I was working on the film crew for Desert Winds 2 which was filming on location in Gold Butte National Monument, Nevada, in the sandstone region known as Little Finland. I was a gaffer by trade and my name has sped across the end credit roll of many films. If you watched any one of my films many to the very end you’d see “Lead Gaffer: Derek Montahue”. But that hardly happens anymore; people don’t see my name. Streaming companies rarely show end credits on their productions. Any film shown on TV that even has end credits, the credits are blasted through at 5x speed in a small frame while they run ads of upcoming shows adjacent to the credits. Opening credits are dictated by the unions and sometimes the star cast of a production, but the end credits are normally used as a “perk” by the producers to attract talent. The unions could give a shit about the end credits. If you’re a great gaffer like me, you want a credit in the movie, because that’s solid barter power for higher paid gigs on future productions. That’s tangible pay dirt.
“Oh yes, Mister Montahue, we really loved the lighting you did for the Misfits film. Your work is brilliant. How would you like to work on Desert Winds 2?”
I was a gaffer’s gaffer. Photography, and especially motion photography, is all about capturing light. I create and mold the light.
It was sunset and a wrap for the day. We didn’t have any night shooting scheduled on that Friday night, so the cast and crew were hightailing it back to their hotel rooms in Mesquite, which is about 80 miles northeast of Vegas. Las Vegas was strictly off-limits for our crew, because it was not a place you would hang out for a few hours and back to work at 5:00 AM the next morning. We had to be ready to shoot by first light, which according to my phone app was 6:33 am. Sunrise at 6:59 am.
A few of us had trailers to sleep in at the shooting location. We could avoid the commute and watch the equipment while sipping bourbon in the moonlight.
The AD (Assistant Director) asked the DP (Director of Photography) and I to hang back and scout for night shooting locations on Saturday. The blue hour at the end of day was the best time to scout, and to shoot, since we could see the fading glow of the sun on the horizon. The sun waited for nobody and you had minutes and seconds of critical time to get the frames. If it was missed, it would be 24 hours for a do-over. The film financiers were tight with money and demanded Desert Winds 2 wrapped in 20 days. Normally it takes 23 to 28 days to shoot a feature length film, and every day costing them tens of thousands of dollars.
For that reason, many Western films were once shot in Italy, hence the term “Spaghetti Western”, because there were locations there with a similar backdrop to the American Wild West, and most of the cast and crew took little money. Many were so excited about being part of a Hollywood production they would even work for credits only. Bragging rights. The film companies could send a one or a few known actors over there to shack up for six months and produce half-a-dozen films for nearly pure profit. If you watched those closely you see that almost all the minor and background actors were dubbed in post, because they didn’t speak English.
Our film was financed by a dot com group and they seemed to behave like insanely powerful tough-guys. Being artificially cheap inflated their egos. There was a rivalry between Hollywood and Silicon Valley, the dot-commers were the new brat kids trying to “disrupt” the firm grip of Hollywood.
The DP and I hopped in the Jeep and he drove us into the valley of red top sandstone cliffs. The dusty red land contrasted perfectly with the blue horizon. The features were beautiful, yet looked like ruins from an ancient alien civilization, evacuated and abandoned after a war of mass destruction. The film Star Blasters 5 was filmed there, with Greta Jamison hopping from cliff to cliff in simulated low-gravity while laser-blasting giant space insects. But we were making a Western-style romance film.
“Check out that cool rock bridge formation, Derek. Let’s get out and take a look.”
He stopped the Jeep and we jumped out onto the dusty path. I had the feeling we were on the surface of Mars, and I wondered if maybe there were small grassy spots like Earth on Mars. Rich guys wanted to move to Mars for some reason.
This place was named “Devil’s Fire” because the red rocks appeared to be on fire.
Brandon was scoping out the shots he wanted. “We definitely need drone footage around here. Let’s climb up there and look around.”
We made our way up to the top of the bridge. I turned and didn’t see Brandon anywhere. The sun was gone but the moon was nearly full and shined bright.
“Brandon!”
Did he fall? I didn’t hear him fall. We climbed up closely together. The Jeep hadn’t budged.
“Bran-don! Hey dude, were are you?”
I noticed the shape of a person farther down the bridge. How the hell Brandon got that far away from me I couldn’t figure out. I replayed the thoughts in my mind; maybe my mind had played tricks on me.
“There you are Brandon. I see you. Coming your way.”
I walked across the bridge toward Brandon. He hadn’t replied which was unsettling. Maybe he couldn’t hear me, or I couldn’t hear him. He was just standing there motionless. What was he doing?
As I approached it became clear that this person was not Brandon. I slowed my approach about ten feet away, when I realized this person was a woman. Staring at me.
“Who are…”
I stopped. I could not speak. It was a nightmare and I tried to yell and wake myself up, but the words wouldn’t come out, as if my head was wrapped up in cotton balls and duct tape and I was mute. I could feel myself trying to yell, and I felt my chest trying to push out a sound, but I was stuck on pause.
I could not take my eyes away from the woman. She didn’t flinch. I was fixed on her; her pheromones or aura or psychic energy had grabbed hold of me and she had my complete attention. I had forgotten all about Brandon. He did not exist in that world.
October 3, 1847. Williamsburg, Virginia. I was driving her in my carriage. The horse hooves clapped on the pebble drive. We came to a clearing and a string quartet was performing for anyone who passed by. Thunder cracked through the music and it started to rain. I offered to stop and pull out my umbrella and she motioned me over to a path turning into the woods. Her blouse was soaked and I could see her dark areola and nipples contrasted through her thin wet veil. The sight of her breasts aroused me. Droplets of rain trickled over her skin rolled in between her breasts. When she unzipped my trousers and slid her hand inside to grab hold of my cock, I was already getting hard. She gently stroked my cock while gazing into my eyes. There were no words exchanged — only looks. She unbuckled my belt and popped the button on my trousers. As she stood up on the carriage, I slid my trousers down to my knees. The rain pitter-pattered on my cock. She straddled me and I slid my finger into her pussy and felt between her labia. I pulled out a finger dipped of honey and tasted her. Her mouth opened slowly and she made a slight gasp.
Her eyes were locked on mine as she spread her lips and slid her body onto my erection. She put her hand on the back of my neck and started to rock and glide, maneuvering her hips at their joints without moving her upper body, and made slow twerked movements as she rode me. From her lips, a whisper: “don’t cum inside me,” into my ear as she picked up speed and galloped on my cock even harder. She came as she was bouncing on me full speed and let out a moan that echoed through the forest. It was indeed difficult but I had obeyed her command. She climbed off me and knelt upon the carriage bench, then put her lips on my cock, and licked around my throbbing cock head slowly. I could feel myself edge closer to cumming in her mouth. She stopped just as I was about to cum, momentarily pulled away and whispered again, “don’t cum inside me.”
My mind was being programmed by a Vegas dealer who was shuffling a deck of cards representing my queue of thoughts. The slapping of the cards down onto the deck was hypnotic and went on much longer than I think it should. Two seconds, right? It was taking minutes, maybe hours — and there were ten or a hundred or a thousand or even a million decks shuffled all at once. A thousand copies of the dealer’s human form, shuffling cards in unison. When I laser-focused and concentrated, I retarded the shuffling motion. All the dealers moved in slow motion. I zoomed around on a deck of the cards and realized they were not traditional French four-suited decks, but multiple suits. Eagles, Crowns, Stars, Moons, Planets, and an Independence Day parade. An army of 10,000 bicycles with cards taped in the wheel spokes. The card slapping sound resumed normal playback speed and amplified and became deafening hypercasusis. I realized each individual card represented an experience in my mind, but new cards — new memories — were being inserted into all the shuffles. These were new memories of her.
She put her mouth back on my cock and went deeper, sliding all the way down my shaft. She went full deep-throat on my cock and took me all the way in. I could feel the head of my cock become thicker and engorged inside her mouth. My glans penis rubbing against the soft wall in the back of her throat. She sucked me so hard, I could feel her sucking the cum out of my balls. I was getting close to cumming and told her. But she did not stop. I reached the point of no return and climaxed my hot load down her throat. She swallowed it all down and pulled her face off of me, looked up with a serious scowl then smacked my face, splattering water of my face into the rain. Raindrops met raindrops. “I told you. Don’t cum inside me.”
March 15, 1967. New York City. The Ides of March. Her and I were in Kelley’s Diner sharing a plate of food and a pack of cigarettes after seeing Jay Colantone sing at JP’s Cave in the village. She slid a foot out of her heels and arched her leg up, pushed her toes deep into my balls and blew cigarette smoke in my face. When a woman blew smoke in your face that meant she wanted to fuck you. My erection grew solid in my pants. She took another puff and pressed her foot deeper into me. I left a five-dollar bill on the table to cover the bill and took her hand and led her out of the diner. I wanted to fuck this woman and we were miles from any convenient place. I couldn’t wait. I pressed her up against a parked Buick Riviera and slid my hand up her skirt. She wasn’t wearing panties and her pussy was wet. I found her clit and softly rubbed it. The clit was to be treated like an egg yolk. A delicate touch was needed. If you pushed too hard it would rupture. She unzipped my pants and pulled my cock out into her hands and stroked me. I put a hand on each leg and pulled her up against the car, spreading her legs and opening her up to receive my cock. I thrust inside her and fucked her in public. She tilted her head back and moaned loudly when I exploded my cum inside her pussy. Dogs in the neighborhood barked at her moans. They were cheering her on.
June 37, 2917. No Idea, Unknown. A sexual encounter I could neither comprehend nor explain. Save that for a science fiction story.
December 18, 2007. San Francisco, California. I had a photo shoot at the Armory on Mission Street, for a four page BDSM fetish spread advertising horse crops in Modern Erections Magazine. The Armory was a stone castle in an upscale urban backdrop of glass-window high-rises. The building was a remnant of warring history. The insides of the Armory were coarse stone well-suited to be used as a dungeon, and I often booked that location for my erotic gigs.
She was my commercial model and showed up wearing a spiked collar, nipple clamps with chains connected to her garters and translucent crotch-hole black licorice Candypants. I could smell the scent of miscible anise and her pussy in the air. The pops of my Speedotrons strobe-firing synced our souls in a titillating sexual rhythm. But we were professionals and avoided the temptation. Or maybe just I. I had always worked with a strict no-touch policy and models respected me for it.
February 13, 1973. Chicago, Illinois. She was my wife, and we went to an appointment to see the sex therapist. I sat on one big blue fluffy armchair and she sat in another, opposed to me on the other side of a small round coffee table. Doctor Parnella sat in another chair positioned as a third spoke around the table. We were meditating to the motion of Newton’s cradle on the table. The click-click-click of the stainless steel balls rocking and distributing inertia had a calming effect. Doctor Parnella was up on all the psycho trends from the East, West, North and South.
The doctor began explaining my wife’s condition.
“Your wife has Dyspareunia, which causes painful intercourse.
“I prefer to start with a non-medication treatment. We can try desensitization therapy. There are vaginal relaxation exercises that can decrease her pain. Pavlovian conditioning can cause her to better respond to your stimulus.
“What makes your wife’s pussy hot and wet is blood pressed through the capillaries of her vulva. With the bio-availability of nitric oxide in her pelvic wall, the blood becomes ultra-filtered as it passes through her skin, becoming mostly a translucent liquid that lubricates her. Many have believed the pussy lubricant came from glands but that’s no longer the medical opinion.
“First, ask your wife to masturbate for you, to show you how she prefers to be touched. The request needs to come from you.”
I asked her to masturbate for me. Honey do. She unbuttoned her jeans and pulled them to her thighs and slid her hand inside her French mesh panties. Slowly she masturbated in front of the doctor and I, taking her time. We watched as slowly rubbed her clit. She parted her ruby painted lips and sucked on her middle finger painted with glossy red nail polish. Her head nodded back as she climaxed and let out a moan.
December 18, 2007. San Francisco, California. We finished all the poses I had planned, then she ordered me to stand facing the St. Andrews Cross. That was unexpected but I was game. She strapped my arms to the opposing posts of the cross, and put on a strap-on and vampire gloves. The crimson candles I had placed around the room had burnt three-quarters. They were visually stunning in photographs: the red candles against the boiled linseed oil polished dark cherry wood of the furnishings, the yellow and orange hues from the flickering glow of the flames. Wax dripped over the pedestals and pillars and pooled onto the floor. Mood music I had spinning on the turntable had concluded, replaced by the repeated mechanical static and clicking of the needle rolling to the end of the groove and leaping back a few revolutions of the track.
The model lowered behind me and attached ball stretcher weights. She stood up and removed one nipple clamp from her breast, then the other, and clamped them down hard on each of my nipples.
She slid her hot rod deep inside my asshole. It was too big for me to take in — I was an anal virgin — but my wince and grimace and yelp didn’t cause her a moment of hesitation. I felt intense pain as she expanded, stretched and ripped my anus. I started whimpering and crying and couldn’t take it anymore but I had no choice. Despite my twinging she seemed determined to rupture my bowels. As she was pumping in and out of my ass she reached around my waist and squeezed my balls hard, then jacked me off. Vampire gloves had tiny metal spikes poking out that could shred skin into a bloody mess. My body was glazed with pituitary endorphins released by fight-or-flight human instinct.
My brain was receiving a serious load of new data. An entire universe of alternate experiences were flowing into my mind, that woman and I were together — we were partners and bits and pieces of our lifetimes together were formulating inside me. Soul mates. Fuck mates. Lovers. Was that all real? What is reality? I didn’t recognize her on the bridge yet these foreign memories filling my mind seemed real. I was off plane. Off the plane of reality.
I felt my body temperature rising. It was heat from her body arousing me. She was in heat. I could feel her wetness in my abdomen, in my groin, and on my cock. It felt as the tingling heat of sex the first time. Maybe it was a wet dream and I was about to cream in my underwear. But I felt like I had just cum fifty times. A hundred times. A thousand times. Inside her pussy. In her mouth, in her ass. On her face. On her belly. Between her breasts and on her neck. Pleasure and pain.
The moon and the stars. The moon and the stars began to dim and spin and I lost consciousness.
I came to in a cave. I heard the bubbling sound of a stream nearby. A small fire glowed dancing shadows on the cave walls. She was sucking me off, her soft lips moving very slowly around my cock head. Waking to a blow job was one of the finest experiences a man could have. It was to be savored. She was satisfied with my erection and looked up at me.
“Mastinca sunka anunkasan igmuwatogla”
I had not heard such a spoken language.
The copper-skinned woman got on her hands and knees and motioned to her ass. I fell in love with her.
“Mastinca sunka anunkasan igmuwatogla”
I came around behind her and slid my hand softly against her wet pussy, parted her lips and slid my finger against her clit.
I slid my cock into her and fucked her doggy style. Our bodies were dripping in sweat. I started slow and built-up speed until I came inside her. Moaning echoed through the cave.
When dogs mate the male’s balls get stuck inside the bitch, and they are stuck inside until she’s satisfied and pulls off. It’s a quite painful experience for a man dog.
She led me down deeper into the cave were there were several women waiting. They bathed and fed me. I didn’t have to raise a hand to do anything. I did not understand their language nor did they mine, but it became clear to me they had found their stud. She was the scout of the woman cult. A cave full of women wanting to get pregnant and reproduce. They pampered and caressed every inch of my cock, charming it to erection and ejaculation over and over. I was in that cave for a month with them, being pampered, fed, bathed and milked for my cum. The women took turns having my cum shot deep inside their pussy. It seemed that when they were all in agreement each woman was pregnant, the Mastinca woman led me to the opening of the cave and shoved me out, off on my own. There was no door to slam behind me, but she would have done it. I couldn’t be gone quick enough.
Despite all the memories I had of the woman — and all the joyous fucking — I still did not know her name.
The moonlight was bright. I saw a silhouette of a person away in the dark and walked toward it. As I was closer, I realized it was Brandon. He spotted me coming.
“Derek, I finally found you. Where did you wander off to? It’s nearly nine-thirty and we should head back to camp. I think this spot is going to work. First drink is on you.”
I wasn’t sure where I had gone, really. I wondered if I would see her tomorrow.