“So, you thought at fourteen you could just waltz into Los Angeles and become a star.”

“I don’t want to be a star, Larry,” fourteen-year-old Sandy Ashley said. “I want a star to be my sugar daddy. Being a star is hard work. Being the boy he comes home to and has to keep secret is a piece of cake.”

“As long as you let him fuck you whenever he wants,” Duane said.

“Don’t crowd him, Duane. Boy’s got a right to do what he wants.”

“Got that all figured out, then,” Duane, the other homeless guy crouched around a fire in an oil barrel under a Golden State Freeway Bridge where the highway crossed the Los Angeles River next to L.A.’s Elysian Park. “Where did you come from at such a tender age anyway, boy?”

“Not telling anyone that,” Sandy said. “Don’t want to go back there.”

“You’re a fine-looking boy,” Larry said. “I can see why you’re able to bring in more money than most. Guys like Duane and me are best up against a wall in an alley. You’re so fine looking that you deserve a bed with clean sheets. Men coming around here likes them small and slim and blond with them innocent-looking blue peepers. And speaking of that, there’s a car slowin’ down over in the park. Yep, horn’s blowing, guy’s got his window down. I figure the gesturing is for you, Sandy. The car’s flash. You’re the one most in demand by rich guys at this choice spot.”

Sandy stood up and turned to a black Mustang sitting, idling on the adjacent street over in Elysian Park. He gestured to himself, and the guy in the car nodded his head and motioned for Sandy to come over.

“Guess you’re right,” he said. “Guess I’m up again.”

“Make him take you to a motel, boy,” Larry said. “The backseat of that car looks too small. Remember, you deserve a bed, with clean sheets. Have standards and make the johns respect them.”

Sandy, naked, was giving a lap dance for Peter Drinker, hard-looking and hard-bodied, in his late thirties, but a gym rat, in Drinker’s walkup up apartment in Echo Park, a short drive away from Elysian Park. Drinker was just in his briefs and sitting on the foot of his bed. He’d told the fourteen-year-old homeless rent-boy to put him in the mood for fifty dollars, a meal, a shower, and, if he was lucky and gave out a second time, a bed for the night. A drive back to the bridge was included in the deal. The sheets on the bed looked clean. Sandy had been doing what he could to put the john in the mood. He was a bit in fear of the man, who seemed hard edged.

The man pushed on the boy’s chest to move him away from straddling his thighs, where Sandy had been rubbing his basket on the man’s. Drinker reached around and grabbed a handful of the blond hair that had come out of a ponytail and cascaded to the boy’s shoulders. Yanking that, Drinker brought Sandy down on his knees between the man’s now-spread thighs.

“Suck it,” Drinker commanded, maintaining a painful grip on the boy’s hair. Sandy opened his mouth to the man’s erection and gave him head. He gagged on the cock being sunk into his throat. There was just a bit more forcefulness and cruelty in all this than was necessary. It put Sandy on the edge, although he was finding that being on the edge was arousing.

When Drinker wanted more than a suck, he pushed Sandy off the cock, stood, turned the boy toward the bed, backhanded him across the face, going one way and then the other. With a squeal of surprise and fright, Sandy fell back on the bed. Drinker turned him on his belly, while reaching under the bed skirt and coming up with felt-lined cuffs. He bound Sandy’s wrists behind his back, pulled the belt out of the trousers he had slipped off and dropped to the floor, and beat the boy with it on the back, buttocks, and thighs. He didn’t strike him with full force, but it was enough to frighten Sandy and make him whimper and sob.

After a couple of minutes of that, Drinker dropped the belt, went down on his knees behind the boy, squeezed Sandy’s reddened butt cheeks open and buried his face in the boy’s crack. Sandy groaned at the deep penetration of the tongue and yelped when the man bit him on the tender cheeks.

For the fuck, Drinker flipped Sandy over on his back. He grasped the boy’s legs, spread and bent them, and pressed Sandy’s feet to the mattress. Sandy lay there, letting himself be manipulated into the position the man wanted. Drinker stood tall, substantial, there at the foot of the bed, between the boy’s spread thighs. He was thick and long.

“So small, so slim, such narrow hips,” Drinker murmured. “Let’s see what you are made of—what you will endure. Are you made of sterner stuff than most boys? I hear he likes to give it rough.”

What the hell did he mean by that, Sandy wondered. But Drinker didn’t offer an explanation and Sandy was too scared of all of this—what else the man would do to him—to ask.

Drinker reached over beside the boy and picked up a condom packet. He took his time opening it and rolling the condom onto his cock, handling the long, thick shaft lovingly, smoothing the wrinkles out. He grinned down at the boy as if Sandy hadn’t realized it would come to this. But of course he realized it. He knew when he got in the Mustang that he was going to be fucked.

Leaning over again, Drinker took up a tube of lube and lubed up his cock, again taking his time, watching the boy’s eyes, both of them knowing where that thick cock was going. Sandy didn’t realize that was coming before that, however.

Drinker lubed up the fingers on his right hand and moved it to Sandy’s hole. The boy moaned, closed his eyes, arched his back, and shuddered as Drinker’s fingers, one after the other entered him, lubing his channel, moving in to the knuckles. He moved the hand back and forth and the boy groaned, moving his hips on the hand.

Sandy cried out as the knuckles breached the sphincter and the fist was inside him, working him, stretching his channel, fist fucking him. Sandy adjusted to this too, though, and rocked on the fist, taking it. The fist vigorously punched at him, inside him, but the boy held. He looked into the man’s eyes, giving him a hard, unwavering glare.

“Hump the fist,” Drinker demanded, and Sandy did, rocking on the fist, fucking himself on it.

Drinker laughed, impressed, a little chastened he hadn’t gotten the fully cowed response he’d been looking for. He pulled his hand out, grasped the boy’s ankles, and raised and spread his legs, crouched between his thighs, forced himself into the boy’s channel, while Sandy writhed and arched his back and moaned, murmuring, “Yes, yes. Take it. Punish me.” Drinker punished him, fucking him hard and deep to his release.

He took the cuffs off Sandy before he went into the bathroom, saying, “Me first for the showers, then you. I’ll fix us some supper while you get clean.”

Other than the rough part, it was all rather straightforward, and in the five weeks Sandy had been in L.A., living under the bridge and existing on tricks like this, he’d gotten it this rough before. Never the fist before, though. Never that. Sandy was a little exhilarated that he’d managed that—another arrow for his quiver that he needn’t live in fear of. His cheeks burned—both the cheeks above and below—from being slapped and strapped, but that wasn’t particularly new. He’d been slapped and strapped at home before running away.

While Drinker showered, Sandy looked around the room and went into the second bedroom, which was set up as some sort of research office. There were photographs and copies of magazine articles on the desk and taped up to two of the walls. It was here that Sandy discovered that the man had given him his true name and that he was a reporter, or photographer, or both for a Hollywood tabloid, the “Star.”

Over supper, Drinker said. “You’re a good-looking kid. And fairly fresh, but made of sterner stuff, as we have found out. You haven’t been at this long, though, have you?”

“No sir, just a couple of weeks.” Here it comes, he thought. The guy was going to quiz him on where he came from, why he was on his own as young as he was, and what made him homeless and available to men like Drinker—willing to take what Drinker had done to him. But the man didn’t ask that. If he had asked, at least the last, Sandy’s answer was that he wanted it, that he wanted men to want and need him bad enough to misuse him like that. He wanted to feel something. He liked the feel of a man inside him. And he liked to have it taken from him by force. He didn’t really know what a more giving and taking, tender connection would be like.

“You’re what, fourteen or fifteen? And don’t lie to me. Young is good.”

“Fourteen,” Sandy answered.

“You’re good looking and a good lay—and young enough. He won’t be able to resist. If you want a cushy vacation, I have an offer for you.”

“Yeah, what? Screwing a movie star?”

“Or being screwed by one, yes,” he said. “How would you like a few days to a week at a nice dude ranch? All expenses paid, room and board, and I’d give you five hundred dollars on top and up front. A vacation from under the bridge.”

“Close by L.A.?”

“Close enough. South. Inland from Camp Pendleton. The French Valley.”

“I’d be there for you to screw whenever you want?”

“And anyone else I wanted you to go under. I’ll take you clothes shopping tomorrow. Throw that in the deal.”

“I have clothes. Back at the bridge.”

“I’ll buy you what I want you to wear. Right now, if you’re done with your supper, I want to fuck you again.”

And he did. Sandy lay on the bed, on the clean sheets, on his back, face turned to the side, concentrating on the pattern of the light on the wall reflecting from the neon lights from outside the bedroom window, and rocking his pelvis on the lubed fist moving inside him, until Drinker rolled over on top of him, replaced the fist with his cock, and fucked him.

Ted Collier, a Hollywood choreographer, taking a short “secret pleasure” vacation in the French Valley at the Rhodes Ranch, a very private, tucked-away male brothel with boys on offer, sensed motion in the octagonal summer house down at the edge of the woods near a pond behind the main lodge of the ranch as he was retrieving something from his car in the parking lot late in the afternoon. Collier was a bit skittish as it was a risk to come to this dude ranch, where he could meet with men he knew in the movie business. If he did, they’d both know about each other’s fetishes for young boys. He already had run into the action film movie star, Neal Fowler, who he thought probably was here to hide away from a scandal that wasn’t nearly as serious as knowing Fowler came to a place like Rhodes Ranch.

Wary, but curious, he moved into the trees between the parking area and the summer house and crept up closer to the summer house.

Neal Fowler had the beyond cute blond boy who had checked in with the guy identified as a Canadian nature photographer, Peter Drinker, pinned under him on the bench in the summer house. Fowler, in his thirties and with a magnificent physique, was bare-chested, and his trousers were unbuckled, unzipped, flared and pushed down to under his hips. The boy, Sandy Ashley, small, blond, achingly handsome, deceptively innocent looking, full lipped, and sleek of body, was writhing under the actor, the actor’s dick nearly holed.

The boy, who couldn’t be more than fourteen or fifteen and who Collier had had his eye on since the couple arrived, was naked. He was on his back on the bench, his left leg raised and pressed into the screening of the side of the summer house interior. Fowler, crouched between the boy’s thighs, pressing him down, belly to belly, was grasping the ankle of Ashley’s right leg and was raising and spreading the leg to get it out of the way.

Collier had arrived just in time for the mounting and penetration. It was obvious that the boy was going to be fucked. Collier should have withdrawn, but he couldn’t help himself. The boy was luscious. He’d settle in for the coup de grâce unless his presence was discovered. This was better than watching a porn flick.

Collier wasn’t surprised at what he found. The dinner the night before at the lodge had been fraught with sexual tension. Drinker, probably in his fifties and a distinguished and power-bodied man who the couple running the lodge, Seth Rhodes and Danny Little, had declared to be quite a famous Canadian magazine photographer, had been in his cups and glowered at everyone while the highly charismatic actor, Neal Fowler, had been putting the make on Drinker’s boy toy. Fowler had recently been in the news, some sort of scandal with the son of one of his movie leading ladies, and was hiding out at Rhodes Ranch. Since it wasn’t clear when the actress had birthed the boy and who the father was, it wasn’t clear he was of age for Fowler to be spiking him. Fowler had appeared in public with far too many boys to be given the benefit of the doubt.

Along with Collier, these were the only visitors in residence at the moment. Seth Rhodes, who was large—almost fat—at fifty and who had turned his family’s ranch into a specialized brothel, hosted the dinner, while his own fourteen-year-old bedpartner, a sultry and dark Danny Little, helped serve.

It hadn’t appeared from dinner that Fowler was making headway in seducing the beautiful little blond, Sandy, at the table, but clearly he had. Drinker hadn’t been too drunk to not notice the seduction, though, and Collier wondered what fireworks might ensue from this tryst. He would like to get his dick in the young boy himself. Through dinner he’d had the impulse to reach over and let the small bun at the back of the youth’s head down. Fowler had accomplished this in the summer house, and the boy looked more beautiful than handsome with his hair cascading to his shoulders and bouncing with the rhythm of Fowler’s hip thrusts.

From where Collier was standing he could see Fowler’s cock taking its pleasure in fucking the young blond’s hole. Ashley was moaning and had his fists pressed to Fowler’s hairy, muscular chest, whether to try to push the movie star away or to hold him in place was unclear. What was clear was that the cock was holed and the boy was fucked. Fowler, grunting at the exertion of the thrusts, dipped down for a lip-lock kiss, and the boy opened his mouth to receive the man’s tongue. Whatever the level of the youth’s initial acceptance, he was moving his hips with the thrusts now, going with the rhythm of the fuck.

Fowler had a gold medallion on a chain around his neck, and when his torso rose again after the deep kiss, the medallion slipped into the blond’s mouth, and the boy sucked on it, his eyes hooded and staring in awe at the face of the famous actor, as vigorous thrusting of the fuck continued.

Collier knew he should pull back and go to the main lodge building, giving this couple their privacy, but he wanted to live this climax vicariously. He wanted to fuck the young blond himself. He stayed for the final thrusts, the hold on the brink of paradise, the arching of Fowler’s back, the jerk, and the small cry of both men as they came almost together. He had unzipped himself and was stroking. He came with them. He felt a connection with the boy now, as if he’d fucked him too. He wanted to fuck him too.

When Fowler pulled out, Collier was surprised to see that he’d been barebacking the youth. So, he thought, an impromptu rather than an arranged tryst probably. He wondered what approach he could take with the luscious little piece. He was no movie star, but he was as hard bodied as Fowler was, and, as far as he could see, bigger where it counted.

The show over, he turned and walked to the lodge and to his room to shower; lie down on his bed, naked; and masturbate to the fantasy that it had been him inside the delicious young Sandy Ashley.

Collier was there, at the Rhodes Ranch, to be accommodated by the boys at the ranch. Rhodes’s own bedmate, the fourteen-year-old Danny Little, was as much on offer as any of the other boys, although, as their relationship developed, Seth Rhodes was increasing unhappy with Danny making himself available to the guests. Danny himself was still interested in having some variety in his bedding. Danny had taken a shine to Collier and had waved the other boys at the ranch off. While serving dinner and any other time he could get close to the man, he flirted with him. Collier got the message and shared the boy’s interest.

The next afternoon, when Collier was taking a stroll down near the pond, the slim, boyish, and a bit limp-wristed Danny was just coming out of the water, where he had taken a swim. He was a sultry, dark-haired boy with an affecting “come hither” look in his eyes. He saw Collier come down from the lodge. Danny caught Collier’s eye, though, and established his “come hither” interest. The two met in the summer house and did come talking and then some fondling and kissing before they left the gazebo and went up to the main lodge together.

Collier was on his knees between Danny’s legs, the young, sultry brothel worker’s ankles hooked on Collier’s shoulders, and Collier had just breached the boy’s sphincter with the bulb of his shaft when they heard the row start in the adjoining room. Danny was on his back, his arms extended above his head, his wrists cuffed to the corners of the headboard, and Collier was clutching the boy’s buttocks in his hands. Trying to ignore the confrontation going on next door, Collier lifted Danny’s pelvis up to his crotch, buried his cock in the boy’s channel and proceeded with the fuck.