Scorched by the Sun

I watched Scott roll out of bed and walk to the bathroom. Rather, I watched his buttocks sway as he moved. He rolled the condom off as he walked and dropped it deftly in the trashcan under the sink before going over and standing in front of the toilet. He was in great shape for being just past thirty, and he was a lucky find for me. We were quite a contrast—me on the smallish and slender side, a dark Mediterranean-type Jew, with curly hair and a sultry face that Scott wasn't the only one who said would serve me well in being a photographer's model. I was told I could pass as Israeli, Greek, or Italian, which helped for commercial purposes, but I had never been to any of those places. I had been to—been raised in—New Jersey, nearly on the Toms River boardwalk.

I was in my third year at the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising here in Los Angeles, studying not only modeling in commercial photography but to be able to do layouts myself as well. I owed a lot to Scott, who had picked me up on the beach in Malibu; propositioning me for a photo shoot, saying he'd provide professional photos for a portfolio in exchange for sex; and who not only had given me jolt after jolt of sexual pleasure but had also gotten me a part time job with a TV studio his entertainment industry publicity firm worked with.

Scott Stewart was a tall, burly, sunny-disposition Nordic type. He could glad hand with the best, which made him a success in the publicity world. He could fuck with the best too. And, to my good fortune he was generous to a fault. He liked me well enough that he gave me a place to live in expensive L.A., which would help me complete my degree, and he helped me bring in some extra cash—a few modeling jobs already. This helped in my college classes. And now he'd steered me to this production assistant job, essentially as a gofer, for the Grant's West television show.

We didn't usually fuck on a weekday morning, but Scott's hours were flexible and I didn't have any classes today and wasn't due at the TV studio until later in the morning. And we'd both awakened with morning wood. Scott had no trouble figuring out what to do about that, gathering me under him—he was nearly twice as big as I am—pulling me up to my knees, and fucking me in a deep doggie.

He was an exhibitionist, as happy strutting around and swinging his meat in the apartment as going to work dressed like a men's fashion plate. He left the bathroom door open, and I could see him, naked, piss in the toilet, shower without closing the curtain, and then stand at the sink and shave and groom himself. He was a hunk—ten years older than I was, but he kept himself in shape. We worked out together at a gym he paid for. I certainly couldn't complain about life in L.A.

He came out of the bathroom and we looked at each other. He was half hard, and I could tell that he was thinking what I was—that he'd be up for another round. I wanted him to come back in the bed. I'd never had it so good in the terms of sex. He was hung and could ding my bell.

"When do you have to be in?" he asked.

"10:30," I answered. "They want me to take a studio car and pick Grant Thorn up in Beverly Hills." Grant Thorn was the star of Grant's West, which was evident from the program's title. The show was a situation drama set in a Western ranch in the mid-1950s. Grant Thorn, forty-eight and a real hunk, was cast as the patriarch of a family that couldn't keep itself out of trouble.

"I guess there isn't really enough time then," he said. The regret in his voice sent a chill up my spine. I was one lucky submissive. "Did you say you'll be driving Grant Thorn?"

"Yes, it will be the first time, but that's what they said they use me for most—deliveries and transporting the actors and the crew, as needed."

"Well, be careful with Thorn. Watch yourself around him."

"What do you mean?"

"He's got a reputation. It's all hush hush because of his box office persona, but just watch yourself with him. Be careful."

I wondered what a lowly gofer being careful with the program's star would entail.

I found out what wouldn't work.

* * * *

I had to sit in front of Grant Thorn's house for half an hour before he appeared. The assistant producer who sent me to Beverly Hills to pick him up, Brad Luck, was quite explicit that I was to wait until Thorn was ready to appear and not go ring his doorbell. Luck had also said, "And just bring him here. Nothing else. You're just part of the furniture; don't get friendly with the actors or you'll get bounced out of a job."

Well, OK. I certainly won't do anything to delay us. I sat there in his driveway, biding my time and wondering how he was supposed to know I was here. Then I saw drapes flutter in a window on the second floor, and after a few minutes he was coming out of the door. He was a real hunk for his age and was dressed the part—tight, worn jeans; a plaid flannel shirt with brass studs on it, the pockets in a V cut; and cowboy boots—but he was clean as a whistle, every hair in place, and walking like he owned the town.

He threw some boxes in the backseat of the car and climbed into the front seat, which surprised me. I expected anyone I drove to be chauffeured in the back. The guidelines the studio gave me said the same thing. He flashed me a smile, which showed a fortune in dentistry.

"Haven't met you yet. I'm Grant Thorn." He reached his hand out and I had to take it. I wouldn't have been polite if I didn't. When he took my hand, he folded his thumb between our palms. That meant something in my world. I didn't want to presume it meant the same thing in his, but it's not how someone gives a handshake by accident. In my world that said he gave cock and was asking me to declare.

I looked at the house before putting the car into gear. The drapes in the upstairs window fluttered again.

"Hello. My name is Jacob," I said as he settled in the seat beside me. I figured that I was too low on the totem pole for him to care about a last name.

"Yes, you are," he answered. "I understand that Scott Stewart recommended you for this job."

"Yes, he did," I answered as I got on the road. What was with this? The big star had checked me out?

"Scott's a good friend of yours then, is he?" It was a knowing question. The thumb in the palm was beginning to make a little sense now. So was Scott's admonition to stay out of this man's orbit. The thumb in the palm trick during a handshake was a dominant male shopping device for a submissive male.

"Yeah, I'm a student at the Fashion Institute and I've done a few layouts for his company." Keep it general, I told myself.

"You're a college student and male model then too? You don't just drive folks around for a living . . . and you live with Scott?"

"I'm doing some work as a photographer's model at least until I graduate. Then I hope to be doing layouts." I wasn't about to answer the "live with Scott" leading question.

"So, you're what? Nineteen? Twenty?"

"Twenty-one. Say, do you prefer that we try a freeway to work or are these backstreets OK?"

"The backstreets are fine, Jacob. Jacob. That's a Jewish name. You're—?"

"Yes, I'm Jewish. From New Jersey."

"Ah, a pretty little Jewish boy. I'm from Pennsylvania myself, but you wouldn't know it from what I'm wearing, would you?" Then while I was pretending I needed to concentrate on a couple of tricky turns, he said, "These aren't the duds I'm wearing on the set. Wearing these helps put me in the mood for the filming. I'm a method actor. What about you, Jacob? Do you do any acting?"

"No, I suck at anything like that," I said.

"A guy with looks like yours has a chance out here. I bet I could help you get into acting."

"I'm afraid I'd still suck at it," I answered, keeping my eyes on the road. That is until I noticed him reaching over a pulling something out of my lap. He lifted it up and laughed.

"What's this? Good thing I found this for you, isn't it?"

If I had been the blushing kind, I would have blushed. He'd pulled a black curly pubic hair out of my zipper. It apparently had gotten trapped in that the last time I'd taken a piss. Now why he noticed I had a stray hair in my zipper . . . and why he went to the trouble to mention it . . .

He moved the hair around in the air in my peripheral vision, looking at it from all sides, and he was smiling. "Wouldn't be good to let your girlfriend see that in your zipper, would it? You have a girlfriend?"

"Not here in L.A.," I answered.

"That's right. You live with Scott Stewart, don't you?"

I don't know if I would have answered the second asking of that, but any intention of doing so was overtaken by him turning toward me and putting his right hand on my basket. I froze.

"Just relax, Jacob," he said in a low, hoarse voice. "I know you live with Scott and that he does you. You're really cute."

"Mr. Thorn, please don't . . ."

"Oh, come, Jacob, you can call me Grant. We can be good friends." He was working my zipper. I put my hand down on top of his.

"Seriously, Mr. Thorn. I would be fired for doing anything with someone like you. And I could have a wreck if I don't pay attention to the driving. It's particularly congested around the studios. And we're just about there."

"So we are," he said, taking his hand away from my basket. "Wouldn't want you to get fired, would we? Not when we've just met and haven't had time to get friendly. You haven't denied that Scott does you. And you haven't said you wouldn't let me do you too, have you?"

No, I hadn't. But I didn't answer that.

I needed Grant Thorn as a special friend as much as I needed a cactus up my ass. Not that I wouldn't like to go a couple of rounds with the hunk.

He sat back in his seat and smiled at the phalanx of guards we had to pass through to get on the studio lot. I drove him to his trailer and left the car in idle, waiting for him to get out. He got out, but he turned and said, "Could you bring the boxes into the trailer for me?"

Before I could answer, he was climbing the steps of the trailer and entering his dressing unit. He held the door open for me to follow him with the boxes. With a sigh, I turned the ignition off, came around to the back door on the other side, retrieved the boxes, and climbed the steps.

"You can put them down right over there for me, please." As I did so, he closed and locked the door. He was to me and embracing me in his arms before I knew what was happening. He was nearly a head taller than I was and had me by a good fifty pounds. One arm went around my back, his lips took mine in a deep kiss, and the hand of his other arm went between us. He cupped my basket with it. And while he was still kissing me and I was frozen from surprise and confusion—and, yes, because he was a hunk and a major TV star—he had both of us unbuckled and unzipped and he was frotting our cocks together.

I let it go on longer than I should have, although I don't know what a lowly gofer like me was supposed to do to stop the production's big star. His cock was thick and long. My butt twitched from the thought of him being inside me—of a big production star wanting to fuck me.

If he hadn't said anything and burst the bubble of arousal and surprise, I wouldn't have been surprised if I hadn't gone with him there and then. But he pulled out of the kiss and murmured, "Let's go over to the couch. I want you to suck me off. You give good head, don't you?"

That gave me impetuous. "Uh, sorry, Mr. Thorn. I was told not to mess with the actors, and Mr. Luck, he said to come right back and report to him when you had arrived. And . . . sorry . . . sorry."

I managed to pull away from him, rebutton my trousers, and zip myself up as I reached the door. And, fortuitously, I turned the lock the right way the first time. In the doorway, I turned and plaintively said, "Sorry," again. "It's just that I was told . . . sorry."

Thorn was standing there, looking amused. He laughed as I shut the door, stumbled back down the stairs and into the car, revved the engine, and trembled my way to the parking area for the Grant's West set.

I was given busywork gofer jobs for the rest of my part-time shift. Frequently when I looked into the set, where the actors were rehearsing, though, I saw Grant Thorn giving me hard looks. I also caught Brad Luck looking at both of us and wearing a pensive frown.

Luckily, my shift was over before the rehearsal was. Someone else drove Thorn home. It wasn't me.

I was thinking "Damn Grant Thorn" that night as Scott latched on to my upper arms and raised me up from where I was kneeling before him as he sat on the foot of the bed and I was blowing his cock. When he turned me onto my back at the foot of the bed, I had trouble keeping my mind on the hunk I had here, in front me, because flashes of images of Grant Thorn exploded in my mind. Scott had a beautiful cock, but I thought, from the limited exposure I'd had, that Thorn was longer and thicker. I'd just gotten a hint of him and was blotto while that was happening. So, of course, my imagination made the TV star huge and lit up in flashing lights.

I couldn't deny that huge was important to me.

Scott leaned over me, between my spread and bent leg and took my lips with his. He was a great kisser. I gasped and arched my back as a finger entered my ass. I began panting heavily as he worked me with the finger and then encircled my cock with his other hand and began to stroke me. The kissing continued.

When he released my lips, I murmured, "Fuck me. Fuck me now." And he did. The finger came out and I felt his bulb at my entrance. He pushed in just to bury the bulb, and I gasped and whimpered, "Yes, yes, yes." Scott gripped my ankles, raised and spread my legs, took up the classic fuck position between my thighs, and slowly entered me deep. I moaned as he began to pump me.

Now. Now, like this, with Scott inside me and working my channel and me beginning to roll my hips, moving with him, I was concentrating just on Scott and me—and the fuck.

He hadn't asked about my driving Grant Thorn that day, and I told him nothing about the experience.

* * * *

I would be lying if I said that thoughts of Grant Thorn hadn't intruded in my thinking for the work week, especially when I was thinking of or moving into having sex with Scott Stewart. I kept thinking of the man—a TV star, an acting legend—frotting our cocks together in his studio trailer and of how much larger he seemed to be than I was. And I didn't think I had any reason to be ashamed of what I was packing.

Size shouldn't matter. But it does with me. And I'm as star struck as anyone else in California is. I came "this close" to giving a TV legend a blow job. How many guys coming to L.A. to make their way wished they could say the same?

I knew that chances were good that I'd be together with Thorn alone in a car sooner or later, if I didn't get my ass fired sooner. Still, I was blindsided on Friday when informed that I was to drive someone up to Snow Valley, in the San Bernardino National Forest, a two-hour drive southeast of Los Angeles, that afternoon and leave him there for the weekend. It wasn't Brad Luck who gave me the assignment. If it had been Luck who gave the transport order, I don't think he would have assigned me to drive Grant Thorn that far. He'd been giving the two of us assessing looks for days, catching us looking at each other, and I'm sure he'd decided to try to keep us apart. I had wondered why he bothered, but the gossipers told me that the studio had recently paid off—and gotten rid of—a gofer who had threatened to expose Thorn as gay, which would have been a PR disaster.

Luck probably didn't get rid of me off the bat because if it wasn't me he had to look out for with Thorn, it would just be some other young guy they hired as gofer. It included some heavy lifting, or Luck might had gone with an ugly woman. He had put some older women in other jobs around here that Grant Thorn had to work closely with.

Mentally, I was more than good with the keeping Grant Thorn and me apart idea, but emotionally I was being rubbed raw the more I thought about that brief encounter with him.

After lunch on Friday, I packed a studio sedan trunk with what the star would need in an isolated mountain cabin in Snow Valley. Apparently, this was routine with Thorn when he had scripts he had to memorize close enough to be able to act without a teleprompter he couldn't always be looking at. He isolated himself to study them. He hadn't had time to go over next week's scripts well and wanted the weekend alone to do that. Or that was his story. I don't know if he had arranged to have me drive him and had done so behind Brad Luck's back or not. But that's how it worked out. I drove his car and he drove my ass.

When I picked him up, I waited in the car for him. He opened the door to his house and shoved a large suitcase out. Getting the hint, I got out of the car and hauled the suitcase to the back of the sedan and rearranged everything back there to fit it in. I looked up at the house before lowering the trunk. The drapes were moving in that second-floor window again, but this time I saw a young man up there. He was naked, staring down at the car. My arousal mechanisms gave a little jolt—not for the young man, who looked a lot like me, I thought, but for the thought that he had probably been with Grant Thorn, in bed, not long before. And because I hadn't been.

When I closed the trunk, Thorn was already in the car—in the backseat.

"Hello, Mr. Thorn," I said, as I slid behind the wheel. I kept it as bright and cheery—and lowly gofer to god—as possible.

"Jacob." The tone was flat, neutral, as if he was thinking of something else altogether.

And that was it for the drive through Friday afternoon traffic up to Highland, just short of the entrance into the national forest area and the rise up into the mountains. At least he remembered my name, I thought. Checking in the rearview mirror every once in a while, I saw that he was concentrating on his scripts, so at least there wasn't tension in the air. I was just a minion. That he'd kissed me and had my cock frotted with his and had come close to having my mouth on his cock apparently wasn't anywhere in his thinking. He probably had just been toying with me for his own amusement. I was just furniture—to be used, as convenient.

Once in the park, on 330, headed for Bear Lake, although we weren't going that far, he spoke for the first time since we'd left Beverly Hills.

"Pull over into the rest stop coming up," he said. "I need to take a leak. I think you'll want to too. It's still a good distance to the cabin."

And then, when I did pull into the rest area, which was practically deserted, he said, "No, not right here in front the building. Over there, where fewer would get curious about the car. I'm not in the mood to smile for fans."

I parked over to the side, almost out of sight from the building, behind some hedges.

"You're coming too?" as he climbed out of the backseat. "As I said, it's still a good distance to the cabin, and it's slow going from here, over rough road."

I went too. We were the only ones in the men's room. He stood back while I selected a urinal and then he saddled up to the one beside me, away from the door into the restroom. He waited for me to unzip, pull it out, and start an arc of piss into the urinal before he rolled his out. We stood there, me trapped in place by my pissing cock and him showing me his. My mind hadn't played tricks on me. He was huge—both in girth and in length.

He waited to piss until I had finished doing so. I started to reel mine in and zip up, but he touched my arm with his hand. I mentally heard the sizzle of that touch. It was as effective as if he had touched my cock—which he'd already done nearly a week earlier.