TITLE    : Stood Up
STORYID  : stood-up-2
SUMMARY  : Two actors turn to one another after being stood up.
AUTHOR   : Cal Y. Pygia@lit
DATE     : 2008-02-17
CATEGORY : celebrity-stories
FLAGS    : 
TAGS     : |gay|cock|ass|anus|actor|actress|buttocks|semen|fuck|


Freddie Prince, Jr., looked at his Rolex.



Across the table of the booth they shared, his costar, Ryan Phillips, asked, "So, what time is it?"



"Six fifteen."



"I think we've been stood up."



"Let's give them another fifteen minutes. Maybe they're having trouble finding the place."



Ryan smiled. "Yeah, 'cause this place is so hard to find, right?"



The actors were waiting for their female costars, Sarah Michelle and Jennifer Love. The four of them were making You and Me, Last Summer, another teen slasher flick, together. It was the most mindless a movie any of them had made to date, which pretty much guaranteed successful box office receipts. This morning, they'd filmed Sarah's demise, which the director, having viewed the daily rushes, declared "satisfyingly gory." They were celebrating her death--or were supposed to be. The idea had been Jenn's. "Let's have a wake for Sarah!" she'd suggested.



It was some wake, Freddie thought, without the guest of honor. "I hope they show," he told his companion. "I could kind of go for Sarah."



"Jenn's hot, too," Ryan said.



"I wonder if they think the same about us?"



Ryan smiled, his cheeks dimpling. He glanced pointedly around their booth. "Obviously not."



"Seriously," Freddie said. "What do you think? Could Sarah go for a guy like me?"



Ryan felt his face warm as his blood , rising, reddened his cheeks. He was a platinum blond, so, despite his eternal tan, it was always fairly evident when he blushed. The elegant restaurant the girls had chosen for their rendezvous was dimly lit, though, so he hoped his male costar hadn't noticed the effect his question had had upon him. "Sure," he answered. "Why wouldn't she? You're a teen heartthrob, aren't you?"



Now, it was Freddie's turn to smile. His dark looks looked even better when he did, Ryan thought. "According to Tiger Beat, I am."



"What about me?" Ryan asked. "Could a girl like Jenn go for a guy like me?"



"Hell, I could go for a guy like you," Freddie joked.



"What time is it?"



Freddie consulted his watch. "Six twenty five."



"They have five more minutes to get here, then," Ryan said, "before we're officially stood up."







Five minutes later, Ryan extracted a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and set on the table, under his water glass. "They're not going to show."



"What's that, a bet?"



"No, it's a tip."



"You sure you don't want to give them another few minutes?" Freddie asked, his dark brown eyes looking soulful.



"They're not coming," Ryan repeated. "Hell, they're probably shacking up together somewhere."



Freddie looked shocked. "They're lesbians?"



"All the women in Hollywood are lesbians, in case you haven't noticed."



"So what are you going to do, now that we've been officially stood up?"



Ryan shrugged. "Go home, I guess. It's been a long day."



Freddie sighed. For him, "home" was a condo the studio had rented for him while he was making the movie. It was okay. Hell, it was more than just okay. It was great. Everywhere he'd ever stayed since becoming a "Hollywood heart throb," as Tiger Beat and other celebrity rags called him, had been great. They'd been fabulous, in fact--and lonely. After a twelve- or fourteen-hour day in the company of friends--or, at least, friendly acquaintances--with the hubbub of a film crew shooting a flick--especially a sometimes-adrenaline-pumping horror flick--the confines of even the most elegant condo seemed like a jail in which one was serving a solitary sentence. He hesitated. Ryan wasn't Sarah Michelle, but he was drop-dead gorgeous in a guy kind of way. Talking to him would be better than spending another night alone in a strange condo, watching TV, taking a dip in the pool, or jacking himself over some dumb porno movie he rented at a sleazy adult emporium on the way "home." As Ryan rose, Freddie said, "Would you like some company?"



Halfway to his feet, one hand pressed flat against the tabletop, Ryan paused, half-crouched, looking at his costar. 'You want to come home with me?"



"You know, for a couple of drinks," Freddie added hastily.



As he smiled, Ryan's simples showed again in the flickering candlelight. "I have some tequila."



A grin stretched itself across Freddie's handsome face. "Tequila's my favorite drink. I love the worm."



"Me, too," Ryan said. He'd intended his words to convey a double meaning, as he'd hoped Freddie's had.







Shooting movies took an actor all over the world, and both Ryan and Freddie felt as if they'd been everywhere. They hadn't, of course, but sometimes it felt to them as if they had. In many ways, acting was a lonely life. The public didn't seem to understand or to believe such a thing was possible. A screen idol, their fans believed, could snap his fingers and have any woman he wanted, whenever he liked.



The reality was far different. Most of the time, an actor was up by dawn. After a quick shower, he was hustled across town, still half asleep, to the studio, where makeup artists and hairstylists performed their feats of magic upon him, and, then, most of the day, it was hurry up and wait. On this picture, they shot maybe five pages of the script in a fourteen-hour period, actually acting for maybe an hour. That hour was stressful, though. The cost of shooting even a foot of film ran into the thousands of dollars, and an actor was always only as good as his last couple of films--or, rather, their box office reception. Some of the men and women in the business drank or did drugs to take the edge off, but Freddie drank only on Friday and Saturday nights, if then, because Sunday gave him a day to recover and not look or act wasted on the set. The party boys and girls among their peers couldn't seem to understand why, after a couple of years of bad behavior on and off the set and a few failed movies to their credit--or discredit--their careers flagged. For them, it was always someone else's fault--their agent's, their lawyer's, their accountant's, the director's, a co-star's.



Freddie didn't take his success for granted. He'd worked hard to achieve it, and he meant to work even harder to maintain and increase it. His father, who had also been an actor, had ended his own life after his marriage had failed. Freddie had been less than a year old. Maybe that's why he was attracted to other guys, although no one knew of his bisexual interests. He was deeply in the closet. Hell, he'd admitted to himself that he was a switch-hitter only a couple of years ago. He attributed his attraction to men to his feeling that he'd been abandoned by his father. His old man hadn't had the courage to be there for him. His life had been all about himself, to the bitter end. In having sex with other guys, Freddie felt that he was receiving the love that his father, in a different context, would--and should--have given him. That's how Freddie explained it--or maybe just rationalized it--to himself, anyway.



Of course, his father had been of Puerto Rican ancestry, and Ryan, with his creamy, smooth skin and curly blond locks, was anything but Puerto Rican. That tended to shoot down Freddie's theory as to why he made love to other men, maybe. Then, again, maybe it didn't. It would take a psychologist to untangle the mess that was Freddie Prince, Jr., and while that might "straighten" him out, it might also have a negative effect on his love life, and, if the truth were to be told, Freddie liked being bisexual. His sexual attraction to both men and women doubled his pleasure, doubled his fun, giving him access to the best of both worlds. What was it that Woody Allen had said? Being bisexual doubles one's chances for a date on Saturday night? Something like that. When a guy's lonely, he needs all the help he can get, and being bisexual stacked the odds in Freddie's favor. Take tonight, for instance. He'd been stood up by Sarah Michelle, but he was going home with Ryan Phillips--to do more than drink tequila, he hoped. Had Ryan understood his comment about the worm? Freddie guessed he'd find out soon enough.







Ryan's agent had insisted that his client be provided a getaway retreat, in addition to a condominium, and the retreat had to be in the mountains, not on the beach or inland. It also had to be equipped with an outdoor hot tub, surrounded, of course, by a privacy fence. Ryan liked his privacy. If and when he might be lucky enough to pick up a date among his teeny-bopper fans, he figured upon having an out-of-the-way place where they could be alone together, far from the prying eyes of others. The cabin that the studio had rented for him, near Charlotte, was a three-hour drive from Southport, the small seaside town, south of Wilmington, North Carolina, near Cape Fear, in and around which they were shooting their current film, and Ryan used it only on the weekends, but, to him, it was worth it. Ryan liked the deep woods of the high mountains. He was a bit of a nature buff--and a naturist, or nudist, too--and, to be nude outdoors, it was best, usually, if the outdoors in which one got naked was remote. The place the studio had rented for him--Mountain Majesty, the owners called it--was definitely isolated. For a mountain cabin, it was well furnished, though, even, in its own rustic way, rather elegant.



Outside the restaurant, the valet returned with Ryan's vehicle, a bright yellow Hummer. "Nice ride, man," the carhop complimented him as Ryan tipped him.



The carhop glanced at his tip. "Wow! Thanks, sir."



Ryan nodded toward Freddie, and the other actor climbed into the passenger's seat. The carhop watched the vehicle speed away, its two handsome occupants, one dark, the other light, out for a night on the town, no doubt. With the Hummer and their good looks, they'd have no trouble finding some hot chicks, he thought, pocketing his tip. Some guys have all the luck, he mused.







Three hours later, in the light of the full moon, as Ryan drove the Hummer up the winding road that hugged the side of the mountain, Freddie could make out the general features of the landscape. On Ryan's side, across the opposite lane, the side of the mountain rose past outcroppings of rock, to the darkening sky. On Freddie's side, the mountain dropped away in a sheer cliff, offering a view of the forest and hills below and the lights of the closer towns (not that any of them was especially near). Although it was too dark to see any of the trees' foliage, autumn was painting the trees various colors, and, Freddie knew, their leaves would seem to burn with tiny red, orange, yellow, blue, and green flames.



"The cabin's not much farther now," Ryan advised his passenger. "It's in the Birkhead Mountains Wilderness portion of the Uwharrie National Forest." He glanced at his passenger, thinking Freddie looked especially handsome against the backdrop of the cloudy, dark sky through which the luminous moon rode, sometimes veiling itself in clouds. "Before long, we'll be enjoying the worm," he said.



Enjoying the worm! Was there a double meaning in Ryan's words? Freddie wondered. He hoped there was.



The road turned to the left, straightened, curved to the right, straightened again, and crested a peak before bending to the left again. The moon, which had looked closer only a few minutes ago, as it glided among the clouds above the forested side of the mountain and the valley below, seemed suddenly much higher and farther away.



The Hummer slowed. "We're here," Ryan announced, turning off the blacktop onto a rough dirt road. "Hold on," he cautioned, as the rugged utility vehicle dipped and bounced in the rutted lane.



The tires encountered a series of washboard-pattern ridges, its chassis shuddering, and Freddie actually felt his teeth chatter. His braced himself, wondering just where in hell Ryan was taking him. Before them, in a clearing, under the moonlit sky, the dark outlines of a cabin reared against the backdrop of shadowy foliage. The vehicle tripped a motion sensor, and lights came on, illuminating the patch of leaf-littered terrain that passed for the front yard. Ryan turned off the vehicle's engine. "Home, sweet home," he intoned. He smiled at the look on his costar's handsome face. "Don't worry, it's much better inside, and there's a hot tub out back."



"Out back where?" Freddie asked. "In the woods?"



Ryan laughed. "Almost."



His passenger shrugged. "A hot tub sounds better than pussy right now."



"There's something you should know, though," Ryan told him.



Freddie looked at his host. Ryan had beautiful eyes, he thought. He swallowed. "What's that?" he asked.



"I'm a nudist. I don't have a swimsuit."



"That's okay," Freddie assured him, his heart beating faster than it had the time he'd first laid eyes on sweet Sarah Michelle. "I don't have one, either."







A few minutes later, Ryan and Freddie, drinks in hand, were seated beside one another in the hot tub, the effervescing bubbles tumbling against their naked bodies. The sprays of water fizzed against their cocks and balls, giving their genitals and thighs a watery massage. The collision of the heated, bubbling water against their bare skin drained the day's tension away.



With a deep, satisfied sigh, Freddie eased back against the wall, his sleek, wet upper arm jostling Ryan. Quickly, he pulled himself away. "Oops! Sorry."



Ryan's arm looped around Freddie's bare shoulder, drawing him back to him. "Stay," he invited.



Freddie said, "Out here, isn't the fence overkill?"



"I like my privacy," Ryan said. He'd turned to face Freddie, who was also looking at him. Their faces moved closer, slowly. Their lips were inches apart. They could feel each other's warm breaths upon one another's faces.



"No one can know," Freddie whispered. "I'm deep in the closet."



Ryan smiled. Up close, his teeth were dazzling, even at night, in no more light than that of the moon and the stars. Freddie watched his lips and tongue move as he formed the words of his response: "No one ever will."



Their lips brushed, and they kissed. Freddie felt his cock throb. Then, almost instantly, it swelled, beginning to stiffen, and he realized he'd wanted Ryan for some time, maybe since he'd first met him, several weeks ago, when they'd begun filming their current flick, You and Me, Last Summer, with Sarah Michelle and Jennifer Love. Well, he told himself, their female costars, having stood them up, weren't here now. No one was, except the two of them.



Their mouths pressed against one another more forcibly, and Freddie felt Ryan's tongue, soft and wet, penetrate his lips and enter his mouth, a penis surrogate inside a substitute womb. He responded by sliding his own tongue into the warm-wet-softness of Ryan's mouth. Their tongues swirled around one another, and Freddie felt his cock stiffen more as his nipples also became erect. A tremble shot up his spine, making him shudder.



Ryan broke their kiss. "Are you cold?"



"No, I'm excited," Freddie answered. A moment later, he almost leaped to his feet as he felt Ryan's hand circle his jutting cock. His costar's fist pumped the tight flesh of Freddie's cock back and forth upon its rigid shaft. Freddie moaned, wondering whether, beneath the swirling bubbles, Ryan's dick was also thick and hard. He took a deep breath, telling himself there was only one way to find out. His hand dove beneath the water. Finding Ryan's prick, it also found the answer to Freddie's question. Ryan was hard, all right--as hard as a rock.



They played with one another's cocks and balls, stroking their own at the same time, the bubbles crashing repeatedly against their thighs and scrotums and bursting, again and again, against their cocks and perinea. Freddie moaned.



"You still think the fence is overkill?" Ryan asked.



"Yes," Freddie replied, "but it's better to err on the side of caution, especially when you're in the public eye."



"That's why I always make the studio rent a cabin for me, whenever possible, and insist on a fence around the hot tub, even when the tub's in a setting as isolated as this one. The paparazzi are very persistent."



"I like the way you think."



"And I like the way you masturbate me, but I think we'd be more comfortable, at this point, inside or, more specifically, in bed, don't you?"



"Absolutely."



The two men stood, the water running ins sheets and rivulets down their sun-bronzed flesh. In the moonlight, their smooth, naked bodies seemed to glow. It wouldn't have been difficult to imagine that they were gods visiting the earth.



Freddie glanced down, at Ryan's stiff-standing cock, and Ryan gazed at Freddie's erection. Then, they looked at each other.



"You're more of a man than I am," Freddie admitted.



"Just by an inch o two," Ryan said.



"Two, at least," Freddie agreed, "and the guy with the shorter cock is the one who takes it up the ass."



"Says who?"



"Me. That's my rule."



Ryan chuckled. "I knew there was something about you--besides your cock, balls, and ass--that I liked from the first time I met you. Now, I know what it is. You're deontological."



"Huh?"



"Rules based."



"Oh."



"Come on, I want to slip into something more comfortable: you."



Ryan offered Freddie his hand, and, feeling rather like a schoolgirl, Freddie accepted it, folding his fingers around the edge of Ryan's palm. The blond actor's hand felt strong and manly. Ryan was so masculine that it was hard for Freddie to picture him in anything but an active, assertive, even dominant, role. He remembered Ryan's long cock, and how stiff and thick the erection had looked. He could hardly wait to have Ryan's prick stuffing his ass. His own cock, already erect, stiffened more.



At the cabin, Ryan slid open one of the sliding-glass doors, and they stepped into the interior of the cozy living room.



"There's plenty to eat and drink," Ryan offered. "Would you like anything?"



"Just you."



"Let's start with an appetizer--for you, at least. You can suck my dick." The two men were still holding hands, like young lovers, and Ryan led Freddie down the hallway from the living room to the master bedroom, in which a comfortable, king-size bed awaited their pleasure. Ryan sat on the edge of the mattress, his legs spread wide, and Freddie knelt before him, on the carpeted floor.



Rocking forward upon his knees, bending low at the waist, and letting his flat, outstretched palms drop to the floor to support him, Freddie opened his mouth wide, letting it descend over and around Ryan's upright-standing cock. His lips puckered around the thick, rigid member, and he felt them, rather than the prick they encircled. As he lifted his head, he felt his lips drag against the sleek firmness of Ryan's cock, but, again, the sensations were more of his own pursed lips than of the erect penis they enclosed. His perceptions were not the result of any self-centeredness on his part, he knew, but simply the effect of his lips' sensitivity. His fingers were sensitive, too, and usually, it was they that experienced the sense of touching, rather than of being touched, when they made contact with another surface, but when that other surface was his lips--or, for that matter, his cock--his lips or cock, rather than his fingertips experienced the sensation of being touched rather than of touching. Some surfaces were just more sensitive--more packed with nerves, scientists would say--than others, and the lips were a pair of these surfaces. Occasionally, as his mouth plunged down the shaft of Ryan's cock, however, Freddie felt the other man's prick, not as a prick, particularly, but as something that seemed to jab at him, through his lips.



From his vantage point, Ryan also felt Freddie's closed lips pushing and pulling against the sleek, tight skin of his cock. He watched the dark-haired actor pump his mouth up and down, slurping and sucking as the saliva collected inside his warm, wet cunt-mouth. As he continued to suck his prick, Freddie drooled slightly. Normally, he would have been embarrassed by his having done so, just as, normally, Ryan would have been disgusted and annoyed at having someone's spit all over his prick and balls, but they were too excited sexually to be concerned with such matters now, and, if anything, the drool excited them further, in part simply because it was so unseemly.

<hr pg="2" />As he reached the apex of his friend's prick, Freddie let Ryan's purple glans slide free of his lips, with a muffled smacking sound, a strand of saliva stretching thin between the crown of Ryan's cock and Freddie's lips before snapping and swinging down to wet Freddie's chin. He chuckled, moving his face down the length of the other man's penis, to lick Ryan's balls through the taut, risen pouch of his contracted scrotum. Another film star, with whom Freddie had starred in a teen exploitation movie, had done the same favor for Freddie, and it had impressed Freddie mightily. Anyone who'd lick a man's balls would do anything, he'd thought. Since that day, Freddie always paid such respect to the testicles of anyone upon whom he performed fellatio, and Ryan was no exception. In fact, Freddie liked Ryan so well that he would go a step further. He opened his mouth wide, and, using his tongue, flipped one of the blond's testicles into his mouth, sucked gently at the oval gland, and then released it to take its mate into his mouth. This favor elicited a groan from Ryan. Smiling at the thought that he'd pleased his fellow actor, Freddie released the second testicle and, licking at the shaft of Ryan's cock, worked his way, slowly, back up the rigid organ, to the ripened plum of its glans. Another, softer moan escaped Ryan's lips.



Freddie's mouth plunged down the thick hard column of Ryan's cock. Up and down, his head bobbed, keeping up a steady pace, his rounded lips riding Ryan's rigid flesh-pole as perfectly as if all Freddie had ever done in his life was to practice the fine art of sucking Ryan's cock. The finesse that Freddie showed in this activity was the reason that, were the truth to be known, Ryan favored having sex with another man over having sex with a woman. Women tended to "make love," whereas men concentrated upon having sex. Between men, foreplay was minimal, if it took place at all, and the sex acts themselves were prolonged and repeated, a session focused upon how completely and intensely one could please his partner, whether by hand, by mouth, or by anus, or, in many cases, by all three, and by such supplementary means as butt plugs, dildos, belts, and paddles.



As much as he was enjoying Freddie's oral service to his prick, however, Ryan wanted--he needed--to play a more active role. He needed to be in control, so he said, "I want to fuck you now."



Reluctantly, Freddie acquiesced to Ryan's request--reluctantly not because he didn't want to be fucked--he did, very much--but because he was enjoying sucking Ryan's prick. Cock sucking was Freddie's favorite sexual activity. Although he saw nothing wrong with providing another man with fellatio, the act had a social stigma to it, even now, in the twenty-first century. Although men and women might pay lip service, so to speak, to the enlightened idea that same-sex sex was acceptable, secretly many of them thought otherwise, and a lot of them still looked down upon any man who would do such a thing. There was still an element of shame attached to being a cock sucker--for a man, at least--and Freddie found that he felt mildly humiliated by providing such an intimate service to another man, even if, at the same time, he enjoyed doing it immensely. In fact, feeling a bit degraded made him relish the role even more. Of course, it was pretty humiliating to be fucked in the ass like a woman, too, he thought, smiling as he stood.



Ryan had also stood, to let Freddie climb into the bed. When he'd done so, Freddie positioned himself upon his elbows and knees, with his legs spread wide apart, to make room for Ryan, who would kneel behind him. Sure enough, a moment later, he felt the mattress dip and sway slightly as Ryan assumed his station, placing his hands upon Freddie's hips. He drew Freddie's haunches back, toward him, and Freddie felt something firm and smooth and warm slide between his ass cheeks--Ryan's cock, he thought. He felt the rigid column push past the inward-curving mounds of his sleek buttocks. They parted before the advance of Ryan's erection the way the waters of the Red Sea had parted to let Moses and the ancient Israelites escape the cruel pharaoh.



The tip of Ryan's cock felt like a firm rubber ball as it met the resistance of Freddie's tight anal opening. The pressure against Freddie's anus mounted, and he felt his sphincter push inward. It seemed, for a moment, that the tough ring of muscle would hold, preventing Ryan from entering the chamber of Freddie's rectum, but, pushed inward with ever-greater insistence, the stout muscle at last failed, admitting Ryan's cock, and the thick, hard organ pushed through Freddie's anus, sliding all the way into his ass, so that Ryan's balls bumped against Freddie's perineum.



Ryan leaned into Freddie, grinding his hips against Freddie's ass in an attempt to drive his prick even further into Freddie's impaled buttocks, but to no avail. All he accomplished was to flatten Freddie's ass cheeks another fraction of an inch. Ryan was buried inside his fellow actor to the very hilt, and there was no additional cock length for him to insert. Ryan left his prick inside the dark-haired man for several long moments, giving Freddie the opportunity to feel filled, stuffed, and crammed with his erection, before, slowly drawing his hips back, he allowed the thick, rigid organ to reappear, inch by slow inch, through Freddie's penetrated anus and to retreat between the smooth-soft-firm buttocks it occupied. Mark felt the cheeks of his ass come together again, in the wake of Ryan's withdrawing member.



Ryan's cock shoved between Freddie's buttocks again, the cheeks parting before the forward-slamming member. Ryan's cock plunged home, through Freddie's snug asshole, the ring of muscle riding the plunging cock as it drove forward and as it again retreated. Each time that Ryan renewed his assault upon Freddie's buttocks, he increased the force and tempo until, within a few dozen strokes, it seemed that he was assaulting, rather than merely fucking, his partner. Freddie's body, glistening with perspiration, seemed to glow from within, as did Ryan's own tanned physique, and the room witnessed the loud slapping sounds that Ryan's hips made as he drove them repeatedly into Freddie's ass cheeks, flattening them, that they might, the next moment, rebound. The forceful thrusts into his bottom rocked Freddie, shaking his frame. His own cock was erect, too, but, denied both cunt and asshole, it merely flipped and flopped, keeping time to the strokes of Ryan's assault, while his balls bounced and juggled between his thighs. Sometimes, the upswing of his idle prick slapped his belly as Ryan's pubes slapped his ass cheeks.



Again and again, Ryan's cock slammed into Freddie's ass. Each time, it seemed to fill him anew. It didn't seem that he'd been entered merely once, but as if he were being penetrated repeatedly, each time more forcefully and fully than the last. It seemed, too, that Ryan's plunging prick thrust deeper and deeper with every repeated foray into his bowels. These sensations were spurious, of course, the products of his imagination, resulting, no doubt, from the ceaseless, rapid-fire onslaught of the thrusts into his ass. Each one seemed more violent than the previous; consequently, each plunge into his bowels seemed more forceful and deeper as well. Were a person dunked only once and held underwater until he began to struggle for his breath, he might get his wind back fairly quickly, but dunked and held under again and again, as quickly as he could regain his breath--or even, occasionally, more quickly than he could do so--would bring about the sense of suffocation that occurred during waterboarding. Something similar, Freddie supposed, happened when a cock was shoved into one's ass every couple of seconds. To the recipient of such brutality, each thrust seemed to come quicker and more forcefully than its predecessor had, even if, in reality, it did not. Slammed and rammed by Ryan and his rock-hard cock, Freddie wasn't complaining, though, for he enjoyed the sensations of being sexually assaulted by his fellow actor, and, if anything, he'd prefer that the thrusting strokes would come with even greater, ever-increasing fury.



Ryan was enjoying himself as well. He especially liked to watch his massive, long cock vanish between Freddie's buttocks as it slid through the dark-haired actor's cored asshole and deep into his rectum before, as Ryan temporarily withdrew his rigid member, its length reappeared, again pulling out of Freddie's impaled anus, and emerging into view as before, between Freddie's speared ass cheeks. It was almost as if he were watching a ritual enactment of endless--or, at least, repeated--burial and rebirth. His cock, he mused, was his soul as well as his sex, and, in fucking Freddie, he was shoving both himself and his prick up the other man's ass. He was mind-fucking Freddie as well as sexually assaulting him. This thought enflamed his lust, and he shoved his cock again into the soft, warm embrace of his friend's bowels. It didn't escape Ryan that butt-fucking another man had overtones of violence. As a rule, people didn't like to admit that sex and violence were cousins, as it were, but Ryan knew that they were closely related, and he felt as much a conqueror as he did a lover as he pummeled Freddie's ass with his pubes, repeatedly stabbing him in the bowels with the sword of his cock. Ryan was the alpha male, as the presence of his prick inside Freddie's ass proved, and the knowledge that he was such made Ryan feel strong and powerful and superior. He drove his cock into Freddie's ass with all the force he could command from his sinews, moving in a frenzied, wild flurry of motion that jabbed and stabbed his cock into Freddie's impaled anus, sending it as deeply into his rectum as its rigid length would permit. Before the fury of Ryan's attack, Freddie whimpered, moaned, and groaned, shifting his weight and grimacing, his brows knitted and his teeth gritted. "Ugh!" he cried. "Uhh! Ohhh!"



Could he have commanded enough energy and strength, Ryan would like to have fucked Freddie all night, all weekend, even all week, the movie they were making together be damned. But he was a man, not a machine, and, eventually, he felt the telltale surge within his loins that meant the onset of orgasm. A moment later, his semen rushed through his pulsing, straining cock. Quickly, he withdrew, preferring to brand Freddie's flesh with the thick, viscid fluid spurting, warm and white, from his cock. His balls ached, but their load was being eased as jet after jet of fecundating fluid splattered over Freddie's back, buttocks, anus, perineum, and thighs. Freddie's asshole was huge, stretched wide open by Ryan's massive cock. One could look several inches inside Freddie's ass, seeing the tender red walls of his rectum, before the darkness within the depths of his bowels asserted itself. The though that it had been he--that, more specifically, it had been his prick--that had stretched Freddie's asshole to such dimensions brought a smile to Ryan's face, and he gave Freddie's ass a sharp slap, to let him know that he could relax--until Ryan got his strength back, at any rate. The weekend had just started, and they were miles away from the set at Southport and the demands of their director. There was plenty of time to make Freddie kneel before him and take his manly cock down his throat or up his ass again--and again and again--and Ryan meant to make every moment they had together count.



When, at last, he was through with his costar, Freddie wouldn't think of Sarah Michelle anymore, ever. All Freddie's thoughts would be on Ryan, and Ryan alone. Ryan wouldn't think of Jennifer Love anymore, either. Why should he, when he had Freddie?



After all, hadn't the girls stood them up?

