Disclaimer: Do not continue reading if you are not 18 years old or you are offended by portrayals of male to male sex or the laws in your state or county forbid this type of material.
Copyright 2004 by the author. Do not reproduce or distribute this story without the author's permission.
Names, characters, locations and incidents are fictional. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The Master Bottoms
-------- Five years later --------
A warm, clear day early in September found me driving my new Porsche back to the Club. I had volunteered to take charge of this year's reunion and I had to iron out a lot of details with Hastings, the current president.
Driving these roads brought back so many memories. I had spent three years and two months employed at the club, longer than most tops. However, toward the end, I was spending more and more nights in the dormitory. The members tended to prefer the fresh meat. Whenever Logan was in town, I spent the night with him, but of course he took a new boy each time to his charity functions. Finally, it was strongly hinted that I should consider a new career. As the chief photographer for the club, I had developed a real sense for capturing the essence of things on film, both stills and movies. Therefore, with the backing of Harrison, I went to NYU and earned my Associates Degree in cinematography. I spent most weekends in Hartford with Barry. Degree in hand, I headed out to Northridge, California, and set up my own production company, Studio 37. Bennings, still appreciative of his former swimming buddy, put up the cash to get me going. I resolved to produce high class male porn. Chi Chi, look out.
Soon I was having men show up at my office to apply for jobs: a scenic designer, a sound man, all with excellent credentials. I realized Marshall must have spread the word among his contacts. I called his agent and left word for Marshall to call me. I half doubted that my message would get through. This agent had worked hard on Marshall's career. No longer looking like a teenager, he was now getting roles as a young father, a lawyer, a doctor. His agent had every intention of keeping this gravy train traveling for years to come. It couldn't become known that Marshall was talking to a porn producer. I knew even Marshall wasn't a big enough idiot to jeopardize his image, his reputation, his career and his multimillion dollar contracts for any loyalty to a former employee of the club. But a few days later the phone rang and it was him:
"Hey, dildo, how's it going?" As soon as an employee left the club, the members began using his name whenever the occasion required it. To Harrison, Bennings and Logan, with whom I still had frequent contact, I was Fred Jones. But not to Marshall. He still delighted in using his repertoire of top slurs.
"Just great, no small thanks to you, Mr. Marshall, for all the excellent talent you've sent my way."
"Did Pete Ruby call you? He's about the best lighting man in the biz. You'd be a moron not to hire him."
"Yeah, I met with him last week. Real professional."
"How about guys in front of the camera? You have enough?"
"No shortage of tops. I've called on a lot of the ex-slaves who are living out here. I know their abilities."
"Yeah, plenty of bananas. I hear you even snared Buck Hastings!"
"Yep, that was a real coup." Buck had been negotiating with Chi Chi, but he liked the way I operated. "However, if you know any good bottoms, I could sure use them."
"You bet, I know a bunch of fellas. Asses almost as talented as mine."
"No way, Mr. Marshall. You're definitely the best asshole in the club," I lied.
"Yeah, well then, almost as talented. I'll make a few calls."
"Thanks a lot. Hey, I could always find a part for you whenever you're interested."
"Yeah, right!!" We both laughed. That's all he needed for a total career train wreck. And, hell, there was no way I could afford his asking price.
"Let's do lunch some time, dickface." We both knew this was impossible. The paparazzi were always tailing him. But it was a nice thing for him to say anyway.
"Sure thing. Thanks again."
Soon after, I got a lot of calls from bottoms looking for work. At the club, I had developed a keen eye for butt talent, and had no trouble now weeding out the plain assholes from the truly booty gifted. Whenever I had a doubt, I gave the applicant a private performance test. I know exactly what I was looking for, and if I couldn't be sure of an applicant's abilities, my dick would have the final say so.
When my first film came out, California Butts, one critic characterized it as uniquely sensitive to the desires and aspirations of the bottom. For the sequel, Italian Butts, Logan has offered me free use of his villa outside Milan. He'd even fly the crew over.
As I got within a mile of the club entrance, I suddenly thought of Barry. Fuck but I miss him. He'll be coming to the reunion with me though. After my first film was released to glowing reviews, I called Barry in Hartford and asked him to move in with me. He lost no time quitting his job and subleasing his apartment. Barry still has a fabulous ass and knows just how to use it. I'd star him in my films except that I really don't want to share him. Instead he's in charge of distribution. We are very much in love. We each know all the ways to please the other and we know we will live the rest of our lives together.
I drove through the gate and up to the main house. With only a slight hesitation, I headed for the main door. I said hi to 29, who was raking the flower beds. He flashed me his big familiar toothy smile. He was the only one on staff left from my era. Being so young, he was able to last this long, but I knew even he must be thinking about moving on soon.
I met Hastings and we discussed the reunion plans. There were so many alumni now that we'd outgrown the house. Too many extra campers would have to be brought in to house everybody, and the side lawn where the campers used to be parked was now the new theater wing. So for the last two years, the club rented rooms at a hotel in Philly and bused everyone back and forth. This suited the ex-slaves since they never used the current tops at night anyway like the members did. It also suited those wives and other partners who found the festivities boring and chose to stay in the city and shop. The bus drivers themselves were all ex-tops, so it was a working vacation for them.
When I left the office, a great hunk of a stud was vacuuming the hall. He must have been 6'3 at least, with short cropped hair and square jaw. Very military in appearance, and sure enough, when he began to turn, I saw a USMC tattoo on his arm. But then he was facing me and my breath stopped in my throat. He was wearing number 37. Well, I smiled to myself, I guess they didn't retire my uniform, but I'm glad it's in such good hands.
The End