MIKE HENNIGAN - 9, Revised
Copyright 2008, 2012 by Carl Mason
All rights reserved. Other than downloading one copy for strictly personal enjoyment, no part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for reviews, without the written permission of the author. However based on real events and places, "Mike Hennigan" is strictly fictional. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. As in real life, sexual themes unfold gradually. Comments on the story are appreciated and may be addressed to the author at email@example.com.
If you would like to read additional stories by this author, please turn to the "Authors/ Prolific Authors" link at the beginning of the Nifty Archive.
This story contains descriptions of sexual contact between males, both adults and teenagers. As such, it is homoerotic fiction designed for the personal enjoyment of legal, hopefully mature, adults. If you are not of legal age to read such material, if those in power and/or those whom you trust treat it as illegal, or if it would create unresolvable moral dilemmas in your life, please leave. Finally, remember that maturity generally demands safe sex.
(Revisiting Chapter 8)
[Leland Bash to Mike Hennigan:] "I wonder if you would consider working with me as my Personal Assistant for the summer ahead. I think I can show you a number of ways to get into the game during that time. If you still find yourself wanting CSU/Playa... well...I'll be talking to the Director of Admissions. You, on the other hand, will be able to tell yourself that you made one of the most important decisions of your life in an orderly manner rather than impulsively. Make sense?" (Pause.) "Do remember, Michael, that serving as my Personal Assistant is relatively safe. After all, however impressive your...gifts, they don't meet my requirements for ALL activities! Got it?" "Got it, sir, and thanks," Mike responded, blushing ever so slightly. "I'm grateful! May I get back to you in...say...forty-eight hours?"
(Continuing Our Story: New York, New York)
The two men, Michael Hennigan and Leland Bash - alike in so many aspects of their background...and even their dreams - sat together at a choice table in one of the finest restaurants in New York City. Raising his glass, the elder gentleman smiled and said, "To you on your twenty-first birthday, my young friend. May it be a time of great decisions in a magnificently successful life!" Nervously brushing a few fibers off the arm of his new Armani suit, his young colleague smiled, accepted the toast, and carefully attended to Bash's comments on wine lists and sommeliers. That evening they attended a performance of La Bohème at the Met. Even Michael had to admit that it was a fantastic musical moment. The next day found them at a penthouse cocktail party for those whose money was essential to the health of the film industry. In each case, he was introduced as Bash's Personal Assistant and as a young man who would undoubtedly be one of tomorrow's stars. (Given Bash's record of discoveries...and his influence in the industry, no one took this comment lightly.) Regardless of his age, he was treated with respect and afforded every courtesy. Indeed, to some extent, they competed with each other to see who could answer his questions most adequately - and with far greater honestly than one would find in most situations.
On their fourth evening in the Big Apple - after an exciting day in which Bash had shown his protege important sights that he had rarely heard about...and even more rarely read about - they attended a birthday party for Paul Norris. On their way to the host's beautiful old brownstone near Washington Square, Lee referred to the guest of honor as one of the most creative directors in the business. For reasons not mentioned to his protégé, Bash had to leave the party early. When he went to collect Mike, however, both Norris and his host, Roger Fels, absolutely insisted that he be left with them. When the party was finally over, they would see to it that he was returned to their hotel. Although Bash uttered a pro forma protest, he was in fact delighted that Mike wanted to stay. It was time for the cub to begin exploring beyond its parent!
Needless to say, the party went on well into the wee hours of the morning. In fact, when Paul finally left, he asked Mike if he would like to enjoy a final drink at his flat, not far to the west in the Village. Mike was on high. This guy was fascinating! For instance, in November he would begin filming a new documentary on the Revolutionary War Battle of Fort Washington in northern Manhattan. Most of the central actors, save one, were already hard at work. Unfortunately, he had yet to cast a young major who was Colonel Robert Magaw's second in command at the surrender of the Continental Army's last toehold on Manhattan. He would later die heroically on a British prison ship anchored in Wallabout Bay off the shore of Brooklyn. Would Hennigan be at all interested in that role?
Mike was staggered! Here was a route into the film industry that he hadn't considered, at least seriously. He was sure a hell of a lot better looking than Mel Gibson (The Patriot) or Russell Crowe (Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World), either one! He COULD succeed! Looking deeply into the bottle of Samuel Adams that he held in his hand, he grinned and looked over at Norris. "Can't see refusin'," he chuckled, "but why don't we give it a few hours to settle before we make it ironclad?" "You've got it, Muscles," Norris laughed and rose stiffly from the chair into which he had slumped.
"Mike, do you see that clock over by the red chair?" Paul continued. "I don't know about you, but I'm already out on my feet. There's a separate bedroom. Interested?" Again, Mike grinned widely and faked a loud snore. "Sounds good to me," he mumbled. Norris suddenly stopped, scratched his jaw, and added, "And say, Big Guy... If you are at all interested, we could kill two birds with the one stone." In a light, joking tone of voice, he said, "That is, we could stay warm on a brutally cold night...and conserve linens at the same time! I'd love to have you in my bed...if you feel the same way. It might even help nail down that job offer. I think everything you need is in the bathroom...over there" (and he pointed). "My room is the second door on the left." Without saying another word, Norris rapidly exited the room, leaving one frustrated young man gazing after him.
'Holy shit!' exploded Mike. 'Don't these people want to get to know each other...a little before they jump into the sack? Further, I don't like the way he promptly put a price tag on the job or simply expected me to follow his orders without question. Oh, sure, you can have a crack at the job you're drooling over...but only if you let me play in your crack first! More could always be demanded. Shit!' He paused in his stocktaking. 'But I want that job,' he added soulfully. 'God, I wish I had someone with whom I could talk confidentially... someone who knew what in hell he was doin'!' After sitting in his chair for another ten minutes or so, his head in his hands, he groaned in discouragement, finally mumbling, "Maybe I should at least take a look in the bathroom." Opening the door, he found a conservatively dressed young man sitting beside a massage table in a palatial bathroom.
"Good evening, sir; I'm Ernest, Mr. Norris' valet," he said in a pleasant, masculine voice. "He asked me to attend you and offer any help desired in cleaning up. For instance, at your request, I can remove any excess hair, provide a massage, give a gentle enema, draw your bath, and much more. May I serve you, sir?" His face a study in conflicted ideas and emotions, Mike said (to himself): 'Well, you've done it again, idiot! Didn't you learn anything about 'Personal Assistants'?' To Ernest he said, "Your master prefers smooth skin?" "Yes, sir, I dare say it's almost a fetish with him. Nevertheless, he prefers that his closer friends make their own decisions." (Pause.) "Very well, Ernest," Mike replied. "Do what's necessary."
In short order, Mike found that he had received a thorough, but exceedingly gentle enema, saw most of his body hair removed (almost before he had time to stretch out on the table), had stepped into a new "cyclonic" shower (more fun than a car wash!), and received a wondrous massage. Feeling completely refreshed, he found a toothbrush, paste, and comb for his use at the sink. Finished, he warmly thanked Ernest, who smiled gently and then said quietly and with great dignity, "Thank you, sir. If you will forgive me, please allow me to say that you have the finest physique I have ever seen. I hope that I shall have the privilege of serving you again. I do accompany the Master to California, by the way."
The young man briefly checked himself out as he paused momentarily in front of one of three great mirrors in the bathroom. 'My God,' he thought sarcastically. 'Looks like I'm beginning to resemble everything else I've come across in New York...the hotel, the wine, the penthouses, so many of the people. Top-drawer! Not a hair out of place (where there's a hair to be seen), teeth sparkly white, handsome beyond belief...on the outside. On the inside? I think I smell a rotting rodent!" He knew he had to decide.
Reaching Paul Norris' door, he knocked and heard a quiet invitation to enter. The room was stunning. Paul, already in bed, immediately placed the script he was reading on a side table and turned off the bedside lamp as his naked guest entered. No artificial light was needed. The gentle fire in what appeared to be a relatively small, townhouse fireplace...probably late 19th Century...cast moving light and shadows across everything in the room. He could hear Paul gasp as he sat upright in his bed. "Oh, man," he murmured softly. "You are so damned beautiful, Michael Hennigan. I think my evaluation of Classic Greek statuary has just fallen a bit. In the future, whenever I wish to recall the perfect physique of the mature male, I'll think of you...you but twenty-one years old as of two nights ago." Striking a pose as he sat up in bed, he continued dramatically, "Oh, Apollo, paragon of youth and beauty, move aside! You are in the presence of a new...a higher deity. Stand where you are, Michael. It is right and proper that I come to you." Mike stood where he was, but a somewhat irreverent thought flashed across his mind. Namely, if this kind of talk is what going to Harvard does to you, he'd rather Cal State!
Paul smoothly rose from his bed, nude as was his guest. Making his way across the room, he folded Michael into his arms and fell into a deep, passionate kiss. Finally coming up for air, he stood back and minutely examined Mike from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet - and everything in between! Almost giggling in joy - demonstrably unable to keep his hands off the young man, even before he got him into bed - he began sensually touching his "paragon of youth and beauty". In sheer delight, his hands played over the lad's hefty shoulders and pecs, his brawny arms, and the way in which his wide shoulders and heavily muscled back tapered down to a waist of perhaps 28-inches. His trembling fingers explored those gloriously developed lower belly muscles (into which he damned well intended to fight his way that very night - or what was left of it), the long length of muscular tubing that was beginning to show some promise of what was to come, the pale, swinging scrotum that enhanced the treasure that lay in its depths. Ever confident of his skills, Paul noticed the early signs of arousal within his latest conquest, signs that reaffirmed his belief that despite his age, he hadn't lost a step! In truth, as they reached the bed, Norris was already so involved that the two young men tripped and fell across the bed.
A couple of hours later, Mike awoke abruptly. Next to him, Paul's regular snoring gave proof that he was dead to the world. Damn! He felt like shit! His mouth and throat were still clogged with thick, viscous fluids; his sweaty body stank of bodily fluids that were already turning rancid; his head pounded from too damned much alcohol. Worse, far worse, he realized that his face was wet with tears...and disgust. Whatever Norris had done to him, he had done worse. The pure and simple truth was that he had sold himself, and he felt cheap...and dirty...and used. (Using yourself is ever so much worse than being used by someone else!) He quietly got out of bed, navigated his way to the hall door by the light of still-glowing coals in the fireplace, and found his clothes. The early morning air wasn't very fresh, but at least it was...honest. He caught a taxi before he had walked a block towards Broadway.
(From the Big Apple to Big Bear)
The breakfast conversation with Lee Bash was...frank, but not unfriendly. Mike deeply appreciated his help, but he was unwilling to be used as a sexual toy. Nor, given his goals, was service as a "Personal Assistant" possible. If this meant at his age that careers in the film industry were simply not going to open to him, then so be it. Was there any possibility whatsoever that Bash would simply help him gain admission to Cal State, Playa?
After a short time during which Lee finished his business in the Big Apple, they returned to Southern California. Several days later, after completing a battery of tests and interviews, he joined Lee in the office of the University's Director of Admissions. That gentleman was frank. Cal State was always looking for young people such as Michael Hennigan. Serving young people like him was one of the goals for which the CSU System had been founded. On the other hand, it had no desire to admit him and then have him quickly fail due to a lack of foundational knowledge and/or skills. Further, he had indicated that he was interested in one of their most competitive programs, Cinematography. Rather than enrolling in a community college for a year or two, Mr. Bash, a trusted advisor, had suggested an alternative, an alternative that he would personally fund. Would he be willing to serve an "internship" of one year during which time he would receive help in developing what was needed? Light work at the University's Alumni Camp at Big Bear Lake in the San Bernardino Mountains, about 90 miles northeast of the Los Angeles basin, would cover his expenses. The University would provide a tutor. If at the end of that period his tutor said he was ready, he would be admitted to CSU, Playa de Oro, without further question.
The three men looked at each other, exhaled, and grinned. Without further discussion, they knew they had a plan.
(To Be Continued)