Taking the High Road

And then I was pumping Craig and Thorenson was pumping me. We were thrusting in unison, me into Craig and Craig back up at me, and Thorenson into me in rhythm with the increasing flashes of lightning and rolling of the thunder that now were nearly upon us. I gushed inside Craig's ass just as the deluge of the rain was let loose again.

Then Craig was gone, and I was in the middle of the bed, risen up on my shoulders, my pelvis straight up in the air, my white-socked legs wishboned out from my body, and Thorenson mounting me from above, holding my legs under the knees where the tops of the socks met them and thrusting down deeply into me, pumping me hard and fast from above. I watched our reflection in the window between the alternating bright flashes of lightning and dark of rainy night, my white-sheathed legs splayed in the air, the folds of a red plaid kilt spread out below me and on my belly. And in the reflection, beyond us, in the chair I had vacated, was the young actor, Craig, his legs now draped over the arms of the chair where I had sat, and his hand working inside what was left of the front of his white briefs. I cried out in ecstasy and passion as Thorenson pumped me. I was, of course, quite experienced in being taken, but the setting and the storm and the roaring fire and masterful cocksmanship of the Hollywood director—and, yes, the presence of his young protege—were all highly arousing, and I arched my back and cried out in passion and came a second time as Thorenson unloaded deep inside me.

I spent the night in that big bed sandwiched between the director and the actor, the fire dying but never completely going out, and the storm slowly subsiding. Sucking and being sucked; being side-split and side-splitting through the night. Moaning and causing moaning. Getting hard, ejaculating, going soft, getting hard, pumping, arousing and being aroused. And then, exhausted, sleeping, entwined and entwining.

I awoke between Thorenson and Craig. I kissed Craig on the lips and he sighed, and then as I carefully rose from between them, I leaned down and kissed Thorenson deeply as I worked his tool with my hand. He sighed in his sleep and quickly hardened. And as I rose from the bed, he and Craig rolled together and their lips met. When I came out of the bathroom, they were locked at the pelvis, Craig's lithe, hairless torso arched back to the side of the bed and his long leg draped over Thorenson's heavily muscled waist. Thorenson's long dong was three-quarters inside Craig's ass and was slowly churning in and out. Neither seemed to be fully awake, but both were moaning and sighing. I was sorely tempted to rejoin them.

I left the kilt and socks on the table and picked up my still-damp cowboy costume and forced my feet into the not-completely-dry boots. I dressed in my other clothes while standing beside the BMW and enjoying the fresh air that had come through with the storm and that, briefly, had pushed the smog of L.A. out over the ocean. I loved this town.

I briefly worried about missing my engagement down on Timberlake Drive the previous evening—but only briefly. If Freddie had had to take the call on his own, it served him right, and he might now think twice before doing it to me again. And if he'd bailed out, he would be the one in trouble, not me. I had $700 in my pocket and Freddie undoubtedly did not. Leon wouldn't care that I hadn't shown up—not when I flashed the money I had gotten here, which was more than I could have made in the original assignment. If Freddie hadn't shown or hadn't satisfied and the four guys complained, Leon would just tell them they needed to get the road names changed up here if they wanted to be found.

And I had found once again that my grandfather had been right. Always take the high road if given the choice. On my way down the mountain, I memorized how I had gotten here in the first place. I'd certainly come back if I could, and if I showed up on a rainy night in a kilt, I strongly suspect I would be welcomed appropriately.