must be a prima donna about it, we'll have the script scrubbed and resume filming this afternoon. I really want to get this scene in the can so that we have a day off tomorrow." Then he called for the writers to get back into harness chop chop and deliver something better, both dialogue and plotline wise before early afternoon.

"I'll be in my cabin, memorizing lines," Kolter said. As I arrived, he signaled me to join him. "Dale can help me with my lines," he added, as he strode out of the set area.

No one was fooled, I'm sure. There were no lines for Kolter to memorize. The script writing was only a day ahead of the filming at this point. The most recent script had just been sent back for rewrite.

But Kolter no longer cared what the production staff thought. They all knew I'd been taken on as the production punch. It was a predominated gay male production. The star fucked me. The assistant producer fucked me. One of the writers fucked me. Any of the technicians, all of whom were in more arousing fit than the more powerful principle members of the production were, fucked me as they liked and whenever I was available. Some of the locals, of mixed ethnic origin, who had been hired to fill out the cast or production crew fucked me too. Those were the most welcome; I discovered I liked brown, fit bodies and plump black cocks inside me.

I didn't mind being fucked. I liked being fucked, and that had been one of the better aspects of the life I'd fallen into in Hollywood since I hadn't been immediately discovered as an actor. What I was getting tired of--to the point of considering cutting and running--was the casual, presumed, and sometimes dismissive nature of it on this Caribbean island--probably invited because of the laid-back nature of the island and of the vibe being built into the Island Detective TV series. What I wanted was a little more respect from those I opened my legs for--just a little more respect for me as a person and a tension reliever.

I didn't get enough regard and respect in this job.

As we were entering Kolter's cabin--of course he had a private one, the best one available, all to himself--he said, "I'm feeling really tense and tired. I think I'll have a massage."

If I'd looked around to see who was going to give him this massage, I wouldn't have seen anyone but me. He didn't say, "Dale, would you give me a massage," or anything close to that. And I knew he was expected a full-body massage.

That's what I gave him, a full-body massage. I did the front and then the back, and when he turned over again, his cock was standing straight up, as I knew it would be. He certainly didn't seem tired anymore. And, as far as tense, I took care of that, first, by giving him a hand job. And then, when he cupped my head in his hands and guided my face down to his crotch, I gave him the head he was expecting. And, of course, it all was concluded with me, as naked as he was, saddled on his pelvis, facing him, and with him gripping my waist between his hands and helping me to rise and fall, riding him into the sunset.

I took such good care of his tension that, after he'd come and embraced me and brought me down onto his torso, with both of us concentrating on him going flaccid inside me, his light snoring told me that I'd put him to sleep. I quietly worked my way out from his embrace, pulled on my T-shirt and athletic shorts, and went back to my own cabin to shower, not showering in his cottage so as not to wake him.

Of course, in all of that he didn't thank me for the massage or the sex or for anything else. And I knew he wouldn't do so when he woke up either. This sort of service was expected from me. It's what I'd been hired and brought to this lush tropical island to provide.

The script had been doctored, and the star of the show, rested and services, was in a good mood, joking around with the director and entertaining the film crew with outstanding delivery of the new lines. As the cameras were rolling, the assistant producer, Clive Peterson, took me aside.

"We're getting together a little all-day boating party tomorrow, leaving from the Dream Yacht Charter offices in La Marin at 8:30 in the morning. I told the guys you'd go out with us."

It wasn't a request and I had no question what the "guys" on the boat would be wanting from me throughout the day on the sea. The small city of Le Marin was only a half-hour jitney drive to the west of the filming compound. Much of our filming was done in the town, including at the yacht basin that the Dream Yacht Charter business operated out of. We were here for the long haul and the locals were used to accommodating filming in their streets. They were habitually friendly and laid back and welcomed the money we brought in. Most of them enjoyed being put in the background of street scenes. We made frequent trips into town from our digs at a beach resort that had shut down and leased to the film company for the duration. A couple of jitneys with drivers were on permanent demand to ferry us, as we wished, between the compound and the town.

Before I could say I'd be happy to be covered by a randy group of guys on a boating day the next day, Peterson was already filling in my dance card between the last call of "Cut" on the day's filming and the next morning.

"I'm having dinner delivered to my cabin tonight," Peterson said. "I thought we'd eat in and watch DVDs."

And whatever after that, I thought, knowing that the DVDs Peterson liked to watch were male-on-male porn. Again, this hadn't come in the form of an invitation, and he was called away to untangle a typical problem of his workday before I could say "yay" or "nay."

He'd be disappointed, though. Friday nights were mine. I worked a club in Le Marin on Friday nights. With luck I'd make a hookup of my own choosing tonight--hopefully a guy who knew how to say "please" and "thank you." I'd try to make the boat trip tomorrow, though. Peterson was my employer here. He'd be disappointed--and probably a bit angry--I didn't show tonight, but I was sure that whatever the "guys," mostly men from the town, probably middle-aged expats, Peterson had gathered for the boat outing, had entertainment by me built into the fee they were paying. And very little of that would come to me on its way to Peterson's pocket.

* * * *

Saturday was the film production's day off. I was time for everyone to enjoy the delights of the French possession island of Martinique in his or her own way. Most started enjoying it on Friday evening by going into the town of Le Marin and taking advantage of the casual, "whatever" lifestyle of the waterfront bars. I regularly went into Le Marin on Friday evenings too, but I had discovered my own small club, Gerard's, entered from a shallow alley off Rue Victor Scheolcher, and not near to the bar strip along the waterfront. It was where I could get away by myself from those I worked with--and under--all week. It was a gay bar and club, but none of the men I serviced in the film production had found it yet.

Gerard's had a hookup bar, which included an alcove with four billiards tables that were popular and were the best place to smoothly negotiate hookups while doing something else to cover any awkwardness. There also was a back room, where gay porn videos showed nonstop except for an hour after midnight, where there was dancing on the floor and, usually, a young guy or two strip dancing poles on a small, raised platform. Upstairs there were a couple of small, spartanly, but adequately, equipped rooms, with beds and other sexual aids. These were rented out by the hour.

I wasn't just a regular Friday night patron. I worked there on Friday nights. I danced the pole there that night, which was no big deal, as that's what I had been doing in Los Angeles before being hired on the TV production crew. I also augmented my income by letting guys take me up to one of the rooms upstairs after I'd strip danced on the pole. That was no big deal either. I'd been doing that too in Los Angeles.

I had seen the tall, handsome, mixed French-Caribbean Jacques Belain in Gerard's before and I knew he had seen me dancing the pole, but this Friday night was the first time he approached me. He was a lean, but hard-bodied man in his forties who had aged quite well and was in demand in Gerard's, although he tended to hold himself aloof there, flirting, convivially chatting, drinking constantly without getting drunk, occasionally touching and fondling, but never going upstairs. He generally functioned as the most charismatic, wealthy, and desirable top in the room. When he came, he usually picked out one young man for the evening, partying with him and sometimes leaving with him. He was said to own a coffee plantation on the Riviere Mastor, up in the mountainous area to the northeast of Le Marin, that had been in his French-family hands for generations

The allure of the man, at least for me, was in the mysterious mix of ethnic origin in him and had all come together to make one handsome, sexy man indeed. There was a predominance of French in his physical features. There also was Carib, the belligerent Venezuelans who had invaded the island and tried, unsuccessfully, to dominate it. And there was the African influence that gave Belain his milk-chocolate skin tone. But there also the hint of the Chinese, from those who had been brought in to work the coffee plantations. All in all, he turned my head as easily as he did any of the other young submissives who came to the club.

That he had chosen me to pursue this Friday evening became obvious soon after I'd taken the jitney in from the film colony compound to Le Marin. As I normally did after accepting a beer and checking out who was in the bar that evening by chatting around for a few minutes, I went to the billiards tables and managed to get myself included in a game on one of the four tables. Not long after I did so, Jacques Belain worked his way into the game as well.

There were codes at Gerard's. We had not been playing long at the table when Belain said, "Your beer glass is close to empty. May I buy you the next one--and maybe the next one after that?" That was his offer for me to be his for the evening at Gerard's. I quickly accepted, with a smile. I had wanted to hook up with the man for some time. All of the young submissives who came to Gerard's wanted to hook up with him. It wasn't just because he was an uncommonly handsome and well-formed man or that he obviously was very wealthy. It mostly was because of how he held and touched the young man he was with. He was a lover, and I fantasized being with him, under him, and he on top of me, inside me, making love to me.

He was attentive to me through the evening, keeping me close, putting his hands on me, whispering to me, nuzzling me in my throat, and keeping me in beer, and he even accompanied me to the dressing room, when I changed into a gold lame G string to do my turn on the pole. He was in the audience, not cheering as others were, while I danced, but he was, I could tell, as I kept my eyes on him, dancing for him, while I was on the pole.

He came back to the dressing room with me and held me to him, fondling me as the G string hung from my wrist. A little dazed from all of the beer I had had, I just lay in his embrace, moaning low, as his hand glided over my body.

"I think you've had a bit much. Perhaps I should drive you back to the film colony and we should call it a night."

I was slightly disappointed. I would have gone upstairs with him. He would have paid me well; he was a rich man. But I would not quibble on a fee. I started to suggest we stay here--upstairs--but he said, "No. What you need is rest. I'll take you home in my car."

He had mentioned driving me back to the film compound, but where he took me was his imposing plantation house, enclosed in deep balconies, a three-quarters-of-an-hour drive up into the Rue Victor Schoelcher hills.

There, he sat me on a sofa in his plush living room and, as intoxicated as I was, brought me another beer.

He should have asked me if he could fuck me. It would have made all of the difference. I would let him. I was prepared for that. I'd been fantasizing sex with him for weeks. I wasn't a naïve virgin. And he should not have given me another beer to put me over the line of control.

He took me there on the sofa, forcibly and forcefully, without asking permission, as if by right, because he was a rich French planter on Martinique and I was just an insignificant male prostitute. He wasn't a lover. He was a cruel dominator.