Satyr-Day Night Fever

by Kiernan Kelly

  "Fuck me, Bill! Fuck me!” he cried, wiggling his delicious little ass in the air.

  Well, they'd have to dub “Pan” into the soundtrack, but that was a small price to pay for what they were about to get on film.

  Josh's asshole was still primed and ready to go, smeared heavily with lube, but to be on the safe side Bill picked up the bottle of Astroglide that lay on the bed next to them and doused his cock thoroughly. Luckily for him, satyrs had no need for condoms—they were incapable of catching or transmitting human disease—since no one made them big enough for Bill anyway. Which worked out well for the production company, since special order condoms would be an expense that would put a serious cramp on the film's miniscule budget.

  Prying Josh's cheeks apart, Bill slowly pressed the head of his erection against Josh's hole, pushing in inch by torturous inch. Bill moaned as he slipped slowly inside Josh's body, fighting to restrain himself from ramming himself in to the hilt. He had to remind himself that he was out to give a good show; that this was work, and that pain wasn't part of the script. No way could this skinny little pretty boy take all that Mitch had to give. Very few men could.

  Breathing hard, concentrating, Bill pushed in about halfway before stopping. That was as much of his cock as he felt Josh could take, no matter what Guido might think to the contrary, and that was all Bill was going to give him. Easing out, he established a rhythm, pumping slowly. Reaching around Josh's hip, his hand found Josh's cock, still hard and leaking precome.

  "Come for me,” Bill growled, fisting Josh's slender shaft.

  Josh, proving himself a trouper, came on cue.

  His asshole squeezed around Bill like a vise, and Bill had to bite his lip hard to keep from spilling inside Josh's body. That would have sent Guido's blood pressure spiraling into the danger zone—footage of Bill shooting his load was like money in the bank.

  Instead, he forced himself to wait until Josh was drained, breathing hard and shaking from the force of his orgasm, head hanging low. Finally, Bill pulled out, and pushed Josh over onto his back.

  Josh's face was relaxed, eyes hooded sleepily in the aftermath of his climax as Bill scooted up over the length of his body. Fisting himself, he came in thick hot streaks across Josh's face.

  "Cut!” Guido yelled as Bill collapsed on top of Josh, giving him a quick kiss to the side of the neck. “Print it."

  Damn, but he worked hard for his money, Bill thought as he rolled boneless and utterly exhausted to the side, his heart thudding in his chest, lips tilted into a satisfied, slightly goofy smile.

  Josh curled up next to him, tucking his platinum head under Bill's chin, foot lazily stroking along Bill's furry leg. Funny how an eye-rolling, neck-cracking orgasm could make a little thing like having “goat parts” seem normal.

  Yawning, Bill's eyes flicked over toward the crew, looking for Mitch, but he wasn't in the room. Yeah, that was more like it. The way things were supposed to be—the straight guy running for cover.

  He must have imagined that hard-on after all.

  Chapter Two

  Sundays sucked.

  The rest of the week wasn't half as bad as Sundays. Sunday mornings usually meant a hangover of catastrophic proportions and, quite often, a face blinking awake next to Bill whom he could not for the life of him connect to a name.

  Even worse were the Sunday mornings when he woke up alone.

  Today was a Sunday like that, which meant that for breakfast Bill was going to have two Tylenol and a cup of tea, and spend at least a couple of hours bemoaning the fact that he hadn't managed to get laid the night before. After all, getting a little on the weekend was different than getting a lot when he was working. He didn't count the people who were paid to fuck him. Freebies meant that somebody wanted him for him, and not simply because they wanted a paycheck. Not getting laid over the weekend was a blow to his ego.

  Bill never went to the bars in his true form. He had no interest in the guys who would be attracted to him because he was Pan, or the ones who wanted him just because he was ... different. Human form was the only way anyone ever saw him in a club, assuring him that he would rarely be recognized. He was just another guy, looking to get a little. Unfortunately, that sometimes meant that he went home alone.

  Which made for the occasional sucky Sunday morning.

  Groaning, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, gingerly rubbing his face with his hands. Oh, God ... it must have been a helluva party though.

  Even his horns hurt.

  Dragging his furry ass out of bed, he stumbled into the bathroom, hooves clopping sharply on the tiles. Every step reverberated through his bones into his head, making him wince. He took a piss, not quite certain if his aim was dead-on—nor really caring—then stepped into the shower and turned the knob to arctic blast.

  Actually, the water was only cool but it felt like he was showering in the middle of the fucking North Pole. The water pelted his skin, feeling like a million icy needles. He half expected to see blood swirling down the drain.

  God, he hated hangovers.

  They made him want to swear off partying forever.

  Almost.

  Dripping, he searched the linen closet for a towel, which of course, was impossible to find since he hadn't done the laundry in a week and a half. Shivering, tracking water from the bathroom into the bedroom, he grabbed his quilt off the bed and wrapped it around himself.

  Shuffling into the kitchen, he made himself the only thing he felt that his queasy stomach would tolerate—a cup of plain black, orange pekoe tea. No sugar. No milk. No lemon. He waited until his stomach stopped doing flip flops, before risking a small sip.

  Damn, but he felt like he'd been passed through a wood chipper.

  Sighing, he sat at the kitchen table, his hot tea on the table in front of him, letting the steam warm his face. After a few minutes and a couple of slow sips, he actually began to feel almost human again—or at least as close to human as he could get.

  And then the phone rang.

  It was like fucking Quasimodo ringing the goddamn bells of Notre Dame. The sound bounced around inside of his skull, the pain bringing tears to his eyes. Whoever was on the other end of the line had better take two steps away from the phone, because Bill was going reach through the fucking wires and strangle them.

  Picking up the receiver with two fingers, holding it several inches away from his conical ear, he managed a weak, “What?” through square, gritted teeth.

  "Good morning to you, too.” It was Mitch. Damn it, Bill liked Mitch. He didn't want to kill him.

  "Mitch, don't you know better than to call me before noon on Sunday mornings? I'm dying here,” Bill growled.

  "I hate to tell you this, pal, but it's five in the afternoon."

  "Yeah? Where? On Mars?"

  "No, right here on Earth, smartass, Eastern Standard Time. Which, Dorothy, unless your apartment was magically transported to Oz last night leaves us in the same time zone."

  "You don't have to yell."

  "Who's yelling? If I talk any softer you'll need an ear trumpet to hear me."

  "I have a headache."

  "No, what you have is a hangover. You really need to lay off the booze, my fuzzy friend."

  "Is this your attempt at an intervention? Because you suck at it."

  Mitch chuckled, a sound that ordinarily would have had Bill feeling the urge to laugh with him—Mitch's laugh was positively contagious—but that today had Bill wanting to duct tape Mitch's mouth shut.

  "Please, Mitch. Have pity. My skull is ready to split wide open,” he groaned.

  "It's your own fault. Don't expect any pity from me because you dove headfirst into a bottle last night. Listen, get rid of whatever underfed piece of ass you woke up with this morning and get dressed. I need your help."

  "For your information, not that it's any of your business, I slept alone last night,” Bill said haughtily, as if he hadn't been bemoaning the fact twenty minutes earlier.

  "Wow, th
at's a first. Okay, I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

  "Whoa, wait up! Why? I was planning on going back to bed ... or throwing up ... one or the other. Probably both—maybe at the same time,” Bill said. In truth, the tea had begun to help settle his stomach and the Tylenol were taking the edge off his monster headache, but he was in the mood for a little sympathy—something he had a rat's ass chance of getting from Mitch.

  "Come on. I need help with the editing of last Friday's shoot. Guido took off on his boat with some twink he picked up Friday night, and he isn't back yet."

  "Wouldn't that be Guido's fault? Why punish me?"

  "Since when is spending the afternoon with your best friend, punishment?"

  "Since I haven't gotten laid, I have a hangover, and my best friend is totally unsympathetic."

  "C'mon. I have to get this done today. I'll bring doughnuts...” Mitch said in an enticing, singsong voice.

  "Bavarian crème?” Damn it. Mitch knew him far too well—doughnuts were Bill's weakness, his own personal kryptonite.

  "You drive a hard bargain, sheep-boy."

  Bill hung the phone up, sighing. Well, editing film with Mitch while on a sugar rush beat the hell out of sitting around feeling sorry for himself. Getting up, he clopped back into the bedroom to get dressed.

  By the time Mitch showed up at the door bearing the tape of Friday's shoot and a dozen Bavarian crème doughnuts from Bill's favorite shop, Bill's headache had lessened into a dull ache and he had managed to pull himself into some semblance of order. He'd taken his human form, dressing in a ratty old Harley t-shirt and his favorite pair of old jeans, worn thin enough to cling to his body like a second skin—jeans that knew his body, remembered its curves. Pants and goat legs didn't fare too well together, and Bill knew that Mitch would be less than pleased to sit around while a half-naked satyr ate his doughnuts. If Bill had to be dressed, in his old jeans he'd at least be comfortable. There was a huge tear on the seat of the jeans that exposed a goodly portion of his left ass cheek, but Bill figured Mitch would rather see a little bum than a lot of cock, which is the view he'd have if Bill stayed in his pant-less, satyr-form.

  "Where do you want me to set up?"

  "On the table. Want coffee?” Bill asked, relieving Mitch at the door of the most valuable items he carried—the doughnuts. He placed the box on the dining room table, swiping one of the powdered sugar-covered confections and taking a huge bite. He stuffed the other half into his mouth as he padded barefoot into the kitchen, soon returning with a couple of steaming mugs.

  "Okay, what've we got?” he asked, helping himself to another doughnut. Funny, but Bavarian crème never failed to cure even the worst hangovers, he thought, as his tongue curled and scooped a glob of custard from the center of the doughnut.

  "For God's sake, Bill, you look like you've been snorting coke,” Mitch laughed, flicking him on the nose. “I can't decide what to do about Scene Two."

  "Scene Two, Scene Two ... refresh my memory, will ya?” Bill laughed, slapping Mitch's hand away. He brushed his nose vigorously, noticing the powdery shower that fell onto his lap, before popping the rest of the doughnut into his mouth.

  "That was the scene where the kid starts dreaming, and Pan first appears. Remember? It was the scene in the club when you gave Josh the blowjob under the disco ball."

  "Oh, yeah. I remember it now.” The club had actually been the same hotel room that they'd used for the entire shoot thus far, with the bed shoved to one side and covered with a black, sparkly tablecloth, although the disco ball had been real enough. The flashing lights had almost been enough to give Bill a seizure. Scene Two had been filmed after the scene in which Bill had fucked Josh. Guido had been pulling his hair out because they'd needed to wait over four hours for Josh to stiffen up sufficiently for another money shot, Bill recalled with a smug smile. “What's wrong with it?"

  "Well, nothing per se. But I'm not sure if the lighting worked. We might have to shoot it again. From the little I saw it sort of looked like a bad acid trip on film,” Mitch said with a wry grin.

  "Okay. Let's take a look. You wanna go check out the boob tube while I do this? Or, if you're feeling really expansive, I have laundry that needs to get done,” Bill chuckled, figuring that Mitch would rather have bamboo shoots shoved under his fingernails than watch him giving Josh a blowjob.

  "Um, nah."

  "Nah? I was kidding, Mitch. You don't really have to do my laundry. Go watch TV while I do this."

  "No, I'm serious. Guido's not here, and that leaves me in charge. I need to make the decisions about the scene. You know, being assistant director and all...” Mitch said, busily stirring about a half pound of sugar into his coffee. He wouldn't meet Bill's eyes, which made Bill more than a little curious.

  Last time Bill had checked Mitch would have rather scooped his eyeballs out with a rusty soup spoon than watch two guys do anything together that didn't require a referee, unless it was absolutely necessary, and even then he usually looked as though he were ready to hurl. “Okay, who are you, and what did you do to Mitch?"

  "Would you rather I rented a dinghy and rowed my ass out into the Gulf looking for Guido?” Mitch growled, slamming his cup down. Coffee sloshed over the rim, dousing the doughnut box.

  "Hey, no need to get your knickers in a twist! Taking out your aggression on defenseless doughnuts is just cruel, dude. I only meant that this is the first time that I can recall in all the years that I've known you that you're volunteering to watch gay porn."

  "I'm the assistant director of the film,” Mitch repeated, mopping at the coffee spill with a napkin.

  "No, duh. And that would make a difference because...?"

  "Because I'm never going to get anywhere if I keep letting Guido make all the decisions. I'm tired of this company putting out the equivalent of video diarrhea, Bill. How many of these trash-fests are we going to spit out? It's always all the same shit—only the titles change, and even they aren't exactly original. Satyr-day Night Fever. Satyr-day Night Special. Satyr-day In the Park ... need I go on? It would be nice if once, just once, we put out something good, something I can actually add to a résumé without cringing."

  "Oh, so this is an artsy thing, then."

  "Yeah, maybe. Sort of. I guess."

  "Thank you, Mr. Ambivalent."

  "Can we just watch the fucking thing?” Mitch growled, popping the tape into the player and flipping the switch.

  "You do realize that you're about to watch me take a man's penis into my mouth, don't you?"

  "Shut up and watch."

  "Yes, sir,” Bill said, tossing Mitch a saucy salute. No matter what reason Mitch gave for watching, watching Mitch watch was going to be fun, Bill decided, grinning. Why, this could give Bill years' worth of ammunition for busting Mitch's chops. They could be in their seventies and Bill would still be saying, "Remember that time when you insisted on watching me give that twinkie a blowjob?"

  It was going to be priceless.

  The tape began. Mitch was right—on film, the lights flashed like a Christmas tree on speed. Bill leaned in, trying to discern the action amid the crazily swirling and blinking flashes.

  "Oh, shit. I see what you mean,” he said. “Damn, I can't even tell what's what and who's who on there. Is that my cock or the boom?"

  "Cock.” Mitch's voice sounded strangely strangulated, enough to draw Bill's eyes from the train wreck on the screen and look at him. Mitch's face was pale, but there were bright spots of color high on his cheeks, and sweat beading on his forehead even though the apartment was chilly.

  "You okay, bud?” Bill asked, placing his hand on Mitch's leg, concerned. Great ammunition or not, the last thing Bill wanted was Mitch keeling over from a heart attack or a stroke because he'd forced himself to watch the tape. He looked as tense as a politician at a lie detector convention.

  Getting a stiff nod in reply, and he patted Mitch's arm reassuringly before returning his attention to the video playing out on screen, although his thoug
hts were no longer on the action.

  For the millionth time, Bill wondered why Mitch chose to work in the gay porn industry. Mitch was good enough, in Bill's opinion, to find work as an assistant director anywhere—in straight porn, hell, even in “legitimate” film. He had a fabulous imagination and an attention to detail that was practically anal. Bill often wondered if it was Mitch's sense of loyalty to him that had made him follow Bill into the world of gay porn. It was the only explanation that made any sense, considering that Mitch was so straight you could use him as a level.

  They'd been friends since childhood. Bill had been a kid—literally—when Mitch's family had moved into the rambling ranch-style home next door.

  Unable to change forms yet, Bill had been home-schooled by his mom to save him the pain (and later therapy bills) that would no doubt be dealt him in double handfuls as a satyr in the public school system. Kids—the human kind, not the goat kind—could be cruel.

  "What are those lumps on your head? Hey, you've got a tail! Is it real?” A seven-year old Mitch's voice, high pitched and squeaky, rang in Bill's memory. He remembered a small face with a shock of black hair peeking at him through the slats of the fence that separated their yards.

  "Yeah,” Bill had answered shyly.

  "Can you wag it, like my dog, Pooters?"

  Bill hadn't replied, ready for the name-calling and laughter to begin that usually accompanied any remarks about his unusual anatomy. But as he'd turned away, his tail had twitched on its own, as uncontrollable as a shiver.

  "That's awesome!” Mitch had grinned a gap-toothed smile, and hopped the fence. He'd been holding a baseball and mitt. “I'm Mitchell. We just moved here. Wanna play?"

  They'd been best friends ever since.

  Like most friends, they'd had their share of disagreements, but the only major fight that Bill could remember them having was the night of Bill's twenty-first birthday, when he'd come out to Mitch. It hadn't been Bill's intention for Mitch to find out that he was gay the way Mitch had, and the argument that had followed had threatened to tear their friendship apart at the seams.