Chapter 16: First performance
The damp scent of their shower mixed uneasily with the lingering musk of sex, weed, and Shane’s sawdust aura back in the basement. Mike groaned as he lowered himself carefully onto the worn sofa, the ointment Trent had meticulously applied to his sore, stretched hole providing the necessary relief against the deep ache. Trent paced the concrete floor, energy crackling off him, his gaze fixed on the cleared space where Shane would soon build their dedicated playground. The contractor’s thick cock and rough handling had left Mike trembling, but also buzzing with a dangerous excitement. Filming loomed.
"Right," Trent announced, stopping abruptly, his voice cutting through the humid air. "Before we set up cameras, we talk health. Shane." He locked eyes with Mike. "That was hot as FUCK. But, we don't know his history. We don't know who else he fucks. We ain't using condoms. Not my preference, not yours. Seems like we're both total cum sluts" He chuckled. He crossed his thick arms. "We'll need to get on PrEP ASAP. We can speak to Dr Singh on Tuesday. And we get tested. Full panel. Quarterly. Every three months, like clockwork."
Mike nodded instantly, the reality hitting him. Shane’s potent, earthy smell seemed to cling to his skin. "Yeah. Makes sense. Fuck, yeah, absolutely." He pulled his phone from the pocket of his sweats. "There's... uh... this online service. I saw an advert for it online recently. They send you the kit, you send it back. Results fast." He tapped rapidly, the blue glow illuminating his face. "Done. Subscription set up. First kit arrives Monday." He showed Trent the confirmation screen. "Just... draw blood, swab our throats and cocks, and my ass, and send it back. Results are within the week."
Relief, sharp and unexpected, washed over Trent’s features before he masked it. "Damn, if we don't make the best team. How was it that just over a week ago, we both thought we were straight. Well, almost." He crouched in front of Mike, his large hands resting on Mike’s knees. "Now, what about rules. With others. Like Shane." His grip tightened almost imperceptibly. "I need to know where your head's at."
Mike didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward, placing a hand over Trent’s. "I don't want to do it without you, Trent. Ever. If he comes over... if anyone comes over... you're there. Or it doesn't happen." He met Trent’s intense gaze. "I need you there."
The possessive gleam in Trent’s eyes intensified, a dark fire Mike found himself craving. A low rumble escaped Trent’s chest. "Fuck, Daddy..." He surged up, pulling Mike into a hard kiss, his tongue owning Mike’s mouth, tasting mint toothpaste and underlying basil from the pesto risotto he'd cooked. He pulled back, breathing heavily. "Didn't wanna hold you back. But... yeah. You're mine. That hole? Mine. I decide who uses it, how it gets used. Fuck, I love that you need me there." He nipped Mike’s lower lip. "Mine."
"Yours," Mike whispered back, the word thick with submission and a fierce, complicated pride. The possessiveness wasn't restrictive; it was an anchor, a brand claiming him in this raw, new world.
They moved fast then, partners in crime. Trent hauled out the heavy-duty sling frame, unfolding it with practised ease. Mike wrestled open boxes containing their new gear: three compact static cameras on tripods, a high-end handheld camcorder, a pair of camera glasses and an array of powerful but discreet LED lights on stands, and tiny, sensitive lavalier microphones. The basement transformed under the dim, cosy light, the soon-to-be-stripped carpeted floor a dense matt of softness, the shadows retreating to the corners. They positioned the static cameras: one tight on the sling area, one wide angle capturing most of the room, one focused low on the floor for ground-level shots. Trent tested the handheld, its screen glowing. He gave the glasses to Mike to try. The mics, clipped discreetly onto the sling straps and near the action zones, picked up the rustle of their clothes and their breathing, amplified in the sudden quiet, but should be perfect to maximise all the wet sounds.
Stripping efficiently, they pulled on identical stark white jockstraps. The elastic bands hugged Trent’s sculpted hips and thick thighs, the pouch straining to contain his flaccid bulk. On Mike, the white fabric contrasted sharply with his thick chest hair and darker leg hair, the pouch snug around his sturdy, half-hard cock and heavy balls. "Time to relax before we start, Daddy", Trent purred as he sat on the couch. Mike immediately slid to the floor and curled between Trent's legs, nuzzling at his jock pouch. Trent lit a joint, inhaled and held it for Mike. "Any last worries or concerns, baby?" Trent asked. "No," Mike responded thoughtfully. "I can't think of anything you haven't covered. Knowing that first video already made so much money means this doesn't feel so stupid or such a waste of time. Sex with you is the best thing ever, so why not show people?" Mike paused a moment. "I feel safe with you, Trent." Trent leaned down and gave Mike a long deep kiss, just the lips.
Trent clicked the handheld camcorder on, the red recording light blinking. He moved with predatory grace, circling Mike, now suspended in the sling, capturing every angle – the hairy ass cheeks parted, the slit beginning to glisten already, the focused intensity on Trent’s face as he pressed two spit-slicked fingers deep inside Mike’s hole with a wet squelch. "Look at that," Trent narrated, his voice low and clear for the mic, zooming in tight. "Have you ever seen such a magnificent thing? Daddy giving me his beautiful pussy." He worked his fingers, scissoring slowly, stretching the tender ring. "Gotta make it wetter. Gotta make it beg." He dropped the camera to dangle on its strap, freeing both hands, the camera glasses on him for now. He leaned in and spat directly onto Mike’s hole, then pressed his mouth against it.
The close-up camera captured what the glasses couldn't: Trent’s lips sealing over Mike’s stretched rim, his tongue spearing deep, then pulling back to suckle fiercely on the puffy flesh. The wet, rhythmic slurping filled the basement, amplified by the mics. Mike groaned, a deep, guttural sound, pushing back against Trent’s face. "Fuck, yeah, eat my pussy, boy," Mike panted. "Show Daddy's mancunt who's boss." Mike was trying to figure out how to play it. They both agreed some vocals would be good, but to avoid the awful metronomic panting and yelping that happens in a lot of porn. Trent complied with Mike's words, burying his face deeper, his nose pressed against Mike’s perineum, his tongue fucking in and out, then sucking hard, pulling Mike’s insides towards his mouth, exposing the tender, delicate flesh, creating that delicious ooze he loved. The camera at Trent's neck caught the drips of spit and lube falling onto the concrete.
Trent went at Mike's asshole for what felt like an hour, but Mike was losing track. He moaned about Trent being a good boy for daddy and how big and strong he was becoming. Trent retorted with phrases about good daddies always make their boys happy and how daddy can be mummy too as he worked Mike's tits.
Trent surfaced, breathing hard, his chin slick. He grabbed the handheld again, zooming in on Mike’s gaping, glistening hole, glistening puffy and red under the bright lights. "Look at that fuckhole," Trent growled, his own arousal evident in his voice and the thick bulge in his jock. "Dripping. Begging for cock." He spat onto his palm, then slicked his own enormous erection, the purple head emerging fully from the white pouch, veins prominent. He aligned himself, the broad tip pressing against the slick, yielding entrance. The tight shot on the handheld showed the intimate pressure, the dimpling of Mike’s rim. "Take it, slut," Trent commanded.
He pushed. Slowly, relentlessly, the massive head stretched Mike’s hole impossibly wide, the ring of muscle visibly distending before yielding with a wet pop. Trent kept the camera trained on the penetration point, while the glasses roamed Mike's body, as he fed inch after thick inch into Mike’s depths. Mike screamed, a raw, unfiltered sound echoing off the concrete, his knuckles white on the sling frame. The wide-angle shot captured the powerful flex of Trent’s back and ass muscles as he drove forward, balls-deep in one smooth, brutal stroke. "Fuck! Fucking filled!" Mike gasped.
Trent set a punishing rhythm, short, deep thrusts that hammered Mike’s prostate with unerring accuracy. The basement filled with the wet slap of skin on skin, Trent’s guttural grunts, and Mike’s high-pitched cries of pleasure-pain. "Yeah, scream for it! Let the whole neighbourhood know how good my dick feels stretching that used cunt!" Trent panted, adjusting the camera angle to capture Mike’s face contorted in ecstasy, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open wide. "Whose hole is this?!"
"Yours! My boy's hole! Fuck!" Mike bellowed, his body convulsing. "Wreck it! Breed it!" Trent’s thrusts became frantic, jackhammering deep. He dropped the camera, letting it hang, and grabbed Mike’s hips with both hands, slamming into him with primal force, letting the glasses camera get the footage. "Daddy's about to get filled like the bitch he is! Take my fucking load!" With a final, brutal shove, he buried himself to the hilt, roaring as thick jets of cum pulsed deep inside Mike’s channel. Mike came untouched, his sturdy cock jerking, splattering the floor beneath him with hot streaks, a choked sob escaping him.
Trent stayed buried, panting, his forehead resting between Mike’s shoulder blades. The only sounds were their ragged breathing and the faint hum of the camera equipment. Slowly, Trent pulled out, falling to his knees, and began to clean up. Trent's tongue and lips, lighter now, slowly circled and sucked gently on Mike's wrecked hole, showing Mike's flooded depths with the handheld camera. He stood up and leant over Mike, allowing a stream of mixed fluids to pour from his mouth to Mike's waiting tongue. Trent kneels back down and continues to cool Mike down, Mike's breathing and sighing echoing the task. The close-up camera captured the final aftermath: Mike’s gaping hole, red and puffy, oozing a thick stream of white cum mixed with lube onto his hairy inner thigh. Trent scooped some onto his fingers and held it up to the camera lens, the viscous fluid glistening under the lights, before smearing it back over Mike’s trembling hole possessively.
He clicked off the handheld. The red lights on the static cameras winked out. The harsh LEDs felt suddenly stark in the silence. Trent helped Mike out of the sling, his touch now gentle and supportive. Mike’s legs buckled, and Trent caught him, lowering him carefully onto the couch again. Mike leaned his head against Trent’s sweaty chest, utterly spent, his hole throbbing, a deep, satisfied ache spreading through him. Trent ran a hand through Mike’s hair. "Fuck," he breathed, a grin spreading across his face. "That was raw. That was gold." He looked around at the cameras, the lights, the nascent dungeon space. "Monday," he said, his voice thick with anticipation. "Shane starts building. And we start building something else." He squeezed Mike’s shoulder, the promise hanging heavy and electric in the charged air.
They showered meticulously, hot water sluicing away the sweat, cum, and performance adrenaline, the shared bar of soap passing between them in silent communion. Later, submerged in the deep, steaming bath, Epsom salts soothing Mike’s well-used hole, they floated in a haze of exhaustion and satisfaction, limbs tangled, Trent’s head resting on Mike’s hairy chest. The world outside the bathroom fog seemed distant, irrelevant. Clean skin, the scent of expensive sandalwood body wash, and deep muscle fatigue were the only realities.
Sunlight streamed through Trent's bedroom window the next morning, Saturday, waking them still entwined, limbs heavy and relaxed from the long soak. Mike blinked, the clean scent of their bodies and the lingering eucalyptus from the bath oils filling his nostrils. Trent stirred against him, his warm breath puffing against Mike’s neck, a low hum of contentment vibrating in his chest. "Mornin’, Daddy," Trent murmured, his voice thick with sleep, nuzzling closer, his morning erection pressing insistently against Mike’s hip. "Feel good?"
"Like I’ve been rebuilt," Mike rumbled, stretching carefully, feeling the satisfying pull in his glutes and across his broad chest. He turned, capturing Trent’s lips in a slow, deep kiss, tasting mint and sleep. "Fuck, that filming was intense. But, my god, it will be worth it though." His hand slid down, palming Trent’s hard cock through the thin sheet. "This needs attention."
"Later," Trent chuckled, kissing Mike's forehead and gently extracting himself and swinging his powerful legs out of bed. "As much as I want to laze around like teenagers, fucking and sucking until we pass out, we have priorities. I gotta make sure this machine," Trent said, crawling over the bed to kneel above Mike, "gets what he needs so he can have those nice fat titties and dump truck ass he wants. And... got some ideas for that machine’s packaging I wanna run past you. Plus, we need to look at last night’s raw footage so I can get started the edit. See the gold we mined." He padded naked to the bathroom, his sculpted back and ass a familiar, breathtaking sight. Mike watched him go, anticipation stirring anew, both for the promised ideas and for the sheer pleasure of watching Trent move.
Downstairs, the blender roared, pulverising frozen berries, Greek yoghurt, protein powder, and a scoop of collagen peptides into thick, vibrant smoothies. The sharp tang of berries cut through the kitchen air. Mike watched Trent’s biceps flex as he poured the thick, purple concoction into two large glasses. "Extra greens powder in yours, old man," Trent winked, sliding a glass across the counter. "Gotta keep that ass plumping and your tits perky." He squeezed Mike’s pec possessively. "I've been thinking about that a lot too," Mike said, "I thought I'd try some home baking. Oat muffins packed with nuts and seeds, maybe some protein flapjacks? High-calorie, clean, focused on building mass back there." Trent gave Mike’s ass a firm, appreciative slap. "Amazing", he purred, his tongue diving in to Mike's mouth.
A thought struck Mike as Trent licked a stray drop of smoothie from his moustache. "Hey, what about your own channel? Your site? The guys who follow you for your content... your solo stuff? We’ve been so focused on our project..." He gestured vaguely. "I don’t want you to abandon your income stream. Fans expect regular drops, right?"
Trent leaned against the counter, swirling his smoothie. "Honestly? Haven’t thought about it much. Don’t really want to play solo right now." He met Mike’s gaze, his expression open. "Doesn’t feel right. You’re... it." He shrugged, a little self-consciously. "Feels weird doing anything without you involved somehow."
Mike felt a warm surge of possessiveness mirroring Trent’s earlier sentiment. "So, what if I was involved?" he asked simply. "I’ll film you. Be your cameraman. Get the good shots... er... run the audio? Ok, so I don't know what I'm talking about. But I can learn. I want to learn. Whatever you need. You can just focus on performing. For me." He grinned.
A slow, predatory smile spread across Trent’s face. "Fuck yeah, Daddy. That works. That works perfectly." He drained his glass. "Right. Let’s get these temples primed. We start with stretches, as always, but moreso for you. I need that flexibility for the deeper manoeuvres." He winked.
Sunlight warmed the concrete floor as Trent guided Mike through a series of deep stretches on their matts, the garage door open to allow fresh air in, focusing intensely on Mike’s hips and hamstrings. Mike groaned as Trent applied gentle pressure, deepening a pigeon pose, the stretch searing through his inner thighs and glutes. "Breathe into it, Daddy," Trent murmured, his hands firm on Mike’s back. "Open up for me." Mike groaned, his libido reacting to Trent's words, his cock twitching. "Focus" Trent commanded, a desperate look momentarily ghosting his face. Mike focused, forcing the tense muscles to yield, imagining the increased range of motion translating directly to taking Trent’s massive cock deeper. But not right now. The proximity, Trent’s hands on him, the scent of his clean skin, made Mike’s ass clench and his morning wood pulse insistently against the mat. Trent noticed Mike's face, trying to concentrate, and chuckled softly as he moved to stretch Mike’s shoulders and chest. "We're both eager. That's not going to change any time soon. We control it. Work comes first."
The weights session followed, Trent meticulously supervising. They hit the major groups, but the focus, as planned, was undeniable: heavy hip thrusts that made Mike’s glutes scream and burn, cable flyes and incline presses designed to swell Mike’s chest. Sweat beaded on Mike’s brow, dripping onto his hairy pecs as he pushed through the final, gruelling reps of a heavy bench press, Trent spotting him closely, his hands hovering near the bar. "Drive it, Daddy! Fuck yeah! Two more! Make those tits grow!" Trent barked, the encouragement raw and thrilling. Mike grunted, veins standing out on his neck, and forced the weight up. Collapsing back onto the incline bench, chest heaving, he felt the deep, satisfying ache in his pectorals and the glorious fire in his ass. Trent straddled him. "Good shit. Real good. Look at that pump," he said as he grabbed at Mike's pecs. That desperate look came back into his eyes as he started to work on Mike's nipples. "Yeah, look at them titties grow," he murmured, lowering his head. Mike's groan was deep and resonant as Trent began to lick and suck at his hard nubs, feeling Trent begin to roll his hips against Mike's own turgid member. Trent moved from one nipple to the other, adding compliments and groans to his attentions. Finally, Trent pulled back, both of their shorts covered in precum. Trent stood up. "Focus, discipline." A wicked smile crossed his lips. "Breakfast."
Post-workout, the kitchen hummed again. Mike, energized despite the exertion, whipped up a massive breakfast: fluffy scrambled eggs with spinach and feta, crispy smoked bacon, grilled tomatoes, and thick slices of sourdough toast. The savoury aromas filled the air. Trent watched him move, a familiar hunger in his eyes that wasn't just for food. As they sat at the breakfast bar, shovelling in fuel, Trent pulled his laptop over.
"Okay," he said, swallowing a mouthful of eggs. "Your new clothes. I had a very specific idea. But that's all it is, something to start with. I call it the 'Slut Cowboy Jock Bro' aesthetic. It’s a vibe." He opened the laptop, clicking to a meticulously curated mood board. Mike leaned in, chewing slowly.
The screen exploded with images: worn, tight dark denim jeans, hugging muscular thighs and showcasing prominent bulges and fat asses; sturdy, scuffed leather work boots; thick, well-worn leather belts with heavy buckles. Tailored flannel shirts, open to the sternum, revealing chest hair and muscle, neutral button downs and thin, tight, textured sweaters barely containing thick torsos. Then more casual; short shorts, the hems higher than the crotch, the straps of the jock underneath visible, t-shirts with the arms cut out, leaving almost just a thin strip of fabric running down the middle of the torso, the sides open to reveal shoulders and chest and nipples. Fitted sweatpants that moulded to the ass and groin, over-tight white vests that squeezed the pecs and made nipples stand out. The models were all around Mike's age and possessed a rugged, masculine sexuality – confident stares, strong jawlines, bodies sculpted by hard work or the gym. One image showed a man in just boots, a jockstrap, a denim shirt open and pushed off his shoulders, and a cowboy hat tipped low. Another featured tight Wranglers, no shirt, just a leather harness strapped across a hairy chest.
"Think... functional meets filthy," Trent explained, his finger tracing the screen. "The denim’s tough, the boots are solid, but the way it’s worn? Shows off the goods. Highlights the chest, the ass, the package. The jockstrap peeking under the shorts? Instant signal. The harnesses? Pure Daddy energy." He glanced at Mike, eyes gleaming. "It says ‘I work hard, I fuck harder’. It’s you, Mike. Rugged, masculine, but secretly – or not so secretly – a total hole for his boy. What d’you think? Wanna be my Slut Cowboy Jock Bro?"
Mike stared at the images, the combination of raw masculinity and deliberate, tantalizing exposure sending a jolt straight to his groin. He pictured himself, chest and ass pumped, in the tight denim, his hairy chest on display beneath an open shirt, the harness on full display. "Wow, you really do like it," Trent chuckled, noticing Mike's hand absent-mindedly stroking his dick. "Fuck yes," he breathed, his voice thick with arousal and anticipation. "Let’s do it. Let’s get the gear." His cock leaked heavily against his sweatpants, the breakfast finished, now consumed by the potent visual feast and the promise it held.