by Neil Plakcy
There was one big white screen with no furniture in front of it. “I don’t get it,” I said to Tate as we walked over there. He was wearing a different shirt and shorts.
“They put in the background later,” he said. “Like a waterfront or a yard.”
“Oh.”
Marta posed us a couple of different ways. I felt a lot more relaxed, having shot my load. I guess Tate was right. We worked all day, and by five o’clock I was beat. Who knew it would be so tiring just standing around posing? Finally Molly announced, after conferring with Marta, that we were done.
“But Gavin and Tate, please stay,” she said.
I looked at him, and he looked back at me. He shrugged.
We walked over to Molly, who said, “She wants to talk to you.”
Marta was busy packing up her cameras, so we stood around and waited. Leigh left, then Molly. It was just Tate and me.
“I do other photography on the side,” she said. “X-rated. I see you guys slip behind the screen earlier. You interested in extra cash?”
“How much?” Tate asked.
She quoted us a figure, and I sucked in my breath. “I’m in,” I said.
“Sure, why not,” Tate said. “You want us to do it now?”
“Now’s as good a time as any,” she said.
Marta directed us over to the bedroom set. “Now, forget I am here,” she said. “Just do what you would like.”
“C’mere, you,” Tate said. He motioned me toward him and put his arms around my back. Then he leaned forward and kissed me, his lips light and feathery on mine.
I groaned and sagged into him. I could just see Marta out of the corner of my eye, snapping pictures, but I focused on Tate. He began kissing his way along my jaw and then down my neck, and I arched my back, offering my throat to him as if he was a vampire. His gorgeous hair fell in a wave against my shoulder.
He slipped his hands under my T-shirt, tickling his way up my chest, and I giggled and pulled away. He took that opportunity to hoist my T-shirt up over my head. We fooled around and rough-housed a bit, him trying to tickle me, and then I got hold of his shirt and began unbuttoning it, and he tilted his head to the side and smiled.
When his shirt was off, he reached up and took each of my nipples in the thumb and forefinger of a hand, and began pressing. That sent an electric signal to my crotch and my dick stiffened in my shorts. I pressed my crotch against his leg and rubbed.
I heard the click of Marta’s shutter. Tate gave up pinching my nipples for sucking them, one after the other, until they were hard nubs of flesh that tingled in the cool air of the studio. As he was sucking my left nipple he began unbuttoning my shorts and then slipped them off.
My dick tented my boxers, the head just sticking out through the slit. I was so horny I could hardly focus on unbuckling his belt and undoing his pants. He had to help me, my hands were shaking so much from desire and anticipation.
Then we were both in our shorts—his boxer briefs, my boxers. We hugged and pressed our bodies together in all kinds of ways, continuing our previous rough-housing. Then we ended up on the bed together, kissing, him on top of me.
His breath was sweet against my cheek, his skin warm to the touch. I could feel him touching me in a dozen different places, chest against chest, arm against arm, dick against groin. He pushed me up on the bed so I was leaning against the pillows and ducked his head down to lick my dick through the slit of my boxers. I splayed my arms against the pillows and leaned back in ecstasy.
“Lift your hips up,” he grunted, and when I did he pulled down my boxers and my stiff dick sprung free. It was already dribbling pre-cum from the head. “God, you are sexy,” he said.
His hair hung down around his head like a brown curtain, and he reached around to pull it away so he could focus on sucking my dick. I found myself pushing up against his mouth. I saw Marta moving at the side of the bed, and I snickered at the idea that she was taking a different kind of head shot. Then I saw her put a bottle of lube and a couple of condom packs on the table next to us and figured I was going to get a lot more than head.
Tate saw it too. As she backed away and began snapping pictures again, he reached over and grabbed a condom. With one hand still stroking me, he used his teeth and the other hand to rip the packet open, and the latex sheath slid out and landed on my stomach.
He left it there, then stepped off the bed so he could shimmy out of his boxer briefs. For a moment I got to stare wide-eyed at his physical perfection. I loved the way his broad shoulders rippled with muscle, the way his chest narrowed to his waist, the fat, juicy-looking dick that wagged half-hard between his legs in front of a pair of big, low-hanging balls.
His thighs were solid muscle, his calves too. He saw me eyeing him and struck a bodybuilder pose. I almost came right there.
He reached for the lube as he got back on the bed. Then, with a quick motion, he had my legs up over his shoulders, and his mouth was at my ass, licking and tonguing it. I sighed with pleasure, grabbing my ass cheeks with both hands and prying them apart to give him greater access.
He squirted the lube on his fingers, then began penetrating me with first one digit, then two. The lube was cold at first but he warmed it up fast, sliding his fingers in and out of my ass as I wiggled and moaned. “Fuck me, Tate,” I said hoarsely. “Please.”
“Since you said please,” he said. He backed off and took the condom from my belly, stretching it down over his dick, which had stiffened by then. It was impressively large and I worried my hole might not be big enough. But hell, I didn’t care if he ripped me apart; I wanted that dick inside me.
Then he squirted more lube in his hand. He focused on my eyes as he stroked himself, coating his condom-covered dick in lube. It was so erotic, having him look at me that way, and I hoped Marta was able to capture that look of pure lust.
Then he was in me, his dick pressing against my chute, sending electric sensations through my whole body. My legs were starting to ache from the unfamiliar position, but I didn’t want him to stop, just to keep on fucking me. We were both sweating by then, and his hands were slippery around my thighs as he pushed forward.
In and out, in and out. With every thrust my whole body rocked with pleasure. “Oh, god,” he said. “Oh, god, Gavin.”
He reached between my legs and grabbed my dick, his hand still slippery with lube. He began jacking me madly as he pushed in and out of my hole, and we both were writhing around on the bed in ecstasy.
I began making high-pitched sounds I’d never heard come out of my mouth before as he slammed hard into me, bashing against my prostate. I felt the heat of his cum shooting into the condom. That was all I needed to spurt, and my cum arced out of my dick and splattered my belly.
He pulled out of me, lowered my legs, and then collapsed on top of me, the full condom cold and wet against my leg.
I was no virgin by then, but that was by far the most amazing fuck of my life. I had the feeling Tate felt the same way, from the glazed look in his eyes as he squirmed up to lie next to me, his hair splayed against my shoulder, one hand resting on my abdomen.
“Beautiful,” Marta said. I had forgotten she was there. “Amazing. You boys are stars. I will write you checks.”
Neither of us wanted to get up, but finally I pushed myself off the bed and pulled on my boxers, my dick and ass still tender from the fucking Tate had given me. He followed suit, and we walked over to Marta’s table, where she had us sign a second set of model releases, then handed us our checks.
“I feel like I could eat a whole cow,” Tate said, as we walked to the elevator. “Want to grab some dinner and celebrate these fat paychecks?”
“I’d like to eat, then celebrate with your fat dick again,” I said.
He laughed and pressed the button. “That can be arranged,” he said.
VINCENT ON THE HALF-SHELL
Rob Rosen
The room was empty, vacant easels surrounding a plywood box, the smell of acrylic paint
and turpentine wafting languidly up my nostrils. I stood at the sink, painstakingly washing my brushes, heart beating hummingbird-fast, fingers trembling, expectantly, as I watched the traces of amber and chartreuse cyclone down the drain. Oh sure, I’d painted nudes before, but this was different. In a classroom setting, things were more, well, clinical. This, though, was no classroom setting; the model and I would soon be going mano-a-mano—with him being the first man-o I’d ever painted, nude and alone. I gulped at the very thought of it.
Then I heard him enter, the gulp going on auto-repeat.
“Where do you want me?” I heard him ask, my backside facing his way as I continued with the brushes.
“Oh, uh, on the box would be great,” I replied, over my shoulder.
I heard his sandals shuffling, the wood groaning as he jumped up, a lemon-sized pit already forming deep within my belly. “Robe on or off?” he asked.
The lemon pit pulsed, as did my prick, consigned as it was within its cottony chamber. “Um, off,” I managed, my voice suddenly all fifteen-year-old boy. I heard the robe drop to the ground just as I flicked the faucet off. I turned, slowly, curious as to what would be greeting me. It would be a gross understatement to say that I was shocked at what I found. Or who. “Steve!” I hollered, dropping my handful of brushes, which clinked as they rolled around on the cement.
“Greg!” Steve yelled in return, jumping off the box to retrieve his robe. Jumping, that is, and then tripping, his lean, tall body slamming into a row of easels, all of them crashing loudly as they collapsed, one after the other.
I watched in stunned disbelief, my roommate writhing naked on the floor, cock flipped to the side, crinkled asshole winking out at me. I almost looked away. Almost, but, come on, this was quite a show, however embarrassing it might have been. Still, I did rush over to help him up. Not that it was any less awkward having him standing naked in front of me, mind you.
“What are you doing here?” I managed, trying (and failing) not to stare. Downward.
“You know I model, dude,” he replied, hands trying (and failing) to cover the goodies up.
I nodded, as did my dick. “You’re a catalog model, Steve,” I reminded him. “Guess what? My paintings aren’t going to make it into the new Sears brochure.”
He laughed, a flush of red working its way up his neck before splashing across his smooth, angular cheeks. “I, um, do this on the side. In between gigs. Easy money.”
Again I nodded, dick at full throttle now. Bad dick, I thought to myself. Down boy, down. “My money,” I amended. “Today, at any rate.”
His nod mirrored my own. “Do you still, uh, still want to paint me, dude? Kind of strange, right?”
I couldn’t help but sigh. “No choice, dude. Part of my final exam. Recreate a famous nude on canvas. Everyone else is working with female models, mostly in groups.”
He chuckled. “Hence my standing naked, alone, with my roommate, in a studio.”
I saw his chuckle and raised him several more in return. “Hence. Yes. And it’s too late in the game to find another model. So, tag, you’re it, Steve.”
He shrugged. “My dick is all yours then, roomie,” he replied, the blush returning, his face suddenly crimson. “Figuratively speaking, I mean.”
I moved out of his way. “Figuratively speaking, dude, get your figure on the box. Time is money.”
He saluted and jogged past me, dick bouncing, a sea of muscles flexing as he hopped up.
Regaining my composure, mostly, I let my eyes take him in, more artist appraisal than anything else. Well, more or less. I mean, the guy was stunning, roommate or not. His hair was the color of wheat, eyes so shockingly blue they practically burned a hole right on through you, lips pink and pouty, high cheekbones, barely a trace of stubble. Brad Pitt minus the wife and brood. Then lower down, heavy pecs, eraser-tipped nipples, a light tuft of hair down the cleft that trailed south, nearly lost among a six-pack with two seemingly extra sets of cans. Lower down still, a manscaped bush, wiry, blond, hovering like a cloud above his dangling cock, heavy nuts.
I stifled a groan at the sight of it. I mean, sure we were roomies, but neither one of us walked around the house naked. Plus, he was away a lot, traveling for work. And I was in school, days, nights, weekends. I finished my visual grand tour with his thighs like tree trunks, calves like boulders, his legs the only thing hairy about him. Divinely hairy, in fact. Adonis had nothing on Steve. No way, no how.
“Everything okay?” he asked, eyeing me eyeing him.
I coughed. “Oh, uh, yeah. Just getting the lay of the land, so to speak.” I paused, the word lay suddenly echoing off the four corners of my brain. I shook the idea free, and then added, “But you’re, uh, standing all wrong.” I walked in and stared up at him, his prick suddenly at eye level. I breathed in the heady aroma of him, of his musk and sweat and soap. Irish Spring. Manly, yes, but I liked it too. Then I grabbed his hand and placed it over his crotch, my index finger accidentally brushing the soft flesh. He flinched, as did I. “Now, uh, put your other hand over your chest, like you’re saying the pledge of allegiance.”
He did as I asked. “Fine, dude, but you’re covering my best assets.”
I nodded and turned back around. Tell me about it, I thought to myself. Then I sat down at my easel, five feet away from him, staring out at all that glorious flesh and muscle. Still, I set to work. After all, the view came with a price.
Thirty minutes in and I had the rough outline done. “Doing okay?” I asked.
He sighed. “Bored silly, dude.”
I laughed and nodded. “I’m sure,” I replied. “How about, to take your mind off of things, you tell me your weirdest modeling story.” It was an innocent enough request. Or, at least, it should’ve been.
A grin shot northward on his stunning face. “Yeah, I got a few of those. You sure you want to hear the weirdest one?”
I glanced up, locking eyes with him, a swarm of butterflies suddenly let loose in my rumbling tummy. “Sure, dude. Let ’er rip.”
He nodded, itching his calf with the side of his size 12 foot. “Started routinely enough. Fashion shoot for a national retailer. Me and six other dudes vying for the gig. Big bucks. My agent made sure to get me in last, to keep me fresh in their heads. Only, there was no their, just a he. The photographer made the final call. The six of us had already passed muster with our portfolios. Anyway, I go inside and the guy is completely naked. Head to fucking toe.”
Oh, shit, I thought. Down, dick, down. “Anything but routine, right?”
Steve nodded. “Amen. Anyway, dude says, since I’m going to be naked, he thought it would make us models feel more comfortable.”
I couldn’t help but interrupt. “You said it was a fashion shoot.”
He shrugged. “Like that matters. Clothes were on the bed. I was naked, covered, but just barely, by an errant sleeve, a well-placed pant leg. Tasteful.” He laughed. “Anyway, guy was way hot; so comfortable, as he put it, I was not. Better if he was old and fat. Still, you never argue with the photographer.”
“Especially when he’s naked and hot,” I couldn’t help but add, already starting in on some of the shading on the canvas, on the finer lines, his body suddenly coming to life.
“Especially,” he agreed. “Except the hot naked stuff wasn’t what made it weird. See, he gets me into position, the bed covered in clothes, me sprawled out. Well, you get the picture. Then he starts snapping away, telling me to move this way and that. Standard stuff. And then he turns around to bend down, to get a different kind of lens, and I notice this blue, round thing where his asshole should have been.”
I gulped, fingers frozen mid-sketch. “Butt plug?”
“Bingo. Butt plug. I spotted it and started to laugh. And then he turns and asks what’s so funny. And, of course, I tell him. And he says it helps him be creative. Like, it’s hard to get bored with six inches of silicone plugging up your chute.”
“Bored?” I couldn’t help but ask.
&n
bsp; Steve nodded. “Photo shoots can take hours of shifting and shooting, shifting and shooting. Guess the plug kept things interesting for him. So I told him that I could see his point. Gets boring from my end of things, too, I said. I was just making small talk, really. Only, he doesn’t see it that way.”
Fuck. Okay, boy, just stay up for all I care. “So he helps you make the shoot not so boring, huh?”
Again Steve nodded. “Dude shoots me a wicked-ass grin and then goes rummaging around inside his backpack. Ten seconds later, he’s walking over to the bed with seven inches of bouncing pink latex and a raging hard-on pointed my way. I mean, I’ve had photographers flirt with me before, but this was ridiculous.”
I wiped the sweat from my brow, my eyes glued to his crotch, his hand doing little to cover his burgeoning prick. “So you told him no thanks?”
Steve chuckled, cock suddenly at full mast, his hand at his side now. Because, really, it would’ve been like trying to cover a dining table with a dinner napkin by that point. “Um, I told you the guy was hot. And hung like a mule.” Again he laughed, the hand at his side suddenly lifted for a quick tug on his great big slab of meat. “In other words, I lifted my legs, spread ’em good and wide, and told him to show me how un-bored he could make me.”
I groaned, my pencil set in a cup, and pushed down on my tenting package. Steve was jacking away now, clearly playing the scene back in his head as he continued the story. “Dude had one long tongue, too. Spit on my hole and shoved it right on in, slobbered it up good and wet before easing that pink rod up my ass. Sucker sent my body on fire, a moan shooting through me. The photographer must’ve loved my reaction ’cause he’s all of a sudden snapping like crazy, dozens of shots of me jacking beneath the fabric, barely out of sight of the camera, all while he’s priming the cum up from his swaying nuts.”
I started working on my own slicked-up cock now, which I’d freed from my pants, his randy tale setting my creative juices flowing, not to mention the ones leaking over my fat prick head. And still I continued sketching with my free hand. “How did it end?” I rasped.
