Stallion Station

"It sounds too complicated for you, Matt," Jason had said. "Getting a list would be the hardest part—impossible, I think. This is a small potatoes town. I think you should just keep it to the street and be happy when it works out. And get a job."

I'll admit that getting a job was what got the plan rolling. Then getting a list turned out to be one of the easiest parts. The roughest part, speaking of rough, was Mr. Gordon that first time and then through all the takes needed to get the video recorded just the way he wanted it.

I first started thinking that something needed to change in my life when two guys in a row took the blow job in their cars and then just pushed me out on the ground, outside town, rather than paying—and left me to hitchhike back. Griff, the guy who got me started thinking about changing my approach, saying I was a natural in looks to turn guys on who were looking for it, did tell me that I should at least move to Richmond, or better, down to Atlanta to do the street work. But I didn't have the money to go that far in any direction yet. That's why I was working the street; I needed the money.

He told me that there was a system for this in the big cities, sort of a recognized behavior for a john to take on—unless you ran into some crazy guy who wanted to do it and then cut you up. But you could usually tell that by their eyes and the sort of smile they had on their face, Griff said. And if they were driving some beat-up old heap. Look for the guys with the new Mustangs and Bimmers, he said. The guys in the Mustangs would give you a good fuck, and the guys in the Bimmers would give you a good tip. Small-town johns didn't seem to know the rules, Griff said. A lot of them were too dumb to realize they'd want it more than once and that there weren't a whole lot of young guys walking the streets who would give it to them once they got a reputation as welchers—or as being too rough and abusive.

That didn't stop those two men in a row from getting their blow jobs and then pushing me out of the car. And I didn't have time for that. Neither one was Mr. America, either. Griff had told me I shouldn't get in the business if I didn't like to get cocked. I told him I liked it fine. I didn't tell him, though, that I wasn't real wild about kissing any frogs in the process—least wise not unless they were good tippers.

There were a whole lot of frogs down here in south central Virginia. At least most of them were built. It was hard making a living down here—which goes back to my original problem—and most jobs in these parts required a whole lot of muscle. I could like being cocked by a guy with muscle even if he had a frog face. Where I usually gave it was in a truck bed out in a forest road at night. There usually was only one muscle I got to see up close and if it was big and fat, that's usually all I needed.

I did, though, prefer doing it inside with a guy who was a looker as well as built. And I kinda liked guys in their forties, if they'd taken good care of themselves. They tended to take it slower and to make sure they took care of me better. They also usually showed that they were grateful that someone would still give it to them.

This all led up to Mr. Gordon and then the idea of the lists. But before that was the opportunity to get off the streets and into a job, which, in the end, made everything else possible.

I got a job working in a video store—an adult video store. And this was one that catered to all interests. The gay section was in a back room. That got pretty good foot traffic, because it was the only adult video store in three counties that also had a gay section.

I got the job because the owner of the store, a middle-aged fat black man who lived over in Lynchburg and had a string of shops like this fanned out across southside Virginia, pulled me off street duty one night and fucked me in the backseat of his old pimpmobile Cadillac. While he was sitting in the middle of the backseat and I was facing him, riding his cock, he was telling me what a nice little piece I was. And then he got the idea that maybe I'd like to work in his video store in the next town, Farmville—that he'd then know where I was if and when he got a hankering to have me again.

Yes, of course I would like that. I was looking for a job that would mean I didn't have to work the streets and hope for a couple of twenties humping the dicks of frogs like him in the backseats of their cars.

I'd already told Jason that I had plans to be making more money with my body than I was making now. I couldn't tell Griff the sort of ideas I was having, because he'd already left for Charlotte. In the end the video list idea turned out better than anything else I was thinking.

The job at the video store was OK. Farmville is a college town and the video store was located out off the 460 bypass. We didn't get a lot of college students in here, but we sure got a lot of professor types.

I had the afternoon-to-early-evening shift. That gave me time afterward to turn a trick or two out on the street most nights. I could easily pass for a college freshman. That already was better than only working the streets.

Sometimes after roaming around the back gay section for a while and working their need up, some of the guys would ask me if I'd blow them or let them blow me for money. This was better than the street, because we did it in the stockroom rather than out in the back of someone's car—and because I'd make them let me lock their wallets up in the drawer under the cash register first so that we both knew they weren't going to get it and then walk out without paying. But the money was still penny-ante. Usually not more than fifteen dollars—and that only for the big spenders—for a blow job, one way or the other. I didn't think it was safe enough to leave the shop long enough for an ass fuck, even though I was asked for that too. I rarely got above twenty dollars for that when I did do it.

That was pretty insulting. They were standing with both me and them in full light. In the light of the video shop they could see exactly what they were getting. I knew I was desirable to a man. But most of them were frogs and still didn't want to pay much. Those who were hunks wanted it for free. Of course, some of them got it for free, after my shift was over, in the backseats of their cars at the back edge of the parking lot. I wouldn't have been doing this at all if I didn't like being cocked regularly.

But Mr. Gordon. He broke the ice on that—and from there was born the video list idea.

He showed up a couple of times to browse the aisles in the back room. He even bought a few videos. Mr. Gordon was what I would call a Mr. America hunk—but of twenty years ago. He was probably in his forties, but he was built like he worked out half the day. His head was bald—which I have a theory about, that it gives a man extra umpf "down there," which so far has proved to be true—and he looked a little mean. I think it was the hard angles of his face—he was a bit of frog there—but also the tattooing that peeked out below his shirt sleeves and inside the V neck of the polo shirts he liked to wear—pulled real tight across his chest, showing the nubs of his nipples, the outline of thick nipple rings, and how well his torso came down to a flat belly. He liked to chat me up when he was in the shop, and after a few visits, I got the impression he came more to chat me up than to buy videos. In fact, he got real picky about buying those.

"I can make better videos than that myself, in my own studio."

"You've got your own film studio?" I asked

"Yeah. Right where I live. You know that old motel out on the Richmond road?" That road was 460, the main highway through here. We called the part of it on the east of town the Richmond road because that's where it went from here.

"The one with the gym that's been built on the end of it?"

"Yeah, that one. I built the gym and I've made a house for myself by stringing four of the motel rooms together. There are a string of empties, but I went ahead and had them made into bedroom units too. On the other end of the string of rooms, I've got a photo studio set up—a darkroom and a studio. All outfitted and everything. I'm always looking for models. I've filmed some guys from the gym. They'd make better porn stars than a lot of guys on these tapes."

"Porn stars? That's . . . uh . . . interesting."

"Bet a video of one of those guys working you real good could be a best-seller."

I didn't know what to say. He caught me by surprise on that one. He didn't give me much time to come up with anything to say, either.

"I seen you on the street. That's right, ain't it? I seen you working the street."

"Yeah, so?" Even though I responded this time, I still hadn't come up with anything brilliant to say.

"Pretty little guy like you, all innocent face and everything, and young lookin'. I bet a video of a muscle guy working you over would sell real well. How much they pay you on the street for it? Fifty dollars or so?"

"No, they don't pay me any fifty dollars," I said, trying to sound indignant—trying not to sound pathetic because no one had paid me anything close to that for anything.

"I seen you lookin' at me when I come through here. You're interested in my tats, ain't you? And I seen you lookin' close at my chest. Can see the tit rings, can't you? Wonder where else I got them, don't you?"

I was hanging on to the edge of the counter across from him, trying not to hyperventilate. But I bet he could tell by the way I was trembling and how white my knuckles were in gripping the edge of the counter that he had my attention.

He pulled his polo shirt over his head.

"Oh . . . holy . . . shit," I murmured. The guy had an old naval battle being reenacted all over his torso and down his arms. Wooden ships with sails and everything and cannon fire bursts.

"Like the nipple rings?" he asked. "Got a thicker ring in the cock. Bet you wonder how big the cock is. Let's you and me make a movie and you can find out how big it gets."

* * * *

He had video cameras on tripods pointed at all four sides of the blue-velvet-skirted platform with a blue-vinyl surface in the middle of his studio room—and one pointed down from the ceiling—while he rough fucked the stuffing out of me in four long takes. It took much of the night. He wore a black mask, but other than that all that he wore was the tattoo undulating in a sea battle lasting a couple of hours—and his body jewelry. I wore nothing but animated facial expressions of being taken repeatedly and deeply by a big, thick, pistoning cock with a thick ring in it that I had wondered if I'd be able to feel working inside me—and I did.

When he reviewed the film right on the spot, he said my facial expressions would sell the video all by themselves—that I was a natural young, twink-type bottom. He said that when he'd gotten everything spliced together and edited I could see what he meant. When I did see that film, I came in my jeans just watching myself getting fucked like that on tape.

The sequence of me sitting on the side of the platform and sucking his cock while he stood there, hands back on his hips so the cameras got the best shot, was, he said, to show how big the cock was that was going to be working inside me. After that, it was all business: three three-minute teasers starting with me on my belly, facing a camera, and showing in my face what I thought of him looming in the camera frame behind me, his big hands gripping my waist, and fucking my ass hard and deep. This was the shot angle he put into the video, saying my expressions were worth a million. The next sequence was taken from behind his muscled, tapering back and bulbous butt cheeks, with him between my thighs while I was on my back on the platform, and him holding my legs spread up and wide with fists gripping my ankles. He was all tanned and I wasn't, and he said that was an effect the guys would really like. There was a break away in this to the opposite side, showing my head flopped over to the side, with an expression of "I'm in heaven, but it's a heaven of an eight-inch, ringed cock up my ass" on my face. The fade out here is me shooting cum in the air.

The third segment was him on the platform on his back and my back to his chest. He had his arms laced under my pits, imprisoning my arms over his head and his legs were forcing mine out. He made sure that the base of his cock could be seen by the camera as it appeared and disappeared while he was fucking up into me. Once again he said that my expressions were what sold the film. To get those, while he was fucking me, he was telling me about what he was going to do with me later that night in his bedroom, where he had frames on his bed and a sling and velvet cuffs.

The video ended with me on my back and his straddling my chest. He was stroking himself, ready to come and had fisted the hair on my head and brought my head up close to his cock so that he could come on my face. The fadeout was of me taking the cock in my mouth and cleaning it.

He was good as his word. After cleaning up his studio, he took me into the house he'd made in the center of the motel and to a bedroom that had everything he said it did. There was a padded platform with wooden stock with hand and neck holes at one end, but, although I kept thinking about that, he never used it with me. There were cameras here too, but he didn't turn them on. He said he needed to find out where my edges were before we could talk about making that type of film. Through the night he used all of the equipment, including a lash and what he called ball busters, and the bindings—and I found out what he meant about where the edges were.

I'd never been fucked like that before—like what happened during the filming in the studio and certainly not like what happened later in his bedroom.

I was—and am—ready to do it again.

He paid me two-hundred dollars for the night—for the film and then anything he wanted to do with me for the rest of the night. It was more money than I'd ever made in a night. In all, four three-minute scenes faded together, with a two-minute explosive ending. Fifteen minutes.

"I can make more films—longer ones—from the material I have here," he said at breakfast in his kitchen. "This can be something like a teaser. I'll pay you a percentage on the films."

"A teaser, you say?" Suddenly everything fell into place for me, like the tumblers on those wall safes that spies have to get into within seconds on TV programs. "I might have a better, bigger idea."

"I like to hear better, bigger ideas," he answered.

"You say you have a few unused motel rooms."

"Yeah, three."

When I unrolled my whole plan to him, he was enthusiastic, and we celebrated a new partnership by him carrying me back to his bed, slamming me down on my back, jerking my legs open, scooting his knees under my buttocks to raise my pelvis to the perfect angle to take the full-in slide of his cock, and my tracing the undulating ships on the waves on his chest, set in movement by the pistoning of his cock deep inside me.

Jason was a harder sell on the idea.

"I don't get it. It all revolves around having a list. A customer's list. I told you that would be nearly impossible to build."

"Not all on lists, no. The guy's got a gym as part of the complex. When they know the full services they can get, the right kind of guy's going to come to the gym. But we do have a list too. Look at this, Jason," I said. We were standing at the counter in the video store and I showed him a chart on a clipboard.

"Yeah, OK. E-mail addresses on a list," he said in derision. "That's nothing concrete."

"These are guys who come into the back room who I like the looks of. Luckily I like the looks of rich-looking older guys. I smile at them and wink and tell them if they are interested in receiving a special treat, to put an e-mail address down, and I'll send it to them. Most I offer that to put the e-mail address down. It doesn't matter if it's not the e-mail address they use in their straight life. If the e-mail reaches them, that's all that's needed."

"Yeah, so. Then you send them a copy of that video you made and they get their rocks off. What's in it for you?"

"The e-mail back to them tells them they can play too for a hundred dollars for a fuck and twenty-five dollars an hour for a room to do it in."

"And you think anybody's going to bite on that? You've been fucking guys on the street for thirty dollars a hump. I've been doing it for twenty-five. What makes you think anyone will pay a hundred for it, plus room charge?"

"Have you been hearing the dinging in the background while we've talked about this, Jason? We sent out copies of the videos—Mr. Gordon got a list going at his gym too—so that they'd arrive yesterday or today. There were five e-mail responses on the computer when I came in this afternoon. Since then the incoming has been hopping up and down."

"Yeah, OK, but there's only so much that you can—"

"The rooms, Jason. There are lots of rooms available in Mr. Gordon's layout—Mr. Gordon says three of them already are good to go. They are on the backside of the motel and there's a secluded parking lot back there that you can't see from the Richmond road. I've already called Griff. He's on his way back from Charlotte."

"Oh, uh . . ."

"The third room that's ready, Jason. That's why I'm talking to you. That third room could be for you. Of course there'd have to be a teaser video made with Mr. Gordon first. Did I tell you he has a thick cock ring—and an even thicker cock—and that you can watch a sea battle while he fucks you?"

"What's the name of this place again?" Jason asked.

"Stallion Station. Ain't that a gas? It'll make the johns feel like supermen."