Living in L.A.

Tadz999

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Joined
Dec 25, 2019
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Location
London (Greater London, England)
Sexuality
100% Gay, 0% Straight
Gender
Male
Thinking about writing some more of this and maybe publishing as an E-book.

The concept is a guy who's just a dogsbody on a porn set. His frustrations working there and how that influences his day-to-day life.

Let me know what you think and if I should continue...!

Filming



The second-best thing about living in L.A. was sleeping with the blinds open and waking up to that radiant East Coast light.



The best thing, of course, was the boys.



The light slid in razors through the window, almost shaving the perfectly hairless ankles, calves, thighs and pert ass of the boy I’d taken home last night.



He was still clinging to my side.



“Daddy,” he’d screamed last night. He’d finished me off by sucking on my dick like he was sucking his thumb.



Petulant and boyish, he even pouted in his sleep.



I’d picked him up at Boy Bar, almost as an afterthought. I’d been working late and in my job that meant being horny for at least eight hours.



I’d driven there with my thighs wide, like a parody of an American trucker. My dick straining against my Calvins and the 501 jeans I liked to affect, almost again in parody of what a clean-cut American boy should wear.



I’d just needed someone right then. Not usually one to be dominant, I’d surprised myself by walking right up to this boy and got close. I wanted him to smell my breath, my sweaty pits from the long day of work.



“Got someone to fuck you, tonight, boy?” I’d asked, even taking myself aback. Nineteen if he was a day, and straight off the Greyhound to La-La-Land, he responded immediately.



“Only you, daddy.” He murmured, too intimidated to speak louder. We got straight in my car and went back.



Tired and high from coke, he’d slid tediously up and down me for what felt like hours. My neighbour, Geoff, must have heard the whimpering.



The hottest moment was when I’d shocked myself again by binding his knees together and lifting up his legs as he sat on me. Looking in the mirror, I watched my dick pound again and again into his hole, trying to recreate something I’d seen on set that day.



From that angle, I looked massive. I don’t normally feel that way, and it was strange to turn myself on, especially as a top. I suppose it was trying to process what I’d seen experienced at work. Seeing that happening and not being able to join in.



Reliving through him what it must have felt like for Hunter to pound me.



Hunter.



Thinking of his name made me realise I didn’t know this boy’s.



“Hey, wake up.”



He nuzzled and whined again. I didn’t ordinarily go for the whiny boys – no doubt some internalised homophobia I’d have to remember to bring up with my therapist – but there was something about it that played into this power fantasy I’d explored last night.



I slapped his naked ass.



“I said, wake up. You’ll be late for whatever piece-of-shit job you do.” Was I going too far?



No. He responded, I could, saw, with his dick – light-pink, rosy in the morning light and slightly glistening – started to rise and respond.



“I work in customer services, sir. Can I get your name and the nature of your query?”



“No. Shut the fuck up and start servicing.”



He immediately and hungrily leapt to all fours over me. I liked to sleep in a t-shirt and light pyjama bottoms. He lifted up the shirt to look at my stomach and then worked his way down of the slit of my pants.



I sighed – I was already bored, although the boredom got me harder; treating men as disposable, and being treated as disposable myself, always got me horny – and reached for my phone from the bedside cabinet.



I fired up my dating app, not even looking down as the boy slurped at my balls.



There were three nudes, each more tedious than the last.



“Hey, dude.”



“What’s up?”



“Hi, sexy.”



Boring. I couldn’t get excited, except through something a bit kinkier.



The boy at my groin joined the chorus of messages.



“Is that good?”



I yawned. “Keep going, and don’t speak again until I ask.”



I replied to an old favourite of mine.



He sent me a pic of his cock, under the covers. “Wish you were here.”



“Wish you were here, joining this bitch.” I sent him a video of the youth going down on me.



“Fuck – so horny! Tell him to lick your piss-slit like I do.”



I passed on the message.



The next picture I sent was his smiling face, dripping with my cum.



“I think he got the message,” I typed back. “Thanks for the help, bro.”



He sent back a picture of his own cock, slicked with sperm.



“Thank you, too.” I sent a wink emoji and closed the app.



“Okay,” I said, jumping off the bed. “Now get out.”



*



The fantasy of power didn’t last very long. It was really a way of coping with my complete feeling of lack of power in my job. I was a general dogsbody on the set of gay porn films – emphasis on dog, the way my boss, Roger, treated me – and I was the only gay guy there.



As a result, nobody could share my feelings of frustration in the role. Nor could anybody understand that talking to me like shit both made me feel doubly frustrated, and double horny.



I jumped into my convertible – the only nice perk of the job – and went to my favorite coffee shop.



The scruffy young, tattooed barista winked at me again as he passed me my triple-shot, oat milk latte. He was the reason it was my favorite shop. I bet his asshole is as hairy as the deep-v between his flannel shirt.



Tearing myself away – I couldn’t be late again, or Roger would really chew me out for sure – I hopped back into my car, once again having to sit as wide as possible to prevent my semi from crushing against my balls.



I doubt the straight guys I work with have these problems on their morning commutes.



Or should that be cum-mutes?