Sail to the Sun

Life was little different in the mansion hugging the snow-clad mountainside at Snowshoe than it was in Hoagie's inn. Less demanding—in terms of service both at table and in the bed—and the surroundings certainly more sumptuous. But very little different in terms of feeling owned and controlled—and isolated, all alone in the world. I cursed Buddy nearly daily for having shown me a glimpse of what could be. I was far better off before that.

I wasn't the only house staff member there, by any means. There was a young man named Frankie, who did the heavy work—the cleaning and laundry. And he served in Mr. Reardon's bed as well. Reardon obviously liked his men young looking. Frankie told me he first met Reardon at an audition for a movie. In whispering tones he told me that Reardon made more movies than those that were shown on the silver screen and acclaimed for their artistry if not always by their box office returns. He also filmed male porn, which Frankie thought he probably made more money on and took more delight from than his mainstream movies.

Frankie had come to Reardon for a job, having come up through the system working on films that he couldn't even legally talk about. Reardon hadn't put him in a film, but he'd put him down on his studio couch and then in his bed and, finally, here at the Snowshoe house, which Frankie looked after even when the Reardons weren't in residence. Frankie said he had no complaints—that this life was better than any he had before.

And the way Frankie said that to me rang loudly as a friendly suggestion that I should feel the same.

I was given lighter tasks—some of the light cleaning and cooking and the waiting on tables. I and Frankie—and the chauffer, Dwain, had rooms on the lower level of the villa, two flights down from the driveway and parking aprons and garages at the road side of the house. Our quarters took up one side of this floor. There was only one door leading into the other side, and that was kept closed and locked. I had my own window looking down the side of the mountain, which was one of the ski slopes of the resort. The room was quite nice. The three of us shared a bath, which was a luxury for me and would have been even more so if Dwain hadn't asserted his position my first night there by coming into the shower stall while I was bathing and manhandling me and turning my belly to the wall and setting my channel down on his monstrous black cock and fucking me hard and rough. He took me here often as if it was a privilege Reardon had granted him for a possession that had no say in the matter.

I thought he was presumptuous and wondered if he was skating on thin ice with his employers and whether I was sinking into a bad situation where more was going on than Reardon knew and that, when it all came out, whether the burden of the blame would be given out fairly. But I needn't have worried. The afternoon after the evening we'd arrived in Snowshoe, all of the men were taken into the Reardon's massive master bedroom, and Reardon and Dwain took turns fucking Frankie and me on the master bed—together, Frankie's and my faces within inches of each other and watching the effect of the fucking on each other. After they each had finished and rested, they changed positions.

Reardon's son, Wade, who indeed was Reardon's son by an earlier marriage—although there were suggestions that Wade was adopted—sat and watched us, in the nude, until Reardon and Dwain were finished with Frankie and me. And then Reardon waved Dwain, and Frankie, and me out of the room, and I could hear sounds of Reardon taking his son.

As far as I could determine, Reardon let no one but himself have sex with Wade beyond the first time at the Hawksbill Inn, where he let Wade take me while he fucked Wade. I knew from the way that Wade watched me, though, that he wanted me again.

I needn't even have wondered about what Reardon knew of what happened between Dwain and Reardon's wife, because that first full evening, as I was finishing up washing up the dishes, I heard the sounds of sex coming from the great room and peeked out to see Reardon sitting calmly at the dining table with work papers strewn out before him and him closely concentrating on, while across the room, in an overstuffed chair in front of the fire, the big, black Dwain was sitting in the chair, nude, and Mrs. Reardon, also nude, was straddling his lap and facing him—and rising and falling on his cock.

I wondered how long this would go on—how stable this environment was for me until the next man came along and bought me. And where would that next man come from? It was pretty isolated up on this mountainside, and although there were skiers aplenty on the mountain slope, the house overlooked, they seemed far away, in another world. I wondered what would happen when I was too old for men to want to buy me. What would become of me then? Wondering got me nowhere. It was all beyond my scope. But I could wonder and I could ask. I asked Frankie what he thought.

Frankie was bluntly, emotionally unattached about the questions. "The household hasn't increased here ever since we first arrived. I don't think you'll be staying here. Mr. Reardon's brought men here before. He brings them here for his movies, and then they are gone. The young men skiers are handsome and in top shape—and many of them need money, as all they want to do is to follow the hard-packed snow. Mr. Reardon makes movies here, taking advantage of their good looks and needs. I asked Dwain where the last one went and he said that he just drove the young man down into the town in the valley and dropped him off at the bus station."

"Movies?" I asked. "They make movies up here?" And that's when I learned about the movies Reardon made behind the scenes.

What Frankie said about the last young man brought up here scared me more. "Just let him off in the town?"

"Yes. You should be happy. You've said you've never been free. You'd be free then to do whatever you want."

"Whatever I want?" I must have said that funny, because Frankie turned on me then.

"You could go back to whatever life and freedom you had before this man you said brought you to the States bought you."

"There was never before," I whispered. "There never has been a before I was owned by someone—that someone else didn't tell me whatever I could do and didn't take care of me. And I can't see Mr. Reardon just sending me down to the bus station. I'm sure he paid a lot of money for me. It's not a boast. I'm sure Hoagie would have demanded a lot of money."

Frankie snorted at that. "You don't seem to understand how much money there is in the kind of movies Mr. Reardon makes up here. He'll get back his money on you in no time."

* * * *

"Here, strip and put these on—and nothing else—and come down the hall to the door that's open."

Being awakened like that out of a sleep early in the morning was a shock. A larger shock was having Dwain burst in my room; they'd let me have this as a private space until now. Another shock was what Dwain was wearing: just tattered cotton pants not coming much below the knee, held up at the waist by a rope belt.

"What . . .?"

"Don't ask. Just do it. They're waiting."

"I don't understand."

"We're making a movie. The cameramen are already on the clock. Just do it. But go into the bathroom first and clean yourself out."

I sat up in bed and picked up the shirt and pants Dwain had thrown on the bed. I knew what "clean yourself out" meant. I'd had to do that every night before I went out to dance the pole at Hoagie's club. And so I also knew what was going to happen in this movie.

The shirt was a filmy, billowing cotton one, with a lace ruffle at the collar. Some sort of period costume. The pants were silky, navy blue. They were tight and came to just below the knee. They were tight enough on me that I needed no belt. There was no zipper opening. There was a flap of material there instead that buttoned closed.

I walked down the hall toward the open door at the other end of the house from the servants' quarters not just trembling from fear but also pricked with curiosity. I'd never been on that side of the staircase down to the lowest level of the house. The door to that room had always been shut.

It was evident to me what the room was for and what I was doing there as soon as I entered the doorway. The room was sectioned visually. It was a large, windowless room. At the far corner from the door, a section was marked off by parquet flooring that was a world away from the rest of the room that wrapped around that on two sides. The sectioned-off area was furnished like an eighteenth-century plantation house bedroom. A false window against the far wall with heavy brocade draperies; a highboy chest and grandfather's clock; and between them a massive wingback chair. Off to the left a four-poster bed, draped in scarlet brocade. A maroon oriental carpet on the floor. A strong hint of the opulent. This was in stark contrast to the area of the room surrounding it on two sides: cinderblock walls, painted black, concrete floor and an area of floodlights and tripods supporting movie cameras.

Two pony-tailed, scruffy looking men with eyes that kept shifting to Dwain and me were moving from camera to floodlight to camera, making adjustments. Reardon and Dwain were standing in the middle of the room, and I walked up to them.

"Do you understand what we're doing here?" Reardon asked.

"Yes, I guess so," I answered. He handed me a tiny receiver to plug into my ear. Dwain was already inserting his.

Reardon lifted a hand mike to his mouth. "Can you both hear me?"

We both nodded our assent.

"Just to be sure you understand, Atid. This is a fuck movie. You are the fucked. How you make it look will determine your salary. You could make nothing, if you ruin the film footage. You could make $500 if you please me—and then you could do some more films, with progressively bigger payoffs. Or you could make something less on this film and not do any more. It all depends on you—and how well you please me. You really fuck this up and I put you out of the house. So, do you want to please me?"

"Yes," I answered, my eyes lowered to the ground.

"Now this is a special movie," Reardon said. "I'll give some specific directions through your ear receiver, but the gist is that there's a slave uprising. You escape to this room. Dwain here, one of the slaves, chases you here and fucks you for at least thirty minutes. We're putting some money into this film; I want to make a feature out of it. You can both come as often as you are able in that time. But no less than three positions. And, this is important, you are not to want it at first. You are to fight against it, and Dwain's going to not care and is going to get rough. You can want it the second time. But you have to put up a fight before that. Furniture is going to get busted, so we're only doing this once. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I murmured.

"And the last shot is going to be a close-up of your face. I want it to show that you've been totally fucked. Understand?"

"Yes."

"OK, guys. In places. Let's do this thing. I want it in the can by noon."

They took closer to forty-five minutes of in-the-can footage, and I left with $750, so I guess my first movie star turn was pleasing to the director.

On cue, I ran into the set, with my appearance announced with the sound of a slammed door. I looked around the room in panic, and when I heard beating on the door, I moved to the other side of the bed and sank down to the floor. Dwain's rush into the room was signaled by the sound of a door splintering. He had an ax, and for a brief moment I—and I assume the future audience—had the panicked thought that this would be a different kind of movie. But then he threw the ax aside and started to search the room.

Finding me, he dragged me up from the other side of the bed by grabbing my ankle and pulling me into the middle of the floor. I struggled with him and, pulling away, made a run for it toward the wing chair. He grabbed me by the arm and spun me around and backhanded me. Reardon wanted us to make a big play out of Dwain being a lot bigger than I was.

No acting here. I cried out and fell to the floor. He pulled me up and swung me around and backhanded me again onto the bed. I struggled around the edge of the bed toward the front of the set, making like I was trying to elude him again. He reached out and grabbed the waistband of my silk pants and they tore away from me, revealing to the cameras that I had nothing on underneath. He manhandled me around to the other side of the bed, with his hands gripping my wrists. I tried breaking away again, and in pulling me back, he knocked the grandfather's clock over on its side.

He had me laying on my back on the bed, my head toward the cameras, him standing between my legs. He backhanded me across the cheek again, and as my head snapped to the side, Reardon instructed me through the receiver to just lay there, acting stunned. He hardly had to say that. I certainly felt stunned.

Standing over me and looking down at me, Dwain started to mumble words to me. It didn't sound like the Dwain I knew. He was speaking is some sort of Islander dialect with French intonation and a few French words thrown in. I couldn't understand everything, but it was something about slaves and masters and turning the tide and dirty words too, of what he was going to do to me. As he talked, he undid the rope belt around his waist and slowly unbuttoned the fly of his cotton pants. He pulled out his massive cock and stroked himself.

He climbed up on his knees beside me on the bed. At Reardon's instruction, I rolled my head up so that the cameras could get a good look at the genuine fear in my face. Dwain straddled my chest and held my arms out and over my head and on the surface of the bed. Then, in near stereo, Reardon was giving Dwain dialogue and Dwain was repeating it about how I was going to take his cock and give him satisfaction and not do anything that would cause me to regret it. He fed his cock into my mouth and I made a big O with my lips and gagged and grunted as he face pumped me.

What followed was the series of positions and more that Reardon dictated through the receiver and that he thought his movie patrons would love to stroke to. Dwain standing back down on the floor between my legs, holding my legs out and pumping me with his cock, slapping me once, twice, three times across the face to elicit my moans. My moans and groans were picked up by the overhead mikes and amplified so that they reverberated off walls that weren't there.

Reardon said he wanted to be artistic with this first fucking. The audience wasn't to see the dick thrusting in and then moving in and out of my channel. What they saw was me laying on the bed, my head toward the cameras and tilted back so I was looking into the cameras. And a massive brute of a black man standing between my splayed legs. The cameras were centered on my face, and Reardon led me through the expressions and sounds to represent, unseen for now, the world's biggest cock violating and then pumping the world's smallest virginal hole.

This moved into me standing on the corner of the bed, facing the cameras, hanging onto the bedpost post, high up, with white-knuckled hands, wrists tied to the bedpost with strips from my silk pants, and a now-naked Dwain fucking me from the rear. Reaching up and stripping the white, billowy cotton shirt off my body, and reaching around and pumping my cock to ejaculation while continuing to service me from the rear. Me swallowed into the wing chair, my legs spread and hanging out over the arms of the chair, and crying out, as, undulating bulbous butt to the camera, Dwain crouched between my legs and fucked me and then climbed up on the arms of the chair with his knees and fed his cock into my mouth for me to clean him up.

The fadeout shot of me lying belly down on the bed, Dwain straddling my hips and pumping long and slowly into me. This time, the root of the cock becoming larger and then smaller, repeatedly, as it plowed my ass, was featured by the film. At Reardon's direction, the camera slowly zoomed to my face, turned toward the camera, cheek on bed. And I gave the camera the best "my eyes are swimming in cum" expression.

I was a movie star

* * * *

Over the next five weeks I was a movie star on several occasions, and I was building up quite a nice little nest egg, although I assumed that it would just be taken from me. But if it was true that at some point Reardon would have enough of me and just have me driven down to the bus station, I would have something to start on. If he let me keep it. On the off chance that he would, I did not balk at the movies, and I tried my best to give him what he wanted.

There were no more movies with Dwain. Other men were brought in. Big, strapping guys with big dicks and long staying power, all of them. I told Frankie one day that I didn't know where Reardon got them, but he reminded me that this was why the Reardons spent part of the winter in Snowshoe—to be near ski-slope hunks who needed extra cash.

Most of the movies were costumed and in some exotic locales. And most of them were Asian, dictated, I supposed by my half-Asian looks. I wasn't full Thai—whoever had knocked my mother up was of northern European stock, so I could pass for a variety of nationalities—my Thai genes were mainly concentrated on making my body small and willowy.

Reardon told me that my films would sell well especially because he could prove I was over eighteen despite my size—and he exaggerated the difference and the visual impact of my takings by using particularly massive men, like Dwain was, as the men who topped me in the movies.

I was so indoctrinated by the routine of the movies that I had been on the set of a South Sea Island beach for a movie short filming, dressed only in a sarong riding low on my waist and a lei around my neck one day, when I turned to see that my new movie lover was to be—Buddy. The shock of seeing him made my knees feel like rubber and I almost toppled over

He put his finger to his lips as Reardon was giving directions, and I fell silent, but I was all atremble. He too was wearing a sarong, and we were in front of a makeshift grass hut with a terrycloth covered chaise lounge beside it.

"This is a short," Reardon was saying. "Just a blow job and a slow fuck. Lovers this time. Two positions should be enough. Something sweet."

I wanted to burst forth with questions and accusations, but Buddy was signaling for silence. Still, my eyes bored into him, showing him all of the mixed emotions I felt.

He pulled me gently onto the set and, as Reardon instructed us to start with a kiss, he held me to his body and had his lips on mine. I resisted, still wanting to show anger, but he pushed my lips apart with his and his tongue was inside my mouth and I melted to him. As the cameras rolled, I moved my lips down his chest and his belly, while he arched his back and used the expressions on his face to show the cameras that he was transported even before I reached his cock. When I unknotted his sarong and let it fall in drapes at his feet and took possession of him with my mouth, he gasped and started a slow roll of his hips in countermovement to the movement of my mouth.

Reardon was making pleasing sounds in the receivers, telling us how good it looked and commenting on how it looked like we were longtime lovers.

Big and throbbing now, Buddy pushed me back on the chaise lounge and spread my legs while he knelt between them in a three-quarter angle that gave the cameras an unencumbered shot of my crotch. He didn't remove my sarong; he suggestively moved his hand into the folds and slowly pushed the material aside and slow pumped me with his hand under the surface of the material for half a minute before bringing it out to where it could be seen. I grabbed the metal frame at each side of the chaise lounge hard and arched my back and gasped and groaned as he then made love to my cock, first with his hands and then with his mouth.