… What a dream.
What a weird fuckin’ dream, Biff thought with a shudder as he yawned naked on the bed in his sound stage trailer and looked around for whatsername: the cute cunt singer who’d probably been draining him dry for the last few hours, her snapping snatch and her even more obscenely talented mouth gumming his thrusting whang. The star’s reward to himself for having gotten himself clubbed on the back of the head by that fucker Dex.
Funny. Biff couldn’t really remember: did he fire the guy? Or was it that he was gonna boff the bimbo within an inch of her fuckin’ life and then, afterwards, when God was in his pussy and all was right with the world, give Dex the heave-ho. and that fuckin’ Jake, too.
Kincaid as well!
He didn’t actually need ’em, after all. Fuck, Biff Allnuts could direct the goddam movie all by himself, and write it, too!
—Which was precisely what was gonna happen now. No more kowtowing to these no-talent queers, no way. The dream alone was reason enough: lookit the tricks his mind was playing on him, just bein’ around that bunch’a lowlife fag assholes. Oh, no, man, from here on in Biff Allnuts was running the show. The whole fuckin’ show!
A knock on the door. “Sir?”
—Yeah, what?”
“Dailies,” the A.D.’d conic to announce. “Screening Room ‘A’.”
“Fine. Great.” What was the point? Why bother to see Jake’s rushes if he was gonna be history tomorrow, him and his ‘dailies’ both?
The A.D. spoke again, through the door. “Mr. Eisenberg’s gonna be there today; he’d like it if you sat next t’ him, he said.”
“—Right.” Even Biff Allnuts didn’t say no when it came to the head of the studio, especially if (his devious little mind began to think) he could use the screening to point out the sub-par direction. The imbecillic writing.
Even more especially if he could take the occasion to tell Eisenberg the company’s bottom line would come out a whole lot better with the star of the picture in the director’s chair. Shee-itt, the CEO wasn’t gonna disagree, not after he saw the crap J. and J. were gonna unreel up there on that screen!
So: yeah. He’d be there, man. He’d be there with fuckin’ bells on, he’d be there!
And there he was, in fact: on time (for a change!), beaming in the wood paneled executive screening room, the high-class one with the English Tudor fire place stolen from some castle or other back in the mid-20’s along with a set of andirons and pokers as big as the Tower of London. Biff strode in, the picture of confidence, greeting the head of the studio with a hearty “how are ya, Boss” and a heartier handshake. Liking the looks of mutual concern blatant on the faces of the director and the writer occupying adjacent seats two rows back.
“I hear there was a little ‘accident’ on the set,” Eisenberg said casually as they sat side-by-side next to the control panel at the center of the facility. “You okay, Biff?”
“Still a little dizzy, actually.” And then the carefully planned dig at Jake et al: “I think there was a little problem with the blocking, but nothing that can’t be fixed with a few appropriate, uh, changes. In personnel, I mean.”
“As long as you’re okay,” the executive smiled enigmatically, the house lights lowering. The screen lighting up. “I want your honest opinion of this little sales reel Jake and Jeff over there got up to publicize the film, and you.”
“Great.” The insouciant, all-purpose answer as Biff settled back against the cushions, eyes on the screen, a title card on display. BIFF ALLNUTS as ‘A SLAVE OF ROME.”
Huh- ?
“I thought the pitcha was called— “
“We try a lot of different titles out.” Eisenberg reminded him as the card faded out and the young teen-idol found himself looking at the dungeon scene. There was the hunky Septimus hanging like a side of beef from the hook in the ceiling, curly head sagging on his neck. Save for the tattered old rag that served as a pitifully skimpy loincloth, the latter-day Bomba much more impressively muscled than Johnny Sheffield in his prime was balls-naked, the prow of his handsome young chin aimed down at the unusually well-defined plates of his smooth-skinned 16-year-old chest—the voluptuous physical development not particularly surprising in retrospect. Butch Kramer, the actor playing the succulent young teen, was in real life more 22 than 16.
A moment’s suspense and then movement in the onscreen chiaroscuro: the star of the show entering grim-faced, clutching his gladius. Looking this way and that to make sure he was unobserved and then… smiling.
It was unquestionably as evil a smile as Biff Allnuts had ever seen himself smile, on screen or off. And what was that odd—light?__ glinting in the pupils of his ice blue eyes?
“What happened to mv line?” he wanted to know. “I say, “Septimus’ here—!”
“Shh,” Eisenberg whispered, reassuringly patting the back of his hand, till now relaxed on the armrest separating their seats. “You know how some good material always seems to end up on the cutting room floor when you’re making a movie.”
Biff’s eyes returned to the screen, confused. This wasn’t the scene as he remembered filming it, he thought, the impression confirmed when he saw his on-screen image reach out, fingers and palms beginning to fondle Septimus’s ripe young flesh with slow, sensual strokes—as though an all-American young straight-shooter like Biff Allnuts had turned into as much a fag as Jake. Jesus H. Christ on a fucking stick, man! the camera was zooming in to show his fucking hands in fucking close-up as they slipped salaciously up along the kid’s ribcage. Cupped that well-built pec-chiseled chest. Tweaked the voluptuously cherry-ripe til-paps. Making Sep-timus sex-groan!
“No more, sir, please,” the youthful actor implored, dazed in his vertical bondage. “I can’t take any more…”
Marius’s leer broadened, almost as though he were auditioning for the role of Tigellinus, the villain of the piece. His short Roman sword flashed out, severing the thong holding the modest cloth which till now had concealed the boy’s burgeoning privates. Ping!
Biff in the screening room could only gape in stomach-panged shock, a goggle-eyed “what the fuck?” bursting from his mouth as he saw the moth-eaten codpiece actually stripped off Septimus’s lithe young teenaged hips, a gigantic set of fully-grown sex organs haloed by a rampant pubic beard exposed beneath the uncut pee-pee hanging not-so-limply over a set of high-arching boy-balls rife with pulsing veins. This ‘coming attraction’ wasn’t gonna be rated R, or NC-17, man: this was a full quadruple X! Major studios didn’t release X’s in any denomination, right?
Right?
“Marius, no, stop, please, you’re my brother, man. My own fuckin’ brother,” Butch Kramer as the hapless young Septimus was all too convincingly heard to beg. You’d swear he really believed himself about to be bull-raped by his own ass-crazed sib.
“Shut up, fag, you know you’re gonna fuckin’ love it.” The side of the weapon in ‘Marius’s’ hand was now insinuating itself between the big teenaged tennis ball-sized gonads and the bottom of the massive dick elongating above them. It scraped its way up along the underside from the stem to the head and back again once, twice, three times, the sensation obviously too much for the husky teenager to take without throwing an immediate blue veiner.
A close-up and a reaction shot followed, along with an increase in the audibility of the pants which were beginning to whistle through the noses of the auditors seated in the screening room: Septimus’s magnificent prickhead emerging from its thickly puckering hood and Marius behind him, preening in salacious triumph.
“Better it’s me who’s the one who busts your fuckin’ ass-cherry, bro,” he snarfed, flipping the sword so that the hilt came into close-up. “Keepin’ it in the fuckin’ family, y’ know what I mean?” Had Septimus ever taken anything up the gooseberry patch before, “hmm?”
Another shock for Biff in the screening room, the trio keeping him company pleased to note: the handle of the weapon was shaped like a giant erection! The damn thing was a hard-carved fuck-ready boner reproduced in vein-exact detail, and “Marius” was leeringly tracing the bulbous curve of its plum-shaped head up along the center line of Septimus’s flinching body from the navel to the tits. Gently… gently…
“H-h-huhhh,” the boy winced, his bulging eyes following the prurient trail and the effect it was having on his innocent flesh as he hung there helpless: the hardening tit-paps, the goosebumpy skin, the downy body hair standing up on end. Now Biff was brushing the degenerate obscenity up along the side of Septimus’s neck… tilting it next into the dark hollows of the teen’s ear… roiling his attractively bushy eyebrows.
The youthful sadist even tried to stick the damn thing into each of his movie brother’s nostrils before bringing it back down to trace the periphery of his lips, the only sound on the track now being two distinct sources of heavy breathing: one fearful, one horny.
“Maybe you haven’t had a good hard prick up your ass,” Marius was hissing. “How about your mouth, bro? You suck? You like the taste of a guy’s hot leaking meal all over your fuckin’ tongue? Hmm?”
He wedged the dildo-headed sword hilt between the lips, compressed or not. prying them apart. Tapping on the opalescent enamel of the incisors behind.
“Hmm? Bro?”
“MMMNNNGGHH,” his ’bro’ declared, shaking his head. “Stop it, man! FFFLLLAAAUUGGHHKK!!” And the phony cock was in his face, all the way. “PPPHHHWWAAUGGKK!!”
“Awww, man. I guess you are a fuckin’ ass-man, after all,” Allnuts sighed—as though put upon. The inanimate object was withdrawn spit-wet, the older youth stepping behind the younger. Patting the cheeks of his defenseless ass, reveling in the smoothness of the flesh stretched unblemished over the succulent curves.
And then with no warning nor preparation other than a cruel twist of his voluptuously photogenic lips Biff rammed the spit-slick sword hilt right up into the heart of Septimus’s shitter, rrrriiipppp—!!
The scream was unearthly, the sturdy teen clawing at the ropes binding him to the hook in the ceiling as his legs frog-kicked, splaying in mid-air. “NNNYYY AAAHHH! EEEYYNNGGHU YYYIIIRRRKKK!!”
Music to Marius’s cars as he torqued the debauched object deep inside the hole, widening it like a ladle. “Get used to this, fuck-boy,” the muscular young torturer growled, stirring the hilt about in Septimus’s heretofore secret tube. “My pecker makes this one look like a fuckin’ loser and, I promise you, it gets a whole lot stiffer, too.”
The younger actor couldn’t reply with anything other than a series of incoherent grunts, hiccupped; knowing without turning to look down his back that the lascivious carving plowing his virgin gut had to be doing him some damage.
It was suddenly gone, his tortured bung trying to close back down to something akin to its former size–but then, as good as his word, Allnuts struck again, stepping nakedly into hard-cocked butt-fucker position behind the dangling captive. His belt unbuckled, his precum-glistening baby-maker springing out ready for “love,” the sex-mad star hooked the obscene scimitar through the dildo-destroyed sphinchter, WHOMPPPHH!!
One brutal swoop, that’s all it look, Biff’s stone-hard shillelagh splitting the winking little button hidden in the thickly-haired crack like the crap through General Patton’s proverbial goose.
“Biff, hey, no,” Butch barked, fright helping him to find his voice again. “C’mon, man, are you crazy? Take it out! Taaaake it owwwwttt—!!”
A low sardonic chuckle erupted from the older muscle-stud’s throat, spilling off the soundtrack even as the real Biff cringed bug-eyed in the screening room seat next to Eisenberg’s. “Stepping outta character ain’t gonna help ya, Butch,” he heard his cinematic persona husk, “Marius” absolutely determined to go all the way up this cherry twat: the hell with whether film was rolling through the camera or not. His smelly ‘Roman’ dick was now plowing piston-like through the yawning hole, wanton, violent, inexorable.
“Help, somebody! Help, man! Lemme outta here, c’mon, Biff’s raping my aaaaaaassssrrrgghhhkkkk!!” The outcry turned into a scream and the scream into a gurgle filled with a new and entirely different kind of agony.
Septimus—Butch—was violated like a slut whore on a garbage can in some inner city back alley, Biff’s humongous sex tool brutally breaching the stocky teenager’s anal ring with all the savagery of an invading mongol horde. His muscular pelvis propelled the thick thrusting cunt-killer full-bore into the glove-tight rectum, squish! Splat!
SQUISH!!
“Told ya this fuckin cock’d be fatter… and harder… and longer… than that fuckin’ dildo,” the ass-fucking superstar rasped, sweaty hands tight on the teen’s hips from behind as he plowed all ten gross inches of his battering ram into the tight marsh-gas-smelling tunnel.
“Get fucked, pussy.” A grunt, a grind, Biff’s hands moving up from Butch’s hips to his pecs, the fingers plier-like on the voluptuous pink of his tender tits.
“H-h-huuhh!” the hanging youth stammered, drool dripping from the corner of his mouth as his cherry ass tried to accommodate the immensely painful invader within the tight confines of his brutally violated boy-snatch. “H-HNGH!”
Slam! Ram! Jam! Allnuts was easily as vicious and brutal an ass-rapist as Dex in the role of Tigellinus, thudding and thwacking into Butch’s ever-widening rump like a boxer’s jabbing right arm. The hand that hadn’t reached around to pinch the young nipple was wrapping itself around the young dick at the rolled-back foreskin, stretching the snake-like hood back over the lube-leaking head time and time again.
“Y’ love it, dontcha,” he huffed, pumping barbarically. Reveling in the carnal sight of Butch’s hands clawing at the rough stones of ceiling overhead, the skin tearing under the ropes holding them together at the wrists. Little streams of blood began to trickle down the insides of Butch’s fore and upper arms, saturating the already sweat-matted tufts looking as though they’d only recently sprouted in his musky young armpits.
“N-n-noohhh,” Septimus groaned, having no choice but to take the rough treatment–but not without a valiant show of youthfully feisty resistance. “I don’t ‘love it,’ man, no! Honest!”
“You’re a fuckin’ liar, bitch,” Allnuts spat, chomping on Butch’s earlobe from behind, his palm a blur as it frigged the kid’s swollen boner.
“You’re gonna cum any fuckin’ second. You love takin’ dick. Your fuckin’ fag ass loves takin’ dick. And I got the dick it loves t’ take, don’t I. Don’t I.”
He yelled it now, spitting new buckets of hot young stud cum up the devirginized twat. “DON’T I!!”
“EEIIIRRRGPPPFFFHHHH—!!” Butch was shooting, too, his own load of molten sperm sprayed at all four walls of the catacomb, at the floor and the ceiling. Some of the globs even landed on his own naked feet as the orgiastic screams of both ’brothers’ echoed swinishly on the soundtrack.
