Just a Little Respect

We were sitting on the sofa, his arm around me. He gave me an "it's time" look, which I received in a haze, about to nod off. He wanted me incapacitated, but he didn't want me unconscious. He wanted me to know I was being fucked.

"Stay with me; don't go to sleep," he suddenly barked, and I felt the sting of the back of his hand, slapping me across the face. I fell back onto the arm of the sofa in surprise and shock. His hands were all over me, as they had been before, but this time it was in insistent need and lust. He pulled my T-shirt over my head and my shorts and briefs off my legs. He lay on top of me, pinning me across the sofa, my back against the arm. He grabbed my wrists and forced my arms over my head as he attacked my body with his mouth and teeth, kissing and biting down my body, into my pubes, swallowing and sucking hard on my cock.

He released my wrists, to move his hands under my thighs to lift and spread them, rolling my pelvis up toward his need. I tried then to rise again and he slapped me across the face, a second time and then a third time, for good measure, growling, "Stay."

In a haze, shocked, and defeated, I lay back against the sofa arm, whimpering and moaning, as his mouth and tongue went for my anus, opening me up--but not enough.

He left me, rising off the sofa and off me, but only momentarily. I lay there, panting, as he stood over me, stripping himself, pulling on and smoothing out a condom. As he came down on top of me on the sofa again, he turned me, belly on the arm of the sofa, and head and arms dangling off the side. He mounted me, gripping my hips between his hands; he forced himself, brutally, inside me from on top and behind; and he fucked me and fucked me and fucked me.

He was not a lover; he was a conqueror. If he'd asked me, I would have given everything to him, even if he wanted to brutalize me as he was doing. That aroused me as jaded as I had become with having sex with a man. But he didn't ask me. It obviously satisfied him more to take it by force, as if I was just a piece of meat to him. And he wanted me drunk and defenseless when he did it.

* * * *

I woke up on a double bed taking up almost the entire room encased in wooden planks. The walls were made of rough wood as was the floor, and the ceiling consisted of unevenly spaced planks showing a low loft area rising to the undersurface of a pitched roof. The room was well maintained, if a bit primitive. The furniture was a bit primitive as well. After a couple of moments I remembered that I had last been in an expensively furnished plantation mansion, and this wasn't it.

I had a hangover headache, but not as bad as I sometimes had after a wild Friday night. I was sore all over as if I had been manhandled, which, as I thought about it, I had been. My inner thighs were bruised, and my ass channel was sore. I'd been fucked by a big one, and the man--Jacques Belain, I remembered--had been self-obsessed and brutal about it--unnecessarily, I thought. I'd know he was going to fuck me when we left Gerard's. He didn't have to do it the way he did.

I hadn't lain there long before the door opened. I could see that the door opened to a porch and then the outside, with the side of the plantation house beyond that. A heavy-set man of about forty, African in ethnic origin, entered with a breakfast tray. Various remedies for combatting hangover were also on the tray.

"Ah, good, you are awake," he said in heavily accented island voice. "I have brought you something for the pain."

He had no idea, I thought, where most of my pain was located. But, then, maybe he did. He was giving me that look men gave me who wanted to fuck me. He no doubt knew Belain had fucked me.

"Who are you?" I asked. "And where am I?"

"I am Pierre, Mr. Belain's house manager, and you are at his coffee plantation."

"I mean where am I right now. What's this place?"

Pierre laughed. "These were the former slave quarters. The house servants live here now. This is just one of several rooms."

Ah, the slave quarters. I hadn't even garnered enough of Belain's respect that he let me sleep in the plantation house after he fucked me while I was nearly unconscious. I was just another slave.

"Where is Jacques?"

"Mr. Belain moves around the plantation at this time of day, checking up on the workers." So, I wasn't supposed to refer to him by his first name. "He said that you are to be moved to the guesthouse to bathe and await his return--if you wish to stay."

"Not the main house?" I asked.

"No. His young men are housed in the guesthouse when they are here. You were brought here because the guesthouse is being cleaned today."

"From his last young man being there?" I asked.

"Yes." Pierre obviously knew everything about Jacques Belain's fetishes and how he worked them--and he obviously didn't care.

"You said if I wanted to stay," I said.

"Yes, he said you may leave, if you wish. Otherwise, you will stay in the guesthouse for two nights; you will service him twice a day, as he wishes; and you will be driven back to the film colony when he is done with you."

"And if I wish to leave?"

"You can leave on foot--it is quite a distance back to the coast and to where you live and work--or, if I am compensated, Mr. Belain said I may use the car to take you back."

I didn't really have to ask what that compensation would be. The man was leering at me. He was rubbing his crotch and I could tell he was hard. If Belain wasn't going to show me any respect, though, I wanted to leave.

Pierre fucked me, bent over the bed on my belly. He was mounted on my tail, one beefy hand grasping my neck and pressing my head into the mattress and the other one slapping my buttocks as he pounded me hard in a doggy fuck with a plump cock, his big balls slapping against my bruised inner files.

He didn't show me any more respect than Jacques Belain had.

* * * *

The TV-series filming compound seemed deserted when I got back to it, having gotten the ride back from Belain's plantation that my giving in to his hunky, black house manager, Pierre got me. And, of course it was, I thought as I walked toward my cabin. It was Saturday. Everyone had scattered. Everyone was sick of everyone else. Worse, I had been supposed to be entertaining guys on a boat out at sea. The man responsible for me being here, the assistant producer, Clive Peterson, had told me to be on the boat. In fact, he'd told me to be in his bed the previous night and I wasn't there. That joke was on me; Peterson was a pussycat, if no more respectful that any of the others. If I'd been in bed with him rather than with the French planter, Jacques Belain, my body wouldn't be hurting now.

One thing was for sure, though. I'd pissed off the man who signed my paychecks.

I found that the compound wasn't completely deserted. As I walked by one cabin, I saw through an open door that one of the writers, Stan Richards, seemed to be packing his bags. Just packing my bags and walking off didn't seem to be an option for me. It Richards was doing that, though, I was sorry to see him go. He was a good-looking guy with a sense of humor--always a smile for me--and he was one of the few guys on staff here who showed me respect.

I knew he was gay and that he was actively so. I also was pretty sure he'd like to fuck me, but he'd never gotten pushy about it. He was friendly, but it was like he was waiting for me to bring it up. I saw him occasionally at Gerard's. I'd even played billiards with him there. I knew he'd stuck around a time or two to see me dancing the pole. And I'd seen him leave with other young guys, young guys who I knew took cock. But he'd been nothing but polite to me.

I went up to the door and knocked. He turned to me and smiled. "I thought you were going out with Clive Peterson and some guys," he said.

"I bailed and did something else. What are you doing? Are you packing?"

"Yes, I'm packing. You could say I'm bailing but not just for the day. I've order up a jeep to take me to the other side of the island, to the airport at Fort-de-France. I've had enough of this TV series."

"You've gotten fired because they didn't like yesterday's script?" I asked.

"No. I'm the one who fixed the script yesterday. The other writers are idiots. I'm always fixing the scripts. I've decided this series is an loser, as are most of the actors in it, including the Lord Almighty, Disappearing Over the Hill Kevin Kolter. I don't see this series making it out of the can after the pilot has bombed. I cabled Hollywood and already have another gig lined up."

"I'll miss you."

"You'll miss me? I didn't get the impression--"

"You never asked. I like you. I like you a lot. But you never came after me."

What the hell was I saying? I was in the dumps because none of the tops here gave me any respect and I'm criticizing the one decent guy who had?

"I didn't think it was my right to make any demands. Not that I didn't want you... not that I don't want you even now."

"You do? You know, we could... you could stay and we could--"

"Or you could come with me--take the ride to the airport with me and back to Los Angeles. I could cover it and we could work something out there. I'd respect whatever you wanted to do."

So, that's what we did.