I reached over and pulled on the strap that changed the position of the video camera at the side of the bed a bit.
"Whatcha' doin'?" asked Delon, prone on his back under me on the bed, his beefy, tattooed, chocolate arms flung over his head, his fists gripping the brass rung at the top of the headboard.
"Just changing the angle of the camera a bit," I murmured, turning my head to the side a skosh so that the camera didn't see my lips move. These cameras Delon insisted on running, the one beside us and the one behind us, and the one he had installed on the ceiling above us, were cramping my style of straddling the big dancer's hips and riding his cock, leaning over him, my hands gripping his wrists on the headboard after I'd finished adjusting the side camera.
Vanilla riding chocolate. Both hunks, both Chippendales dancers at the Highland Nightclub on L.A.'s Hollywood Boulevard, denoted here because we both had our tux bow ties and white tux wrist cuffs on--and nothing else.
Delon Barber, my roommate and dance mate on the club stage, had said we could make money from doing it in our own bed, at our own leisure, to our own pleasure. Our pimp, Ed Ellis, had agreed that videos on the Net would be good advertisement. I was all for anything making money, and I wasn't ashamed of my body--or of using it to make money. Or of being filmed making money this way.
From across the room, Ed held up the "Change Position" sign, and I did so, turning around on Delon's big black bull cock without losing it, to where I was facing his feet. He bent and spread his legs more, and I grasped his knees and vigorously pumped myself on the cock like I was a bicyclist pumping my way up a mountain.
"Oh, shit. Oh, fuck, I'm gonna come," I cried out, taking my right hand off Delon's knee, grasping my cock and stroking it. Tensing and jerking, I fired off my shots--three of them--and collapsed onto my face between Delon's spread legs, my face turned toward the side camera to give it a shot of my "came big" release reaction. As I went down, Delon rose up over me from behind, grasping my hips between his hands, pulling me up onto my knees to a doggy position, my chest and cheek pressed to the mattress, mounted me high, and took over the fuck pumping.
Ed had said that unusual-position films sold well.
From across the room, he gave an Italian finger tips-to-lips signal of approval, grinned, lowered the hand to mimic cock stroking as he put his hips into motion. He clearly was pleased with how the scene was unfolding.
Delon pumped away until he arched his back and head, cried out his victory to the ceiling, and filled the bulb of his rubber. He collapsed on top of me.
"Great. Fuckin' great," Ed called out from across the room. "Now get a shower, Delon. We need to get to the club. You fuckers have a show to do."
When Delon left the room, I remained in position, chest and cheek to the mattress, tail in the air. I knew where this went--time to pay the pimp his commission. Ed, a former Chippendales dancer himself, now too old for it, but still in fair condition, stripped off his trousers and briefs, climbed up on the bed, checked the position of the camera, mounted my tail, penetrated, and took up the fuck.
Both manager of the Chippendales dance revue at the Highland Nightclub and pimp for dancers of his choice, Ed demanded--and got--his slice of his guys.
Ed was still mounted on my ass, fucking me, when Delon came out of bathroom and stood there, naked, half hard, his half hard still enough to put most men to shame, and rubbed his hair with a towel. All of the guys on the dance line had hair coming down to their shoulders. Delon's was in dreadlocks, mine in blond curls. It was one of our unifying signature looks--that and our finely sculpted bodies that we spent half the day maintaining.
Ed and Delon wouldn't fuck after Ed was finished with me. They both were tops; they wouldn't do each other. I bottomed with men and could be either dominant or submissive with women, depending on what they wanted to pay for. I was nominally bi, but I preferred a man's cock inside me, given the choice. But sex was sex was sex with me, so either/or was fine.
Ed came and rolled off me. He slapped me on the ass, saying, "You've got one sweet ass, Brad." I was glad I still had his approval. Once a guy had let himself go, Ed kicked him right off the dance line and the pimping list. Ed was not the maudlin sort of guy. He went around the room, switching off the cameras, reverting to all business. "It's even later now than it was before, bitches," he said, not mentioning that the needs of his dick were what had spun out the time. "Delon's out of the showers, Brad. Your turn. Make it snappy."
I made it snappy and we got to the club in good time to set up for the first show.
* * * *
There were ten guys in the Chippendales troupe, enough to field a full dance routine with guys left over who were sick or hurt or had some other excuse not to dance. I was good friends with most of them, made easier because most of the them were tops and on the make. Most of them had been on the make with me at one time or the other, and all of those who wanted me, got me. They were Chippendales. They were sexy and had great bodies. I was known to be easy. Sex was a cheap quantity, usually enjoyed, always renewable. I was known to be the one who laid around, legs open, ready to be poked as long as the stud was a stud. And all Chippendales men were studs. It was a requirement of the job.
We were all bi capable and willing. That was another requirement of the job. We could have preferences, but we were required to be ready to do it all and, while we were on stage, to be all things to all patrons. We weren't all pimped by Ed Ellis, but we all were required to dance for the audience, each person in the audience, and there were shows for couples and shows for women and shows just for men, and our dance for each of them was to be a sexual experience for the individual patrons. Old or young, fat or slim, beautiful or ugly, woman or man, as long as they had money in their billfolds and purses that they were willing to exchange for sexual fantasy, we were to be making love to, having sex with, each of them individually in our dance on the stage.
The one guy I couldn't say I was on good terms with was Erik Sonderlund, the Scandinavian hunk. That we didn't get along well, I was sure, was mostly because we were near twins. Mostly, the troupe had been put together with an eye to contrast and variety--giving each gal and guy ogling us on stage someone special, gauged to their individual arousals, to watch. The exceptions in this troupe were Erik and me. We were virtual twins. We both were on the slender, yet still perfectly muscled, side, both smooth, good-looker yellow blonds. We were the best dancers in the troupe. We had the best moves. We were placed on the floor where, together, we grounded the dance and all the other guys were dancing around us. And we both were bi, but preferred to bottom. This placed us in competition with each other. We both recognized that, and we both played the role to the hilt. When either of us saw a desired target in the audience, our competition began.
This night was about the same as other nights in the competition for patron attention between Erik and me. As we danced, we watched to see if the other one was honing in on someone, usually in the first couple of rows from the stage and toward the middle to play to--to try to make look at us more than the other guy. On this occasion, it was a woman and she stood out. She was tall, thin, blonde, and money. She wasn't young, maybe in her forties, and she was carefully made up, but she knew she was hot for her age and that she could buy the club or any of us guys dancing for her on stage just in our bikinis, bow ties, wrist cuffs, and boots. She posed in her seat more than sat, wore a white sheath with sparkles that glittered in the roving spot lights, with cleavage down to her navel and side spits up to the hollows between her ass and pelvic bone.
The seat beside the woman I thought of as "The Model"--because that's how she carried herself, even if the peak of her modeling career had been fifteen years earlier--on one side was empty and a woman wrapped around a man on the other side of her was on the other. So, maybe all of her attention could go to the stage. Maybe it could go to the guys on the stage--and just maybe it could go to me rather than Erik.
Erik and I danced for all we were worth, shaking our booty, doing our best signature moves, and thrusting our pelvises to the front row. The Model remained cool as a cucumber, but she had a little smile on her face and her long, slender fingers toyed with her lips in a teasing way. Her eyes moved from Erik to me and back... and then to me and remained there.
I was grinning ear to ear at Erik as we came off the stage, and he slinked off with a scowl on his face. I thought it had ended there. It had been fun, but the woman was too old for me and well out of my league. She thought otherwise, though. It had been the last dance of the night and I was off now for two days. That was just as well, as my projects for the acting school I was going to were piling up and needed attention. At the same time, I needed some cash, so I'd try a hookup before I went back to the apartment. I already was out tonight. If I could score, I could stay in the next day and study--if Delon kept his hands off me and Ed, my pimp, didn't show up.
I was finishing dressing in my "pickup" clothes--tight black jeans, a black mesh athletic T, and shiny black boots--when Ed Ellis came for me. Standing behind him, in the frame of the doorway, was a petite, standing no higher than maybe five foot three, but buxom black girl of about my age--early twenties. She was a cutie, all curves without quite being fat, her tits a big handful, the nipples clearly discernible through the material of her shirt. Her black hair appeared to be close cropped, but I couldn't tell for sure, because she had a chauffeur's hat on. She was dressed like a chauffeur too, so I surmised that's what she was.
"This here is Tonya, Brad," Ed said. "She's got a car out by the stage door and a passenger in back who has engaged your services for the next two nights. When you're ready--and I see you already are--go with her and do your stuff."
So, like that, I didn't need going to look for a hookup tonight but I also could kiss working on my school projects in the apartment tomorrow good-bye as well. Oh, well, that was life in the Chippendales world in Los Angeles.
The car was some British royal boat--a silver Rolls or Bentley--and the passenger in the back was "The Model" from the front, center row of our last show of the night.
Her name was Susan, she had a low, throaty laugh and husky voice I liked to listen to, she wasn't wearing panties under that slinky white, sparkly sheath cut down to here and up to there that gathered up nice around her waist, and she straddled my lap, my black jeans and bikini briefs bunched up on the car's floor; facing away from me while I cupped her small breasts with quarter-sized aureoles. Under her control I languidly took my cock on a ride deep in her ass, as her silver boat cruised the Hollywood Hills above Hollywood Boulevard, close to the Highland Nightclub. It was an arousing change of pace to take a woman in the ass, but it's how Susan wanted it.
