1

Bradley stripped down to his underwear.

The bald man nodded his head.

"Take it all off."

"Is that necessary?"

"It's part of the deal."

Bradley pulled his boxers over his hips and let them fall to the floor. He bent forward and picked them up, and then stood nervously, his boxers bunched up in his hand.

The bald man whistled, his bald head glistening in the lamp-light.

Bradley knew he couldn't help it. He felt the familiar tingling, and in a minute, his cock was hard, pointing up at the ceiling, and at the single globe that was dangling there.

The basement smelt of sour water, of damp, and the floor was cold under his feet. Bradley wanted to put his clothes back on. His sack started to pucker, to tighten, and he felt his balls pressed up under his cock, a hard crumpled package, as firm as a fruit.

"That's one fat weapon you've got there," the black man said. He was sitting on a couch against the wall, grinning, with his hands behind his head. The couch was moldy, the foam bursting out of one end of it like a cloud.

The bald man turned to him. "You reckon he'll do?"

"Can you dance?"

Bradley didn't know. He had danced at clubs. He looked at the bald man, and then from the bald man to the man on the couch. "I'm not ..." He had to start again. It was difficult to find his voice. "I'm not sure," he said.

Silence.

They looked him up and down like he was a piece of art.

"I could try," Bradley said, knowing his voice sounded small in the basement.

The black man laughed. "I'd like to see that," he said, grinning and nodding his head.

Bradley swallowed. In the corner of the basement there was a mirror, a big old mirror that might once have been in a ballroom and was stained with cloudy spots of age. Bradley supposed he looked pretty stupid, his skin white under the glare of the electric light, his cock poking up at the ceiling.

"You are eighteen?"

Bradley nodded.

"Yeeh-hah!" The black man whooped so loudly that Bradley jumped.

"You don't look it," the bald man said.

Bradley squatted down and fumbled in his jeans for his wallet. He found his license and handed it to the guy.

"Bradley Carpenter."

Bradley nodded.

"You some college jock?"

"No."

There was silence.

"No."

"Think you're pretty smart?" the bald man said, handing him back the license.

"I'm not in college. I'm not a jock."

"You sure look like one!" the black man said.

The bald man turned to the black man and Bradley glanced at the mirror again, wishing he could get his cock to go down. It wasn't anything special. Too fat, and not long enough.

"You want to audition?"

Bradley swallowed. He nodded.

The bald man walked across the room, and again Bradley could see the eagle on the back of his head, tattooed in red and blue and brown. The man's head was so smooth it might have been polished, though Bradley didn't really suppose the guy had polished it. His arms were thick, muscular, and matted with dark hairs. He made Bradley feel small and weak, like he was a boy, hairless and impotent.

Bradley knew that wasn't the truth. He was going to blow a load at any minute.

The bald man opened a door, and as he unlocked it, the black man got off the couch. He walked lazily over to Bradley and stood in front of him, looking him up and down.

Bradley lowered his head. He was blushing. And there was a bead of precum on the end of his cock. As he watched, it expanded, rolled off the end of his cock, and strung towards the floor.

The black man put a finger under Bradley's chin and lifted his head up until it was angled towards the black man's face. He wasn't grinning now, but staring fixedly at Bradley's eyes.

"Are those contacts?"

Bradley shook his head a little.

The black man's eyes were dark and deep and black. "They're very blue."

Bradley nodded slightly, or tried to, but the black man had his fingers under Bradley's chin, lifting it. Bradley closed his eyes and swallowed. His cock jerked.

The black man moved his fingers, and traced a thumb gently over Bradley's eyebrows.

"You're like a porcelain doll."

Bradley bit his lips. He knew he couldn't help it. He could smell the man's sweat and deodorant and feel the warmth of the man's fingers on his forehead and he was naked. The black man put his other hand on Bradley's waist.

Bradley's cock jerked.

A long jerk.

And then he ejaculated.

Cum flailed into the air.

The black man was wearing a suit.

"Oh, Be-Jesus," he said, looking down at the mess and stepping back. A long rope of cum trailed from his jacket to his trousers like a squirt from an inexpensive bottle of shampoo.

Bradley's cock jerked again. He looked down at it, saw the head well with cum. He felt hot, as though he couldn't breathe. He closed his eyes and started to cry, his chest jolting with a sudden, wretched sob.

And then the black man's hand was on Bradley's shoulder and he was hugging him, drawing him into a hug, strong, powerful, and redolent with the sweat of man.

Bradley felt his cock, which had begun to fall, stiffen, and he cried all the harder, wretchedly. It wasn't the first time he had lost control of himself. It had happened before. He had been pantsed in school, in his senior year, and it had happened then. And now, every time he thought of it, being naked, he knew he would come. The black man lifted Bradley's shoulders, straightening him up.

"Here. Stand still," he said. "I was going to take a look at your ass."

Bradley looked around nervously, wondering where the bald man had gone. The door he had opened was spilling bright fluorescent light into the basement, but the bald man seemed to have forgotten all about Bradley and his audition.

The black man was behind him, straightening his shoulders, pulling them back. "Woo-hoo," he whistled. "That's a fine piece of ass."

And then the black man's arms were around Bradley from behind, locked together over his stomach, and the black man was dry humping him, thrusting his cock between Bradley's ass cheeks. Bradley struggled. The man's suit was rough and fibrous, scratching his skin. Bradley could feel the damp of his own cum being smeared onto his ass and thighs, and beneath the rough fabric of the suit, the black man's cock was lengthening and growing hard.

"Jackson!"

The black man let go of Bradley and Bradley stumbled. The bald man was standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the bright fluorescent light.

"Bring him in here."

"Come on," the black man said. He wrapped his arm around Bradley's shoulders and led him towards the room.

Bradley wiped the cum off his cock with his boxers and, as they reached the door, he looked back at his clothes, sitting in a crumpled heap on the damp basement floor. Everything he had was in there, his thirty-one dollars, his license, the keys to the apartment. He turned back to them.

The black man held his elbow.

"My clothes," Bradley said, tugging away from him.

"Don't stress sweetie."

He pulled Bradley into the room and Bradley fell, landing on all fours on a thick pile carpet, impossibly white. It was so soft and smooth he wanted to stretch out, lie face down on it and feel the softness of it against his skin.

He could so go to sleep. He had been up till three in the morning, washing dishes at Tony's, and then the bastard had gone and sacked him.

Rent was due on Friday, and they would be kicking him and Justin out if Bradley couldn't pay. Justin had no job, and he wasn't likely to get one. All Justin did was sit around all day, expecting Bradley to pay the rent.

Bradley shook his head, looking at the carpet, wondering at how it was so clean and white when the basement was so dark and filthy. He lifted his head, saw feet, the boots of the bald man, biker boots, he supposed.

"You want to get up," the bald man said, saying it like it was something advisable.

Bradley nodded slowly, but didn't move. He was so tired.

"You'll have Jackson up your ass if you stay there any longer."

Bradley shambled to his feet and saw the black man smiling at him, the groin of his suit tented by his cock, impossibly large, straining to get out of the fabric. Jackson.

"I think he's a gay boy," Jackson said.

Bradley swallowed. He blinked in the bright light and looked around the room. It was enormous, as large again as the other half of the basement. It was a studio of some sort. Against one wall there was a bed, and beside it a window. The bed had a number of toys arranged all over it, large and fluffy, green, red, blue, things like dice and animals and letters - primary colored objects that were too big to belong in a nursery. Beyond the window was a sunlit scene. A fake - a painting. It looked like Italy.

Bradley saw the cameras.

"I'm not doing filming."

"Did we say anything about filming?"

No, they hadn't said that.

"You want to be a cowboy?"

Bradley shrugged his shoulders. He didn't care. The bald man was standing by a long open closet that ran along the wall behind the cameras and the lights. It was full of costumes: furs and leather and feathers and studs and spikes and boots and everything that could be imagined.

"Construction worker?"

Bradley didn't care. "You said five hundred dollars a pop, right?"

"Sure. If you can do it."

Bradley didn't know if he could do it - arrive at someone's house, at some party. Dance. Strip. How could he do that?

The bald man pulled a costume off the rack. "I'm Pete, by the way," he said. "And this is Jackson."

Bradley felt as though he had already met Jackson. He nodded at him, but flipped his eyes away when he saw the look on the black man's face.

Pete took him to a table and began to show him the costume, pulling it apart and showing him how it worked. It was complex. There was a "no entry - construction site" thong, and then, to be worn over that, there was a pair of tighty-whities. Then boxers. Then jeans. There was a tank top. A shirt. A reflective vest. Socks. Boots. A helmet. Even a dust mask.

"You don't really need the dust mask," Pete said. "We don't use that anymore."

Pete showed Bradley how all the various pieces fitted together. Everything had some sort of mechanism, a velcro strip or a clip that made it possible to rip the piece away from your body. Even the thong had a clip.

"Do I have to take that off?"

Jackson was sitting in the corner, by the fridge, where there was a sort of kitchen, and he laughed. "Oh, he's precious!" he said. "Does he have to take the thong off?"

Bradley bit his lip.

"Now," Pete said, "I suppose you have to get that thing down." He nodded at Bradley's cock.

Bradley blushed, wondering what it would be like if Justin could see him now. Justin, who would stand here, looking at him naked, preparing to become a stripper, and say, "Are you a fucking fag or something?" Bradley supposed Justin would leave if he found out, go back to Lexiter, take up with Mandy again, or find someone to look after him. He couldn't look after himself.

"How about an ice-pack?" Jackson said.

2

Bradley cried out involuntarily. "Fuck that's cold," he said.

Jackson had the ice-pack wrapped around Bradley's cock and balls and he was squeezing. Bradley closed his eyes. He put his hands on Jackson's shoulders and gripped tightly.

Slowly, he felt his cock numb, and then it was painful, and his cock was going down, retreating into his body.

"That's it," Bradley said, annoyed at Jackson.

Jackson gave the ice-pack a squeeze, gripping it so hard that Bradley's balls felt like they were going to pop. He tried to move backward, but the table was behind him. He pushed Jackson with his hands, but Jackson was built like a house.

"Poor little baby," Jackson said, still squeezing with all his might and looking into Bradley's eyes, smiling.

Bradley's eyes began to water. He cried out. He shrieked, thinking his balls were going to burst.