The King Of Character Actors
Chapter Five: The Trailer Temptation
Featuring Actor Charles Durning
In the sticky heat of late August 1991, the set of Evening Shade buzzed with the controlled chaos of filming the Season 2 premiere, the crew transforming the Angeles National Forest near LA into the misty woodlands of fictional Arkansas. Young Jamie Nichols, a 24-year-old makeup artist fresh on the job with a lean, 6-foot lanky frame, fair skin, and piercing green eyes, navigated the flurry of activity like a ghost in the machine. His job today was intimate: preparing Charles Durning, the 68-year-old character actor, for his first nude scene. Charlie—at 5’8” with a stocky, roly-poly build, broad-chested and barrel-like, heavyset from years of Broadway buffets—carried a rugged, lived-in charisma that made him magnetic. His cherubic mouth that spun yarns with profane tenderness.
The makeup trailer was a cocoon of warmth, the air heavy with the scent of cosmetics, sweat, and unspoken anticipation. Jamie stood by the counter, organizing brushes, when Charlie sauntered in, his wide mouth curling into a sly smile that crinkled his laugh lines.
“Hey, kid,” Charlie rumbled, his gravelly voice laced with playful menace and that upstate twang—thick as Hudson fog. “Ready to paint this old warhorse pretty for my big reveal? Hell, at my age, it ain’t vanity—it’s survival.”
Jamie’s pulse quickened, but he flashed a grin, keeping it professional.
“Just gotta get you camera-ready, Mr. Durning.”
His sharp green eyes flicked over Charlie’s robust frame—broad shoulders straining his shirt, ruddy age-lined skin, that slight belly from years of good whiskey and better family feasts.
“Call me Charlie,” he said, winking those twinkling blues as he began unbuttoning his shirt with callused fingers. “Since you’re about to see more of me than my confessor back in Highland Falls.”
Jamie swallowed hard, watching Charlie strip with unselfconscious ease, the shirt whispering to the floor to reveal a thick torso sparsely dusted with silver-gray hair, sagging pecs tipped with small pink nipples, and those jagged scars crisscrossing his fair skin like a roadmap of foxholes and fury. Charlie kicked off his scuffed shoes, then dropped his trousers and briefs in one swift motion, the fabric pooling at his ankles. Jamie’s breath caught. Charlie’s thick, uncut 8-inch cock hung heavy between his sturdy thighs, light shaft nestled in a wiry nest of gray pubic hair, the broad rosy head hooded shyly in foreskin. His pendulous balls, plump and loose in their fair sturdy sack, glistened faintly with the day’s sweat, swaying as he shifted his weight on those thick legs. The sight sent a jolt through Jamie, his own 9-inch cut cock twitching to life in his jeans, straining against the denim.
“Here’s your wardrobe,” Jamie said, voice cracking slightly as he handed over a flesh-colored modesty pouch with clear straps—barely a whisper of fabric, more suggestion than shield.
Charlie chuckled, a deep, throaty rumble that vibrated the trailer’s thin walls like distant artillery. He stepped into the jockstrap, grunting as he adjusted it with a profane tug, the thin material clinging obscenely to his bulge, outlining every vein of his thickening dick and the heavy curve of his pendulous balls. Jamie’s eyes locked on it, unable to look away, his fair skin flushing hot.
“Need a closer look?” Charlie teased, catching the stare with those bushy-browed blues glinting mischief. His cherubic mouth twisted in a smirk, that strong jaw set with jovial challenge. “Or you just admirin’ the scenery?”
Jamie’s cheeks burned, but emboldened by the heat and the actor’s gruff charm, he dropped to his knees in front of Durning, the wooden floor creaking under his lanky frame, Charlie’s cock and giant nuts staring him in the face like forbidden fruit.
“Just makin’ sure it fits right,” he said, his tone half-joking, half-hungry. His fingers brushed the jockstrap, grazing the warm, firm outline of Charlie’s shaft, then cupping the pendulous sack—feeling the weighty orbs shift and warm his palm like heated stones. It twitched under his touch, swelling thicker against the fabric. Jamie’s heart pounded as he let his hand linger, then gave a slow, deliberate squeeze through the pouch, the girth filling his grip, pulsing with each heartbeat as blood rushed in. “Looks like you got more than the pouch can hide—hell, it’s fightin’ to bust free already.”
Charlie’s smirk widened with pugnacious pride, his voice dropping to a husky growl. “Careful, kid. You ain’t no queer, are ya?”
The question caught Jamie off guard, but lust overrode surprise—he was good at giving in to temptation, his 9-inch cut cock now a throbbing steel rod in his jeans, leaking a damp spot through the fabric. His fingers hooked the jockstrap’s waistband and tugged it down with a slow, teasing drag. Charlie’s cock sprang free like a coiled spring, now fully hard at 8 inches—thick and veiny, the light shaft rigid, foreskin peeled halfway back to reveal the broad rosy head glistening with a pearl of precum. The musky scent—sweat-soaked skin, faint cigar ash, and raw male earthiness—hit Jamie like a drug, making his mouth water and his balls ache.
Charlie grabbed his hardening dick at the base and began to shake it back and forth with a jovial grunt, the pendulous length slapping audibly against his thigh, foreskin fluttering like a flag in the breeze. He stopped swinging the hard pecker and made it jerk up and down hands-free, the shaft flexing with muscle memory, before wrapping his meaty fist around it and jacking slow—up and down the light shaft in lazy, twisting pumps, thumb smearing the emerging precum over the broad rosy dome until it shone slick, a wet schlick filling the air.
“Go on, grab hold—show me if those artist hands know more than powderin’ noses.”
Driven by the hypnotic rhythm, Jamie reached out, his long fingers closing around the thick shaft just above Charlie’s grip—the skin velvet-hot over iron, veins pulsing under his palm. He started to slowly jack it in tandem, their hands overlapping in a profane duet, sliding the foreskin fully back and forth over the broad rosy dickhead with deliberate drags that milked fresh beads of precum, the salty tang wafting up as it dribbled down to lube their strokes. Just touching the old man’s dick got Jamie so excited that his own cock throbbed painfully inside his jeans; he reached down with his free hand, unzipping them in a frantic tug, allowing his 9-inch cut length to spring free—cut head flushed purple, shaft straight and veined, leaking a steady string of precum that pattered onto the wooden floor like summer rain. Jamie stroked himself in mirror to Charlie’s rhythm, fist pumping his exposed cock with slick faps, the dual masturbation building a fever in the cramped space.
“That’s it, grab it,” Charlie mumbled, his voice rough with lust and that vulnerable storyteller’s lilt, blue eyes hooded as he watched their hands work his shaft, the pendulous balls swaying below like hypnotic pendulums.
Jamie leaned in, lips parting on instinct, and dragged his tongue along the underside of Charlie’s shaft—flat laps from base to tip, savoring the salty heat and veiny texture, the smooth skin over rigid flesh making him moan low. He swirled his tongue around the broad rosy head in fervent circles, lapping greedily at the slit to suck up the oozing precum—briny and faintly sweet, like tears from a hard-fought battle—before engulfing the crown with a wet, hungry slurp, cheeks hollowing as his lips stretched taut around the girth.
“Goddamn!” Charlie barked, his hips jerking forward involuntarily, weathered hands grabbing Jamie’s head, fingers tangling in his short blonde hair with a grip that was half-tender, half-rage-fueled. “You got a mouth like a fuckin’ hover.”
Jamie hummed around the invading cock, the vibration rumbling through the shaft like an aftershock, making Charlie shudder from his barrel chest to his rounded buttocks. He took it deeper, inch by thick inch—3, 4, 5 inches gliding over his tongue, the foreskin bunching slickly—until the broad head nudged the back of his throat, jaw aching from the stretch. At 6 inches, he gagged, eyes watering with the burn, spit bubbling at the corners of his mouth, but Charlie’s grip tightened, holding him steady with no-nonsense insistence.
“Take it, kid—choke on that cock,” Charlie growled with a pugnacious edge cracking with vulnerable need, his free hand drifting down to lazily fondle his own balls, rolling them in his palm as Jamie worked.
Jamie fought the reflex, relaxing his throat with practiced breaths, letting the last inches slide in until his nose buried in Charlie’s coarse pubic hair, the soft heft of his belly brushing Jamie’s forehead like a warm blanket, the fullness overwhelming as the cock pulsed hot against his palate and tonsils. Once he saw Jamie could take the entire length, the old man started fucking his mouth as though it was a well-oiled pussy—slow at first, hips rolling with deliberate thrusts that dragged the veiny shaft over tongue and cheeks, then building to a steady rhythm, balls slapping Jamie’s chin in wet paps.
As Charlie mouth-fucked him, Jamie’s hands roamed free—sliding up those thick, hairy thighs to knead the meaty flesh, fingers digging into the sturdy muscle with appreciative squeezes, the roughness of sweat-damp skin sending thrills through him almost as intense as the throat-stuffing. Charlie eased back occasionally, giving Jamie a gasping moment to breathe and spit, then thrust forward again, slow and deliberate, his cherubic mouth parting in rasps.
“Fuck, that’s good—suck it like you mean it, son.”
Jamie did, bobbing his head in counterpoint to the thrusts, lips gliding over the slick shaft with obscene slurps, tongue swirling along the bulging veins and flicking the sensitive frenulum underside, Charlie’s pendulous nuts bouncing invitingly against his chin like weighted chimes. The trailer filled with lewd symphony—wet glucks of deepthroat plunges, Jamie’s muffled moans vibrating the length, Charlie’s gruff grunts punctuating like curse-laced punchlines. Jamie’s hands slid higher, cupping those heavy balls fully now, rolling them gently in his palms—the warm, loose skin tightening under his touch, faint wrinkles smoothing as he tugged lightly, feeling them draw up with building pressure—while his other fist resumed pumping his own 9-inch cock, slick with precum, the fap-fap-fap syncing with the oral rhythm, his cut head flaring red and weeping steadily onto the floor.
“Look at me,” Charlie ordered, his voice sharp with that sudden rage-tinge.
Jamie glanced up, green eyes watering to meet Charlie’s intense twinkling blues, the sight above pure, filthy poetry: Charlie’s sagging pecs bouncing with each thrust, pink nipples trembling like targets, his big belly rippling like disturbed pond water, sweat beading on ruddy, age-lined skin and trickling down scarred channels. Charlie’s hand abandoned his balls to tweak his own nipple, twisting the sparse-tufted bud with a hiss, masturbatory flair adding to the vulnerability.
“Fuckin’ beautiful,” Charlie said, almost to himself, self-deprecating chuckle bubbling up.
Jamie moaned louder around the pistoning cock, the sight fueling his frenzy; he sucked harder, hollowing his cheeks for vacuum suction that pulled schlurks from the shaft, his tongue flicking relentlessly at the broad rosy head on every withdrawal, lapping the slit for fresh precum like a parched man at an oasis. Charlie’s hips picked up speed, fucking Jamie’s mouth in earnest now, the wet slap of cock against throat echoing like applause in the small space, Jamie gagging sporadically with drool cascading down his chin in shiny ropes, pooling on the floor amid his own leaking precum—but he didn’t pull back, throat convulsing in greedy swallows. He matched the fury, his fist flying on his 9-inch length now, thumb circling the cut head to spread the slick, the dual sensations coiling tight in his gut.
“Shit—gonna make me blow, kid—fuck, get ready for it?” Charlie panted, his grip tightening in Jamie’s hair like a lifeline, thick legs quaking as his pendulous balls drew up tight under Jamie’s rolling fingers.
Jamie nodded as best he could, mouth stuffed to bursting, squeezing those orbs one last time in encouragement. Charlie’s thrusts grew erratic, breath hitching in guttural bursts—“Aw, goddamn it all, here it comes, son!—before he roared, yanking free with a wet pop, the cock bobbing slick and furious in the air. He wrapped his meaty fist around the base, stroking generously with furious pumps—twisting at the crown, foreskin flying back and forth over the broad rosy head in a blur, schlick-schlick-schlick—milking himself with veteran precision, the shaft bulging as veins throbbed visibly.
If Jamie lived to be a hundred, he’d never forget watching the old man jacking his dick like a man possessed, the fist a blur on the 8-inch length, matching Jamie’s own frantic strokes on his 9-incher—the cut head purple and slick, precum flying in arcs. Charlie shot off first, a bellowed curse ripping from his throat as the first rope struck Jamie squarely in the face—thick, hot, and copious, splattering his cheek and eyelid like warm glue, salty tang blooming in the air. Another burst crossed his lips and chin, dripping in a sticky white mess down his jaw, and damn if Jamie didn’t cum too, right then—that’s how electric it was, his fist clenching as jets of his own load erupted onto the floor in pearly puddles, splattering the wood with splat-splat, his lanky body shuddering as waves crashed through him, cock jerking untouched after the last pump.
Charlie groaned low, hooded blue eyes locked on the facial mess with hooded satisfaction, his hand slowing to lazy squeezes that wrung out the final dribbles—pearly drops oozing from the slit to string down the rosy head.
“Yeah, let it drip, ya eager little cocksucker—fuckin’ messy slut.”
Then the old man reached down with his free hand, gripping Jamie’s jaw tenderly-profane, and used the broad head of his still-spasming tool to smear the cum all over his face—swirling the rosy dome across cheeks, lips, and brow in sloppy, glistening trails, mixing with Jamie’s tears and spit into a filthy glaze. Jamie grinned through it, tongue darting out to lap at the coating on his lips, then sliding the softening cock back into his mouth one last time to suck the remnants clean—hollow-cheeked pulls milking the shaft with gentle slurps, savoring the bitter aftertaste as Charlie hissed oversensitive, thighs tensing.
“Jesus, kid, you’re gonna fuckin’ kill me,” Charlie yanked himself free with a shaky laugh, that cherubic mouth twisting in jovial exhaustion, his jowly face flushed crimson.
He tugged the jockstrap back up with a grunt, the fabric tenting over his spent but still impressive bulge, then grabbed his robe, tying it loosely over his broad, scarred frame. Jamie stood on wobbly legs, wiping his face with a handkerchief from his pocket, the taste of Charlie lingering musky-salty on his tongue, his own cock softening with dribbles still clinging to the cut head. This had been about Charlie, but the mutual release hung electric between them.
“Guess I should get to the set,” Charlie muttered, running a hand through his thinning hair, pausing at the door turning with a vulnerable glint in his twinkling eyes. “Keep this between us, kid, and maybe I’ll let you choke on it again.”
Jamie’s lips curled into a smirk, dabbing the last sticky remnants from his chin.
“My lips are sealed, Charlie—but I’m holdin’ you to that.”
Charlie snorted, a mix of amusement, nerves, and that good-hearted joviality cracking through, then shuffled out, his stocky figure disappearing into the set’s bustle, thick legs carrying the subtle hitch of satisfaction. Jamie leaned against the counter, heart racing, body buzzing with adrenaline and afterglow, the trailer reeking of sex and secrets. Nothing else happened on Evening Shade—not that day, at least. But the promise of more hung in the air, thick as the forest heat.
This narrative is entirely fictional and it does not reflect any known events or factual scenarios involving Charles Durning or any person named Jamie Nichols.
