The Auteur

The Auteur

by Ward Wood

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781440163555
Publisher: iUniverse, Incorporated
Publication date: 10/02/2009
Pages: 192
Product dimensions: 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.44(d)

About the Author

Award-winning writer Ward Wood likes to travel and cook and often writes about both. He spent three years researching various aspects of this book and then had the luck to make friends with people in the industry. The Auteur is his twelfth novel.

Read an Excerpt

The Auteur


By Ward Wood

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2009 Ward Wood
All right reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-4401-6355-5


Chapter One

"The Auteur"

It wasn't that he didn't like coming to a new place, he'd grown used to it after the tenth, and learned to enjoy it after the fourteenth, but this was twenty, and it was a milestone, and it just seemed different. He put the smile on his face he had become accomplished at doing, the smile that charmed nearly a hundred teachers in those twenty states into smiling back and giving him reasonable grades and not hassling him into being overly accountable for the work he missed. That smile, with the pale whiteness of his skin and those dark, dark eyelashes almost fluttering over bright blue pupils and the military burnish of his nearly black hair gave him a youthful innocence that said 'sweet.' He played that card, too, when he had to, when his father had a king and a queen on the table and he had a jack and needed to come up with an ace. He opened those baby blues wide, fluttered the long black lashes, radiated that smile and sweetness read like a billboard. He usually avoided trouble. He hoped it worked today. Today was the first day of number twenty.

He looked around the room and regretted coming in early. It was a pretty regular room: chrome desks with plastic, wood grained tops. He turned on his S100 and looked through the eye piece. HighDefinition video was his only hobby. Sometimes he thought he wanted to be a voyeur but that would mean standing on the sideline. He really liked to be out in the middle of things, but looking at them through the Canon eyepiece. The door opened and he heard someone come in. He flipped the camera off and put it back in its case. When he turned around there was a canvas belt standing in front of his desk with a plain metal buckle. He looked up and his smile turned on.

It was a comparison and contrast essay. The one in the desk had dark hair, the one standing was lighter, nearly brown. Sitting was clean and sleek; standing needed a shave, a bit frayed. Polo, Dockers, thongs; frayed Grateful Dead tee shirt, Pooka shells, jeans with the knee gone and well worn tennis shoes, his canvas belt hung a good foot below his waist. Oh, yes, and standing was a study in mystery, from the slight enigma of his almost smile to the darkened view of the gold rimmed Aviators, while sitting could not have been more open. The truth? There was no mystery in standing and there was a world of ambiguity behind the Ace of Spades.

"I'm gonna sit behind you," the stander said. "I don't like my picture taken unless I get paid for it." He stepped around the desk and slipped into the chair behind. After a lengthy pause filled with a staggering amount of concentration given over to who should speak and what should be said, the stander-now-sitting continued with, "Name's Cody."

"Scott," the smiler said, turning, "I'm new."

"Figured that," Cody responded, "I'm clairvoyant."

Scott stifled a chuckle and led him on, "What else do you know?"

"Army brat?" then "Yeah, army brat. Don't drink. Don't sunbathe. Your folks know you smoke dope?"

The smile came back. "Twenty schools today. Don't like the taste of beer. I burn too easily. And, how do you know I smoke?"

"Cause you got the sign of the devil weed in that smile." Then, just for an instant Cody responded to Scott's smile with one of his own. His teeth were slightly crooked; his grin was slightly off center, and, strangely enough, the effect was just as pronounced. It did not read innocence; it read 'edgy'; it read 'good times.' "I'll meet you in the North Parking Lot after class."

"I've got calculus after this period."

"Not on your twentieth. Today, we celebrate." And the bell rang and the room filled and for the next fifty-six minutes there was work.

"Nice," Cody said as he crawled into Scott's Jeep Cherokee. Scott put his book bag into the back seat and put the camera in the front between them. "Spoiled must pay good."

"It doesn't." Scott put the key into the ignition. "Staying out of trouble pays better."

"Wouldn't know about that." Cody leaned into the soft seat and lifted his hand up behind his head. The soft hair under his arm made a warm nest in the sleeve of his tee shirt and his eyes remained hidden as he turned to watch Scott steer toward the exit from the North Parking Lot.

"Where are we going?"

"My place. Turn right and then right and head toward North Beach Road. You know where that is?"

"Yes," Scott accelerated and began moving away from the school. Cody turned on the radio and quickly found a channel with a thumping bass. He turned the sound down enough so he could hear Scott and asked, "You the only Boy Scout in your family?"

"Just me. If this is twenty, where was one?"

"Vermont."

"Cold up there," Cody commented.

"Not too bad."

"Can't swim bare-assed in Vermont," the edge of Cody's mouth tilted up.

"Can't swim bare-assed here."

"If you know the right pools, you can. Or the right beaches." The enigma returned, full force. "Or bathtubs." He turned to look out the window. "Turn left on Beach Front Road."

"What about Hot Tubs?"

Cody didn't answer. "Third house down. Just pull in front. There's no one home this time of day." Scott pulled into the drive of a ranch style adobe with a tile roof. Two huge palms framed the entrance drive and a tile paved walkway led past a fountain up to stone steps set against a cluster of bougainvillea. He stopped the Cherokee and waited until Cody opened his door and stepped out. "C'mon."

Scott picked up the Canon and followed him up the walkway and into the front door. He had expected an interior to be on the scale of the exterior, but there were hardly any furnishings at all. A sofa and a coffee table, a couple of side chairs, one or two lamps, scattered ashtrays in the living room, no furniture at all in the dining room except for a dozen or so cardboard boxes stacked neatly in one corner, the house appeared occupied by people who chose to live austerely because they were really not interested in accumulating more than life required.

"This way," and Cody opened a sliding glass door and stepped outside on a flagstone patio. The back of the house was a different story. The outdoor kitchen had a grill, a barbecue, two small refrigerators under a marble topped bar. The pool was huge and the lawn was well groomed and surrounded by clusters of chairs and tables. It looked arranged for an immediate party of an indeterminate number of people.

"Wow," Scott said and turned to look at the amazing array of barware and glassware, "your folks like to party."

"Not really," Cody said, and Scott turned back to see him, bare assed and lighting a joint, leaning back on a brown striped chaise the size of a Volkswagen, "now you can take my picture."

"Whose place is it?"

"Max's."

"Who is Max?"

"You'll meet him"

"Are you always this difficult to get information out of?"

"Make me a drink."

"I probably don't know how."

"You look for a bottle that says Absolut. It's in the freezer. You pour me a little glass and try to get it to me before it gets hotter than the pool water. If you can, you get a hit off this joint." Cody slid his legs apart.

Scott started toward the bar. "Was that meant to be a pun or a double entendre?"

"Same thing."

Scott thought about it a minute; the smile returned, "Not really. A pun is funny; a double entendre is not always." He lifted the Absolut bottle out of the little freezer, opened it and pulled a shot glass off the shelf.

"Bigger."

"The glass or the joint?" Scott's smile was almost as enigmatic as Cody's.

Cody slid his hand down his thigh. "Has to be the glass."

Scott took a slightly larger wine glass from the shelf, blew some dust from it, poured it full of vodka, screwed the cap back on the bottle, returned it to the freezer, and carried the glass to Cody.

"Sit down." Cody took the glass, downed the contents and scrunched his face in the manner of one who had just swallowed razor blades. "Shit," he said, and set the glass on the flagstone beneath the chaise.

"If it causes you so much pain, why do you drink it?"

"The secret is not to mind the pain."

"What?"

"Something I heard in a movie once." Scott sat in silence. "Goddamn, for an auteur, you don't know much about anything. A big screen with pictures flashed on it. You sit in the dark and - "

"What's an auteur?"

"Somebody who can do it all. That's an auteur. Somebody like Hitchcock. Truffaut, Bergman, Antonioni ... Tarantino?"

"Kill Bill."

"Yes."

"Why am I an auteur?"

"Your camera. You're a producer, director - I assume an actor - a writer. That makes you an auteur."

Scott laughed; it was as natural and relaxed as his clothes. He turned and leaned back against the Volkswagen chaise next to Cody. He kicked off his thongs and folded his arms across his chest. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Cody cup his balls with his right hand and lift his arm up and put his left hand behind his head. The smell of Cody's deodorant was sharp and basic like Right Guard or Gillette. Scott closed his eyes and soaked up the cool breeze and the gentle shade of the overhead palms and the sweetness of the rhododendron and azalea. He felt Cody's nudge and took the joint and inhaled deeply. It was good and sweet like the flowers and had bite like the Right Guard and a mystery like Cody's smile and after a couple of additional hits he slipped into a comfortable sleep.

When he awoke there was a stir around his thighs and he was warm because the sun had moved overhead and he felt completely at ease. He opened his eyes and realized he was pinned to the chaise because Cody now sat astraddle his lap, facing him with the S100 aimed at Scott's face. The Aviators had moved up and onto Cody's forehead and it was now quite obvious that his eyes were light brown and his gaze intense. "I thought I was the auteur?"

"You are. I'm going to be your star." Cody put the camera down beside Scott's thigh.

"Can you act?" Scott asked with the slightest touch of mockery.

"I'm the most versatile person you'll ever meet."

Scott took the camera, opened the eye piece, flipped on the switch and focused on Cody. "Prove it."

The enigma flashed for only a second, followed by hardness, then a look that would only come between them at moments like this, a look only they would recognize. Cody slid down along Scott's legs until he was kneeling at the end of the chaise. He ran his hands gently over the slender feet, massaging them carefully; he separated the toes and pushed firmly into the arches. Using his thumbs he pressed and rubbed, moving the arch until Scott sighed and forced his foot against the firm grasp.

Through the eyepiece Scott saw Cody lift his right foot up and blow his breath across the toes. His breath felt warm, not hot. It didn't tickle. It just caressed, like dipping your toes in a warm bath. He was detached. He was watching someone else. He was watching Cody and someone else's foot.

Cody took the stranger's foot and kissed the ball of it. He kissed and licked it and traced the arch to the base of the big toe with his tongue. Then he looked over the top of his Aviators and quietly put his lips around the big toe. His tongue flicked up and down the underside of the toe as his lips gently sucked and moved up and down, up and down. The other foot was lifted up and the same attention was given it. Scott zoomed in and recorded Cody's mouth in close up, his lips tight, his cheeks hollow, his eyes looking directly into the lens, into Scott's gaze.

Cody came up over the edge of the chaise, one hand on each side of the Dockers, up, almost feral; he crept, until he reached Scott's face. "When you were a baby did you suck your toes?"

Scott put the camera down, "I don't know."

"You missed a wonderful taste. Let me show you." He brushed his tongue across Scott's lower lip and slipped it between them. Scott opened his mouth wider and Cody moved in turning his head to press deeper. Their tongues connected and joined and Scott's teeth came down onto Cody's upper lip and gently nibbled. Again they pressed, and their mouths opened and their tongues explored and Scott breathed in and tasted the warmth of Cody and the hint of the Absolut and he felt Cody inhale and felt the power of him suck the breath from his body. For the first time he shuddered and Scott surrendered. It wasn't an "I am conquered surrender." It was an "I will follow surrender," and Cody lifted the navy blue Polo shirt over the boy's head and dropped it to the side. His lips barely left Scott's as he took the boy's neck and pulled it forward and up; his left hand freeing him from the back of the chaise, he reached down with his right hand and undid the Dockers. Still holding Scott's mouth captive, he rose to his knees and pulled the trousers and underalls free in one swift motion. They fell beside the chaise

Almost with a shout, his dick as hard as it had been in weeks, Cody fell back on his heels and pulled Scott down, forcing his surprised face into his crotch. Without realizing what he was doing, Scott took it into his mouth, instinctively pulling back his teeth and tightening his lips around the tip and sliding his tongue down, absorbing the saltiness. He felt Cody's hand press firmly against the back of his neck and the shaft slip deeper into his mouth and press against the back of his throat. At first he thought he was going to gag; his instinct was to pull away, but he didn't; that wonderful hand held firm and he sucked. He felt his cheeks tighten and the hand released and he slid his mouth up and along the veins until once again his tongue ran along the tip. He felt the tiny slit and gently slipped the tip of his tongue along it. Cody gasped and groaned and Scott took both his hands and grabbed the smooth, muscular thighs in front of his face and pulled them to him and he continued to slide up and down. Suddenly he changed the position of his head, turning it from right to left and again Cody groaned, this time pushing him back against the chaise and falling forward.

Cody kissed each of Scott's nipples, nibbling at the small bumps until they were as hard as rocks and sucking until they were swollen. He lowered his head to the stomach and tickled the boy's naval with his tongue; he stared for a moment at the boy's rock hard erection, at its smoothness, the lack of veins, at the symmetrical tip. He plunged around it and felt Scott tremble. With his thumb and index finger he gripped the base of the cock and slowed down the orgasm. He moved his tongue around the bulbous tip and felt it swell. It wasn't time yet; he wanted more. He slipped his face down and nibbled around the underside of the dick, pulling one of the balls into his mouth, pinching harder as Scott cried out, "Please."

"I'm gonna let you cum," Cody whispered, "and then you're going to rest. 'Cause I'm not finished." He released his thumb and again took the swollen bulb into his mouth, sucking deep and hard, violently plunging the full shaft into his throat. He felt Scott's tight abdomen roll and tremble and his erection exploded in the back of Cody's throat. A series of small sighs and a low moan seemed to come from deep inside the boy and he arched his back and thrust his hips forward. His head fell back against the chaise and, in a flash, Cody lay on top of him, Scott's arms slipped up and his hands pulled the other's mouth to his.

"I can taste everything," Scott whispered. "Absolut, pot, me, you ... us." They slept like that for nearly an hour: with the warm sun and the cool breeze drying the hair and spit and eyelashes into a tangled mass.

(Continues...)



Excerpted from The Auteur by Ward Wood Copyright © 2009 by Ward Wood. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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