Ginger haired, green eyed, fourteen-year-old, newly minted TV sitcom actor Robbie Russell lay, naked, panting, and trembling, on his back at the edge of the conference table in TV studio producer Evan Eddison’s Hollywood office. It was afterhours at the studio. The room was lit only by a desk lamp some fifteen feet away. Robbie had been fucked before on his way to “precocious, smartie teens” roles on TV, but not all that often. You couldn’t get any more precocious than to be on your back on the casting couch repeatedly at the age of fourteen.

This evening it was the casting conference table.

His shorts and T-shirt were in a puddle at the base of the table. Evan Eddison was clutching Robbie’s briefs in one of his hands. Both of his hands were grasping Robbie’s knees, manipulating the lad’s legs. He spread the boy’s legs, bent them, and set Robbie’s feet down to grasp the edge of the table.

“Easy now, boy,” he murmured. “Just checking if we’ve made the right decision. I know you’ve done this before.”

The man went down in a crouch between Robbie’s spread thighs, and the boy gripped the edges of the table in his outstretched hands, arched his back, concentrated his attention on the ceiling tiles, panted, and moaned as the producer pressed his face into the boy’s crack and tongued the puckered hole he found there. Still grasping Robbie’s right knee with one hand, Eddison’s other hand went to his own erection. He was assured in what he was doing because the boy was hard too. It wasn’t like the kid didn’t do this for men. Eddison was wearing his white, long-sleeved shirt and a tie, but his trousers and briefs were off.

When he was satisfied he’d opened up and lubricated the boy’s ass enough, Eddison rose up, hovering over Robbie’s open, vulnerable, perfectly formed body. Robbie flinched and opened his mouth to respond when he felt the bulb of the man’s cock at his entrance, but Eddison was quicker, reaching up to stuff Robbie’s briefs in the boy’s open mouth to stifle the scream that came when he penetrated with his cock. The boy had done this before, but he was just a boy, with a fourteen-year-old’s body—in fact small of figure for that age. He was taking a man’s cock.

Robbie clung to the sides of the table to hold himself steady, while writhing in place as, clutching his knees, the man sank his cock inside the tender passage, stretching, sinking, possessing, violating.

Robbie collapsed in a sob as the man began to pump him, moving the boy’s bent legs back and forth, out with the inward thrust, back in with the withdrawal. Out and in; out and in.

When they’d settled down to a rhythm of the fuck, Eddison changed the position, turning Robbie over onto his belly, his legs dangling off the end of the table, Eddison mounted on the boy’s ass, resuming the stroking. The producer slipped off his tie and looped it around the boy’s throat, arching Robbie’s back toward him, and, using the tie as reins, rode the boy to his ejaculation.

“Nice,” he murmured when he’d come and rolled the used condom off his cock. “Sweet boy.” He pulled away from the table, leaving Robbie there, belly down on the surface, legs dangling off the end, arms extended, fingernails dug into the opposite edges of the conference table, panting and whimpering.

Robbie had been here before, although this was his first time with Eddison, who had been in charge of casting for the sitcom role Robbie had just landed. This is what it required in addition to his great looks and acting talent to get before the TV cameras—even for a fourteen-year-old boy.

Eddison went over to his desk, tossed the used condom in a wastebasket, and stood by desk, watching Robbie, as the boy turned on the tabletop with a groan and sat up on the edge, legs and arms dangling down in front of him, regaining his breath, looking used, but all the more sexy for that—well worth being used.

Eddison lit up a cigarette and leaned his butt into the edge of the desk. He was a tall, handsome man, but he was beginning to show his fifty-some years. He looked a little silly now, but Robbie knew better than to laugh. He’d been fucked by worse on his way up in the industry. The man’s shirt had become unbuttoned and was a bit flared, giving a glimpse of his slightly salt-and-pepper hirsute torso. He’d been well-muscled, chiseled once, when he too had needed to be beautiful to make his way upward. He’d had a few too many beers now. He had a slight paunch on him, but the evidence was there that he was still fighting the exercise fight.

His cock wasn’t nearly as formidable now, flaccid, as it had been in erection, but it hung almost to his knees and the man was working it with one hand. Robbie could tell, with a sigh, that they weren’t done here yet. He had gotten the part and the contract was on its what to his talent agent, but until filming started, he had to keep working the territory.

“I have a weekend place on the ocean, down at Hollywood Beach,” the producer said, keeping his eyes on Robbie, clearly still in lust over what he could see. He was getting hard again. “I’m going there on Friday and returning Sunday. I don’t want to go alone. I want you to go with me.”

“I don’t know,” Robbie answered. “I don’t know about my schedule.”

“But you’ll go, if your schedule allows? You’re OK with being with me all weekend?”

The pilot of the sitcom wasn’t in the can yet. There was always a chance of a last-minute change in casting. And Eddison was pretty good compared to some others he’d let screw him. “Yeah, sure.”

“We’ll see then.” Eddison stubbed out his cigarette. He was hard as a rock again. He opened a desk drawer, extracted another condom disk, crowned himself again, and walked over the conference table. He palmed Robbie’s chest to make the lad lie back again, grasped the boy’s ankles, and put them on his shoulders. Robbie grimaced and arched his back when the cock penetrated and slid up inside him. It was easier this time. He was still open from the first time. He turned his face toward the window and watched night descend on the studio lot outside, as the producer took another piece of him—fucking him again, this time with more force, not having broken the boy the first time.

Standing at the desk afterward while Robbie dressed, the producer spoke on the phone. “Ed. You can come pick up your boy now. Our consultations are done for now. The contracts on its way to your office. But I’m told they want us on location this weekend. They want Robbie to get acclimated to the place ... No, it’s OK, I can drive him down and get him back in town Sunday evening. No need for you to come along. OK, then. He’ll be down at the studio gate when you get here to pick him up.”

Then, as he clicked off, he turned to Robbie. “It’s all set. We’ll have quite a time of it at Hollywood Beach. Bring your Speedo. Not much need for anything else.”

“Terrific,” Robbie said, at least half meaning it. He liked the beach. For that matter he liked being screwed by a man with experience. And this guy was virile and vigorous. In fact, he’d confided in Robbie that he was highly sexed and had to get a lot of it. After this evening, Robbie could believe that. It would be quite a weekend.

It was quite a weekend.

Roddie cried out as the insatiable Evan Eddison entered, entered, entered him again. The boy panted and groaned as the man reset the rhythm of the fuck. Eddison was no thicker than the thickest of men who had gotten their shafts in Robbie, but, in full erection, he was impossibly long. No one had reached this far into Robbie’s core and ravished him there. The man hadn’t lied about needing it constantly. The hint was there when he could do it twice in succession in his office at the end of a workday. He hadn’t said, though, that he went wild when he got his hands on a fourteen-year-old boy.

“So tight in the stretch, so sweet, love my small boys,” Eddison murmured as he fucked.

Robbie was stretched out on his belly in the queen-sized bed in the largest of the three bedrooms in Eddison’s cottage on the beach at Hollywood Beach on Saturday morning. They had arrived after dark from the city after driving north the some sixty-five miles in an hour and a half, the traffic coming out of the city being heavy on a summer Friday evening. Eddison had put the top down on his Maserati GranTurismo convertible, mussing up Robbie’s curly hair and putting a blush in the boy’s cheek that had Eddison growling and reaching over to bring the boy’s face to his for a kiss when they’d come to a stop at the beach.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” Eddison said. “Can’t wait to get you into the sack.”

He didn’t wait for long. He’d stopped for carryout as soon as they hit the town. They’d gobbled it down after the man had shown the boy around the cottage, which didn’t take long, and then Eddison had taken Robbie into his bedroom, stripped him, and laid him—and then laid him again—and again, like he was replaying a rape scene from a movie.

This had gone on periodically all evening and night, the man making the most of his weekend treat, and now, on Saturday morning, Robbie had a bolster under his belly, rolling his buttocks up to serve the man’s sport. His arms were raised above his head, his hands fisting the brass rungs of the headboard, and Eddison was stretched on top of the boy’s body, on his toes in a straight-line pushup position, exhibiting that there still were the instincts of an athlete in him. His fists were grasping Robbie’s wrists, his face buried in the hollow of the boy’s neck, and what was a very experienced shaft was moving in and out inside the boy’s channel, fucking Robbie as vigorously as he had done periodically through the night.

It was quite clear to Robbie why he was there this weekend and whose need and sport were paramount. This wasn’t lovemaking or anything like that. It certainly wasn’t mutual satisfaction sex. This was sports exercise—for Evan Eddison. Robbie felt he was just exercise equipment to the man, there to be used because the man had career control over him. Still, he had a godawful long cock and he knew what to do with it—how to sink it into Robbie’s core and how to work the boy there.

All things said, Robbie was still a fourteen-year-old boy. Eddison towered over him and was twice the size of the kid. Robbie could open to a man-size cock, but it took effort and time. That it took effort was why the man liked to cover fourteen-year-old boys. Eddison was manhandling him and playing on his essential naivete. He obviously reveled in having a boy to use.

Robbie worked an arm free of the man’s clutch and moved his hand underneath his own belly, grasping his cock, and stroking himself off. Eddison was deep inside the boy’s tender channel, his cockhead rubbing and kissing the passage walls where no man had gone before. Robbie was overwhelmed with the arousal of the situation.

“Oh, shit, yes,” he murmured. “Yes, yes, work me deep.” This was sex. This had gotten to the basics Robbie knew.

The boy moved his free hand to cup the man’s face, showing affection at the merging of their two bodies into one machine in motion, but Eddison brushed the hand away and continued a steady rhythm of the stroking. This was just a fuck for him; just getting it off. Eddison merely grunted in response, seemingly wanting Robbie to just lie there docilely and take it.

When Robbie shuddered and came, the oversexed stud of a man didn’t stop pumping the boy. He rolled Robbie over on his back, grasped the boy’s legs under the knees, and raised and split them, forcing his knees under Robbie’s buttocks, thrusting inside his channel, and continuing to fuck the boy hard and deep to his own ejaculation.

When Eddison had come, he kissed Robbie on the mouth perfunctorily, lowered his face to kiss and tongue the boy’s nipples, and then rolled off him and, rolling the condom off his shaft as he moved, went to the bathroom to shower, closing the door. He called out “Scrambled eggs and a bagel, I think, for breakfast. I think I exercised enough to justify the bagel.”

That’s obviously what Robbie was here for this weekend he’d found—to give an important man with power over him exercise and sport. Robbie also understood that he was here to do the cooking and whatever cleanup there was to do. Someone had stocked the car with enough food for the weekend—Robbie was sure that Eddison didn’t do that himself, that it was some employee of his at the television studio. He had spent long enough in showing Robbie around the cottage, a one-story wooden house, with a loft bedroom and a big deck projecting out to the Pacific Ocean but then had left all of the work to Robbie to do. He’d brought his laptop and was continuing to work through the weekend, with fuck breaks taken here and there. There was virtually no conversation.

The cottage was old, probably built in the fifties, but it had been maintained well and likely was worth a fortune because it was directly on the Pacific Ocean beach off Ocean Drive. Downstairs, the living area, with a deck reaching out over the sand dunes, fronted on the ocean. Behind that were a kitchen on one side and a full bathroom on the other. A hallway went back between those to the entry door. Two small bedrooms were located on either side of the hallway at the landward side of the house. A loft area above the bedrooms, kitchen, and bath was devoted to the master bedroom area and a shower bath. The ocean side of the house was all glass with a view of the public beach and the ocean.

While Eddison was showering, Robbie rolled out of the bed and noticed that the producer’s laptop, on top of desk set against a side wall, was still on. The boy couldn’t help but notice that it was open to the man’s e-mail account—and to an e-mail setting up an assignation here the next weekend with Zack Palmer, who had been Robbie’s competition for the TV sitcom role.

Robbie’s blood ran cold. Maybe the bidding for the sitcom role wasn’t as wrapped up as Eddison had given Robbie to believe. Maybe it was still open, Eddison was still couch casting, and he was keeping the boys in the dark about a final decision to lure them both into his bed for prolonged fuck sessions. Well, it had worked with Robbie, he thought, bitterly.

Robbie needed a bit of retreat to think this one over. He went downstairs, quickly showered in the other bathroom, pulled on a Speedo, deciding to use the beach now that they were here, and went to the kitchen to fix their breakfasts. He was fully prepared that the weekend would be a rotation of fixing their meals, opening his legs for Eddison’s cock, fixing their meals, opening his legs, cleaning up, opening ... and so forth. Maybe they’d wedge in some beach time.

Or maybe only Robbie would wedge in some beach and thinking time. Evan Eddison was a workaholic. For the rest of the morning he had his nose moving from his computer to coordinate work at his TV studio office from afar via his laptop. After lunch he returned to doing that. He didn’t need Robbie for any of that. When Robbie saw Eddison settling in at the computer again, the boy announced that he was taking a towel and going out on the beach. He didn’t know if the man even latched into his declaration, but that didn’t stop Robbie from going.

The beach here was wide and flat out to the gentle surf. It wasn’t crowded, though, because this was a long section of houses that had been here since what had been part of the Channel Islands first became popular as a middle-class, and now primarily gay, retreat from the city. Robbie walked the beach in both directions. Some families were spread out on the beach outside Eddison’s house, so when he settled, he did so six or seven houses toward the south of Eddison’s cottage. He went into the ocean and swam beyond the surf until he got tired and then came out of the water and lay down on his back on my towel.

Exhausted from the night of sex with Eddison, Robbie went to sleep and didn’t wake again until it was dark. Several sensations brought him back into wakefulness. First, a party had started up in the house behind where he was stretched out. And it must already be spilling out of the house, as there were figures on the sand around Robbie on the sand, under the moonlight dimly illuminating the area and a small beach bonfire nearby. The beach was alive with activity. Men were necking and some were fucking. The line of men stretched back to the house and filled it with loud talk and raucous laughter. It was all men. It was a gay men’s party.

The other sensation that awakened Robbie was that somehow he’d been folded into the party. A naked man, a bald, tattooed bodybuilder with a magnificently muscled body—maybe in his late twenties or early thirties—had pulled the waistband of the boy’s Speedo to under his balls and had grasped Robbie’s cock and was stroking it. Robbie was hard, his dreams having been of Evan Eddison and him fucking. The tattooed bodybuilder was hard too. As he leaned over and took Robbie’s mouth with his, he came over the boy enough to frot their erections together and stroke them. He wasn’t long, but he was beer-can thick.

Robbie didn’t push him away. This was a new and exciting experience for him. His arms went around the man’s barrel chest and his fingernails dug into the shoulder blades as the man hovered over Robbie, his eyes looking intensely down into the boy’s face. Robbie felt the bodybuilder’s beefy fingers going to his ass, pushing into the crack, one of them entering his channel. Robbie moaned. He tensed up.

“Relax, boy. Relax and take it,” the man cajoled.

Robbie released the tension in his body, groaned as the finger buried itself in his ass, and moaned.

“Oh, fuck. Oh, shit.” He pushed his pelvis up into the man’s hand and rocked on, first, one finger and then two.

“You gonna do this?” the man growled. “You gonna let me screw you?”

“Do it,” Robbie murmured. Irrationally racing through his mind was, OK, this is to show Evan Eddison. If he wants to treat me like furniture and a just exercise, Robbie thought, there are guys who can’t get enough of me.

“Three of us?” the bodybuilder asked.

Three? God, three? That raced through Robbie’s mind. “I’m just a little guy.”

“Yes, you are. A sweet little piece. It will be fun.”

Before Robbie could answer, there were, indeed three, all muscular, swarming over him, devouring the boy. The first one remained over Robbie, working the boy’s ass with his fingers. A second one leaned in from the side, taking Robbie’s cock in his mouth. The third was knelt at the boy’s head, lifting Robbie’s shoulders in meaty hands with tattooing across the knuckles. Robbie’s head arched back and found a hard cock pressing at his lips. He opened to it, took it into his throat, and gave it suck. A finger was added to those in Robbie’s ass. The guy was up to his knuckles there. Robbie rocked on the hands—and he came for the guy giving him head.

The fingers came out of Robbie’s ass and he was being turned, momentarily losing the cock in his month, but regaining it when he was on all fours on the towel. Robbie yelped when the first guy, the bodybuilder with the beer-can cock, mounted his tail and worked his shaft into the boy’s channel. The second and third guys exchanged positions at Robbie’s head while the first one plowed him and slapped him on the buttocks while he pumped. The guy at Robbie’s side was running his hands all over him, a hand settling on grasping the boy’s balls, lacing them through his fingers, and distending and squeezing them.

The first guy came, withdrawing to deposit his cum on Robbie’s rump. He was replaced on Robbie’s tail by the second and then the third. The fourteen-year-old boy was thrice fucked on the beach. They never asked him his age. They obviously didn’t give a shit how old he was.

Apparently thinking Robbie had been invited to the beach house party—if anyone who was there had been invited—after the three, calling themselves Jack, Steve, and Chuck, all gym rat buddies, fucked Robbie, they pulled him up from the sand and frog marched him up to the house, where, upon entry, Jack announced to the house that the boy took a train. Robbie was offered a drink and some pills. Already groggy, used, and declared the party punch, he accepted both.

He wasn’t underdressed by being only in a Speedo. Many in the house weren’t wearing anything at all. Robbie fit right in, especially after the pills made him go a bit glassy eyed. There were other boys there who looked nearly as young as Robbie was. No one asked for ages. Robbie had heard about the wild gay lifestyle parties that had been held at Hollywood Beach for several decades, going back to the 1950s. This party was as wild as he could have imagined they would get.

He found myself very popular. If he hadn’t been casual and promiscuous before, he was now. Also, thanks to Evan Eddison’s long cock earlier in the day and Jack’s beer-can shaft just now, Robbie could take any guy’s cock—or any two guy’s cocks at once—with little trouble, not too much pain, and with a good deal of pleasure.

That’s what Robbie did in the party house that Saturday night. He got blotto enough that he danced on a table and the guys in the house found him a bed of his own in a bedroom, put him on his back, held his legs open, and stood in line to get their cocks inside him singly and in doubles. Well, no big deal, Robbie thought. He’d taken Jack, Steve, and Chuck on the beach. What are a couple ... or three ... or ten more?

Apparently taking the pills and liquor Robbie was offered put him in a world of being able and willing to take all comers. He just wasn’t fully conscious for all of it.

Robbie woke on a bed that wasn’t the one he’d been gangbanged on and wasn’t in the room where he’d half-consciously been in. The wall toward the ocean was all glass and light streamed in. The walls were pristine white plaster, the bed was a king-sized one with silken sheets. Everything was tasteful, sparse, expensive. Large canvases of nearly naked African warriors in warlike stances hung on the three walls that weren’t glass. The boy smelled coffee brewing and heard the humming of a man on the level below him. Robbie was lying on his back, his legs spread and bent, his feet pressed to the mattress. Robbie felt like he’d been fucked by an army of men, which, in fact...

Had he been fucked on his back in a missionary after he’d been moved here from—from wherever? This clearly wasn’t the house the party had been held in. That one was a rundown, old, wooden beach house. This one was new, solid, concrete and expensive. The same beach and ocean opened up beyond the wall of glass, though.

The humming grew louder and Robbie heard feet on stairs coming up to his left. The turned his head. Champ Chandler entered the room, two cups of steaming coffee in his hands. He was wearing a terrycloth robe, hanging open on his naked body. He had a magnificently muscular body, just like he had in the movies. He was in half erection, which, even at half, put to shame almost anyone else’s equipment.

“Ah, good, you’re awake. Here, you need this and more, I think.” He handed Robbie the coffee and the boy raised his torso enough to accept the mug and take a drink. The coffee was strong. Robbie sensed that the magnificent black man was right and that several mugs of it would be needed before he could fully return to the land of the living, but Robbie already was feeling better with the first sip.

He’d never seen a black man—or any man—more magnificently muscular than this man was—or as hung, his shaft even darker brown, almost black, with a purplish bulb, than the rest of the man’s body. He’d always thought Chandler’s body had been enhanced in his movies. It hadn’t been.

Chandler was standing by the bed, drinking from the other mug, completely oblivious to the fact that his robe was hanging open and he was hanging out. Robbie realized that he was naked too. He hadn’t closed his legs yet. He still lay there, legs spread and bent, feet flat on the mattress. From what Robbie could remember from the previous night, it might be some time before he could close his legs. He reached down and touched himself to find that he was yawningly dilated. It hadn’t been long since a monster cock had been inside him.

Well, that was something he’d never done before.

Yes, Robbie thought, he must have fucked me last night. The boy couldn’t remember any of it, but the man standing by the bed was much too casual in this situation not to have had the boy. Robbie felt a twinge of regret that he didn’t remember any of it.

Robbie knew who Champ Chandler was, although there was no reason, he thought, that Chandler would know him. Chandler was a star of action thrillers on the big screen. He was big box office at the moment. Right now Robbie could see that the man was big everything. The man was in his late thirties, Robbie knew from reading the movie magazines. He had been frequently married and just as frequently divorced. There were rumors about his sexuality. Robbie thought now that he could put those rumors to rest. He was as handsome and charismatic up close as he appeared to be on the movie screen. He had a pleasant smile and those signature arresting green eyes that must drive the women—and, apparently, some men—wild. Not yet seen on the screen, as far as Robbie knew, the man also had a thick, long dick that surely made both women and men faint.

“You were at the beach house party last night,” Robbie said, as they both looked at each other and drank their coffee. Another sip and Robbie was feeling better yet.

“Yes. It was just a few doors down from me. I heard the loud music and went to investigate.”

“But you didn’t leave. You stayed around and partied.”

“Yes, a bit.”

“You fucked guys. You fucked me.”

“You were putting on quite a show. I saw that you were drugged up, not really involved in what was happening to you, just a receiver too far gone to resist—if you wanted to. I rescued you from that.”

Yeah, just like with Evan Eddison, I thought. I was just sports equipment. “But you got in line and fucked me there, at the party, before bringing me here. I’m only fourteen, you know.”

“Are you?” Chandler said, clearly undeterred. “How nice for you. And how nice for men who like to fuck fourteen-year-old boys. I think the allure is that they have such small holes that it’s a miracle when a man’s cock gets inside them. But he always manages, doesn’t he? Great fun. There seemed many guys in their young teens the party last night. They were quite popular. None more than you, though.”

“And you fucked me here too, afterward.” Robbie touched his gaping hole again. There weren’t many men who could dilate him this much.

Chandler smiled and said, “Playing the martyr, are we?” doing so in a way that told Robbie it wouldn’t be good to go too far down that road. “As I said,” he continued, “you were putting on quite a show, but you were out of it. I prefer my young men—and boys,” he broke off to give Robbie a meaningful look to make sure that he was quite aware how young the boy was, “fully there with me. Sex is for two, a mutual act, with me, not just me getting it off. And, yes, I do like fourteen-year-old boys—beginning to develop; capable of hardening and coming, but still tender skinned, flexible, sweet, yielding, small, tight holes and in awe of what can be done with them.”

“And I—?”

“Are all of those, yes. You showed that at the party last night.”

He’s unlike Evan Eddison, Robbie thought. Yeah, he could like this guy—beyond the fact that he was gorgeous and had all the success in the movies that Robbie wanted to have too. But he didn’t answer the questions.

“I’m awake now, fully conscious of what I’m doing,” Robbie said.

“You said yes to all of it last night,” Chandler said “But more fully conscious now, yes,” he conceded, “if a little green around the gills still and uneasy on your feet, probably.”

“I’m not on my feet.”

“No, no you’re not.” He smiled. “You can be, though, if you want, and trotting back to wherever you came from.”

They paused to drink more coffee, their eyes locked. Robbie made no move to leave. More need to said, need be done here.

“I’m not really like this,” Robbie said. “I don’t generally go to parties and let strangers gangbang me.”

“But you did last night, didn’t you?” he asked. “And you consented to it all.”

“Yes, I did.” Robbie didn’t tell him why. The boy didn’t know why himself, really—beyond having reacted badly to Evan Eddison treating him like a piece of exercise equipment. Wasn’t that what the guys on the beach had done—and on the bed in the house? If Champ Chandler had fucked him at the party and then again, when he still wasn’t fully conscious, in his house afterward, wasn’t that the same?

Chandler didn’t wait longer, but it wasn’t the same as with Eddison or the guys at the party. Giving Robbie a million-dollar smile, he took the coffee mug from the boy’s hands and put that and his mug on the nightstand. He turned and sat on the bed, hovering over the boy—his body massive and heavily muscled in contrast to the small, willowy, albeit perfectly formed, figure of the boy. His lips lowered to Robbie’s and he took the boy into a prolonged, deep, tongue dueling kiss. His left hand glided down the small boy’s chest, belly, and pubes, and snaked below Robbie’s pert balls, a meaty black finger entering the still-dilated hole.