Mason and Sam Story -

MASON AND SAM STORY - PART I

NOTE 1: This is a work of fiction entirely imagined by the author. Although the name of some of the places referenced in this story is real, the companies, people and events are pure fiction.

NOTE 2: This is a multiple narrators story. This story gives life to three main characters, thus ensuring that more aspects of the story become visible from their different points of view. In addition, a neutral, independent narrator presents the characters, paints the mood, defines the situations, and provides background information, only as required, and as an introduction to a chapter.

The characters tell the story as they see it and feel it.

Special thanks

to a volunteer in Literotica.com's Volunteer Editors program,

neuroparenthetical

,

for his great editing work on this story, patience, and professional advice.

There are certainly some mistakes that may still pop up. Those, without a doubt, are my responsibility.

© Copyright 2023 WhiteBeard50 - All rights reserved

*** *** ***

Chapter 1

Seattle, Friday

,

April 12.

Mason, a tall, strong, and muscular man, with a manhood to match, gets out of the shower and grabs a large, white, fluffy towel to dry himself. Today is a very special day. Two scenes are scheduled starting this morning at ten. The first one will show Mason making love with an older porn star who wants his last performance to be with the biggest porn star of the moment.

The second one puts him with a young man he's never heard of. Gus told him nothing about the young fellow. Normally, he avoids doing scenes with young, inexperienced men--especially unknown individuals. Gus had to work very hard to convince him.

Anyway, he'll be on vacation right after that second video is done. Weeks ago, after a long exchange of text messages, his dad, during a break in a meeting at NATO headquarters in Brussels, sent him this message:

Perhaps, son, it's time for you to make a move. Your life is worth so much more. Go back to your studies and your painting. You. Are. So. Talented. Go to McGill U. in Montréal. Great arts program. That's the perfect city for you. Got to go. Love you. Dad.

Mason's last scene of the day, later that morning.

Gus, my stage director and best friend, takes his headphone set off and waits for the scene to end. Thankfully, it's the last scene of both the day and the week. I'm holding the hips of this young blond man with a perfectly tanned body who's bouncing up and down on my thick cock. He moans, groans, growls, and purrs as he gets closer and closer to his orgasm--or whatever he thinks it is. With his tinny, high-pitched voice, he cries my name over and over, and then there it is. His cock jets out a couple of streams of his hot white juice. He pants heavily and falls onto my chest, drenched with sweat. I fake it all along. I'm tired of these sex clips of me and whoever wants to ride my dick being filmed with this constant crowd of drooling voyeurs looking on. I almost refused to act in this scene. This guy looks more like a teenager than an adult. Greg had a fit, but I insisted that he get confirmation of his age. I'm sure as hell not going to get caught fucking a minor. Greg had to make a few calls. He's really pissed. We are two hours behind schedule. Not my problem.

Gus indicates to the cameraman to stop with his usual throat-cutting sign. "Okay, everybody. Good job. Thank you." His low voice carries to every corner of the studio's large space. It's a kind of cold and drafty one-story building located in the industrial park northwest of King County International Airport.

Gus tells the blond kid to get to the showers, then looks at me with his thick, dark eyebrows raised just a tad. I guess he didn't like what he saw. He remains silent while I watch the blond guy dashing for the bathroom, his bum swinging like a little girl's. I get up with my limp cock flapping between my thighs as I walk towards the shower. Gus's mean stare is enough to stop me. He's angry at me.

"I've seen better performances from you. Editing will fix it. Christ, Mason, I know you're tired of all this, and I understand, but... Forget it..." He hesitates, then simply says, "Have a good vacation, my friend. You deserve it."

After a quick wash, I dry myself and get dressed. I'm in a hurry. I need to catch a plane for Vancouver, and then a transfer to Montreal. It'll be a long, boring flight of nearly 6 hours. I should be in Montreal around 9:30 p.m., more or less.

Just before I leave, Greg, the producer, says to me, "See you Monday, Mason. Good job, by the way."

Good job? Really? Was he watching or was he picking his nose? The little blond guy was faking it; I was faking it. I suppose he'll see it when they edit the clip.

"I'm off for the next two weeks, Greg. You forgot?"

"Christ, that's right. Okay, see you in two weeks."

He doesn't know I'm going to Montréal, let alone to buy a new apartment. I'm moving there for good. The company producing my sex clips in Toronto sold its shares to a Seattle group two years ago. My contract, which is based on a certain number of clips, ends soon. I've got less than half a dozen to go. I think. Better ask my agent. Then I retire from the porn industry. I've made enough money and, thanks to my lawyer--one of my dad's friends--I will continue receiving royalties for as long as my clips are viewed on the internet.

I'm really excited about being accepted into McGill University's Master of Arts - Architectural History program. So is my dad, for me. I think that I will also take painting lessons. I want to get back into it. I was quite good at it. I'll see to that after I settle down in Montreal. I have an appointment tomorrow morning to view a brand-new building still under construction. It's a high-end condo project in Old Montréal designed by a young architect named Sam Morel. I look forward to meeting him. My agent, Louis, says that I will definitely love him--that he's both brilliant and friendly. Louis provided him with my financial information and informed him about my university plans. Apparently, the young man was more impressed by my studies than my financials.

*** *** ***

Meanwhile at the other end of the country in Montréal.

While Mason snoozes in his comfortable business-class seat on his way to Montréal, Sam, the young architect, prepares a folder containing pertinent information about the project. He knows about his client's line of work. It wasn't too difficult to find out what kind of movies Mr. Howard was involved in, but Sam isn't bothered by his career choices. His references are good. The verification made by their usual agency showed that he is a respectable citizen. He lives alone. His involvement in local charities in Seattle is impressive, as are his monetary contributions. Sam sends the folder to Mason's email, then leaves for his favourite restaurant, Lucille's.

Seven p.m., Sam dines at Lucille's.

The restaurant is nearly full when I get there, after a five-minute walk in the cold evening wind. As always, Lucille has reserved the small table in the far corner by the window with a view of the dock where the big cruise ships moor. In April, though, there's no such big boat in the old port.

Lucille, who's occupied with a client, winks at me pointing to the table with an almost imperceptible move of her head. I wink back and walk over. Pierre, the old waiter, welcomes me with his usual smile, which never touches his eyes. He's been doing this job for forever. Perhaps a change of decor would do him some good. His service is usually polite and impeccable, but he seems to have a bug up his ass tonight.

"Good evening, Mr. Morel," he says tartly. "Would you like the menu?"

"No thanks, Pierre. It's nice to see you too." My reply is served cold, like his welcome. "I'll have the pea soup, the salmon with wild rice and your delicious chef's salad. Please."

"Something to drink, perhaps?" Pierre knows I don't drink, but he's got to go through his routine. My reply is a simple shake of the head.

This dance is finished

, I hope to convey.

"Thank you, Mr. Morel. I'll be back with your soup momentarily."

"Thank you, Pierre." I feel annoyance filtering into my attitude and voice. What's wrong with him?

My cell is buzzing. I pick it up and notice that a close friend is in town and would like to see me tonight. I reply that it will be my pleasure. He replies:

Same hotel, of course. Nine okay with you?

I text back that it's perfect. My whole being vibrates--not just my cock--at the thought of being with him tonight. He's such a gentleman--the perfect lover. I like him.

Pierre stands next to me with the bowl of steaming pea soup, waiting for me to finish my conversation. I'm sure he read everything that appeared on my phone. He ceremoniously sets the bowl down in front of me.

"Thanks, Pierre," I tell him unceremoniously, supported by a disapproving look.

I can see that Lucille saw what just happened. I'm afraid Pierre will get an earful. Not surprisingly, the rest of the service is performed by a new waitress, young and beautiful, with the most charming smile.

Satiated, I place my large, white napkin full of crumbs on the table, get up, and put my spring coat on. Lucille approaches with a serious look on her face.

"I apologize for Pierre's attitude. He will never do your service again, and should he repeat such a poor performance, he's been warned. Supper is on the house, Sam." She sounds angry but in control.

"Oh, no. You don't have to pay for his rudeness. I insist, Lucille. Put it on my tab, as usual. Dinner was otherwise perfect."

"Thank you, Sam," she says with a sigh of relief. "How was Alex?"

"She was great. Her smile more than makes up for the little things she missed. I left her a generous tip."

I bend down, kiss Lucille on both cheeks, and bid her good night.

I walk rapidly towards Reg's hotel, eager to see my travelling part-time lover. He's a big older fellow--a grizzly of a man. I don't even know what he does for a living. He's highly educated, cultivated, well-mannered, and so damn good in bed. We never talk much, actually. I'm a little bit late so I text him as I'm almost jogging. His hotel is on Saint-Vincent Street, next to place Jacques-Cartier. An expensive place. Reg gets the same suite every time he comes into town. Something tells me he's some big important dude.

"Bonsoir. Would you inform Mr. Rothermeare that Sam Morel is here to see him?"

He calls the suite and tells him that I'm here. He listens, hangs up, and tells me, "Mr. Rothermeare asks that you join him in his suite," the front desk clerk says most politely and formally. "Six-oh-one, sir."

"Thank you, Stephen." I've never seen this one before. Fortunately, they wear badges with their names on them.

The door is open but just a crack. I knock and it opens a little more. I enter and close the door. I hear the musical click; it locks automatically. Reg walks out of his bedroom dressed in the hotel's complimentary, thick, white, terry cloth robe. He stands behind the couch next to a superb credenza where a bottle of champagne bathes in a silver ice bucket with a crystal bowl filled with locally made chocolates. He's smiling at me, with his open robe exposing his already hard love shaft. Man! I love big, hairy men like him.

"My little Sam," he says in his low sexy voice. "I missed you." "Come, I don't want to waste a minute."

With his index, he signs me to approach him. Lust screams out of his smile.

We kiss, lips munching mostly, with a little tongue for good measure, until his full lips swallow mine one by one, starting with the top one and then the bottom. He sucks them into his mouth where his tongue treats them as the most delicious candy it's ever had.

"You need a shower, young man," he says, his nose sniffing my day's worth of hard labour. "But first, let's have a glass of this fine nectar."

I don't drink, except when I meet Reg--always here, every three or four months, for the past four years. The champagne is fabulous, as are the chocolates. I can't resist. He wants to know how my projects are going, how I feel, and do I have a steady boyfriend. To the latter, I respond that he is my only boyfriend. I never bombard him with questions. I sensed a long time ago his reticence to talk about what he does, or who he is for that matter.

So, we head for the shower--a huge glassed-in affair with multiple showerheads and jets coming out of the marble wall. We play under the hot water for a short time. We soap, rinse, and dry off, then he drags me to a huge bed--larger than a king-size, and the most comfortable one I've ever slept in.

The gas fireplace is on; soft instrumental music is playing. Reg dims the light, as always. He's impatient tonight. He gets into bed and pulls me to him.

Lying down face to face, he murmurs, "I missed you, Sam. I've been busy travelling around and, finally, I was able to get away."

He bends over and kisses me. He rolls on his back and pulls me on top of him at the same time. Our lips meet again. This is a kiss with a purpose. It's slow, deep, and meaningful. His big hands are floating over my hairy back and ass. We roll again and he gets on top of me, kissing me all over my face, neck, shoulders, chest, and nipples.

"I want you now, Sam." Like always, in bed, he only whispers.

He wedges his thighs under my legs. I grab my knees and pull them higher. His cock, dripping with lots of precum, penetrates me slowly, never stopping. He's a big man with a big, thick tool. He stops when he feels his huge sack touching my ass. He waits for me to adjust. He lowers himself so his head rests next to mine. I hear him breathe slowly and he starts to roll his rump. The long, slow movements of his cock inside my love canal send waves of pleasure throughout my body.

He's tense tonight. I don't know what's the matter with him. I can feel the tension in his neck and shoulders. He suddenly accelerates. In short order, he's on the verge of coming, and shoots his load deep inside me without warning. His body relaxes, and he raises himself with his arms. He's embarrassed. Nevertheless, he looks me in the eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Sam." He seems to plead for forgiveness. "I don't know what got into me."

He softly takes his manhood out of me and rolls onto his back. I get close to him. On my side, I pull his head towards me, and I gently kiss him on the lips. He's got something on his mind.

"You never ask me any question." His eyes move around my face. His hand follows the eyes. It's done with a tenderness he's never shown me before. "That's one of a million reasons I love you, Sam."

I'm speechless. It is such an unexpected declaration of love. He smiles at my reaction, but it's a deeply sad smile. Now I'm completely confused.

His hand is still gently touching my face when he says, "I don't even know if you love me. You're, by far, the best lover I have ever had. I'm sorry to say I've had quite a few--women and men. You get me. You know my every little tickle and what sends me to lust heaven. You're intelligent, interesting, cultivated, and I must say a tad opinionated. I love to argue with you. With you, Sam, I can be an ordinary man. I can just be me, a simple guy who's so much in love with you."

He remains silent for a long moment. I don't say a word. I'm seriously moved. I know he loves me, but this is serious. He's not finished. Here comes the sad part. I think.

"I work for an important family in England. I've got obligations that can't be ignored. I constantly travelled the world, discretely representing that family for decades. Now, I'm being called back home. Summoned, is more like it. I don't know when or if I'll be back in Montréal, Sam. It all depends on what happens next." The last sentence is barely audible.

He breathes deeply, locks his eyes with mine and says, "So, Sam. My lovely Sam. Please make love to me."

I start to say something, but he stops me by putting his index finger on my mouth. "No. Don't."

I sit up and lean over him with my eyes searching his. He loves me. It's there. I see it, feel it, and share it. He's looking straight back at me, seeing the same thing, and smiles, content. I lower myself to his furry chest, kiss his rigid right nipple, and move up to his sexy, sensual lips. I feel the big guy relaxing and getting into the mood. He starts kissing me back. For a few more moments we enjoy the tongue play, and the lips nibbling.

"Let me please you," I whisper into his ear. "Just let yourself go, my big grizzly."

With my bearded chin, I caress his large, strong chest covered by long, dark-brown and grey hair. My nose furrows deeper into the thick forest, and my tongue finds the left nipple, big, hard and ready. I suck, lick, and munch it until I hear my lover moan with pleasure. His hands softly rub my shoulders. His breathing deepens, and he's now completely at my mercy. I continue down his rising and falling belly while I delicately pass one hand on his left hip. He jerks. He's ticklish, right there, and I do it again. He grunts. I like that masculine, virile sound; it comes from deep within him.

My nose is now deep in his groin. My tongue licks the base of his thick, hard, enormous cock. My lips run along the love shaft with my tongue swirling, and when I reach the top, I gently kiss the magnificent, engorged knob. I sweep my tongue around it and then let the tip of my tongue go all around the sensitive edge of the glans. Reg moans loudly. I know this is one of his weaknesses: his knob. I keep on playing with it, mouthing the whole thing with my wet tongue swirling around it. He umms, aaahs, and purrs, and I relentlessly pursue my loving ministration.

Then, slowly, methodically, I take the monster into my mouth until it almost touches my uvula. My tongue and my cheek go to work. I lustily suck his cock; I move it in and out of my mouth, pressing my lips on the shaft just before the knob comes out. Reg goes wild when I do this. I repeat this until he starts squirming and telling me to stop. I don't. I take all I can of his throbbing penis into my mouth and suck hard and move up fast, squeezing the knob as it comes out. The result is spectacular. My big, beautiful grizzly bear explodes. Damn! The first jet flies at least five feet away. Three more powerful bombs of juice come flying out, followed by a few less spectacular lava flows.

Reg's out of breath, panting and eyeing me with a mean, lusty desire. I'm in for quite a joy ride, which is exactly what I want. He's still grunting his low, vibrating sound. His eyes are deadlocked on me. I lay on his chest and start kissing him around the mouth, the neck, and the shoulders while he embraces me with his hairy, muscular arms. My mouth finds his and a passionate dance starts. Lips, and tongues, lick and suck with passion. His mitt-sized hands rub my back, and particularly my ass, with vigour.

Then, Reg gently rolls me onto the bed, and says, "Let me make love to you, my sweet Sammy."

He's on all fours on top of me, kissing, licking, and sucking from my neck to my groin. He loves my furry chest. He spends a lot of time on my nipples, where his tongue laps at and, wets them, and then his plump lips gently suck each one. His nose plays on my belly and finds itself in my thick, bushy groin.

His tongue licks around my hard, throbbing shaft and laps my knob. He sucks on it and swallows it delivering it to his wanting tongue. Ah! Gawd! It's so good. He takes my cock in his warm and sensuous mouth, inch by inch until his nose and chin disappear in my pubic hair. Ummm! He sucks my dick--sometimes slow, sometimes fast, but always relentlessly, until I come hard deep inside of his mouth. He keeps my cock in his warm, wet, and magnificent mouth for a little while, sucking gently until every drop of my man juice disappears into his throat and beyond.