Boys of Vice City Read online

  BOYS OF VICE CITY

  bruno gmünder

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Bust

  CHAPTER TWO

  Humpy Little Gofer

  CHAPTER THREE

  A Day On The Set

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Balling Buddies

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Shovel Ass, Boy!

  CHAPTER SIX

  Nero Fiddles —Rome Burns

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Take Ten … ”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Pumping Ass

  CHAPTER NINE

  Vice City

  CHAPTER TEN

  La Dolce Vita

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  That’s A Wrap

  IMPRINT

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Bust

  “And that’s a wrap!” The studio below came to life as assistants and engineers began immediately breaking down the cameras and sound equipment. The lighting rig went dead, leaving the large space in the sudden gloom of the house lights. Actors came out of character and began idly chatting as they made their way out back to turn into ordinary human beings again.

  Gil Graham gave a satisfied sigh and thanked his vision mixers and PA. Another episode of the award-winning drama Second Sight in the can. The schedule had been—as usual—tough, but made worse by the need for so much studio time in Burbank to fit in with the location shooting. And he had to find time to consider several new options thrown at him. He had no need to go looking for work; as one of RKW’s most successful producer-directors, the work found him.

  He glanced down from his control box aerie at the studio floor, now rapidly emptying of props, sets, and people, and saw the young floor assistant who had caught his eyes earlier in the week. A young guy starting out hopefully on his career. The boy reminded him of himself—how long ago? Well, a good while anyway. He felt a stirring in his loins and wondered whether the boy had undergone anything like his own induction to the film business. He ran a hand through his still thick hair, although its once shimmering blond was looking a bit tarnished these days.

  The memories were still as fresh as if they had occurred the day before. Jimmy Carter was the President, John Lennon still lived and made music, Pan-Am and TWA ruled the skies, and in the cities sexual freedom flowed innocently in the days before the great plague had come to rein in natural animal passions. Gil thought back to those days in 1980 when he landed his first job in the film business and, barely out of his teens, found himself thrown headlong into the exotic world of foreign travel, strange places, and even stranger people…

  He had started out as a straight boy and ended up very differently. It had been the damned Italian customs officer who started it all.

  Gil was excited, but really excited. In fact he was so worked up that beneath the flat washboard stomach his Filet Mignon à la TWA churned uncomfortably. Airline meals are never wonderful even when hungry, but Gil’s feelings made digestion just impossible. He was beginning to regret eating and vaguely wondering about the john, when the 747 gave a lurch and began its long descent toward Leonardo da Vinci airport.

  Gil Graham was just twenty and friends were always kidding him he looked more like sixteen. His youthful appearance was one of the problems he had had in getting the job he was on now. When he walked into the film production offices in his home town of Los Angeles no one took him seriously, even in that notoriously child prodigy-minded city. On the other hand, he had to admit, his looks had equally helped. Not with the dragon-like secretary, who gave him scant attention at his request for work.

  “Waddya think this is, kid, a job agency? We get ten of your sort in every day. Why doncha go back to school and let me get on with my job.”

  With which she returned to the task of painting her nails an attractive shade of shit brown.

  Gil was on the point of leaving, but he paused to admire the large color posters hanging on the outer office wall advertising past attractions and took his time in as insolent a manner as he could manage. At that moment the front door swung open to admit a guy in a snazzy business suit. Gil recognized him immediately from seeing his face in the trade papers. James Rosen was a successful film producer of the new kind: young, aggressive, putting his money into a wide range of new ideas, and getting a hell of a lot more back. Rosen had to step aside to avoid Gil, who was staring open-mouthed at him.

  The dragon got to her feet hurriedly. “Oh, Mr. Rosen, you’re back sooner than I expected.”

  Gil noticed how she fawned over him. He also noticed how Rosen ignored her, waving her down.

  “Who’s this?” he asked, indicating Gil.

  “Just some kid asking for work. I told him—”

  “What’s your name, son?” he asked brusquely.

  Gil felt the older man’s eyes appraising him, looking him up and down, lingering very slightly on Gil’s faded Levi’s before staring him straight in the eyes. He stammered out his name, becoming uncomfortable under the cool gaze. Gil had fooled around with some of his friends back at high school, just kids’ stuff of course, but he knew a frankly sexual look when he saw it. Some man had tried to pick him up on the Strip one night and Gil had been revolted by the attempt. But the strange thing was that the uncomfortable feeling Rosen aroused was also underlaid with a sense of thrill. He put this down to a natural excitement at being in the presence of a powerful force in films.

  Rosen clicked his thumb and forefinger peremptorily and nodded at a plush door beyond the reception area. Gil felt his heartbeat go into overtime as he followed the producer into his office, past the glaring dragon with her bloodstained fingernails. They talked for several minutes, as Rosen questioned Gil’s knowledge of film technology, during which time Rosen’s eyes had wandered down to Gil’s bulge while letting the boy know he was doing it. After a couple of these frank examinations Gil felt himself getting hard and tried to stop it. He was sure Rosen saw the embryonic erection.

  After a quarter of an hour Rosen stood up briskly, terminating the extemporaneous interview. “Well, Gil, I’m sure I can find you some job soon. If you don’t have a passport, get one organized pronto. It’s not easy breaking into the business but I’ll do my best for you. I’m sure you won’t disappoint me, will you?”

  “No sir!” Gil replied enthusiastically as Rosen’s arm descended on his shoulder. It wasn’t until he was out on the street again that he realized Rosen had intended something other than disappointment in work. Of course he didn’t do that sort of thing although it was supposed to be required of stars to get on. He was certain that his own natural charm would be sufficient. Although . James Rosen was a good looking guy. Gil wouldn’t want to disappoint him, would he? But perhaps it was all his overwrought imagination that made him think the producer was that way inclined. Beyond that, he was flush with the thrill of possibility and only hope the producer would keep his word…whatever that might entail of him.

  A little short of three weeks later he got a call from Rosen’s office offering him a job for several months as a runner on a film being shot in Rome, Italy. The thought of being a gofer didn’t put him off one bit. Jeez, not only a job but he was going to Europe to work on a film. It was like a dream coming true. Rosen’s office organized all the paperwork and sorted him out with the Union, and three days later he was off on a Jumbo being offered Filet Mignon he couldn’t digest for the sheer excitement of it all.

  The flight swept in along the Lazio coastline and dropped onto the baking Fiumi
cino runway, rolled out, and trundled toward the terminal building emblazoned with the legend Leonardo da Vinci. Gil could hardly wait to get unbelted and grab his baggage claim. He followed the stream of deplaning passengers through the jetway toward immigration and the baggage claim. He knew he was to be met by one of the film unit. He followed the other passengers through the immigration barrier, and went to grab his one battered suitcase. He had just got it and was dragging it toward the door when one of the Italian customs officers approached him, with a severe expression and mouth pulled into a tight line under his mustache.

  “Scusi, Signore.” He waved Gil down and glared at him. “American, yes?”

  “Yeah. I got nothing to declare. I’m with a film unit—”

  “Sorry you must come with me, Signore.”

  “But—”

  “Please, this way.”

  The Italian took him around behind the customs counter and into a little room. He sat Gil down and then stood by the door watching him. Gil tried talking to him, but the man didn’t respond. After a minute Gil began to get worried. The officer kept on staring at him, one hand in his pocket. Gil watched the hand under the material of the man’s suit pants, moving slowly, caressing what lay under the blue serge. Then another officer came in, slightly older than Gil’s captor, and glanced at him. The two men spoke rapid Italian. The newcomer winked at his colleague and laughed knowingly before pulling open the door and leaving.

  As soon as it had shut behind the older man, the first customs officer approached Gil and spoke in hesitant English. “Please, you must take off the clothes.”

  “What!”

  “I’m sorry. Rules. I look for drugs.”

  “But I haven’t got anything. I don’t even smoke.”

  The Italian made him stand up and then expertly ran his hands over Gil’s body, under the arms, patting the taut muscles of his chest, then down his legs and back up under the crotch. Gil felt the hand touch his cock. As he did so the Italian looked up briefly and smiled quietly.

  “Please,” he said firmly, miming that Gil should strip.

  He watched eagerly as Gil slowly removed his T-shirt and dropped it on the table next to him. When he looked up the officer was slowly working at his cock, hand back in his pocket. He removed the hand to indicate the removal of Gil’s jeans. Gil saw the shape of his hard-on clearly etched in the material of the man’s uniform pants. Feeling helpless and frightened, Gil undid the clasp of his jeans and then pulled the zipper down. The Levi’s were tight and difficult to get off, unpeeling from his legs like a banana skin. The Italian took in the bronzed tan which looked like it might continue under the boy’s boxer shorts. Gil stepped out of his jeans and instinctively clasped his hands in front of his privates.

  The Italian smiled, but it wasn’t a particularly friendly expression, more a twitch, more one of hunger.

  “Please to turn around. Hands outstretch on the tavola.”

  “I’ve done nothing. Couldn’t you let me go? People are expecting me.”

  The officer didn’t answer but walked over to Gil, placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders, and forced him around to face the table. He slid one hand around to grasp Gil’s thigh and, holding it back, made the boy lean forward. Gil grabbed at the table’s edge to stop himself from falling over. The Italian made him spread his hands apart.

  “Now we see where are the drugs hidden,” he said quietly. Gil shivered, and it wasn’t because the room was cold. He felt the Italian’s hand gently exploring the tiny indentations along his strained spine. The tickling sensation gradually worked its way down to the elastic of his boxers. A finger slipped in under the restraining band, sliding back and forth from one side of Gil’s narrow hips to the other. Then the free hand traced a path over the thin material around to the front, sliding under the hem, rubbing the soft skin of the young American’s thigh, only inches from his tightening balls.

  Gil repressed a rising sob of frustration mixed with anger and tried to straighten up. Instantly the Italian’s gentleness vanished. With the flat of his hand he slapped Gil hard, back into the undignified posture over the table.

  “Please to be still,” he hissed. He resumed his interrupted exploring, cupping Gil’s buns in both hands, moving them in a circular rubbing motion. After a few seconds of this Gil suddenly found himself beginning to relax. The sensation was pleasant in itself. As soon as he began to quiet down, the inevitable happened: His cock began to stiffen. The Italian moved a hand around to the front again, taking hold of Gil’s right nipple. He squeezed it, coaxing it to harden involuntarily. Gil gave a gasp and wasn’t sure himself if it was pain or pleasure. The helplessness of his situation began to excite him and he lifted his head causing his back to straighten. It was a slight motion but the Italian realized his ministrations were beginning to work. The hand stroking his butt moved further into the crack between Gil’s buns. He felt the edge of the officer’s hand sliding into it, lubricated by the silkiness of the boxers.

  Gil groaned softly and shifted the weight on his legs.

  His cock was hardening all the time, starting to press against the shorts, wanting to be free. As though he understood, the Italian stopped tweaking Gil’s nipple and ran lightly across his downy chest, softly stroking the firm abdominal muscles, which were becoming slick with nervous sweat. Gil’s lungs heaved with a shuddering gasp and the muscles rippled like waves under the officer’s fingertips. Then he felt the hand touch his shorts and the heavy load under them standing out like a cantilever bridge.

  The Italian sighed and none too gently pulled Gil’s shorts down. The stiff—and thanks to his birth in Britain when his father worked over there for a year—uncut cock bobbed up, falling back into a waiting hand, which grasped the length of it. The nimble fingers immediately started working the already yielding foreskin back over its bullety knob. A tiny bubble of lubricant emerged, moistening the Italian’s forefinger and he rubbed it around and around the tip of Gil’s cock. With his other hand he reached through between the spread legs, feeling for the heavy ball sack. Gil had never before realized the thrill of having the fine hairs on his balls lightly brushed.

  Very unsure of himself, Gil hesitantly removed one of his supporting hands from the table and reached behind him. His eyes were tight closed so he couldn’t see what he was doing, but when his fingers met the rough serge of the Italian’s pants he probed until he could feel the hard throb of stiff cock underneath. It was exciting to touch but the Italian roughly forced his hand away, stroking Gil’s cock harder and harder until the boy felt he would explode. Just as he was sure he was about to shoot, something he had never done before with a man, the customs officer stopped and yanked him around. Gil opened his eyes in time to see the the man lean forward to press fleshy lips against his own.

  The man forced his tongue between Gil’s lips. In spite of a natural reluctance, Gil parted his teeth, allowed access, and the slippery touch sent shivers racing up and down his spine.

  Then the Italian traced a wet line down his neck, pausing to salivate over his erect nipples and then on down. Gil had never had it done to him before, but he began to ache for the man to touch his cock with his tongue. The Italian swiveled him further around and then sat down on the chair, which earlier Gil himself had sat on. He leaned forward and, placing hands on Gil’s hips, pulled the boy toward him. For a moment the officer just absorbed the sight of hard flesh swaying enticingly in front of him. Gil was mesmerized, horrified, yet urging him to go on and do it. Almost without his knowing it he thrust his hips at the man, leaning back against the supporting hands. The Italian leaned his head toward the eight inches of rigid meat, turning slightly upward so that his straining tongue licked the underside of the throbbing glans.

  Gil groaned out loud, his head falling back till he could feel his hair brushing against his shoulder blades. Briefly, he paused, then threw hims
elf upright, urging every muscle in his body into ramrod stiffness as the man laved the underside of his tool. Gil opened his eyes to watch in fascination as the foreigner’s red lips sucked at his shaft, slipping his mouth around and pulling it back to rest on his lower lip, all the while flicking his tongue in the tiny orifice, enticing the American to shoot his cum.

  Suddenly the officer pushed at Gil, swallowing all eight inches of broad tumescent flesh. He began forcibly rubbing his lips up and down the rigid cock meat, and at the same time undoing his trousers to reveal his own weapon, which Gil could see was about the same length as his own but much thicker, its flat bulbous head a shiny purple color. The Italian began to stroke his own cock, increasing the pace of his sucking on Gil’s. The boy writhed and shuddered, shoving his groin hard into the man’s face, feeling himself work his way down the open throat.

  Again, just as he was on the agonizing point of coming, the Italian stopped and fell back in the seat. His face was flushed, saliva glinting on his lips and chin. He thrust his hips up in the chair, one hand cupping his now visible balls, the other rubbing. furiously at his jutting cock. He leaned his head back and emitted a deep groan of pleasure. Then he reached out and grabbed Gil by the hand, forcing him down into a kneeling position between his knees. He transferred his hand to the back of the boy’s head, pushing him lower onto the fat cockhead.

  Gil gasped and struggled, trying to resist what was intended. But the Italian was stronger. As he strained against the pressure Gil could see the Italian’s hand, still furiously pounding away, and he could see in huge close-up the puce glans, gorged with blood and desire, greasy with lubricant, plunging like a dark cleft plum between the man’s fingers, then leaping out again, vast and swollen. Now he was only half an inch away, almost gagging with the thought of what lay hidden like a coiled spring within the Italian’s urgent balls.

  The Italian was groaning harder and harder, pushing down more strongly on Gil’s head. Gil felt himself giving in. His lips touched the shiny knob, tasting the pre-cum juices and were battered by the piston movements of the Italian’ s hand. Gil explored the sensation of tasting cock with his tongue, liked it and hated it at the same time, tried again to pull back, but it was too late. With a final grunt of pleasure, the Italian thrust his hips up, shoving his cock hard into Gil’s mouth and began cumming. At the first shot of juice, Gil gagged and managed to get his head up slightly but the Italian held him there and shot the next spurt straight into the waiting mouth. Gil tasted its hot saltiness on his tongue. The officer watched through eyes slitted with effort as the rest of his ejaculation exploded into the American boy’s mouth, some going down his throat, some over the edge of his lips, and some up his nostrils. Gil nearly choked but managed to cope with the flood, eventually falling back down on the shuddering meat, sucking and tonguing it until the Italian had finished.