by Neil Plakcy
Oh. My. God.
It was like we were made for each other. There was no pain, or if there was the pleasure masked it entirely. He began slowly but was soon pumping his cock into me, sending waves of ecstasy through my body. I writhed, nearly unable to endure how good he felt inside me. I wished we were in a comfy bed and not on a hard table, if only because I needed a pillow to bite into to keep from screaming. So I screamed.
“That feels so fucking good! Fuck me!”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, his own voice rising. “You like that cock in you, don’t you?”
“Fuck yeah.” I couldn’t seem to breath, or maybe I was breathing too much. Brian was increasing his thrusts and I could tell by his grunts that he was getting close. “I wanna feel you cum,” I said as I began jacking my dick.
“You ready for something really fantastic?” he asked, the words coming out in jerks as he rammed into me.
“Oh, yeah.” My own voice was little more than a squeal.
I shouldn’t have been surprised by what happened next, what with Brian being in the room when he shouldn’t have been and the way his feet made no sound as he approached me. The hunger in his eyes. His lithe, athletic movements. But then, I’m a rational man. I ignored the things that made no sense to me.
I couldn’t, however, ignore the fangs that suddenly sprouted in his mouth. I couldn’t rationalize his sinking his teeth into the soft flesh of my neck.
We both came just as he began to suck my blood through the bite he’d made in my throat.
I yelled out, both from ejaculating and from surprise. His cock throbbed within my ass, shooting out its load. His lips clamped onto my neck and continued to suck. I could hear my own heart, thumping loudly. The world seemed to spin and then everything went dark.
I awoke to the sun shining into my face. There was no sign of Brian. No silk shirt. I located a mirror and checked. There were two puncture wounds on my throat.
I never told Sammy about my encounter with Brian Wagner. He wouldn’t have believed me, and I wouldn’t have blamed him. Part of me isn’t sure that I didn’t just have hallucinations from some bad pizza topping. I mean, hiring a real vampire to pose as one for a book cover? Maybe I just hit my head on the table as we shot our loads. Yeah, that must have been it. Vampires don’t exist. So I didn’t have sex with one. I’m a rational man.
Although if vampires did exist, I could see why being a pizza delivery guy would be a good job. You could scope out potential victims while you made money. Get the lay of the land. And you’d get tips.
If I had been sick from food, though, there had been no other symptom other than seeing vampires. And if I’d hit my head, I managed to knock myself silly without raising a lump on my skull. Still, either explanation made more sense than vampires. I mean, really! And the puncture wounds? Okay, I’ve got nothing there. Can’t explain them. Bug bites, maybe? Unlikely, I know, but better than believing my blood had been a meal for one of the walking dead.
Still, when it came time to do a cover for our volume of gay werewolf erotica, I told Sammy he could do it on his own. I’m not taking any chances.
HEAD SHOTS
Neil Plakcy
I was walking along Ocean Drive in Miami Beach with a couple of my frat brothers when this dude came up to us. He was some kind of old hippie with a ponytail, an earring, and a Springsteen tour T-shirt. “You guys ever think about modeling?” he asked.
He handed us each a card that read Beach Boyz Model Agency. Chuck and Larry were like ready to book, but I fancied seeing myself on the cover of some magazine. “What’s the deal?” I asked.
“Give me a call,” he said. “We’ll take some head shots and see how you look on film. Then I’ll see if I can book you any jobs.”
“Cool,” I said.
“You’re not actually going to call that loser, are you, Gavin?” Chuck said, as we walked away.
“Why not? You think I’m not good looking enough to be a model?”
“It’s some kind of scam,” Larry said.
We were all students at Florida University, living together in the Lambda Lambda Lambda frat house just off campus. It was the only all-gay frat in the country, and we were lucky to have a chapter at FU. At other colleges, gay students still got bullied and teased, but at Three Lambs, as we called the house, we were safe from outside pressure, free to concentrate on studying.
And sex, of course. Most of the guys in the house had hooked up with each other at one time or another. Chuck and his boyfriend Fitz were among the first guys in the house, and they had an open relationship. Most of the other guys in the house were single, hooking up whenever the need or the mood arose.
Every guy in the house was good looking, in one way or another. Chuck had this Asian inscrutability going on, like he was a direct descendant of some Manchu emperor. His hair and his eyes were coal black. Larry was a tall stringy bean pole with awesome abs and a mop of shaggy blond hair.
I flattered myself that I had a kind of all-American wholesomeness. I’d often been told I looked like I belonged in an Aber-crombie & Fitch ad. Square jaw, close-cropped blond hair, and a body conditioned by years of high school sports and college workouts.
And the truth was that I could use the money. I wasn’t the smartest guy at FU, and my parents were paying the full tuition because I didn’t qualify for any scholarships. They kept me on a short leash cash-wise, and I couldn’t take on a regular part-time job because then my grades would slide even farther down and my parents would pull the plug.
But I wanted to be able to afford the kind of clothes the rich boys wore, the fancy sneakers and the bits of bling. So Monday afternoon I called the number on the business card. I made an appointment for late that day, borrowed Chuck’s old beater, and drove back across town to the beach.
The office wasn’t much, just a second-floor walk up over a bodega on a side street a few blocks from the beach. But the waiting room was lined with head shots of good-looking men, and there was a receptionist and a buzzer and everything.
The hippie dude’s name was Alfie, he said, when he came out to meet me. “Come on back and we’ll take some test shots.”
He led me into a room with big windows overlooking the street and lots of bright light streaming in. He positioned me in front of this big white sheet of paper and started fiddling with lights and shades and cameras. “Big smile now,” he said.
I smiled, and the camera flashed. He led me through a bunch of expressions—moody, sexy, relaxed, and so on. Then he asked me to take my shirt off.
I pulled it off, and he took a couple of shots as I stretched, exposing my long, narrow chest. My shorts were hanging an inch below the top of my boxers, and he seemed to like that, talking sexy to me and snapping shots.
“You’re a natural,” he said. “I can tell. The camera loves you.”
He put the camera down and looked at me. “I don’t want to pressure you into anything you don’t want to do—but how would you feel about posing nude?”
“You mean like this?” I asked, dropping my shorts and my boxers with them.
He laughed. “Yeah, that’s how I meant.”
I felt myself popping a boner, and shifted.
“Yeah, that’s exactly how I meant,” he said. “Stay just like that.”
He brought over a couple of props—a chair, a beat-up calculus text, a baseball cap. Then he posed me in a bunch of different ways—sitting on the chair, straddling it, then reading the text, with the ball cap backward on my head.
“Oh, yeah, this is great,” he said. “Love your dick, baby. Touch it, will you? Yeah, just like that, your finger right below the head. Man, that’s hot.”
After a half-hour of that, my dick was stiff as a rock and ready to explode. When Alfie finally stood up and put the camera down, I wanted nothing more than for him to come over and blow me. But instead, he said, “I’m going to print these up, and see what kind of work I can get you. I’ll be in touch.”
That was all? No sex
? Fuck, I was horny. Even though he was like a hundred years old (probably more like fifty, but it’s all the same when you get that old), I was sort of hoping he’d make a move. I’d never had sex with an older dude and I was kind of wondering what it would be like.
But just my luck, Alfie was 100 percent professional. Either that or straight, which was pretty much the same thing to me.
“Stop at the front desk with Tony and fill out an application form with your contact information.”
I filled out the forms and drove back to the Three Lambs house. I didn’t tell anyone what I’d done, because I didn’t want anybody to razz me about it.
I didn’t hear anything for days. Finally, Friday morning, just as I was rolling out of bed after a beer bash the night before, my cell phone rang. “Gavin? It’s Alfie, from Beach Boyz. How’d you like to make some money tomorrow?”
“Sure. What do I have to do?”
He gave me an address on Lincoln Road, the big pedestrian walkway in the middle of the Beach, and told me to be there at seven the next morning.
“I have to wear anything special?”
“They’ll provide everything,” he said.
I borrowed Chuck’s car again, telling him that I had scored a job that day, though not specifying what kind. The roads through Miami and the causeway over to the Beach were empty that early in the morning. I parked in the garage behind the building and walked around to Lincoln Road.
There was a guy about my age standing at the door of the building, peering at the buzzers. He had the kind of looks that immediately put me on the defensive—he could have been a movie star, with his oval face, high cheekbones, and shoulder-length dark brown hair. “You here for the shoot?” he asked me.
“Yup.” I was so stunned by his looks I could barely speak. In addition to his handsome face, he had a body to die for, just over six foot tall, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist.
“Good. I forgot the suite number. You have it?”
I looked at the instructions I’d written down. “302.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” he said as he pressed the buzzer. When the door opened, he held it for me and ushered me ahead of him. Then he said, “I’m Tate.”
“Gavin.”
“Haven’t seen you around before, Gavin,” he said, as we waited for the elevator.
“This is my first photo shoot. I kind of don’t know what to expect.”
“Expect to be bored,” he said. “That is, if you have a brain. If you don’t, you’ll probably love it.”
“And do you?” I asked, as the door opened. “Have a brain?”
He smiled. “You’ll have to figure that out for yourself.”
We got off on the third floor, and Tate confidently walked up to the door to suite 302 and opened it. I followed him into a wide, high-ceilinged room with big picture windows that looked south, over Lincoln Road toward downtown Miami and Biscayne Bay. Various set-ups lined the side walls—an office with a desk, chair, and file cabinet; a king-sized bed; a recliner; and a couple of other settings. Each one had big sheets of white paper hanging on the wall behind it.
A tiny twenty-something girl with a clipboard came up to us. We gave her our names, and she checked us off on her list, then directed us to wardrobe. A very queeny older guy with a blond pouf said, “I’m Leigh. With an i-g-h. I need to take your measurements before I can fit you. You first.”
He pointed at Tate and began measuring his arms as I stood back. “Hey, watch the goods,” Tate said, as Leigh ran a tape measure up the inside of his legs. “No free feels.”
“Honey, I have felt a lot bigger men than you,” Leigh said.
Tate simply smirked. Leigh called out measurements to the tiny girl with the clipboard, whose name was Molly. Or maybe Mali, because she didn’t spell her name the way Leigh had.
“Next,” Leigh said, motioning me over. “Don’t be shy, honey. I don’t bite, unless I get paid extra.”
It felt funny to have his hands roaming all over my body, and I started to feel myself get hard. Oh, no. I tried to focus on math problems, but Leigh kept up a silly chatter and I couldn’t concentrate on anything other than his hands.
Thankfully, he finished and stood up. “All right. Now you wait.”
There were a couple of other guys in the room, standing by a water cooler in front of a Japanese screen, so Tate and I walked over to them. Tate knew one of them, a guy named Misha who had a heavy Russian accent. A very regal, very tall and skinny Haitian queen introduced himself as Jean-Jacques, and the third guy mumbled so much I didn’t catch his name.
I couldn’t figure out what was going on. The photographer, a hard-looking blonde woman named Marta who could have been forty or sixty, moved from setting to setting randomly, calling for us by our looks. “Blond boy,” she said, pointing to me. “Underwear. Bedroom.” She had a faint German accent that made everything seem even more like a command.
Molly led me back to Leigh. “Underwear,” she said to him, then walked away.
“All right, strip,” he said. He turned to a table full of clothing and started pawing through it.
“Right here?” I asked. My voice was a little higher than I intended.
“We’ve all seen it before, honey,” he said. I looked over at Tate, who had been summoned for the office set, and saw he was stripping. So I pulled off my T-shirt and kicked off my deck shoes.
Leigh turned back around. “You’ll be wearing these,” he said, holding up a pair of red boxer briefs.
“That’s all?”
He sighed deeply. “No, we’re going to photograph you in a tuxedo,” he said. “Of course that’s all. How do you think they sell underwear?”
My dick was hardening at the thought of stripping down, then being photographed in my undies. “But…but…”
He looked me up and down, then smiled. “I see what the problem is. Don’t worry, the camera loves a good hard-on. Now come on, get naked, and get these on.”
As fast as I could I pulled down my shorts and my boxers, feeling the rush of air conditioning on my naked body. Fortunately the cold calmed my dick down a bit, and I was able to get myself stuffed into the red boxer briefs. “Go over to the bedroom,” Leigh said. “Wait there until her highness tells you what to do.”
I stood there, feeling like a fool, for at least ten minutes before Molly came over to me with her clipboard. “She wants you standing, with one hand on the headboard and one leg up on the bed.”
I positioned myself.
“Good enough,” Molly said.
Another ten minutes passed. I was starting to get a cramp in my leg when Marta finally came over.
“Not like that,” she said. “Do you know nothing?”
It seemed like a rhetorical question so I didn’t answer. She came over to me and repositioned by hand, tugging it farther along the headboard, turning my head, twisting my body. By that point I felt nothing at all beyond frustration about being nearly naked. I let her move me around like I was a Gumby figure, then she backed away, nodded, and picked up her camera.
She moved around me, snapping shots from all angles, occasionally stopping to check the digital display at the back of the camera. Finally she said, “Good. Back to wardrobe.”
Gratefully I reassembled myself, stretching to work out a kink in my back, and then walked over to Leigh. Tate was lounging against the table full of clothes, completely naked, and looking very comfortable. His body was even more perfect than I had imagined when he was clothed: big, flat pecs with tiny dark nipples, washboard abs, and a neatly trimmed patch of pubic hair framing his half-hard dick.
At least I hoped it was half-hard. If it was that big in a resting position I could only imagine what it would swell up to.
“Take those off, please,” Leigh said.
I skinned down the briefs and handed them to him. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to sniff them,” he said. “God knows if I sniffed every pair of shorts a boy gave me I’d pass out.”
“Wha
t do you want me to wear next?” I asked. It was cold standing there naked, and I couldn’t begin to feel as comfortable as Tate seemed to be.
“Don’t know yet,” Leigh said. “Just wait.”
“Like this?” Once again, my voice betrayed me, coming out half an octave higher than I intended.
“Just like God made you,” Leigh said.
“You can’t be bashful if you’re going to model,” Tate said, motioning me over to him. “Around here, we’re just meat.”
The mention of meat made my dick stiffen a little. Tate looked around. Everyone in the room was busy except us. “Come on, I’ll show you how I relax,” he said.
He walked back over toward the water cooler. I couldn’t help notice the way his sweet ass moved as he walked, and the thin line of hair at his crack. I followed him as he stepped behind the Japanese screen.
Then I was astonished as he dropped to his knees and wrapped his hand around my stiffening dick. My mouth opened wide as he licked the head of my dick, then took it in his mouth.
“Tate!” I whispered.
He waved dismissively at me with his other hand.
The feel of his lips on me was so good I felt like swooning. With his hand, he tickled the underside of my scrotum. I struggled to keep from making any noise, conscious that there was a whole room full of people out there just beyond the screen. And what if Leigh, or Molly with her ubiquitous clipboard, were to come back there? Or the photographer? Or one of the other models?
I frantically waved my hand at Tate to let him know I couldn’t hold back any more, but he just suctioned my dick and swallowed everything as I ejaculated into his mouth.
My whole body sagged and I was having trouble catching my breath as Tate stood up, a grin on his face. “That’s how we relax,” he said.
Then we heard Leigh’s gritty voice. “Tate! Gavin! Where are you?”
“Right here, boss,” Tate said, sashaying around the screen. “Just waiting for your call, darling.”
I scurried around behind Tate, hoping no one could smell the sex on me. Leigh sniffed a little, but didn’t say anything as he handed me a T-shirt and a pair of board shorts. “By the white screen, both of you, please.”
