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This is a work of Fiction. If the names of the characters bring to mind actual people that you may have seen somewhere . . . perhaps on television? . . . I assure you these characters are not those actual people. This is true even if, as you read this story, and you picture all that it describes (big as life on the flat screen between your ears), some of the fictional characters in this story look and sound remarkably like people you may have seen on TV.
IN THE TENT How It Ended
By the fifth hour after the madeleines were passed around, many in the tent have worn themselves out. There are clusters of snoring bodies on the carpet, curled up in each other's arms: tangles of two, three, four or more. Others must have stolen off to bed. Remarkably, a good number of the company continue to go at it.
Paul is still standing by the gingham altar, bent at the waist, arms braced on the tablecloth, still in his trainers and nothing more, though the trainers are no longer the pristine white of five hours ago. Prue has apparently gone to bed, and Dodzi has taken her place on the table. Paul is fellating him energetically, bobbing up and down on the long, thin black cock. Dodzi holds his camera to the side, capturing a tight closeup of the judge's lips wrapped around his cock, the close-cropped white hair and pink skin almost glowing against the dark chocolate of Dodzi's thick thighs. The ice blue eyes flick over, note the camera, and roll expressively, conveying `whatever' so clearly it would make a teenager proud. He does not stop sucking.
Nigel's camera captures the cascade of cum that has streaked the insides of Paul's thighs, as if dozens of men have blown a load inside him and the overflow has been trickling down his legs for hours. Andrew is pounding away at the moment, the ginger's pale, pert arse clenching and unclenching in a driving rhythm, his hands grasping Paul's hips so he can thrust deeper. The squelching sound of a hard cock fucking a cum-filled hole is clearly audible on the recording, as are Paul's muffled grunts.
The camera moves in for a close image of Andrew's cock sliding in and out of the dripping hole, then pans over to show the six men who are queued up to take the Irishman's place.
Noel is first, and his eyes are glued on Andrew's thrusting buttocks. The goth host licks his lips and strokes his cock and seems happy to wait and watch.
Behind him Joao and Hamish are in a liplock, their hands roaming all over each other, the two huge pricks grinding against each other. Pressed against Hamish's bulk, Joao looks cartoonishly thin. Against the ruddy flesh and auburn fur of the Scotsman, the Iberian's black hair and pale olive skin suggest a charcoal sketch glued onto a lush pastel.
Richard is next in the informal queue. The Welsh carpenter is kneeling behind David, smiling joyfully as he alternately digs his tongue into the athletic baker's hole and works three fingers in and out. He looks as though he can't decide which activity delights him more. This day may be his first experience with man-on-man sex, but it seems unlikely to be his last.
At the end of the queue Anthony is holding his dick in one hand and a plastic spatula in the other. There are trails of dried cum crusting the blond flattop and streaking his forehead. He gazes avidly at all the activity around him, stroking his dick, sliding the foreskin up an inch past the head and then down so far that the head is totally exposed. From time to time he flicks the spatula, delivering a sharp swat to the shaft of his dick. Both his dick and his shoulders twitch in response to each sting of the flexible plastic, and his mouth spasms into a happy grimace paired with a sharp intake of breath.
Anthony's attention shifts back and forth between Paul, taking load after load by the gingham altar, and Tamal, who is standing an arm's length away. Tamal is squatting slightly, his prick deep in William's mouth. The posh twink is sitting on the floor with his face buried in the baker's luxuriant bush and his fist buried in the baker's luxuriant arse.
Tamal has apparently decided that this brand-new sensation of a fist in his arse is something he likes. Very much. VERY much. William's hands are smaller than Andrew's, and he seems to be working his way deeper into the doctor's insides. Half of his delicate forearm has disappeared from view, and Tamal's face registers pleasure and amazement in equal parts.
Nigel's camera zooms in on William's smooth pale arm as it slowly withdraws, leaving Tamal's hole gaping. The young recording tech squirms around for a moment before sliding his hand back inside. When the camera zooms back out, Glenn is sitting behind William, arms wrapped around his waist. William is rocking his hips, fucking himself on the bear's helmet-headed prick as he continues to fist Tamal.
Nigel's camera gives a little jump. We know from Dodzi's footage that Guy has simply walked up behind him and shoved his cock in Nigel's arse. Nigel keeps recording, but his own moans dominate his camera's soundtrack for the next ten minutes as the tattooed electrician makes himself at home in the Geordie's experienced bum.
Nearby, Prakash is lying on his back, the pink polo shirt long gone but the pink turban still neatly in place. Tobias is riding him, the Sikh's fat brown prick sliding in and out of his pussy. Tobias's hands are playing with Prakash's nipples, tweaking and twisting and teasing them, then massaging the Sikh's massive pecs, bigger than the tits on most of the women in the tent.
Tobias lies down, chest to chest, and he and Prakash kiss tenderly, their hands caressing each other's bodies, their beards tangling together. Tobias breaks the kiss and looks into his co-worker's eyes. You sense they are truly seeing one another, perhaps for the first time.
Prakash holds the look a moment, then grins and draws Tobias in for another lingering kiss before thrusting his prick, hard, deep into the dripping pussy.
Dodzi joins them, camera still in hand, nosing into Tobias's backside like a curious puppy, lapping at Prakash's swinging balls, slurping Tobias's juices off the rigid cock, working his tongue in where the shaft and the hairy slit are joined. Dodzi's own camera picks this up in extreme closeup, his face a dark chocolate brown and his tongue pomegranate red against the milk chocolate of Prakash's cock and the strawberry pink of Tobias's pussy.
Dodzi crawls up onto Tobias, draping his body over him, rubbing his cock against the prick that is pummeling the set runner's cunt. The head of his cock searches for an opening, some space within the pussy that might let him in next to the Sikh's fat prick. Finding no room, he makes some for himself, pressing his hard cock against the flesh till it opens and allows him in, and soon both their cocks are rubbing against each other inside the young man's pussy.
Tobias is screaming "Oh fuck oh fuck OH FUCK" as the two cocks thrust back and forth in an alternating rhythm, then settle into the same movement, like one massively thick prick plunging deep inside him. His head is bobbing back and forth and his body shaking as the two men, one below and one above, stretch out his cunt.
Dodzi sets his camera on the floor behind them, giving a glorious view of the black and brown pricks sharing the hairy pink pussy. Then he pulls his cock out, glistening and dripping, and presses it against Tobias's other hole. It slides in smoothly, Tobias moaning "Oh fuuuuuuuck" as inch after inch slowly disappears into his arse.
Prakash and Dodzi set up a rhythm, the Indian's fat cock thrusting into Tobias's cunt as the camera operator withdraws from his arse, then the African's long thin dick driving into Tobias's tight arsehole as the sound recordist drags his prick from the swollen pussy. Tobias has gone limp, hugging Prakash to him, a look of bliss on his face as though he is no longer thinking but simply allowing sensation to wash across his body.
Prakash pulls fully out of Tobias's cunt and draws the set runner into a lingering kiss. The Sikh rotates his pelvis so his cock is rubbing the underside of Dodzi's dick, both pricks slick with Tobias's juices. Prakash presses the blunt head of his cock against the tight ring that Dodzi is already fucking. He murmurs,
"Let me in, baby. Open up for me."
Tobias's face takes on an expression of intense concentration. He's trying. He wants it . . . but it's not happening. Prakash kisses him again, sweetly, softly, and caresses his hair.
"Push out. You can do this."
And somehow the tight ring opens up just enough, and the blunt head slips in next to Dodzi's shaft. Prakash keeps his eyes fixed on Tobias, who is staring back, wide-eyed, as he feels the Sikh's fat cock, inch by inch, slowly filling his arse. Dodzi has stilled his motion, keeping his dick buried deep, until finally the camera just shows two hairy ball sacs and the peach fuzz arse.
The fucking resumes slowly, gently, the two tops synchronizing their rhythms so there is always one prick sliding into the hole and one prick drawing out. The stretch must be intense, but Tobias simply moans with pleasure.
By nine hours into `the incident' Nigel is the last of the camera operators still operating. The activity is down to two or three clusters, all men, when he finally sets his camera on a tabletop and does not pick it up again.
The abandoned camera records Tamal on his back on a bench, with Guy to one side of his head and David to the other. The tattooed electrician and the athletic baker are snogging and stroking each other's face and neck and chest and shoulders as Tamal turns his head alternately left and right, sucking each man's cock in turn. Hamish, Prakash, and Joao are taking turns on Tamal's arse, which squelches wetly and spits out cum as one man pulls out and another thrusts in. Nigel is holding Tamal's legs back, mesmerized by the three huge pricks that vanish up the generous brown arse and then reappear, like a magic trick captured in an endless gif. Andrew is gently stroking Tamal's dick and chest, moving in every now and then to swirl his tongue across a nipple or nurse on the doctor's cock. Matt is kneeling on the carpet, sucking the cummy slime off each man's cock as he withdraws it, dripping, from Tamal's arse.
This goes on for a good half hour before the men start drifting into other combinations. The camera remains on the table, capturing Andrew fisting Tamal one last time and then the two of them standing shakily up, embracing with a long kiss, and heading out of the tent in the direction of Andrew's room.
For the next two hours the camera catches nothing more than an occasional naked man stumbling across the frame and the background noise of grunts, moans, flesh slapping against flesh, slurping and squelching, giggling and, once or twice, a laughing scream. The last holdouts must have stopped fucking at some point, but the camera stopped recording first.
In the end, the investigators determined that the production company had no legal obligation to take the matter to the authorities.
The chief investigator, Mustafa, was an experienced solicitor with a strong sense of ethics . . . elderly, dignified, and cautious . . . but also a great fan of the show. He weighed the situation with great deliberation.
He noted that everyone involved was of legal age.
He found no evidence of coercion, though it was troubling that not one of the participants had obtained clear verbal permission before initiating sexual contact.
The arguable intoxication of the participants was a point of concern. However, with no physical or medical evidence indicating that anyone had, in fact, been intoxicated, the point was moot.
A few fragments of the madeleines had been identified and sent for forensic chemical analysis, but the tests showed nothing out of the ordinary. (Interestingly, the lab supervisor and the team of technicians who performed the analysis thanked Mustafa effusively for sending them the samples, though it was never clear precisely why the four men were so very thankful.)
The production company's internal rules of conduct had clearly not been followed (had in fact been flouted spectacularly), but that was a matter for the company to address, not the police. Mustafa advised his client to weigh carefully the questionable benefit to be obtained by punishing the misconduct (which seemed in any case essentially involuntary) against the difficulties of an unexplained mass firing (sure to trigger a union investigation) or the public relations catastrophe should the mass firing be presented accurately in the press.
There was the worrying potential for legal action regarding the abuse of power that is inherent in sexual relations between those with more authority and those with less, but Mustafa noted that the production company was not legally obliged to raise this issue, proactively, in the absence of a formal complaint.
What ultimately tipped the scales for Mustafa was that, in all his interviews with the cast, crew and production team, not a single person expressed regret or even the mildest concern about `the incident'. In fact, they mostly declined to discuss it at all, appearing to consider it a private matter that should not concern anyone who hadn't been there.
Perhaps this peaceful embrace of all that happened was the final bit of magic in the remarkable madeleines.
A few of the people involved seemed to have mentally filed away `the incident' as a pleasant dream, but most acknowledged its reality with equanimity, smiling with pleasure or bemusement when recalling it. Even the mighty Paul simply shook his head and said,
"I haven't done anything like that since Uni."
So, in the end, the investigators were sworn to secrecy, and the footage was erased.
Rumors flitted about the internet for a time, but they were so outlandish that even those who eagerly repeated them did not actually believe them.
After `the incident' those who were in the tent quietly closed ranks, effectively forming their own self-protective community. Once the investigation was concluded, no one who had been there that day ever again discussed the matter with an outsider (although one of the electricians did let slip that she had donated an old strap-on dildo to a carpenter, for him to enjoy with his wife). On set they worked with a warm and easy cooperation that visitors frequently remarked on. The resulting efficiency of the shoots pleased the production company no end.
There was a marked increase in social contact within the group, contact that often seemed to involve arriving for dinner and leaving after breakfast. The deliciously fresh scones or Chelsea buns served with morning tea or coffee may have been explanations in themselves, but it is likely that fresh-baked treats were not the sole (or even the primary) incentive for the overnight stays.
When it became apparent that eleven women from the crew and production team would be out on maternity leave at exactly the same time, just nine months after the failed shoot, the producers simply delayed the next season by several months. Once production resumed, the on-site nursery received a constant stream of visitors: a rough-handed carpenter rocking a baby in his hairy arms; a skinny assistant making funny faces to coax an infant's smile; a punk electrician changing nappies. One of the sound recordists showed an unexpected talent for singing lullabies in Punjabi, an infant in each bulging arm nestling sleepily against his ample chest.
As for Mustafa, nearly every night the chief investigator would wait for his wife to fall asleep, then slip out of bed and pad quietly down to his study. There, behind a locked door, he would watch his private copy of all the footage from `the incident', stroking his cock and letting his imagination go where it would.
He bought himself a small dildo and would ride it as he watched. As the weeks passed, he bought more dildoes, trying ever larger and more oddly shaped ones. As the months stretched on, he found he had lost interest in the smaller toys and concentrated exclusively on the largest, most extreme ones.
But even as years passed, he never lost his interest in watching all that had happened . . . IN THE TENT.
I hope you enjoyed this Ð it was fun to write, especially (in a geeky way) working out the structure of the storytelling.
My apologies to the English if I got any of the Britspeak wrong.
A great big shrug to those who actually know how the filming of a TV show works Ð this is a fantasy, after all.
If you did enjoy this, I encourage you to check out my other stories:
"The Lobsterback" (Historical; Incest) has some (much) rougher elements but is fundamentally a sweet character-driven story.
"Memoirs of a Slut" (Interracial) records some of the racier / more interesting moments in my personal history Ð let's just say that "In the Tent" draws on considerable personal research (though nothing involving madeleines).
I am always delighted to hear from readers who enjoy my writing. Randolph Shahairyzad@aol.com