Satyr-Day Night Fever

by Kiernan Kelly

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  Torquere Press

  www.torquerepress.com

  Copyright ©2007 by Kiernan Kelly

  First published in www.torquerepress.com, 2007

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Chapter One

  "Yikes," Bill yelped, yanking a hair out from between his brows. That fucking hurt like a bitch! He frowned at his reflection, trying to decide where to tweeze next.

  "Bill! Do you know what time it is? Get your furry ass on the set, now! We're already three hours behind on shooting. Guido is out there having conniption fits. If you make him wait any longer, he's going to start chewing on the cameraman. Move!"

  "Mitch, I'm well aware of the time. Tell Guido the Fagnificent that I'm coming."

  "Not until you get in front of the cameras, you're not."

  "Ha, ha ... funny. You're a funny guy, Mitch,” Bill answered. Rolling his eyes, he bent closer to the mirror and returned to trying to separate his eyebrows by thinning the forest of hair that insisted on connecting them. He winced as his tweezers tugged another coarse brown hair from his skin. Damn it! He should have gone in for electrolysis years ago.

  "Come on, Bill! If I don't have your butt on the mattress in the next five minutes, Guido is going to call for my head. Please, have a heart, Bill. Think about my ex-wife and three kids. Alimony and child support. A mortgage. A car payment—"

  "Okay, okay! I'm ready,” Bill said, sighing. Mitch was the film company's electrician/carpenter/driver/assistant director, and the only man on staff who actually possessed half a brain. He was also Bill's best friend, and Bill didn't want to get him into hot water with Guido because Bill wanted to primp.

  Returning his tweezers to the leather case next to his collection of razors—straight, electric, and disposable—he stood up and took one last look at himself in the mirror. Warm brown eyes looked back at him, set in a face that was handsome in a craggy, biker-bear sort of way. He'd warred with his facial hair until he'd gotten it penned into a neatly trimmed goatee that framed his full, sensuous lips.

  The irony of a satyr having a goatee was not lost on him.

  Topping out at just over six feet, Bill's curving horns added another four inches to his height. They scraped the ceiling of the “dressing room,” which was actually the bathroom of the cheap motel room Guido had rented for the purpose of filming his latest skin flick, tentatively titled, Satyr-day Night Fever.

  His torso was powerfully muscled; his broad shoulders tapered to a washboard stomach and lean hips. Bill's deep chest and ridged stomach were usually covered in thick, curling brown hair. Sliding a hand over his now-smooth chest, he thought to himself that if he had been smart he would have bought stock in the company that made his favored brand of depilatory cream years ago. He went through gallons of the stuff to keep himself on the human side of fuzzy. It would be so much easier—and cheaper—if Guido would let him assume fully human form for the shoots. That form wasn't half as furry as this one.

  But it was the uniqueness of Bill's lower half in his natural form that had garnered him his fame and fortune. Okay, not so much the fortune part, but he had had his picture in People magazine once, which was more than most humans could say.

  Bill Tragos was a satyr. From his hips down he had the body of a goat. More like a ram, Bill was prone to say. Goat sounded puny, frou-frou, something that Bill most definitely was not. Between his furry, muscular, cloven-footed legs hung his moneymaker, his claim to fame—a dick that would look more at home on a horse than on a goat.

  John Holmes had nothing on Pan.

  That was Bill's stage name—Pan, or, as his fans were more apt to call him, Pan the Satyr Man.

  Fully erect, which Bill could manage in the blink of an eye—one of the few benefits of being a direct descendant of the original demigod, Pan—his cock measured a remarkable thirteen inches and was as big around as his wrist. Freakish, some might say, but freakish sort of went hand-in-hand with the rest of Bill, and freakish was what had gotten Bill his start in the porn industry.

  Besides, Bill was good at what he did, and it sure as hell beat selling used cars over at Mythical Motors like his uncle Fred (much to the humiliation of the rest of the family, Fred actually bleated “The Baa-dest Deals In Town!" in the television commercials). That job offer had been on the table since Bill had turned eighteen. But given the choice between banging out car deals and banging some of the prettiest asses in town, Bill would pick making dick flicks any day of the week.

  Of course, his parents thought he'd snagged a nice desk job in a bank, but what they didn't know wouldn't hurt them. As far as Bill was concerned, working in a cubicle rated no more than selling used cars.

  Concentrating for a couple of seconds, he brought his cock up to full attention, hard, hot, and ready to roll. Bill knew from experience that these shoots had to be done in one sitting. Bill's costars usually couldn't handle a retake, not without at least a couple of days’ rest and an enormous ice pack. Slipping a silky, short crimson dressing robe over his shoulders, he cinched it around his waist with a matching belt and walked out of the bathroom.

  Guido, a sallow man who had all the imagination of a fence post, had written the script and designed the “set". The film's plot—such as it was—featured a human man suffering from a rare jungle sex-fever (was there ever any other kind?), dreaming that Pan (Bill, of course) was seducing him. The film actually began in a disco, but the scene they were shooting today was set in Olympus.

  Given the budget and Guido's sad lack of artistic skills, the set design consisted of a small smoke machine pumping fog around the bed, over which a length of cheesy gold lamé fabric had been thrown. Next to the bed, Guido had gone all out by purchasing two tall, white plastic Grecian pillars of the sort one might find in the gardening section at Wal-Mart. Someone had twisted strands of shiny, artificial ivy around them.

  On the bed, Bill's costar, Ash, or Aiden, or Albert, or something like that—Bill couldn't keep track of all the no-name twinks Guido hired, but he was almost positive that this one's name started with an “A"—was naked, kneeling with his ass high in the air.

  Bill had to admit that it was a very nice ass. Plump, just like Bill liked them, and currently being enthusiastically fucked by Stan.

  Stan was Bill's stand-in, a three-inch wide, ten-inch long, bright purple, sparkly dildo that was used before a shoot to get Bill's costar ready for him. It cut down on production costs if the “fluffer” (usually one of the go-fers whose primary job was to keep Guido's coffee mug filled and cock sucked when the action before the camera got him too turned on to function) had the dubious honor of getting the costar lubed up and open before filming started. Goodness knows that whomever Guido hired to ride Bill's dick had better be prepared for it.

  "Well, look who decided to come to work,” Guido grumbled, glaring at Bill from behind his Prada eyeglass frames. He sniffed, settling back into his director's chair, clapping his hands. “All right, let's make some magic, people!"

  Bill stuck his tongue out at Guido as he untied his robe. Mitch slid it free from Bill's arms at the same time Ash/Aiden/Albert turned to look over his shoulder.

  "Oh. My. God!” Ash/Aiden/Albert gasped, his big blue eyes bugging out of his head until Bill feared they'd pop out and hit the headboard, bouncing to the floor like a couple of hardboiled eggs. Bill could almost hear the poor
kid's asshole clenching around Stan in a panic. Stan was bad enough, but the plastic wonder-rod couldn't hope to match the reality of what rose from between Bill's hairy thighs.

  Not to mention that there was the whole goat-thing to contend with, too. Bill would bet dollars to doughnuts that the kid hadn't been told who his costar was going to be, and if he had, he hadn't understood that Bill was the real deal and not someone trussed up in latex prosthetics or enhanced by CGI.

  "It's okay, kid. Calm down,” Bill said, smiling what he hoped was a reassuring, boyish grin. “I'm not much bigger than Stan, and I can guarantee you that I'm a lot warmer."

  "You're ... you're a ... a..."

  "A satyr. Yup, that I am. But don't worry kid—you don't have to look at me. I'll be behind you the whole time. Just close your eyes and think of ... of ... Mitch? Who's hot these days?"

  "I don't know, Bill. I don't go to the movies. Tom Cruise?"

  "Isn't he like, fifty now?"

  "Good point. He was hot in Risky Business, though."

  "He was a fetus in Risky Business. I liked him better in Mission Impossible."

  "Can we please cut the shit and get to work?” They fell silent as Guido's irritated voice broke into their conversation. His face was red, which wasn't a good sign, and if his frown got any deeper he'd be able to lick his eyebrows.

  "Okay, let's do this thing,” Bill said, rolling his eyes at Mitch. Guido was such a buzz-kill at times. He took all the fun out of fucking for a living—well, almost all the fun.

  Putting on his game face, Bill approached the bed. Unfortunately, Ash/Aiden/Albert didn't find Bill's expression very comforting, letting out a panicked squeak and scooting across the bed until he ran out of mattress and fell over onto the floor. Stan shot out of his ass with an audible pop, rolling underneath the bed.

  "For the love of God! Will somebody get this kid a valium?” Guido roared. “Bill, do something! We're wasting film here!"

  Bill shrugged, climbing up onto the bed while Mitch grabbed Ash/Aiden/Albert by the ankles and hauled him out of the shot. Wrapping his hand around his cock, Bill stroked himself while making kissy-faces into the camera.

  "Cut!” Guido cried, jumping out of his chair. It fell over, clanging against the sputtering air-conditioning unit. “That's fucking it! Everybody take ten! And if we aren't ready to roll in ten minutes, everybody's fired! Got that? Everybody, including sheep-boy!” he bellowed, stalking out of the room. The rest of the crew followed him out, except for Bill, Mitch, and Ash/Aiden/Albert, who was still on the floor. Mitch was sitting on his legs, which was probably the only thing that kept the kid from making a dash for freedom.

  "Did he just call me a sheep?” Bill asked Mitch, wounded. “Do I look like a sheep to you?"

  "Well, you do need a hair cut."

  "You're not helping, Mitch."

  "Sorry. I'm a little busy keeping our Hostess Twinkie from running naked into the parking lot."

  Bill sighed, shaking his head at the wide-eyed young man who continued to buck wildly despite Mitch's considerable weight pressing him into the carpet.

  "Look, kid,” Bill said softly, sitting down on the edge of the bed, “It's never a good thing when the director storms off the set. He means what he says—he'll fire you if you can't get a grip on yourself. Didn't they tell you about me?"

  "Bill's not a monster, you know. He's very, very good at what he does,” Mitch put in. “You've seen his movies, haven't you? Those orgasms he gives his costars aren't faked. I mean, come on! Look at him—he's got a beautiful cock, and the rest of him ain't bad, either, even the goat parts."

  Bill looked at Mitch askance. Why did it sound as if straight ol’ Mitch was speaking truthfully, and not just blowing smoke out of his ass for the kid's benefit? Since when did Mitch even notice that Bill had a cock, never mind think it was beautiful? Goat parts? And was that a blush tinting his cheeks? Bill mentally shook himself, turning his attention back to Ash/Aiden/Albert.

  "He's so ... big..."

  "All the better to fuck you with, m'dear,” Bill smiled. “Look, you're already loosened up by the fluffer. It won't hurt, Ash ... er ... Aiden ... er..."

  "Josh. My name is Josh."

  "Oops. Sorry. We'd go slow. Promise."

  "You take a little getting used to, you know. I mean, with the whole goat thing..."

  "So I've been told,” Bill said. “Don't think about it. Pretend it's a costume, if that helps.” Moving slowly, he slid from the bed onto the floor next to Josh. Reaching out, he pushed a lock of silky, platinum blond hair out of Josh's wide blue eyes. “You sure are pretty, Josh. Can I kiss you?"

  Josh didn't look enthused over the prospect. But sitting as they were, with Josh prone on the floor and Bill hovering over him, he couldn't see the lower half of Bill's body, which seemed to help him relax.

  "Please, Josh? I really want to kiss you. Just a kiss, nothing else. Cross my heart."

  "Um, I guess...” He still sounded as if he were ready to bolt. Bill knew that he had to get him to relax by the time Guido got back, or they'd be out pounding the pavement looking for a new costar.

  One hand cupping Josh's face, Bill leaned over and placed a soft kiss on his lips. “You taste good, too,” he whispered. “Sweet. Open for me, Josh."

  Obediently, Josh's lips parted. His tongue was warm and wet, his mouth tasted like peppermint. Bill swept Josh's mouth slowly, gently exploring it, his palate, his teeth, not pushing, not demanding, until finally Josh began to relax and kiss him back.

  He was a pretty little thing, Bill thought as he slowly let his hand trail from Josh's face to his chest. No more than five-six or seven, he was a little on the skinny side for Bill's taste, but his skin was nearly hairless, feeling like smooth porcelain under his fingers. He had a nice dick, too. Slender and pale like the rest of him. Noticing that it was beginning to fill from his kisses and gentle caresses, Bill stepped things up a notch.

  "I want to touch you, Josh."

  "Mmm, yes. Touch me,” Josh purred against Bill's lips. His arms slipped around Bill's neck, pulling him into a deep kiss.

  Yup. Works every time, Bill thought as he skimmed his hand over Josh's flat belly. His finger slid to Josh's pubic area, shaved as smooth as fine silk, then along his rapidly hardening length.

  Josh's hips arched into his touch, a clear indication that he'd gotten over his aversion to Bill's looks. Well, either that, or as his body had redirected the blood from his brain to his dick, he'd forgotten that Bill wasn't quite human.

  Either way worked for Bill.

  Taking the chance, Bill's mouth left Josh's and began a long, leisurely trip south, licking and kissing his way down along Josh's chest and stomach. He sucked a pebbled nipple into his mouth, worrying at the tight bud until Josh moaned. It mate met the same fate under Bill's teeth and tongue, and he took his time at it, enjoying himself.

  Careful not to leave bruises that might be picked up by the camera, Bill nibbled his way to Josh's bellybutton, spending a few minutes there. Josh had a perfect navel, small and exquisitely formed. He flicked his tongue over it, dipping in and out of it. From there, it was only a hop, skip, and a jump to Josh's cock, but Bill didn't want to rush things too much. Instead of going directly for the prize, he nipped over Josh's sharp hipbone, tracing the crease between Josh's thigh and groin with his tongue.

  "Oh, God, Bill, please...” Josh moaned when Bill sucked his soft sac into his mouth. Josh's fingers curled around his horns as he writhed under Bill's tongue. That was the moment Bill had been waiting for; when he knew for certain that Josh had overcome his satyr-phobia.

  As Bill closed his lips over the smooth head of Josh's cock, he had to remind himself not to go overboard. No deep-throating, no hard sucking. He couldn't allow Josh to come, not yet. They still had a film to make.

  It was then that he realized that Mitch, who'd Bill had forgotten all about as he'd concentrated on Josh, was still sitting on Josh's legs. Flicking his eyes upward, he expected to see a look of d
isgust on Mitch's face. After all, the guy was as straight as a two-by-four. Watching two guys fuck was not Mitch's thing. Mitch was a great assistant and an all-around good guy, but he always tried to hightail it into bathroom when the action started in front of the camera. When he was forced to stay in the room he always sported a detached, slightly ill look, and almost always kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Bill was surprised that Mitch had lasted in the business as long as he had.

  All of which explained why Bill was stunned when he saw that Mitch's eyes were dark, hooded, his lips slightly parted, and his nostrils flaring with each breath. Shocked, Bill dropped his eyes. Good God, was that a hard-on poking at the fly of Mitch's jeans? What the hell?

  Josh's mewling brought Bill back, reminding him that he had a cock in his mouth. He'd almost forgotten.

  Releasing Josh's dick—to a sudden, fierce growl in Josh's chest that Bill would not have suspected the little guy capable of—he suggested that they get up on the bed. Josh readily agreed, so far-gone now that he didn't seem to remember why he'd ever been less than enthusiastic about it in the first place. He slipped out from under Mitch's butt and almost leapt from the floor to the bed, landing on his back with his hand stroking his cock.

  Nimble little minx, isn't he?

  Bill noticed Mitch walk—a little stiff-legged, which told Bill that he hadn't been imagining that bulge in Mitch's jeans—to the door and open it. He turned his attention back to Josh before the kid stroked himself to an orgasm and they lost a money shot. That would seriously piss Guido off, and Zeus knew he was already irritated enough by the delay.

  "No, no,” Bill smiled, batting Josh's hand away from his cock, “That's mine, hon.” He lowered his head, lapping and teasing Josh's balls and shaft with his tongue, nothing hardcore, just enough to keep Josh hard and ready and squirming until the camera crew was back in place and the tape was rolling.

  Hearing Guido—who actually did have an iota of intelligence—whisper “Action,” Bill gently urged Josh over onto his belly, and up onto his knees. By this point, Josh would have allowed anyone and anything to fuck him who had a mind to—he was dripping with need, and fully ready to shoot his load with very little provocation. From his cries and demands, it was obvious that he wanted it, and wanted it badly. Now.