Chapter 7: Audition Tape
The warmth of the penthouse felt like a dream half-remembered in the stark afternoon light flooding David's chaotic living room. Omar sat cross-legged on a floor cushion, cradling a mug of terrible instant coffee David had made. He was trying to look anywhere but at Jerry, who was circling him with the predatory interest of a heron eyeing a particularly plump frog.
"Pa," David was saying to Jerry, gesturing with a lit joint. "The boy needs to understand the art of filth. Theory is one thing. Practical application?"
Jerry, wearing silk pajama pants and a Sailor Moon tank top, stopped his circuit. "You want to give him a lesson?" His eyes flicked between them, shrewd and amused. "What kind of lesson?"
David grinned, a flash of white in the dim room. He took a long drag, exhaled a plume of fragrant smoke that coiled towards the sequin-tasseled lamp. "You remember those old, grainy videos? The ones with the cheap wood paneling and the sleazy producer?" He nudged Omar's foot with his own. "Casting couch fantasy. Raw, unscripted. Authentic."
Omar’s cheeks flushed. He understood the reference. His analytical mind began parsing the variables: a constructed scenario, a power dynamic, a performance within a performance.
Jerry’s eyes lit up. He snatched his phone from the coffee table, nearly knocking over the Bacardi bottle. "'Tol, you are a genius." He pointed a stern finger at Omar. "You. What did you eat today? We don't want you getting queasy and puking on Daphne's good rug, it's already stained from that Malört incident."
"He had eggs and toast at my place," David supplied, his gaze locked on Omar. "He'll be fine. Won't you, prinsipe?" The Tagalog endearment was a private reminder of the previous night, a thread connecting the raw intimacy of his bed to this new, bizarre proposition.
Omar swallowed, the coffee acidic in his throat. "What do I need to do?"
"Just be yourself," David said, his voice dropping into a smoother, more predatory register. "Be the eager little foreign student. Be the one who wants the part so, so bad." He stood, pacing the narrow space between the vinyl shelf and the bed. "I'll be the director. The powerful one. The one with the final say."
Jerry was already scrolling through settings on his phone. "Lighting's shit, but we can make it look grimy on purpose. Authenticity, 'di ba?" He positioned himself near the velvet curtains, framing the messy bed with its pile of silk sheets and discarded manga. "Okay.Places. Omar, on the bed. Sit on the edge. Look... hopeful.Naïve."
Omar moved, the sheets cool and slippery under his palms. He felt acutely aware of Jerry’s phone pointing at him, the lens a dark, unblinking eye. David stubbed out the joint, the bravado of Daphne settling over his shoulders like a familiar coat. His posture changed, his spine straightening, his expression shifting to one of cool, assessing disinterest.
Jerry hit record. "Okay.Rolling.And... action."
David walked into the frame, stopping a few feet from Omar. He crossed his arms, looking down his nose."So. You're the one who answered the ad. Omar, is it?"
Omar felt a strange, electric jolt. The apartment, his friend Jerry, the mess—all of it receded, replaced by the fiction. He looked up, allowing his nervousness to surface."Yes, sir. Thank you for seeing me."
David nodded slowly, as if unimpressed. "Resume says you're a student.UCLA. Chemistry."
"Chemical engineering."
"Close enough," David said, waving a dismissive hand. He took a step closer. "Look, kid. A lot of pretty faces want this role. It's a demanding part. Requires... physical commitment. You understand what I'm saying?"
Omar nodded, his heart hammering against his ribs."I think so. I'm very dedicated, sir. I'll do whatever it takes."
A slow, shark-like smile spread across David's face. He reached out, his thumb brushing Omar's lower lip. Omar’s breath hitched, a tremor running through him that wasn't entirely feigned. "I bet you will," David murmured. He dropped his hand. "Jerry, get a close-up on his face.Let's see those eyes."
Jerry moved in, the phone hovering inches from Omar's face. The intimacy of it was jarring, terrifying, thrilling.
David circled behind the bed, his voice a low rumble from just out of frame. "The part requires a certain... openness. A willingness to submit to direction. To be molded." His hands came down on Omar's shoulders, heavy and warm. "To obey."
Omar’s eyes fluttered closed for a second. He forced them open, staring directly into Jerry's phone. "I can obey."
David’s hands slid down Omar's arms, then around his waist. "Stand up."
Omar rose. David, behind him, pressed his body close, his chin hooking over Omar's shoulder so they were both looking into the camera. David's hands splayed across Omar's stomach, possessive and firm. "Tell the camera why you want this," David whispered in his ear, his accent thick and silky. "Tell them what you're willing to do."
Omar’s mouth was dry. He licked his lips. "I want... I want to be seen. I want to be good. I want you to choose me." The words, part script, part truth, tumbled out. "I'll do anything."
"Anything?" David's right hand slipped lower, palming the front of Omar's sweatpants, feeling the hardening shape of him."You hear that, Jerry? The boy says he'll do anything."
Jerry zoomed in on the hand on Omar's crotch. "What exactly is 'anything,' Omar?" Jerry's voice came from behind the phone, sharp and direct. "You like sucking big Pinoy cock?"
Omar’s blush deepened, a full-body heat. He felt David’s length stirring against his back. He nodded, swallowing hard."Yes."
"Yes, what?" Jerry prompted, his tone that of a producer, not a friend.
"Yes, I like it," Omar said, his voice stronger, a wire of defiance in the submission. "I like sucking big Pinoy cock."
David moaned softly, grinding against him."Good boy. But it's more than that, isn't it? It's about service." His lips were against Omar's ear now. "Jerry. Ask him properly."
Jerry’s voice was a flat line of inquiry. "Do you like serving Pinoy baklas?"
The word hung in the air.Bakla. A word with history, weight, complexity. A word David and Jerry wielded with pride and defiance. For Omar to claim it, to submit to it...
Omar turned his head, his cheek pressing against David's. He looked into the camera lens, his dark eyes clear and deliberate."Yes. I like serving Pinoy baklas."
David let out a shaky breath, as if the answer had physically struck him. His hands became more urgent, pulling at the waistband of Omar's sweatpants. "Prove it. On your knees. Show the camera what a dedicated little actor you are."
Omar allowed himself to be pushed down, the worn carpet rough against his knees. David stepped in front of him, undoing his own jeans. He freed his cock, already fully hard, thick and curving proudly. He nudged it against Omar's lips. "Open," he commanded, his voice tight.
Omar did. He took the head into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the crown exactly as David had liked before. He looked up, making sure his eyes stayed open, locked onto the camera lens as his lips stretched wider, taking more of David in.
"Jesus fuck," David hissed, his fingers threading into Omar's hair, not to guide, but to possess. "Look at him. Look at this rich little Arab prince on his knees for a poor bakla's dick."
Jerry moved, crouching low to get a better angle, the phone capturing every detail—the spit glistening on Omar's lips, the strain in David's thighs, the focused, almost scientific devotion on Omar's face.
"Ask him another one," David grunted, beginning a slow, shallow thrust into the warm, wet heat of Omar's mouth.
Jerry’s voice came again, closer now. "Omar. You begged for this part.You said anything. If the director told you to spread your ass open for him, right here, right now, would you do it?"
Omar released David's cock with a slick pop, a string of saliva connecting his lips to the swollen head. He didn't break eye contact with the phone. His voice was hoarse but clear."Yes. I would spread my ass for him."It was David who broke. The facade of the cool, controlling director shattered. "On the bed. Now." His voice was ragged, stripped of all pretense."Face down. Ass up. Jerry, keep rolling."
It was a frantic scramble. Omar crawled onto the silk sheets, the slippery fabric a sensuous slide against his skin. He got on his hands and knees, presenting himself. He heard the rustle of clothes, the rip of a condom packet – a concession to the reality of the messy room.
David didn't wait. He slapped Omar's plump ass cheeks apart, the sound sharp in the quiet apartment. He leaned down and spit, a thick glob that landed directly on his twitching hole.
"The fuck you looking at?" he snarled, but the heat was directed at the imagined audience, at the ghost of every person who had ever underestimated him. "This is where you beg for the part, papi."
David fumbled with the lube, squeezing a cold stream onto his fingers. He worked it over his thick, sheathed cock, the latex gleaming. He used the rest to slick Omar's entrance roughly, two fingers plunging in to stretch him. Omar gasped, his forehead dropping to the sheets.
"Tell Daddy Daphne why you deserve this role..." David growled, positioning himself. The blunt, broad head of his cock pressed against Omar's resistance. He leaned over Omar's back, his mouth against his ear. "Use your pretty Arabic. Beg me in your language."
Omar’s mind went blank, then white-hot. He knew the words, the filthy, beautiful, forbidden words he’d only ever whispered to himself in the dark. They poured out of him now, a desperate, guttural plea. "Law samaht, ya aini. Uriid zubak. Uriid an tamilni.Please, my eyes. I want your cock. I want you to fill me."
With a guttural cry, David shoved forward, burying himself in one savage thrust. Omar screamed into the sheets, his back arching, his body struggling to accommodate the sudden, brutal invasion.
Jerry was a silent, moving witness, his phone capturing everything: the clench of Omar's fists in the emerald silk, the sweat-slicked shift of David's caramel muscles as he pulled back and slammed in again, the raw, wet noise of the act itself. His gaze was analytical, assessing the lighting, the composition, but his own breath had quickened.
David set a punishing rhythm, each drive a punctuation to Omar's choked, Arabic-soaked pleas. He grabbed a handful of Omar's hair, yanking his head back so his profile was visible to the camera, his face a mask of exquisite agony."Tell them!" David roared. "Tell them who you belong to! Who's fucking this tight Arab ass?"
"Anta!" Omar sobbed, his body jolting with every impact. "You! I belong to you, David!"
The sound of his real name, not "Daphne" or "sir," broke something. David's thrusts lost their brutal precision, becoming ragged, frantic. He was chasing his peak, pistoning into Omar's surrendering body. "Gonna come," he gasped, his voice breaking. "Gonna mark you as mine on camera, you fucking slut. My Saudi little fuckhole."
Omar's own cock, trapped beneath him and leaking a steady stain onto the silk, twitched violently. "Let me come," he begged, the English returning in a desperate whimper. "Please, let me come."
David's hand snaked under him, finding his length, fisting it roughly. The friction was instant, overwhelming. "Come for Daddy," David snarled, his own orgasm a silent, tensing force. "Come for the camera, you desperate little star."
The dual sensations—the relentless pounding inside him and the harsh, fast strokes on his cock—shattered Omar's control. He came with a soundless scream, his body convulsing, his release hot and wet over David's hand and the sheets beneath him.
The feeling of Omar's internal muscles fluttering around him dragged David over the edge. He buried himself to the hilt, his body seizing as he emptied himself into the condom with a series of harsh, breathless grunts, his forehead pressed between Omar's shoulder blades.
Silence. Heavy, broken only by their ragged, sawing breaths. Jerry's finger hovered over the screen, then tapped to stop the recording. The sudden absence of the tiny red light felt monumental.
David slowly pulled out, collapsing onto his back beside Omar, one arm flung over his eyes. Omar lay where he was, shaking, feeling the slick coolness of the lube and sweat on his skin, the deep, burning ache in his core.
After a minute, the mattress dipped. Jerry sat on the edge of the bed, placing his phone face-down on the nightstand. He looked from David's heaving chest to the ruined, trembling figure of Omar. He let out a long, low whistle.
"Well," he said, his voice soft, devoid of its earlier producer's edge."'Tang ina. That's going to need some serious editing."
David’s laugh was a rough, breathless scrape against the silence. His arm slid away from his eyes, revealing a gaze glassy with spent exertion and the lingering film of their shared fantasy. He turned his head on the pillow, looking at Jerry, then at Omar’s shuddering back.
“You think so?” David’s voice was shot, gravelly. He ran a hand over his face. “Looked pretty fucking raw to me.”
Omar shifted, a pained, sticky sound against the sheets. He felt split open, physically and psychically, the ghost of the cock ring replaced by a deeper, more satisfying ache. The heavy scent of sex and sweat was an anchor in the spinning room.
“Jesus,” he managed, his mouth tasting of salt and shame and terrible, wonderful pride.
“That’s our boy,” Jerry said, but his tone held no mockery. He reached out, his thumb swiping gently through the damp hair at Omar’s temple. It was a touch of startling tenderness. “You did good, kid. Hell of a screen test.”
David pushed himself up onto an elbow, his eyes narrowing as he watched Jerry’s thumb trace the shell of Omar’s ear. A new idea, dark and possessive, flickered behind his gaze. He looked from Jerry’s focused expression to the phone on the nightstand, its black screen hiding the lurid evidence.
He had demanded everything from Omar. Begging in Arabic, taking his cock on camera. But it felt like a test only half-administered. The fantasy’s logic demanded completion.
“Omar,” David said. The single word cut the soft air.
Omar turned his head, his cheek smearing the silk. His dark eyes were wide, pupils still dilated with the chemical aftermath of everything. He saw the shift in David’s face—the soft aftermath hardening into intent.
David’s gaze flicked to Jerry, then back. A slow, knowing smile touched his lips. “You hear him? He says it needs editing. He was the camera man. The whole show, he watched.” He paused, letting the implication hang. “All that talk of service. You said you wanted to serve Pinoy baklas. Plural.”
He shifted, sitting up fully. He was still sheathed in the used condom, but his interest was no longer purely physical; it was theatrical, psychological. “Should the camera man have a taste? He filmed you like a piece of meat. Didn’t even get hard. Maybe he deserves a reward for his… professional detachment.”
Omar’s heart, which had begun to slow, hammered against his ribs again. His mind, usually so orderly, fragmented into a kaleidoscope of sensations: the profound sting of David’s possession, the cool scrutiny of Jerry’s lens, the intimacy of that thumb on his temple. They were not separate. They were facets of the same dazzling, frightening jewel.
He looked at Jerry. Jerry’s expression was unreadable, a waiting blankness. He didn’t move, didn’t encourage or deny.
David leaned close, his breath hot in Omar’s ear, his voice a thick, conspiratorial whisper that Jerry could undoubtedly hear. “Well? Do you want to serve another Pinoy bakla as well, habibi? Is that hungry little ass of yours greedy enough for both of us?”
The question wasn’t a command. It was an offering. A degradation and a promotion in the same filthy breath. It promised an even deeper submersion into the world they had created, a final, irrevocable surrender to the dynamic. Omar understood this was the true final exam.
He found David’s eyes. A thrill, sharp and electric, shot through his exhaustion.
“Yes, Daddy,” he said, his voice clear and ruined and certain.
David’s smile was brilliant and terrible. He looked at Jerry. “You heard him. Your turn, pare. Fuck him.” He peeled off the condom, knotted it, and tossed it in the vague direction of a wastebasket. He moved off the bed, his movements loose and sure. “Use me. I’m done for a bit. But I want to watch.”
The air crackled. Jerry blinked, the neutrality on his face finally breaking into something more complex—surprise, consideration, a slow-dawning heat. He looked at Omar, sprawled and marked on the bed, and then down at the front of his own silk pajama pants. A noticeable tent had formed.
“Fuck,” Jerry breathed, more to himself than anyone. He stood, shucking his pants with a decisive jerk. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, a shade darker than David’s.
He didn’t speak. He moved with a different energy than David—less performative, more deliberate. He picked up the discarded lube bottle from where David had dropped it, his movements economical. Omar watched him, his breath catching. This felt less like a scene and more like a transaction, a payment for his voyeurism.
“Roll over,” Jerry said, his voice calm, almost clinical. “On your back. I want to see your face when I go in.”
Omar obeyed, a new kind of trembling starting in his limbs. The position made him feel even more exposed. The ceiling was a water-stained popcorn landscape he’d never noticed. David stood by the vinyl shelf, arms crossed, a dark and approving silhouette.
Jerry slicked himself methodically, the sound obscene. He knelt on the bed between Omar’s legs, pushing them up and apart with a firm hand. He met Omar’s gaze.
“He ruined you,” Jerry stated, his eyes dropping to Omar’s swollen, slick entrance.“Good. Makes it easier for me.”
With that, he positioned himself and pushed.
Omar gasped. It was a different sensation. Jerry was bigger around, a thick, relentless stretch. He was less forceful than David, but also less merciful—a steady, uncompromising pressure that carved a space for itself. He bottomed out with a low grunt, his thighs pressing against the backs of Omar’s.
“Fuck, he is loose,” Jerry muttered, his eyes closing for a second. When they opened, they were bright with a focused, predatory light. “You’re just a hole now, aren’t you? A warm, wet hole for us to use.”
He began to move, a deep, rolling rhythm that was somehow more invasive than David’s hard pounding. It didn’t ravage; it occupied. Omar’s sore muscles, inflamed from David, burned anew, a delicious, punishing fire. Jerry’s hands gripped his hips, holding him still for the relentless, penetrating thrusts.
David watched, his own hand idly stroking his softening cock, his eyes burning. “Tell him,” David prompted, his voice a dark guide from the sidelines. “Tell him how much you love it. How you’re just a hole for any bakla who wants it.”
“I’m a hole,” Omar choked out, the words wrenched from him by the steady, deep intrusion. His own cock, deflated and oversensitive, twitched pathetically against his stomach. “I’m your hole.”
“Whose?” Jerry demanded, his rhythm never faltering. Sweat beaded on his upper lip.
“Yours!” Omar cried. “And his!” He was unraveling, the distinction between his two lovers blurring into a singular, overwhelming sensation of being taken, owned, used.
Jerry’s thrusts grew sharper, losing their clinical precision. The raw fact of it—this beautiful, rich boy, trembling and filthy and utterly surrendered—was getting to him. He leaned down, bracing himself on his forearms, his face inches from Omar’s.
“You like being sandwiched between two migrants, huh? Between two broke faggots who hustle for their rent?” His words were brutal, stripping away all fantasy, leaving only the raw power dynamic laid bare. “This is what all your money got you, kiddo.”
Omar’s eyes spilled over, tears tracking through the sweat on his temples. He couldn’t speak, could only nod frantically, his body convulsing with sobs that felt like pleasure, like agony, like absolution.
“That’s it,” Jerry rasped.“Let go. Be our rich little fucktoy.”
The crude words, the relentless physical claiming, the sheer illegality of the emotions in the room—it pushed Jerry over. He buried himself deep, his body going rigid, a series of harsh, guttural groans tearing from his throat as he came inside the condom. He collapsed onto Omar, his weight a crushing, final seal.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their desperate breaths mingling.
Jerry was the first to move. He pulled out slowly, a slick, wet sound. He stood, disposing of the condom with the same detached efficiency he’d started with. He glanced at David, a silent communication passing between them, then at Omar, whose chest was still hitching with silent cries.
David finally stirred from his post by the shelf. He approached the bed, his earlier intensity softened into something like exhaustion. He sat on the edge and laid a hand on Omar’s trembling thigh.
“Breathe, prin sipe,” he murmured, the old nickname a balm. “Just breathe.”
Omar turned his face into David’s palm. The soft touch after the relentless hardness broke something else inside him. He let out a long, shuddering sigh that emptied him completely.
The three of them existed in a shattered silence for a while, the afternoon sun creeping across the sequin-strewn floor, illuminating the dust motes and the lingering haze of their acts.
Finally, Jerry, pulling his pajama pants back on, gestured to his phone. “So,” he said, his voice strangely soft. “Do we keep it?”