The Sex Scene

        I stood with Angus near the entrance to the house, both of us watching the crew set up in the drive for my character's arrival. We'd already mucked up a week with this fucking film. Angus and I'd already ridden across what my arse told me was half of Scotland. We'd picnicked on top of the mountain. The cameras had had us everywhere. Now, we were getting ready to film our initial meeting and the sex scene that followed immediately after. I glanced over at Angus, my gaze travelling down to his crotch, and smiled. That I was going to enjoy. I never got enough of my lover's prick.

"Bill?"

I looked up to see that Angus was watching me. "Yeah?"

"This is what we're going to do from now on. I don't want any more guys shagging you-" He smiled. "It'll be just my dick and your arse from now on - you'll like that, won't you?"

I nodded. "If we can find enough work, love," I told him. "But I've got to keep working while I'm still young - whether it's porn or mainstream. I'm going to have money in the bank when I get old." Angus was so bloody possessive. He could be a real pratt at times.

I turned to watch the director standing alone in the drive, studying the manor house before him. He was American, middle-aged and balding; I figured his waist was so thick because of years of rich food. Philip van Guy was on location in Scotland shooting his next film.

Angus had suggested the idea of this film to him and even found this old manor. I'd been in France making a vid that had me shagging with ten lads - a fine lot of Frenchmen they had been too.

Angus had been so proud of himself when I got home. I reckoned the Highland setting was perfect for van Guy's film - it had all the signature trademarks he'd established for himself. What was it the guy who played the butler called it? Surreal? Yeah. Flaming surreal. I didn't understand any of it.

And who the fuck was Elvira Madigan? In his little pep talk, van Guy had called this film a modern-day Elvira Madigan - like she was a saint or something. Christ! Protect me from old, fat poofers who’re into the artsy stuff.

Didn't matter if I understood what was going on, or not. Van Guy seemed happy enough with my work so far. He should. I put my whole self into my character - I became my character totally.

"Get your arses moving!" he called to the camera crew. "We've only got this joint for another day." He glanced around, his eyes squinting as he looked back down the gravelled drive. "We need to get moving. Now."

I left Angus and started for the Land Rover sitting in the drive.

I set my face in a scowl as I got into the car parked before the manor. I could see van Guy pacing behind the camera and sound men. Angus was stepping inside the house. I submerged myself in my character and gave van Guy the okay sign.

* * *

Pratt! Bloody arse! I felt myself becoming angry as I let the part of Max Molloy take me over. I allowed his emotions to wash over me, to fill me with his anger at himself. I felt him snaking into my mind, taking me over, inhabiting my soul. I became Max Molloy.

There wasn't a name in the English language that I'd not called Iain Campbell, Earl of Inverness, in the four hours it had taken the bleeding train to reach Edinburgh from London. I'd gone through my limited knowledge of American, German, and French nasty names as I was being chauffeured deeper and deeper into the bloody highlands. The burly Scotsman behind the wheel of the Land Rover hadn't said more than two words to me since I got in the car.

Me a bloody rentboy? Again? I still couldn't believe it. I was well past that year of my life when I turned my bum up for any bloke with a tenner. I'd pulled myself up - and right out of that life. Now, I had the most desired arse on two continents. And a face and body that went with it. No more King's Cross for Max Molloy. I'd starred in American, French, and German videos. I'd won Best Actor at last year's Berlin Erotic Film Festival. I was well paid - handsomely. Just to shag for the bloody camera. And, now, this!

I sighed again. What my agent wouldn't do if there was money involved. I was nearly as bad. Five thousand pounds, minus the agent's 15% of course. For a Highlands' weekend. With this Iain Campbell on his bloody estate. No kink. All vanilla.

I had decided that this Campbell had to be old and ugly. It was the only explanation for him paying that kind of money to have me. I didn't do old and ugly. I couldn't even get erect for it. This weekend was going to be a disaster, I bloody well knew it in my bones.

The house was big enough to remind me of St. James' Palace but considerably more ancient. The large wooden doors of the entrance opened and I saw a tall lad in a kilt walk towards me.

He was striking. Taller than my six feet - slim, flaming red hair, pale translucent skin, and freckles everywhere. And young. Too bloody young.

He grinned as he opened the car door for me. Immediately, I wondered why Earl Inverness wanted me. He had an absolutely beautiful boy in this lad. His Lordship obviously ignored Britain's age of consent; this lad was a bit too young. That, however, was Iain Campbell's problem - not mine.

"Max Molloy?" the lad asked and then blushed. "But, of course, you are. I would recognise you anywhere."

"You would?" I couldn't hide my surprise. In King's Cross, a lad of this one's age might well have seen my vids, but here on top of a mountain in Scotland?

He laughed. "I would - with or without your clothes."

"His Lordship allows you to watch them?"

"His Lordship-?" He studied me strangely for a moment from the opened door before smiling again.

"What's he like - old and fat?" I asked without thinking. "And ugly as sin?"

The lad blinked and I heard the driver guffaw as he opened up the back of the Land Rover to get my overnighter.

"Max, I'm Iain Campbell, Laird of Inverness," the ginger-haired cutie told me, his blue eyes twinkling.

"You?" I shuddered, mentally kissing five thousand pounds goodbye. "My Lord, I'll need to be driven back to Edinburgh, if you don't mind."

Surprise covered the lad's face, making it even whiter. "Is something wrong?" he managed.

"I'm not going to get into something with someone your age. I'm sorry, my Lord, but if the police found out - I can't. I'm not going to jail, no matter what the pay is."

He started to chuckle then, joining the driver. I didn't see the joke. "Max," he said, "I graduated Oxford this year. I'm only a year younger than you are."

I stared at the lad - no, the man - before me. And tried to swallow but, somehow, my heart had found its way into my throat. I knew I had put myself in a pickle.

"Won't you come in?" he asked finally and stood back from the car door.

"Are you angry at me then, sir?" I asked as I stepped onto the gravel.

He grinned. "How could I be? Everyone makes the same mistake." He shrugged. "It's genetic - my father looked to be in his mid-20's the day he died-"

"I'm sorry, sir," I said, not remembering my father appearing even once in my life the past twenty-three years. I carried my mother's maiden name and it no longer bothered me. "He didn't suffer, did he?"

His Lordship's body stiffened and his face became blank. "A car accident, Max. It was fast." I watched him force himself to relax. "Thanks for asking," he said. "That was two years ago. I'm over it now." He looked over his shoulder at the entranceway and turned back to face me. "Let's go in, have a drink, and get acquainted."

I thought I knew what that last one meant. I watched this Laird's kilt swirl half up his thighs as he turned. I really was interested now that I knew I wasn't involved with jailbait. Most definitely. I would certainly like to know Earl Inverness better. Intimately.

Iain Campbell led me into his study. There was an austerity to the room - though the young Celtic god had softened it somewhat with the addition of a sofa and a TV with VCR. "Please, be seated. Drink?" he asked as he stepped to the sideboard.

"Yes."

"There's whisky or gin-"

"I can make do with a good malt, your Lordship."

A moment later, he turned to me, carrying two glasses filled with several jiggers of Scotland's greatest treasure. "You may call me Iain, Max. Even the estate's retainers do. I don't stand on formalities; and I do want us to become friends."

He offered me my drink and moved easily to the other end of the sofa. Adjusting his kilt as he sat down, his Lordship turned to face me. "Are you wondering why I invited you here and paid such an exorbitant sum to make it happen?"

I smiled knowingly and settled comfortably into my end of the sofa. He was certainly straight forward enough. "I suspect I can guess, sir," I told him.

He blushed. "Well, there is that, of course. But what I wanted to do was get to know you a bit. The real Max Molloy, as it were." I noticed his accent now that we were alone and I wasn't suffering one shock after another. There was no burr to his speech at all. It was pure Oxfordian - something one would expect from Buck House or the highest levels of the civil service.

"Get to know me, sir?"

"Iain please, Max."

"In what way do you want to get to know me ... Iain?" I asked, sitting back up and placing my drink on the end table. King's Cross was far behind me - four years and a million miles away. I'd even forced myself to learn to speak English so a bloke didn't have to listen hard to understand me. Max Molloy was not one to take strolls down memory lane - especially his own.

His Lordship took a long draught of his whisky and set it down before facing me fully. He took a deep breath and tried to smile. He didn't succeed, the tension that had sprung up between us was thick enough to cut with a knife.

"First off, I became infatuated with you my first year at Uni. Your first video, I think." He blushed. "Your body, Max." He chuckled to himself. "I was a horny young lad then. It kept me buying each new video you made. I bought the foreign-made ones in Holland or France during school holidays."

He pushed himself off the sofa and began to pace slowly. "After father died, something changed - I became obsessed with you then," he mumbled barely loud enough for me to hear him. "You were the new constant in my life once he was gone." He stopped his pacing and faced me, a guilty smile on his lips. "It had become more than just a sexual attraction for me. I wanted you as a friend, as someone I could turn to, someone I could hold and be held by - I wanted you as a lover."

I wasn't sure how I felt about what this young nobleman was saying. I liked his being such a fan, of course - my contract had called for a percentage of sales the last two years. But I wasn't naïve, I'd made two movies in America and I knew all about stalkers. Earl Inverness had resumed his pacing and I wasn't watching him as he circled behind his desk and stopped.

That Hinckley bloke had stalked that actress before he shot Ronald Reagan. And some madman had killed another actress outside her flat. Another had killed John Lennon. My countrymen did have a tendency to take on the worst American habits as well. And I was here in the wilds of Scotland - alone with a bloke who admitted to being obsessed with me. Part of me was beginning to wonder if I would be alive when the time came to return to London.

"You want me to be your lover, your Lordship?" I asked slowly, unable to believe completely the possible mess I and my agent had got me into. I looked up then and saw him standing behind the desk and studying me.

His hand darted into an open drawer and I was quickly staring down the barrel of a pistol pointed at me. My eyes crossed.

Iain Campbell smiled angelically. "I'm going to have you as my lover, Max. You're never going to leave me." His smile widened as he rounded the desk and approached me, becoming beatific. "On your knees, lad. We're going to seal our love forever with you swallowing my come."

"Don't do this, my Lord," I mumbled, even as I was slipping my arse off the sofa and getting to my knees before him.

"Open my kilt. Take it out. I want you to get to know my prick well."

My fingers fumbled nervously at the front of his kilt but I felt what was under it. Hard and demanding. And long and thick. I almost forgot Earl Inverness was holding a pistol to my head.

Shagging with a beautiful man the likes of Iain Campbell would be a real pleasure - he was as lovely as any lad I'd invited home to my bed in the past three years. As long as I wasn't seeing the pistol aimed at me. I unbuckled his belt and quickly pulled the tartan down. Anticipating what they would find, my fingers made short work of their job.

I sat back on my haunches and the wool slid down over his buttocks, my gaze momentarily glued to the thick tube that jutted out from his pubes.

My fingers touched the smooth translucent skin of his flanks pushing his loose shirt onto his chest as my tongue found his deep-set bellybutton and began to rim it properly. My hands moved slowly onto his back and followed his spine down to his arse as he pulled his shirt over his head. My lips followed his treasure trail down to the front.

My lips traced the width and length of the piece of Scotland that now thrust past my cheek to my ear so proudly. My hands still gripped his arsecheeks.

His ginger pubes tickled my nose but I couldn't get enough of the smell of him. My tongue guided his cockhead past my lips. "Take it, Max. Show me you want it. Swallow it!" he whispered from above me.

Wide and thick, his helmet pushed deep into my mouth, entering my throat. My hands gripped his arsecheeks as I pulled him into me. I wanted all of him. I wanted to taste him. He moaned above me and began to pump my throat with his knob-end. I took him past my tonsils, letting him possess me as I fumbled to loosen my jeans.

Iain Campbell was beautiful. He was a work of the finest Celtic art. And his cock was more manly than most men could hope for. And, at this moment, he was mine. My lips finally reached his pubes, all of him was inside me. My lips retreated until I could wash his cockhead with my tongue. And back again until my nose pressed against his smooth belly. His ball sack began to tighten, his bollocks closing in on his rod, threatening to ride it.

He pulled away, his hand holding my head so my lips couldn't follow him. "I want your arse, Max," he said hoarsely as his dick left my mouth with a plop. "Get naked." I looked up, following his smooth, wide chest to his eyes and hoping mine showed my longing for more of him. "I want to see this bum of yours." He chuckled. "I've paid enough for it."

I stood up and pulled off my shirt as my jeans opened at my hips. Iain stepped behind his desk and opened a drawer. I sat down and shoved my jeans and white briefs to my knees; my prick was drooling pre-come. It was now so hard, the loose skin had pulled back and snuggled hopefully behind the flare of its helmet. I laid back. "Take them off, Iain," I told him and lifted both legs toward him and reached for my dick.

He smiled down at me and pulled off the first of my shoes, then the other. A moment later he had my jeans and pants puddled on the floor behind him. He tore open the condom packet he'd brought from the desk. I watched him unfurl the latex across his bell-end and roll it down the shaft, pushing his foreskin before it.. With lust. Nothing else mattered now. I wanted him inside me. I wanted to feel him making love to me. I smiled wantonly and spread my legs wide in invitation. I began to wank slowly and cupped my bollocks as he got to his knees beneath me. I was a bitch in heat and Iain Campbell had the goods to raise me out of my need.

I felt the cold metal of the pistol in his hand as he lifted my left leg onto his shoulder and turned my head so I wouldn't see it. "Put it away," I groaned up at him. "You don't need it. I'm yours," I told him and emphasised my words by putting my other leg on his free shoulder.

He started to lean into me, all five fingers of each hand on each of my thighs and his wide helmet beginning to press at my back entrance. I smiled at my little victory.

I gasped as his cockhead entered me, my eyes flew open. I watched him watching me as his hips pushed his dick ever deeper into my bowel. I reached between us and found my prick pressed against his belly. I began to pull on it as his face moved slowly down towards mine. I allowed myself a smile; Max Molloy was learning about Iain Campbell. He was the best lover a man could have.

I raised my head off the floor and our lips met just as his pubes began to scratch the underside of my ball sack. His tongue slid between my parted lips and duelled mine as I ground my bottom against his crotch and felt his dick touch all those spots deep inside me that make me whimper and want to melt.

"You're a good one, Max Molloy," he whispered as he pulled away from the kiss, his lips tracing my jaw back to my ear.

"Shag me good," I growled. "I want to feel you in me. All of you. Make me yours, my Lord."

I felt his pole begin to retreat through my bowel, leaving an uncomfortable emptiness. The nerves at my entrance screamed out to hold him in me. Instinctively, my sphincter tightened around his latex-covered width. I grunted and began to wank in earnest.

He began to slide in and out of me, tickling my sphincter and massaging my prostate. I began to fly. Mindless pleasure coursed through me in waves. I thrust up to meet each new stroke and I groaned my pleasure up to him.

Iain Campbell chewed at my earlobes and nibbled at my lips. His tongue moved down my neck onto my shoulders. His hips flexed and he moved in me. I moaned, floating on the sea of pleasure building throughout my body, and bucked up to meet his red-thatched crotch each time it neared.

He bit one nipple hard. Orgasm erupted over me, come splashing over his chest and neck as he teased my nipples, and still his prick moved steadily in and out of my arse.

Pressure began to build inside me, whipping up the pleasure and excitement and need that was sex into a storm. I grabbed his flexing hips between my legs, forcing him even closer as I surrendered to the eruption from my bollocks.

My cock stayed hard as it bounded across my come-coated belly. His lips found mine and we kissed with my pole caught between us, riding our bellies as he continued to fuck me. He pummelled my arse and I knew I would never get enough of this. I would never get enough of Angus or any role he played. Not me and not Max Molloy - no matter how hard living with him might become.

His tempo changed and he pulled away from our kiss, his breathing laboured. His thrusts quickly became short and fast. He was pounding himself into me. I could feel my bollocks again riding the shaft of my prick. I smiled as he moved against me, his body covering mine; we were going to come together.

He pulled out of me hurriedly, sitting up on his haunches even as he pulled the condom off. My cock erupted as I watched him wank once. Twice ... His muscled tightened, his mouth opened in a soundless scream. A rope of jizz hit my shoulder, another the centre of my chest.

He took a breath, then another. And collapsed on me. My arms went around his shoulders and I held him close as our breathing began to turn to normal.

* * *

"Cut!" the director cried out. "That's a wrap for tonight, boys."

Angus didn't make a move to rise and I continued to hold him to me. "I love you," I whispered against his ear.

"Even when you were taking that Yank up your arse in LA? Or that German before him? From what I hear, you've become a regular slut, Bill."

"Angus," I groaned. "I never - only on the set. Like we both promised to do."

The director squatted beside us. Philip van Guy patted Angus' buttocks and smiled at both of us. My lover of three years lifted his head and looked back at the American. "You lovebirds make it to bed early tonight," he told us. "We're shooting the final scene tomorrow at nine and I want you two to be radiant for the camera-"

"The field of flowers?" Angus asked quickly.

"Yeah. Right out there on the mountainside. And it's perfect for this scene. Perfect. I want it done in just one take. It'll be a five hour trip down to London and that means we lose a day before we can start on the stalking scenes." Angus nodded non-committedly.

"Who's this Elvira Madigan I saw mentioned in the notes at the end of the script?" I asked as Angus pushed off of me and sat back on his heels.

Van Guy stood, gazing down at me like I had gone daft. "It's a 70s film, Bill. Beautiful, romantic - and sad. You ought to rent it one of these nights when you and Angus really want to boo hoo. Now, get up and clean up for dinner. Wake up's at five thirty tomorrow morning."

I grabbed his trousers before he could move away. "What's so sad about it?" I demanded.

"Elvira was a circus performer, her boyfriend was a Count - a lot like the two of you in this story." Philip Van Guy chuckled. "At the end of the summer, they run into a field, all happy and stuff. He kills her, then himself - because summer's come to an end and they can't continue on. And he won't leave her. The audience only hears the gun go off. That's what Angus is going to do tomorrow." His gaze turned to Angus. "Thanks for developing the story line on this - it's perfect."

I turned my head and stared down my chest with what I knew were bulging eyes at Angus still kneeling between my legs. "That's right, love," he said. "I really liked it. It's - well - it's poignant." He grinned down at me. "Come on, we've got to get cleaned up."

I let him pull me to my feet. I followed him out of the study to the stairs in the great hall. I thought of just how rocky our relationship had been the past year. And how Angus seemed to believe everything the tabloids said about me. I wanted him to hold me and tell me I was daft for the suspicions beginning to build in my mind.

"I love you, Angus," I told him quietly as we dressed for dinner, making damned sure I didn't have any doubts about that left. "I'll always love you and can't imagine living without you - you know that, don't you?" I looked away quickly, blinking back tears. "I want us to make this work, Angus-" I looked back. "Do you?"

        He smiled as he buckled his kilt in place. He crossed to where I was pulling on my jeans and took me in his arms. "I love you too, Bill - more than life itself.