METHOD ACTING A Haven Tesla Story
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. To maximize reading pleasure, please leave logic behind at the door - this story aspires only to be funny and sexy (unless you're the narrator), not to be seen as a representation of reality (from which it is far removed).
All characters are over the age of 18 while any resemblance to real persons is totally and wholly coincidental. The daytime television industry and Emmy Awards are similarly fictionalized.
It's been a very long time since we last checked in with our hapless young daytime TV star. I had intended to conclude the story with the previous chapter, but I love the premise so much (and it seems you do, too – I get the most feedback for this story) that I couldn't resist coming back to it. There are still plenty of soap tropes left for me to subvert with gay or homoerotic twists, and I feel it would be remiss of me not to. I know I originally said a sequel would be told from Randy's perspective, but Colt's story wasn't finished. After all, he's still not won that Emmy yet.
I'm not ruling out a Randy-narrated sequel in the future. For now, though, I'll let Colt take it away.
If you enjoy this chapter and would like to read more, do drop me a line at haventesla@yahoo.com – I'd love to hear from you. Thanks for reading and supporting Nifty.
<<< PART 5: Sequels and Reboots >>>
It had been two months since my disappointing showing at the Daytime Emmys. Two months in which Randy had swanned about the set with his trophy, giddy with joy at his totally unexpected (and utterly undeserved) win for Best Younger Actor. I wanted to snatch the golden statuette from him and shove it up his ass - did he honestly think he was the superior actor? I'd been robbed by those homos at the Academy, getting all googly-eyed over Randy doing what came naturally to him: making out with other guys and having his butt pounded on-camera.
Meanwhile, my own, substantially steeper sacrifices through method acting had gone unrewarded on awards night. How many truly straight men would have been willing to do what I'd done to turn in one solid performance after another? Shit, I'd acted out all those stomach-churning, non-simulated, gay sex scenes, the agonizing fist-fucks and double-penetrations, the revolting piss-drinking, the humiliating public nudity, the shameful cross-dressing as a prison bitch ... I'd even starred in a strip-show for the unworthy cause of eradicating homophobic bullying and given a master class in method acting at my former high school.
And after all that, it was Randy – fucking Randy, whose acting ability consisted of a single "deer in the headlights" expression, and for whom acting gay was not acting at all! – who was crowned Best Younger Actor by the Academy!
My rage and resentment was tempered - barely - by Hank. Just talking to him never fails to make me feel better. I'm so glad he is 100% in my corner. Needless to say, he completely agreed with my assessment that Randy's victory was undeserved although, for obvious reasons, he had to pretend that he was thrilled with one of his actors winning for playing out a story which he himself had written.
As Hank patiently explained to me, Randy's triumph meant that we needed a new strategy if I was to wrest the trophy from him at next year's ceremony. It was evident from the winners of the past five years that the prize always went to a young actor playing a gay character. My character, Max, wasn't gay, or even bisexual, although the casual viewer might not have known since he'd been forced repeatedly into endless homosexual encounters, first through blackmail and then through prison rape.
The conclusion was clear: if I wanted to snag the Emmy, Max would have to join the spectrum of LGBTIA characters. I wasn't happy about it - not even remotely - but Hank was pretty confident that was what needed to happen, and I had absolute faith in him.
But it couldn't happen overnight, of course. Scripts had already written up three months ahead and Hank apologetically revealed that he couldn't order rewrites on my account because such blatant favoritism was sure to get around the insular showbiz industry and probably wind up hurting my chances at next year's awards if the Academy felt I'd been given an unfair advantage over underdogs like Randy. The months would fly by, Hank assured me, and he had the perfect story for me when the time came. He wouldn't tell me any more than that, because he wanted it to be a genuine surprise, but he promised me the story arc he had in mind would be both an attention-grabber and a showcase for my talents.
In the meantime, I had to soldier through Max's ongoing prison ordeal, offering up my perpetually sore man-pussy for a bunch of ex-cons to pound into a pulp on a daily basis. They'd already been at it for weeks and, although I hated every second of it, I was growing used to it in spite of myself. Growing used to it is NOT the same as growing comfortable with it. The pain and the humiliation were undiminished. No matter how many cocks they squeezed inside my aching pussy, how often I had to drink piss or eat out male ass, each experience was still as excruciating and mortifying as it had been the first time.
I could've just about tolerated another three months of such treatment, but then Coach Barton had to go and make things infinitely worse.
Okay, so it wasn't Coach's fault exactly; Hank made me see that. Coach was only trying to be helpful, to make my character's prison experience true to his research so that I could deliver the most convincing performance possible. Since he was on set practically once a week (dropping in to play his recurring role of a sadistic guard who had it in for my character), he'd had the opportunity to observe how Max's torment paled in comparison to that of real prison bitches.
Although I recognize that his motives were pure, I really wish he hadn't shared those observations with Hank. Hank is such a stickler for method acting that he immediately pounced on Coach's suggestions to provide a sense of hyper-realism.
See, Coach felt that a teenage pretty-boy like Max would be supremely desirable to the horny inmates of a maximum-security prison who lacked even the benefit of conjugal visits that might otherwise take the edge off their sexual frustration. Accordingly, Max wouldn't find his circle of tormentors limited to the two dozen ex-convicts Hank had hired to play my fellow inmates. It was far more likely that he'd be passed around the ENTIRE prison like a cheap whore, and this meant that, even at the smallest correctional facility, 150 or so inmates would have their shot at breeding the prison bitch at least weekly.
Of course, it wouldn't be cost-effective to hire so many extras, but Coach had the ideal solution to approximate reality as closely as possible. He theorized that consuming the cum of 150 different individuals would aid me to `live' the part of a prison bitch. Better yet (his words, not mine), he already had guys lining up to contribute in excess of the 150 sperm deposits he reckoned would be needed each week.
Apparently, ever since my humiliating appearance at my former high school and my brother's subsequent casting on the show, students at Upper Albany High had been bitten by the drama bug. They were extremely keen to participate in any way they could. Coach beamed with pride as he revealed boxes filled with cannisters of ejaculate, each labelled with the name of the contributing student society. From the football team to glee club, they were all represented: well over 200 individuals in all.
I felt sick just looking at the array of sperm-filled flasks, especially when Coach revealed how he'd overcome the difficulty of getting deposits from athletes who were routinely (in his opinion) "wasting" their loads on girlfriends and female conquests.
"I told them to tie off their condoms once they'd been used and bring them along to school so they could be emptied into the cannisters," boasted Coach as I struggled not to retch. "The downside of that is their semen isn't too fresh, since they weren't about to leave them in their parents' freezers overnight," he added with a chuckle, oblivious to my misery.
"How come there are so many from the Geography Club?" asked Hank. I saw that he was looking over a box containing a dozen cannisters whose labels read Geo Club' or simply G Club'.
Coach lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Between us, Hank, the Geography Club is basically a front for Gay Club. They're all queer, with insatiable sexual appetites."
"What?" I yelped. "That can't be true. DJ used to be Geography Club president!" Our star linebacker had been subject to relentless teasing in the locker room for being such a geek, but no way had he presided over a freaking Gay Club.
A strange look seemed to flit across Coach's face before he shrugged. "Maybe it wasn't that way when Turner was president. Or maybe he wasn't aware what the other kids were doing behind his back. But I assure you G Club is gay central these days." He gestured towards the Geography Club box. "And you've got six containers of ball juice to prove it."
"Hang on, what are the other six then?" I realized half of the labels were white while the other half were yellow.
"Oh, the boys of G Club figured - rightly - that it wouldn't just be cum that prison bitches have to down by the gallon, but also piss."
I was so consumed by dismay that I didn't hear Coach and Hank's ensuing discussion about the best method to dole out the bodily fluids to me over the week to be sure the supply wouldn't run out before Coach could return with a new batch the following weekend. However, I only had a short wait before I found out.
After the ex-cons finished their morning gang-bang of me, they strapped a spider-gag over my mouth while a large steel funnel was unceremoniously inserted into my raw ass. And then, to my despair, they uncapped two cannisters and began simultaneously pouring their contents down my two orifices.
Patience was not their strong suit and they kept pouring faster than I could swallow. I choked and let some of the semen overflow and run down my face to the floor. There was so much more where it had come from that I didn't think a bit of spillage would matter, but I was mistaken. My head was forced to the ground and I was ordered to lick up the fuck-slop.
I balked because the set decorators had done an overly convincing job of making the floor resemble that of a grimy prison shower, and wound up with several swats on my ass before I would do as instructed.
The sperm mixture tasted even more disgusting when licked from the floor and I instantly resolved not to spill another drop in the future.
That resolution lasted all of two minutes because Hank thought it was realistic that a prison bitch would have to lick up cum from the floor. So he had me shit out all the jizz that had been funneled into my ass onto the same filthy floor and lick it up, too.
But we weren't done just yet. My shoulders slumped when I saw a grinning ex-con approach with a yellow-labeled cannister.
Guessing what was imminent, I reluctantly opened my mouth and closed my eyes. But instead of pouring the stale, cold piss down my throat, he dumped it on top of my head!
As I sputtered in shock and outrage, I was `reminded' (by way of a few more swats to the ass) not to let any of the piss go to waste. My demeaning task was prolonged by the inmates adding their own fresh piss to the foul puddle on the floor faster than I could lap up what was already there. I noticed that piss was a lot more palatable when it was warm; that I was even in a position to make this discovery chipped away at what little dignity I had left.
I was sure that I reeked of sperm and urine thanks to the colossal amounts I was swallowing on a daily basis. I couldn't even be certain what normal food tasted like because it felt like my tongue was permanently coated in a layer of cock slime.
Now, if that had been the extent of Coach's `helpful' advice, I could've (begrudgingly) accepted it. But there was more.
The problem was the balm applicator which Hank had given me to soothe the ache in my frequently violated man-pussy. I'd not had the heart to tell Hank because I knew he'd gone above and beyond to support me, but the applicator had never been very effective and, as time wore on, it seemed to become less and less so.
Not wanting Hank to think I was an ungrateful sissy, and in no position to see a medical professional, I was left with Coach as my only talk-to. After all, I reasoned, he had a sports science degree which might prove useful.
Big mistake.
Coach immediately demanded that I demonstrate to him exactly how I was using the applicator. Although Coach had, by this point, seen me naked, erect and getting fucked on multiple occasions (sometimes with him as my fucker), my face still burned with shame as he inspected my battered sphincter, pulling it open painfully wide with two thick fingers at either side.
Tears came to my eyes but I was grateful that at least he wasn't plowing me with his massive fist again. He had repeated that with alarming frequency, having decided it was the signature torment of his sadistic prison guard persona. Over and over, he'd plunge his fist deep inside me, until his entire forearm was buried. As you might imagine, reaching that stage took lots of painful practice; it felt like Coach was rearranging my internal organs and massaging my prostate to orgasm. Even the memory of the brutal fisting made my sphincter tighten instinctively, earning me a sharp slap on my rump.
"Hmm, I don't see the problem," Coach declared. "If anything, you're remarkably tight for a pussy that's seen so much action." He released my sphincter with an audible snap. "Let's try that again with the applicator."
I grabbed the phallic instrument and began gingerly pumping it in and out of my ass, wincing as it scraped my tender insides.
"You're not doing it correctly," Coach chided me. "It needs to go in deeper and quicker. In fact, I suspect you might have outgrown this applicator."
At that moment Randy and Brent entered my dressing room. (Strictly speaking, it was our joint dressing room. It sucked that I had to share with both of them. For one thing, I was always walking in on Randy `rehearsing' his love scenes with the hopelessly naïve Brent. For another, surely a star of my caliber deserved a dressing room of my own.)
They stopped short when they saw what was going on, wondering if they should give us some privacy, but Coach beckoned them in.
"You boys arrived at precisely the right time. Dory here was whining that his balm applicator's not been working as well as it should, but it turns out he's not been using it correctly. That's where the two of you come in. I need you to make sure Dory's pussy gets a proper workout ... I mean treatment."
"Sure, Coach," Randy answered enthusiastically. I didn't like the gleam in his eye. Brent looked a lot less confident but he also nodded in agreement with Coach's proposal.
Coach grinned in satisfaction and handed the applicator to Randy. "Now make sure you get it in real deep. And don't take your time; he needs it hard and fast."
"Oh, don't worry, Coach. I'll make sure he gets it - I mean, what he needs," replied Randy innocently. The little twerp! Since he won that Emmy, he'd become a real pain in the ass.
Evidently, he took the title literally, as he rammed the foot-long applicator all the way inside me in a single, swift thrust. I yelled out and glanced at Coach pleadingly, hoping he would admonish Randy, but it seemed he approved of Randy's roughness.
"I think Dory's also been a bit too generous with the lube; you can cut back on it next time. It detracts from the efficacy of the balm. Better yet, maybe next time you can forego the lube altogether and just give him a light rimming before you fuck him with the applicator. Brent, I think you could do with practicing your rimming; I've seen some of your performances and it hasn't been too convincing."
Brent didn't look too pleased about that. I knew he really hated rimming - what straight guy wouldn't despise eating out another man's ass? - so this was going to be almost as hard on him as it was on me.
Speaking of hard, I could feel myself growing an erection in spite of the excruciating pounding to which Randy was subjecting me. Lying on my back, with my ankles around my ears, there was no way my disgraceful boner could pass unnoticed.
Coach wryly observed to Randy, "It seems you're doing something right, kid; Dory's really getting off on it. That's not what we were aiming for, but at least we know he isn't in as much pain."
I couldn't believe Coach could come to that conclusion when I was in fucking agony. Randy seemed to be trying to turn my pussy inside out with every vicious plunge of the applicator.
Coach turned to me. "Dory, instead of squealing like a fucking girl, why don't you show Brent how a rim-job should be performed?" He jerked his head at Brent. "You, sit your ass over Dory's face - at least that way, we can kill two birds with one stone."
Although I was no more a fan of rimming than Brent was, I tongued his ass for all I was worth because I didn't want Coach to think I was a total loser. Without meaning to, I'd learned how to eat ass and now I put all of my best techniques to practice for Coach's (and Brent's) benefit. Brent must have come straight from filming a love scene with Randy because his ass was flooded with spunk and a lot of it dribbled out onto my face before I could even begin my rim-job.
There are few things more demeaning than having to eat out another man's ravaged, cum-logged ass, but I pushed past my revulsion to shove my tongue deep inside Brent and suck out his anal juices. You can imagine how difficult it was to concentrate with Randy violently jabbing me in the guts. Jesus, he was wielding the applicator like a weapon rather than like a medical implement. I groaned in anguish into Brent's ass almost as often as I tongue-fucked it.
Nevertheless, Brent clearly enjoyed my oral ministrations, because he came not once but twice on my face without even touching his dick. He was mortified, but I was secretly relieved because it made Coach focus on him instead of the fact that I, too, had shot my load while Randy was making mincemeat out of my ass.
At the end of it, my ass didn't feel any less sore - if anything, it felt worse! After another four-fingered examination, Coach had to concede that my pussy was swollen and distended. He promised to return with a better applicator the next time he visited the set.
On the face of it, you'd think his aid could not have come at a more opportune time. The morning before Coach returned, the crew decided they had to do a reshoot of the triple penetration scene because the camera angles weren't right the first time around or something.
My eyes nearly popped out of my head when I heard the plan. The triple penetration had been one of my most grueling scenes - and that included being fist-fucked by Coach Barton. It was the only time I'd actually passed out during filming. Just watching the finished footage, seeing them contort my barely conscious body into a pretzel to accommodate three dicks in my pussy, made me break out in a cold sweat. And now they were saying they had to film a repeat of it?
I'm embarrassed to say I couldn't keep my anxieties to myself and went to Hank. He couldn't quite mask his disappointment, although he tried to reassure me he didn't think any lesser of me for not being able to cope with the pain of a triple penetration again.
"Not many method actors can," he said. "The fact that you did it once - even if you did faint - is already a point in your favor. Of course, you'd be truly in with the greats if you could just reprise the scene without passing out. But I completely understand why you can't go that extra mile. It might harm your prospects next year, or it might not, but the Emmy will still be waiting for you the year after next."
Hank's well-intentioned words left me horribly conflicted. I did so badly want to win the Emmy (and the first thing I'd do with it is shove it up Randy's rectum). I couldn't believe that, after a whole year of deeply personal sacrifices, I'd lost out to that fucking loser. It didn't sit well with me that the trophy might elude me for a second year because I was too much of a wimp to take another triple penetration, which I'd already experienced once, after all.
"I'll do it," I told Hank.
"Are you sure? I don't want to compel you to do something you aren't perfectly comfortable ..."
"I'm sure," I said firmly, with a lot more confidence than I actually possessed.
Hank's smile made it worth it. "Fantastic! I knew you'd come through, champ."
I regretted my decision the moment I stepped onto set. By another of those confounding coincidences that seemed to plague my life lately, the triple penetration scene was being filmed on a studio open day. Coach had brought along several of the athletes who'd generously contributed their sperm. Among them was a blond, muscular teen who kept shooting snide glances in my direction. He seemed vaguely familiar but I wasn't able to place him until he sidled up to me and groped my bare ass, fingers disappearing deep into my crack.
"Still feels as good as it did on the wrestling mat," he sneered. I immediately recognized him as the high school wrestler who hadn't been pleased at having to pretend to lose to me in the staged wrestling match. Then, as in now, he'd reveled in fingering my ass publicly.
Before I could say anything in protest, Coach interrupted us. "Oh, good. I see you've already met Jethro Willis. Everyone at Upper Albany High's been following your career closely since you came to give that acting masterclass, but Willis has been especially interested in joining you and your brother on the cast. In fact, I'll be taking him to meet Hank after this to see if there's a part for him."
Jet piped up. "Coach told us how the show needed our sperm donations since they can't afford to hire more prison extras, so I figured they might take me on as an unpaid volunteer over the summer since I'm going to be spending it in the city at my uncle's anyway."
He was smirking so blatantly that I couldn't believe Coach had taken his offer of unpaid work seriously. It was clear as day to me that the bastard was only volunteering because he wanted to tap my ass. The very rough finger-fuck he was giving me told me as much.
I really needed to talk to Coach privately and dissuade him from signing Jet up as an unpaid extra but I wasn't given the chance because, at that very moment, the director yelled for us to take our places on set.
Once filming started, any lingering thoughts of Jet's sneaky behavior quickly vanished. My character's cellmates, Clovis and Boyd, coincidentally the two biggest ex-cons (in every sense; they sported 13- and 14-inch cocks, respectively), grabbed me and simultaneously impaled me on their hard rods. I couldn't help letting out a shriek at the brutal and sudden double-penetration, with no more lube than what I'd taken the precaution of coating my own ass with prior to filming.
Clovis and Boyd only accounted for two dicks though. I dreaded the addition of the third. Expecting another inmate to step up, I was surprised when Clovis brandished a large dildo instead. It looked suspiciously like it had been made from a cast of his own cock. I whimpered softly, certain that the dildo was larger than the third dick I'd taken the previous time we'd filmed a triple penetration.
"The problem with the first time we filmed this scene was the cameraman couldn't get a good view of the three cocks ravaging your hole because there were too many bodies in the way of clear close-up shots of your taint," the director explained later. "Replacing the third cock with an artificial one will overcome that problem."
I couldn't for the life of me fathom why they would require close-ups of the three cocks pistoning in and out of my pussy. It's not like that footage could be aired on national TV, or even late-night cable for that matter!
The director, however, was adamant that it was necessary and he kept ordering retakes if any angle of the triple penetration wasn't captured to his satisfaction. That resulted in the shoot lasting well over four hours. Hours that I spent bouncing on three cocks while the director endeavored to secure the ideal angle.
It was sheer, unadulterated agony and the only reason I didn't pass out on this occasion was because the director had arranged for smelling salts to be kept within reach of my abusers. Any time Boyd saw my eyes roll back into my head, he was to shove them under my nose to prevent me from losing consciousness. I actually found myself longing for the oblivion which I was denied. I was sweating so much that there was a large puddle beneath me.
Although my ass was being reamed out mercilessly, it didn't mean the rest of my body was given a respite from abuse. Ostensibly to silence my screams, two ex-cons shoved their cocks down my throat (they tried for three in that orifice too, but it just wasn't possible; my jaws, unlike my sphincter, could not stretch as wide). My nipples and my cock were also molested continuously as my tormentors sought to make me spill my seed.
In that respect they were successful; I was humiliated when I blew my load twice in the course of my ass-destroying ordeal.
By the time filming wrapped up, I was a physical wreck, sweaty and sore all over. I barely managed a weak high-five when a beaming Hank congratulated me on delivering a solid performance. It took me another half-hour to go around greeting the open day guests (I wanted to blow them off, but Hank insisted I had to meet all of them personally or word would reach the Academy that I was too snobbish to appreciate my fans.)
It was just my rotten luck that all the guests were eager for snaps of themselves pointing right into my distended sphincter, which was oozing cum from not only my rapists, but also my former school's sportsmen. ("That's my load," crowed one boy, although I had no clue how he could possibly distinguish his sperm from all the rest thickly coating on my body.)
At least I had some relief from the absence of Jet, who I was afraid would encourage the others to finger my awfully sore pussy. I didn't think I could take that in my current state. I wanted nothing more than to return to my dressing room, collapse onto the daybed there and pass out. I told myself that there were only a couple more guests and then I could do precisely that.
Unfortunately, Coach had other plans.
Just as I wrapped up meeting the last fan and waddled over to the door (as fast as I humanly could when my ass throbbed with every step), Coach reappeared in the doorway and blocked my way. Jet was right behind him and wheeled in a cloth-draped, vaguely boxy contraption. I noticed that the high school senior was not wearing his customary smirk but instead appeared downcast. I postulated hopefully that Hank had seen through his ruse and declined to hire Jet as an extra. Surely I was due that bit of good fortune at least?
Coach loudly proclaimed, "Colt, this is that new and improved applicator you wanted. I went one further and upgraded the balm to a stronger formula, too. This treatment device is definitely going to take care of that aching pussy."
I was embarrassed by Coach announcing this in front of the open day guests - I wasn't comfortable with them knowing the intimate details of my anal distress - but Coach's unveiling of his treatment device soon superseded that in my attention.
I stared in horror at the new applicator, which was mounted on top of a low box. Coach clearly believed that "bigger is always better", although in hindsight, I shouldn't have expected anything else from a guy who was as well-hung as he was.
The upgraded applicator surpassed the original by at least two inches in both girth and length (or more accurately height, since it was mounted vertically). Coach reeled off the dimensions (15" long and 8" around), mortifying me by informing everyone that it had been necessitated by my ass having grown accustomed to anything smaller than that.
Disturbingly, the surface of the applicator was riddled with many small, rounded protrusions that resembled pimples. Coach shared that these would discharge the super-strength balm directly into my back passage at timed intervals to ensure an even and thorough coating. He waved away my concerns that it might also irritate my sensitive anal lining. I didn't press the point because I didn't want to sound like a wimp.
"Why's the dildo fixed to the top of a box?" asked a boy curiously.
Coach smiled patiently at him. "It's an applicator, kid. A dildo is a sex toy. This is a medical instrument. To answer your question: Dory wasn't taking the applicator as deep as he should, and had to rely on his co-stars to help him out. I chanced upon this concept, which eliminates the need for a helper, while combining the anal therapy with exercise.
"Dory, come over here and demonstrate how applying the balm is also a workout. Squat over the applicator. All the way down. No, you've still got a couple of inches to go."
I was blinking back tears of pain. The applicator was seriously thick (had Coach modelled it on his arms?) and was so long that I was sure it was poking me in the chest. If this was supposed to be therapeutic, then I was not feeling it - at all.
Finally, my butt cheeks touched the top of the box; I had all 15 inches of the applicator buried inside me.
"Well, you took your own sweet time," criticized Coach. "You're gonna have to be faster, a lot faster, when you're doing it properly. Now, turn that dial on the front of the box up to the first setting."
I did as instructed and was stunned when the applicator whirred to life and started to revolve slowly. Simultaneously, a cooling gel squirted out of the pimples and coated my insides. The sensation was surprisingly blissful (although I could have done without the constant rotation of the applicator) and I was ashamed for thinking Coach did not know what he was doing.
A few moments later, my relaxed sigh turned into a scream as the gel heated up. Within seconds, it felt like my insides were on fire.
"What the fuck?" I yelled, trying to get off the applicator. Coach held me down with Jet's support.
"Stop struggling, Dory," he hissed in my ear. "People are watching."
"But ... but ... the balm never did that before," I sobbed. "It feels like that time, freshman year, when the seniors pranked the new recruits by putting Deep Heat in our compression shorts." I sniffed and thought I caught a whiff of menthol. "It even smells like it!"
"Don't be ridiculous, Dory. Of course, I've not put Deep Heat in the balm. That stuff is meant for external use only. But I dare say it feels similar because both are meant to do the same thing: relax strained muscles. It'll burn for a bit but then you'll be fine." Coach's explanation made sense but it didn't alter the fact that at that very moment it felt like someone was taking a burning-hot poker in my butt.
"Now stop whining like a fucking crybaby and do proper squats. Hands behind your head, stand up straight and then all the way back down, hold that pose for 10 seconds while the applicator does its job, and repeat."
Still sniffling, I put on a brave face and performed the 100 squats that Coach demanded. Even if I hadn't been exhausted (my thighs were killing me), having to impale myself fully on the gigantic applicator on each downward motion was torture. Coach didn't make things any easier by progressively turning up the dial until the applicator was at its highest setting, at which it was whirling around at a furious pace. I'd felt that getting fist-fucked had churned up my guts, but this was the real deal. Jesus!
Forty minutes later, I nearly wept with relief as I completed the hundredth squat. My audience applauded me enthusiastically; they had counted each squat out loud. My ass was comfortably numb, thanks to the balm, but I was physically drained. I really needed a rest. I looked around but couldn't see Coach. He must have left at some point during the squats. I was grateful, because I didn't want him assigning me any more exercises. I staggered to my dressing room, unable to stave off sleep any longer.
However, as I approached the room, I heard loud grunts and anguished squeals emanating from within. It could only be Randy and Brent, rehearsing another one of their countless love scenes. I gritted my teeth angrily and prepared to order them out so I could crash in peace. I flung open the door ...
... and the sharp rebuke died on my lips as my jaw dropped in amazement.
The room's occupants were Coach Barton and Jet Willis. The teenager was hanging from the pull-up bars that Hank kindly had installed so that I could get a workout without having to pop out to a gym. Coach was pressed up against the boy, locked in what appeared to be a very passionate, sloppy kiss. Jet was completely naked, revealing an impressive physique for an 18-year-old, and his chunky thighs were wrapped around Coach's waist. Coach was still wearing his sweatshirt but his sweatpants were down around his ankles and his bare butt jiggled as he pounded away at Jet's boy-pussy.
As I watched, Coach broke off the kiss to move his lips down Jet's chest and bite down on a nipple. Jet shrieked and begged Coach to go easy on him.
"It's my first time," he cried, tears running down his cheek. "Please!" Then he noticed I was in the room and he fell silent, a bright crimson blush spreading from his face all the way down to his torso. That alerted Coach to my presence and he released the boy's nipple to turn around and face me.
"Ah, Dory, there you are. Finally. Don't tell me it's taken you this long to finish 100 squats."
I cautiously drew closer, unable to take my eyes off Coach's enormous dong disappearing into Jet's tight little butt. The kid really was very well-muscled. His biceps bulged as he strained to maintain his grip on the pull-up bar.
"Uh, yeah. Sorry, Coach. I wasn't 100%."
Coach rolled his eyes. "Well, I'll give you a pass this time because of the triple-penetration but no more slacking off in the future, alright?" While conversing with me, he didn't let up on his brutal banging of Jet's pussy and the teen groaned pathetically as his cock went especially deep.
"I was just breaking Willis in, so to speak," said Coach by way of explanation. I couldn't help thinking it was an apt description of what Coach's monster cock was probably doing to Jet's virgin pussy.
"You see," he continued, "Hank decided that he already had a number of prison inmates on the cast. What he still needed was a second prison bitch, with whom your character could develop a sense of kinship through your common tribulations."
From Jet's earlier comment and the current expression on his face, I knew this was not what he had expected to play. Hank had indeed seen through the idiot. Instead of getting to use me as his personal fuck-toy, Jet was going to take some of the heat off me since the number of ex-cons was fixed but their available pussy had just doubled.
A smile spread across my face. "That sounds pretty awesome," I enthused.
"Yes, Hank thought you'd agree," replied Coach, with a barely perceptible smirk that I was sure I'd imagined. "He suggested you were the best person to get Willis up to speed, considering you've been playing a prison bitch for four months now. He has a lot to catch up on, in a very short time."
"Oh, I'm more than ready to help Jet out," I assured Coach. Behind his back, I shot an evil look at Jet, who gulped.
"Great. I thought we could start with double penetration. I mean, that's the most basic skill in a bitch's repertoire, isn't it? If he can't handle two cocks at once, how will he ever accommodate three like you did today?"
"Totally" I agreed, not even bothering to keep the glee out of my voice. Double-dicked barely minutes after getting his butt cherry popped? Hell yeah. I'd show Jet who the real bitch was. He'd have a first time he'd never forget. I wouldn't let him forget it.
He saw the determination in my eyes and his own filled with fear. He clearly regretted having mocked and molested me.
Too bad. It was too late for regret.
My exhaustion seemed to have evaporated. I went around to Jet's back and started pushing my fingers into his stuffed hole. He hadn't been lying about this being his first time; he was insanely tight. He made a rookie mistake by clenching his sphincter in an attempt to keep my fingers out. I wasn't about to advise him any differently.
A second dick in there was going to hurt like hell. Serve him right. He'd assumed he was going to come into the studio like he owned the place and fuck whoever he took a fancy to. Well, he was the one getting owned.
"Smelling salts are over there," Coach pointed out. He must have taken Boyd's supply. He evidently didn't believe Jet could get through the double penetration without fainting.
I didn't waste any more time prepping Jet's hole. I primed my cock at his backdoor, ready to shove it in alongside Coach's.
Jet was pleading with us to do this another day, to give him more time to adjust to getting fucked with one dick before we stuffed him with another simultaneously.
I was hard as a rock listening to his pitiful whimpering.
"You think prison bitches get to plan their own timeline for when they're ready to be dicked, double-dicked, fisted?" With that, I rammed my cock in.
Jet howled like a banshee and lost his grip on the pull-up bar. It was lucky that he was pinned between Coach's body and mine. I looped an arm around his stomach to keep him stable and encountered a sticky substance. I didn't think Coach had ever let his cock out of Jet's hole since he started fucking him so the cum had to be Jet's own. He must have blown his wad at some point while Coach was deflowering him.
He was moaning deliriously about how much pain he was in, so I brought my sperm-slick fingers up to his face and crammed them into his mouth. "It can't hurt that much."
That shut him up - at least until I started fucking him in earnest. That renewed his wailing.
It didn't stop him from ejaculating a second time though. And a third. And a fourth.
We shoveled all the cum into his mouth and force-fed him more from the new cannisters that Coach had brought down from Albany.
"Forget about staying at your uncle's place," I told Jet. "I won't be able to monitor your progress as effectively unless you stay at mine. I've only got the one bed which I'm already sharing with my brother but you can always sleep on the floor. Well, when I'm not teaching you how to take dick."
The look of dismay on Jet's face was priceless. My summer was finally looking up.
To Be Continued ...
If you enjoyed this chapter, let me know at haventesla@yahoo.com I'd love to hear from you. Thanks for reading!