Starfucked: Part 410 min read

“Quite a scene,” Eisenberg had to comment, comfortable in his chair. “The best job you’ve ever done in front of the camera, Biff-boy.”

Allnuts glared at him. “I don’t know how those fag bastards back there got me to do anything like what we just saw, man,” he started to say, the protest aborted by the smirk on his boss’s face.

“Well,” the executive was beaming. “That just goes to show you how good your writer and director really are when it comes to the ol’ ’movie magic,” doesn’t it.”

Most of the effects had in fact been achieved in the editing room (if the young stud star hadn’t yet figured it out):

“Shots of you from the real flick cut together with shots of your real cooperative stunt-double. He and Butch were all too willing to do this ‘special’ sequence for us. They got well paid for it, too—valor above and beyond the call of duty, let me tell you—but y’ know what? They’d have done it for free, Biff: anything to see you get your just desserts. The same goes for the guy who dubbed your voice, baby.”

It was mind-boggling. It made no sense. “Why? That sequence hadda cost the studio thousands’a dollars—“

“—Cheap. Worth it.” Eisenberg had no problem with the expense. “Whatever it took to keep you in line from here on in. And look how nicely it merges with the rest of the scene, guy.”

A gesture back to the screen, on which Dex as Tigellinus was coming in with his hard-bodied gang of elite Praetorians, the entire squad shocked, absolutely shocked! to discover ‘Marius’ ass-raping his own helpless brother, catching him still en flagrante delicto.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, you filthy queer fag bastard.” the head guard spluttered, drawing his sword.

A popping sound: Marius’s cock finally withdrawn from the gaping sheath, the hero whipping his own short sword from the scabbard at his hip. The battle on—

–Ending with the THWACK! all too familiar to the teen idol watching from his seat in the screening room, the famous baby face screwing up at the CRUNCH! when Tigellinus slugged him twice with that muthafucking rock.

When he went staggering into ignominious unconsciousness, a quivering heap of macho stud-flesh crumpled groaning on the floor.

After that, shee-itt. man: it hadn’t been a dream after all, had it? They’d really gang-raped him, all eight of the Praetorian jocks in two’s and three’s pulling a regular fuckin’ train on his ass!

They’d turned him into a fuckin’ cocksucker! A fuckin’ ass-fucked cocksucker! The voice on the sound track wasn’t dubbed now, it was his own, slavering, asking for more. And more. “Fuck me!” it was screaming. “I’m a homo-hating fag-basher and I need to be taught a fuck in’ lesson, guys! Fuck my ass! Fuck me, c’mon, turn that hole into raw fuckin’ meat! Yeah!”

His sperm splashed against the camera lens, coating it with runny amoebas—the climax of the sequence. The end of the “trailer.”

The house lights came up and with them, automatically, the flames on the logs in the fireplace.

Man. Lookit how they were all grinning at him, knowing they had him, man. They had him over the fuckin’ barrel!

“All right. Whaddaya want?” he asked in a dull little voice filled with defeat, figuring that he damn well knew what it was they wanted already.

Eisenberg spelled it out. “No more bullshit, Biff. You show up on time, you take direction pleasantly with no delays, no bimbos in your fucking trailer. And you sign this codicil to your contract, now.”

They were slashing his salary, of course. A lot.

“Mr. Eisenberg—“

Ail the CEO did was proffer his pen. “Sign, Biff. Or we make thousands of copies of that tape and you get to be this decade’s Rob Lowe, only a whole lot worse—at least he was fucking the girl, not the other guy.”

Allnuts could only inhale and take the pen. And sign.

It was still a good deal financially. It just meant no Ferarri Testarosa this year, or even this decade.

Shit. Fuck. Damn.

“If that’s all, sir”—he just wanted out of there. Time to sulk.

“No, Biff,” Eisenberg was grinning, putting the new contract in the inside pocket of his two thousand-dollar suit jacket and slowly shucking it as he did, draping it on the back of his seat. “Me, Jake and Jeff wanna see exactly how good and cooperative you’re gonna be from here on in. Consider it your first lesson in how to be a team player, not to mention humility.”

“Hey, Mr. E. You got me where y’ want me.”

“Where we want you right now, cocksuckcr, is balls-naked belly-up on that table there.” Mr. E. gestured toward the vinyl-topped folding table set up in the front of the room, at the side of the screen near the glow of the fireplace. “Strip, Biff. Now.”

“Hey, wait. No—“

The head of production activated the switch on the intercom built into the central control panel. “Set up the video bay to run off ten thousand copies of Biff Allnuts in Slave of Rome,” he said to some unseen assistant, stopping only when the humiliated young superstar began to rip the clothes off his own hunky body.

“Okay, you win, stop.” The T-shirt flew one way across the room, the jeans another. “I’m getting naked, look, man, not a fuckin’ stitch Just like you wanted, okay?” The teen-idol’s strapping young physique was now on complete display, full frontal nudity.

“I think our hero’s uncharacteristically nervous,” Jake was quick to note, sneering as he stepped forward. The object of his denigration: Biffs retracted dick, barely two inches long at this point and soft as yesterday’s spaghetti.

“He has reason,” in Eisenberg’s opinion, voice whipping harshly as he shoved the nude star down on his back across the table with a thud. Biff’s mighty torso vulnerably up and heaving. “Stretch your fuckin’ hands over your head, all the way up to the other side, asshole, and be goddam quick about it.”

Allnuts complied, inhaling audibly, because an upward glance over his eyebrows and forehead revealed a set of fetters already attached to the far end of the table, obviously wailing there for the young stallion’s wrists.

“Oh. shit,” he stammered, prick shrinking even more in his fear. “Y’ don’t have t‘ tie me up, guys: I said I’d do what y’ want—”

“Yeah, well, what we want is you in cuffs, cunt.” Twin snaps! rang metallically around the little wood-paneled room, Biff stretched helplessly belly-up across the surface of the table, legs dangling down over the edge.

“W-w-what’re y’ gonna do?” he whimpered, honestly petrified. “W-w-what’re y’ gonna do t’ me?” There was more than just butt-fucking involved, he suspected: they didn’t have to fasten him to a table to fuck his butt.

“W-w-what’re we gonna do?” Eisenberg mockingly repeated, the flames flickering in the fireplace giving him a diabolically Mcphistophelian look, one of the pokers—or was it a branding iron??—grasped in his hand. “Make you the property of this fucking studio in perpetuity, baby: that’s what we’re gonna fucking do.”

The studio chief was now more than pleased to show him the business end of the red-hot branding iron (it as a branding iron!) in his fist as he turned to approach the squirming, pop-eyed stud.

“You’re nothing but livestock from now on, bitch”—and, to burn that subordinate position permanently into Biff’s occasionally recalcitrant consciousness, “something you can look at to remind you, every day from here on in.”

The sizzling metal was in the shape of the company’s celebrated logo, about an inch in diameter, and it was aimed at the teen-idol’s left nipple. The immense heat alone was enough to char the succulent pap without any immediate physical contact, all right, any second now.

“Jeez, no, please, c’mon,” Biff babbled, hysterical, trying to melt into the table itself. “Y’ don’t have t’ do that, man! Y’ don’t have t’ brand my fuckin’ tit! I’ll be good, I swear. I fuckin’ SSSHHHWWWWUUGGHHKK–!!!”

Contact! A sharp hissing sound filled the room as Biff howled like some unearthly banshee, the smell of charring hamburger rich in the noses of his grinning torturers. Little curling wisps of white smoke rose up from under the iron, Eisenberg pressing it for several endless seconds against the little pink-amber mountain decorating the inch-high curve at the corner of the stud’s pectoral escarpment. When it was finally withdrawn Allnuts collapsed back down in a moaning heap on the table, wailing. Not daring to look at the permanent imprint now despoiling his once-beautiful rosette.

“You maniacs,” he whimpered, trying to gasp the pain away. “How the fuck’re you gonna have me appear with no shirt on on-scree from here on in? What’d y’ do, cut off your nose to spit your own fuckin’ face?”

“A little make-up covers all when the need arises,” Jake told him calmly, taking the branding iron from the CEO and returning it for several moments to the flames. It was red-hot again when he took it back out.

“Oh, come on, not again!” Biff shrieked, kicking, trying to overturn the table. His legs were grabbed and wishboned. The director stepped up between them, the flaming poker in one hand and Biff’s prick in the other. “Ohh, gwwwddd, not my cock! You can’t brand my fuckin’ cock, an! All the fuckin’ twats’ll fuckin’ laugh in my fuckin’ face!”

“Probably,” he was told, the voice filled with ironic equanimity.

“You’re fuckin’ crazy, c’mon, NNNNOOOWWWRRRJJJKKK—!!”

Another hiss, the studio logo seared into the imprisoned glans of the celebrated Allnuts fuckstick.

“EEEEYYYIIIGGHHH—!!”

“Your turn,” Jake said to the writer.

“Roll him up,” Kincaid directed. What’s an ass without a studio sign?”

The third SSSSSS! Was followed by several more yowls, Biff uncuffed, groaning in a fetal position on the carpet only to be stretched out, Eisenberg and his two-man crew applying salt and then salve to the wounds.

“Okay?” the star moaned, trying to rise. “You had your fuckin’ fun, huh?” He could finally depart… ?

Was Allnuts kidding? “Shee-ilt, pussy,” Jake said. “We’ve only just started.” The kid was to get up on his knees now. On his knees in front of them, his face level with their crotches.

“Look, guys,” he begged. “I’ve had it. I hurt. I don’t wanna have sex now. Later, sure. Tonight. Tomorrow. I promise, I just—“

“You just get your fucking face in my fucking crotch and show me how much you learned in the last few minutes,” the chief executive snapped, pants unbuckled, circumcised dick out and well on its way to full mast. “Blow me, cum-lover. C’mon.”

“Mr. Eisenberg—”

“Sir!.”

“Sir—‘

“Good, you fucking little two-bit slut whore. What?”

Alinuts hesitated, making them laugh at him. Derisive laughter.

“What’s the matter, y’ don’t like the smell of my whang?”

He didn’t.

“Funny,” the executive snickered. “It’s the same fuckin’ fragrance y’ told Mike Bock he was gonna go ape-shit over: sweat, sperm and fresh-spilled cunt-juice. Chow the fuck down.”

Eisenberg was stronger than he looked, his paw clamping down on the back of Biff’s head, forcing the famous countenance forward into his fetid groin. His bobbing schwantz slipped neatly into the brawny teen-idol’s mouth and the sound of slurping filled the room.