I count eight cookies and put them in a lapis lazuli ceramic bowl, from the set we’d eaten our soup from, and place the rest of the cookies on the cooling rack. They are thin and crisp, and warm from the oven. I take a bite from one on my way back to the bedroom. I want to make my entrance, chewing. I want to appear from behind the door like a lover returning from his travels, like Odysseus surprising Penelope, like Socrates coming in with a frown from the neighbor’s patio.

  “What about me?” Martin says, lifting his head off the pillow and resting on his elbows.

  “I’m coming,” I say. “Open wide.”

  I sit on his middle, his cock soft between my arsecheeks, and slot a whole cookie into his mouth. I am Sheherazade feeding her emperor to keep him from chopping off her head. Why was he so afraid of sleep, so desperate to rely on the stories of others? My offerings are much more substantial than stories. Yesterday there was chocolate and coconut cake, today there are oatmeal cookies.

  “Oh, my God,” he says. “I love these biscuits. What’s in them?”

  “Guess,” I say, taking another one for myself and putting the bowl on the floor by the bed.

  “OK, OK,” he says. “Don’t tell me,” and opens his mouth for another bite. “Raisins?” he says. “And cinnamon.”

  I smile as if he’d guessed my secret, rescued me from the awkwardness of self-revelation; he has named the parts of my inner world kept hidden out of shame and fear. I don’t want this to stop. But he knows how to distinguish between tastes; he can spot the coconut, the flour and the butter, the demarara sugar. My love is both beautiful and naturally gifted.

  “You surprise me,” I say. “I can never single out ingredients.”

  “You make the best biscuits,” he says. “You are the best cook.”

  “Again,” I say, lifting my bum off his middle to massage his cock beneath me.

  “The best,” he says.

  “And again.”

  “The best.”

  And slowly I sit back down, guiding his cock into me.

  “More,” he says.

  “More what?” I say, leaning toward him to lick crumbs from the cleft between his gym-formed pecs.

  “More biscuit,” he says.

  “Cookie,” I say. “Yum.”

  “No,” he says. “Biscuit,” lifting his middle to push deeper into me, turning his head, just a fraction, a sidelong glance at the bowl on the carpet.

  So I reach for a cookie to feed him.

  Tiger Rag

  J. D. Ryan

  “What’s a fluffer?”

  The question seemed to echo across the set. I locked eyes with my cameraman for a second. John had spotted the new guy instantly—was probably already designing the perfect camera angle for his lean good looks. John and I share a taste for the dark, exotic types.

  “When you gonna quit bringing in strays, Boss?” he asked. I held up a hand, still watching my new discovery, until my assistant had taken him into the dressing room to introduce him to those returning from lunch break. I counted the seconds on my fingers: 1...2...3...

  On 5, an indignant squeal sounded from behind the door.

  “I don’t need no stinkin’ fluffer!”

  John chortled. “And another prima donna at that,” he said, shaking his head.

  “He’ll figure it out,” I replied, my gaze still on the door. The young man in question stepped from the dressing room, a slightly stunned expression on his face, to pause at a jumbled stack of backdrops leaning against the wall. His silky black hair tumbled over his dark eyes, and he shoved it back with a quick movement of one hand. I was certain that nearly every crewman in the room was watching JT Pierce.

  John snorted. “I think you picked up a bantam rooster there, Boss.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Street rat, you mean.”

  Then I took a second look. Maybe John was more on target than I was. JT did resemble an arrogant cockerel. The top of that dark mop barely reached my chin. His muscles were lean and wiry, rather than bulky. He strutted instead of walking—most likely a habit picked up from years on the streets. I chuckled then, seeing the rooster instead of the rat.

  Well, his street days were over anyway. Nobody who worked for Bettencourt Studios hustled. I smiled as my young find strutted about the set, investigating the props, the cameras, the lighting. If my instincts were right—and Armand Bettencourt’s instincts are always right—JT would soon have more hot men wanting that tight ass than he’d ever had on the streets.

  The crew straggled in from lunch. I left JT to his own devices and called a quick planning huddle.

  “I want the new kid in a bit part,” I told them. “Let’s see if he’s as good as I think.”

  “We haven’t shot the pep rally scene,” John offered. “Maybe he could be one of Bart’s school buddies.”

  “What about a pizza delivery?” somebody quipped. I shot a glare in that general direction without spotting any guilty faces. Pizza boys, indeed!

  One of the light men laughed. “You could put him in as the school mascot.” John elbowed him, and the rest of the men chuckled.

  My eyes narrowed. The crew fell silent. I let them stew for a moment while I stroked my moustache. I thought about fake fur...tiger stripes...and bronze skin.

  “Perfect!” I finally bellowed. Across the room, JT flinched at the volume. Then I was moving, striding across the set, snapping commands right and left. I liked watching the crew scatter in front of me.

  “Get me that tiger suit from the football video. John, I want a new angle for this—show me something different. And the lights need to be golden, like sunlight. I want you to play up his coloring.”

  JT, sensing that his big scene was being plotted, swaggered over, thumbs hooked into the belt loops of his jeans. The prop man returned, dragging the costume. JT’s eyes widened.

  “No way!” he squealed. “You said you were gonna make me a star—not some dumb mascot!”

  I stared down at him, hands on hips. JT straightened to his full height. His bangs brushed my bottom lip. Black eyes sparked from beneath the thick eyebrows drawn into a frown.

  “Has Bettencourt Studios ever made a lousy video?” I growled, leaning over him.

  His scowl only got deeper. This was one rooster who wasn’t going to back down without a good reason. I felt a slow heat building within my groin. Nobody ever thwarted Armand Bettencourt. I rather liked the feeling.

  “You want to dress me up in a fuckin’ tiger suit!” JT snapped.

  “And I want you to be the hottest fucking tiger anybody’s ever seen!” I bellowed back. “I want every man who rents Bart’s Big Game to run out the next day looking for goddamn college mascots! I want the costume shops having a run on cat costumes! I want you to make that fucking tiger suit look good!”

  A rebellious gleam sparkled within the black eyes. “This is another test, isn’t it?”

  “Goddamn right it is! You pass it, and I’ll see about a bigger role in the next video.”

  JT stood there, eyeball to chin, for a long moment. I felt my cock thickening. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed working with somebody who’d give me back as good as he got. Lord, but I was tired of mindless obedience!

  JT shrugged, rolling his eyes. “Give me the damn suit,” he grumbled.

  The lead I’d hired for this video returned as JT was still struggling into the costume. I’d had my reluctant mascot strip before climbing inside—the camera crew was watching his lithe, bronzed body appreciatively. The lead raised one perfectly plucked blond eyebrow at the scene before him. I ignored him—after a week, Mr. “I Only Top” wasn’t very high on my list. I gathered my players and outlined the game plan.

  “Bart’s going to sneak into the concession stand for a drink. He spots the mascot—I want you sweating like a pig, JT—”

  “I’m already sweating!”

  “Bart won’t be able to resist the temptation. JT, you’ll have a blowjob scene to start with. Next picture we’ll move you up to more screen time—if you do a good job.”

  JT shot me a disgusted glare, and pulled the tiger’s head on. The rest of us moved into position. At the cue, JT, pretending not to notice the lead watching from the doorway, slowly removed the costume head. He shook his dark mop, flinging sweat across the room. He was supposed to turn and notice “Bart,” but he reached for a bottle of water from the ice bucket instead. The gasp as he threw back his head and emptied it over his face seemed to come from every man in the room. Even the lead was breathing more heavily.

  JT turned then, slowly. He looked at the lead for a long minute, his eyes moving from the size 14 sneakers to the blond buzz cut. A smile blossomed over his wide lips. His hand moved to the crotch of the tiger suit, rubbed slowly up and down.

  “You need some...refreshments?” he asked.

  Hey! I didn’t give him any lines! Ah well, it was a good come-on. The lead moved forward as though pulled by a wire around his hardening cock.

  “I think I do,” he muttered, reaching for the young man. They kissed deeply. JT then sank slowly to his knees, his fingers busy at the zipper of the lead’s jeans. It took a while— those furry gloves made him a bit clumsy. I liked the impression it made, though: coltish eagerness. “Bart” turned slightly, playing to the cameras as JT leaned back to admire the nine-and-a-quarter-inch cock standing nearly straight out from the clipped blond pubes. Slowly, almost reverently, JT reached out to stroke the organ, his long fingers dancing lightly over the shaft.

  The lead fished a familiar foil packet from his jeans, flashing the logo for the camera. I grinned at John—that tie-in concession with the condoms had been one of our best moves. John pointed silently to the monitor. What the hell was JT up to now?

  My new actor, after fumbling in a hidden pocket of the tiger suit, brandished another Bettencourt Condom package. He grinned, held his find up to the lead’s packet, and winked. Winked! Just like a goddamn commercial. When did I tell him to do that?

  I loved it.

  “Bart” ripped open one package and slowly rolled the condom over his massive tool. JT’s eyes never left the cock, only inches from his face. He seemed almost mesmerized. Now he looked more like an eager puppy than a strutting rooster. He licked his lips, then a slow grin spread across his face—the grin of a man who’s been given a studio full of gorgeous cocks to play with.

  As soon as the condom was in place, JT’s head dove forward. Too fast—I stood up, ready to yell “Cut.” But JT merely brushed his lips across the glistening head, making the cock jerk upward. Then he raised his fur-covered hands.

  The lead groaned at the touch of the gloves. JT wriggled his furry fingers, tickling the balls and underside of the long shaft. He closed one fuzzy fist over the fat balls and tugged gently. His other hand slid beneath the lead’s T-shirt to tickle his nips.

  Throughout the performance, JT’s nose remained a scant inch away from the hard cock. Either he was truly fascinated with the thick organ, or he was an even better actor than I had given him credit for. I watched the lead as JT stroked his cock and balls. The big blond made all the right fuck-flick moves and noises—grunts, thrusts, and “do me, baby’s.” It hit me then.

  I was goddamn tired of typical fuck flicks!

  Maybe that was why I’d picked up another stray from the streets. I wanted something new, something you didn’t see in every other video. I was tired of prima donna porn stars, tired of their “just give me the paycheck” attitudes. All the really good stars were already taken by other studios. Sure, my stars did what I told them to do, but that wasn’t good enough. I wanted surprises: people who could see the potential in a scene and exploit it. If I ever wanted to do anything with the awards I’d gotten, I needed more thoroughbreds in my stable. And JT might just turn out to be the dark horse in that barn.

  He was enjoying the blond I’d given him to play with. His hands were all over the lead’s body, as if he wanted to touch everything at once. He’d moved his lips to the glistening cock head, and was teasing it—flicking his tongue in and out like a snake. John zoomed in for a close-up, shooting over the lead’s shoulder.

  I loved the look on JT’s face. Eyes closed, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth...he slurped that big cock like a kid with a stick of candy.

  Suddenly, he opened his eyes to look directly into the camera lens. That close, his long lashes looked as thick as a woman’s. He pulled back for a long, slow smile, then opened his mouth.

  I found myself holding my breath as he struggled to take in the big cock. I’d hired the lead solely for the size of that organ. JT’s small features made the thing look even bigger. It truly looked too large to fit into his mouth. And I was getting hot just thinking of it happening.

  JT worked the fat cock head past his lips, slurping noisily. He slid his furry hands between the lead’s legs. I could almost see the cock swell even larger. I knew it was rock-hard by this time. Suddenly JT took a deep breath and dropped his mouth open. For a moment, I thought he’d unhinged his jaw like a snake.

  He worked that cock into his throat until his nose was buried in clipped blond pubes. I swear, his neck looked swollen with all that manmeat stuffed inside.

  Then he started the blowjob.

  Everything up to this point had been foreplay—that fact was suddenly obvious. JT showed the camera what a professional could do with his mouth. I have no idea how he managed to breathe with nine-and-a-quarter inches of fat, hard cock down his throat. I don’t even know how he got it all inside in the first place—it looked as if the thing ought to reach about halfway down to his asshole.

  All I know is, within thirty seconds, Mr. “I Only Top” had come alive, shoving his cock into the waiting throat like a jackhammer. JT dove forward to meet him. He let out a string of muffled grunts that had my cock standing straight up and drooling into my jeans.

  JT shoved both arms between the lead’s legs, forcing them apart. His fur-covered hands clamped on the quivering asscheeks. The force of the larger man’s thrusts tossed him back and forth, but he clung to the blond like a leech.

  I slid a hand between my legs, trying to ease my aching cock into a more comfortable position. It’d been ages since a scene had turned me on this much. I thought I was immune. I glanced at the cameras—John was rubbing his own hard rod. Our gazes met, and he gave me a sheepish grin, then shrugged.

  The lead pulled out, stripping off his condom for the cum shot. JT wilted onto all fours, panting as if he’d just run a marathon. Thick manjuice spurted onto his dripping hair as the blond aimed his firehose onto the smaller man. The lead managed to get his exit lines right, which should have surprised me. But I barely noticed—I was watching the next Bettencourt Studios star.

  JT grabbed onto the edge of the counter, barely missing the stack of paper cups that made this a “concession stand” instead of the kitchen it had been last video. He hauled himself upright, still breathing like a horse after a race. Cum dripped from his hair. One thick rope of cream slid down his right cheek. He stood facing the camera, his lean chest heaving—I finally remembered to yell “Cut!”

  “Oh, man,” John muttered from across the set.

  “Yeah,” I agreed.

  The two of us met over JT’s tiger-striped body. JT had wilted back against the counter. I was relieved to see the perky bulge tenting the front of his costume—I’d been a bit worried that he’d gone too far with his demonstration.

  He glanced up as we approached, and a crafty look crossed his face.

  “So,” he asked, “was that hot enough for you?”

  I snorted. “Look at the new kid, John! One scene and he’s thinking we’re going to reward him.”

  John smirked. “Yeah, you’d think that big, fat cock would be reward enough.”

  JT glared, not quite sure we were kidding. John and I put on our best scowls—not an easy expression when your cock’s trying to poke a hole in your jeans.

  “Well,” I drawled, tugging at the tail of the tiger costume, “maybe we could think of some reward we could give him.”

  “Seein’ as how it was his first time on screen and all,” John added, rubbing absent-mindedly at a cum stain on the fake fur.

  JT’s eyes narrowed. “I want the same reward I got last night!” he demanded. Giving me a coy smile, he turned, showing the zipper on the back of the tiger suit.

  I had a better idea. I’d had the prop department put a piss-flap into the costume, so that the mascot wasn’t forever climbing in and out of the thing during a performance. It was just a triangle of fur, wrapping backward from crotch to tail, but it saved a lot of time. I reached down, tugged the Velcro strips loose, and slid my hand inside.

  JT squirmed, but I kept a tight hold on that tail. John grinned and moved in close.

  My fingers found what I wanted, and I closed my fist over his hard cock, already slimy with pre-cum. He gave up all pretenses. Spreading his legs, he bent over the counter. I tugged his perky seven-incher out through the flap, still holding onto the tiger’s tail.

  My finger probed the eager hole before me. JT moaned, shoving his hips up off the counter. Damned if he ever seemed to get tired of getting fucked!

  John moved to the other side of the counter. His hand cupped the bulge in his jeans—not quite as large as the lead’s, but still a nice basket. “Maybe I ought to reward him a little bit,” he suggested. JT reached out one furry arm, grabbing for John’s zipper.

  “Damn!” I growled, slapping the fuzzy ass in front of me. “Don’t you ever get enough?”

  JT shook his head. He pushed his ass off the counter again, grinding against my hand.

  “Well,” John said, unzipping his pants, “you can come up for air with mine, kid. I’d feel bad if you passed out in the middle of our reward.”

 

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