Dreamspinner Press Year Six Greatest Hits

by JD Ruskin

  Trent discreetly dispensed a bit of lube from a pump that lay hidden at the head of the mattress and began to stroke his cock more purposefully. His stoke was slow and deliberate, and he took frequent breaks to tease the hole at the tip with his finger or to give his balls a tug. His was the opposite of Brandt’s performance earlier in the day; where Brandt had charged toward release, Trent teased it and waited for it to come to him. It took about ten more minutes before he was close enough to grip more firmly and pull with more intensity.

  Brandt, to his mortification, now knew the signs of impending male orgasm well enough that he could see Trent was close. His balls, those wayward wanderers, were crawling back to their original home at the base of his cock; his pectorals tensed and striations of muscle slashed across their surface; his head tipped back and his mouth opened, his eyebrows arching with the pained realization of pleasure. Trent’s stroke changed to a short, rapid flicker along the top quarter of his cock (which, in his case, was nearly three inches), and his ab muscles stood out in sweat-glistened relief. The end was near, Brandt could see, but he was unprepared for what it would bring.

  These things happened all at once: Trent’s left hand reached down to cuddle his balls up against the base of his cock; his right hand sped to a blur in its frenetic milking motion; and he raised his head to look down, across the straining, heaving chest with its erect and flushed nipples, past the cobblestone abs now beaded with sweat, down to the head of his iron-hard penis, blurred by a seizure of stroking. Brandt watched it all, took it in, overwhelmed. And then everything went into slow motion. Trent gasped, taking in three quick breaths, and then stopped breathing, as if afraid that the next breath would be his last. His hands slowed their hyperactive twitching and instead made small, undulating, coaxing motions. Every muscle, all across Trent’s body, was steely with anticipation.

  And then.

  “Oh.” That was the only noise Trent made, but it rang in Brandt’s ear. It was so soft, and yet so full of need, that it broke his heart even as it made his already rock-hard cock twitch with sympathy.

  And then.

  The first jet of semen shot so quickly out of Trent’s cock that Brandt didn’t even see it until it was in midair, tracing its arc high over Trent’s chest. They all watched it soar—Brandt, Nick, the camera—as it gracefully descended. Trent had his eye on it as well, and it was a testament to his craft that, even in the throes of a very real orgasm that was also a performance, he was able to make the opening of his mouth look like the natural drawing of breath. It was into his mouth that the first volley of hot liquid landed. By the time it did, a second was in the air and a third was emerging from his cock, which was really just getting started.

  The ostensible straightness of the site for which all of the men worked required Trent to react with surprise and consternation when his own seed plopped into his mouth—what straight guy wants that?—but his mostly non-heterosexual audience required him to look as though a mouthful of semen was perhaps what he had always wanted, but was afraid to admit that he wanted it. It was a tough line to walk, but Brandt could see that Trent was a master of that particular tightrope. A slight smile played on his lips, his cum-coated lips, and then he puffed out a quick breath that sent cum flying. In that moment he proved his heterosexuality to be both secure and flexible—his motion was almost playful. It was well played, and even Brandt knew it.

  His virtuosity proven, he relaxed slightly, and then the cum really started to flow. In an almost unbroken stream, his cock unloaded rope after rope of thick, gleaming white semen that quickly gave his entire torso the impression of richly veined marble. He was soaked in it, and still it came.

  Brandt was breathless. He had never seen anything like it—he had never seen at all, he now felt—and he took a shaky step backward, away from the bed and Trent and the sharp scent of the pooling semen that covered him. Brandt’s legs were shaking, his head was spinning, and whether it was precum or the real thing his cock was spasming out he was no longer certain. There was no boundary between what he felt and what he felt he shouldn’t feel. He shuddered over his entire body—the kind of shudder that sometimes he experienced after a particularly intense orgasm—and whether he had just ejaculated or not he couldn’t tell. And he didn’t care.

  “Aaaand, we’re done,” Nick announced as he shut off the camera. “That was awesome, Euge. You hit that one out of the park.” Nick smiled and arched an eyebrow at his cum-drenched buddy, clearly envious and proud and turned on and jealous all at once.

  “Shower. Need a shower,” Eugene croaked, slowly rising to a sitting position. Brandt was startled to see that the cum laced all up his torso and neck and—was that some on his ear?—stayed in place as he sat upright. Nick had been right about its thickness. Brandt sickened a little to realize that he was becoming something of an expert on semen. That was another thought he’d have to think later. Much later.

  NICK AND Brandt made their way down the stairs, leaving Eugene to wash up. The idea that he was up there showering alone, without a camera on him, seemed suddenly odd to Brandt. He was beginning to wonder if he would ever look at something so simple like showering the way he used to before all the world became a stage.

  As they walked down the hall, Drake popped his head out of his office.

  “Oh, Jason! Glad I caught you. Here’s your check.”

  He handed Brandt a very plain, business-style check, the kind you might get in the mail as a refund for overpaying a gas bill. It wasn’t what Brandt was expecting, but then again he wasn’t sure what he had expected—perhaps a lurid red thing with pictures of naked men on it? That was silly.

  “Thanks, Mr. Drake.”

  “My pleasure! Hey,” Drake said, turning to the still-naked Nick, “You should show Jason how his video is doing.” He turned back to Brandt. “We’ll want to have you back as soon as we can for another shoot,” he said, a slight huskiness in his voice. He turned back to his office and shut the door.

  “Come on,” Nick said, leading the way back to the dining room. “Let’s see how you’re doing.”

  Nick sat at the computer and brought up the Str8 Frat web traffic analytics page. He highlighted the video of Brandt that had now been available for two hours.

  “Whoa.”

  “What?” Brandt asked, alarmed by Nick’s reaction.

  “Seventeen twenty-six.”

  Brandt was stumped. “What does that mean?”

  “It means one thousand seven hundred and twenty-six people have viewed your video. So far.”

  Brandt felt sick. He had pushed the idea of people seeing his video almost entirely out of his mind, and now he had to somehow process the fact that nearly two thousand people had seen it.

  “And that’s just so far,” continued Nick, shaking his head admiringly. He leaned in and looked at the map that showed where the hits were coming from. “Dude, you’re huge in England.”

  He pointed at the map, on which the British Isles throbbed in red.

  “We sometimes see a spike like that right around this time of day. I think it’s all of the those repressed Brits coming home from their job at the bank, taking off their top hats and monocles, and settling down for a nice wank with a beefy American frat boy.” Nick was giggling as he described a vision that was part Mary Poppins and part, well, perverted.

  “Oh, God.”

  “You okay, man? You look a little pale.”

  “I’ll be… fine. Yeah, I’m good.” Brandt shook off the shock of knowing that so many people had already watched his humiliating display, and tried again to be casual about it. But he couldn’t help wondering whether anyone might have recognized him, whether someone he knew might somehow have seen the video. The very thought was impossible, he knew objectively, but he still felt very much like someone who suddenly realizes his fly is open. After giving a ten-minute talk in morning briefing. To the vice detail.

  He felt sick again.

  “Look, you might just want to call it a day and
go get some rest,” Nick suggested.

  “Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Brandt mumbled, trying to sort out which way the front door was.

  “You can use one of the rooms upstairs to crash in, if you’d like,” Nick offered brightly. “I’m gonna whip up some wicked barbecue for dinner.”

  Nick’s offer so warmed and steadied Brandt that he was halfway to accepting before even taking notice of what he was feeling: Nick, the porno-savant, was offering to take care of him like he was Brandt’s granny. The only thing missing was some chicken soup.

  “Or I could just make you some soup or something,” Nick continued, his upraised brow furrowed with concern.

  Oh, fuck.

  Brandt took a deep breath and managed to say strongly and with confidence he certainly didn’t feel, “Nah, thanks man, but I gotta get back.”

  He held out his hand to shake Nick’s, trying to seal the “who gives a shit that I just jerked off on video and nearly two thousand people have watched it” deal he was selling.

  Nick looked at his outstretched hand, smiled, and shook his head slightly. He reached out with one arm—one tan, muscled arm—and grabbed Brandt’s shoulder. He pulled him close and wrapped his other arm around him. He held him tightly, rubbing a hand up and down Brandt’s back. Brandt tried to remember how to breathe.

  Nick finally pulled back, but kept his arm around Brandt’s shoulder.

  “Take care, buddy. I’ll see you next week?”

  Brandt gasped, too wrung out to hide his shock.

  “For what?” he asked, momentarily stunned at the thought that more degradation lay in store for him.

  “Your construction job, right?” Nick smiled as he reminded Brandt gently of who he was.

  “Oh, yeah. That. You know,” Brandt’s powers of dissimulation were slowly reawakening, his focus returning to his real goal. “I think I might just quit that gig. The money sucked. I can make a lot more doing this.” He patted the pocket he had put the check in.

  “Awesome,” Nick yelled as a grin broke like the sun across his face. “I was hoping you would say that!”

  Brandt, mortified that he had just offered himself up for more humiliation, gritted his teeth and hoped it looked like enthusiasm.

  “Look, I’ll text you Monday and we’ll set something up for next week, okay?” Nick was practically bouncing with excited energy.

  “Sounds great. I’ll talk to ya,” breezed Brandt as he made his way out the door.

  The sun struck him full in the face, shining down for the first time on Officer Brandt, man-whore.

  “SO, HE hugged you? Didn’t you say he was naked?”

  “Dude was totally naked. It was completely awful.” That it wasn’t completely awful was just one more thing Brandt hadn’t told Donnelly, because he couldn’t yet admit it to himself.

  It was Sunday morning, and Donnelly and Brandt were working out together as they always did. Brandt had spent a sleepless night, mainly because every time he closed his eyes he saw Nick or Eugene or—worst of all—himself, through the window of a web browser. Sometimes he could see himself at the computer watching Eugene’s epic ejaculation, frozen in wonder, a top hat hanging off the corner of his monitor. He’d given up even trying to sleep at around three thirty.

  No one else worked out on Sunday mornings, so the two officers regularly used this time to vent about their week—and Brandt had a lot to vent about. He started by trying to render events in vague outlines, but he needed so badly to talk about his experience that he just gave up sugarcoating it. He started with the end, when he had received the check and been embraced by Nick (and his penis, which Brandt didn’t mention, as the thought made his hip burn a bit where there had been extended and forceful contact).

  “So you got paid. That’s awesome. What did you have to pretend to do in order to get hired?” Donnelly asked as he set more weight on the bar so he could spot Brandt.

  Brandt took a deep breath.

  “I did it, man. I did it.” He grabbed the bar and started his reps so he wouldn’t have to elaborate.

  Donnelly squinted down at him. “Did what?”

  Brandt finished his set, and Donnelly helped him set the bar back.

  “I made a video,” Brandt uttered glumly and then got up to get a drink of water, leaving Donnelly to contemplate this bit of information.

  “Of what?” Donnelly called to Brandt at the drinking fountain.

  Brandt stood, turned back to Donnelly, and shook his head.

  “A cooking video, of course. I whipped up a Baked Alaska so spectacular that my picture now hangs in the state house in Juneau.”

  Donnelly’s jaw fell open.

  “You made one of those videos? Like the ones we saw? Like where the guy gets all….” Donnelly gasped, as if he’d just swallowed a tadpole. “And then he….” Nope, more like a frog. Maybe two.

  Brandt regarded his befuddled friend and shook his head as he walked back to the workout mat.

  “Yes, one of those videos, you stupid fuck. Wasn’t that the point of the whole deal? Get into the house, be accepted, figure out how it works? So, yes, I made a fucking video where I take my fucking clothes off and jack my fucking junk at the camera, okay? Get the picture now? And as of eight o’clock this morning, according to the porn guru Nick, that video has been seen by, and I quote from his text here, ‘More than seven thousand households,’ which seems like a fucking weird way to put it, since it’s not exactly family viewing.”

  Brandt was panting from the effort of being both outraged and sarcastic at the same time. It was Donnelly’s turn to look a bit pale.

  “What was it like?” he finally found his voice to ask.

  “What was what like?”

  “The whole thing. Did it feel weird?”

  Brandt rolled his eyes. But he knew at some level that Donnelly’s questions were to be expected, so he resolved to be patient.

  “Yes, it was weird. Mainly because everyone treats the whole thing like a business. Well, except for Nick, who treats it like his personal playground. That guy, I tell ya.”

  “So, you just got in front of the camera and went at it?”

  “No, no of course not,” stumbled Brandt. “It wasn’t like that at all.” He was trying to figure out how to explain what it was like, how Nick had managed the situation, how he had basically seduced him out of his clothes, how he had pushed his buttons in ways that made him need that orgasm, not just want it. He didn’t have the words for all of that.

  “Then, what?” Donnelly asked, softly, his eyes searching Brandt’s. He, like Nick, seemed attuned to Brandt’s conflicts in ways that surprised Brandt. Did everyone just somehow know what he was feeling?

  Donnelly reached out and put his hand on Brandt’s shoulder.

  Brandt froze. That touch, Donnelly’s touch, Nick’s touch. It reached right through him and seared his gut where he had buried the shame of what he had done. He grabbed Donnelly’s hand, threw it off him.

  “Don’t fucking touch me!” he screamed, his face red, his legs shaking. He jabbed Donnelly in the chest with his hand, pushing him away hard enough that his partner stumbled back and fell to the ground. “Don’t ever fucking touch me!”

  Brandt turned and stalked out of the gym, leaving Donnelly alone, sprawled on the mat.

  IT WAS well into the afternoon before Brandt finally summoned the nerve to call Donnelly. After the gym episode, he had come home and crashed into bed, finally able to get the sleep that had eluded him all night. He awoke at nearly four, feeling groggy and sweaty.

  “Hey,” Donnelly said when he answered Brandt’s call.

  “Hey.”

  Silence.

  “Sorry about the gym—” Brandt began, but Donnelly cut him off.

  “No. No apologies. Being partners means never having to say you’re sorry, right? We’re cops. We do tough work, and it gets to all of us sometimes.”

  Fuck. What a guy.

  “Look, I mentioned that thing at my sister’s house,
remember?”

  Brandt didn’t remember. Then he did. Would his mind ever recover from this?

  “Yeah, yeah, I remember.”

  “Well, I think you should come. Do you some good to get among people and have normal conversation.”

  “What’s the thing for?”

  “It’s just dinner. My sister loves to have a big Sunday dinner, and she’s the only one who’s going to do it since my mom went off the deep end about my brother. It’ll be just family. You should come.”

  “Look, I appreciate the offer—”

  “Great, I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes.” Donnelly was too good a friend to take no for an answer.

  “Wait, what—” But the phone went dead. Brandt took a deep breath and headed for the shower. Would he ever feel clean in the shower again?

  Precisely twenty minutes later, Donnelly rang the doorbell. Brandt, feeling more human after cleaning up and shaving, opened the door and stepped out into the warm haze of a summer Sunday afternoon. It felt like a day for normal people doing normal things. Brandt wished he were one of them.

  “Looking good there, buddy,” Donnelly chirped, incessantly buoyant.

  “Um, thanks.” Brandt used to shrug off compliments about his appearance, but now he saw them in a different light—the light of a video camera. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tamped down the blush that was creeping up his neck.

  “Let’s go,” he managed to say, sounding almost upbeat.

  Donnelly smiled at the attempted good cheer, though whether he bought the act Brandt could not tell.

  The drive to Donnelly’s sister’s house was spent in nearly complete silence, twenty-five minutes of Brandt looking out the window trying to remember what things used to look like before it all changed and Donnelly staring at the bumper of the car in front of him, not once glancing at Brandt. Finally, they pulled into the driveway of a small ranch-style house, next to what looked like a pimped-out minivan.