by JD Ruskin
“What about you?”
“Oh, I’m not on a team or anything, so no one cares what I do.”
“Does your family know?” Brandt asked. He was out of food now, and asking questions was easier than answering them.
“No family,” Nick said simply.
“Oh.” Brandt wasn’t sure how to follow that one up. It was a strange thing for someone his age to say, especially without even a tinge of emotion in his voice. “What about Pete?”
Nick closed his eyes and shook his head, chuckling softly.
“You sure bring him up a lot. Look, I like you and all, and I think you’re smokin’ hot, but Pete’s my guy. My only guy.”
“Thanks for the reminder, but I’m still straight. I’m so straight that I don’t even have a boyfriend.”
Nick laughed. “You’re a funny guy.”
“So are you. Really funny. No, what I meant is does he mind that you do this work?”
“Well, we fought pretty good about it at first. I really do need the money, though, ’cause I don’t have parents like Pete’s who pay for everything. He was really pissed when he found out, but his friend Josh helped convince him to chill about it.”
“Josh is the one who watched your live shows, right?”
“Yeah. He’s the sweetest guy. But with a dirty streak a mile wide. I sometimes think he can make people gay just by looking at them.”
“So, is Pete gay?” Brandt asked, as if there were several viable options when someone asks a guy if his boyfriend is gay.
Nick considered this for a moment. “Yeah, I think so. It’s taken him a while. But I have a feeling he’s going to come back from his summer trip a changed man. I think it’ll be really good for him.”
Brandt was about to ask what that meant when Nick suddenly looked at the clock.
“Oh, shit. Eugene’s going to be doing his thing in a couple. We gotta get up there.”
He sprang up and headed for the sweeping staircase that dominated the entrance hall of the house. Brandt followed him—though not too closely, because Nick’s ass was at eye level as he climbed the stairs. It was only at the second-floor landing that Brandt realized he hadn’t taken his eyes off of that undulating package of muscle the entire time. Fuck.
“He’s in here,” Nick called from a doorway a little way down the hall. Brandt followed. As he turned into the room, he saw that Eugene wasn’t Eugene at all.
He was Trent.
The one whom Brandt had watched jack off during that first, awful visit to the website. Whose hand he had shaken, despite his misgivings, yesterday. Was it only yesterday?
Eugene finished smoothing out the skin-tight warm-up shirt he had just stretched over his muscled frame and walked over to Brandt, his hand extended again. Great, thought Brandt.
“Good to see you again, Jason,” he said in his deep, resonant voice. It occurred to Brandt that he hadn’t heard Trent speak in his video.
“Uh, thanks. Nice to see you too.” Luckily Eugene was still dressed, which made that statement less awkward than it might have been.
“So, we gonna show the new guy the ropes?” Eugene asked Nick, grinning.
Nick nudged Brandt. “That’s his idea of a joke. See, Eugene comes like a porn star.”
“Hey, I am a porn star!”
Nick rolled his eyes.
“One Facebook fan page does not make you a star, buddy. Anyway,”—he turned to Brandt—“he shoots the thickest, nastiest ropes of cum you’ve ever seen. It’s like his trademark.”
“You’re just jealous. You said it was the best tasting spunk you’d ever had.”
“Shut up, Trench.”
Eugene laughed. “See, Jason, he calls me that because I wasn’t afraid to take a little dildo up the ass when my fans demanded it. He’s just not committed enough to the craft to do it.”
“I’m saving myself for my wedding night,” Nick replied tartly.
“Yeah, like Pete’s going to make an honest man of you someday,” Eugene taunted.
Nick’s reply was a quick punch to Eugene’s pectoral, which sounded much like he had socked a raw pot roast. The guy was solid. Eugene’s riposte was to grab the still-naked Nick around the neck and flip him over onto the bed. Then he landed on him, smack-down wrestling style. There followed a good two or three minutes of writhing and grappling; the first minute was aggressive, while the remainder seemed to be for pleasure only. Nick was completely boned by the time Eugene finally released him. Brandt studied Eugene’s basketball shorts for signs of similar engorgement and saw none. (He realized his error later, when Trent stripped down to reveal the steel-belted jockstrap that was holding back his equipment.)
“Okay, fuck! You win, caveman. I don’t get how that bony girlfriend of yours can survive you being on top. You must just lay back and let her climb her way on.”
Eugene winked at Brandt. “Nick’s always thinking about what it must be like to be my girlfriend. Poor guy. He just can’t accept that he’s never going to be on the receiving end of this.” And here he grabbed a fat handful of crotch meat and jiggled it at Brandt, Nick, and the world. There was plenty to go around.
Nick rolled his eyes. “Let’s just get this show on the road, if the drama queen is ready for her close-up.”
“Fuck you, buddy,” was Eugene’s reply.
“Not with that you won’t,” Nick wagged a finger at Eugene’s package. “Oh, hell no!”
Nick grabbed the minicam that was on the dresser and deftly switched it on. “Good to go, dude. Let’s light ’em up.”
There was clearly no animosity between the young men, and they turned to the task at hand like professionals. Brandt was still trying to figure out the complexities of this little social world. He wasn’t getting very far.
When Nick flicked the minicam on, the rest of the cameras installed in the room snapped to attention as well, each with a small but bright red light. Pretty slick setup, Brandt thought.
More striking, though, was the instantaneous transformation from Eugene to Trent. When the cameras started rolling, he became a new person—the one Brandt had seen on the website several times. He was all business, and his business here was to make his audience rock hard. He was, as he himself had said, committed to the craft.
Trent began to smolder at the camera without ever seeming to acknowledge that it existed. He was scrupulously diligent in timing his movements and positioning his body for maximum effect. His strip performance was sexy without being vampish; masculine yet teasing. How he managed to do all of this was beyond Brandt—the fact that even Brandt noticed the subtlety of Trent’s performance was a testament to his talent. If he could make a straight guy see he was incredibly sexy, he could do it to anyone. For once Brandt didn’t berate himself for what he saw in Trent, because Trent wielded his body like a weapon. Who could blame him for falling victim to it?
By now Trent was nude, but he still had not exposed himself fully to the camera. He walked to the bathroom and, predictably, Brandt heard water running. But as he followed Nick the cameraman, he saw it wasn’t the shower running, but the bath. Well, you had to give Trent some points for creativity. But baths are much more the province of harried housewives and couples experiencing erectile dysfunction—how would Trent make this sexy?
The answer was clear to Brandt as soon as Trent turned toward the mirror and showed his body in reflection to Nick and his camera. Now, Brandt was aware that his own cock was of considerable size. He had even measured it, not without beating himself up for the very impulse, last night after that thing in the dressing room at Cabana Boy. He knew his was over eight inches when fully deployed.
And now he knew Trent’s was even larger, even when it clearly had some growing still to do. How had he not noticed this before? The extent to which he had avoided even really looking at Trent’s cock in the videos he’d watched was made apparent to him immediately. He had never let himself see that part. Now he was sizing it up. From four feet away. Fucking fuck.
&nb
sp; TRENT FELT the water in the tub and adjusted it to the perfect temperature —not the level he would choose if he were Eugene taking a bath, but what Trent needed. That meant warm enough to make his balls hang low (another fan favorite, apparently—he found floppy balls inconvenient, but he had an audience to please) but not so hot that it made his skin flush. He learned this the hard way—after one particularly hot bath he had been branded “The Lobster” on the website’s discussion boards. He was more careful now.
Satisfied with the temperature and level of the water, Trent stepped into the bath—slowly enough that for a moment his cock and balls swayed freely over the rim of the tub as he straddled it. He knew Nick’s skill with the camera, and had left him a prime vantage point directly behind and at ass level to catch the instant of maximum dangle.
Trent settled into the tub. While he could sense both of the other men moving instinctively closer to see what he would come up with next, he just reclined, put his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes. He wasn’t moving at all.
But he was actually hard at work. He had stiffened his abs as he reclined in the tub, and they remained hard, a wonder of isometric tension. Eugene’s abs would have been smooth and flat as he relaxed in the tub, but Trent’s were a crenelated landscape of peaks and creases, each unit of muscle rising defiantly out of the water.
He had other things on his mind as well. He’d been reading an obscure Vedic text on isolating and controlling involuntary muscles and was this moment willing his cremasters to release, dropping his balls lower than the warm water would have on its own. At the same time, he was carefully flexing and relaxing his toes, assiduously timing his motions to simulate the natural motion of an athlete stretching his feet after vigorous exercise. Trent had no clue why his feet were popular, but according to the stats run by Mr. Drake at the end of each month, they were fourth on his Physical Hotness by User Consensus (PHUC) report, which analyzed the mentions of each model’s attributes in the discussion boards. His cock led the way, of course, as it always did, followed by his balls and his abs, but his feet were a strong fourth and looked to finish the quarter in third place if the trend held (summer was good for feet—sandal season).
Eugene may not have understood the results (why feet? Ick), but he trusted them. He was a computer science major, and he built the data-mining tool that calculated and analyzed the trends. He had submitted the algorithm for the senior project competition; he came in third, but gained five new fans for his work on the Str8 Frat Dudes site as a result of the design review process.
Finally, he started to move. He drew his hands from behind his head and slowly ran them down his torso, stroking his abs with a studied absentmindedness. Goose bumps spread across his chest; his nipples hardened, and he gently tweaked them with both hands. He sighed and turned his head as if surprised by the pleasure this gave him, though nothing he could do to his body surprised him anymore. He noticed Brandt adjusting the crotch of his shorts, but was too much a professional to register a reaction.
Trent continued to run his hands over his body, territory they had known instinctively for ages, as though it were all new to him. He had long ago taken to heart Nick’s advice to make the audience believe that their hands and his were on an identical journey of discovery. It was stupid when one spelled it out, but unconsciously it was hotter than hell.
Trent groaned and rolled over smoothly onto his stomach, showing his sculpted back and round buttocks, packed with muscle. Again, it was not a position that he would choose in his own bath, but it did display his beautiful form to great advantage. Almost imperceptibly, he began to thrust his hips slowly and gently, giving the impression that he was enjoying the friction of his cock on the surface of the tub. He pictured his ass changed from spherical mounds of hard, smooth flesh at rest to something like muscular apostrophes as he lunged. His movements grew more vigorous and urgent; as his ass reared back, the cheeks separated to give the camera teasing glimpses of his hair-rimmed hole. It winked out of view as quickly as it appeared, and then it was back, and then gone again. Trent imagined his legions of fans viewing this segment in slow motion loops, trying to get a good glimpse of that most secret place.
Water was slopping out of the tub now, driven by Trent’s manic thrusting (the appearance of complete abandon to pleasure was another part of the craft) until finally he flipped back over and displayed his fully erect cock for the first time. Both Nick and Brandt sucked in a sharp breath.
Trent’s cock was a structural wonder. It pointed straight up along Trent’s lower (and mid) abdomen, but didn’t rest on his body at all. It throbbed all the way up from his crotch, past his navel, and onto the ridges of his lower abs. His balls, meanwhile, had completed their descent, their weight causing his scrotum to droop lower than ever. Together, cock and balls formed a continuous line of nearly fifteen inches of genital magnificence, dominating his body with their extent.
Trent got lithely to his feet, facing away from the camera, and then turned around slowly to reach for a towel—and expose himself fully. The cock which had pointed straight at his chest continued to do so; it had not given away a single degree of inflection to gravity. His balls hung even lower now; they rested several inches away from the base of his cock and glistened smooth and round in their thin, fleshy sac.
His performance with the towel was as painstakingly careless as his bathing—every part of his body was caressed, patted, and stroked with a thick white towel. Trent ruffled his hair into a perfectly nonchalant tousle, and then wrapped the towel around his narrow waist. As naked as Trent had been before, the covering of his body both hid it and promised that it would again be revealed.
Trent made his way to the bed, where he kept the towel on while he sat and again stroked his now clean and dry body. He did so with a meditative, faraway look on his face. The afternoon sun streamed through the window and illuminated him with a shaft of gold. Trent lay back on the bed and reached under his towel to cop a feel of his cock (again, his purpose in doing so was at variance with how the action was perceived; the audience would see this as his not being able to get enough of feeling his amazing prick, while what he wanted was to be sure it was plump enough to reveal). Finally the towel came off, and Trent spread his legs and got to work.
He ran his fingers up and down his body, as if he were touching someone else. His wanderings began to spiral in toward his crotch after a few minutes, and yet he still avoided touching his cock (which was staying hard because he loved the idea of people watching him as much as Nick did). Instead, he wrapped his fingers around his loose balls and began to tug on them, to rub them, to even squeeze them a bit so that the skin tautened and shone. He then grasped each one with a looped thumb and index finger so they were separately drawn to the sides; his scrotum was so relaxed that he was able to get them several inches apart. Eugene probably wouldn’t have chosen to have them that way, but with his balls placing so high on the PHUC, he needed to keep coming up with new ways to manipulate them without actually yanking them off his body. He was experimenting during his professional development time (Mr. Drake gave them several paid hours a month to come up with new “content” for their videos) with more hardcore techniques, some involving leather straps, but he wasn’t sure they fit with the frat house image. They did, though, make his balls feel pretty amazing.
His ball massage concluded, Trent moved to stroking the area below his balls—he had to lift them out of the way. His fingers edged close to the tight knot of his anus, but did no more than brush the outer surface before he moved back up—he was teasing his audience so they would demand a full anal performance and would pay for a live show in which he would take more than the small plug he had inserted last week. He wasn’t looking forward to it, but he had his eye on a classic BMW and needed a couple thousand more to pay for it. If he needed to take a dildo up the ass to get the car he wanted, he was more than willing—who wouldn’t be? His girlfriend had been helping him to practice, so he felt he would soon be rea
dy.
Trent finally, thirty minutes into his video, touched his cock. But only for a moment, lightly teasing the head and running his fingertips up and down the shaft. Then, as he had in the bath, he rolled neatly over to his stomach and began to thrust against the mattress. This was one of his most popular moves; his longtime fan on the discussion boards, OMGTrent11, published a list of the precise time in every video that he did the fuck-the-mattress move. He actually found it awkward, and the friction was irritating if he went on too long, but he did it for the same reason Ethel Merman always sang “Show Business”; not for love, but for the love of her fans. And money.
What the fans really enjoyed, though, was what Trent was doing right now. With his legs spread and his buttocks thrusting, Trent knew his ass was a sight to marvel at. It was all muscle and sinew and lightly furred flesh. As he pretended to lose himself in the feeling of thrusting his cock against the bed, he pushed his ass higher and higher on the backswing and opened more and more. Finally, his rosebud pucker was fully exposed, pink and virginal, and Nick’s camera, Trent knew, was trained on it. It had emerged and disappeared several times when Trent suddenly stopped, frozen at the top of his stroke, his ass spread wide. He paused there and heaved a deep breath as if worn out from the exertion of scraping his dick against the blanket.
IT WAS only when Trent thrust forward again and then flipped back over that Brandt realized he had been staring at a guy’s asshole, and it had been pretty fucking hot.
A few short days ago, he had been nauseated by the sight of Trent’s ass, and now he found himself flushed with excitement to be in the same room with it. What this meant, for him, for his sexuality, for his sanity, he knew he had to set aside completely. He would think about it later. Or not at all.