Taking the High Road

Raindrops were beginning to splatter against the windshield and distant thunder promised more bombast as I reached a Y in the road I hadn't expected and was forced, in view of the lights bearing down on me from a vehicle somewhere in back and near to me, to make a decision. "Take the high road" wafted through my brain. I had no idea why I had remembered that now, but it had been a favorite expression of my Scottish grandfather, and it offered me more direction at the moment than anything else I had on offer. So, I turned right, uphill. I only saw a glimpse of the signpost in the gloom, set off at a useless angle, as I passed it, but I caught "Timber" something or other. I put the slip of paper I had up to the dashboard lights to refresh my memory. It said "Timberlake 760," so I thanked my grandfather for direction and gunned the motor to ascend the steep side of the hill.

I was a little irritated and on edge about this call out tonight. The call had come late, I had other plans, and it was going to storm a bitch tonight. Leon had given me the assignment slip, and I'd seen that it was an M-4 Regular Cowboy. All three elements combined to bode problems. The "M" was OK in its own right, but four of them meant there were few enough to indicate they might be rough and more than I could handle if they did get frisky. Under the circumstances, the "Regular" gave me pause too, especially in conjunction with the "Cowboy." When "Cowboy" was specified, the fantasy it provided usually ended with someone wanting to fuck someone—and if they hadn't paid for a "Special" up front, it often meant they knew they wanted it to end that way but didn't want to pay up front—or at all—for the special service.

At least tonight was supposed to be a double. Freddie had come up the mountain a bit ahead of me. At least there would be two of us. But I wasn't sure about that either. Freddie had bailed out on me before and left me to handle everything myself. Twice. I had half a notion to bail out on him tonight. I had a bad feeling about this assignment.

It was getting darker and the thunder was coming closer. There were few houses on this mountainside overlooking L.A. and the ocean. It was an exclusive section and the people living here could afford their privacy. No lights on the road and few address boards large enough to be read from the street, particularly not at night. But I could tell I was in the 700 block now, and, with difficulty, coasting slowly as the rain drops hitting the windshield got larger and larger, I picked out the number 760 and pulled into a pebbled driveway that turned me almost completely around as it dipped down to a small boxy log-sided building pushed into the side of a sharp drop off. A two-car garage was sunk into the hillside at the left of the parking apron that went to the right up to a sheer drop off. Nothing about the place looked inviting, and I didn't see Freddie's Corvette. So, he had abandoned me again, it seemed.

I was furious. Not just at Freddie, but because they hadn't even left a light on beside the door in the blank, windowless wall. There were no windows on the drive side on either story, and the place looked small and abandoned. I was going to dance for four guys in a place like this and they hadn't paid for sex on top of the dance. And Freddie wouldn't even be there to back me up. Terrific. But an assignment was an assignment, and if I bugged out I would be out my money—and Leon's goodwill. And if Leon was mad at me, I'd probably get an even worse assignment the next time.

I climbed out of the BMW, adjusted my breakaway shirt and pants and the chaps, put the ten-gallon hat on, set my professional face in place, and slammed the car door shut. As if on signal, the heavens picked that moment for the first deluge marking the oncoming storm, and I was drenched before I hit the door.

It was several minutes before the light came on beside the door. I was soaked to the skin and this would be the most revealing entrance I will have ever made to such an assignment. Breakaway clothes didn't leave much to the imagination when they were soaked. I was this far from returning to the car and roaring out of there when the door opened.

I recognized him in an instant. It was Ted Thorenson, that director of several very popular television situation dramas. And it was a very surprised Ted Thorenson. He obviously wasn't expecting anything. He was barefoot and encased in a plush velour robe and his hair was tussled as if he had just gotten out of bed. That impression was only strengthened when I looked past him into what was essentially a one-room cottage with an enormous double-sided stone fireplace between the two living spaces. I could see past the fireplace to an large bed that was as tussled as Thorenson looked and was lumpy with strewn pillows and disordered sheets and spread.

And there were not three other guys at the door salivating for an exotic Cowboy dance.

Thorenson's expression turned from surprise to amusement and then to something else—to something I was entirely too familiar with in my dealing with clients. He was interested. I had come to Hollywood with a dream of auditioning with such as Thorenson and I'd never even gotten into the outer office of a director at his level. A few porn movies leading to employment with an escort service were the best I'd gotten. And here I was, soaked, standing on the threshold of Ted Thorenson's hillside hideaway cottage, and looking silly in a transparent Cowboy getup. Charming. I had known this wasn't going to be a good night.

"760 Timberlake?" I asked in a hoarse voice. It was all I could think of asking.

"No, sorry," Thorenson responded in a British-accent voice that probably melted all of his conquests, of which I'd heard there were many. Thorenson was a handsome man. He was well into his fifties, but he had kept extraordinarily good care of himself and was quite distinguished looking, which had only been enhanced when his temples had gone gray. And he still had all of the power and presence of robust strength about him that extended from his early days as a Hollywood stunt man and movie hunk.

"This is 760 Timberwood," he continued. "It's a common mistake; you should have turned downhill on Timberlake back at the split in the road."

"Oh, sorry. Wrong house." I started to turn to leave, but he put his hand on my arm, and as he did so, his robe parted, and I saw that he had a heavily muscled barrel of a chest with a profusion of black and gray chest hair.

"You're soaked," he said gently, but with an air of authority. "Come inside and get dry and warm before you proceed. You'll get your death of cold otherwise."

I let him draw me into the house, which looked like heaven from where I was standing out in the rain on the blank-walled pebbled entry. Once inside, I saw that the house wasn't a claustrophobic walled-in box at all. The two walls away from the drive and the hillside were entirely of glass. Two stories of glass overlooking the blinking lights of the city and the dark ocean beyond. And the furnishings were lush cordovan leather, and pine furniture, with the colors of yellow, red, orange, and brown predominating, bringing a warm glow to the interior that was enhanced by the roaring fire in the dominating stone fireplace. To the right of where I now stood just inside the door was a living area, with a brown leather sectional sofa and heavy wool rugs in earth tones on a highly polished random-width pine floor. To the left was a dining area with pine furniture and a wall of kitchen cabinets with pine doors and red-tile countertops. The bedroom area was beyond the fireplace, in the corner of the two high window walls overlooking the city. The bathroom and dressing area was walled off from there on the side of the building pushed into the hillside. Above that was a loft area, which looked like it was set up as Thorenson's hideaway office.

"Come, get out of those drenched clothes before you flood my floor," Thorenson said with a smile. "Water would be murder on this wooden floor. I just had it installed."

"Sorry. But my other clothes are back in the car," I said nonsensically.

"And if you go back for them, they'll only get drenched too," Thorenson said. And then he laughed. "Here, those are hardly clothes anyway. Quite a getup."

"Uh, sorry," I said, and I started to unlace the chaps. I didn't know what else to say. What can one say who shows up at a Hollywood director's door on a rainy night in a breakaway cowboy outfit?"

"Quite nice, actually," Thorenson said. "From Club 216, aren't you?"

Shock. He knew. But somehow that made me relax. If he knew, then this wasn't going to be as awkward as I feared.

"Yes, sorry," I said. It seemed all I could do was apologize. I had the chaps and boots off. The shirt and pants, of course, were the easy party. They were designed to come up with just a tug.

"Here's a towel. And, here, then put this robe on." He was stripping off the velour robe and all he had on underneath were a pair of short sleeping pants. I had, indeed, brought him from his bed. And I could see now that my impressions were right. He was still in magnificent shape for his age.

"Oh, I couldn't. You shouldn't . . ."

But he already had and I could. I had dried off and he had the robe draped around my shoulders.

"Come on over and sit at the table. I'll fix some coffee to warm you and then you can shower."

"I can't, really," I stammered. "I have a gig I've got to get to."

"Down on Timberlake?" He asked as he led me to a chair at the table, sat me down, and moved off into the kitchen. He moved like a cat. Feline and fluid, even though he was solidly built, with heavy, but well-proportioned muscles.

He quickly had the coffee going and then went off into the bedroom area, leaving me alone waiting to politely thank him but saying that I had to get back on the road. The rain had stopped, although the rumbling of the thunder, louder now than before, promised more—and heavier—to come. The guys down on Timberlake wouldn't care if the cowboy outfit was wet. I'd just thank Thorenson for his hospitality and leave.

He was nattering on about how easy it was to confuse Timberlake and Timberwood drives, especially at night, and how they should change one of the names, as he pattered back from the bedroom area. He laid some red plaid material on the table and went back into the kitchen area, where the coffee was now finished perking. He wasn't giving me an in to give my thank-you and good-bye speech. And then he was back at the table and set a cup of coffee in front of me and a wallet in front of his chair and sat down.

"Thanks. You've been great," I started. "But I really must . . ."

"How much were you going to be paid on Timberlake for a dance?" he asked abruptly.

"Two hundred" I said, so surprised that I just answered him straight out.

"And was that for a fuck, too?" he asked.

"No," I said, completely flustered now. "Just for the dance. Nothing else was booked."

"And if they did fuck you, how much would that be?"

"A hundred each," I responded. "There are supposed to be four there. They might not all want it; they didn't book that, but . . ."

Thorenson opened the wallet and took out seven hundred-dollar notes. "There," he said, as he laid them in front of me on the table. "Now, is there any real reason to go to Timberlake Drive tonight?"

"No . . . no, I guess not," I stammered.

"OK, then. Drink your coffee and go have that shower and come back into the bedroom wearing these." He lifted up the material he'd placed on the table to reveal that it was a Scottish kilt. And under that were a pair of white knee-high socks with red garters.

"A Scottish costume?" I asked, dumfounded.

"You came in a costume. Any objection to wearing one I've provided when I fuck you?" Thorenson asked. He was nothing if not straightforward.

"No, I guess not. No, of course not." Then I smiled for him, turning on my studied charm. He was just another trick now. I didn't really care what fetishes he did or didn't have. He certainly was easier to handle than four guys down on Timberlake.

I showered and dried myself off and then put on the kilt he gave me, which was slung low in front, and I put on the white knit socks, with the tops folded over the red garters just below my knees. I look at myself in the full-length mirror beside the shower and decided that I didn't look half bad. I'd have to suggest this getup to Leon. Thorenson hadn't given me anything to wear under the kilt, so he obviously wanted me ready for action.

When I came out of the bathroom, I found, with a shock, that it hadn't been a lump of pillows in Thorenson's bed. It had been Jason Craig. I recognized him right away too. Craig played the teenage son in one of Thorenson's long-running television dramas and had done so for eight seasons. So, he no longer was a teenager in fact, but he somehow had kept his teenage looks. A blond twink's body, with an almost feminine, too pretty for his own good, pouting face with sensuous lips and bedroom eyes. He was the idol of many a pubescent female television viewer.

Now, however, he was on his hairless boy's breast on the bed with his pert little tail up in the air. He was wearing white briefs and nothing else, and Thorenson was sitting on the bed beside him, a bottle of KY in one hand and the index of a finger of the other hand worrying a small hole on the butt cheek of Craig's briefs. The finger would go in and move around on Craig's flesh and then come out and Thorenson would tear the hole a bit larger and then the finger, and a second one would go in and the white cotton material would raise in waives where the fingers were exploring. Craig had his face turned to me, and he was giving me a dreamy look.

"Pull that chair over to there," Thorenson directed me in his director's voice, pointing to a spot beside the bed and in front of a bureau, "and sit in the chair and put your legs over the arms. Yes, like that. You look very sexy, by the way. And just watch for a while. You can stroke yourself, but beneath the kilt, please. I like to see the material move and your chest muscles ripple. I like to see movement between material and skin."

Always the detail man, Thorenson, I thought, as I followed his direction. I didn't fondle myself at first, but as I watched Thorenson work on his young protege in the glow of the roaring fire with the backdrop of the lights of L.A. below and the lights of intermittent lightning from above, I found myself lazily pulling at my tool.

Thorenson had taken off the sleeping shorts, and he was at full, upward-curved, magnificent arousal. He had a cock to be proud of, both longer and thicker than I could manage, and I was no slouch in that department.

I sat and watched in fascination, as Thorenson worked the hole in Craig's briefs open with the two fingers, and then three, while his other hand went up under the leg hole of the briefs and was, presumably, playing with the young actor's cock and balls. Craig was moaning softly and sighing and giving me those, "Look how good I'm getting it" eyes. All the time both Thorenson and I were watching the puffing of the material marking where the fingers were gliding. Getting the point of Thorenson's interest in that direction, I gripped my hard cock from underneath and snaked it around under the kilt material, making the material rise and fall and ripple. Thorenson was looking for at me from time to time and now and licking his lips.

At length, Thorenson pulled his fingers out of the enlarged hole in the briefs and slathered them with KY and then inserted them again, and I saw them through the thin material of the briefs move to between Craig's butt cheeks and Craig's eyes and mouth opened wide and he let out a groan as Thorenson entered him with the fingers.

Thorenson looked over at me and smiled. "Enjoying this, I hope," he said. "Ah, yes, I can see you are. Nice work under the kilt there. That's what I like to see. And it looks so good on you. Wonderful definition. You'd look great on the big screen. But here, before you get too comfortable, go over to the nightstand there and get a condom and crown me. You'd best get one for yourself too. You'll need it. And . . . and a second one for me."

I rose and did as he said, tearing open a packet and rolling a condom on his gigantic tool. He brought my head down to his with a hand around my neck and gave me a deep kiss. And then I was back in my chair, legs draped over the arms, and one hand busy under the kilt and the other one working my nipples. Thorenson was sliding a finger in and out of Craig's ass through the hole in the briefs, and Craig was moaning and moving his chest around on the sheets and his ass back and forth on Thorenson's finger.

Craig was panting and so was I. The scene was bathed in light from flashes of lightning outside at not-more-than-one-minute intervals now, and the wind was howling around the cabin perched on the mountainside. Thorenson extracted his finger and, with both hands, rent the hole in the briefs larger. He slathered his sheathed tool with KY, and then he was on his knees behind the raised hips of the young actor and was working his cock inside the hole in the briefs.

I watched, slack jowled, as Thorenson positioned the head of his tool at Craig's rim and then, hands now holding the young man's thighs, slowly entered him. Craig howled with the howling wind outside at the stretching invasion. I don't know how much of it was real and how much was acting—much of it was acting I surmised, as it seemed meant to arouse Thorenson to the limit—but Craig was crying out in agony and passion as Thorenson plowed up into him. He writhed, and screamed his distress, and begged for mercy and for patience. And then, slowly, these cries turned to cries of passion and for Thorenson to fuck him hard and deep. The young actor was bunching up sheeting in his fists and his mouth and giving me, at first, a wild "help me" look—and then, quickly enough, a self-satisfied, saucy "look what I have and you don't" look.

This hadn't gone on long, though, before Thorenson looked up at me, and in a throaty voice said, "Come and take over for me. Have some fun of your own. Roll that condom on and come on over here."

Fully aroused now, I didn't wait for a second invitation. I nervously tore open the condom packet, sheathed myself, and then hopped over to the bed. As I came over, Thorenson, pulled out of Craig's ass and pulled the youth back to where his knees were on the edge of the foot of the bed. I hadn't really liked the look Craig had given me, and I wasn't in a charitable mood, so as soon as I had saddled up to his ass, I thrust inside him with one, long bottoming out slide. He rewarded me with a cry that wasn't acting. Thorenson had stretched him wider than I could, though, and he was well lubricated, so it was an easy plowing for both of us.

I got my hands on the briefs and just ripped them away so that the young actor's taut little butt cheeks were fully exposed. I rode him hard and slapped at his cheeks, while he gave me noises of being well taken. Meanwhile, Thorenson was on his knees behind me, his head under my kilt and his mouth on my asshole. He was giving me as good and deep a tonguing there as anyone before him had, and his tongue was longer and thicker than some client's cocks. It certainly was bigger than Craig's cock. I had snaked my hand around to the young actor's groin and I found a boy's cock and balls, although the cock was enlarging more as I worked it, and it wasn't long before he had ejaculated into the palm of my hand.

I leaned my head down to his then, and he turned his face and gave me a deep kiss with those famous sensuous lips, showing me that he had enjoyed my visit.

While we were kissing, Thorenson stood up and was running his cock up and down my now-enlarged hole, dry fucking me between my butt cheeks. On one of the passes, though, he turned the bulbous head of his cock so that it was pushing at the rim of my hole, and then I was crying out just as Craig had done, without an ounce of acting of being fully taken, as he entered me. He turned his cock around and from side to side to open me farther as he relentlessly bored up into me. And I cried out and groaned and moaned for him.