By Simon Traum


Tyler is from the Midwest, don't ask where, he's trying to forget himself. He's spent most of his life so far attempting to stave off the dire threat represented by the mundane.

He's in peak physical condition, and makes his living as a model. He has come to view his body as a sort of instrument; a musical instrument perhaps, an instrument of pleasure, of industry, certainly. He might be surprised if you were to mention it to him in the context of a Holy engine, but he knows damn well it has always inspired devotion and desire in those around him. It's just that he's come to view religion as an agent of restriction, and his screw's just not threaded in that direction.

What does he look like? Well, he's about 5'9", a good, ripe 28 years old, with tanned skin and sun-bleached cropped hair and short beard. He's very solidly built, but nothing's out of proportion, his abs defined without being concave beneath a wide chest and shoulders dressed by transparent whorls of dark blond hair. His long legs are thick, thighs even more slabbed with muscle than his upper body. The light hair flows in currents down these as well, ending at the level of his ankles. His cock is well-defined, thick even when soft, circumcised, pretty when rampant, sticking its head up defiantly from the nest of his pubes. His balls don't hang excessively low. He has cute feet. His ass is a work of art. He knows this; enough people have told him, tell him, will tell him the next time he shows up for work.

Tyler's face, the fuel tank his life rides upon, is an even higher work of art. The gaze of his dark brown eyes, staring from beneath those blond brows, can devastate. It's an effect he's become aware of and cultivated over time, being cautious not to invoke it too often, to keep it from becoming too self-conscious, too rehearsed. He has the sort of mouth that mutely promises to do something really fantastic to you, and he mentally says the words "suck" and "fuck" to himself while he's working.

When he's not working, or working out, he is surrounded by an invisible high-frequency datacloud of tweets, texts, salvos, messages of all sorts that he sends and receives, alertly in contact with an ephemeral host of companions, many of whom he will never meet face to face, on behalf of whom he will tune out his immediate surroundings if bored for any length of time.

He is still becoming used to the idea of trying to be himself while under constant scrutiny and observation. This seems to come with the territory of his chosen profession(s), and he takes it in stride, not missing any privacy he might once have had, but didn't really know what to do with. Everyone who wants to has seen him naked (just Google it), and sometimes he looks like a veneer of hair and skin products, wearing gym shoes.

Somewhere, inside all of this, Tyler is not a bad guy. But he is both very driven and very self-absorbed.

Tyler does several types of modeling for hire, and has lately been dabbling with porn and a small amount of escorting under a newly-created pseudonym. Professional types warn him that this could limit the potential of his career. He understands this, but there are a couple more factors worth considering here. One is, Tyler loves to get fucked; he's an absolute pig for it once he gets going. This worries him sometimes. He doesn't want to embarrass himself, and he knows he doesn't have a lot of self-control once he flips over into pleasure-mode. However, the second consideration is that he's been busier and more in demand since he started fucking for money. Tyler is hopelessly addicted to attention, so getting more exposure for doing what he would like to anyway is not likely to make him rein his impulses in too much.

Since Tyler models, there's a cycle at work here: The body becomes both advertisement and currency. Attractiveness breeds attention, which leads to more exposure, which contributes to one's general level of attractiveness, which again leads to more exposure, which somehow convinces even more people of one's attractiveness, etc., etc. After a few times around, you can find you're competing with yourself, among others. The instrument requires fine-tuning. Upgrades become necessary in order to retain the public's interest (at least that's what all the handlers tell him), so Tyler feels a need to keep bulking himself up to the next level, in installments. Sooner or later, a personal fitness trainer becomes a necessary expense.

Tyler picked Hank because of Hank's pedigree and credentials. No, that's not quite true. Tyler saw Hank, tucked his tongue back into his mouth, checked Hank's pedigree and credentials, confirmed that they were acceptable, even downright sterling, then followed his own eager erection the rest of the way until he was as close to Hank as he could get without asking for jewelry.

Hank, the trainer in question, is short, wide, blue-eyed, self-assured, and good-looking in his simian fashion. His mammoth arms and shoulders are completely out of proportion to his squat, muscular legs, and only the fact that he wears horn-rim glasses keeps him from looking like he just emerged from a melting ice-block in a cave somewhere. The overall impression is one of profound strength tempered with intelligence and sex-appeal.

Tyler was immediately smitten. It's obvious Hank knows what he's doing professionally; he's shaped Tyler's body into something ripped and cut that even Tyler's various employers and clients have been impressed with. If Tyler wasn't so hopelessly drawn to the man, everything would be great. But he is, and Hank rebuffs every advance Tyler makes.

It started when Tyler, trying to sound more confident than he felt and cringing at his own nervousness, offered to suck Hank off in lieu of a tip. Hank politely declined, not liking to mix his sex life with work if possible. It's all academic for Hank, since he knows he's going home to his lover later, which is what Hank really wants. He couldn't care less if this self-centered slab of meat (Tyler), attractive as he is, gets his itch scratched or not.

Tyler can't believe this, has a lot of trouble dealing with it. He doesn't come on to that many guys, being fairly selective and self-conscious about whom he allows to touch him, but he NEVER gets turned down. That's just against the fucking rules. Who does Hank think he is? He's just a nobody trainer in a gym. He ought to jump at the chance to bed someone as hot as Tyler, who tells himself repeatedly that he should move on to something better, someone who appreciates him. But he keeps showing up for more sessions with the bespectacled monkey-man, pining helplessly, watching himself in mortification, acting like even more of a horny fool than the week before.

"I can't believe you're making me try this hard," Tyler scowls, exasperated. "I've even offered to pay you, and I'm the fucking escort!"

"I don't know what to tell you," Hank replies, unperturbed, as if they were discussing the workout in progress. "Maybe you should find another trainer."

"I don't want another trainer. You're the best I've found. See these definition lines here? Those weren't there before I started working with you. My agency says I've never looked better."

"I'm afraid I don't see the problem here."

"The problem is you're driving me crazy! Dude, I want you so bad I can't even think about anything else most of the time. You know how many guys would do anything to have me treating them this way? Come on, man. I don't do this for anybody."

"Your vanity is not a turn-on."

"I'll toss it out. Do you want me to beg?"

"I want you to work. I'm not interested in anything else."

"God, I want your cock up my ass. Tell me you don't want this!"

"Put your shorts back on."

"No. Stick it in me. What've you got to lose?"

"My patience, if you don't ease the fuck off!" Not smiling any more.

"Oh yeah, and what then, huh?" Tyler mumbles, sulking. "Are you gonna pound me to a pulp? Jesus, man, all I want is for you to fuck me."

"Okay, I'm going to increase these weights by 50..."

Tyler, with his pristine looks, is not accustomed to being refused anything, certainly not the offer of sex when he deigns to allow it. This new phenomenon frustrates him to a bizarre degree, and his ego is clearly taking a beating over this. He's distracted when he's at work these days. He spends all night in a twilight state between waking and sleeping, hard-on rigid, imagination on overdrive, and wakes in the morning looking haggard. The make-up people grumble while they trim his lightly-colored beard back and smear Preparation H over the circles he's acquired around his eyes. How long can he go on like this?

Honestly, if he had his way, he'd just take off and blow off some steam, and a few loads, with any one of the unbelievably hot contacts stored in his phone.

Although, if he really had his way, he'd have both legs up in the air and Hank's fat dick crammed up his sphincter at a velocity of about 100 mph.

Hell, if he had his way, he'd be getting his way. It hasn't been happening. As mentioned before, it's taking a toll on him.

It's possible it would help Tyler if he were to meet Hank's other half, Chip, who would probably be more receptive to Tyler's overtures. It might become clear then, if he saw them together, that the reason Hank isn't all that interested in Tyler isn't that Tyler is unattractive, but that Chip is the center of Hank's life and attention. It's not that Hank wants to turn down a good piece of ass, but he's saving his energy for Chip. If he's gonna fuck another guy besides Chip, Chip will probably have to initiate that. Hank will enjoy himself, but he's really doing it to get Chip off.

Once upon a time, before he ever saw Chip, Hank was an extremely self-assured horndog. An early bloomer who bulked up young, he also discovered that his body alone could get him laid at a precocious age. Once he had that sorted, his energies settled themselves nicely along the conveniently parallel tracks of exercise and sex with whoever appealed to him. Nothing much bothered him for years until he encountered Chip.

Then, love at first sight. It happens, but is not the benign thing most people think it is. The ground opens up under you, and it's difficult to care about anything familiar any longer. Suddenly Hank couldn't eat or sleep right, and all his thoughts were consumed with the cute, little bearded dude. It was like being haunted. Hank had thought he'd fallen in love before, had even entertained thoughts of marriage, but Chip's arrival on the scene erased all of that. And Hank was struck dumb and palsied in the boy's presence, afraid for the first time of rejection, the stakes having been raised higher than he knew how to play. Tyler would understand this much.

It was lucky for Hank that Chip wasn't as shy as that. Physically much smaller than Hank, Chip's main reservation was that big Hank looked a little bit threatening, staring obsessively at him from afar, so Chip kept his distance. Eventually, he was able to determine that these were looks of longing, not aggression, and fortunately for them both, stepped up to make the first move. Hank is eternally grateful to Chip for this, since he really had no way to move forward in his life without it, and for that matter, once he had his oversized hands on Chip, he quietly decided he wasn't ever letting go. Kind of like King Kong the first time he saw Fay Wray.

At first Chip didn't know how to react to this, being habitually promiscuous himself. None of his others lovers and fuck-buddies had been anything like Hank, who was so obviously devoted to him that it seemed like a waste to cut him loose when they got done screwing. There was some adjustment initially. Hank got jealous when Chip had sex with anyone else, which was hardly fair, and would resist letting Chip leave when he had to, which was frankly unnerving. Things got better once Chip presented Hank with the fact that Hank would not want, let alone be attracted to a monogamous Chip, if such a thing were even possible. The rules they decided on were that Hank could have Chip, as long as he let Chip play.

What Tyler doesn't know is that the way to get Hank into the sack is to get Chip involved. Anyone who's ever been there could tell him, they're better as a team.


Bright heat sits heavily on Tyler's bare neck and back as he services the massive bastard beneath him, sucking the outsized cock to a state of rubbery near-rigidity. This is Tyler's first star turn; his agent landed him a hard-core scene for a mid-range company involving Tyler bottoming as submissively as possible for an aging, pathological top man who's still inexplicably considered one of the bigger draws of the industry. It's uphill work. All the huge guy's done so far is lie back on the hotel bed while he gets blown and mutter half-hearted, over-rehearsed encouragements to Tyler as a four-man crew flamingo-step and crouch around them, adjusting a creaking, tightly-knit hell of cameras, lighting equipment, microphones, laptops and the spaghetti of cables and power cords that connects them all. Making porn, Tyler thinks, is like trying to fuck someone you may not like all that much, while a badly-organized military operation sets up right next to you, barking orders at everyone.

Tyler tunes it all out as much as he can. He's not the fluffer, but he might as well be. The guy he's working on, obviously slumming for a check, seems to have no interest in lifting a finger for what he's being paid. If this is going to come off at all, Tyler will have to be the professional here. His texting thumb jerks, unconsciously.

"Yeah, you like suckin' that dick?" the hulking stud asks him, bored, but hoping it will do some good. Tyler keeps the tool in his mouth, stopping himself from telling the guy this would go more smoothly if he didn't talk. The man's not at all bad-looking; in fact, he's very much what turns Tyler on - huge, hairy, tattooed, butch with a hint of a soldier's bearing, hung, if he could just get the big, stupid thing hard. He's a well-known name in the industry, and Tyler was excited at first to be paired with him for the scene. But it's all gone downhill fast since he showed up for the shoot. There's no chemistry here, and Tyler's back is starting to ache.

"Okay, cut," announces Ron, the unit's director. "We're taking five. Go ahead and stretch your legs while you can."

Tyler allows himself to relax, deflating to a crash landing on the mattress next to the larger bulk of his scene-mate. They ignore each other for as long as they can get away with it. It's starting to look like a long afternoon.

A weighty paw drops onto Tyler's abdomen, patting it. "Hey, don't worry, man," his co-star advises him gruffly. "In a few more minutes, my pills should kick in. We'll be rockin' then." At least he's trying...

Tyler's eye, roving around in ennui and vague despair, snags on a small. black object lying twisted on the floor halfway to the bathroom. It doesn't blink or shine or call attention to itself in any way, really, but Tyler can't make out what it is. Rising from the bed's surface, Tyler announces, "Be back, gotta piss." He scoops the object up into his hand on the way to the toilet.

He examines it more closely as he directs his stream resoundingly into the bowl below. It appears to be a cock ring, but he's never seen one quite like it. When did they start making these? he wonders. Can't tell what it's made of, not rubber or silicone, feels more like warm, woven nylon. It's color is a flat, matte black, reflecting no light. As the last of his flow drips out of him, he decides to try it on for size.

It fits perfectly, snug, but not too tight, and giving a little with his movements. More importantly, it feels fucking incredible, sending a pleasant buzzing sensation over his prostate and up his spine, as if a motor was starting up between his legs. He's liking it so much that his eyes slip closed on themselves and he drifts, humming unconsciously under his breath --

-- and he's somewhere else. He's in a room he's never seen. Hank, naked, is kneeling in front of him, gazing with undisguised lust at Tyler's erect cock. Leaning forward slowly, Hank puts out his tongue and gives the underside of Tyler's glans a warm, slow, deliberate lick. Tyler sees fireworks; first red, then yellow, fading to a negative burn of dark blue.

Some time later, he hears from somewhere close by, "Jesus, what the fuck did you just take?" Not sure what this is referring to, he opens his eyes to find he's being stared at by Ron. Actually it's his crotch Ron's staring at. He looks down and almost doesn't recognize his own penis. He's never seen it so big. Or so hard. It almost looks angry, blood-engorged head pulsing purple, leaking a small river of clear juice down the shaft. It occurs to him that if he saw this monster on someone else's body, he might get frightened, but the director seems more mesmerized, if perhaps frozen in shock. Ron blinks a couple times, then recovers himself. "Looking good, Tyler. Break's over. We need you out here."

The reaction of Tyler's co-star is even more pronounced. He stares with his mouth hanging open and a downright greedy look on his face. It's the most attractive thing he's done since he arrived. Tyler doesn't have time to mount the bed before the hairy stud's seized him, thrown him violently onto his back on the floor and docked his face onto Tyler's blood-sausage, growling. Their bodies struggle awkwardly amongst the mess of dirty cables littering the edges of the room. Tyler can hear Ron shouting, "Get this! Get this!" as the concentrated miniature sun of the lighting stands swings around to illuminate them where they've fallen. They're doing all this in the wrong part of the room, but the director's got too much sense to stop anything this hot. Tyler's got no reason to stop it yet, either. For the first time all day, he's genuinely turned on. So's the big stud, who continues growling while he enthusiastically sucks Tyler's bone down his throat, dragging his rough tongue around the base of Tyler's nutsack. Tyler can't believe he's suddenly getting head this good from a guy who normally won't put a cock in his mouth without lengthy contractual negotiations in advance. He can overhear Ron whispering as much to one of the crew.

But the dude doesn't just blow him. Panting, he slips his huge arms beneath Tyler's knees, lifting his pelvis up where he can suck both Tyler's balls into his mouth, groaning around them, eyes rolling. His sweating, fuzzy jaw sucks and kisses a path along Tyler's prostate, finally wedging itself between his asscheeks and forcefully drilling his powerful tongue right up Tyler's hole. It feels indescribable. Tyler thinks to himself that this is what he'd always hoped being a porn performer would be like, but so rarely is. Staring up past his reddened, waving hard-on at the huge stud eating his ass, all he can get out of his mouth is, "Fuckin' A, dude!"

Hank's powerful arms hold Tyler at a level where he can shove his slick, stubbly chin right up against Tyler's convulsing asshole. Tyler yelps from the sensation, hands squeezing the sheets tight, toes curling. "Jesus, man," he pants as the tongue invades him again, "you're driving me crazy. C'mon and fuck me, Hank."

"Who the fuck's Hank?" yells Ron, exasperated. "For fuck's sake, get on the bed!"

The stud responds by picking Tyler up and carrying him across the room. Depositing him on the bed, he continues growling and working Tyler's nether regions over with his big tongue, drooling a slick stream everywhere he can reach. Tyler's asshole opens around the probing appendage, welcoming him in. The stud growls louder, pushing deeper, flexing his shoulders underneath Tyler's thighs. "Ahh, fuck," Tyler calls, eyes shut tight.

Hank's got him open and begging for it now. He can feel Hank's back hair under his calves. He stares at his own huge erection, dripping and seeming to glow a faint blue.

A bright light flashes across his closed lids. He opens his eyes on a room in complete disarray as the crew attempts to adjust to the new changes in the scene's location. Ron screams under his breath as lighting rigs clank around 180 degrees and enough limbs flail about to make a Hindu goddess jealous. It's possible that "Cut" has even been announced, but no one noticed. What's going on over the surface of the bed has seized everyone's attention, impressing them all with the fact that if they don't capture it with their devices now, it will be lost forever.

The stud finally lifts his head out of the V of Tyler's raised legs, his newly-mad eyes shining. Tyler gazes back at him, his erection jerking in the air between them. Raising himself on his knees, inverting Tyler in the process and forcing him into a shoulder-stand, he buries his grunting face in Tyler's butt again. A large bead of dickjuice falls from Tyler's engorged meat, hitting him on his own forehead. Fumbling behind his back, he gropes for the big guy's cock, curious as to how it's doing. Jesus! It's grown into a fucking battering ram now, with extra veins protruding from it, iron hard and stiff.

As soon as his fingers close around it, the stud barks up Tyler's hole. It's like he just remembered he has a cock, and keeping Tyler's ass exactly where it is, he stands up on the bed, points that dick downward, and pushes roughly all the way into Tyler's gasping aperture.

Wide-eyed and panting, Tyler stares up as his ass gets breached by the standing hulk. He's lost the ability to say anything coherently. "Uuuuuuuhhhhhh," is the best he can do, repeatedly. He takes a breath and does it all again. He doesn't mind. He's in heaven, and so's the big guy, from the look of things, upper body flexed with his energetic thrusts, face pointed toward the ceiling as he snarls like a large jungle cat. Tyler blinks --

-- and Hank pushes his gorgeous huge prong inside Tyler again as --

-- and the stud's tossed him back to the mattress, dragging his ass over to the edge. Weren't we supposed to be using condoms for this? Tyler thinks, but the the big guy's shoved back inside him again, fucking him on his back now, and Tyler can't really think anything anymore. The stud's tanned, furry body swells as he pounds, looking about as good as it ever will. Tyler can't resist rubbing his palm up the guy's straining, sticky torso, and the stud roars at him, thrusting harder. Tyler forgets where he is, eyes rolling up into his head.

Hank's never looked better, his entire body flexed and defined, driving himself into the red for their mutual pleasure. His cheeks puff out while he pants, and Tyler notes that this is even better than he'd imagined it.

He opens his eyes to find a lens in his face. One of the crew has moved in with a handheld camera to get more details. He's within range, so he's fair game. Tyler's arms twine about the cameraman's legs, drawing him onto the mattress with them. In spite or because of the cock being driven up his ass like a freight train, Tyler's decided he needs to suck this new guy's dick.

"Hey," the dude exclaims, almost dropping his camera. Ron grabs it from him, pats him on the ass, and tells him, "It's okay, let it happen. I'll take over." The ex-cameraman's eyes open wide in a kind of panic, and then Tyler's gotten his cock out and is slurping it down happily, and they slide down to a more comfortable half-mast. He stares down at the big handsome slut sucking his hard prong and a lewd grin smears.itself across his face, captured by Ron with the handheld. Someone in the crew sparks a joint, normally a bit of a no-no.

The ex-cameraman strips off his t-shirt, revealing a slim, muscular body covered in yellow hair, which Tyler runs his hand over in appreciation. The crew guy pulls his now-huge cock out of Tyler's mouth and slaps Tyler in the face with it a half-dozen times. Tyler groans loud, mouth hanging open. The crew guy shoves his dick back down Tyler's throat, and begins to fuck his mouth enthusiastically.

Tyler can't take any more. With a cock barreling up his ass and another one down his neck and Hank still rampant in his thoughts, he begins to ejaculate all over himself. The big, tattooed guy fucking him growls, "Oh yeah," and grabs Tyler's jerking cock, twisting his fist around it. Tyler sobs around the crew guy's dick.

Ron, the director, can't believe his luck. This is the hottest thing he's ever seen, and they're not even done yet. He's afraid to yell, "Cut", loathe to mess with the situation in any way. What the hell caused all this? How can he make it happen again?


Word somehow slips onto the internet about the scene, creating advance buzz before they've even re-packed all their equipment. So it should probably be no great surprise that the scene itself gets its rough edit leaked to the net by the end of the day. From there, it goes viral, becomes acclaimed for its gonzo, verite style, having more punch than the average porno product. The obvious fact that the shoot is completely out of control just adds to the overall heat; you can't fake that shit, it's argued earnestly. The aging porn stud, now-former top man, the only well-known performer in the scene, will enjoy a resurgence of public interest in his career, which he will parlay into more hard-core work, having discovered at this late date that he gets really turned on making these dirty movies. (Also, he can't wait too long for another cock up his butt.) The production company themselves will be unable to match it, certainly, and eventually, having nothing else to rely on, will be forced to go back to grinding out product according to their old formula.

One of the attractions of the video, besides its raw, sexual power, is the strange buzz it seems to create in any human nervous systems exposed to it. It hits you like drugs, which makes it addictive, at least in the short term. The buzz the performers and crew caught at the shoot is also spread through the viewing of the video - induction by demonstration, seeking ingress via the eyeballs.

Tyler comes, with the big guy's paw wrapped around his spurting dick, and the orgasm doesn't stop anything. Horny as fuck, they keep going. The crew guy comes around to stick his big hog up Tyler's butt. He fucks in and out and Tyler can't keep himself from grinning, he feels so good. His cock's getting hard all over again, and he feels a warm wave of affection as he watches the big tattooed guy slink up behind the crew dude fucking him, watches wide hands, questing fingers exploring the golden forests that grow wild on the guy's slim physique. Watches the crew guy lean back on the larger man, who supports his body as it pounds Tyler to paradise, rubbing his large, bearded chin over the shallow valley between the crew man's sweaty neck and shoulder.

He sits down on Hank's beautiful, fat cock, hands braced on Hank's lightly-furred pecs, luxuriating in the feeling of the cockhead pushing its way up his back channel. He sinks to the bottom, and they both groan as he swivels his hips around, gripping Hank tight.

Consider for a brief moment the phenomenon of mass communications devices, which were once mostly one-way, but this is no longer the case. There is now an invisible lattice around the planet, connecting our nervous systems to a flood of information which steadily increases in both speed and volume of messages (phone, email, text, pics, ads, apps, social media, likes, dislikes, videos, songs, tweets, chirps and hollers of all sorts) being sent back and forth, back and forth, wrapping us in its almost suffocating, intangible embrace. Is there a flashpoint of overload to this endless flood of nattering significance, a point beyond which the nervous system can no longer decode or even tolerate the messages? What is this hydra-headed monster's susceptibility to outside influence?

He ran across the link on someone's tumblr site. Once the clip buffers sufficiently, he's shocked at the video's effect on him. His brain reels, scorched. He has to get up and make sure he locked the door before he lets it play any further. Okay, that's done, now what the fuck is this thing? He's got his dick out before he's even sat down again. Jesus, this is amazing! Where do they find these guys? Wait, he recognizes the big, tattooed one, but he's not normally this good. He actually looks like he's digging it.


The big tattooed man has slipped his fat, slick hard-on up between the crew guy's asscheeks as the guy fucks Tyler. It's only a minute or two before crew dude's carefully stroking the big guy's dick on his back arcs out of Tyler's butt. His head falls back onto the tattooed shoulder again, and he breathes, "C'mon, man, push it in."

He holds himself still, dick lodged halfway into Tyler's hole while the bigger guy wedges himself inside. His face loses every line on it, his eyes close, and he sings.

Her name is Jane. She puts her face right up close to the screen, and, squinting, slides a slim hand down the waistband of her panties. As two fingers probe into the folds, she watches Tyler and the other two, fascinated. This is the hottest thing she's ever seen.

"You're a real piece of work," Chip tells Hank. "This poor guy's got the hots for you, to a degree that even you admit looks painful, and you turn him down on my account?"

Hank's ashamed now, but defensive. "Aw, you don't know what he's like, Chip. He's so smug, and - and full of himself. Thinks he's hot shit for being a model. I've had his type before; they're never any fun in bed."

"Model, huh?" Chip's curious. "Got pictures?"

"No, but he's all over the internet." Hank doesn't know the half of it, but he catches up once they see the clip.

After it's finished, they stare at the screen, stunned. Then they look at each other.

"My mistake," says Hank to Chip, who nods back, unable to say anything at first.

A few seconds go by. Chip and Hank lock gazes.

"Definitely bring him home when you get the chance," Chip says, then, "Let's fuck."

They hit the bedroom.

Mike hasn't seen the video yet, so Tom shows him, thinking he's finally gotten used to it himself. He's mistaken. They both stare, overwhelmed, until Tom feels Mike's hand creeping up his side. Then they're both tearing at each other's clothes, and then they're fucking, back and forth. But they still watch the video, the whole time, which is somehow hotter, and seems to fuel their own efforts.

Afterward, they both agree they've been lucky no one else was around. And then they make arrangements to meet and do it again the following afternoon.

The infinitely chaotic Babel of the mediasphere, chattering away mindlessly to itself about the split-second ephemera of soap-opera plots, show-biz politics, and hot new micro-trends, is mildly surprised by the novelty, and so allows the intrusion as Something Else descends upon it, leaving distinct impressions of its tendencies, riding the infoflow as a Loa rides its divinely-possessed "horse", steering the current down channels that will add to its momentum and power, its agendas being translated as it slides imperceptibly through new cultures and subcultures, accreting whatever costume it needs to put on in order to travel further without impedance, to reach you, to stroke you lightly, to leave you changed in unforeseen ways. A quickening comes upon us from within; the climax approaches brightly from the murky depths of the mirror. Liquid splashing in tiny waves over the lip of a trembling cup.

The boy watches the cavorting threesome on his laptop with a lopsided smile and an enormous erection, giving it a distracted stroke every now and then. He doesn't want to come too soon. This video is the best porn he's ever come across; it's blowing his mind. He knows he won't be able to hold back much longer; it's like electricity zigzagging inside him. On the screen, they're both taking turns now, fucking the crew guy on his back, big dick drooling across his washboard stomach. The boy's balls are on the boil. He moans despite himself. God, he's gonna shoot any second now...

Tyler's fucking the crew guy's ass when the guy groans loud and ejaculates a small fountain up and over his prone body, hitting himself in the face twice. The tattooed guy leans over him, licking the semen off his face and kissing him. Then he looks up at Tyler and asks, "My turn now?" in a throaty rumble. Tyler wags his slickened hard-on at him, grinning, vaguely surprised at his own behavior.

"Fuck me," Hank begs, eyes pleading, thick legs lifted.

"Go ahead," advises Chip, from behind him. "He must want it bad. He almost never begs like this."

Tyler's still-rigid prick pushes its way inside the big guy's asshole and the guy groans in both discomfort and pleasure. He's losing his anal cherry on video. If you look closely, you can see it's not something he thought would happen when he showed up today, but he's loving every inch of Tyler's cock as it opens him wide and leaves him panting helplessly. His own huge horn is lying hard and magnificent across his furry, inked abs. It feels hypersensitized, and he knows any second now, the deeply beloved cock sliding back and forth inside him will drive his own cock to shoot all by itself, without him touching it. He doesn't have to do a thing, but lie back and let it happen. Extending an oversized arm, he rubs the stubble on the side of Tyler's head. He's completely, ecstatically relaxed as the flashpoint of his orgasm obliterates what is left of him.

Imagination is experience, of a sort; every thought is a real thought. The human organism is amphibious, living in two worlds at once, both physical and conceptual. We're only using 10% of our brains. What's the rest getting up to?

Having successfully forgotten himself, Tyler leaves the shoot satisfied, bewildered and more at peace than he's been for weeks. It's like he finally did get to screw big, pretty Hank eight ways to Sunday, even if it was just in his head. He feels as if an immense amount of pressure has been released from him, as if his internal mechanisms are all working together perfectly for a change. He feels like he could do anything.

Now, oddly distanced from the crazy hot sex of the shoot itself, he's back on the sidewalk before he realizes that he doesn't know where the cock ring went. Shocked, he doesn't even remember removing it, but knows he had it on when he shot that final load. For that matter, Tyler's not in the habit of topping. It felt good. Smiling, it begins to dawn on him that, for a while, he touched something indescribable back in that hotel room.

For several days afterward, he floats through his life, vaguely aware that he's not as wound up as usual. He decides he's rather liking that. He finds himself smiling more often and, moreover, has found that this garners more open attention from people than anything he'd done previously.

His agency can't leave him alone. Pleasantly detached, he nods and agrees to most of the jobs they're pushing at him, including a number of offers from hard-core porn studios. It would seem that the scene he shot last week is making some sort of impact.

At their first session the following week, Tyler can't help noticing a difference in Hank's bearing. A few times during the workout, he catches Hank looking at him a little strangely. He seems more attentive than usual. Tyler's surprised to find himself unconcerned, having apparently not yet had time over the past few days to wind himself up to his usual plateau of anxious ambition and mild paranoia. The ego can be such a burden sometimes; Tyler's finding it a relief to let go of it for a while, drifting off into the motions of the workout.

Hank's spotting him on some weights when he casually mentions to Tyler, "Saw your new video last week." Tyler regards him from below the bar, thinking, this might explain the change in Hank's demeanor.

"What did you think?" Tyler asks.

"Watched it with my partner," Hank tells him. Then, after a pause, "Got us pretty hot. You have any plans after we get done here?"

Tyler grins. In a flash, he knows, gut-level, exactly what's about to happen. He feels his dick getting gratifyingly hard in his shorts, with a memory of snug sensation gripping his prostate, the ghost of a cock ring he's no longer wearing.


Simon Traum

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