by JD Ruskin
“You’re forgetting to wash something,” Nick murmured, and Brandt saw his ever-so-slight head-tip to his crotch. “I’m assuming you usually wash there too, right?” he asked with a wink.
Brandt hoped the heat in his cheeks would not show up in the video. He was just getting the hang of this, and now it was the moment he had been dreading. Up until now, all that had been recorded was of him showering; if anyone he knew ever saw it, he could claim it had been made without his consent, with some kind of spy cam. But now he was going to be recorded beating his meat, and he would have to look totally into it. This was the career-ending moment, the life-altering moment. He couldn’t do it. Never.
He looked at Nick, whose golden eyes met his gaze. He saw a grin flirt with Nick’s lips, and then Nick growled—an urgent, primal sound—“Come on, do it for me. Stroke it for me. Don’t think about them.” He shot a glance at the camera he still had trained on Brandt’s junk. “Think about me. Give it to me. Just me.” He licked his lips.
Brandt wrapped his hand around his cock.
He did it without thinking, without stopping to doubt or worry. He did it for Nick.
He gripped his cock with his right hand, slick with soap, and slid it down the full eight-and-a-half-inch arc from base to tip, and then he pulled it back in to press against his flat, muscular lower belly. This simple transit made his breath ragged, and he let out a “woof!” as he repeated it, more quickly, gripping harder, friction building. His hand was soon a blur along the length of his urgently hard cock.
“Perfect.” Nick’s exhaled praise was barely audible, but Brandt heard it like a bell, and he felt the spasming start in his loins. If he didn’t stop right now, he was going to go right off the cliff and—
“Stop!” boomed Nick. Brandt did as he was ordered, as he always did when ordered to do anything. He looked up at Nick and shivered off his preorgasmic trance.
Nick smiled. “It looked like you were about to rub one out there, and we don’t want to do that in the shower, do we?”
How the fuck did he know I was about to shoot, wondered Brandt.
“Why not?”
“Ugh—sticky mess. If I ever jack in the shower, I just do it in my hand and lick it up—that’s far better than trying to clean it off later. Anyway, let’s get to where you rinse off and get to the bed, okay?” he said brightly.
It was too much for Brandt. Had he really been about to come—here, doing this? Fuck. He saw Nick duck back behind the camera, and he knew he was back on. He would have to think about this later. Or never.
He rinsed off the soap and took the towel that Nick had set out for him, an impossibly fluffy white monstrosity that looked brand new. He dried himself, even patting down his cock and balls without being prompted by Nick. He wrapped the towel around himself and walked into the bedroom.
Brandt stood before the bed, knowing that this was where he would humiliate himself, body and soul, in the line of duty. He breathed deeply to calm himself and was so focused on trying to summon the courage to continue that he didn’t feel Nick approach from behind. His warm breath in Brandt’s ear sent a shiver of surprise down his spine.
“It’s okay to be nervous, stud.” The deep voice softly filled Brandt’s ear with its rumbling, soothing heat. “But you are the sexiest man who’s ever laid on that bed, and people are going to go crazy over this video. Now just go do your thing, and I’ll be watching.” He felt Nick pull away from his ear, and then lean back in. “I’m totally hard for you, by the way,” he whispered. Then Brandt felt something on his earlobe. Did Nick just kiss him on the ear? Fucking kiss him?
Brandt’s resolve to get this the hell over with was now ironclad. The only way out of this bizarre, oversexed, fucked-up place was to just get it done. As he moved to the bed, he noticed with some surprise that there were goose bumps all down his left arm. Which Nick had made. When he fucking kissed him. Fuck.
Brandt threw himself down on the bed. He pulled open the towel and defiantly exposed himself to Nick, as if he expected the younger man to be knocked back by the force of his unveiling. Nick’s raised eyebrows and sharp intake of breath showed Brandt that his gesture had been received. Nick retreated behind the camera.
Brandt grabbed his cock and began stroking. There was lube on the nightstand, but he ignored it; there was porn on the monitor at the foot of the bed, but he didn’t even look. He just gripped tight and pumped away, staring angrily at the camera. Fucking Nick, fucking kissing him. What did that bastard think was going on here?
Nick kept his camera trained on Brandt’s cock, wincing as if he could feel the dry rub it was getting.
In less than a minute, Brandt could feel the orgasm starting to build. He tensed his abs to bring it closer—he was chasing it down, he was going to grab it, choke the life out of it—and warmth spread across his body from his groin. His chest began to tighten, and his pecs stood up round and taut as every fiber of his being reached out for this orgasm. He closed his eyes, threw his head back, and pumped as if he were trying to wrestle it into submission.
His hands tightened around that elusive orgasm, felt its life begin to flow into him. He howled as he thrust his hips into the viselike grip of his hands, pushing, pushing to get all the friction he could. Then he froze.
From his red and motionless cock, gripped tightly in his frozen hands, the first shot of cum exploded. It shot up, then stretched itself like a river, a twisting white Amazon, across Brandt’s abs. A creaking groan escaped his lips, his whole body twitched, and then another blast erupted, arcing up to his chest. The third flew gracefully through the air and pooled at his throat. Then the thrusting started again, and his whole body was in convulsive motion as he beat the life out of the orgasm he had finally caught and made his bitch. Cum flew everywhere, splattering like thick rain on the sheets, the pillows, all up and down Brandt’s body. His body wracked with spasms, he jerked and shook and cried until he was exhausted, empty, done. He panted, his fingers laced together around his still-hard cock, wet with the product of his frenzy.
Nick stood breathless. “Oh… my… God,” he finally croaked, with obvious effort. “That was incredible. I’ve just never… no one’s ever… that was amazing.”
Brandt’s mind had been a blank, scorched by the cleansing fire of the most brutal orgasm he had ever experienced. But Nick’s voice brought him back to himself, to this place, and to what he had just done. His cock ached, his earlobe tingled, and the air conditioning was blowing across the pooled spunk on his chest, giving him a chill. He opened his eyes, sat up. He shook his head quickly from side to side, hoping against hope that this would prove a nightmare.
“Did you—” he rasped, his throat rough from the groans and shouts he was just now becoming aware he had made. “Did you get what you need?”
“Almost.”
Brandt looked at him quizzically, and he pointed to his crotch. His cock was standing straight up, and a gleaming silver thread dripped lazily from its head.
“Another minute of that and I would have just shot all over the place without even touching it.”
In spite of himself, Brandt was flattered. The humiliation of his performance came to rest in his mind right next to the pride of having done it well. He had been told on several occasions in the past that he was too eager to please, and this was pretty much the ultimate proof. He had just jerked off in front of another person for the first time ever, and instead of being disgusted by the whole thing, he was blushing with pride.
“Can I go get cleaned up?” Brandt asked.
“Sure, if I can join you,” replied Nick, winking.
Brandt just stared at him. This was over the top.
“Kidding! You go take a shower and I’ll start getting this stuff on the computer for editing.” Nick gathered up his equipment and walked to the door. “Just come on down when you’re ready—I’ll be in the dining room. That’s where we edit video.”
“Okay,” Brandt mumbled numbly.
In the sh
ower, as he scrubbed the cum off his chest (and legs, and arms, and was there any place this stuff didn’t land?), he tried to think—about anything other than what had just happened. It seemed unreal, even as he soaped the semen out of his pubic hair, that he had really done it. He had masturbated, on camera, for money. He had become what he never wanted to be by doing what he was ordered to do. There was an empty feeling in his chest, a space where his dignity, his privacy—a big piece of his humanity—had lived, and now that it had been taken from him he felt the ache of its loss. He put his hands against the wall and pressed his forehead to the cool tile while the hot water washed over him.
“Damn you, Brandt,” he said aloud, hoping to focus his mind, “Get it together.”
He forced himself to analyze his situation. Clearly he had been successful in his audition—he was in. But what was the next step? How would he begin the search for the documentation the Chief was expecting him to gather? That lived in spreadsheets somewhere, and the only sheets he had touched in this house were in the next room, splattered with his sperm.
Fuck.
“Get it together,” he repeated to himself under his breath. He did what had always worked in the past when the stress of the job overwhelmed him—he put himself back in his academy days, in that time when his body and mind were pushed to their limits. The state police force was widely known for running an academy as demanding as West Point, and graduates could be justly proud of simply surviving it. Brandt did more than survive it, of course, but it was the hardest thing he had ever been through.
Until now.
As he called up an image of himself crawling through the stinking mud of the urban assault course, his resolve strengthened and his spine drew up straight. He would get through this too. Somehow, he would get through this.
PACKED BACK into his pool-boy-inspired ensemble, Brandt made his way down to the dining room. There he found Mr. Drake looking over Nick’s shoulder as the latter clicked away madly at the computer. Frames of video flew across the screen; their voices were obliterated, replaced by a soundtrack that alternated between soothing piano and rhythmic pulsing, depending on the mood Nick was trying to create.
“You’re here just in time for the big finish!” Nick called over his shoulder—he must have seen Brandt approach in the reflection on one of the monitors.
State Troopers have to be ready to see horrific things in their line of work: accident scenes, murder victims, decomposing remains. But nothing in Brandt’s experience had prepared him to see himself, lying back on a bed, stroking his penis. It was the ultimate private moment, and here it was laid bare for these two strangers to see. Brandt felt his pulse weaken, as if his heart were preparing change-of-address cards and packing its suitcase.
Nick’s music built to a crescendo as Brandt bucked and writhed on the bed, and then cut to silence as the first long, white stream of spunk geysered out of his cock, accompanied only by an urgent, almost bestial, growling. Brandt hadn’t even been aware of making that raw, aching noise, and it took a moment for him to register it as his own. The howl trailed off into a supplicant’s whine, a plea for completion. Brandt closed his eyes. He couldn’t watch any more of this.
Mr. Drake gasped and pressed his hand to his mouth.
“I know, right?” called out Nick.
The silence that shortly followed was Brandt’s indication that the video had ended and it was safe to open his eyes.
“So, here’s what I was thinking for titles,” Nick said, and the screen changed to a cleanly designed but none-too-subtle announcement of “Mason’s First Time.”
“Two things,” Mr. Drake said. “First, go.”
Nick nodded and resumed typing.
“Second,” Drake continued, turning to Brandt, “That was un-fucking-believable. You sure you’ve never done this before?”
Brandt shook his head. He wished he hadn’t done it even the once.
“Third,” Mr. Drake continued, “It was too short. It was mindbendingly hot, but it wasn’t long enough. If people see it only lasts seven minutes, they’re going to think they’re getting cheated. Nick?”
“Yeah, Mr. Drake?”
“Eugene is going to be filming a solo this afternoon. You should bring Jason along to get some pointers on how to make it last longer next time.”
“You got it, sir.”
Mr. Drake turned to Brandt. “That was fine work, Jason. I’ll have a check for you before you leave today.”
Mr. Drake turned and walked back to his office while Nick pressed a few last keys and stood up.
“How about some lunch, and then we’ll check in on Eugene?”
“Um, sure.”
They walked toward the kitchen.
“Nick?”
“Yeah?”
“What did Mr. Drake mean when he told you to ‘go’?”
“He meant to put your video on the site.”
Brandt stopped. “What?”
“He said to put it on the site. I uploaded it, and now you’re live.”
“That fast?”
“Technology, huh? It’s pretty awesome. How about burgers for lunch?”
Nick walked ahead into the kitchen, leaving Brandt in the hallway to contemplate how it felt to know the precise moment that your life ends. Brandt’s just had. He sat down on a bench in the hallway to wait for the house to stop spinning.
He had known that the video would probably find its way onto the Internet, eventually. None of the Chief’s assurances had made that suspicion go away. But he had no idea that the total elapsed time from his complete humiliation to worldwide availability of that humiliation would be under an hour. Fuck.
“Jason, you coming?” called Nick from the kitchen.
“Yeah, be right there,” Brandt managed to reply, trying to shake off the feeling that he had just been mugged. Or raped. Or something.
Focus on the job, Brandt.
All of the troopers were lectured repeatedly on the dangers of undercover work, and there were many stories of officers who went into drug gangs and ended up working for them, addicts themselves. Brandt had been certain that he would never let that happen to him—he would not become what he was sent to investigate. The reality, however, was far blurrier than he had assumed it to be. Before today, he would not have imagined that he would be able to masturbate on camera—even in the privacy of his own bedroom, even to impress a girl. But he just had. Was he compromised?
He walked down the hall to the kitchen, where he found Nick at the grill cooking burgers. He was wearing an apron now, in consideration of the possible grease splatters that might occur, but nothing else. Brandt stood at the counter and watched him, still trying to find the boundary between life and performance. Was Nick, who was cooking under the watchful eye of no fewer than three cameras, performing? On the one hand, he was just cooking. On the other, he was doing it pretty much naked, and his entire backside was lean and muscled, and his ass was smooth and round and—
Oh, fuck. Brandt closed his eyes. Was he really sizing up Nick’s ass? He was trying so hard to do a good job here, on both sides—to gather the intelligence that would help him with the investigation, and to be a good employee of this demented frat brothel. But that meant looking at things, in this case Nick’s things, in ways that made him profoundly uncomfortable.
When Nick whispered into his ear that Brandt was turning him on, was that just part of the job? And what was Brandt supposed to feel when he looked at Nick’s ass? And what if pretending to feel it made him start to really feel it, even if he didn’t want to?
Brandt put his head down on the counter. Worst job ever.
“Hey, you okay?” Nick asked, as he slid a plate of food over to Brandt and then sat down next to him.
“Oh, yeah, sure,” Brandt replied, hoping he sounded cavalier about having just jacked off for a worldwide audience. Maybe a dismissive chuckle would help? “Heh, heh, shit.” He picked up the burger Nick made for him and took a big enough bite to excuse him from
conversation for a moment.
“Uh-huh,” Nick nodded, looking skeptically at Brandt. He seemed to expect Brandt to expound further on his feelings.
However, Brandt was powering his way through lunch in order to keep from having to talk. He was nearly finished before Nick had taken two bites.
“Wow, you can eat,” Nick said. “You must work out a lot to burn that off. You’re not carrying more than half a burger’s worth of fat.”
“We have PT every day,” Brandt said, still chewing.
“PT? Isn’t that what they call it in the military?” Nick asked, squinting a bit at Brandt.
Shit, I did it again, thought Brandt. “Uh, yeah. My dad was in the military. I just call it that. I mean I work out every day.”
“Oh. So who’s this ‘we’ you work out with? Are you on a team?”
Think, Brandt, think.
“Um, no. I just have a buddy I work out with. We keep each other honest.”
A half grin tugged at the corner of Nick’s mouth.
“Gotcha,” he said. “I was worried there for a minute. We had a guy here a couple of months ago who was on the wrestling team back at some Midwestern university, and they got royally pissed when they found out he made a video. Kicked him off the team. He lost his athletic scholarship and everything.”
“Well, that sucks,” Brandt said, meaning what he said for the first time in what seemed like days of lying. “Was it because of the gay thing?”
Nick snorted. “No, he was straight. His girlfriend was the one who wanted him to do it. They claimed he wasn’t supposed to be earning money while he was on the team. But a lot of guys on the team held down part-time jobs, so that didn’t work. Then they said that they owned his image because of the scholarship, and so the video broke their copyright or some shit like that. Mainly they didn’t want anyone seeing him spankin’ it on video, and they found a way to dump him. Bastards.”