by: Will B.

© 2008 by the Author

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...


It is with great pleasure that I dedicate this story to my friend DD, who suggested the title, but challenged me to develop the plot and characters.


Thank you DD. May all your dives be deep and all your diving partners delightful.


Part 1, 2


I. The setting.


Hunks4Hunks was a motion picture studio built on the site of an abandoned copper mine in the Arizona desert. Beneath the studio were miles and miles of abandoned tunnels. No one had ever fully explored all of them.


The studio was actually a small city. It had living quarters for the staff, and luckily a swift flowing river nearby. This water provided water for drinking, cooking, and washing, and it also provided power for the generators that provided light and energy for the photographic equipment and the air conditioning. The heat during the day could be unbearable.


This excessive heat might be the reason that when any of the staff had to venture out of doors, they wore very little clothes and even less when they were inside.


Few visitors came from the closest towns, which were some thirty miles away. Most local residents didn’t want to venture too close to the compound, which was surrounded by barbed wire and guarded at night by vicious dogs.


Twice a week, vans drove to town to bring back food and other supplies. The studio people were happy not to have inquisitive townies snooping around.


You see, Hunks4Hunks Studios made DVDs of a very special nature. All of the stories depicted the activities of naked men, young men (none under 18, of course), men in their 20s, and even some men in their 30s. Almost to a man they were well built, and extremely well endowed in the sexual equipment department.


The DVDs were sent all over the world, to be enjoyed by likeminded men. It is no surprise to know that the studio had a profitable side income from the interest on the stock they owned in tissue paper. No, do not think for a minute that the stories were so sad those watching were moved to tears. The tissue paper was used for other purposes.


Perhaps some 50 sexy studs, schlongs swinging stiffly in the breeze, beautiful butts shifting and bouncing to and fro, lived, worked, played, and enjoyed all kinds of activities on and off camera.


II. The meeting.


Our story opens in the offices of the Board of Directors, Dewey, Fuchem, and Howe.  These men were in their 50s, but they were not your typical middle aged, balding, tubby, business men. These were men who were hardheaded, hard muscled, and on occasion, hard as steel in the regions of their manly equipment.


The office was furnished with various desks and office chairs, six other chairs, a table, a fourth desk on which sat a computer, printer, and a fax machine. The walls were decorated with pictures of various porn stars in various stages of undress and in various provocative, pleasing, prick teasing poses.


Pride of place was given to a large picture draped in black of a nude, well-endowed male, fingering his man-meat and smiling at the audience. It was captioned ‘Erik, R.I.P.’


Richard D. Dewey was speaking, “So, guys, are we agreed that we will make this DVD of the Carnival of Prince Priapus? The script has been around the office for quite some time, and I just found copies in an old filing cabinet”


Paul Plunkett Fuchem agreed, “ I think it’s a great idea once we get the title role cast.”


Horace Howe sat up as if he had just wakened from a nap (or a day dream, or a  . . ., ) Uh, oh! They had to pass him the tissues again. “Guys, I’m so sorry! I was lost in the midst of a delightful fantasy. Just remind me of the outlines of the plot.”


“The scene involves the arrival of Prince Priapus at the Carnival,” Dewey explained. “He makes his entrance and does a seductive dance. At the end of his dance he exposes his gorgeous body to the revelers and then goes to join the orgy.”


Howe was definitely interested now. “What music does he dance to—or to what music does he dance?” he asked.


“You’re such a grammarian, Howe!” Fuchem snapped at his business partner.


“I am not! I was raised Presbyterian! Grammarian indeed!”


“Now, guys,” Dewey interjected. “Be nice. Be nice and after this meeting I’ll show you the latest album of hotties to be posted on the Penisworship website, and believe me, they are hot!”


“I’ve got it, said Fuchem,” snapping his fingers. “He can do his entrance dance to . . ..” He drew the other two closer and whispered in their ears.


“Mahvelous!” said Dewey.


“Just too too divine,” added Howe. “Now what about the set?”


“I’ve got that taken care of,” said Dewey. “A writer for tickiestories, who knows a lot about Egyptian and exotic architecture, sent me a sketch of what we can use. He’s a smart cookie, and I think he’s got nice buns, too. He goes by the initials G.Y.”


Dewey pulled out a detailed sketch of what he set might look like. Fuchem and Howe were ecstatic about it.


“Hmmmm. We’ve got an outline of plot, and we have the set, now all we have to do is add some ‘stage business,’ and pick the star,” Howe said.


“Hrumph! Well! Naturally I thought my playmate ‘Rick with the Prick’ would be the star,” Dewey expostulated.


III. The Argument.


“No, no!” sputtered Howe. “My pretty boi, Peter Eater, is a natural for the star part.”


“You’re both wrong,” thundered Fuchem. “The only one to play the part is my protégé, Blow Me Down-Bob. I tell you, gentlemen, my mouth just waters when I think of his . . .  and his  . . .  Oh shit! Pass me your tissues, HowIe, old man.”


The air was filled with shouted arguments of “Rick!” “Bubble Butt!” “DickHEAD!” “I’ll old man you!” Shut your mouth!” “Fuck you! “Kiss my ass!”  Suck my . . .!”


Did I say these were hard headed, hard muscled businessmen. They sounded more like spoiled kiddies on the playground.


Suddenly the FAX Machine on the desk began to whistle and clank, and print out a message. Howe went over to the machine, picked up the printout, and read it to the others, “STOP YOUR SQUABBLING, YOU ASSHOLES. YOU’D BETTER PICK CHRIS DAE FOR THE PART OR THERE WILL BE TROUBLE!”


“Who sent that?” “Somebody threatening us? US?” “Who’s Chris Dae.”


“I don’t know who he is, gentlemen,” Dewey said, “but no FAX Machine, haunted or otherwise, is going to dictate to me! And that’s damn straight!”


“Oh, Dewey, not THAT word, please!” said Fuchem. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll let all three of our candidates try out and after we see the tests we’ll decide.”


“Smashing, old boy,” said Howe. “Top hole!” agreed Dewey.


The three men shook hands, and walked out of the office, slapping each other on the backs, the butts, and in Howe’s case, trying to grope the only semi-covered organs of his partners.


The office was quiet, when suddenly the FAX Machine came to life again and printed out another message, “YOU’LL BE SORRY!”


But there was no one there to read the message, which two minutes later self-destructed.


IV. The tryouts.


The stage set had been built, the actors in the chorus had practiced their parts. The mechanical parts of the set were in excellent working order. The day of the tryouts had arrived.


The three partners had drawn cards to determine whose favorite would go first.


‘Rick with the Prick,’ Dewey’s protégé, was to try out first. He was a 20 year old, six-foot with the body of a weightlifter. Although his shoulder, pec, ab, and thigh muscles were all well developed, he had avoided the use of steroids, and thus his essential equipment was enormous, and enticing. His bush was neatly trimmed, and his body was oiled so that he would have looked like a caricature of a dumb jock, but his blue eyes, red hair, and infectious grin gave him a boyish (not too young) look that made it clear why Dewey couldn’t keep his hands off the delectable young man.


For the tryout he was wearing a wisp of cloth that went round his waist and almost, but not quite, covered his manly meat and pulsating potatoes.


He was in his dressing cubicle when there was a knock on the door. Opening it, he found a messenger boy saying, “Special delivery for Rick.”


Rick opened the package and found a polish hotdog with all the trimmings. A card read, ‘For my delightful Rick. As you eat this, picture our polish sausages pounding each other’s buns. Mmmmm. (Signed) Dewey.


Rick wolfed the Warsaw Weiner down and then strode cockily out to the sound stage. Dewey was in the corridor and said, “Let me have a quick lick and a promise, just to bring you good luck.”


Dewey knelt down and ran his tongue around Rick’s purple helmet, and licked it, and kissed it, but nothing happened. “What’s wrong, my boi, don’t my lips liven up your libido? Don’t my hands on your glans thrill you any more?”


 “I don’t know, Dewey. I was feeling hot and horny a few minutes ago, and ready to plow any number of buns. Then I ate that delicious hot dog you sent me . . .”


“I didn’t send you any hot dog, Rick.”


Both men looked at each other with a look of horror on their faces. Almost in unison they said, “Salt peter!” Rick snorted, “Someone filled that damn sausage with so much potassium nitrate that I won’t be able to get it up for a couple of days!”




At that point, Howe came up, hypocritically oozing false sympathy, and said, “Well, that’s just too bad about Rick. I guess it’s ‘Peter Eater’s’ turn to try out and show us what he can do.”


‘Peter Eater,’ Howe’s boi, was 19 years old, six-foot-two, and slender as a rail, but his arms and legs showed that he had a wiry strength and gave the drooling observer that there was plenty of strength in his tumescent tool. He had black hair and green eyes, and he had shaved ALL his hair below his chin. Arm pits, butt cheeks, legs, and even his bush had been shaved smooth as a two-year-old tot’s tuckus.


Peter was in his dressing cubicle, waiting to be called. For this screen test, he was wearing a white loin cloth with a slit edged in red in front that allowed his prick to protrude through.


He got up to answer a knock at the door, and beheld a handsome young man of about 20 years wearing a Hunks4Hunks maintenance department cap, and nothing else except for a jock strap with clear plastic inserts. He was holding a potted plant.


“Delivery for you, Mr. Eater,” the man said and gave Peter the plant, and a come-hither look that promised a good time if Peter wanted to follow up on it.


Peter thanked the delivery man, gave him a $5.00 tip, a shit-eating grin, and groped the man’s package, causing some rapid growth ‘south of the Equator.’ He shut the door, and put his nose close to the plant, took a deep sniff at the aromatic flowers—and he began to sneeze. His eyes began to water, his nose and throat were swollen, and he got red blotches all over his body.


“Oh, no, I must have beed allergic to ode od the plants—yes! There it is, goldedrod! Ode whiff and I have this reactiod. I’ll have to call Howie ad tell hib I can’t make de tryout! Dab and blast!”


Just then the phone rang. Peter picked it up and heard a mysterious voice say, “TOO BAD, PETER THE EATER. YOU’VE BEEN DELETED. JUST STAY OUT OF THE WAY OF CHRIS DAE!” The phone went dead.


‘Blow Me Dow Bob,’ Fuchem’s cunt-slave, was also 19, five-foot-eleven, with brown hair and blue eyes. He had a well defined muscle structure, but when he turned his back to the audience his muscular butt cheeks had been toned, tanned, and trained so that they could clench and unclench, and if he bent over, one could see his lovely, luscious, lip-smacking pucker, winking and blinking as if to say, ‘Here I am guys. Come and get me.’


Bob was wearing a tee shirt that covered his shoulders, pecs and nipples, but stopped just above his navel.


In his room, he was at his computer checking his e mail, when a new one came in. “Bob, This is Fuchem. Get your body over to the sound stage. Rick and Peter won’t be able to do the screen test, so it’s your turn. Hurry, boi!”


Bob grabbed a towel to out around his waist (What a waste!), dashed out the door, and tripped over a rope that someone had rigged at the top of two steps that led from the door down to the sidewalk.


“Ow! Ooh! Ouch! I feel like I’ve broken my ankle. I’m not gonna make that screen test, and I was soooo looking forward to the orgy scene,” Bob moaned.


Back in Bob’s room, another e mail clicked its way onto the computer screen. It read, “I WARNED ALL OF YOU. YOU DIDN’T LISTEN. TOO BAD!”


V. Enter the Hero.


Chris Dae, was 18 years old, six-foot-five, curly brown haired and brown eyed, slender of build, but with light body hair on his chest with large brown nipples, and an exciting hairy trail leading from his navel to a bush of earthly delights (The phrase ‘garden of earthly delights’ has already been used!). His genitals were beautiful to behold with a thick seven-inch cock (when flaccid) and low hanging baby-makers, covered with soft brown hair. His butt cheeks were firm and covered with fine brown hair. His muscular legs had fine dark hairs.


Chris was a waiter at the Studio Dining Room, and he lived with his boy friend, no, his lover, his companion, Igor. Igor? That’s right, Igor. Not the Igor of the horror films, swarthy, cross-eyed, hunch backed, and not too swift of brain, but another 18 year old, six-foot-three, hunk with dirty blond hair, good muscle tone, a lovely set of cock and balls, and an endearing smile.


Two days before the events of the disastrous tryouts, Chris and Igor had been sitting on the couch, each toying with the other’s tool and kissing, and nuzzling each other’s ear.


Digits dexterously diddled dicks, fingers flexed away flaccidness, hands caressed purple headed glans. Igor’s hand began moving faster and faster, and Chris felt his toes curl and his testicles tighten up. Faster and faster flew Igor’s hand and then . . .  Aaarrrgghh! Oooogggghh! Uuuurgggh! Uuummmmmm! Aaaaahhhhh! Five glorious spurts of creamy man milk coated Chris’ upper body.


Igor giggled in Chris’ ear. “You’re the cream in my coffee, my captivating Chris.” He lapped up the cream and then, like a true lover, shared it with his companion by opening his mouth and letting the sweet nectar ooze into Chris’ open mouth.


Chris was about to return the favor for Igor, when the doorbell rang, the chime ringing out the opening bars of the tune ‘Y. M. C. A.’


“Oh, Damn,” said Igor, “Jackingoffitis Interruptus. Now I’ll have to wait until whoever’s at the door is gone!


Chris walked to the door holding a towel in front of him. He opened the door to find a delivery boy standing there holding a large manila envelope. “Package for Chris Dae,” he said.


“Thanks,” said Chris as he took the package and started to shut the door.


“Oh, Mr. Dae,” said the delivery boy, “you might want to think about closing your living room curtains—but I enjoyed the show!”


“Thanks for the tip,” Chris said. He went back to the waiting Igor, and administered mouth to organ resuscitation. The operation was a success as both the giver and receiver revived.


Later that afternoon, Chris and Igor were sitting around the kitchen table each one drinking a cup of coffee. “Boy it sure was nice of Harley and Gregg to send us this special coffee from Ithaca!” said Chris.


“Ummm. It sure was,” said Igor. “I sure miss those two guys. Haven’t seen them around lately.”


That evening Chris was reading the script for the DVD Prince Priapus and the Carnival. “Ya know, Igor, I have no great desire to be a porn star, but I sure would like to have a part in this one. Look at this part . . . and this one.”


Igor looked, and read, and gasped, and said, “My sweet, I think this is gonna be a great DVD. I wouldn’t mind having a part in it either. Maybe you and I could be in this scene . . . or this one.”


The two guys read the script through and through over the next two days. Their jobs in the dining hall meant they could hear all the buzz about the disastrous tryouts.




Igor had heard the voice also, and he and Chris high-fived each other and went to bed, but they were too excited to do much sleeping.


Part 2


VI. Chris tries out.


Morning finally arrived and Chris and Igor, dressed in white tee shorts, blue Bermuda shorts, and flip-flops arrived at the door of the Sound Stage. They met the three Directors, Dewey, Fuchem, and Howe, standing outside and arguing.


Chris went up to them and said, “Excuse me, gentlemen, I’m Chris Dae, and I was told to report here at 9:00 this morning.”


“So you’re Chris Dae,” snorted Dewey. “So you think you can dance and act, do you?”


“Well, sir, I’d like to try.”


“And who the hell told you to show your ug . . . . er… ummm.  your very attractive face and  .  .  your hot body here, anyhow?” Fuchem demanded. (He was looking harder and harder at Chris and thinking maybe this cute stud had something after all).


“My partner, Igor, and I got a phone call telling us to report here at 9:00, it was someone who called himself Erik.”


“Impossible!” Howe exclaimed. “Erik’s been dead for seven years.”


“Who is this Erik, anyhow?” Igor asked.


“Seven years ago he was the star of this studio,” Fuchem stated, beginning to choke up. “He was gorgeous and talented. He could sing, act, dance, and he had the biggest . . .,” Fuchem couldn’t go on, he was so overcome with emption.


“He also was a whiz at engineering and used his technical knowledge to design this studio and he was just great at creating special effects,” Dewey added.


Howe came up and out his arm around Igor’s shoulder. “You see, young man,” Erik was planning a video based on a story he had read on tickiestories. It was Will B’s ‘The No-Count Count. He was playing a blood sucking vampire who also liked to . . . well, I think you get the picture.”


Howe casually moved his arm and hand lower down Igor’s back. Igor gave him a look that said “Watch it, buster.”


Dewey continued, “Some of the scenes were to take place in the caverns that undermine this place. Erik had gone ahead of the rest of the crew. He wanted to check out a particular cavern, and suddenly there was a cave-in and an explosion. He must have been buried under tons of rock, and we never found his body.”


“Then who called me on my cell phone last night?” Chris asked. “Does this mean Igor and I can’t try out?”


The three Directors put their heads together. All Chris and Igor could hear was mumbling and whispering. Finally, the three tuned to the two young hopefuls.


“This project has been plagued with one disaster after another,” Dewey said. “Whoever this Erik is who called you, he certainly seems to be calling the shots. We’re going to let you, Chris, try out for the part of Priapus, and you, Igor, will be the Prince Charming who captures Priapus’ heart.”


“And, heh heh,” said Howe, “if either of you two dear delightful dicklicious boys need any extra coaching, I for one will be glad to give you whatever you want on my casting couch. Heh heh heh!”


Chris and Igor looked at him, but hid their true feelings, but murmured, “Too kind,” and “Thank you sooo much.”


So, the three Directors led the two aspiring athletic appealing attractive Apollos into the Sound Stage. The studio carpenters had followed GY’s instructions, and the set was beautiful.

At the top of a platform two massive columns flanked a tall door. The columns were thick and strong as if they were designed to carry a great load.  They were carved like palm trees, with various vines curling around them. The capitals were carved to look like palm branches opening out from the column.


The gate was painted to look like a giant phallus. It was light brown in color, but at the top  there was a purple peak, and from the very tip of the peak the artists had painted drops of a pearl colored liquid oozing down from the top. The main part of the phallus had a dark brown vein painted in curves running from the floor to the purple peak.


On the sides, where one might expect to see hinges, some inventive genius had painted the first digits and finger nails of four fingers on each side as if a hand were holding the phallus from the rear.


On each side of the door stood a man holding a spear, in the pose of an Egyptian soldier—not an officer wearing a linen kilt, and the striped triangular headdress one associates with Egyptian soldiers, but ordinary foot soldiers. Except for their eyebrows, their bodies were completely shaven and they wore a simple linen belt around their waist with a rectangular panel hiding their genitals.


A spiral ramp made four ever-increasing circles from the platform to the stage floor.  Around the sides and back of the stage were eight large columns that ended in purple helmets that even now were emitting a light vapor that smelled of testosterone.


Chris and Igor were ‘in awe’ (as one of their favorite writers on tickie might say) of the set.


In the orchestra pit in front of the stage, Phil Spunkeatem and his ‘All Gay Orchestra’ were tuning up. The orchestra consisted of a timpani, a snare drum, two flutes, three violins, and a percussionist who could play a triangle, cymbals, the blocks, or create any other special sound needed.


“Chris, you will wait behind the door until it’s time for you to make your entrance, but first we must build up to the climax!” Dewey said.


Quoting one of his favorite authors, Dewey shouted, “All right, guys. Get your butts in gear. You can have your protein supplement later. Now, move it!”


Chris took his place and the run-through began.


From behind the columns, 15 handsome, barely clad lads (they were wearing loin cloths made of saran wrap, and came out in chorus line fashion, stepping and kicking in unison. In each hand they held a tall feather. Around and around each circle of the ramp they sashayed.


An off-stage chorus sang “A pretty boi is like a melody.” Purple petals of pansies drifted down onto the stage.


At certain points in their descent, they stopped, turned their backs to the cameras, and wiggled their butts. And at certain other points in their performance, they used their feather-wands to tickle the prominent packages of the partners to their left and the other wand to tickle the tuckuses of the partners to their right.


When they reached the level floor of the stage, the hunks formed a straight line across the stage, and slowly slipped out of their loin cloths, and again in rhythm, began to pleasure themselves while the columns began to emit heavier plumes of testosterone-scented vapor.


At a given point the line of dancers split into two sections, and each section exited to stage left or stage right. As they disappeared off stage, they emitted groans, moans, and shrieks as if they had just had one of the biggest orgasms of their lives.


In the second segment, a line of 15 twenty-year old dancers appeared from behind the columns. Each dancer had oiled his body and wore only the briefest of speedos, and a variety of caps—policeman’s caps, firemen’s helmets, doctors’ surgical caps, or the hard hats of construction workers.


The chorus sang the song ‘Y. M. C. A.” and the dancers slowly descended the ramp. They did almost the same steps as the first group, but this time they were closer together, and at certain points in the routine, each reached to the partner to his left and caressed the bulge in the Speedos; then each reached behind the partner to his right and squeezed the ass cheeks.


When the chorus line reached the stage they formed couples and began groping each other’s goodies in earnest. Since there were 15 dancers, one was obviously left out. He did a ‘John (“I’m Free!”) Inman’ routine and ran around the stage, trying to cut in on one couple after another, all to no avail. He had to grope and feel his frontal façade with his right hand, and squeeze and fondle his rear elevation with his left hand.


The couples and the solo dancer moved off stage, and again their moans, cries, and shouts of ejaculatory excitement were heard.


The orchestra began the “Song of the Volga Boatmen” and the last line of 16 twenty-five dancers appeared from behind the columns, one at a time, wearing absolutely nothing, my dears, but football helmets and shoulder pads. Their hairy bodies and muscular bodies were the perfect complement to their long thick cocks, which swung to and fro in time to the steady plodding beat of the music. Oooohhh! Just too exciting for words!


Marching, plodding, stamping. They made their way around the spirals and every quarter turn they would form couples, each man in front of his partner. The man in front would bend over and the guy in the rear would make pelvic thrusts, simulating (I guess they were just simulating, darn it!) rear entry.


When they reached the stage, they formed couples again, and the front man got down on his hands and knees, facing stage left or stage right. The music died away and the timpanist began a slow steady beat. The other man in the couple knelt behind his partner and coated his ass-crease with saliva and then began to point his weapon of ass destruction toward its target.  The drumbeat increased in tempo. Closer and closer the engorged cocks, with purple helmets already leaking pearl drops of precum came to the pink, quivering puckers of their partners. Faster and faster came the drumbeats and closer and closer came the rampant spears of spunk laden penises.


The atmosphere was so intense with lust that the guys holding the camcorders could hardly keep their arms steady.


Finally the marauding machines of man-meat made their way to their targets. Moans of pleasure, cries of “Fuck me. Fuck me harder. Sink your shaft as deep as it’ll go,” were heard from all over the stage.


As multi-orgasms were reached, all within five or ten second of each other, the phallic  columns emitted fireworks.


The supine sippers and swallowers of cum-champagne were helped up by their partners, and arms around each other’s others waists they walked off the stage.


All was quiet—on the stage and in the audience.


Now was Chris’ big moment. The lights were cut and a single spotlight focused on the door between the columns. The two Egyptian soldiers turned and went to the door and pulled each side slowly open. They door was made so that the division of the panels was not a straight vertical line, but rather followed the line of the dark brown vein.


The violins and flutes began the seductive melody of “Salome’s Dance of the Seven Veils” by Richard Strauss.


The two sides of the door curved back and Chris was revealed wearing a number of wispy veils that covered his body from the shoulders to his knees. He slowly raised his arms, and moved sensuously out of the door to the spiral ramp. He began to move around the ramp, the music gradually increased its tempo.


On each side of the ramp at the “three o’clock” and “nine o’clock” positions, dancers, clad in flesh covered body stockings, with black thread indicating the treasures of the crotch, stood perfectly still. As Chris moved past each one the dancer raised his arm and plucked away one of the veils.


Six times a veil was plucked, and gradually more and more of Chris’ tall, lean body was revealed. Faster and faster the music played, and faster and faster Chris moved. By the time he reached the stage floor he had only one wisp of gauze left. When that was removed his entire sexy, naked, lust-inducing body would be revealed.


The script called for Prince Charming (Igor)  to come in from stage left, embrace Priapus, and then slowly remove the remaining veil and the two would do a torso to torso, crotch to crotch, cock to cock tango.


But, something unforeseen happened. The Phallic columns around the sides and back of the stage began emitting a strange odor. First the dancers began to feel sleepy; Chris and Igor felt their eye-lids grow heavy. The musicians in the pit out their instruments down and closed their eyes. The watchers in the audience fell asleep. Everyone on the Soundstage was asleep.


Everyone but a masked and cloaked figure who came in from stage right, picked up Chris as if he were a feather, and carried him off stage, dropping a note by the sleeping Igor.


VII. Discoveries.


Chris regained consciousness slowly. As his eyes flickered open he saw he was in some kind of cavern. A soft light came from somewhere. As he became more awake, he saw that the light came from a single candle, whose flame was reflected by thousands of particles of copper pyrites (fool’s gold) embedded in the walls.


As he became more awake he realized it was still hard for him to move his arms and legs. No-o-o. He wasn’t tied down. His limbs just felt so heavy. A voice behind him said, “Don’t try to sit up too soon, Chris. You still may be dizzy.


Chris dozed off again, but when he woke up this time, he was aware of a figure sitting on the side of his head, The figure was moistening his lips with a wet sponge and allowing the cold water to trickle into his mouth. Chris was thinking he had never tasted such cold, clear water, when his eyes opened and he snapped fully awake. The figure sitting on the side of his bed ha d a mask covering his entire head, with slits for eyes and mouth.


“Where am I? Who are you?” Chris asked.


The figure gave a soft chuckle. “Where are you? Why you are in my home, deep in the caverns below the studio, and as to who I am: why, I’m Erik, of course!”


“But . . .  but, you’re dead! . . . Aren’t you?”


“No, Chris. As you see, I’m not dead—just dead to the world above. I survived the explosion and the cave-in, and when I came to, I realized I could not go back to the studio. I made my home down here, and I rigged a power line from the generators in the basement of the studio to bring me power. I have almost everything I need right here.”


“But why can’t you go back? Everyone would be delighted to know that you survived, and you could take your place as leading actor once more,” Chris wanted to know.


“No, my friend, my days of starring in Hunks4Hunks films and DVDs are over. I can’t go back. I just can’t.”


Could Chris be imagining it, or did he see a tear or two sliding down under the edge of the hood, onto Erik’s neck?


“But you still care about that life. You got me to try out for the part of Priapus, and then you brought me down here. Why?”


“Oh, Chris, of course I still care about that life. You may not know it, but that script was originally written for me. I was to star in that video about Priapus and the Carnival. You see, I have gone ‘upstairs’ from time to time. I’ve been well disguised, but I’ve observed many men as they went about their lives. I’ve seen you and your friend working in the dining room, and I’ve seen how you love each other. . . <pause> . . . I brought you down here because I thought for once I would take the part of Priapus, and you could be the Charming Prince, and we could dance together, and perhaps even . . . .”


“Erik, considering that we both work or have worked for a porn studio, what I’m about to say may not make sense, but . . . I don’t really want to act in porn movies unless I can act with Igor. For me, it’s not the sex, it’s . . it’s the love that Igor and I have for each other!  One of my favorite authors on tickie writes stories that at first seem to be filled with domination and sadism, with tens machines and cages and penis traps, but sooner or later the captor and the captive develop deep feelings of love for each other.”


After a pause, Chris went on, “I guess what I’m trying to say is, it’s not the sexual gymnastics that are erotic—it’s the feelings of love and commitment that bring about the caressing and stroking, and kissing, and tweaking and pinching and fucking.  Now, I guess you think I’m  little crazy!”


“No, Chris. I don’t think you’re crazy. I think you’ve found the secret to a happy life.”


“Oh, Erik, why don’t you come ‘upstairs’ with me. Maybe you’ll find a man to love!”


Erik stood in front of Chris and snarled, “And do you think any man would want to make love to me when I  . . . LOOK LIKE THIS?”


Erik took off his hood, and Chris saw a face that was horribly scarred and burned--but Chris did not turn away in horror, or exclaim in disgust.


Instead, he drew nearer to Erik, and put his hands on Erik’s shoulders and said, “Erik, I don’t love you, but I think that inside you’re a beautiful person. If you come back to the studio, in time you may find the right man. No, you will find the right man.”


With that, Chris kissed Erik on each cheek, and then he kissed him on the lips.


Erik was dumbstruck for a minute and then his eyes began to tear up.


“Thank you, Chris. Maybe I will try to make a come-back. I can act, dance, and fuck with a hood on and nothing else. The hood will add an air of mystery and even if I don’t find the right man right away, I have a friend--a friend who has given me hope, and maybe given me my life back.”


Taking Chris’ hand, Erik led him back up the stairs to light and life, and who knows what excitement.


VIII. The Carnival.


Chris’ return with the long-missing Erik created an explosion of joy. The actors crowded around Erik and hugged him. The Directors had an emergency meeting, and after talking with Chris, Igor, and Erik, decided on a new ending to the story.


The day came for shooting the last scene. Chris did the ‘Dance of the Seven Veils,” and when he stood on the stage with only the last veil covering his body, Igor danced in from stage left took Chris in his arms, and removed the veil, revealing Chris in all his glory.


Igor and Chris dance a torso-to-torso, prick-to-prick tango to the tune of “Whatever Lola Wants.”


When the dance ended, they stood facing each other, holding each other’s right hands, and they began to lean back. Peter and Dick, recovered from their rashes and allergies, appeared on stage and supported Chris and Igor’s shoulders while they gradually lowered themselves to the floor. A camera shot from above showed that Chris’s right leg was under Igor’s left leg, and Igor’s right leg was under Chris’s left one. Raising themselves on their hands they positioned their bodies so that they were laying balls to balls and their handsome penises were straight up, back to back.


Then Erik came in, spinning and leaping to the strains of  “The Saber Dance.” As the music reached its crescendo, he bent over and kissed Igor and Chris on the lips, and then he slowly . . .  slowly . . . . sensuously . . . with moans . . (“ooooohhhhhnnnn”). . and  . . . cries of joy  (“Aaaarrrgggghhh, Ooooooooooghhhh!”). . . . lowered himself so that he had two cocks up his love canal.


The three men moved in motion so that Chris and Igor’s organs caressed Erik’s innermost parts. Erik’s pucker tightened around the two throbbing organs. Chris and Igor each felt one side of their cock rubbing Erik’s rim, and the other side rubbing the underside of their lover’s penis.


Erik began to move faster an faster. Faster and faster! FASTER AND STILL FASTER!


Finally, with shouts of love and lust, all Chris and Igor shot loads of their creamy nectar into the waiting orifice, and Erik shot hot manly ambrosia all over Chris’s face and neck, and chest.


Panting with delight and exhaustion the three men stood, faced the cameras, and the audience, and bowed, then hugged and kissed each other. Peter and Dick came on stage and hugged the three principal characters., and then hugged each other.




The DVD was a success. Three webmasters, Chuck, Jamie, and The Monk (great guys all of them) were hankering after the rights to post the story on their web sites.


Chris and Igor were elected to the Board of Directors. They did not perform in anymore videos, but they looked out for stories that had the right mixture of love and wild, abandoned sex. They continued to love each other deeply, and even in their late 70s still felt no older than . . . than, well, 69 (wink! Wink!)


Dewey, Fuchem, and Howe took things kind of easy, when they weren’t getting hard at their twice-weekly circle jerks. Each man put $5.00 in the pot. The first one to shoot his cream got $5.00. The one who lasted longest took the $10.00. And the middle-man? He didn’t get any money, but he got to ‘lick the platters clean’ so to speak.


And what of Erik? As the ‘Masked Man of Mystery’ he was the star of many more DVDs. Good plastic surgeons could repair some of the worst scars, but Erik continued to wear his mask, as it increased his sex appeal immensely.


Erik, Dick, Peter, and Bob. Became close friends---very close, if you know what I mean. Every so often the four of them would get together for a four-way. Two friends got to be the ‘invaders of the inner sanctum,’ so to speak, and the fourth got to sample the whipped cream that was produced by the person whose sanctum was being so delightfully, delectable, deliciously, and so deeply invaded.


The End.

Feedback always welcome.    


Posted: 08/15/08