From Morocco to Paris (8 page)

Zane realized he had two choices: he could keep arguing and never get off -- and possibly become Davey’s desert-land sex prisoner and never see civilization again, the crazy bastard -- or have his cock ridden and enjoy the experience. He glanced toward the road, empty both ways. Zane got in the back seat.

Davey wrenched off and deposited his boots on the floorboards up front, then made short work of his pants, which he tossed into the passenger seat. He clambered bare and sweaty into the backseat and over Zane’s lap, making Zane’s cock perk right back up. Zane pulled him closer, and Davey straddled him on the narrow seat, their cocks nestled between them, rubbing silkily together.

“Lube,” Zane blurted, barely remembering English. He kept one anxious eye on the road.

“We’ll make do,” Davey answered. He paused, gathered saliva in his mouth, and spit into his palm. He slicked the spit along the length of Zane’s cock and Zane moaned, thighs tensing.

“I told you, I don’t have a -- “

“It’s all right,” Davey murmured. “I’m completely clean. And ready.” He braced his hands on Zane’s shoulders. “Been ready.”

Zane thought he would come as soon as Davey started easing down on him. Zane felt some resistance at first, but with a bit of rocking and shifting on Davey’s part, Zane’s cock was soon buried deep inside. For the first time, no thin layer of rubber separated him from Davey’s slick inner heat. Davey moaned, a sound of relief, and slipped a hand down to stroke himself between them.

“How’s that feel?” Davey whispered, their foreheads close together.

Zane gripped his hips as Davey lifted, then pushed back down.

“Fucking incredible,” Zane answered, mind and vision blurring with pleasure. “Oh God. Not gonna last long.”

Davey started working his hips, slowly, in long, drawn-out movements, sending waves of heat and pleasure straight into Zane’s stomach and down his thighs.

“You like fucking me?” Davey murmured, the tip of his nose brushing Zane’s cheek. “Tell me how much you like fucking me.”

Zane wasn’t sure he could speak. Somewhere he found the words, though brief and nondescript. “I do.”

Davey started moving a bit faster, bouncing, their sweaty skin making slapping sounds.

“Do I have a nice tight ass?” Davey asked. “Tell me how tight my ass is. Tell me how good it feels.”

Zane didn’t have the presence of mind to voice yes, he found his ass exquisite. Instead he moaned and jerked his hips up, frantic for more sensation. Davey sat back, gazing down at him, still stroking himself. His hair stuck to his cheeks and forehead, almost completely out of the ponytail now and tumbled on his shoulders. Sweat glistened on his flushed neck and in the hollow of his throat. His nipples poked darkly against his tank top. Zane leaned forward, and latched onto one with his mouth, and sucked the hard little bud, Davey’s shirt wet with sweat and gritty from the dust. Davey moaned. Zane licked the fabric over the stiff peak.

From somewhere deep inside, Zane’s voice rushed out. “Fuck, I love how fucking sexual you are.” Indeed, Davey rose above him like a god, a beautiful deity of the desert, potent and powerful, made of dry, heated winds of desire and sparkling dust. Zane slid his hands around and gripped the firm swell of his ass. “I love fucking your tight ass.”

“Oh fuck, Zane.” Davey shuddered.

Davey rode him hard. The Jeep rocked with their movements, the objects in the back thudding and clattering. The wind roared in Zane’s ears.

Zane screamed when he came, arching beneath Davey’s body, emptying into him so hard his vision went gray at the edges. Davey cried out, or maybe Zane only heard the wailing of the wind around the Jeep as both seemed one in the same. When Zane came to his senses, Davey was slumped over him panting, the evidence of his orgasm sticky on Zane’s stomach. They drifted in a sea of sweat, and heat, and post-coital bliss. Zane wondered how Davey felt, having Zane come, unprotected inside him for the first time. He almost wanted to ask.

They only sat for a few minutes before the heat became too much, sweat pooling thickly in Zane’s groin and on the seat beneath him. Davey climbed off and got back in the front seat. He located Zane’s canteen beneath the driver seat, took off the cap, and dumped the water over his head, down his front, across his stomach, even over his cock. The tank top clung to him, transparent over his nipples. Water droplets glistened in his pubic hair.

“Good idea,” Zane said. “Give me the rest.”

Davey handed the canteen over and Zane did the same with the remaining water.

Davey drove back to the road, tank top off and tied in his hair. Zane took his shirt off as well, the cool water already warming in his soggy pants.

“We should drive to the village more often,” Davey said as they sped along the road, the dust clinging to their wet skin and turning to mud. Zane thought he would never be truly clean again, but at least, for the moment, his balls weren’t threatening to explode.

“We’ve got a couple more weeks.” Zane smirked. “I’m sure we’ll need some relief before then.”

Chapter 6

“We’re going to Marrakech!” Davey announced. Two weeks had passed, and life in the desert had become almost a normal thing. Davey, however, seemed quite enthusiastic about the news that they were getting a reprieve.

Zane yelped, attacked by a flurry of hair and sweaty skin, which dragged him to the ground and began rolling him around. Zane kicked and fought, rocks digging into his exposed skin.

“Get off me!” Zane yelled, flailing at Davey with his fists.

Davey stopped mauling him and sat up, straddling him and laughing. He pushed his hair away from his face, full of dust, his clothes equally dusty. Zane spluttered, spitting out dirt. People stood nearby, watching them and laughing. The mood in the camp had lightened considerably.

“We’re going to Marrakech!” Davey reiterated. He grinned and pushed on Zane’s chest with both hands.

“I know!” Zane croaked. “Elliot told me. Now get off!”

Davey rolled off, still grinning. Zane sat up, wincing, and brushed angrily at his clothes.

“That’s so cool,” Davey said as he sprawled on his back, arms and legs splayed as if making a snow angel. He gazed up at the sky, hair a dirty tangle around his head, the white dust on his face making his eyes vivid. “I can’t believe we get to spend a whole weekend in
civilization
!”

“Even soldiers get leave.”

Zane struggled to his feet. He looked down at Davey and thought about kicking him. Davey smiled up at him though, and with such good news, Zane found he couldn’t stay angry. Also, Zane had developed a soft spot for him he could no longer deny. The sex was good, yes, but he thought -- dear God -- he might actually be starting to like Davey as a person.

“Come on idiot, get up,” Zane said, though fondly.

The next day, Friday, they had off, since they were leaving for Marrakech in the afternoon when the transports came. Most of the cast and crew got to spend the weekend in the city and would return on Sunday night. Zane looked forward to a real shower and a comfortable bed, though others were more excited about partying.

Another wonderful aspect of the trip: most people’s families and significant others were going to be in Marrakech. A few were coming out with the transports, and consequently, a group gathered at the edge of the camp on Friday afternoon as if for a rock concert, watching the road. Zane went out to join them after helping Elliot pack up. He had his sunglasses on, dressed to cover up most of his skin. When he reached the group, he rolled his eyes at what he saw.

“What are you doing?” Zane asked.

Davey sat in a folding chair beneath a huge, lurid pink umbrella sporting printed flowers and frilly white fringe. He wore a pair of cargo shorts, a white t-shirt, sunglasses, and sandals, his hair in a loose braid. A water bottle was tucked in his crotch, one leg propped on top of the other. He smiled up at Zane.

“Hi!” Davey said. “I was wondering if you were coming out.” He gestured to an empty chair beside him. “I brought you a chair.”

“What are you doing out here?” Zane eyed the umbrella and batted at the fringe. “Where the hell did you get this?”

“One of the girls in costuming.” Davey lifted the water bottle to his mouth and took a suck from the push-pull top. “Isn’t it cute?”

“Sure, if you’re a girl from costuming.” Zane walked around to the chair, well under the shade of the huge umbrella. He had nothing better to do. “Why are you out here?”

“Just something to pass the time. Plus I wanna watch everybody hump each other when the transports arrive.”

Zane looked around. The others were either sitting on blankets or in their own chairs underneath umbrellas.

“I feel like we’re waiting for Mohamed,” Zane said. “Sitting out here in the middle of the desert.”

The sun baked the world with a dry, oppressive heat. Zane hadn’t planned on lingering, so he hadn’t brought water. Davey shared his, but eventually Zane got up and went back to camp to get his own bottle and bring Davey a fresh one. There were few places to escape the sun, and hanging out with Davey under a pink umbrella seemed the most interesting option. Zane tried to ignore the fact he could have easily gone and chilled with Elliot in his trailer.

As the sun lowered into mid-afternoon the heat remained. Some people slept on their blankets under their umbrellas; others read, or played cards. Zane and Davey chatted for a long while, about filming, about their lives, about a little bit of everything.

“I’ve never been to Kentucky,” Davey said. “What’s it like?”

“Imagine the exact opposite of Los Angeles.”

“Did you like it there?”

“I grew up there, I was accustomed to it. I guess I miss it a little, especially when I’m sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic for two hours on the 405.”

Davey smiled. “You talk about your family. Are you close?”

“With most of them.”

“Not your father.” Davey arched an eyebrow over his sunglasses. “You mentioned him on the train.”

Zane shifted his jaw, squinting through his own sunglasses out into the desolate land, waves of heat dancing on the horizon.

“He didn’t make my childhood particularly pleasant,” Zane said.

“Where is he now? Still in Kentucky?”

Zane grabbed up his water bottle. “He’s dead,” he said, and took a drink. “Thank God. Died a couple years after I went to California. Heart attack. Best thing that ever happened to him.”

“Wow. You really do hate him.”

“It was mostly his fists I hated.”

Davey stared at him a moment, his eyes barely visible behind his glasses.

“He was abusive,” Davey said. A statement, not a question.

“Yep, you could say that.” Zane tucked the water bottle back in his crotch. “It was worse when I was younger, before I could fight back. My older brother, Ian, God bless him, took the worst of it though.” He hesitated a moment. “Ian’s gay. Openly. Of course, he never had much hope of hiding it. My father, among the million other things he detested, didn’t like faggots.”

Davey continued to stare at him, silent. For once.

Zane shrugged and looked down at his lap. “What’s done is done though,” he said. “Ian left the second he could, and I wasn’t far behind him.”

Davey looked out into the distance. “Huh. A lot of things make sense now.”

“Please don’t psychoanalyze me.” Zane played with the cap on his bottle. He wanted to change the subject. “At least my mother never dumped me off on people. That must have sucked.”

“I got to see the world.” Davey lifted his arms and folded his hands behind his head. “And learn new things.”

Silence fell between them for a while, and Zane grew sleepy. He wondered if once he got to Marrakech he could just shower and sleep and save the partying for the next night.

Quite suddenly, Davey started singing Hank Williams’ “Ramblin’ Man.” Zane knew the song quite well from his childhood, as it was one of his mother’s favorites. Zane looked at him in surprise, and other people immediately turned their heads. Davey quickly proved he had an excellent voice, but Zane found the outburst rather awkward and tried to play off his embarrassment with a few sheepish smiles and ‘beats me’ gestures.

Davey was unsurprisingly infectious though, and people soon migrated over and started singing other songs with him. Zane slowly relaxed and even started enjoying himself.

They sang everything from pop songs to oldies and more traditional tunes -- music provided by hands clapping and slapping on knees, and one guy, an extra, took his boots off and pounded them together to provide bass. A Moroccan soldier came over and taught them a song in Arabic. They were having an impromptu party. Davey even got Zane singing along, albeit terribly off-key.

Davey eventually started dancing, which provoked other people to dance as well. Zane sat in his chair and laughed, watching him, thinking he made quite the Pied Piper: wherever he wove his magic, others would follow.

Davey then came over and yanked the umbrella out of the ground. Zane winced in the onslaught of sunlight as he’d taken off his glasses, but chuckled as Davey started twirling around, singing and dancing. He beckoned to Zane and Zane shook his head, holding up his hands. Davey pulled him to his feet, and after some futile reluctance, Zane danced under the umbrella with him.

While they were carrying on, a sudden joyous shout went up and everyone stopped. The first of the transports was trundling up the road.

Zane and Davey retook their seats, after Davey put the umbrella back in the ground. The others ran out to greet the transport.

“Isn’t it amazing?” Davey asked, breathless. He took a drink from his bottle. “This is what life is. It’s not pretending to be somebody in front of a camera, or where you live, or what you do to make money. This is life, out here in the sun, in the desert, singing and dancing.”

Zane smiled and then chuckled as a little girl leapt off the side of the truck into a man’s arms, squealing and laughing.

“Holy shit, look who it is!” Davey said and sat forward.

Zane squinted, shielding his eyes with his hand.

Unerringly elegant even in such stark surroundings, Cristiano had just hopped down off the transport. He looked around, and when he saw them he grinned and waved, then came toward them. He wore sunglasses, sleek black jeans, a clingy white t-shirt and sandals, a beautiful, refined thing, untouched by sun or dust.