Date: Sat, 6 Nov 1999 17:08:45 -0500 (EST)
From: Felix Lance Falkon <falkon@netaxs.com>
Subject: Story: "Hard Wood" {Felix Lance Falkon} (MM)
X-NO-ARCHIVE: yes
(except for the Nifty Archive)
"Hard Wood" M/M, Los Angeles, outdoors and in movie studio, anal
sex
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[Usual warnings apply: no one under age admitted without parent]
[or guardian, for external use only, shake well before using, ]
[slippery when wet, do not swim immediately after eating. ]
[ ]
[Copyright (C) 1999 by Felix Lance Falkon; you may save or make]
[paper copies for your own use; do not post, repost, publish, ]
[or archive except at Nifty Archive without author permission. ]
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(The ** starts emphasis [underline/italics]; * ends emphasis.)
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HARD WOOD
by Felix Lance Falkon
Falkon@netaxs.com
Suitcase in hand, Jerry stepped out of the city bus and into
the dry heat of a late Los Angeles morning. He blinked at the
street sign; **Yeah, this is the right corner,* he told himself,
**but . . .* He glanced across the street. **And there's the
Chinese restaurant okay, but this is a warehouse district, and
it's miles and miles and miles from Hollywood.* He shrugged his
broad shoulders, started to cross the street -- and found to his
surprise that California motorists really do stop for
pedestrians.
Following the instructions the talent scout had given him,
Jerry strode down a side street, stopped at mid-block, and
frowned at what certainly looked like one more warehouse. **Well,
the street number's right, so it won't hurt to ask,** he decided
and rang the doorbell.
After a few minutes, he was reaching for the doorbell again
when the door swung open and a solidly built man wordlessly
scowled at Jerry, then asked, ``You are?''
``Uh -- I'm Jerry -- Jerry Williams. Mitch gave me your
address, and --''
The solidly built man turned away and bellowed, ``We
expecting one of Mitch's hot prospects today?''
A voice further in the building called back: ``Let me take a
look at him.''
``This way,'' said the man. ``I'm Bill. Lotta guys still call
me Big Bill, even though Little Bill left a couple of years ago.''
He took a long, appraising look at Jerry. ``Mitch calls all the
studs he turns up `hot prospects;' but in your case, he might be
right.''
Two open doors and a short hallway farther on, Bill waved
Jerry into a cluttered, high-ceilinged office. ``Mr Ericksson,
Jerry Williams.''
Mr Ericksson -- a compactly muscled man in a T-shirt and
Levi's, his hair cropped close -- stood, shook Jerry's hand, and
sat down again. ``Mitch saw you in --''
``Kansas City -- sir.''
``Leave off the `sir,' but stick with the `Mister.' Everybody
else in the industry goes by their first names, so -- I don't.''
He held out his left hand this time. ``You brought the papers?'
Jerry put down his suitcase and opened it. ``Yes, s-- I mean,
yes, Mr Ericksson: birth certificate, driver's license with a
photo, and a letter from the clinic where I got the blood test
for --''
``Fine, fine. You have no idea how many would-be actors --
**any*way, Harold will take another sample -- he's a medical
tech, and --''
``He took early lunch, Mr Ericksson,'' said Bill.
``Well, when he gets back . . .'' Mr Ericksson focussed on
Jerry. ``You're used to being stared at, aren't you?''
``Well . . .'' Jerry felt his face go warm. ``Uh -- yes sir --
I mean --''
``Just `yes' is fine. Do you enjoy being stared at?''
``Well -- not really, but -- I'm used to it.''
Mr Ericksson leaned back in his chair. ``There's a reason I'm
asking: I gotta get an idea how you'll react to having a half-
dozen technicians and two or three cameras watching while you
perform.''
``If -- if that scared me, I wouldn't be here -- I mean, I'm
a little -- you know -- uneasy, but --''
The phone rang. Mr Ericksson picked it up. ``Who -- yeah,
right -- when did you say they're delivering? Wait a min.'' He put
his hand over the phone's mouthpiece, looked up at Jerry. ``You
might as well sit down -- no, better; take off your clothes and
**then* sit down.'' He uncovered the mouthpiece. ``How 'bout
sending over what's already on hand, and then when the rest comes
in . . .''
Bill picked up Jerry's papers from Mr Ericksson's desk,
pointed to a hat stand with a couple of clothes hangers on it,
and then took the papers to a copying machine. Jerry stripped to
his briefs, hesitated, then pulled them off too. He shivered,
though the air wasn't that chilly, ran his right hand down his
taut-muscled torso, and sat down.
``Okay -- we can live with that -- this afternoon? First
thing tomorrow morning -- that'll have to do.'' He hung up the
phone and turned to Jerry. ``Good face -- lemme see your profile
-- that's it,'' He added as Jerry turned his head to one side.
``Now, up.''
Feeling a little shiver run down his spine, Jerry got to his
feet. He took a deep breath, sucked in his lean stomach,
tightened his chest muscles. Without prompting, he turned to his
right, turned again so his back was to Mr Ericksson, turned
again, and again so he was facing Mr Ericksson again.
``Ever in a physique contest?''
Jerry shook his head.
``You've got the moves right -- especially since you're not
overdoing it.''
``I've --'' Jerry licked his lips. ``I've watched the guys at
the gym where I worked out, and they gave me a few tips.''
``Okay so far. Now . . .''
``Sir -- Mr Ericksson -- I've -- I mean, I've done it a few
times, so -- I'm -- I'm ready to -- you know.'' He felt his balls
shift on the chair seat.
``That Mitch,'' Mr Ericksson sighed. ``Well, at least he's got
good taste. How**ever,* that's not how we're going to start you
out -- **if* you can perform.'' He stood up, opened his belt.
``What's it take for you to stiffen up? Girly pictures? Hetero-
fuck pictures? Or do gay ones turn you on?''
``I just -- I've got pretty good control -- I just think
about -- doing it.''
Mr Ericksson dropped his trousers, wriggled out of his T-
shirt, displaying a musculature only a little less well etched
than Jerry's and a thick, stiffening cock. ``Control -- that's
what Mitch said; that's why we told him to send you here.'' He
raised his voice, said: ``Bill?''
``Ready, Mr Ericksson.'' Bill gestured; Jerry glanced that
way, saw that the solidly muscled man had opened the couch at the
side of the room into a queen-sized bed.
``You see, Jerry,'' Mr Ericksson explained as he finished
stripping, shoes and all, ``good-looking bottoms are -- well, not
a dime a dozen, but not far from it. What we **really* need are
tops who can stiffen up on command -- to get wood, as the soon-
to-be-dated expression has it -- and keep it up until we finish
taping that scene. The way to make it big in this field is to
start out as a strict top -- **off*-camera as well as on, and
then when the tension's built up among our audience -- Gideon
wants to call it a `vidience,' but -- Gideon writes most of our
scripts -- where was I?''
``Tops?'' asked Jerry. He glanced down at his own shaft,
imagined a hungry mouth closing on it, and began to stiffen it.
``Then, just as your career peaks, we put you into a video
where you take someone off. And the one after that . . .''
``I -- I get the idea.'' Jerry reached down, pulled off his
shoes. ``And -- eventually -- one with an orgy?''
Mr Ericksson strode to the couch and stretched out on his
back. Jerry dropped to his knees beside his suitcase, opened it
again, and --
``Getting out some protection?'' asked Bill.
``Yes. Otherwise . . .''
``Good,'' said Mr Ericksson. ``We've lost entirely too many --
anyway, someone who reaches for a condom is smart enough to
survive in this business. So --''
Bill asked, ``Want to try one of ours? Top of the line.'' He
studied Jerry's shaft, now almost all the way up to full
erection. ``A `large' would be too tight, and a `jumbo' would be
overdoing it; let's try an `extra large.''' He opened a foil-
wrapped package and beckoned. Jerry stood up; his cock surged up
to full hardness as he felt Bill roll the thin rubber down to the
hilt.
``Uh -- yes,'' said Jerry, as he watched Bill squirt some
lubricant on Jerry's now-rigid shaft. He turned to Mr Ericksson.
``Now you want me to . . .''
``Climb on, stick yourself in, and start fucking. And keep
hard and keep on fucking as long as you can. Got it?''
``Yessir -- yes, Mr Ericksson.'' Jerry mounted the compactly
muscled man, probed -- probed again -- found his target, and
eased himself hilt-deep into the warm, slippery passage. He
pulled back a few inches, thrust again; underneath Jerry's naked
torso, Mr Ericksson squirmed, then locked his legs around Jerry's
waist.
``Are -- are you okay, Mr Ericksson?'' Jerry asked.
``So far, so good. Now if you can **keep* hard . . .''
``I -- I think I can.'' Jerry squirmed himself into a more
comfortable position, then settled down to a long, slow stroke.
``Hi, Mr E,'' said a voice from the door. Jerry missed a
stroke, then resumed his rhythm as the voice asked, ``This the new
kid from KC?''
``Yes. What do you think?
``Good face, good body -- what's his name?''
``I -- I'm Jerry. Jerry Williams.''
``Straighten your arms so I can see the front of your torso.
There -- nice definition,'' said the voice. Jerry felt a hand on
his shoulder and looked up; a bespectacled man stood beside the
couch. ``You can settle down -- that's it. Nice hips, too; good
and narrow. I'm Daniel -- first camera. Set designer too.''
Daniel put out his right hand; Jerry shifted his weight to
his left arm and they shook hands.
And as Jerry settled his chest onto Mr Ericksson's again,
Daniel went on: ``Mr E, the budget for the interiors for the
motorcycle story -- if we could just reuse the back-room set from
the surfer story before we strike it to make room for . . .''
Jerry suddenly realized he had slowed his stroke almost to a
stop. He speeded back up, and somehow managed to maintain that
pace during the next interruption -- when a couple of actors with
the well-tanned, sun-bleached look of surfers came by to pick up
their scripts and stayed a few minutes to watch Jerry's
performance.
``You must be the studling from the midwest,'' said the next
arrival, a snub-nosed red-head. ``I'm Harold.'' He held out a paper
plate. ``Here -- try some. These are dim sum from the Chinese
place around the corner. If you drop in before the noon rush, you
can sit at the counter and watch the guys there make them.''
Jerry took one, popped it in his mouth, realized he was
hungry, and took three more. When, Harold was ready to draw
blood. Jerry obediently held out his right arm -- somehow
managing to keep on fucking while Harold's needle found a vein.
``Thing is,'' Harold said as he labeled the small bottle,
``studs'll **claim* they're playing it safe off the set, and we
**make* 'em play safe **on* the set, but still . . .'' He patted
Jerry on the butt and left.
``Hand me the phone,'' said Mr Ericksson. ``I gotta make a
couple of calls -- yeah -- that one,'' he added as Jerry reached
for a telephone that sat on the arm of the couch.
``Still going strong?'' asked Bill, re-entering the office a
few phone calls later.
``Still,'' Jerry said. He felt himself getting close; he
slowed his stroke -- slower -- and felt himself ease back from an
eruption. ``Is it okay if I come and -- and then keep going?''
``You got that much control?'' asked Bill. ``Most studs rest up
for a spell -- really messes up a shot if we have to do it over,
with everybody standing around -- hey, wanta show us?''
``Sure, if it's okay with . . .'' Jerry nodded at the
compactly muscled man he was fucking.
Mr Ericksson responded with a sqeeze of his legs -- still
locked around Jerry's waist -- and met Jerry's next thrust with a
squirm of his own. Jerry speeded his stroke, let himself go,
fucked faster -- harder -- faster still . . .
``Now,'' said Mr Ericksson. ``Pull out -- that's it -- don't
shoot yet; pull off the rubber --''
Jerry got the rubber off. ``Got it.''
``Okay: let 'er rip!''
And Jerry did just that without touching his throbbing
spike: a long squirt, another, then a series of lessening ones
until he had pumped himself dry.
``Here's a new one,'' said Bill, taking the used rubber,
tossing it aside, then easing another onto Jerry's quivering
shaft. ``Now --''
``-- in I go.'' Jerry slid himself in again, tightened the
muscles in the base of his cock a couple of times to bring
himself up to full erection again, and resumed the fuck.
``Damn,'' said Mr Ericksson, ``the stud's still got wood; he's
as hard as ever.''
``Yeah?'' asked Bill. ``How 'bout we use that as his screen
name -- something like Woody Woodsford?''
``That sound okay to you, Jerry?'' asked Mr Ericksson. ``It's
kind of an inside joke -- only a few of our customers will get
it, but the ones that do will get a good laugh out of it.''
``Anything you say, Mr Ericksson.''
``My, aren't we having fun,'' said a new voice. Jerry -- still
fucking -- looked up. ``I'm Christopher.'' He shifted a handful of
papers from right hand to left, held out his right hand to Jerry.
``I'm Jerry, but they're going to call me Woody if -- you
know -- they take me on. **I'm getting good at this,* Jerry told
himself as he freed his own right hand and shook Christopher's.
``Have you **seen* this latest script, Mr E -- though why
**any*body would call this a **script* is **tot*ally beyond
**me* -- here -- look.''
``Let me get on top,'' said Mr Ericksson. ``I'll straighten my
legs, and then . . .''
. . . and -- somehow -- Jerry was never quite sure how --
they rolled over until Mr Ericksson was sitting astride Jerry's
hips, still impaled on Jerry's rigid prong.
``. . . I can see if it's as bad as all that.''
Christopher handed one sheaf of papers to Mr Ericksson,
another to Jerry, saying, ``here -- you take a look too.''
And as Jerry -- lying on his back now -- read the
typewritten pages, he kept himself rock-hard, thrusting up into
the compactly muscled man impaled on his cock. Mr Ericksson was
doing half -- no, more than half the work now as the two naked
men continued their fuck.
``Well?'' asked Christopher.
``You're right,'' Mr Ericksson growled. ``Gideon tried to
put this one together too quickly -- and now he's off to --
never mind where, but he's gone for a month at least.''
``Uh -- I've seen a few scripts before, even acted in a
couple of small stage productions,'' said Jerry, ``but this one --
it -- it just isn't working. I mean, things could happen that
way, but the people in it -- what they're saying doesn't **feel*
right.''
``But the schedule's tight and we don't have anything else to
go with,'' said Bill. ``How 'bout you, Jerry; any ideas?''
``As a matter of fact -- I do. As soon as I finish -- hell, I
might as well tell you right now. . . .''
# # #
Suitcase in hand, Jerry, now in his role as Woody Woodsford,
stepped out of the city bus and into the dry heat of a Los
Angeles afternoon. He blinked at the street sign, carefully
ignoring Daniel and a second cameramen, who were taping his
actions. He paused long enough for a voice-over, to be dubbed in
later: `Yeah, this is the right corner, but . . .' He glanced
across the street, held the pose long enough for another voice-
over: `And there's the Chinese restaurant okay, but this is a
warehouse district, and it's miles and miles and miles from
Hollywood.' He shrugged his broad shoulders, started to cross the
street -- showed surprise that California motorists really do
stop for pedestrians -- then strode down the side street with a
third cameraman pacing him on the far side of that street.
``Cut,'' yelled Christopher. ``Looks good. Now we'll jump to
the door scene. When I say `roll 'em, Jerry, you'll reach for the
doorbell and . . .''
================================================================
[Copyright (C) 1999 by Felix Lance Falkon; you may save or make]
[paper copies for your own use; do not post, repost, publish, ]
[or archive elsewhere without the author's express permission. ]
----------------------------------------------------------------
-------------------------------END------------------------------