Boyd's Got a New Smart Phone

by ChrisCross

Copyright© 2019 by ChrisCross

Erotica Sex Story: While trying to break into the business, fourteen-year-old Hollywood actor Boyd is being controlled and used by producers and major actors in L.A. who like to cover boys-but then he buys a nifty new smart phone.

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Ma   Ma/mt   Consensual   Gay   Fiction   Workplace   BDSM   Light Bond   Rough   Interracial   White Male   Oriental Male   Anal Sex   Voyeurism   Prostitution   .

“This is a big break, getting signed by Clifford Saltzman,” Dillon—Uncle Dillon to me, but I just call him Dillon—said, as he drove us out from Los Angeles to Malibu on the Pacific Coast Highway. “You weren’t getting enough work through the agency. Saltzman is hands on.”

“Is that why you’ve told me several times that I need to let him be hands on?” I asked. I lifted my new Samsung Galaxy smart phone—my first purchase from my own earnings in TV gigs since I’d come out to Los Angeles six months previously. Not bad for a fourteen-year-old actor, I thought. I already was doing as well as Dillon was in landing TV commercials and crowd roles. I pointed the phone at him to record his response. He shouldn’t mind. He was photogenic; only eight years older than me, my mother’s youngest brother; and trying his best to make it in the movies in Hollywood to—anxious enough to trade on me to get there.

“Yes, you’ve laid down for producers in the past for good gigs,” Dillon said. “I’m sure Saltzman’s interest in you isn’t just because you film well, can do a range of ages, and understand words beyond a third-grade vocabulary—”

“And because I’m sexy as hell for men who like boys,” I said, keeping the phone turned to him. The coastal highway was twisty and turny, so he hadn’t seen that I was recording what he said as well as what he looked like yet.

“OK, because you’re sexy to men who like boys, but most because you are willing to lay down for them to get a role—and they want you. So, we get to Saltzman’s beach house, and you’ll lay down for him if he wants you to and you’ll lay down for Sugimora if he wants you to. He’s the gold plate actor in the new ‘Palisades’ TV show that’s casting. It would be a regular-appearance role. It’s the break you need. It’s a break Sugimora can give you. If you want the role, you’ll let him lay you.”

“And then, if I got a regular cast role in a TV show, I could pay my full share of the rent,” I said. I switched off the video on the smart phone and turned it to pointing out through the windshield—just in time too.

“Yes, you can pay your share of the rent then, Boyd.” He took his eyes off the treacherous coast road to glance at me. “What are you doing with the damn phone? It’s been attached to your hand since you bought it.”

“Just learning to use it,” I answered, trying to sound innocent—and, since I’d had acting lessons since I was six and had my Screen Actors Guilds—SAG—card, and because Uncle Dillon wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, I’m sure he didn’t catch on to me and the smart phone. I had bought it for a purpose. I didn’t some footage I could use to my advantage, even with my folks if the media talked about me. My parents could take some guilt for turning me over to good old Uncle Dillion. I hadn’t really been in L.A. long enough to have much of anyone to call. Until now Dillon and the lame talent agency I’d gone with had been the only numbers worth calling. I planned to use the phone for more than calls and to change who had the power here.

“OK, Daddy,” I said. “The wishes of Clifford Saltzman and Tony Sugimora will be my command. I just hope Saltzman isn’t a sweaty walrus. I’ve seen Sugimora and I won’t mind lying under him.”

“I’m not your daddy,” Dillon said. “You need to be serious here. Breaks like these don’t come often in movieland. And let’s not mention I’m your uncle. Nepotism reigns out here, but no one wants to have it pulled on them. We won’t play up our relationship to each other today.”

“So, you’ll be my lover in this scene?”

“No, absolutely not. You’ll be an innocent fourteen-year-old.”

“An innocent fourteen-year-old who lets old men fuck him? I see.”

“Exactly. This is Hollywood. And when they’re inside you, you’ll act like they’re popping your male cherry—even the second one. You’re an actor. Act.”

After that, there wasn’t all that much to say, so the rest of the trip to Clifford Saltzman’s beach house went quietly. Our appointment with him was at his Malibu beach house, not his office in L.A. I guess I knew what that meant. There’s nothing subtle about Hollywood.


I loved the Malibu house at first sight and instantly wished it was mine. It sat almost directly on the Pacific Coast Highway, while giving a feeling it was isolated from it. There was a dip off the road, fronted by a berm with a row of funeral cypress trees blocking the view from the highway down into a parking area that covered the short distance from the trees to the front of the house. The house was wood, showing two-stories on the road side and had a heavy-shingled roof. There was space for maybe five cars—six in a pinch. A Bentley convertible, a sleek Lexus sports coupe, and small pickup were already parked there when we arrived. A young, gorgeous, muscled-up blond guy met us at the door in an athletic T, with the armholes slit down to the hem and athletic shorts. He introduced himself at Eric, the houseboy. He was, in fact, a later teenaged boy, seventeen, who Clifford Saltzman had picked up off the streets in L.A. and given a home and job to. We instantly clicked, and I don’t mean in just a friendly way. If Saltzman had picked him up, I could easily guess Eric did more than houseboy for him.

I lusted for Erick at first sight—probably being very much aware of the context in which I was here—as much as I loved the house. And he, in turn, gave me a “I could eat you alive” look. No doubt he knew what deal I was here to consummate—and how it would be closed. He looked me over in a “maybe I’ll see more of you” look before showing us in.

The living area of the house, the entire ground floor, was one big, masculine room flowing from one space to the other, marked off only by the wooden columns holding the ceiling up. The kitchen area was on the right and the dining area on the left at the front door, with the entire width of the back being the living area and the back wall all being glass doors. These doors led out onto a short covered space, supporting the second-floor balcony, then going out to a flagstone terrace, with a swimming pool, and then to a drop-off to the beach and the Pacific Ocean beyond. The walls that weren’t glass were knotty pine paneled, a TV set designer would have called the furnishings “comfortable, masculine bungalow style,” and it all looked laid back and inviting. The kitchen area was separated from the living area by a prominent bar that broadcast the most important purpose of the beach house.

The second-most-important purpose, though, I was to find out.

I was to find that the second floor had three bedrooms, one big, one medium-sized, and one being used as a cozy study. There were two baths up there. The lower level, with windows to the side of the house included a recreation room, with a pool table and bar and not much else, a neat wine cellar, and Erick’s bedroom and bath. A metal circular staircase in the center of the house wound up through the levels, like a firehouse.

The talent agent, Saltzman, just in a bathing suit and a can of beer in his meaty hand, came in from the pool area when we arrived and motioned us back to him. It was clear that he wanted to get on with “getting acquainted” with his newly signed talent and “getting him under control” right off the bat. He met Dillon and me by the center circular stairs and starting off with saying what was what, as I watched Erick go down the stairs to the basement level, while looking up and smiling at me.

I imagined him saying, “My bedroom is down here; come on down and let me show it to you,” and I smiled back at him.

Another man was there, who I recognized and expected to be there because Dillon told me he would be. Mori Sugimora, a major cast member of the forming “Palisades” TV show, wearing a Speedo, and looking really good for his age—slim, tall, well-muscled, and exotically Asian—was reclining on a lounge bed between the pool and the glass wall of the house. It was his new sitcom that had an opening for an actor my age and type, and Dillon said that Sugimora would have a lot of pull in who got the part. It was Saltzman who told Dillion to get my tail over here and work for the part—that he’d put me together with Sugimora.

Clifford Saltzman was, in fact, as I was afraid, a walrus of a man and was ugly as sin. He blustered and undressed me with his eyes and crudely made clear from the beginning what I was going to do for him to get preference in his getting work for me. I shuddered and put myself on autopilot to the extent I was able to.

He had the balls to wear a tiny Speedo too, his stomach drooping over its waistband so that you could only tell from the side and back views that he was wearing one at all. But he knew who had the power here. He didn’t care what he looked like. He was only interested in what I looked like—and what I’d do for him. I was to find that he did have the big balls for it, though, and what we called a beer can dick—impossibly thick, not that long.

He told me what he wanted me to do for him, and I did it after I stripped down to my Speedo, folded my clothes, and put them on a lounge bed under the second-floor balcony, with my new smart photo pointed “just so.”

We swam in the pool, cavorting a bit while he made crude sexual remarks and I responded in words and ways that increased his arousal. I knew what was what here. Sugimora sat on the end of a lounge bed and watched us. Saltzman wanted to play touchy-feeling, and I said yes. He pulled my back into his belly, and I whispered, “Yes, yes,” for him, knowing that’s what he wanted to hear.

I shuddered as he rubbed and pinched my nipples and closed his teeth on the back of my neck. I arched one hand back to hold the back of his balding head to me while I covered the hand working my nipples with my hand, and whispered, “Please, please,” because I knew that’s what he wanted to hear. And when his hand moved down my sternum and across my belly and under the waistband of my Speedo and covered my genitals, my hand was still covering his and I was shuddering and I whispered, “Please. Fuck me, please. Fuck me,” because I knew that was what he wanted to hear. I willed myself to go hard for him as he fondled my genitals, showing that he could arouse me. There didn’t seem to be any trouble arousing him; he was wheezing and shaking, and his thick, hard cock was pressing into my crack behind.

Dillon had told me, from his research, that Sugimora liked to watch, and that’s what he was doing. I’m sure Saltzman fucked me in front of the Japanese actor because he knew what Sugimora liked in preliminaries too. I had no illusions about whether Sugimora would want his turn too. Sugimora had his cock out—showing a very nice erection—and stroked himself as he watched Saltzman work me.

After a while, Saltzman hauled me up out of the water and laid me on the terracing at the edge of the pool on my back, my legs dangling down into the water. And I said yes. He pulled the Speedo off my legs, came between them, and took my cock in his hand and mouth. And I said yes. He moved my legs so that they draped over his shoulders. I let him manipulate me like I was a rag doll.

In a gravelly voice, he said, “I’m going to fuck the shit out of you.” And I said yes.

Throughout, Sugimora sat nearby, stroking himself, as a witness that I had said “yes” to everything.

I gave Saltzman the expected moans and groans as he sucked my cock and balls and ate my ass out. Sugimora left his lounge bed and came over to the side of the pool. He went down on his knees, leaned over me, and fed his cock into my mouth. He wasn’t going to wait for a separate turn.

Saltzman sucked me off until I came. Then he came out of the water, laid me on my back on a lounge bed, made a show of rolling a condom on his cock, straddled the bed with his legs, wishboned mine with his fists grasping my ankles, and. raising and spreading my legs, forced himself inside me and fucked me. I concentrated on the role I was auditioning for and on the fat cock inside me, filtering out the reality of the crude ogre the nicely filling cock was attached to. By doing so, and demonstrating my acting ability, I was able to fool him that he was the best cocksman on the planet.

“Yes, yes,” I cried out. “Fuck me. Fuck me hard! You’re a brute. You’re a stud. Give it to me!” and, with a grunt, the satisfaction that I was reveling at having him inside me, and renewed strength, Saltzman did so. His girth was taxing and he seemed to grow in length. He was fucking me good. I closed my eyes and thought only of his cock, stretching me and pounding me. No need for acting anymore, and the heat of me conveyed to the ogre, who was getting what he wanted from a fourteen-year-old boy.

“Yes, Yes! Oh, shit, fuck me. Get it, get it, get it!”

At length Saltzman turned us, him on his back on the bed, and me riding his cock in a crab position, my arms behind me and bent and my legs bent and on either side of his fat torso as I raised and lowered myself on his cock. He obviously wanted me to demonstrate that I’d work at giving him whatever he wanted. I gave him the performance he wanted.

My smart phone hadn’t been angled in the right direction to get the show-stopping performance on the lounge bed, but it surely recorded what happened before in the swimming pool, and I was sure that would be enough. I managed to turn it off as we were headed for the lounge bed.

After Saltzman fucked me, we moved into the living room and sat in the bar area, the four of us, other than Dillon, in dressing robes Saltzman had provided, and discussed the projected TV series, the parts in it, and the various actors already involved and planned. Saltzman sat close beside me and moved his hand into the folds of my robe and fondled my genitals while we talked. We also discussed finances, and my mind was spinning from the figures Saltzman was throwing out. We didn’t settle anything, though.

That wasn’t the last time my head was spinning. Saltzman served us drinks. As I was drinking my second one, my head started to spin, I lost motor control, and I was seeing stars before my eyes. I wasn’t so out of it, though, that I didn’t know when Saltzman rose from his chair and turned to mine. He brushed my robe away from my naked body on both sides, wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling my pelvis up to him and straddled the chair. He forced his beer-can cock inside me again and pulled me on and off his cock. He was barebacking me.

I had the presence of mind to realize that Saltzman had wanted to bareback and drugging me was the only assurance that I would go that far with the man. I had no idea whether I would have with full control of my body, but it didn’t matter, he was fucking me now, raw flesh in raw flesh. It was done—or at least after a heavy screwing it was done.

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