Easy cum, easy go

by Noam de Pluma and Kuro

 Norman Aster is working his regular shift at the restaurant when a mysterious stranger walks in and changes his life forever… except his life has always been that way, right? Right?

Added: Apr 2022 Updated: 16 Apr 2022 21,914 words 5,558 views 4.2 stars (5 votes)

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Life as a waiter in an upscale restaurant often seemed more glamorous than it actually was. Breaks were short, customers frequently appallingly rude, and the perks were so weak as to be non-existent.

Fortunately, 10 a.m. on a Thursday was one of the quieter periods at La P’tite Maison: after the breakfast crowd, but before the lunch rush. Norman hadn’t had any customers darken the door for almost thirty minutes.

Of course, as soon as he thought that, the tinkling bell chimed as the heavy glass doors swung open, admitting a shambling figure.

He couldn’t quite make out the details of this new customer, who was silhouetted against the sunlight, but something about the way he walked made Norman think he might not belong in this particular establishment. Plastering on a smile that could say either of “I deserve a big tip” or “I won’t take your shit, please leave,” depending on the words he chose to deploy, he walked up to the front and tried to angle himself away from the light so he could finally get a good look at the newcomer.

“Welcome to La P’tite Maison,” he said brightly. “How may I help you?”

“A table, please,” came the remarkably throaty response—the shaggy hair parting as the customer turned his face up to Norman’s. He was short enough that one might have mistook him for a child, were it not for the shabby, tweedy jacket and scraggly beard—as well as the pervasive, sharp scent that clung to him like a limpet.

The smell was almost offensively present, but it wasn’t unpleasant: rather, it was impossible to shut out, infiltrating Norman’s nostrils as he automatically began to breathe through his mouth.

Norman weighed his options. Obey the restaurant’s no-fragrance policy (whether the man’s… musk… was all natural or not)? Let him eat and clear out before the lunch rush and hopefully get a tip out of it?

He sighed internally. He was hard up for cash and needed all the money he could get without resorting to going gay for pay. Again. Fuck his luck that Bobbi and her shitty escort service paired him up with men more than women more often than not.

All this mental arithmetic occurred in less than a second, without disrupting the smile plastered onto his face. “Absolutely,” he chirped. “Will anyone be joining you today, sir?” He busied himself with the pile of menus.

“Only you,” the suddenly brassy voice returned, as the diner stumped around the wood panel obscuring the dining space from the street. The high ceilings and cream-coloured booths stood in contrast to the short, darkly-clothed man, who sagged into a table tucked into a corner.

Agile fingers snagged the à la carte menu, bushy brows furrowing as he blinked slowly at the French unrolling in front of him.

The scent seemed to be getting stronger and stronger—not cloying, but omnipresent as it surrounded Norman and bore down on his subtly pounding head-

-Until something bent and gave way, leaving Norman breathing easily: entirely oblivious to the aroma that filled his nose.

And suddenly Norman found himself in full earn-a-tip mode. “You’re in between breakfast and the lunch rush so the kitchen doesn’t have everything ready yet, but our daily soup—French onion—should be ready to go. I can also get them to make you anything off the breakfast menu before they switch over completely, or fire up a steak frites even though it’s a bit early. I’ll let you peruse the menu and come back in a minute. In the meantime, water coming right up. Or do you want something else? Another drink, maybe? I’ll be back with your water.”

He briefly wondered why he was babbling and waffling so much, and made to turn away towards the bar, cheeks burning.

“Water, yes. And steak.”

The words were—less hash than his previous short sentences had been. Clearly, the guy was uncurling at the prospect of lunch getting more imminent, his shoulders straightening ever so slightly as he tucked a curtain of hair behind an ear.

The action exposed an impressive sideburn and a cheekbone so sharp it would probably slice through butter without any effort whatsoever.

Norman got to the bar and released a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, leaning against the polished wood for support. What was going on with him? He’d been waiting tables long enough to be better than this. He shook out his hands and cricked his neck before grabbing a glass and filling it up. The rolled his eyes, dumped it out, added a scoop of ice, then filled it with water again.

He walked back to the table, winsome smile plastered on his face, and had just sat the glass down when his smile faltered. Shit. The steak.

“Sir, I apologize, I should have asked you earlier, but, um, about the steak, and, uh, how you want it cooked…”

He prayed that the man would cut him off already because, for some reason, he simply couldn’t stop himself from babbling. What was going on with him?

“Bleu.”

His spine had uncurled in the time Norman had been away, making him seem taller and—well, more respectable. The tweed wasn’t as bad as the waiter had initially thought: he looked more like a rumpled academic than a hobo. Rather than matted, his hair was just… long. Not even tangled, on reflection.

Now that his hair was tucked away, swept from his face, Norman got a startling glance from some highly penetrating green eyes.

“Two plates.”

“Yes, of course. But you said nobody else was coming?” Norman asked quizzically.

The customer raised an unimpressed eyebrow ever so slightly—more groomed than Norman had initially estimated when he’d seen it through the sheet of somewhat glossy hair—that sent the waiter scurrying back to the kitchen.

Norman gave the chef the order ticket and made himself scarce from the dining room, peeking his head in to make sure the customer didn’t need a refill of water and, fortunately, finding no need to return to the table. Hanging out in the kitchen made him feel more like himself. The air was clearer somehow. Maybe he was just hungry, and the smell of food (even lightly seared steak) helped centre him?

Whatever it was, it worked, and he made his return to the dining room with renewed bravado and two plates, one of which was laden with the rarest plate of steak frites he’d ever served. The familiar aroma of crispy fries filled his nostrils until he was just bending down to lay the plates when another aroma, some kind of musk he couldn’t quite place, shoved the fries aside and filled his mind with cobwebs again.

The man’s spidery hands grasped his knife and fork, stabilizing the steak as he delicately sawed through the raw flesh—juices seeping across the plate and staining the frites indelibly.

With a sudden, mild shock, Norman realized that as he’d been avidly watching the butchery, the stranger had been watching him.

The guest lifted half of the steak, still seeping gently, and deposited it on the clean plate, before spooning over a number of the darkened frites in turn, crispiness already beginning to degrade.

“Sit.”

Norman screwed up all the courage and concentration he could muster. “Sir, I’m afraid I can’t,” he said politely but firmly, tip-earning smile still plastered on his face, gently pulling the second chair out from under the table. “I’m on shift,” he continued, sitting down courteously, “and I’m definitely not allowed to eat with guests.” He pulled the chair in and looked at the man, whose sharp, angular (and frankly handsome) face was framed by flowing locks of jaw-length hair that fell artfully from where it was tucked behind his ears.

“You’re on break,” the man said matter-of-factly.

Satisfied with something imperceptible to Norman, he sat back a little and turned his attention to carving up the half of the steak that remained on his plate. Meanwhile, Norman’s mind was—unhurriedly, implacably—altered by the tendrils of something that had penetrated deeply into his body.

As he sat there, Norman’s mind stutter-stepped for the briefest of moments as it caught up with his actions.

“You know, I’ve had blue steak once before,” he said conversationally, politely cutting a bite for himself. “Really didn’t like it. Too bloody.” He raised his fork to his mouth and took the dripping piece of meat, chewing thoughtfully.

Dimly, he was aware that something was… wrong? He felt unsettled, but couldn’t place why, until… crap! If he was on break, he shouldn’t be wearing his work uniform, especially while eating with a customer in the dining room. Blushing, he began to shift uncomfortably and fidget at his waiter’s apron, uncertain of what to do with it in this compromised situation.

Not that he liked this job much, but he needed it. In fact, he couldn’t afford to lose it, staring down the face of prostitution (to say nothing of a likely gay for pay scenario) again. If the boss were to walk in on him…

“Nice suit,” the man observed—not even begrudgingly: more like it was a fact of life.

Although La P’tite Maison‘s uniforms were nothing to sniff at—the frumpy bow ties and neat collared shirts contrasted well with the black aprons—they could never be confused with suits. Norman was just about to open his mouth, when Norman’s brain lit up in a few particular key places—just as the invisible cloud around him contracted and pulsed.

The change wasn’t major: the waistcoat that formed from the foaming surface of the apron was the same black-dyed cotton, with a simple cut. The jacket that spilt onto the back of Norman’s chair was merely created from the excess material, too. But it was clearly not a uniform, something that Norman’s momentarily fevered mind latched onto.

Norman finished adjusting the bit of shirt collar that had snagged uncomfortably in his suit jacket and blushed. “Thanks. It’s just a cheap thing I’m making sure still fits for this audition I have tomorrow. Could be a big part, my big break, you know?” Another morsel of steak found its way to his mouth via arms and hands operating on autopilot, and he chewed thoughtfully, lost in daydreams of fame and fortune.

“Audition?” the gentleman prompted, slicing through flesh without hesitation as he sat up fully—really, he was almost Norman’s height. His sharp nose and incisive eyes were still locked on Norman, but… they were having lunch. It only made sense to look at one’s interlocutor.

“Oh, yeah, I’m an actor,” Norman said cheerfully. “Kind of in between agents right now, but I have a good feeling about this part tomorrow. Friend of mine-” he shuddered momentarily, remembering the number of times he’d had to let himself get fucked by this ‘friend’ before getting access to his insider knowledge, “sent it over to me. Mid-20s male, earnest look, not too tall, handsome… it’s like they wrote it for me or something.” He chewed thoughtfully, unconsciously grimacing at the taste without registering his dislike of the extra-rare meat. “Say, are you in movies? You definitely look the part. The hair, the face, you’d be a shoo-in.”

The—stranger?—kept a steady gaze on Norman for a few seconds longer than was comfortable, before seeming to come to a decision.

“I’m an agent,” he confirmed briefly, as the slight heat-haze shimmer of scent cloaked both of them—rewriting an entire life’s back story, rather than the reality of a single apron.

Norman felt quite dizzy as his motives for sitting with the customer were tweaked for clarity: he hadn’t sat down at an invitation, but because he’d recognized the man. Flattery about looks was only so transparent: this was a route that wouldn’t involve dubious ‘friends’ if he didn’t want it.

Thank goodness he’d had his suit stashed in the back so he could change into it while the agent’s steak was getting prepped. Got to put your best foot forward, right?

“Yeah, you know how it is,” he said, pouring on as much charm as he could muster. “Professional waiter and silver screen audition-er Norman Aster, at your service. I’ve got a lot of range, you know, and never a bad review. I love just diving into a character, you know?” Technically, role-playing with clients counted as acting, right? None of his Janes or (sigh) Johns had ever complained, at any rate. Hopefully this agent would let him get away with his little lie of omission.

He shoved a mouthful of frites into his mouth just to get himself to shut up and stop babbling at the kingmaker he was lucky enough to be dining with. What was going on with him today?

Norman wasn’t certain, but it seemed like the man’s manner was a little different than before. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? Now if only Norman could remember the guy’s name. He was a face around town, but… the waiter was blanking.

“What sort of range?” the agent inquired, rolling his shoulders back—which put his eyeline a little higher than Norman’s.

“Oh, you know,” Norman said around his frites before swallowing. “Nice, friendly, trustworthy guy—that was for a deodorant commercial—scared college kid for a horror flick, um…” He trailed off, having exhausted his on-screen roles. But in more private settings, well…

“I’ve been the cold, domineering boyfriend, the warm-hearted teddy bear, the gim- I mean, subservient, eager-to-please guy,” he rattled off the list, mentally recalling all of his encounters with the escort agency. He swallowed hard, trying to quell is rising embarrassment. “Those were mostly indie projects, you wouldn’t have heard of them, but, like, I got into character man. Deep into character.”

“And you’re pretending to be an earnest waiter right now, to prove your acting chops,” the agent deduced, more verbose now that his role was revealed.

Norman, in turn, was about to refute the idea, but—as the mist around them almost thickened to visibility—he realized that he’d been busted. Getting a friend to let him wait tables on a day when he knew that his target would be eating at La P’tite Maison had seemed like such a flawless plan, too.

He turned on the charm and flashed his most winsome grin. “How’d I do?”

“Adequately,” the agent allowed, making Norman relax ever so slightly.

Without his gig as a waiter, his life was—unbeknownst to him—quite different from how it had been mere moments before. His will to become a proper actor, though, hadn’t changed: if anything, it had intensified.

As had his reliance on hooking to make ends meet. Without the steady (if meagre) income of waiting tables to support his audition-heavy lifestyle, moonlighting as a John-for-hire was becoming his go-to more and more. He’d found himself a bit of a niche serving past-their-prime women and, despite his reservations, a growing number of like-aged men.

He idly wondered how long it had been since he even got over his gag reflex before returning to the matter at hand. This agent to the stars with whom he was sharing a meal.

“Just adequate? I’d say I had the patter down pretty good.” He took his last bite of the half-steak on his plate. “So, now that we’re both out in the open… what are you looking for in up-and-coming actors to fill out your roster?”

“A chameleon, really. One willing to fully commit to whatever role they might be chosen for,” the agent explained—more expansive with every passing moment, his average height looming over Norman’s. His handsome face, framed by sleek, well-groomed hair, had the rent boy questioning why the agent had never gone in for acting himself. Or modelling, at the very least.

“For example—you’re wearing a tearaway suit. Justify that to me,” he nearly purred, as the stitching of Norman’s suit grew thin and the cut a little more adventurous.

Norman took a breath and allowed his heartbeat to slow, determined not to let the rush of embarrassment he felt show on his face. He had a client—one of his regulars, in fact, a retired and particularly kinky older gentleman—scheduled in just an hour or so and needed to be ready.

“Gotta be able to show layers and change character on a dime, right?” He asked, projecting confidence bordering on cockiness. “A minute ago I was a mild-mannered waiter. Now I’m a hard-nosed negotiator. Later on I’ve got this exclusive gig booked and, well, who knows what I’ll be underneath once I get there?”

“Who indeed,” the man said dryly. “Well—you’ve clearly done your research on me, which is commendable. You did a decent job at waiting, until you sat down to eat… so: tell me. What am I like?”

Norman’s throat had gone a little dry. Although he knew the man was a talented agent—had known enough to schedule this fortuitous meeting—the specifics on his erstwhile customer weren’t precisely nailed down. He didn’t even know the guy’s name, for heaven’s sake.

But people never got anywhere if they didn’t bluff. And if he buffed an ego in the process? That was all to the good.

“Well,” Norman said coyly, toying with the remaining frites on his plate, “you’re an agent. A good one. Lots of ins with the big studios, lots of leads into interesting projects.”

He stopped and considered; surely this kingmaker hadn’t been asking him for his resume.

“But, you know, beyond that,” he continued, making up what he hoped was the truth, “word is you’re a killer negotiator but also super generous. You treat your clients well, give them opportunities to grow, really show them the ropes. You’ve got quite the loyal following, from what I hear.”

A brief pause ensued, as if the agent was examining every angle of Norman’s words—before a smile slid slowly onto his face.

“You’re absolutely right—I do indeed focus on my clients’ growth, as well as being more than happy to tie them up for their benefits… so to speak. And it does seem to inspire loyalty, for what it’s worth. So let’s introduce ourselves properly.”

He reached a hand across the table, a smile dominating his face that had Norman’s stomach squirm slightly in—anticipation? Eagerness?

“Warren Edger.”

Norman’s heart leapt. An actual introduction to the Warren Edger!

“Norman,” he said, joining Warren’s soft, powerful hand in his. “Norman Aster.”

“A pleasure—though I can see it’s all yours,” he joked lightly, eyes flicking gently down to Norman’s crotch—which was fully obscured by the table.

Nevertheless, Norman couldn’t deny that he was strainingly hard, which was a legitimate concern in his tearaway suit. Fortunately, its designers had foreseen that particular issue and had made the stitching in the crotch a touch sturdier.

Still. Was it an auspicious beginning, or a terribly embarrassing omen?

“Yeah, well, uh,” he stammered, retracting his hand to run it through his hair, “I’m just… was just thinking about… well, I guess I’m casting-couch ready, ha-ha.” He trailed off, blushing furiously at both his predicament and the sheer stupidity of his weak attempt at humour.

“Oh? Do you really look forward to that aspect of the job that much?” he asked, a morbid fascination crossing his face. “I can’t say it’s a part of my process… not unless you really want it to be,” he chuckled, winking roguishly at Norman.

Norman’s boner gave a painful pulse at the implication, like it was raring to be involved in anything that might involve Warren.

Really, Norman couldn’t ignore the fact that the tall man—what, six feet? More?—was model-handsome, and probably better built than most of the people he represented. How the hell had he not been snapped up for an acting gig?

“Heh, well, I was joking, but I mean if push came to shove…” he trailed off and tried to stop digging himself into whatever grave he was beginning to suspect he’d found himself in.

“I’ve gotta ask—how did you get into the biz?” Maybe if he there some attention back on Warren he could get his footing back. “Modelling? You’ve got the looks for it.”

“No, no—I actually recommended a few of my friends to a casting agency, back in the day. They said I had a talent for it after they became stars, and tested me out on a few others… well, the rest is history. People I pick become stars,” he said—not immodestly, even. It was true. Some of the biggest names in Hollywood invariably had some connection to Edger.

Small wonder then that Norman felt electric prickles run up and down his spine at the possibility that he’d be chosen, forgetting entirely that he’d never heard the name ‘Warren Edger’ until five minutes earlier.

Then again, the rest of the world hadn’t, either, but he was now nestled in the black books of the most exclusive agencies in Hollywood. The industry was a funny place like that.

“So. Mr. Edger.” Norman put on what he hoped was his most professional tone and fervently ignored the throbbing in his pants. “Let’s get down to it. You’ve met me. You haven’t turned me out on my ass yet. Am I in? And if not, what’ll it take?”

“Well, from the way you’ve been eyeing me since I came in, it’s clear that your interest isn’t purely professional. I know you’ve heard the rumours—who hasn’t?—and, yes, it’s true. It is that perfect,” he said, smirk on his face.

Norman hesitated for the briefest moment, head clear as he wondered what the fuck Warren was talking about—before an involuntary lungful dispelled any pause. Yes, he’d heard the rumours about even the straightest of actors going gay for the rod in Warren’s pants—and always at their own request.

It was so bizarrely specific a rumour that it almost couldn’t have been made up, but… well. He’d just heard confirmation from the horse’s mouth.

“Look, Mr. Edger… I’ve done the whole gay-for-pay thing. So…” he licked his lips seductively and leaned forward, “if that’s all it takes, well, then, I’m your man.”

“Oh, no,” he said, looking revolted. “This isn’t a condition. It was an offer, if you wanted it—I had assumed, thanks to your little problem and your… staring… that it was on your mind. But I’d never have someone do anything they didn’t want to in the moment.”

This set Norman back on his heels. Gay sex was just something he did to pay the bills. He only considered it insofar as something he was willing to do, and never questioned whether he wanted to on any personal level.

The realization that he’d never considered his own wants in the matter—and that the Warren Edger had—struck a nerve. “I, well… thank you, Mr. Edger,” he stammered, blinking away unexpected tears. “That might be the nicest thing a guy has ever said to me about, you know. Sex.” His dick twitched again and shed a tear or two of its own. What would it be like to be with a man so considerate of his feelings after all this time?

“Regardless, it’s clearly something you’re not interested in,” Warren said pleasantly, “So we can get started on finding you some auditions on Monday. My card,”—he slid a sleek square across the table—”Is here. It has my personal number and email, should you need to reach me at any time.”

“Is there anything else?” he asked, looking not at all offended by Norman’s protest.

Norman’s cock throbbed angrily in his pants.

“Well, I, as a matter of fact, Mr. Edger,” Norman said, stammering once again. He sat up and squared his shoulders, having made a decision—with both his heads. “While I’m glad it’s not an obligation, your saying so only made me want it more. For real.” He clasped his hands in front of him and licked his lips again, this time to catch a bit of drool that threatened to ruin his controlled demeanour. He flashed the smile he usually reserved for girls he invited home. “So, if you’re still willing…”

“If you’re sure?” he said doubtfully, even as he spread his legs a little under the table. “I am willing, but you only need get under this table if it’s something that you wish to do. There’s no pressure whatsoever—I’ve had several amicable working relationships with clients who haven’t done anything of the sort,” he confessed with a self-conscious chuckle.

Norman barely heard the admission, deaf to anything but the rush of blood in his ears as it became apparent that he could be blowing Warren right at their very table.

The fog closed in around Norman’s brain again, leaving a single indelible conclusion: if even a tiny part of him wished to blow Warren Edger, then all of him needed to blow Warren Edger. It was as simple as that.

The burning need swirled through his head, erasing all other thoughts or considerations.

He flashed his trademark grin again and slid below the table, crawling through the darkness towards Warren’s legs, which slowly widened at his approach. He ran his hands along Warren’s thighs and drove his nose into the agent’s crotch, taking a deep whiff.

It smelt—clean. Faintly like laundry detergent, in fact: the pressed seams of the smart dark trousers felt perfectly tailored to Norman’s clumsy hands as he searched for a zipper.

Instead, he found a button, straining against taut fabric—and a bulge snaking down Warren’s left thigh, heat radiating from it like an oven.

The dense weave of the trousers felt like it was being spread by the sheer bulk of the shaft. Norman even thought he could see pale skin through the material, but it was purely a flight of fancy—particularly in the primordial darkness beneath the tablecloth.

With every passing second, the feedback loop in Norman’s brain intensified. He needed to suck Warren’s dick, which made him wish he could, which made him need it even more, which made him wish even harder, which intensified his need yet again, over and over and over.

He moaned involuntarily, mouthing the rapidly hardening rod through the straining fabric of his trousers while reaching around to grab Warren’s delicious cheeks and squeeze them, pulling him deeper into the agent’s crotch.

It felt almost profane, to moisten the fine material—but Norman couldn’t help himself, the tubular shape so bizarrely attractive even to his jaded view.

An elegant hand stole beneath the table to gently pet Norman’s hair, encouraging his gasping efforts. It stayed firmly away from the trousers’ buttons, letting the rent boy—aspiring actor—set his own pace, instead.

Norman whimpered with joy at the feel of Warren’s dick pressing through the fabric into his lips, redoubling his need to fellate his newfound business partner to completion. So complete was his focus on Warren’s manhood that he barely even registered the way his would-be agent gently threaded his fingers through Norman’s hair.

And, remarkably, Warren wasn’t lying. As far as Norman could tell, the star-maker’s cock was perfect in every way. It was Norman’s favourite kind of cock to service: hot, steel-hard, uncut (he was nearly certain from how it pressed against the fabric of Warren’s too-tight trousers), and what he judged to be about 5 inches long. The perfect mouthful for a gay-for-pay rent boy.

He failed to register that the member he was worshipping had almost certainly been larger—much larger—just a moment ago.

With desperate, clumsy hands, he began to work at the button fly of Warren’s trousers while moved down to tongue the agent’s balls through the expensive fabric.

The hand paused in its carding through Norman’s hair for the briefest moment, before resuming as Norman managed to get the twill of the trouser flaps open—revealing a pair of boxers with a moderately respectable cock straining behind it.

“You’re good at this,” Warren crooned from above. “You’ve done this so often that regular dicks just aren’t enough for you, are they?”

Norman muzzily supposed that Warren’s cock wasn’t regular, but—ah. If normal cocks weren’t enough for him, and Warren’s cock was perfect, therefore it was more than a normal cock.

His mind shot back to one of his more… exotic clients. The one with the dildo collection. Very imaginative dildos. Strap-ons with ridges, bumps, flare-outs, anything to make them more stimulating. The one who tipped Norman extra to give them a slow, luxurious blowjob while they jutted out from his groin. His throat had grown quite talented as a result, and almost missed the extra stimulation, the extra challenge, when blowing his regular Johns.

Hands shaking with excitement, Norman gently widened the gap of Warren’s fly and began to extract his cock. His eyes flew open in amazement as his fingertips sang with sensation and his mind exploded with lust.

Warren’s cock was improbably, impossibly, the living incarnation of these fanciful dildos. Norman shuddered with delight as his hands grasped, massaged, and slowly extracted an exotic sex toy made flesh. Six and a half inches with a disproportionately enormous head bigger than a golf ball and a latticework of thick, fleshy ridges that pulsed with every beat of Warren’s heart. It bulged and tapered subtly along its length, with each bulge growing wider towards the base.

Scarcely daring to believe what his fingertips were telling him he took an experimental lick from root to tip and shuddered in delight as his tongue passed over the unique, inhuman textures of this magical cock, swirled around the head, and licked up a pearl of the most divine precum he’d ever tasted.

It was, without a doubt, the most perfect cock he’d ever experienced in his life. And he needed it. Now.

With a cross between a needy whimper and a guttural moan, he dove down the impossible tool and forced the over large head to pop into his throat, and didn’t stop until his lips were locked to Warren’s groin, his hands once again squeezing the agent’s glutes to make sure every miraculous inch available stayed buried in his throat.

The bulbous head acted almost like a knot once it had snugly popped through the ring of Norman’s throat—the aspiring actor could tell that it wasn’t coming out without some degree of effort… or unless he got Warren to climax.

Not that that would be any form of hardship: the cock ticked every one of Norman’s boxes, even ones that he’d subconsciously suppressed or denied. How else could he explain the fact that it was leaking enough precum to fill a bucket? That its reassuring, thrumming pulse was strong enough that it felt almost like it was vibrating?

Warren’s petting continued, syncing with the agent’s enthusiasm and giving the ersatz waiter an accurate metric for how well he was doing. Fortunately, his technique for blowing unusual cocks had been honed repeatedly—though never in such a divinely satisfying way.

“You almost look like you’d rather do this than act,” Warren’s voice floated down to him, replete with a joking tone.

Norman moaned around Warren’s cock as it throbbed in his throat. The agent wasn’t wrong—almost was the right word. He loved the satisfaction of giving head to another man almost as much as he did diving into character.

He began to indulge in his deeper fantasies. That client with the dildos. Norman always secretly wished that his cock could look like them. That his own prick would take on the impossible pleasurable qualities of the last cock he sucked so he could try them out on his next conquest. Give her the same pleasure he was experiencing.

Heck, even return the favour to the guy he was blowing, give him a taste of his own medicine.

The perfect cock for him would do that practically by osmosis. Give him an identical prick that would fill his partner with as unquenchable a thirst as he felt this instant.

The perfect cock with the perfect precum and the perfect, massive, delicious cumshot.

He moaned around Warren’s length again and pulled back as far as he could before the engorged rim stopped him, and dove back down, starting a rhythmic deep throat that sent the magical prick in and out of his throat over and over with full, sensual strokes.

He failed to notice the swelling of Warren’s balls as they grew from average-sized walnuts to Mandarin oranges in order to accommodate his newfound virility.

Warren’s cock sawed in and out of him increasingly quickly, every ridge and ripple pleasantly rubbing against Norman’s throat as the pre coated his oesophagus ever more liberally. The sagging balls beneath the shaft twitched as they gained a particularly virulent payload: one which would only effect those it directly entered, but which would leave a permanent legacy: making Norman, or, indeed, any of the many stars who’d blown Warren, sexual chameleons in the cock department.

There had been a trend, once, of using cock doubles when sex scenes happened. Nowadays, though, it had fallen out of fashion: it was far more in vogue for the most popular stars around to just suck off a guy with the ideal sexual characteristics, in one of the better-kept secrets of Hollywood.

Provided they’d ever given Warren Edger a blowjob, of course.

Norman couldn’t have given a flying fuck about that, though: he was far busier getting his every sense railed by the experience that Warren provided without moving a muscle besides his most carnal one.

Norman was fast running out of breath, but wasn’t worried. He knew that the perfect cock would string him along just until he’d had just reach his limit before blowing, filling him with delicious spunk, making his dreams come true. All of them.

He bobbed up and down with increasing fervour, his need and lust redoubling every few second in his feedback loop. He wished to blow this perfect cock to completion, which made him need to, which made him wish for it, which made him need to, over and over and over…

His prick leaked what felt like gallons of precum as he jerked his head back harder and harder, pulling Warren out of his chair every time the plug-like ridge of the agent’s helmet caught the back of his throat. He just gripped Warren’s ass even harder, yanking him out of the chair, bumping his head and making the dishes on the table rattle.

The cock throbbed and swelled in his throat, signalling its impending release. Any time now, and he’d have that wondrous load. The perfect load. So close, close to stardom, close to passing out, closer, closer, closer…

As the edges of Norman’s vision greyed out and began to vignette, the precursor to a titanic load splashed the back of his throat: just a single drop, a harbinger of what was to come.

Its effect on Norman, though, was immediate. His cock felt like it was afire with pleasure as he jerked like a scaled cat, pulling Warren’s hips with him as he slid to the floor—the agent sinking beneath the table as his hands roughly fisted in Norman’s hair.

He couldn’t do much else, though, as the crashing wave of his orgasm peaked and crested, exploding down Norman’s gullet with main force and the intensity of mainlining a bucket of asbestos.

Norman’s eyes blew wide, the whites showing entirely around his irises as the cum flooded into him—the perfect cock and its perfect consequences colliding with his mortal body and its complex genetics. The perfection won out: his genome unwound, beginning to rewrite itself to be more adaptable—even as the other aspects of Norman’s idea of perfection deepened, enriched by waves of lust that unlocked his once-contained desires and fantasies.

The mental and literal fog throbbed around them both as Warren unloaded. Uncharacteristically, he moaned, losing a fraction of his poise and control. He sent spurt after spurt jetting down the young, aspiring actor’s throat and lost himself in the ecstasy of the moment.

For the briefest of intervals, he almost fancied he could feel cock—a perfect cock, blasting a load of cum directly down his throat, filling his belly more satisfyingly than the steak had just minutes before.

Then those intervals became longer.

Norman was experiencing quite the opposite set of sensations. The more Warren’s cock blasted down his gullet, filling him with a sense of euphoria greater than he’d ever known, his own cock unloaded in his pants, soaking through the cheap material and dripping onto the floor. Rope after rope spewed from his dildo-like mushroom head, pumped from his Mandarin-sized balls, and at times he almost fancied he could feel a greedy, needy mouth around his length, nursing him to completion.

Their heads swam as the fog nearly became tangible, weighing on them, before suddenly it lifted.

Norman grasped the arms of his chair and pulled himself back into a seated position, gasping for breath as his prick finally deposited its final spurt into the agent’s throat and began to deflate, releasing him at last. He’d never know it, but the Norman Aster who arose from under the table was a fair bit studlier than the version that had first gone under it. Stronger. Leaner. More filled out. Jaw more squared. But, of course, he’d always been that way.

Regardless, the luncheon had gone exceedingly well, he thought. Not only was he a moderately successful actor, but here he was being courted by one of the most powerful agents in Hollywood. A star-maker. One famous in certain circles for his perfect cock, improbably identical to his own, and for turning the tables on the stereotypical casting-couch horror stories.

He felt like his dreams were finally coming true.

Warren smiled shyly up at the actor, hopeful that he’d persuaded the Norman Aster, rising star of Tinseltown, to sign with him. Though he had a stable of actors, there was a unique star power to Norman that couldn’t be denied.

They’d bonded over their similar meteoric rises to fame—Norman had broken into Hollywood from nowhere, and Warren had gone through something similar, years before—and it had only seemed natural to segue into something a little more intimate.

Warren wasn’t aware of his powers, most of the time—but as long as he remained healthy and happy, he was happy. Things turned out for him, whether he was a masseuse, an artist, now an agent for Hollywood talent—but he had a certain contentment about him with the advent of fortuitously finding a kindred spirit.

He shuddered to think at the turn of events that led him to somehow becoming a homeless man that wandered into La P’tite Maison, but, well, he couldn’t argue with how things had turned out. He’d really have to be more careful with his suggestions in the future.

He texted his assistant to prepare the paperwork for Mr. Aster and signalled their waiter to come and take their dessert order. He looked forward to a fruitful relationship with his new talent and wondered, before his memory of anything supernatural faded from conscious thought once again, how and when he would flex his most unusual muscle going forward.

Warren Edger left the restaurant with a mouthful of cum and Norman’s personal number—as well as a strong sense of satisfaction at having bagged an extremely eligible actor on the Hollywood scene.

Norman Aster exited a bit later, having tucked his new salami into his trousers—marvelling at how its ridges lessened when the piece softened, and not at all looking forward to eventually losing it—and generally feeling pretty pleased with how his life was going. He’d been a rent boy only six months before, and since then had gone from strength to strength; so few people could relate to that ascension that it had been rather cathartic to chat it out with Warren.

Warren of the perfect cock. Warren, who’s just flat-out asked to be his agent. Warren, who was a famously good agent.

Perhaps being unrepresented wouldn’t be a conundrum he’d face for too much longer.


Norman looked up from his phone to double-check the address. Yep, this was the place. The residence of Warren Edger.

It had been two weeks since their meeting at La P’tite Maison and while the paperwork had been signed, auditions were slow to come his way. He’d been forced to turn a trick or three to make ends meet—once with a woman only 15 years older than him instead of the usual 40, which was just fine in his books. She went positively wild for his dildo of a cock and tipped him extra for the pleasure.

He sighed, thinking of the last two encounters, both older gentlemen, and adjusted his new bulge. What he’d lost in texture and exoticism he’d gained in length and girth—his most recent John being hung like a freaking horse—giving him a cock that, while conventional, at least matched his outsized balls for once in his life.

Whatever. He’d sent a pissed-off text to Warren and let him know he was sick of waiting. The wunderkind agent had promised to show him the ropes, dammit, and time was ticking. The return text had said simply: Dinner. And the address and a time.

And here he was, right on schedule.

He stepped up to the door and rang the bell.

He shifted from foot to foot, appreciative of the relatively modest house he’d arrived at. It was up in the hills—a mansion on the smaller side, but a mansion nonetheless. Not in a gated community, but still vastly beyond the little pad that Norman was still hanging about in.

Through the door’s frosted glass, a shape resolved itself—until Warren pulled open the door, a smile on his handsome, pointed face. His hair was a little different again—it was like the guy was constantly, subtly shifting his look—but it fit on him, just like everything else did. Norman raised his empty hands in a kind of cautious wave.

“You brought a bottle of cordial? You shouldn’t have!” Warren said with an easy gentility, making Norman startle and look down at—the non-alcoholic beverage he’d toted over. He’d almost not gone with anything, but it had clearly made a good impression on the agent.

“Come in, come in,” Warren warmly invited, prising the bottle from Norman’s unresisting hands and guiding him through the swanky, airy atrium and into an open plan kitchen. The whole place just had a waft of cash about it that made Norman set his jaw unconsciously.

He walked inside, following Warren, suddenly self-conscious of his clothes—his go-to dark jeans, button-down shirt and upscale sneakers felt somehow inadequate, too casual, for such a grand residence.

He resisted the urge to shove his hands into his pockets and slouch.

“Already spending your advance on clothes?” Warren chuckled, as the scent that pervaded the house only had to briefly spear into Norman in order to provide the new memories of being handed a small wad of cash after their meal together—making the actor feel all the more like a rent boy—as it reconfigured his wardrobe to something stylistically similar, if a bit smarter.

“You certainly were eager to see me again,” he mused. “Was that what you wanted from me, or was it… something else?”

There was a twinkle in his eye at the question, as if he was willing to accept any answer Norman might have with good humour.

Unfortunately for Norman, the Warren’s little twist to reality hadn’t done much to fix the fact that, despite his little advance, he’d still turned back to hooking if only to fill his time. He was bored! And what’s more, he wasn’t acting.

But it wouldn’t do to sound petulant about it, would it?

He cleared his throat. “Well, you said you’d show me the ropes about this business back when we met, right? And so far, no auditions have come my way, no meetings… not to be impatient, Mr. Edger, but I’m eager to get to work.” He checked the tone in his voice to make sure it was as business-like as possible. “So, let’s talk strategy. Let’s talk career. Let’s talk getting my butt in pictures already.”

“I was waiting for you to come to me! You said you’d call me, after all,” said Warren, eyes creasing as he instinctively lied his way through life—though as far as he was concerned, every lie was his first. All his previous lies had come true, after all; it had resulted in plenty of sticky situations of both positive and negative kinds.

“And if you’d like to be a body double, that could easily be arranged,” he said, smile quirking his mouth. “I just figured you’d want a speaking role, rather than purely being around for nude and sex scenes… unless I’m wrong? Tell me about what you want, Norman.”

“Well, it’s like we talked about, Mr. Edger. I want to get into movies. Big ones. Leading man roles.” He found himself getting a little irked at Warren’s apparent obtuseness. How was he not getting it? “If I’ve gotta fuck my way up the totem pole so be it, but I want in. You said you’d show me the ropes so, well, show me.”

“That won’t be necessary! I was merely exploring what you were suggesting,” Warren said easily, flashing his—ironically—movie-star smile at Norman. “Here: this came across my desk only recently, and I’ve been waiting for you to come by.”

A slim sheaf of paper was slid across the marble counter, SEVEN SINS emblazoned across the front in the typical typewriter movie script font.

“There’s a leading role in this script that seems like it would be right up your alley—and the studios have been fighting over the rights for it for ages. Now there’s a distribution war going on, but Altamax has begun preproduction for the shooting. Take a look—it’s not a long synopsis.”

Norman scanned the précis with interest. It read like a joyful take on the Brad Pitt thriller Se7en from the 90s. Instead of a nerve-wracking psychological thriller, it read more like a Bohemian fever dream: a highly conservative man slowly made to appreciate the virtues of liberty and hedonism.

He looked up to see that Warren had poured them both a glass of cordial, and took his in hand. “Looks like a juicy script, Mr. Edger. You really think I’m what they’re looking for?”

“Oh, I’ll come along with you,” Warren said comfortably. “If you’re not, we’ll make things work out so that you are—these directors just need a keystone to swing their vision around. You’re an attractive actor with the chops to make it big; they’ll figure it out.”

It wasn’t really a philosophy Norman had ever had before: he’d been all about becoming someone else. Having everything conform to him, instead, was a foreign concept… but Warren seemed to make it work well enough, even if the invisible magnetism that surrounded him wasn’t exactly clinging to Norman as a side-effect. But if Warren was there with him at the audition, Norman would be less uneasy about bombing.

“All right then, Mr. Edger. You had my curiosity,” said Norman, trying out one of his favourite movie lines. “Now you have my attention. Let’s eat and talk strategy.”

“Maybe ease up on the cliches,” Warren said easily, leaning back. “So—well, first off, I guess you’re going a good route with the shirtless look you’re rocking. That can really sell you to the guys in charge of casting.”

Norman tried to uncurl his shoulders—it had been a bit chilly, getting over to Warren’s place without a scrap of cloth above the belt line. But… what was life without commitment?

“Well, after our first meeting, I figured I knew what you liked,” he said smoothly. “Figured I’d help make sure we stayed in the right foot. I nearly wore just a leather daddy outfit, but didn’t have the nerve. Or the body for it, really.” He added bashfully.

“No, you’ve got the abs to pull off leather, but never the full daddy style,” Warren joked, before his gaze sharpened in interest as Norman’s stomach instantly tautened from a total lack of definition to a fairly cut set of speed-bumps.

“Your broad shoulders might complete the look,” he said—mildly rudely, as Norman was relatively thin everywhere but his stomach… right up until he broadened into a sleek triangular shape, his torso widening pleasantly to give him a much wider wingspan than moments before.

Warren’s look was a lot more appraising than moments ago.

“Yeah… to be honest, I’ve tried it on at home and for one of my, well, clients,” Norman paused and blushed, “and I’ve gotta say, I kinda didn’t mind the look. The leather straps, I mean. Not full daddy, like you said. Almost a shame I didn’t wear it… could have made for some niche headshots.” He chuckled nervously. Why was he always so chatty around Mr. Edger?

Don’t mind is putting it mildly,” Warren said in a mildly teasing way. “With the way that you’re throwing wood around me, I’d assume that you’re constantly thinking of how you… ‘don’t mind’ your outfit.”

His air quotes failed to obscure the fact that Norman was now—and had retroactively been—rigidly hard since long before he’d knocked on Warren’s door, making his journey over to the address a little more awkward… but not something Norman hadn’t foreseen, as he was well aware of his leather fetish.

He plucked at the studded straps crossing his chest and grinned bashfully. “Yeah, well, I figured a second set of photos for, you know, niche studios might come in handy, and it’s easier to just wear this stuff than it is to pack it, so…” He trailed off and reached down to adjust his cock in his pants to make it less obvious, forgetting that he now packed 11 solid inches that resisted all attempts of obfuscation.

“I figured you wouldn’t mind the indecency though,” he continued, chattering uncontrollably, as he tended to when enveloped in Warren’s aura, “after how our last meeting ended, I mean. That is, unless that was a one-time thing, and… I mean, you really seemed to enjoy it, and, you were really good at it… not to say that’s why I came over…” he stopped talking and blushed more deeply, taking his glass of cordial and draining it in one gulp.

Mr. Edger just stared at him appraisingly. The silence was unbearable. “I was almost tempted to hide it up my own ass just for the Uber ride over,” he blurted, laughing nervously. “Can you even imagine? Me doing… that…”

The universe seemed to close in on him again; when it relented, he was shifting anxiously from foot to foot, fruitlessly trying to find a position that didn’t remind him of his own rock-hard dick stretching his hole and pressing up against his prostate. How Mr. Edger knew about his hardon—maybe he was walking funny?—he had no idea, but the jig was definitely up.

“Have you found your new ability useful, if you don’t mind my asking?” Warren asked with interest, eyeing the unassuming bulge at the front of Norman’s leather trousers with interest—the curve of the actor’s shaft as it arced under his taint and into his hole not obvious through the material. “My clients often seem to experiment; some settle on a single option whereas others find new dicks like a normal celebrity cycles through wardrobes.”

The landscape through the window fuzzed a little as Norman’s memories of some average actors became thoughts of a constant game of cat-and-mouse between celebrities and the paparazzi: photographers snapping candid shots of them packing enormous wangs, followed by articles in trashy magazines full of red circles questioning its lack in subsequent months or beach trips. The secret was still being kept, but it was clear that there was a mystery to the world of gossip at large.

“And, no, indecency is quite decent here,” Warren assured the actor as Norman’s dick brushed against a particularly sensitive spot.

Norman stifled a pleasured quaver in his voice as he spoke. “I haven’t really put it to use, Mr. Edger,” he said, pouring himself some more cordial. “I’ve done what I’ve had to to make ends meet, which led to, well, what it led to. It’s kind of why I wanted to talk to you about my career, so I could move on from that part of my life.”

He took a sip from his glass again, and silence filled the room. His mind raced. Why was Mr. Edger just staring at him? Did he think his newest client was ungrateful? The lack of conversation just made him want to fill the void, and before he knew it his mouth was open and babbling away again.

“But it’s interesting!” he continued, perhaps too enthusiastically. “Like, this one I have now, it’s the biggest I’ve ever taken… up there. I had no idea I’d be able to, but it’s the only way I can walk around in these pants, so I had no choice, and now, well, I kind of know I can, which will be good if there are any sex scenes calling for it, and, like, you’ve gotta wonder how much more I could take with some training, ha ha…”

“And you’re having intermittent orgasms while you have it stuffed inside yourself?” Warren asked, intrigued. Norman, who until moments ago had merely been aroused, flushed anew with memories of pumping repeated loads into his own ass—over and over and over.

His knees quaked ever so slightly as he involuntarily came again, though he was now sufficiently prepared that he barely gave any external sign of his ecstasy beyond a light sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“If you’re so keen on having cum inside you, I’m not entirely sure that you want to fully move on from sex—perhaps you just wish to explore it in more respectable locales?” Warren hypothesized, diagnosing Norman—accurately, within moments of saying it—even as a fat drip of cum slid around the seal that Norman’s cock had formed, staining the back of the actor’s tight leather trousers.

“Well… ungh… yeah, who wouldn’t?” asked Norman, allowing some pleasure to bubble out through his face now that Mr. Edger had given tacit permission. He sat on one of the kitchen stools and began grinding on it, fucking himself deliberately. “I mean, I’m clearly built for it. How else could I have been pumping jizz up my own ass all evening and still be raring to go?”

As he spoke, the cloud of heavy, oppressive reality closed in again, this time focused on his already substantial bull balls, a more-than-respectable handful, which suddenly (and had always been) bulked out even more, leaving the bulge in his leather trousers significantly less modest. He’d sported a pair of overlarge plums all his life, and had only just achieved a cock to match them, after all. Their sheer size thrust any shaft that laid on top of them impetuously forward, giving Norman’s attire a lewd look even when he wasn’t in the process of another subtle orgasm.

“And you’re not just doing it because you’re trying to fill the air with your aphrodisiac cum?” Warren teased, before his gaze unfocused a little—clouds of a different type invisibly filling the chic space and sending both men into slowly deepening spirals of arousal.

“Well, no, Mr. Edger!” Norman cried, twitching as he spurted again. “I came here for a new headshot and to talk business—that’s why I tucked myself away, to try and contain it!”

But even as he spoke, he knew it was too late. More droplets of spunk had leaked out of his hole than he realized, running down the inside of his pants and dripping onto the marble floor. He breathed heavily and spurted again, the stimulation of his cock twitching against his prostate causing him to cum which made his cock twitch which made him cum more, a feedback loop of pleasure that gave him a continuous mini-orgasm. “Ohhhh, Mr. Edger… I’m so sorry, but please, will you help me get off enough to focus again? I just need to empty out, and unnnngggghhhhhhhraaaaaAAAHHHH!” He closed his eyes and thrashed his head, sinking to the floor as another full orgasm rocked his body and a gout of cum pooled around his feet.

Warren’s unique, delicious cock was already out as the man looked significantly less composed than usual—a near frenzy coming over him as Norman came over himself. Shedding his clothes, he tugged at Norman’s trousers in an effort to expose the thick salami that was pumping load after load into his lucky hole—which was dribbling copious amounts across the kitchen.

Warren nearly fell to his knees in order to lap up the puddle of cum, but restrained himself, instead putting his dexterous hands to work at pulling the python from its nest—which took more effort than he expected—and unwittingly unleashing a tidal wave of aphrodisiac cum-scent into the room at large, tenfold what was already present.

A pink haze descended on the pair.

Norman squirmed and twitched as his orgasm finally peaked and began to taper off, his cock still spurting ropes of cum like a firehose, bucking like a wild horse in Warren’s woefully unprepared hands. His balls churned and pulsed as they worked overtime to keep up with demand. Eyes rolled back in his head, he had no idea that his agent’s face was now dripping with spunk, much of which had shot directly in his gaping mouth.

“You gotta… you gotta… you’ve gotta help me, Mr. Edger!” Norman bawled, regaining a modicum of control over his speech as his orgasm finally came to an end. “I-i-i-it’s gonna start again, you have to empty me out, or, or, or, unnngggghhhh…” he trailed off as his cock twitched again, threatening to explode, but he clenched his teeth and held off. “So hard… ass so empty… please…” he moaned, shuddering where he lay.

Manfully, Warren guided his perfect dick to Norman’s fluttering hole, prying the cheeks apart to give himself better access—pressing against the hole as it was quickly rimed with his precum. He instinctively held back for a moment, used to the idea of giving his partner time to adjust, before being overwhelmed by instincts—and sending his hips shooting home, ramming his gloriously thick cock into Norman like an oncoming train.

The two men simultaneously let out wordless cries, animalistic in their momentary release—though Warren had some time before he’d be able to cum, given his prodigious stamina. Norman had no such compunctions; in spite of his orgasm mere moments ago, he was already teetering dangerously close to the edge—even as his cock sluggishly spat out the last remnants of his previous load.

Warren slammed into his newest talent with gusto, the ridges and bulges on his cock stimulating Norman’s hole nearly as well as his own eleven-incher had. Norman moaned incoherently at the onslaught, toes curling in the air.

But it wasn’t enough. As the oppressive cloud of Warren’s magic closed in on him, a part of his mind went back to their first encounter. The perfect cock, that’s what Mr. Edger had described his equipment as. And right now, it wasn’t perfect. Norman’s ass had just grown accustomed to an enormous salami that simply outclassed the agent’s more modest-sized rod, even taking its topographical features into account.

So it changed. No, it had always been this way. Of course it had. Warren continued his perfect fuck with his perfect pillar of a cock, 12 inches of pure, veiny, bulging sex toy made flesh that split Norman’s hole mercilessly with every thrust. A bulbous head that pummelled his prostate both coming and going. Ridges that tickled his ravenous ass lips. Masterful technique that kept Norman on the edge while a truly titanic load brewed in his balls, promising to finally empty him out once the dam burst.

Norman locked eyes with Mr. Edger, wrapped his legs around the slender man’s waist, and began to work his hips back in time, heightening the impact of every thunderous clap of the agent’s thighs against his ass. He worked his hole as hard as he could, using every trick he knew to urge Mr. Edger towards the orgasm that would finally unleash his own.

“Come on, Mr. Edger. Fuck me. Harder. Harder. Harder,” he cried. “Own my fucking ass, own it, it’s yours, it’s fucking yours, just make me cum already!”

Every moment that Warren felt he was about to cum before he wanted to, his orgasm delayed itself—and had always been delayed, as befitted the perfect cock that would stimulate his partner to the most complete orgasm possible, creating a seamless fuck for the two men that was filled with constant crests towards climax.

Warren’s cock, as well as being perfectly formed and perfectly stimulating, was also perfectly sensitive—every ripple of Norman’s ass sending lightning bolts directly up his shaft. After a long, lusty quarter of an hour, Norman had reached his limit—his babbling coming into alignment with his base desires. The perfect cock would cum in him right now… so it did.

The agent’s flanged cock began to sweat pure cum into Norman, preparing his hole for the incoming volleys with its miraculously elasticating properties—even as Warren’s shaft noticeably contracted, drawing back like a cannon preparing to unload.

With a low roar, Warren thrust his hips forward as hard as he could, delivering a literal flood of cum into Norman—and this time, their positions didn’t swap. Norman greedily accepted the load, absorbing it into his taut body as shot after shot of cum spilt into his guts.

Warren’s perfect cock twitched and jerked against Norman’s prostate and tickled his ring with every pulse, sending him over the edge. His enormous balls pulled up tight to his body and with a roar his dam burst and finally, finally, he came.

Gouts of cum flew from his cock, drenching his face, Mr. Edger’s face, the tile floor, still he came, spasming around his agent’s cock and prolonging his orgasm. No, triggering another. Because the perfect cock would have enough stamina to keep up with his own, wouldn’t it?

Warren gasped as the cloud of unreality pressed itself in around his groin and suddenly his balls quadrupled in size to match Norman’s and a second orgasm slammed into him like a freight train and he began to cum again, and again, and again. His perfect cock sprouted a perfect bulge right near the base that slowly expanded until it formed a perfect seal against Norman’s hole, trapping his bucketload of cum in the helpless actor’s ass even as he continued to unload all over the floor.

The two men moaned and groaned in ecstasy, and Warren collapsed on Norman’s chest, nuzzling the younger man’s neck while his titanic cock spurted between them and cum oozed out from between their bodies.

After what felt like a lifetime Norman’s orgasm finally began to taper off, as did Warren’s, and the two men lay on the floor working to catch their breath. The smell of jizz perfumed the air. Norman, more accustomed to this kind of marathon orgasm than his agent, came back to himself first, finally able to concentrate now that his balls were well and truly drained.

“Sorry about that, Mr. Edger,” he said guiltily, gently running a hand through his agent’s sweaty blond locks. “I’ve been so anxious about getting started with you that I got lazy about keeping my levels, well, reasonable.”

Warren just whimpered in response, still lost in post-orgasmic euphoria.

“Anyway,” Norman continued, sighing as Warren’s cock began to deflate and cum burped out of his hole, lessening the pressure in his gut, “I really did come over to talk shop. Are you up to it, or should I come back tomorrow?

With a grunt of effort, Warren pulled back, extracting his cock from Norman’s hole with a lewd pop and another light waterfall of cum—not matching the volume of Norman’s, though that might have been due to the sheer amount that had been deposited so deep into the actor that it couldn’t hope to escape.

“That was…” Warren trailed off, trying not to rhapsodize about perfection when the actor barely knew him. Getting clingy was not, traditionally, a good look for an agent—no matter how mind-blowing the sex happened to be. Nobody had ever been able to keep up with him and his enormous balls before, and here came Norman, huge nuts pumping just as much as he’d ever managed, if not more.

“…That was good. Best remember to keep to a reasonable schedule, though,” he mildly scolded, automatically falling back on his instincts as an agent. Some of his clients had turned into total fuckbunnies after getting his ‘gift’ of a transformable cock, so he wasn’t entirely unfamiliar with the demands that a libido might push on an actor.

“And, yes: talk away,” he offered lazily. “I’ve provided you with a lead about a major role, though I’m happy to chat about further options if you’d prefer to hedge your bets…?”

Norman looked at Mr. Edger, looking hot and haggard and messy, dripping in his jizz, and felt a shot of confidence. The super-agent had wooed him. Had pursued him. His star was rising. His cock was silver-screen ready. That confidence suddenly gave way to a feeling of irritation. Why as Warren always so circumspect in his conversations? Always leaving the door open for Norman to say something when it was his job to set things in motion?

He settled his thoughts and looked coolly at the handsome agent who, despite all his poise, couldn’t avoid looking like a hot blonde cumslut who’d just been willingly bukkakaed by the entire crew of an aircraft carrier.

“I’m interested in everything, Warren,” said Norman calmly, squelching himself back into his pants and channelling his just-turned-a-trick-so-pay-me-already energy. “So, enough fucking around—let’s get my ass in pictures. It’s not like I’m paying you in jizz, is it?”

The wave of oppressive reality closed in on them again, and suddenly the nature of their professional relationship changed for the sexier.

Four Months Later

Warren woke up, a little muzzily. Mr. Aster’s Beverly Hills mansion was wonderfully appointed (just as it had been when, in a previous reality, it belonged to Warren), but it was still a bit disorientating to awaken ass-up on the kitchen counters.

As an agent, he often surprised people when he shared that he didn’t have a place of his own, but Mr. Aster’s generosity had meant that he could hang about and get his ‘payments’ extremely regularly. His ass was still making light sucking noises from the most recent load—it was the best clock for telling him when the next one was due.

That wasn’t to say that he didn’t occasionally fudge the timings and ask for another gout of cum early, of course—but who could blame him? He’d gone exclusive with Mr. Aster, and it had been the best decision he’d ever made.

Warren’s shoulder-length blond hair was still a bit sticky, but he knew a shower would clean it up… at least until Mr. Aster saw him again. He didn’t mind that prospect, of course—if anything, it made his marvellous cock harden between his legs, a perfect, unused nub that nevertheless leaked pre like a faucet.

He couldn’t help but think that he was forgetting something, but it kept slipping his mind. And it was bothering him. Something was up.

“Yo, Warren!” Norman bounded cheerfully naked into the kitchen and made for the fridge, giving his agent’s ass a loud, echoing slap as he passed by. “Don’t tell me you spent the night on the counter, did you? Bobbi, babe, c’mon over, let’s get some breakfast.”

He reached into the fridge and pulled out a jug of orange juice, popping the top and taking enormous gulps straight from the spout, beckoning to his former pimp-turned-paramour, a pretty young brunette who followed him into the expansive kitchen, barefoot and naked but for one of Norman’s oversized T-shirts. She eyed Warren playfully. “Oh, don’t mind Warren, I’ve already paid him up for the next day or two. He’s just, I dunno, crashing here or whatever.”

Warren eyed Mr. Aster and his latest fling as he straightened himself up and stretched, working out the kinks in his back. The two young things flirted relentlessly with one another, ignoring him entirely.

“Whaddaya want, babe, eggs? Scrambled?” Norman asking. She giggled and nodded while leaning up against his chest. “Warren, did ya hear that? When you’re making breakfast for yourself just add a few extra scrambled eggs and take a couple of plates up to my room, ‘kay? We’re heading back up so Bobbi here can keep my levels reasonable, ya know?”

Norman winked, then took Bobbi by the hand and led her back upstairs, his 11-inch tool (not the same one from months earlier, but an even thicker model, courtesy of his latest male-on-male tryst) hardening and swaying in front of him. “Oh, and a pot of coffee too, Wesley,” she chirped as she allowed herself to be dragged away. “Thanks! You’re the best!”

Warren watched them leave and listened to their titillated titters echo through the expansive house. “Normy, you want me to peg you again?” “Oh, babe, you read my mind. Use that strap-on, the one with the bumps and ridges and that killer knot. Fuuuuuck….”

He looked down at his nub and had a nagging feeling that he used to know exactly having a cock like that dildo felt like, but for the life of him wasn’t sure why.

Norman had been getting less and less patient with Warren in the past few weeks—still keeping him around for ‘old time’s sake’, but taking him more and more for granted. Neither of them could see a reason he wouldn’t, for that matter: Norman was the mega-star in the equation, and Warren an agent he’d taken on purely to adhere to regulations.

Though it had started as a joke, Warren was a little worried that Norman’s frequent threats to find a new agent were getting less whimsical—so he decided he’d put in his best work today, just like always. On went the stove and the frying pan, a hearty breakfast sizzling in as quick a fashion as possible. He decided that he’d give Norman a bit extra from his share, so that the guy wouldn’t be too irked at his continued existence.

Warren rubbed gently against the front of the stove as he cooked, his motions getting faster and jerkier as he went—already anticipating being able to peek in on Norman when he took their breakfast up. He wouldn’t cum—he never came these days, let alone ever before so far as he could remember—but he’d get a thrill that was almost as good: the sight of an A-list celebrity’s ass being thickly ploughed by an impossibly large dildo.

Warren sometimes wished that he could stick around to see more than a glimpse, but he was sensible enough to realise that that would result in him being kicked out of Norman’s mansion faster than he could say ‘breach of contract’.

He sighed a little, wondering how he could keep this moment of perfection stretching out as long as possible.

Upstairs, Norman’s cock bobbed and swung in the air as it jutted obscenely from his body, which was bent over the chaise lounge facing his back yard window. Every so often he’d groan and a fresh gout of cum would spurt from its length, stimulated by the massive strap-on Bobbi was working into his backside.

“Oooh, yeah, you like that, Normy?” she cooed.

“Fuuuuck, bitch, keep it up, just like that,” he groaned. “I’m gonna fuck you so hard when we finish off, gonna fuckin’ fill you up so much you’ll be dripping for days.” His oversized nuts pulled up to his body again as he released another splash of jizz before relaxing to swing and slap against his thighs again. The stench of his cum filled the room, an aphrodisiac miasma that kept his date hot and bothered and thrusting as long as Norman said so.

And he did say so, wiggling his hips to help her inch even deeper into his greedy rectum.

Almost unnoticed, the scent of bacon, eggs, grapefruit and coffee penetrated the sexual haze and a small voice cleared its throat. “Sir, Mr. Aster, I’ll just leave this here…” it trailed off.

“Yeah, sure whatever. Now scram, Warren,” Norman sighed absentmindedly.

“Nooo, babe, I wanna let him watch,” Bobbi simpered, her cum-addled mind making her far more adventurous than usual. “Let him rub his little nub and finger himself while he takes it all in, you know? Makes me hot.” She pushed in a little further, gently working knot closer to his hole, rocking him forward and stimulating him to add to the fragrant puddle of jizz on the chaise.

Warren hesitated for a long moment—but Norman didn’t object, which he took as sufficient permission to remain. He couldn’t help one solitary mumble to himself, even though he was pushing his luck by speaking at all: “When I watch, it does make people who fuck you hotter.”

It was a petulant way of encouraging himself—the thought that he made any difference to what the couple were enthusiastically doing. But, although the use of Warren’s powers had atrophied as they’d reached a new normal over the weeks, it was by no means gone.

The brunette’s thrusting continued apace as she eyed the sheepish Warren, in sharp contrast to the way Norman was entirely ignoring him. Her focus meant that she didn’t notice the change that came over her. Although even if she’d been paying razor-sharp attention, she wouldn’t have perceived the way her thick brown hair slowly shortened, retreating into her skull as she felt a trickle of sensation flow through the dildo—no, the cock—that adorned her crotch.

Her lithe, nude body slowly broadened and hardened, her breasts firming into hefty pectorals as her encouraging words gradually became more and more lusty.

She was getting—had always been—hot. More to the point, hot in the way Warren enjoyed.

Norman’s eyes flew open as the activity at his backside took on a new, more aggressive quality and the pillar of flesh suddenly rammed its way home, hard, bottoming out the remaining few inches in a single, savage thrust, the knot stretching his hole for all it was worth before locking into place behind his unprepared ring. Gone were the exploratory gyrations to slowly work the magnificent fuck stick into his depths; all he felt was the warmth from Bobby’s thighs against his glutes the sway of Bobby’s balls against his own, and the heat from the shaft wedged inside his rectum.

He gasped, spasming around the vicious intrusion as he released another jet of cum onto the chaise.

Everybody swooned as a fresh bouquet of aphrodisiac wafted through the room.

Bobby began a deliberate, powerful rut, pulling out to the head with agonizing slowness only to drive back in with a single, savage snap of his hips. He never broke eye contact with Warren, who hadn’t moved, and grinned.

“You. Wesley. I told you to play with your nub and finger yourself.” He licked his lips as Warren collapsed onto the bed and began to do just that. “You like to watch, huh?”

“Yes…” Warren breathed.

“Well, why don’t you call a few shots then? Your own personal show. You want me to keep fucking this starving ass slow…” Bobby paused to draw out the last word as he retracted his cock once again, enjoying the grip and tug of Norman’s hole as it worked over his knot and outwards along his length, “or fast?” He snapped is hips home, rearranging Norman’s guts once and making him howl.

Bobby had—initially—been just a quick fling, like all the myriad faces who filed through Norman’s bedroom and left well-sated. Men and women fell over themselves for a chance with a shot at Mr. Aster; he proved the rumours of his prowess—and the quieter rumours about his more submissive proclivities, his starving ass—correct every time.

Bobby had established himself with almost brutal efficiency, rolling over Norman’s directions and objections with the only cock in the world that could match him shot for shot. Norman had sulked, he’d yelled—and then he’d subsided.

The first change that he’d made was bringing Warren into the bedroom; Bobby liked to be seen.

“You’re going to fuck him like he’s a total bottom—and he’ll let you do it,” Warren ventured, catching the angry flash of Norman’s eyes in his direction as Bobby’s hips sped up—jackhammering into the well-used hole as their memories warped around the new piece of information.

Norman’s protestations were fruitless: his prowess outside of the bedroom had vanished the moment he was between the sheets, leaving him a mewling, panting hole—his enormous cock flopping decoratively.

Norman seethed with anger even as his body roiled around Bobby’s cock. He’d gone into this with every intention of drilling his final load into the studly fuck boy but now, every time he put his mind to even considering it, his thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind and he found himself pushing back even harder against the incessant rut. Fuck Warren for calling him out on it, too. He looked back over his shoulder at Bobby, who winked and grinned, enjoying what he thought was a bit of friendly role play.

Norman groaned as Bobby’s cock worked every button he had, letting his head hang beneath his shoulders and spluttering as his cock jerked yet again and painted his face with a fresh jet of spunk.

Fuck Warren. He might have told Bobby to treat him like a total bottom, but nobody said he couldn’t be a power bottom and take control of affairs his own way.

He began to push back into the rut, willing his hole to stretch and conform to the insane proportions of Bobby’s dick, thrusting harder and harder. He moaned and thrashed his head as he got into a rhythm, slowly pushing Bobby further and further off balance until, with a yelp, he fell backwards and took Norman with him, his knot yanking the rebellious bottom along for the ride.

Bobby landed flat on his back and Norman was a split second behind, throwing his head back in ecstasy as the miraculous dick shoved that extra bit further in his ass. He clenched and shot another rope of cum that arced over his head and through the air before splashing on Warren’s chest where he lay on the bed dutifully rubbing and fingering himself.

Norman spun around and began to ride Bobby for all he was worth. He alternated between sliding along the pole from head to knot, just letting his hole dilate around its girth before rising up again, and slamming all the way down to grind on Bobby’s crotch, glaring daggers at Warren the entire time.

“You like this, Warren? Enough of a show for you, you pathetic excuse for an agent?” he spat. He groaned and twitched as another tremor of lust rippled through him and his cock launched another pencil-thick rope of spunk to drench Warren where he lay.

“Oh yeah?” Warren retorted defensively, forgetting his place as he got into the fiction of ‘ordering’ the couple around. “I’ve already booked the cameras to make the most of this, so don’t say I never found an audience for you.” Bobby smirked at the thought, eyes lighting up at the idea of his prowess being shown off on a far wider scale—though Norman would never allow this part of him to be shown off…

…But Norman had found it difficult to say no to Bobby when he plugged by his megadick. It had taken a bit of planning—and some waterproof (and watertight) contracts—but the ink was dry and crew were just arriving at Norman’s pad. They could already hear the low murmur of voices as the equipment was unpacked, even while Bobby loosened Norman up for the main event.

Warren had always been their proxy for an audience—it had been something Bobby had long insisted on—but this would let a whole constellation of paying consumers watch and suggest new sexual perversions, live. The agent feverishly thumbed his nub, knowing that this was both his greatest coup and the biggest threat to his livelihood thus far. What if Norman realized he didn’t need him anymore?

As usual, he put the thought out of his head, focusing on the repeated mini-orgasms and contorted, cavorting limbs less than a foot away from him. The bedroom door swung open, as the first of the sound technicians entered the room and began to set up.

Warren’s hand sped up. Who knew if he’d get chucked out of the shot before long, after all?

Norman, ever the professional, planted himself at the base of Bobby’s cock one more time before gingerly lifting himself off, his ring gripping and sucking all the way. He was plenty warmed up by now—no sense in wearing himself out before the shoot started. Even if it was a straight-up porno, exactly what he’d hired Warren not to get him mixed up in, he’d be damned if he turned in a poor performance.

He left Bobby to get cleaned up for the shoot and made his way over to the bed where Warren lay, still furiously pleasuring himself. “I bet you forgot to hire makeup, didn’t you? Wardrobe? A fluffer?” he asked derisively. “Haven’t read our contract in a while, but I’m pretty sure that in the absence of licensed professionals on set, those tasks fall on your slutty shoulders.” He gestured to his face and chest, which still dripped with his own cum, and his cock, which was slowly deflating, a tiny bit with every heartbeat.

Warren opened his mouth to protest, but subsided. He’d specifically outlined the fact that none of those would even be necessary, given how turned on Bobby got Norman… but that was in the texts of the recent contracts, which he knew for a fact Norman hadn’t read. Better to go along with things—especially when he’d actually be able to touch Mr. Aster.

Warren crawled forward on the bed, licking assiduously up Norman’s cumswept leg—barely making an impact, thanks to the sheer volume of jizz that had been deposited over the bed. The hand he inadvertently used to steady himself on Norman only served to make the actor more cumstained, thanks to it being caught in a spurt earlier.

Warren licked faster, hoping he could get as much cum in him as possible before he lost the opportunity.

Norman enjoyed watching his agent-cum-fluffer go to work; enjoyed the feeling of a warm tongue working its way around his body. He threaded his hands through Warren’s flowing, shoulder-length locks and directed his mouth around his thighs, his crotch, his nipples. He shivered when Warren got to his neck, sighing when it tickled. They exchanged an aggressive, cummy kiss as Warren worked his way around Norman’s face, and the actor sighed again when the agent’s tongue flicked into his ears.

All the while Warren became more and more enthusiastic, ingesting ungodly amounts of Norman’s aphrodisiac spunk as he was.

The camera crew and technicians went about their task, setting up lights, cameras and mics to catch all the action, studiously ignoring the star and his agent on the bed.

Finally, Warren finished his clean-up duties and kissed his way down Norman’s broad shoulders, meaty pecs and defined abs to slobber over his charge’s flagging erection, nursing it back to its full 11 inches. Norman sighed as his prong slid balls deep into the wet, hot, inviting tunnel that was Warren’s throat, and started—as he always did once sex began, not matter how hard he tried to resist—to wish for a cock of his own to suck on. To slobber over. To worship. Hell, he wasn’t even sure he needed reciprocation.

He wanted cock. Any cock. A perfect cock. He moved his hands from Warren’s head and slid them down his slim, sexy torso, around the globes of his ass, and reached around to feel for what he for a split second imagined would be a tiny, disappointing nub. But then a wave of unreality closed in again and he found himself stroking something else entirely.

Something that made him salivate.

It wasn’t often that Bobby’s cock could go ignored—but for a split second, Norman forgot about the other heavy shaft nearby entirely as his oral fixation caught up with him in a rush of needy arousal. Warren had held off bringing it into the equation until the cameramen were set up, but that moment had passed—and the footage rolled onto tape, their expressions immortalized for the masses to view.

What the tens of thousands—and then millions—would see, when they tuned their sets in to the pay-per-view exclusive footage of A-lister Norman Aster, would be a trifecta of extremely generously hung men.

Near the bed, a brunet with a flanged prick—one smiling and flexing for the cameras, jerking off like a pro even as he interestedly watched his partners.

On the bed, a long-haired twink, head sunk deep against the final man’s crotch: Norman himself, who was jerking off the twink’s own dick—a perfect match for the brunet’s. As the audience watched, they saw Aster swivel their positions, keeping his crotch buried into Warren’s mouth as he greedily moved to lick at the twink’s bizarrely perfect cockhead.

Quietly, Bobby climbed onto the bed—spooning up against Norman as the cameras swooped in, showing the meat sandwich in which Norman was the meat.

Norman ran his tongue along the length of Warren’s mighty fuck-pole, over the knot, over the ridges and bumps, always making sure to find his light and face the camera. Internally he seethed at his agent for signing up for this, but fuck it, he was a professional and would do the damn job. Plus, fuck if servicing these monstrous cocks didn’t just work for him.

But a part of him couldn’t let his anger at Warren go.

His emotions ran up against Warren’s unreality field, and things changed. A script for their tryst popped into retroactive existence. And it called for Norman to be dominant vers.

It took everything he had to resist clamping his lips around the shiny, plum-sized cockhead. But he was an actor, first and foremost, and if that meant putting Warren in his place instead of leaning back to take both his and Bobby’s telephone poles at once, so be it.

He summoned all the willpower the script called for and pulled his face way from the Warren’s towering prick and gently prised his agent’s mouth off of his own more-than-respectable tool. He rose to a kneeling position, poised against Bobby’s cock, and slowly sank onto it, even as he pulled Warren up to face him, their lips mere inches apart. He grunted at the renewed intrusion as his hole stretched to accommodate Bobby’s legendary girth.

“You’re a horrible agent,” he sighed, Bobby’s enormous cockhead grazing his prostate.

“You don’t deserve me as a client,” he moaned, twitching his ass lips over the bulges of Bobby’s shaft.

“This is the last load of mine you’ll ever get,” he whimpered, his hole stretching around Bobby’s knot.

He locked eyes with Warren, former layabout agent who’d roped his one and only A-lister into what could easily be a career-ending move. “Now take your payment and go fuck yourself!” he rasped, voice quavering has he bottomed out on Bobby’s shaft, pushed Warren back, and came, shooting ropes of cum that drenched the hapless agent from head to crotch where he fell. Norman leaned back into Bobby, his cock quivering and dripping in the air, plum-sized balls still full to bursting.

“You may be right,” Warren said, gearing up for a rebuttal—before sagging a little. “You are right,” he acknowledged, his own reality field working against him again as he accepted the words… even as his cock lengthened just a touch, becoming pliable even while it remained completely rigid to the touch.

Warren, simply put, had been a terrible agent. He’d scrambled since the beginning to keep his one good client, and had failed on every level—the only thing besides Seven Sins even approaching a success being the very session they were in… and he didn’t deserve the credit for it. It was Norman’s prowess in all things that were rescuing what would have been a total debacle—would, for any other celebrity, have been a career-ending move. Instead, it would only end Warren’s.

He scooped the precious load from his body, licking up some of it and using the rest as lubricant for his hole—which he slid his perfect cock into, fucking himself as the script suddenly—had always—called for.

This was to be his final moment of notoriety, so he was determined to make it a good one; the fact that he got to watch Bobby fuck Norman into insensibility was a more-than-appreciable bonus, too. Maybe he wouldn’t get any more of Norman’s loads, but he’d make the most of this final voyeurism session regardless.

“Oh, yeah, just like that, fuck,” Norman moaned, rocking his hips against Bobby’s thighs. He lifted a leg to make sure the camera had a good angle on his hole stretching around the knot and leaned forward to shove a finger into Warren’s ass, helping ease the former agent’s prick into his own rectum. “Own my ass, babe. You own everything,” he whimpered to Bobby.

Bobby’s carefree smirk turned a shade more business-like as he surveyed his possessions. Norman’s ass (his for the duration of this livestream contract, anyway). The mansion. The camera crew. The pitiful slut of an agent who’d been so desperate for a deal that he’d consigned one of Hollywood’s rising stars to X-rated ruination. Oh, well. If BobbyCocks Studios was gonna end someone’s career, what a way to make it happen, right?

He pushed Norman forward until he was ass-up and face-first in Warren’s crack. “Lick him bitch. You like that cock? You like that ass? Show me how much you like it, you filthy slut.” And with that he took up a power-fuck of Norman Aster’s hole, pulling all the way out to leave it gaping and hungry before popping himself back in to the root. He laced his fingers behind his head and grinned at the cameras as he reamed Norman’s shapely ass, enjoying his lordship over (soon to be former) Hollywood royalty.

Warren squirmed as he felt Norman’s thick tongue nestle alongside Warren’s own fat prick—driving in and out of him with feverish intensity, the product of a tightly-written contract that Warren might have encouraged Mr. Aster to sign without either of them reading it too closely. He’d said he wanted to be on everyone’s minds, after all—and Bobby had been persuasive in the extreme.

“Oh, fuck me,” he gasped as Norman hit a particularly sensitive spot inside him. He barely had the vocabulary to describe how good it felt to have Mr Aster inside him—so he strayed from the script just a touch. “Need you… in me… both…” he babbled, a cloud of unreality closing in again…

…Norman’s tongue continued to flick inside him, but it was just preparation for the main event: the legendary triple-penetration scene that Bobby had determined would sell the maximum number of views possible, made all the more extraordinary by the fact that one of the dicks involved belonged to the guy bottoming.

Warren’s hole flexed eagerly as Norman squelched off Bobby, the power-top’s cock gleaming with slickness as it bobbed in the air.

Norman grasped Warren’s cock by the knot and fucked in and out of the disgraced agent’s ass, making him mewl and moan. His hole was so comically stretched by just the one intrusion it was almost inconceivable that it would be able to take Norman’s comparatively modest member as well, let alone a carbon copy of itself wielded by the most influential gay porn producer in the country.

And yet, that was exactly what it was about to do.

With a final, disdainful movement, Norman shoved the cock in as far as it would reach, the bulbous knot just kissing Warren’s ring. For his part, Warren hooked his legs behind his elbows and prepared for the onslaught he knew he deserved.

Norman lined up his cock alongside Warren’s knot and hesitated. He looked longingly at Warren’s overstuffed hole and wished fervently that their roles were reversed. He practically drooled at the thought of playing the part of bottom bitch to three enormous cocks, slave to their thrusting, their manliness, their power, their…

His reverie was interrupted by a swell of heat along his back as Bobby hugged him from behind, pinning his gargantuan cock against the actor’s spine. “C’mon, stud. Show him how a real A-lister treats his deadbeat agent,” he crooned.

Reality pulsed again and suddenly Norman’s submissive tendencies melted away—at least so far as Warren was concerned. He turned his head to engage Bobby in a sensual kiss while shooting his hands out to massage Warren’s beleaguered hole, digging his thumbs into the orifice and slowly, agonizingly, pulling it wider until viewers could almost believe it would accommodate the actor’s girth.

Warren squealed in pleasure, pain, and desperation to feel his ring clamp down on his cock again, thrashing his head from side to side. Oblivious to his needs, Norman continued to pull his hole wider and wider while made out with Bobby, until at last he casually slipped his helmet inside the gaping cavern and let go, allowing the Warren’s abused hole to snap shut around him.

Online, BobbyCocks Studios’ latest livestream changed titles from A-Lister 3-Way Featuring Norman Aster to Watch Hollywood’s Sexiest Trendsetter Norman Aster Fire His Agent.

With Bobby’s cock furnace-hot against the small of his back, Norman sank his lengthy prong in—squeezing alongside Warren’s own pillar, rubbing up against its astonishing surface to give both men a shot of pleasure. Although Norman’s 11” monster was comparatively slender and a full inch shorter, when thrusting into Warren in combination with his own dick it was very nearly overwhelming.

Norman’s concern for Warren was, of course, less than appreciable: his agent had bungled his way through every booking, and it was only fitting to have a bit of comeuppance at the end of things. The throb of Bobby against his back only spurred him on, as he got into the rut of laying pipe into his mess of representative—with his new sponsor whispering dirty, wanton things into his ear as he went. Each word redoubled his determination to fuck Warren in every way he could.

The cameras captured every moment—the harsh, almost cruel expression on Norman’s face; the eager, exhausted and blissed-out look spread on Warren’s, and the triumphantly cocky expression that adorned Bobby’s. More than a few new fantasies were kindled at the sight—not least because the true dominant in the equation wasn’t even taking part, at this point.

Norman experimentally drew his hips back and groaned as the sheer tightness of Warren’s hole gripped and tugged along his length, making sure he felt every bump and ridge of Warren’s sex toy of a cock. He leaned back into Bobby and twerked his ass against the massive prick before driving forward again, ploughing back into the helpless bottom.

He began a rhythmic, methodical fuck, grasping Warren’s cock and driving it in and out of his ass in time to his own strokes. On every pullback he made sure to run his hole along the length of Bobby’s prick, enticing the porn studio legend to let him take another ride. “Ohhh, fuck meee…. fuck me into him…. use my fucking ass, I need it so bad….” he moaned.

Bobby beamed his trademark, playful smirk and leaned in to give Norman a deep, passionate kiss, driving his hips forward to rub his cock along the A-lister’s crack and force him back into Warren’s overstuffed hole, making both of them gasp with pleasure. Before long, Norman’s hole was practically glued to his shaft, with the actor so determined not to break contact that he practically chased it when Bobby pulled away, only to groan with satisfaction when he drove forward gain, pressing its girth against his ring.

Norman’s eyes rolled back in his head as his hungry, desperate hole began to dilate around and consume Bobby’s knot even though the rest of his dick lay along the length of his back.

Finally, after giving the cameras several minutes’ worth of sensual proxy-fuck footage, Bobby was ready to move things along. He slowly drew his cock down along Norman’s back, leaving a sticky, audible trail of sweat and precum has it peeled away, and looked down with relish as he lined up the massive head against his new star’s pucker.

He winked at the cameras.

In one smooth, effortless motion he drove in to the root, pushing a screaming Norman back into Warren, who lay whimpering at the unending assault on his ass.

Bobby began a powerful rut, the pressure of his knot yanking Norman out of Warren before finally popping out and allowing his glorious cock to retreat from Norman’s hungry hole, only to plough back in mercilessly, shoving Norman back into Warren, and repeating the process over again. The room was thick with moans, groans, sticky squelches, and the slap of flesh on flesh as Bobby took complete control of the fuck.

The cameras began to fog as a heady haze of lust descended on the room—the tech crew coping with rigid boners that grew more pressing by the minute. The bed was an island of its own: creaking beneath the force of Bobby’s powerful, undeniable strokes that forced Norman to adhere to his rhythm—Warren feeling the power of two hefty bodies as their combined strength began to truly wreck his hole.

“Yeah, you need to get stuffed, don’tcha, slut?” Bobby taunted, projecting his voice just a little so it would be reach the boom mic. “You’re just a dick magnet, making everyone around you horny for your hole.”

Warren’s legs jerked and shivered, falling from the hook of his arms to splay lewdly across the drenched sheets—sticky with cum and pre, to the point that they were beginning to stiffen. Rather than individual moans, Warren was emitting a continuous string of keening gibberish at a low level, squeezing reservoirs of angry lust from Norman—who was little more than a puppet on Bobby’s dick, regardless.

The trio were racking up heretofore unseen levels of viewership for a live, X-rated event: the ratings were off the anticipated charts, and sure to make BobbyCocks’ budget for the year just off the profits from the first twenty minutes alone.

Bobby knew—in a hazy sort of way—that he wanted to string the event on as long as possible, but something about Warren’s moans made him crazed with lust. Although he was fucking Norman, he wanted to sink into the twink’s overstuffed hole instead. Like it was calling to him. Bobby couldn’t hold off much longer.

Gritting his teeth in concentration, he snapped his fingers and from just out of frame a set assistant handed him a dildo, the mirror image of his and Warren’s wondrous cocks. Without breaking the rhythm of his fuck, he ran its absurd length between Norman’s and Warren’s bodies, lubing it up with their collected ass drippings, until it was wet, slick and shiny.

He drove his hips forward one last time until Norman was buried to the root and, holding the star’s cheeks in place with his hands, slowly, luxuriously withdrew from the star’s grasping ass lips. The cameras caught every second of his ring working its way over the knot while others took in the pained gape of his mouth, displaying both in a split-screen on the live feed, driving viewers around the world insane with lust. A third thumbnail showed Warren’s hole distended around the two mammoth shafts, straining to accommodate them as they twitched and pulsed.

Bobby took a moment to heft his cock and slap it wetly onto Norman’s back, just to re-emphasize how deep the star had taken him.

Then he took the dildo, placed it at Norman’s slack entrance, and pushed, working it in with slow, torturous twists and strokes.

Cameras rolled as Norman, overwhelmed with sensation, planted his lips on Warren’s and shoved his tongue down the hapless agent’s throat, using him to muffle his uncontrollable moans of sheer pleasure.

Bobby took the base of the buried dildo in a powerful grip and, flexing a bicep for the cameras, pulled, once again taking Norman’s hips and cock for a ride before the knot released and popped out, only to push it back in almost immediately, slamming Norman’s shaft back into helpless, twinky Warren.

Using just his arms he resumed the same fuck-rhythm as before, sending both bottoms in the scene into paroxysms of ecstasy as they took the mammoth intrusions up their over-stuffed asses.

Bobby kept pounding, expertly working the dildo with one hand as he flagrantly masturbated for their unseen audience with the other. Norman and Warren were blissed out to the point of obliviousness to the rest of the world—each man’s consciousness centred entirely the mind-blowing sensations in their nether regions.

When Bobby theatrically wiped his brow and beckoned over a nervous and rigidly hard technician, who tremblingly handed him a curious machine as a dark stain of pre spread across the front of his sensible work jeans, it was fairly clear that he had both of the other men dancing precisely to the tune of how hard he was working the dildo.

More than one person oohed in realization as Bobby affixed the latex monstrosity to the piston at the end of the machine and turned it on, letting the pump action seamlessly take over for his tired wrists. Norman didn’t even appear to notice the switch, groaning as theatrically as ever as he bottomed out into Warren’s aching hole over and over.

Bobby backed off a little, jerking off with both hands, now. His avid gaze took in both men—but focused particularly on Warren’s overstuffed hole. It really was like a magnet: he couldn’t keep away much longer.

Camera 1 zoomed in on Norman’s hole as the fuck machine drove the dildo in and out, yanking and pushing him in and out of Warren. Camera 2 captured his and Warren’s faces, nearly frozen in expressions of strain and bliss as they endured the assault on their bodies. Camera 3 remained laser focused on Warren’s distended ass, capturing every twitch and pull as Norman slammed in and out and every slap of the bottom bitches’ enormous balls.

Cameras 4 and 5 circled the scene at a distance, capturing the view in its full glory.

Camera 6 panned up Bobby’s glistening body, drinking in the sight of his enormous cock barely encircled by his hands, and his playful, winking face, fully in control of everything around him.

He approached his scene partners, grabbed the back of their heads, and sandwiched his glistening rod between their lips. They moaned and gasped, slobbering over and worshiping his length while he fucked it between them in long, relaxed strokes, getting it wet and dripping for the main event to come.

Warren mindlessly chased the bloated helmet whenever it glided past his lips—some instinct driving him to try to start a proper blowjob. Norman, by comparison, was eagerly tonguing its textured length: the beads of precum coating it driving both of them ever further into senseless, animal lust.

Bobby’s hands curled through their hair, yanking Warren’s long locks every so often to prevent him from starting a deepthroat: the script called for an equal-opportunity blowjob, after all. Giving too much focus to Warren right now wasn’t called for, as it would drive the focus away from the total depravity of Norman Aster. He’d get his chance soon enough, when his hole was well and truly wrecked.

As the heavy scent of Norman’s aphrodisiac cum from earlier slowly cleared, so too did Norman’s eyes—the mechanical motion of the dildo not driving him to distraction in quite the same way as Bobby’s living cock had. Although he kept up his lathering, the mindless fog of lust receded slowly but surely.

Warren, by comparison, was as far gone as he could possibly be; he hadn’t talked in minutes, instead just emitting an aura of pure willingness to go along with whatever happened. It simply took his scene partners’ words and warped them to be true, without his knowledge or consent—but he clearly couldn’t give less of a shit in the moment.

The next time Bobby pulled back, Norman separated his lips from the magnificent prong and directed the tip into Warren’s mouth, finally giving the blissed-out bottom what he’d been craving. He grinned as Bobby moaned in approval, enjoying the grip and undulations of Warren’s throat, and reached up to massage his generous, pendulous balls—nearly the equal of his own throbbing plums—for good measure.

Norman pulled Bobby in for another passionate kiss, all without missing a beat as he continued to plumb the depths of Warren’s needy ass—the fuck machine wouldn’t let him stop if he tried. All three men moaned as they processed the onslaught of pure sensation rocking their brains.

Norman broke the kiss and stared hungrily into Bobby’s eyes. “Fuck him. Fuck him hard, man. It’s like his ass was fucking built for this shit.”

Practically before he’d even finished speaking, Warren’s unreality field closed in on the trio and suddenly his genetic coding rewrote itself. His ass, improbably, was built for this shit, and always had been. His cheeks ballooned and grew into perfect, bouncing globes that jiggled with every movement. His ring spasmed, stretched and squeezed with a mind all its own, milking his and Norman’s cocks with gluttonous intent. His innards grew rings of pulsating, massaging, endlessly undulating muscle. His magical rear end was the epitome of bottom-bitch perfection, taking the absurd insertion without losing its perfect peach shape, simultaneously stuffed to bursting and hungry for more.

It was, if anything more magnetic than ever, and Bobby felt his willpower to resist giving it the triple penetration it deserved crumble into dust.

Rather than feeling satisfied and overstretched at the double anal invasion, Warren had been feeling needy: the constant emptiness inside him only mildly abated by the stuffing. He’d been grinding down on Norman, trying fruitlessly to scratch the eternal itch he’d carried around since puberty… a distraction that had led him to be a pretty poor agent, all things considered.

Warren’s gargling of Bobby’s cock finished with an agonized moan as Bobby pulled back, the knot briefly distending his jaw. A reedy, broken whine followed shortly thereafter.

Bobby sank down to Norman’s level, sliding around so he was behind Warren—who had mashed his mouth against his client’s in a futile effort to fill himself—and threaded his legs with the superstar’s. His cock sat against the small of Warren’s back, the twink’s hole visibly pulsing around the twin shafts already sunk deep into it.

With infinite patience, Bobby directed his cock to the greedy, sucking ring that was Warren’s ass, keeping his hips cocked back to prevent his dick from prematurely entering sucking tightness that teased his glans.

Never one to sacrifice theatrics for lust, Bobby signalled his crew to slow down and halt the fuck machine at its furthest retraction, giving Norman temporary respite so he could fully with draw his throbbing 11 inches and leave them glistening in the air. The two tops reached down to massage Warren’s ring where it closed loosely on his own pulsing rod and alternately fingered him, fucked him with his cock, and dug in to pull his hole apart, revealing a dark, gaping cavern that unquestionably needed to be filled.

The cameras drank in every millisecond as they squeezed their cockheads together and placed them at Warren’s entrance. Every centimetre as they pushed, ever so gently, forcing the wildly stretched lips inward. Every movement as the ring somehow rolled up over their slits and began to work its way over the insane width of their coronal ridges.

Bobby gave a signal and the fuck machine started up again, slaved to his own movements. His speed would be Norman’s speed. His fuck would be Norman’s fuck. His cock driving into both bottoms’ holes, stretching them wide and showing the world why BobbyCocks Studios was the name in gay pornography.

He gave the camera his trademark playful smirk.

And he shoved his cock in to the hilt.

Warren screamed, ecstasy spilling out as he finally erupted—hot jizz flooding his insides with hefty gobs as both cocks bottomed out in him simultaneously, nestled up against his own spurting dick. With three enormous pricks fully inside of him, he felt like he’d genuinely seen the light: he was full, blessedly, gloriously full without a trace of aching emptiness in him at all. As he began to smile, Bobby’s knot flexed a little…

…And dragged out past his tight ring, drawing Norman inexorably with him. In some ways, the emptiness was even worse for Warren now that he knew what it was like to be complete.

Bobby set up a torturous rhythm, unpredictably bottoming out and teasing at Warren’s capacious hole, drawing Warren to heights of pleasure and angst that he’d never once known. Every second of it was captured, with slow-mo shots taken for splicing into the final cut of the scene after the livestream finished.

Norman felt like it would never end—although he was iron hard, hips jerking involuntarily, he’d never been further from orgasm: his promise to Warren holding true, even with the sticky residue of Warren’s own orgasm liberally lubricating his pistoning cock.

“Ungh, fuck, you just can’t stop creaming your own guts, can you, fucker?” Norman rasped as Warren fired another burst into himself. “Cumming every time we bottom out, aren’t ya? Such a fucking bottom slut. Say it.”

Warren stared into Norman’s eyes and knew it was true. “AhhhAAHHhhhhAAAaahhhhAAaahhhngnghgh, fuuuuuck, you’re making me cuuuUUuuuuUUuuUUUmmm…” he whined, releasing rope after rope into his own guts every time Bobby’s knot crested his ring and buried itself inside. His balls churned and swelled as they worked to keep pace with the savage fuck.

Bobby joined in the dirty talk as he maintained the savage rut. “You’re just a fucking hole, a perfect little bottom slut. So fucking hot. Your ass just keeping us on the edge, holding us off, ungghg, making our balls so big….”

And the cameras rolled on as Bobby and Norman groaned, their orgasms building but blocked, their balls visibly swelling on computer screens around the world. Norman screamed as he struggled to drive himself into Warren over and over but couldn’t, locked into the pacemaker of a fuck machine that mercilessly reamed his ass in time with Bobby’s masterful strokes.

Meanwhile, Warren’s hole belched cum every time Bobby’s knot breached its seal, dripping down all three sets of balls—two of which that swelled with each passing second—and drenching the mattress beneath them.

The bed was a sea of cum. Warren’s contributions far outweighed the earlier efforts of Norman, soaking deeply into the sheets as he repeatedly lubricated the bushel of cocks that forced their way in and out of him.

Although the live audience’s eyes had previously been laser-focused on Norman—thanks to his status as a celebrity in free-fall from the peak of his stardom—or Bobby—thanks to his status as the cocky face of gay porn—their gazes were drawn, inexorably and retroactively, to the man sandwiched between them. Although he’d once been a long-haired, relatively plain twink—sporting a thin face, a lack of definition and no outstanding features besides his extraordinary ass and cock—he was now something that looked like it had been carved by Michelangelo.

Every thrust had him contort in a new way, a fountain of cum artfully spraying from his hole—with a light sheen of sweat building on his form, which merely served to highlight his taut perfection. Every frame of the video perfectly captured how hot he was—but it was all centred around his prowess as a bottom. He encapsulated the Platonic ideal of a needy, horny twink, milking orgasm after orgasm from himself… while keeping his tops in constant denial.

Norman and Bobby’s nuts were swelling, hanging lower and lower, grazing the cum-soaked duvet. Bobby’s reached the size of limes—and then proceeded to inflate to the size of lemons, thanks to the pent-up cum that churned inside of them. Norman’s were far larger to start with and soon threatened to give mangoes a run for their money.

But no matter how hard they gurgled or how tight they pulled in, they couldn’t cum.

Not just yet.

Warren felt a modicum of control seep back into his mind and managed to express his first lucid thought in nearly an hour. “Ohhhhh, ffffuuuuuuuck, fucking drill me! Plow my hole, ngh, oh, shit, ugh! You’ll fucking cum when I fucking tell you to! I own your fucking cocks. Now FUCK ME!

Almost without thinking, Bobby began to piston in and out of Warren’s grasping hole with absolute abandon, his hips working in a continuous machine-gun stutter to power-fuck his star bottom’s chute with short, violent strokes at top speed. Warren’s hole gaped and squelched and spilled gouts of cum as Bobby’s knot battered its way in and out and the fuck machine whined with strain as it worked Norman’s hips back and forth.

His cock did belong to Warren, after all (displaying a rare moment of contract savviness on the agent’s part), and if he wanted a harder fuck, then that’s exactly what he was going to get.

“Y-y-y-ou c-c-can’t t-t-take th-th-th-this fore-e-e-ever-r-r-r-r,” Norman whined, insane with lust as the dildo pounded his backside. “You’ll n-n-n-n-ever be sa-sa-satisfIeIeIeIeIeIed… until… we… cum…”

“You… need… my… fucking… load… like… the… fucking… bitch… you… are…” Bobby huffed, desperate to keep up the pace and show Warren who was really in charge.

Warren threw his head back in a silent scream, desperate to make his tops hold off longer, but they were right. His reality field closed in again, erasing the one advantage he’d managed to give himself. More than anything, more than scratching his itch for unprecedented penetration, more than life itself, in the core of his being he knew he needed them to cum for him. The truth of it seared itself into his hindbrain and made his balls convulse again, firing their final jet of mini-orgasm cum into his battered guts.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

Time seemed to stop as a moment of silence descended on the trio and he looked directly into the camera, sweat- and cum-stained face finding his light. He took a breath. “CUM FOR ME!”

There was a pause… and then the air filled with anguished wails as Norman broke through the previous rule—that he wasn’t ever going to cum in Warren again—in favour of the new, far stronger edict. In perfect tandem, Bobby’s balls tightened and pulsed, expanding his knot until all three cocks were locked in position, and as one, they fired.

Cum pumped through Warren like the Rio Grande.

He had clamped down hard enough to prevent any outflow—for now—but the evidence of their orgasms was writ clear on their faces. Warren was rapturous, satisfied and boneless like he’d just achieved his life’s true purpose. Norman was rigid, veins standing out on his sculpted neck as he broke the fuck machine’s piston mechanism entirely—keeping perfectly still except for the fervent roil of his emptying balls.

Bobby was a frenzy of jerky motion, his arms and legs contorting and convulsing as he let the load of his lifetime loose into the bottomless pit that was Warren. He’d literally been built to take their combined loads, and was doing so like a champ—seeming more alive with every litre that spewed inside of him.

Around the room, the cameramen soaked their jeans with spontaneous ejaculations; across the country, countless premature orgasms fired off, soaking keyboards and monitors purely at the sight of the three-way’s lengthy climax.

Norman and Bobby reeled in pleasure, leaning back to lie on the sodden mattress and give their full lengths to Warren, who took more and more agency back for himself as he sated the itches deep in his ass and in his soul. He planted his feet, sat up, and began to ride the spurting rods, pulling himself up and slamming back down to the root, crying tears of joy all the while. Cum sprayed out of his ass where the trio of cocks met in the middle of his hole, raining down on his tops as he bounced, his stomach bulging lewdly with spunk and cock.

The script called for a creampie and a bukkake, however, but fortunately for everyone, all three participants had more than enough cum in the tank to make good on both fronts. The next time Warren bottomed out, Bobby reached forward with a lightning-quick hand and grabbed the bottom twink’s rod where it tucked under his taint and pulled. Warren howled as he rose up and extracted his own cock from his ass, toppling backwards from shock as the bloated head exited his ruined ring, swung up to thwack him on the chest, and blast a rope after rope of cum against his chin, making him choke and splutter as he fell.

Endless geysers of cum spewed from all three rods now that they were free from Warren’s greedy chute, but none competed with Norman’s. The A-lister who famously had to keep himself drained on a daily basis just to keep things manageable jerked himself with long, two-handed strokes and spat a continuous stream of aphrodisiac jizz that flew into the air, splattered on the ceiling, and rained back down on everyone in the room.

If the camera crew thought they were horny before, it was nothing compared to now. The room became a cacophony of moans and groans as the epic cumshots continued and the miasma of Norman’s load permeated their brains.

Bobby had only done a brief exploratory session with Norman before the contract was finalised, so he was only conceptually familiar with the sheer volume that Aster could output. He continued to spew cum sympathetically, but even the litres he could manage weren’t a patch on the actor’s incomprehensible load.

Stray shots of jizz continued to fly with every occasional cock convulsion, leading to several streaked camera lenses—and more than one which was entirely blocked up by jizz. In spite of that, not a single person who’d been watching could possibly argue that they’d been short-changed—especially not upon seeing the utterly blissed-out expression that was adorning Warren’s face, and the muzzily cocky look Bobby had on his face. He’d just made a mint, after all.

Norman, for all that he was a self-professed filthy slut, was less sanguine. He’d cum in his horrible, deadbeat, undeserving agent—breaking a promise and bringing joy to someone he could barely look at… when he wasn’t fucking the guy’s brains out, to be precise.

His orgasm was in the latter stages—spouting long streamers of spunk instead of a continuous stream—giving him more than enough time to seal the deal. Best not to give Warren false impressions, after all.

He staggered to his feet and strode over to Warren, aiming his still-spurting cock at the dazed cumslut’s face. The cameras that were still functioning caught every splash of creamy jizz that drenched his handsome features anew.

“Take it, bitch,” he growled, kneeling down. “Take it, you fucking whore.” He wrenched Warren’s mouth open, positioned his twitching shaft, and sank balls deep down his pliant throat. “You don’t deserve this.” He pulled back and out, strings of cum connecting his cockhead to Warren’s lips. He spurted again, splashing Warren’s face before driving back in and holding him in place while he shot two, then three, then four spurts down his gullet. He pulled out again, leaving the hapless twink gasping for air. “But you roped me in and you’re gonna fucking get it.” He plunged back in.

“And after this you’re gonna let the entire crew use you for free like the fucking slut you are.” He twisted his fingers in Warren’s cum-slick hair and held him flush against his crotch, firing his final volley into the former agent’s belly, their contract officially null and void. He pulled out and let Warren flop to the mattress in a daze, goopy threads of jizz still bridging the gap between his mouth and Norman’s dripping junk. “You’re done. Never gonna work in this town again.”

And just like that the name of Warren Edger, agent to the stars, disappeared from every studio’s Rolodex, permanently blacklisted.

Norman strode away, heedless of the onslaught of set crew who made their way over to Warren to take advantage of his cock-magnet hole, and extended a hand to Bobby, who regarded him with a kind of respect. Sure, the actor made a heck of a bottom, but when he had to, he could play the dom as well as anyone.

Bobby took the proffered hand and pulled himself up. “You know it’s a shame. Would be nice if talent like you could keep a foot in both worlds, right? Legit films and porn? No reason one has to cancel out the other.”

They didn’t bother to to hide their conversation from Warren who, despite his present distractions, heard every word. A cloud of unreality closed around them.

“Well, that’s the funny thing,” replied Norman, pendulous dick swaying in tandem with Bobby’s as they made their way over to the palatial bathroom. “I’ve heard so much industry talk about how, like, everyone’s just waiting for someone to take the plunge and do it already, you know? Like, it’s 2021. Who cares?”

Bobby adopted his trademark grin again, considering this news while he reached for a towel. “Norman Aster, the first X-rated A-lister crossover star, huh?” His voice echoed, carrying over the grunts and groans of the set crew to reach Warren’s ears. “Man, if I could be part of that gig, too…” He whistled appreciatively as he considered the lucrative possibilities.

The end of the night saw a fresh contract signed; one that involved an almost-equal balance of power between Norman Aster and his new agent. Almost, of course—Bobby was never above getting one over on his clients. But it was the fairest one he’d ever paired, and left them both quite satisfied—particularly once the nominations began to roll in, alongside the grudgingly positive critical accolades.

Warren ended up in an alleyway, broke, homeless and chronically unable to find work—just as he’d been months ago, unbeknownst to him. He was ruined as an agent, and was scorned at every point. Even bottoming in more porn shoots didn’t help, as invariably, Norman’s words proved correct and he happily did the work for free, like a true slut. Rather than his own words changing reality, others’ words changed him—a permanent token of his experience with Norman Aster—until he was little more than a wandering vagrant, brought lower, uglier and more repulsive by every rude word said to him.

He took to sleeping among the shelves in a library, forlorn and alone—so downtrodden that everyone ignored him… right up until he awoke to someone literally tripping over his prone body.

“Oh! I’m so sorry. Didn’t see you there,” the patron joked as he dusted himself off. “I’m looking for the Braille books, but seem to have gotten turned around. Can you point me in the right direction?”

Warren looked up, bleary-eyed, and took in the visage of the first person to show him any kindness whatsoever in months. The man had a soft, kindly face largely obscured by dark sunglasses, and a thin frame clothed in a hodgepodge of baggy, mismatched garments. He quietly tapped a long red and white stick on the ground to find his bearings.

Wordlessly, Warren pointed to the librarian’s desk at the far side of the stacks before realizing the man couldn’t see him. He cleared his throat, sighed in resignation at having to interact with someone, and spoke. “Mixed with the regular books,” he rasped, voice hoarse from disuse. “By topic.” He cleared his throat again.

“Oh,” the man blushed. “Well, uh, I’m… I’m looking for, uh, you know… I’ve heard really good things about this… oh, you’re a librarian in the heart of downtown LA. I’m sure you’ve heard more embarrassing requests. I’m looking for Call Me By Your Name. In Braille. I want to see what all the hullabaloo is about.” He chortled at his own corny joke again and blushed, waiting patiently for the librarian to respond.

Warren stood up from where he’d been stooped, patting his grimy rags—no, his tweedy sweater vest—down, having stowed his final book away.

“I’m sure I can help you out,” he said, a sweet smile crossing his mouth for the first time in… far too long. “If you’d like to take my arm, I’ll be happy to lead you there.” He proffered his elbow.

The man broke into a grin. He’d been terribly embarrassed to betray his interests so publicly, but the warm reception made him feel right at home. He groped in space for Warren’s arm and found it, grasping gently.

“Your clothes are lovely, by the way,” the Warren observed smoothly, taking in the man’s suddenly tailored, eclectically mismatched outfit. “Now where else do your literary interests lie? There are so many adventures to be found in books if you have the imagination for it.”

The man blushed, charmed at someone taking such a genuine interest in him, and allowed himself to be led on to explore the charms of the library. And, if he played his cards right, those of the librarian himself.

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