“YEAH, TAKE it… fuck yeah… you know you want it….”
Trevor moaned and opened his mouth wider, his lips stretched to their limit around the thick dick between them. A big hand gripped the back of Trevor’s head hard, holding him in perfect position to have his face fucked. A string of words Trevor mostly ignored fell from the other man’s mouth. Trevor just relaxed his mouth and throat and let himself be used.
Behind him, another set of hands held Trevor’s hips just as hard while another hard dick thrust into his ass, filling Trevor’s hole just to the brink of pain without pushing him too far. Spit-roasted between two sweat-soaked, muscular bodies, Trevor let his mind turn over control to his body and his instincts, and lost himself in sensation.
The fucking from behind stopped, and Trevor was jerked out of the fantasy he’d been building for himself. “Damn condom’s slipping again.” Jackson, the guy who had his cock in Trevor’s ass, yanked out with no warning, making Trevor wince. He turned his head in time to see Jackson stripping off the latex. “You got another kind or something?”
Mick, the face-fucker, laughed and stepped to the side, his still hard cock bouncing wetly in the cool air as he smirked at Jackson. “You got some extra-smalls for Jack-off here, boys?”
“Fuck you.” Jackson’s voice was mild, not angry, and Trevor was glad for that. He hated being on set with guys who went off on testosterone-fueled rants, especially for no real reason. It wasn’t like condom troubles were any kind of rarity in porn.
“Since we’re stopped anyway, let’s reset, guys.” That instruction came from the director, Brent, another model who was in the process of making the switch to the other side of the camera. “Mick, let’s get a cumshot from you. Hit Trevor in the face, and watch the eyes this time, okay? Trevor, you good?”
Trevor nodded, rocking his head from side to side and giving his mouth a few stretches. Trevor was always good, always ready for another round, another shot, another angle. Whatever it took to get the job done and get another paycheck in the bank.
Kneeling on the end of the mattress, waiting for the crew to finish adjusting things around him, Trevor breathed in the smells of sweaty men and raw sex. Jesus. Whatever else went on in his life, he’d never get sick of that scent. Just a whiff was enough to get his dick hard. A room full of it, like this one, could almost get him off with nothing else.
“Okay, ready.” Mick nodded at Brent’s words and moved in closer, stroking his cock just inches from Trevor’s face. Trevor balanced himself with his hands on his thighs, mouth open slightly to catch a blast or two once Mick let it fly. If sex was his favorite smell, cum was his favorite taste.
While cameras recorded from several angles, Mick jerked himself hard and fast, moaning and cursing, his free hand planted on his flank, out of the way of the shot. Trevor watched Mick’s face closely, five years’ experience and a number of previous shoots with Mick having taught him the signs of impending orgasm. He closed his eyes just seconds before the first wet streams hit his face, one and then another right into his mouth, and he hummed and swallowed before licking around his lips to capture even more of that flavor. Unlike some of Trevor’s scene partners, Mick always tasted clean and a little sweet, never funky or bitter. Trevor knew he should savor it while he had a chance.
Mick rubbed his cock over Trevor’s face, picking up more of his cum and bringing it to Trevor’s mouth for him to lick off. Trevor followed Mick’s lead, not that he minded at all, and it was another minute or two before Mick took a step back. “Good?” he asked, the question directed to Brent.
“Perfect,” Brent replied. “Okay, let’s take a break. Everybody back on set in fifteen.”
Trevor uncurled himself from the bed, shaking out his legs where they’d started to go numb. Even with his regular workouts and plenty of practice on his knees, holding any position for a long time got uncomfortable. He could handle it, of course. He was a professional. But damn, was he glad they took plenty of breaks during most shoots.
He crossed the loft to the corner where he’d left his bag, dug out his cigarettes and lighter, and headed toward the balcony. It was too chilly and damp to go outside—and he’d need clothes for that anyway—so he just slid the door open far enough to let the smoke out and lit up, leaning against the wall and staring out over the gray Atlanta skyline. He liked his hometown, though he much preferred it bright and sunny, like it was most of the year. Today, clouds and rain had set in, and the weather dragged Trevor’s mood right down with it.
Maybe he needed a change of scenery. He had friends in Fort Lauderdale. Florida was sunny pretty much all the time.
He chuffed out a semblance of a laugh around a puff of smoke. Yeah, no. Too many porn stars down there, too much partying. Trevor liked most of the guys he worked with well enough, but he didn’t want to be pressured into spending his free time with them.
The sounds from behind him, where cameras and props were being reset, faded into white noise. He could hear the more distant sounds of cars passing by, a plane flying overhead, a siren in the distance. Off to his left, he could see the green edge of Piedmont Park, an oasis in the middle of Midtown where he spent many hours walking or just chilling out. Even on a Saturday, only the diehards would be out there in this weather—runners and dog walkers, for the most part.
Trevor took a last long drag from his cigarette and bent to snuff it out against the concrete floor of the balcony. After five years of experience, he knew how to time his breaks pretty well, so he wasn’t surprised when Brent spoke just as he pushed the door shut and turned his back to the glass.
“Okay, let’s get Trevor and Jackson now. Trevor, hands and knees, and Jacks, try to keep the condom on this time, okay?”
Trevor half smiled as Jacks flipped Brent off. The two had been friends for years, but never a couple, since Brent was gay and Jacks nominally straight. Trevor figured that was probably why they’d been able to stay friends for so long. He couldn’t think of a single former couple in the industry who’d managed any more than staying cordial after a breakup.
Back on the bed, Trevor got himself positioned and arched his back, lifting up his ass for Jackson. He knew he looked great like this; he’d seen himself doing it often enough, even taken some pictures of his own. Jackson settled one hand on Trevor’s hip and used the other to guide his resheathed cock into Trevor’s hole, which was still loose and wet with lube.
Trevor groaned and pushed back against the intrusion, relishing the blend of burn and pleasure, as he always did. Shooting a scene wasn’t anything like having sex in private—Trevor much preferred one-on-one with no cameras—but it damn sure didn’t suck. Except in the good ways.
Jackson shifted behind him and tightened his fingers on Trevor’s hip. “Ready?” he asked, and Trevor nodded. The exchange was unnecessary and they both knew it. Trevor was always ready.
“Okay, camera rolling… action!”
Jacks followed orders, starting off with just a few long, slow thrusts before he began to piston into Trevor, hard. Trevor braced his arms more firmly and pushed back, moving his hips into Jackson’s thrusts. Brent loved his bottoms to be active, which was great for Trevor, because he loved it too. He and Jacks had worked together several times over the years, so it took only seconds before they were moving in perfect harmony, each collision of their hips pushing a low grunt out of Trevor.
The one thing Trevor hated about working with Jacks was that the man almost never made a sound unless prompted. That might work in private, but on camera, the noises were just as much a part of it as the visual. Sure enough, a few thrusts later, Brent’s voice broke in.
“Great action, guys, but we need some vocals, Jacks.”
Jacks immediately began moaning, muttering “fuck” every few thrusts, just barely loud enough for the sound equipment to pick up. Trevor fought not to roll his eyes; the only thing worse than Jackson’s silence was the fakeness of his sounds. Trevor let his own voice loose, hoping to offset Jackson with something a little more real. Unlike some performers, Trevor often had to hold back when he was being fucked on camera, especially if the top managed to hit the right angle to peg his prostate—something Jacks usually did.
Dropping his head to let it hang loose, Trevor groaned loudly and pushed back harder, the sound of flesh slapping together joining with their voices to create a mishmash of noise that Trevor didn’t find very sexy but the viewers would probably love. Jacks improved things by going back to mostly groans, and Trevor settled in for a long fuck. Jacks had always said he was never one to get off fast, and if that was true, then being gay for pay couldn’t be making things any easier on him. That was part of what made him well-suited for porn, though. The longer he could hold off, the more time they’d get on camera in one stretch, which would make editing for the final scene that much easier.
Trevor didn’t know how long they kept up the pace, but his ab muscles were getting sore by the time Brent called out, “All right, one more setup, guys,” and Jacks stop thrusting. He pulled out too quickly, though, and Trevor winced at the sharp pinch.
“Damn, man, that’s twice! Gimme some warning!” Trevor rolled onto his back and shot Jacks a glare. The other man had the decency to look sheepish.
“Sorry, man,” he said. He looked over at Brent. “On his back to finish?”
“Yeah.” Brent wasn’t looking at them directly, his gaze instead intent on the camera screen. “Mick, let’s get you back in here too. Lie down next to him so you can kiss him and jerk him off while Jacks finishes fucking him. Okay?”
The three men moved into the requested positions, careful, as always, not to block the cameras, and they got back to work. Trevor turned his mind off and just let his body do the work. The way they were situated, Brent wouldn’t need them to shift to get his cumshot, so he just let it happen. A dick in his ass, a tongue in his mouth, and a hand on his cock were plenty for him, even under these artificial conditions.
He let the orgasm build in him, mouth open to let out the words and moans he didn’t try to hold back. A part of him never shut off during a scene, no matter how good the sex, even though after nearly five years, making things good for the camera had become instinct as much as his body’s natural reactions. He’d been good at this from the start, but with experience, he’d reached the point where he hardly had to think about what he needed to do.
He enjoyed himself, sure. The sex was nearly always good. But it had been so long since he’d truly been able to let go during sex that he’d almost forgotten how it felt.
That was the thought on his mind when he finally came, spurting long ribbons of white across his chest and abdomen. He gasped and moaned, body shuddering as Jacks kept fucking him through the orgasm, until Brent said something. Trevor’s ears were still ringing, so he didn’t hear the words, but he knew it would be an instruction to move on to Jackson’s cumshot while Trevor’s was still fresh. That would save them the trouble of creating fake semen with lube or lotion later.
Jacks pulled out much more carefully this time, and Mick slid his hand through the wetness on Trevor’s body, rubbing the cum around while Jackson jacked off over them both. Trevor expected Jacks to take a while to come, even after the long fucking sessions, and sure enough, the cum had cooled on Trevor’s skin by the time Jacks sucked in a breath and spurted across Trevor’s body and Mick’s hand. Trevor pushed out a moan and bucked up, knowing the intervening time would be edited out, making it look like they’d come one after the other. Mick bent to kiss Trevor again, openmouthed and with a lot of tongue, then shifted to do the same to Jacks.
“And… cut. Great job, guys!”
Brent’s words broke things up that quickly, and the three men separated. One of the production assistants tossed a couple of towels toward the bed, and Trevor snagged one to wipe the sweat and two layers of cum off himself. He’d take a quick shower before leaving the apartment, but the air-conditioning on his wet skin had him getting chilled, so he wanted to get some of that off as quickly as possible.
Rolling to sit up, Trevor shot a quick grin at his scene partners. “Thanks, guys.” He turned his head toward Brent. “Good shoot, Brent?”
Brent nodded, his gaze trained on the playback screen on his camera. “Looking good from here. Think we got plenty, between this and the backup.”
“Great.” Trevor’s legs were steady enough by then to stand up and head to the bathroom. Mick followed him, smacking one large hand hard into Trevor’s right asscheek.
“Always good working with you,” Mick told Trevor. He turned to face Jacks. “Okay with sharing a shower?”
Mick knew from experience that Trevor never extended his scene activities once the cameras quit rolling, like a lot of models did. He’d have a better chance of getting some action from the straight guy.
Trevor walked on into the bathroom alone. Mick and Jacks could have their fun once he was finished and headed out for a drink. Or several.
MUSIC POUNDED in Evan’s head, almost but not quite loud enough to drown out his own thoughts. That’s what liquor is for, he thought, tossing back his third shot and then nodding to the bartender for another before the burn even hit his stomach.
He took a last, long drag on his second cigarette of the night, blowing out smoke in a thick, steady stream as he crushed the butt into the ashtray on the bar in front of him. There weren’t many bars left where you could still smoke inside, which was part of the reason he came to Logger’s. Stupid name, heavily redneck clientele for a gay bar, even in the South, but he could drink and smoke and still be able to pick up some company if he got desperate enough.
He and desperate had gotten to be pretty good buddies the past few years.
Another full shot glass and a longneck Bud appeared on the wood in front of him. He gave the bartender, an older guy named Tony, a raised-eyebrow look and got a shrug in response. “Figured you wouldn’t want to waste something good on a whiskey chaser.”
Evan nodded and picked up the shot glass. “Fair point.” He tossed back the whiskey and set the glass back down before reaching for the beer and half turning to look out over the crowd. Sipping at the piss water, he searched the room for anything halfway decent. Preferably something not wearing flannel or a trucker hat.
“Hey, you’re Trevor Hardball, right?”
Preferably not someone who knew him as that, either.
Evan pasted on the best somewhat-sexy smile he could manage and turned to the man standing at his left. “In the flesh,” he said. “Having a good evening?”
Bland and neutral, the way he always went into these things. You never knew when a fan encounter might go south—been there, done that—so better not be too friendly or too dismissive.
This time, the man just smiled and held out a hand. “Thought so.” His smile widened as Evan shook his hand. “Just wanted to say I’m a fan of your work. A lotta the guys doing porn are all fake, but you come across as real genuine. Makes it a lot hotter.”
Like many of the bar’s patrons, the man’s drawl doubled the syllables in most of his words. “Thanks.” Evan took back his hand and reached for his beer. “Nice to get feedback.”
“I follow you on Twitter too. Love the shots you post.” The man’s gaze ran down Evan’s body, lingering at his crotch before returning to his face. “You got an amazing body. Not all overpumped like some guys.”
Evan sipped his beer, swallowed. “I may be dancing at Rooster’s next month,” he said. “You should come by and say hi.”
Unlike some people, this man got the hint—not to be rude, but I’m on my own time now—and nodded. “Will do. You have a great night, now.”
“Thanks, you too. Nice to meet you.”
Evan turned back to meet Tony’s amused gaze, lifting his beer and an eyebrow in tandem. “What?” he asked just as glass met flesh.
Tony shook his head and set the glass he’d been wiping under the edge of the bar. “Just funny to see you turn it on and off like that. Flip a switch and it’s like a whole ’nother person.”
Evan shrugged. “Kind of is,” he agreed.
And kind of not, his mind supplied. Porn had been his life and livelihood long enough that the edges blurred even for him. The only thing he knew for sure was that he liked sex. Whether he truly liked the kind he had on set was a different question, but usually, yeah, it was good. And when it wasn’t, well, he just faked it. It might not be Hollywood caliber, but acting was still part of the job.
And a job it was. Not that he’d had many options after he got kicked out of the Corps.
Evan shook off the thought. Not one he liked to dwell on.
A high-pitched half shriek was Evan’s only warning before something—someone—tumbled halfway into his lap. Evan only just kept himself from leaping up, which from the look of things, once he could focus, would’ve resulted in his unexpected visitor landing in a pile on the floor. As it was, the smaller man was in danger of slipping off Evan and going down hard, and not in the fun way.
Evan set his beer on the counter and wrapped his free hand around the arm of the guy who’d fallen quite literally into his lap. He stared down at the riot of loose, blond-tipped curls against his chest. The kid’s hands were scrabbling then, trying to get some kind of grip so he could get back on his feet, or so Evan supposed, though he didn’t seem to be making much progress in that direction.
Finally something caught, the kid got his feet back under him, and he stood up. Evan kept his hands up protectively on instinct, just in case, but the kid just shook his head, hair a blur of motion, and then looked at Evan straight on, as if he’d meant to do that all along.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” the kid said, and Evan thought he couldn’t have been more than nineteen. Never mind that they were in a bar; it wasn’t like a fake ID was hard to get. “I don’t know what happened there. I was just coming over to get another club soda and, bam, there went my feet, right out from under me.” He smiled, teeth bright white against his lightly tanned skin and full, deep pink lips, and held out a hand. “Where are my manners? I’m Riley Yeats.”
Without conscious thought, Evan found himself sliding his fingers around Riley’s, feeling long, fragile bones beneath soft skin. “Evan,” he said. “Evan Day.”
In his peripheral vision, he caught the widening of Tony’s eyes. He never gave out his real name to strangers. He had no idea why he’d done it now, but it wasn’t like he could take it back.
“Well, Evan Day, I’m very glad to meet you.” Riley gave Evan’s hand a quick squeeze and then climbed onto the next barstool—climbed quite literally, since the dang things were difficult for Evan to handle, and he was nearly six feet tall. Riley couldn’t be more than five-foot-six in his bare feet. Or in flip-flops, Evan thought as he glanced down at Riley’s feet, now hooked on the rail that ran around the chair a foot off the ground. Metallic gold flip-flops? Evan didn’t even know they sold such things. And was that glittery pink nail polish on his toes?
“So let me buy you another of whatever it is you’re drinking there, Evan,” Riley was saying when Evan tore his gaze away from Riley’s tiny, shiny feet. “It’s the least I can do after throwing myself at you.” Riley smiled at Tony. “I’ll have a club soda with two lemon and two lime slices, please, and whatever the gentleman wants.”
Tony nodded toward the beer, a question on his face, but Evan decided he was about done for the night. “I’ll have the same as him.”
Riley gave him a long, appraising look. “Don’t think you have to not drink on my account, honey. Just because I don’t doesn’t mean I mind if others do.”
Evan blinked. “No, I—I didn’t know you don’t drink. I’m just done drinking for tonight.”
Riley studied him for a few more moments before turning back to the bartender. “Okay, then, make it two club sodas, please.”
Tony nodded and started on the drinks, and Evan pulled out another cigarette, figuring he’d get one more smoke in with the soda. Riley shook his head.
“Those are bad for you, you know.”
It was all Evan could do not to crack up. Shit, on the list of bad-for-you things he’d done, cigarettes barely broke the top ten.
“Yeah, I know,” he said. “Don’t do it a lot. Probably should quit.” Probably won’t.
He lit up and took a good, deep drag, aware of Riley’s gaze still on him. He blew out the mouthful of smoke—considerately away from his unexpected companion—and knocked the ash into the glass dish that already contained his previous butts. “So if you don’t drink,” he asked, “why are you hanging out in a bar?” He lifted the cigarette back to his mouth, held between two fingers, and raised an eyebrow in question.
Riley shot him a grin. “Believe it or not, I like the music.”
Evan’s other eyebrow shot up to match the first. The country-gone-dance (or was it dance-gone-country?) fusions the bar preferred were an acquired taste, to put it mildly. The current soundtrack to their conversation was some kind of club version of Shania Twain’s “Man, I Feel Like A Woman,” and before that had been a mash-up of a classic twangy hit he didn’t know the title of combined with Lady Gaga’s “Born This Way.”
“Yeah, I know.” Riley headed off his comments. “It’s not all I like, not by any means. But it’s certainly unique, wouldn’t you agree?”
Their club sodas arrived just then, and Riley smiled at Tony before lifting his glass from its napkin coaster and toward Evan. “To being unique?”
Evan couldn’t help the smile. “I’ll drink to that,” he said, and they did.
The song changed as Evan swallowed, this time into something both straightforward and easily recognizable, at least to anyone with any knowledge of modern country music: Garth Brooks’ “Friends in Low Places.” Every bar or group Evan had ever been in when this song played had turned it into a sing-along, and tonight was no exception. Voices of varying quality rose around them, including a not-bad baritone from Tony, but Evan and Riley sat it out in silent agreement. Evan smoked between sips of his lemon-lime flavored soda. Riley just sipped his drink, one leg bouncing incessantly, though not in time with the music in any discernible way.
What with all the singing, the noise level had risen much too high for conversation, so they didn’t talk. Their eyes met occasionally in the mirror behind the bar, but unless Evan’s instincts were deserting him—not entirely out of the question—the interest in Riley’s never strayed past the friendly. It felt… well, it felt strange, actually. Not only had Riley shown no sign of recognizing him by his profession, he’d shown no sign of coming on to him, either. Those two things nearly always went hand in hand, and that was a big part of the problem. Trevor could bed any guy he wanted anytime he wanted, but Evan? Evan rarely even got the chance to be himself, much less try to figure out if another guy was after him, or looking for the guy they thought they knew from his films.
By the time the song ended, Evan had finished his cigarette and his drink, and his eyelids were starting to sag. He didn’t often go out after shoots, which took a lot out of him, but he’d needed the unwind time today. He turned toward Riley and smiled.
“Think I’m ready to head out,” he said. “Thanks for the drink.”
Riley tipped back his glass to drain the last of the liquid and then set it neatly back on the napkin. “I think I’ll walk out with you, if you don’t mind.” He slid down from the high stool and extracted a bill from the front pocket of his skinny jeans to toss on the bar. “Thanks, Tony.” He gave the man a bright smile and turned back to face Evan. “Shall we?”
It appeared they would.