Austin leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin, making a show of trying to remember. “Mischievous Pictures, Mischievous Pictures . . . Gay BDSM, right? I’m not sure . . .”
That act seemed to go over as well as the first, because Liam smiled knowingly, eyes twinkling. “I’d hope you would, seeing as you’ve got a poster of me on your wall.”
“A poster?” Austin squeaked, and turned.
It hit him like a two-hundred-pound enforcer nailing him with a body check.
The poster of the naked man depicted from nipples to hips. The one in profile with the massive, curving erection. Austin hadn’t allowed himself to look closely enough to notice it before, but the head of the guy’s cock had a thick, imposing ring through it, exactly like the one he remembered Danny Domino slavering over.
Austin turned to face Liam again, face so hot you could probably cook an egg on it. “That, uh, that, that—”
“Is me, yeah. Well, it’s my dick, technically. You want me to sign it?”
“S-sign? It?” Austin squeaked. “Your dick?”
Liam raised his eyebrows, obviously fighting a smile. “The poster of my dick, yeah.”
Oh. Well, fuck. “Why would I— How could I—possibly—want that? You think I want that? Do I look like a—like a fan of yours?”
Now Liam did laugh, and it was obvious Austin’s offended act had missed the intended mark by a mile, hitting pathetically funny instead of insulting. “Whoa, kid,” Liam said, showing Austin his palms. “Cool it with the doth protesting too much, okay? I thought it’d be nice for the store.”
Kid? Austin thought hysterically, way too flustered to speak by this point. God, how could something be so very equally insulting and arousing? He was an adult man who could give and take hits on the ice and drink a two-four and fuck women until they screamed. He wasn’t a kid. Especially not this guy’s kid.
Master Puck’s kid.
Down boy, he scolded his dick.
“So that’s a no?” Liam prompted, a little more gently than before.
Austin flapped a hand dismissively. “No. I mean no. No, it’s not a no. Look, sign the poster if you want. My manager will probably love it.” That’s if I don’t tear the thing down to hide under my mattress for lonely nights.
“Cool,” Liam said. “You got a marker or something? It’ll stand out better than a ballpoint pen.”
“Yeah, uh, one sec.” Austin bent over and rooted through his gym bag, searching for the black permanent marker he usually had in the side pocket. And of course found the DVD case for STRAIGHT SUB SETUP 3 first. He pulled his hand back like he’d burnt himself, took a quick look to make sure Liam hadn’t seen—he hadn’t, or if he had, he was tactful enough to pretend he hadn’t—and then finally found the marker. He put it into Liam’s hand.
“Thanks,” Liam said, and stepped around the counter so that he was standing behind it, right in Austin’s space. He didn’t usually get this close to other guys unless he was fighting them for the puck. Or they were on an overfull bus, he supposed. Man, Liam smelled way better up close than the guys he usually came into contact with. “So is it the same manager?”
“Huh?”
“Is it the same manager as before? I like the remodel, by the way. Nice to have a queer store. Double nice when they’re renting out my stuff. God bless people who still pay for porn, right?” He had an easy, kind-of-lopsided smile. There was a little scar knitted through his lower lip.
“Oh, yeah. Same manager. Some stuff went down with one of our employees and the manager got a gay girlfriend, so she decided she didn’t want this to be a normal porn store anymore.”
Liam turned on him, eyebrow raised in an undeniably judgmental way. “Normal?” he asked, all but doing the bunny ears around the offending word.
“Sorry. Straight. I guess gay is normal to you guys.”
The judgmental expression shifted into something predatory and kind of naughty. “‘You guys’? Well, that’s a fraction better than ‘you people’ I guess, so I’ll give you a couple points for trying. But what makes you think I’m g-a-y?”
Austin nodded toward the poster. “That? And the fact that you just spelled out g-a-y?”
“Aw, bless. Only gay guys do gay porn? You are adorable, Austin. A perfect unspoiled flower of straightness in a vast wilderness of cocksucking weeds.”
“So . . . what, you’re straight? Straight but pretending to be gay?” Not like the poor saps in your videos, straight but tricked into doing gay stuff and loving it.
“We in the biz call that ‘Gay for Pay,’ but no, I’m not straight.” Liam’s explanation was mostly patient, though judging by his expression the guy was obviously feeling pretty smug about his superior gay porn knowledge. “Except I’m not gay, either.” Austin’s first reaction must have been a look of blank confusion, because Liam added, “Bisexual. You know, like ’em different from me, like ’em the same as me.”
Oh. Right. Duh. Bisexual was a thing. Austin knew that. Of course he did. “Well I’m straight.” God, did that come out a little too forceful? Judging by Liam’s reaction—another lift of his eyebrows—yes.
And yet, when Liam spoke, it was without any trace of sarcasm or disbelief or judgment or any of it. “I believe you, kid.”
Austin stared at him, unable to control the weird squeeze in his chest, the urge to smile like a kid watching his dad score a goal in the final few minutes of the last period. “Thank you,” he said softly, and though he knew it was sappy, couldn’t help but add on, “Really.”
And he meant it.
Liam left not long after that, having bullied a promise from Austin that his business card would make its way to Christian’s aunt, Beverly. As soon as he’d gone, Austin slumped in his chair, feeling simultaneously like he’d run ten miles but also had a hot shower. Exhausted but refreshed. Worn down but optimistic.
There was no way to get around it: Liam may have been a tiring person to keep up with, especially with his constant little questions picking apart everything Austin said, but fuck, he also made Austin feel good.
Maybe the running ten miles analogy was inaccurate, then. More like the feeling he got after a game, because it was a good, uplifting kind of tired. A satisfied tired. Sure, if their meeting had been a hockey game Austin had most certainly lost, but he’d played hard and fair and Liam had proved himself to be a challenging opponent, and there was really no better feeling than that—except for winning against the same.
Except he didn’t want to win against Liam, did he? He smiled to himself as he shelved returns, the three-dimensional man he’d met combining in his head with the porno god he’d jerked off to last night. He wanted to lose, and badly. Wanted to lose everything to Liam, be taken down to nothing, give in to his terrible urges but take on none of the fault. Because it would be Liam’s fault, Liam’s responsibility. Liam’s responsibility for turning Austin and changing him and breaking him, and then it would be over and Austin would be himself again, and there’d be no guilt at all, except for whatever Liam carried.
And he didn’t seem like the kind of guy to feel guilty about much.
Austin wondered what that must be like.
No. Wait. He didn’t.
Because he already knew what feeling no guilt or obligations was like. Or rather, he knew what it looked like, what it led to: Bobby.
Shit, how come he could admire Liam for having the same trait that he was so fucking scared of in Bobby?
Maybe Noah and Dylan had a point about Austin after all.
Although God knew what the fuck that point was.
Anyway, it didn’t matter, because Austin didn’t need soul-searching to fix his problem with Bobby; he needed more porn. He’d already gotten through one social encounter unscathed thanks to that first video. Now, like any workout, he needed to ramp up the intensity and increase the reps.
And so, after getting home from his shift that night, Austin stripped down to his boxers, put his headphones on, and popped the first
of his five discs into his computer’s drive: some muscle-bound thing with guys who looked a little like Austin fucking in a generic living room space and titled Cody and Darren—after its two costars, obviously. Zero points for creativity.
And zero points for boners, too. Cody and Darren, both with dyed blond hair and tanned skin and no body hair below their eyebrows, sat around on the couch in jeans and tight T-shirts making small talk with whoever was behind the camera, then after some arbitrary amount of time, they started kissing and rubbing each other. Austin stared, unblinking, as they undressed each other and groaned and kissed with lots of tongue, and his dick didn’t so much as twitch. They started sucking each other off next, fists and lips wrapped around their practically identical hairless dicks. Sometimes they said stuff like “You like that, huh?” or “You wanna fuck me?” and then they were fucking, or, well one of them was fucking while the other got fucked—Austin wasn’t sure whether it was Cody or Darren on the bottom anymore—and still. No. Reaction.
He was about to give up on the whole enterprise when suddenly Cody/Darren pulled his dick out of Darren/Cody’s ass and the camera cut to Darren/Cody on his knees at Cody/Darren’s feet and Cody/Darren wasn’t wearing a condom anymore and he was completely slathering Darren/Cody’s face with thick ropes of cum.
“You like that, huh?” Cody/Darren said, but this time Austin imagined it as a taunt—“Little fag, you love cum all over your face, don’t you? We should send this video to your girlfriend”—and it wasn’t Cody/Darren doing the taunting anymore, it was Liam. No, it was Master Puck in that tight leather chest harness, with his hand fisted in Austin’s floppy hair, coming all over his nose and eyebrows. Not even aiming for Austin’s mouth, because he liked the way Austin looked soaked in cum like a two-dollar whore.
Austin twisted in his seat and rubbed at his suddenly thicker dick through the fabric of his underwear. Oh, yeah, fuck yeah, that had done it. His head fell back and he groaned, nudging his dick against his palm, not ready yet to take it out and jerk off properly. No, that he wanted to save for later. At least four hours later, judging by the stack of DVD cases sitting on his desk. STRAIGHT SUB SETUP 3 was at the very bottom of the pile. Saving the best (worst?) for last.
Cody and Darren’s bland adventures in dude fucking still weren’t over, but Austin hit the eject button regardless. If he sat around for the DVD’s entire absurd two hour runtime, he’d be here way longer than the five hours he’d committed to. Just because he wanted to up the intensity on his gay porn workout didn’t mean he wanted to like . . . strain something. Especially when that something was most likely to be his dick.
Not that he used it for anything much more than jerking off lately.
Wow, he really needed to get laid, now that he thought about it.
But not until after he figured out his gay issues, not unless he wanted to accidentally ask some puck bunny to pull his hair and do him up the ass with a strap-on. He’d never live it down—with girls or the guys on his team—if he did. Yeah, better to remain celibate until he had his boner under control.
Speaking of which, time for disc two of his gay porno marathon. He didn’t really take note of the title. Just more generic dude names. This one was different, though, because it featured three horny hairless guys. These guys weren’t all muscular, though. They were skinny bordering on hungry looking, like this was some kind of pornographic infomercial for an Eastern European antihunger charity. And they all looked somewhere around twelve, except for the fact that they were all hung like horses and the DVD case explicitly said ALL ACTORS ARE 18+ on the front. That must be a real boner killer for the pedophiles in the target audience.
Hell, though, maybe they pretended, the same way Austin kept pasting Master Puck over all of these malnourished dudes fucking and sucking each other. Which, he found, was the only way to keep his boner up, because there was nothing inherently hot about a gaping pink butthole with two dicks plunging in and out of it . . . unless Austin imagined himself in the middle, weight on top of him and hands grasping him from below, keeping him still as he squirmed and protested and moaned helplessly. Master Puck would unload his balls into Austin’s ass, no condom, like in the scene on Austin’s computer screen. Of course, that wouldn’t be nearly enough now, would it? Sure, being used as a cum dumpster by a more powerful man gave him a thrill, but he really needed to have his face rubbed in it—his shame, that was. So Master Puck would make him beg for it. Beg for Master Puck to come in his slutty ass instead of on the floor. Oh, no, he didn’t deserve that cum, no, but he’d be so grateful, he’d be so, so, so grateful to be used that way, if only Master Puck would be so generous. And Master Puck, knowing he was partially responsible for creating the shameless cum slut in front of him, would pump Austin’s ass full of semen and then make Austin thank him by cleaning his dick and the spattered toes of his shiny boots . . . with his tongue, of course.
Austin bit his lip to stifle a moan and squeezed his eyes shut. Behind his eyelids, all he could see was cum, cum, cum dripping out of him, shooting onto him, men’s cum, and yeah, he was revolted by it, wanted to shudder thinking about the taste and feel of it—but he craved it at the same time, because it represented the ultimate submission. To be used like that. The only way to go lower was to have a man piss on him, but maybe not even that, because sure it was dirtier, but it wasn’t nearly as sexual. And that’s what Austin wanted. To be overpowered and used. Sexually. He wasn’t about to start scrubbing Master Puck’s floors unless he was doing it butt naked on his hands and knees.
He still didn’t jerk off. In fact, it became a kind of challenge: to keep himself from getting off or enjoying himself until Master Puck gave him permission. Not that he could—they weren’t lovers or fuck buddies or Dom/sub or whatever, only actor and viewer—but maybe Austin could have that last disc stand in for the permission he couldn’t get personally. It would have to be enough.
But his resolution turned almost impossible with the next video, which was a simulated prison gang rape with some young guy surrounded by four or five muscled, tattooed thugs. The kid didn’t put up much of a fight, but then, Austin didn’t really want him to. Didn’t want to see him getting his ass beat so much as he wanted to see him give in and submit, fall to his knees and suck one dick while he jerked off two others and a third guy tried to get in there and fuck his ass. And the things these men said—damn, they left Cory and Dylan or whoever in the dust:
“Take it, bitch.”
“Yeah, bitch, you got a nice mouth.”
“Ass like a pussy.”
Austin mouthed the words as he pulled his dick out of his boxers and gave it a couple rough tugs. Ass like a pussy. Austin wondered if his ass was like that, if a man could get him slick back there and slide his dick in, if Austin would clench around that big invading dick the way girls massaged his dick with their pussies sometimes. Using his ass like a pussy. These men weren’t gay, just desperate to get their rocks off, and Austin was weak enough for them to use him as a substitute.
It was humiliation and submission like Austin wanted and deserved.
The men in the video called their victim bitch and slapped his face—gentle, teasing slaps, like he wasn’t worth the effort of hitting properly—and stuffed nightsticks into his hungry, gaping ass. Now Austin couldn’t suppress his moans anymore. Biting his lips only made him hornier with the pain. So he smothered the sounds instead. Slapped a hand over his mouth and wailed into it as he jerked himself off with the other hand. Imagined it was Master Puck smothering him, pounding his ass from behind with that big pierced dick, the one on the poster. Fucking him but keeping his moans silent because bitches should be seen and not heard. Yeah, yeah that was good. That was so good, so—
Shit.
Austin looked down to see his hand webbed with sticky, shiny cum.
Shit, shit, shit. He hadn’t meant to do that. Panic flared in him, shame at disappointing Master Puck, until he remembered that the agreement had only been between Austin and
Austin, and that Master Puck barely knew he existed, other than as the awkward straight kid working in a gay porn store.
But he still wanted to be punished.
He knew what he had to do. What Master Puck would command him to do.
Putting in the fourth disc with his clean hand—back to bland dude fucking, this time with two black guys still in their sneakers—he raised his hand to his face. His dirty hand. His shameful hand. His disobedient hand. Dirty. Shameful. Disobedient. He recited the words in his head and forced himself to stare at the nearly naked bodies on his computer screen as he stretched out his tongue to lap at the first drip of cum.
He gagged.
Fucking disgusting. Well, he wasn’t a born fag, that was for damn certain. But this wasn’t what he was born as, it was what Master Puck was making him into: someone who licked up cum and said thank-you, even if it never stopped tasting disgusting.
So Austin licked again, and again, making a face every time. Bitter and salty and the, oh God, the texture was worst of all, not to mention the fact that it was so warm. It stuck to the roof of his mouth like cough syrup, coating the entire inside of his mouth with that awful flavour. He wished he could stop, but he couldn’t. He’d committed. He’d lick up every last drop of cum, because that was what Master Puck would want, and he’d watch the rest of this boring porn—every last hump and grunt of it—and then he’d get his reward.
Not to mention the rest of his punishment. Because there was no way Master Puck would let Austin watch his video without getting himself off. That was fucking rude and disrespectful, on top of the disobedience of coming too early.
Straight Shooter (Rear Entrance Video, #3) Page 7
