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EROTIC SHORT FICTION 4

The below tale of heterosexual coprophilia is quite extreme in nature. It’s also a rather sweet tale, but includes a scene some may find sickening and in bad taste. I personally am not into the subject matter, preferring to fantasise about such behaviour, like incest, than actually engage in it. Each to their own! It’s just something I’d rather see other people doing. However, I do enjoy occasional piss play by myself, so the events aren’t entirely imagined. Please turn back now if you are of a conservative disposition. There is nothing for you here. Believe me.

BOTTLE STOPPERS

A frustrated college girl spends the weekend earning her tuition fees through novel and satisfying means.

DISCLAIMER: ALL CHARACTERS ARE 18+ AND ALL OPINIONS EXPRESSED WITHIN THE ENTIRELY FICTIONAL SERIES OF EVENTS BELONG TO THE HYPOTHETICAL NARRATOR AND NOT THE AUTHOR.

My name is Kelly Watson. You’ve probably passed me in the street a hundred times. You may have sat across from me in restaurants or pubs. You may have bumped trollies with me in the supermarket and not given it a second thought. But I do exist, even though often it feels as if I do not. I am a celebrity though. Well, of sorts. However, you daren’t mention my name to your partner or employer, should you recognise me about the place.

It’ll just be our little secret, okay?

As public services fall apart, including bin bags piling up in the street and nobody turning up to put out major fires, the government seems happy to spend our taxes on fighting religious wars abroad, under the guise of fighting drug lords or oil field possession or the threat of weapons of mass destruction or some such bollocks. Meanwhile, education and healthcare are under financed at home, which are necessary utilities that can actually save our souls.

It’s funny what one finds oneself doing in order to pay for their college tuition.

And, no, I don’t mean not “funny” in a “ha ha” sort of way.

I live in a one-bedroom flat above a barbecue equipment store on Commercial Street, just as you head out of Bradbury Gate’s city centre. Goodness knows how a shop selling equipment for nice weather in England stays open, but they do. I often wonder whether they have a sideline in hard drugs or oil fields or WMDs. Truly nothing would surprise me in this fragile economic climate.

I’m not a particularly practical soul, so studying literature and working part-time in a coffee shop is just about all I can manage. At least at this point in my life. Steady as she goes! I go to lectures in the morning and early-afternoon, then spend my late-afternoons and early-evenings busting tables at Cafe Onderweg in the Archampton part of town.

“Onderweg” means “en route” in Dutch, or something. By the way, guess where our absentee-owner spends 99% of his time.

Oh and I use the term “busting tables” very loosely, as all our regular customers are absolute sweeties, who I would run a mile to help out with no questions asked. There’s also a cute boy who’s started working with us on a very casual basis, so it’s nice to get some extra help. He hasn’t signed any contracts and our owner doesn’t even know of his existence, but, at the time of our story, the ground staff are still able to get away with cash-in-hand antics.

Another means of income, to aid my adding yet more and more to my student debt, was recommended to me by a girl in one of my classes. She euphemistically referred to it as “glamour modelling”, with a heavy wink at the end of the sentence. She advised not to tell any college staff if I got involved, as the administration was prudish enough to chuck students out if the staff ever heard of such activities.

As if it was any of their business.

The man I was put in contact with by Sally ran a photographic studio with his wife and adult offspring. It was a family affair, you might say. This meant I found a very safe and easy going environment when I turned up for a chat. They refused to call it an “interview” or “audition”. They even insisted I bring a friend or partner or family member, should I feel nervous and unsure. I ended up going with Sally, the girl who referred me in the first place.

So, yes, thanks UK government. This is what I do now. Keep fighting your idiot wars of ideology that cannot be won until we’re all fucking dead. I’m sure you’ll be very proud of yourselves. It’s not like your citizens don’t need support within your own borders or anything.

Well, I believe it’s time to pull back from the armchair political ramblings and get to the point. Do forgive me, as I’m still at the age where I shamefully give a shit about such things.

I believe it was a Wednesday when I found a message from the studio’s filmmaker in residence. Paul was a very motivated man, creatively speaking. He just loved photography, but was open-minded enough to delve into a less-respected subgenre. He was mercifully down-to-Earth, so not the kind of sleazy charmer you’d usually expect. It also helped significantly that he didn’t speak with a cockney accent or sport a ponytail. Or both. He just loved cultivating a supportive community of liberal souls who wished to create kinky art and fill the world with much-needed joy and warmth and moisture.

My list of what I wasn’t prepared to get involved in was very short, but Paul insisted he did not get involved with them either.

Anyway, the message Paul left was simply to call him back during his office hours.

“Hi Paul, it’s Kelly, you asked me to give you a call?” I said, twirling my curly phone chord pensively.

“Oh yes, of course! Sorry, we’ve had a busy morning.” He said, in his usual distracted manner. “How are things?”

He noticeably made sure not to use terms of endearment such as: “darling” or “honey” or “love” or “sweetie”, as that would be far too cliched for his professional liking.

“Oh alright, a bit busy here too.” I said, looking my to-do list up and down with a frown. “So I could do with mucking about with you lot for the afternoon.”

I gave a nervous laugh, which also did some way to say that it was easier to simply book an appointment with a glamour studio than go through the rigmarole of getting the  NHS to pay for professional counselling.

“Well, we’ve got a boy about your age driving down next Saturday to do his first video shoot.” Paul said, the sound of note paper being fidgeted with audible in the background. “Matthew! That’s his name! So I just wondered if you’d like to meet up and see what happens.”

My tomboy hips started swaying in anticipation of being feminine for a change.

“Sure, shall I pop by the studio so we can talk about it properly?” I said, remaining as bureaucratic as I knew Paul would prefer.

“Yes, that would be very handy!” He said, always ready to compromise. “Just drop by anytime and we’ll sort things out.”

We said our goodbyes and I dutifully took my afternoon shower, soapy wank included, so as to be ready for my shift at Cafe Onderweg. The establishment was uncharacteristically busy that day, with the new boy struggling to keep up with the pace. Whilst fingering myself in the shower had cleared my head significantly, I still needed to take time out in the cafe’s back room, using stock checking as a fine excuse. Our new member of staff was keen to flirt with a boy he liked, who came in regularly with the latter’s loud sister and her friends, so my guilt subsided considerably.

On the way home that night, I stopped by the cornershop on Commercial Street and bought the cheapest bottle of red wine they had. My doctor had recently informed me of a new invention called: “bottle stoppers”, which meant you didn’t have to drink the whole bottle all in one go. I’d been very polite and just nodded at the condescending old fart, thinking quietly to myself: “Live my life for one day, doc, and you’ll soon learn why people in my shoes finish the ENTIRE FUCKING BOTTLE”.

My apologies for the aggressive caps lock there.

After organising my educational paraphernalia for the next day, in which I only had one lecture, I vegetated in front of the television and allowed the bottle of red to do its good work. There was something on the news about miners striking and a new disease going around, but I soon drifted off and found myself still in my clothes when I woke up on the sofa 10 hours after.

Later that day, I shuffled into Paul’s studio post-lecture and nosied around for someone to deal with my usual crazy serlf. I found Paul’s wife, Sophie, who said she’d take over Paul’s current shoot so he could have a word with me. It was a video featuring two gay men, which Paul was always eager to direct, what with him being bisexual himself. This meant Sophie was always keen to take over directing duties, as if shooting women was less of a threat to their marriage somehow.

Good grief.

Eventually, Paul emerged from the haze of disco music and air freshener, washed his hands raw, and took me into his office. He dug out and opened a file of his current projects, smiling proudly at some of his models as he leafed through the roster.

“This is Matthew,” he said, placing a handful of photographs down in front of me, “he’s an adorable blond lad who’s just started with us.”

I shuffled through the photographs, as if they were a kinky deck of cards. Matthew had a shy, awkward vibe to him, which was or wasn’t helped, depending on your point of view, by his prominent spectacles. He was tall and lanky, but still had an eye-catching backside and genitalia.

“I thought you two would go together nicely, as you’re both naturalistic and very warm human beings.”

“Aww, thank you!” I said, suppressing a red-wine-hangover tear. “What sort of things do you want us to do?”

“Well, I thought we’d finally try out some bowel and bladder stuff, if you’re still open to that.” He said, pensively waiting for me to scream and run out of the room.

I made a hum of consideration and stared blankly out of an office window that wasn’t actually there.

Paul continued, feeling the need to put me at ease. He was nice like that.

“We’ve got some special soap for you to wash yourselves off with after, plus the usual towels and whathaveyou.”

“Oh cool.” I said, rubbing my knees thoughtfully.

“We’ll also give you a list of food and drink that it’s best to consume for 48 hours beforehand, including £100 cash to buy them with.” He said, as if attempting to sell a car to a pigeon. “And you can always stay the night with us, should you not feel comfortable going outside after.”

Paul shot his videos and photos at all sorts of locations, including his luscious detached house in the village of Stonebridge, which lay just outside of town. The media business was clearly paying his bills! The property had a private garden and cavernous bathroom, actually termed a “wet room”, since the entire floor sloped down to a convenient drain under the.shower.

Much to my disappointment, the list of appropriate food and drink Paul furnished me with did not include cheap red wine.

“Yeah, sounds like fun!” I said, looking Matthew up and down one more time for personal confirmation. “I can’t wait!”

Paul went through the specifics of what he wanted me and Matthew to do, which I giggled at a few times, but the more I heard the more excited I got. I even let Paul take some pictures of me in the office before I left. Once my top was back on, I strolled back to my flat, which wasn’t quite in walking distance of the studio, but I felt like the exercise would calm me down. I’d taken a bus there, not feeling sober enough to drive myself. Saying that, I had occasionally left my car places after wandering home in a a daze. I did once try asking my doctor about this, but he put it down to: “female hysteria”, which I do not believe is an acceptable medical term anymore.

That cunt probably still uses it though.

Cafe Onderweg was much quieter that evening, even though, ironically, I could have done with it being rammed. You know, to take my mind off life. The new boy turned up late, but was very apologetic and had a reasonable excuse. He was so good at picking up the ropes that I daren’t admonish him at this point in his early career. Especially since he could just leave and not come back. There was nothing stopping him.

Eggshells, Kelly! Eggshells!

The following week-and-a-half went by without great incident, at least not around Bradbury Gate. It was as if the world beyond its borders was falling apart, although you’d never know it. It’s almost as if such drama was heightened to sell newspapers and allow politicians to slide comfortably into the history books for their own sick immortality. Up until Thursday, the cheap red wine continued to flow as I studied nineteenth century French novels and mopped-up vomit from the cafe’s customer toilet floor.

I swung by Paul’s studio on Friday morning, just to check that we were still on for the following day. He appreciated and was flattered that I took the time to pay a visit, even asking if I wanted to start learning the business of being behind the camera. While his offspring were still game, even being impressed when they were old enough to learn what their parents really did for a living, he did always want to keep the metaphorical door open should one of them wish to find another career. I explained how impractical I was and that I wasn’t sure how reliable I was going to be soon, what with my college work piling up.

Paul nodded in his usual understanding way.

“If you change your mind, you know where I am.” He said, as professional as always. “And, hey, if I can learn how to do all this stuff then it can’t be too hard.”

Most tactless pricks would have worded it: “…then even you can learn it, you dumb bitch!”, but Paul clearly practiced diplomacy while he was off duty. Or mopping up spillages on his own version of “the shop floor”. We all have our burdens, after all.

That night, I finished off the novel our lecturer had set us to read, making what I believed were useful notes, then stood at the lounge window, rather devastated by the book’s emotional conclusion, and watched people go to and fro. I wondered whether everyone would get to where they were going some day, and the world would fall silent for a few seconds. Is that sort of thing even possible?! I didn’t know, but thought it was a therapeutic idea. There’d probably be a cat sat on a fence looking around confused and thinking to itself: “Where the fuck have all the noisy humans gone?!”.

I’d like to be that cat. Perhaps in the next life, huh?

The following morning, I went through the arduous task of scrubbing and waxing and beautifying myself ready for the shoot. Paul liked that I was a tomboy, but I still got a kick out of being “glamorous” for at least one day a month. I almost forgot not to do my usual thorough toilet work, forgetting the nature of today’s video. Luckily, I clenched at the very last minute. I was also chugging water like it was wine, but we all have to make sacrifices for our art!

I drove down to Stonebridge with my overnight bag by my side. I still wasn’t sure whether I’d end up using it, but I thought I’d pack one just in case. I nearly forgot where the house was actually, even though I’d dreamed of living in such a palace since I’d first seen it, but my highway hypnosis soon gave way to tight navigation.

I promise this story will get erotic soon enough, patient reader.

As per his routine, Paul opened the front door with a camera already rolling. I was used to this by now, so wasn’t offended by him being “’all business”. He had also placed cameras in the appropriate rooms in discrete places, believing tripods to be somewhat intimidating for his sometimes-indecisive  models.

“Hello Kelly, would you like to come in?” Said Paul, shaking my hand softly.

I slipped straight into playing the part of a naive country girl doing something like this for the first time. Paul didn’t think it sexy for models to ream off the hundreds of jobs they’d done and given that week, preferring a simpler storyline. If one can call it that.

“Sure, I’m looking forward to trying out something different!” I said, slipping off my bag and dumping it by the telephone in the entrance hall.

Paul had become accustomed to shooting with his left hand, so as to free-up his right for directing and positioning props and managing the set. Well, actually, there was no “set”, per se, as he kept things pretty much looking as a house would normally look, but there needed to be the odd adjustment for his family’s privacy.

“Did you find the house easily?” He said, following me as I moved into the spacious living room.

“Yeah, my dad dropped me off and he’s good at finding places.” I said, adding a touch of the simpleton to my inflection.

“Good, good.” He said, banking and yawing the camera to introduce my body to his viewers. “Do you want to give us a twirl then, so we can see what’s in store?”

I did so, not used to the high-heels or tight skirt I had donned, so nearly keeled-over on our first take.

“Beautiful!” Said Paul, lifting my skirt up at the back and taking in my bare buttocks. “Very nice!”

I giggled coquettishly and gave a polite curtsey for the camera.

“Well, I’ve got a treat for you today!” Said Paul, adjusting his position in the room so that the door to the next room was in shot. “Would you like to meet him?”

I made a hungry moan and nodded.

“Yay! I’d love to!” I said, really starting to embody this dense fuckwit I’d created.

“Come on in, Matthew!” Said Paul, panning over to the door. “And cut!”

He pushed the stop button on the camera and quietly checked the footage.

“How does it look?” I said, taking a seat on the sofa I could and would never be able to afford.

“Yes, we’re looking great!” Said Paul, moving over to the window. “Matthew should turn up for real any minute now, hopefully.”

“How many no-shows do you get?” I said, flipping through one of Sophie’s chick magazines in mild disgust.

“Oh tons, but I try not to get too upset about it.” He said, with a shrug. “Plus there’s always other stuff to be getting on with.”

I nodded.

“And I guess they’ll definitely not show up if you lose your cool.” I said, sniffing the free perfume sample in one of the magazines. “Gross.”

“Not your scent?” Said Paul, placing the camera down on the coffee table.

“Nah, I’m just a deodorant kinda girl.” I said, picking up the camera and giving its functions a cursory peek. “So it’s all pretty easy to master, is it?”

“Yeah, it’s fun once you stop worrying you’ll blow things up if you press the wrong button.” He said, laughing at the memory of his own media training in days of yore.

“I’d still probably find a way to do that.” I said, returning the camera to its position and lying back against the sofa proper.

Suddenly, a car rumbled up the gravel drive, to which Paul gave a little squeak of excitement. I think he was more interested at seeing Matthew play about naked than me, which I tried not to take personally.

“Is it him?” I said, standing to attention and pulling my skirt back down.

“It is!” He said, switching the camera back on. “Just give me a few minutes to set-up his entrance, then we’ll get going!”

As the two boys played make-believe out in the hall, I wondered whether to start wearing skirts more often. I’d definitely not bother with underwear if I did. They are somewhat overrated, I must say.

“Come on in, Matthew!” Paul repeated half-an-hour later, having had to do a few takes of Matthew’s entrance. “This is Kelly!”

“Hi Kelly.” Said Matthew, shyly holding a hand out for me to shake.

He was as gorgeous as he looked in Paul’s file photos, only this time he wore a chequered shirt and jean-shorts. His mop of curly light-ginger hair was a little shorter today, but his spectacles were no less thick and shiny and adorable.

I decided to breeze past Matthew’s outstretched hand to give him a kiss on the cheek. This seemed to brighten him up and calm his nerves, which were palpable at this early stage.

“Hi Matthew, you’re looking cute!” I said, running a hand down his lithe torso.

He blushed.

“Thanks, so do you!” He said, nearly toppling over like I had, even though he was wearing comfortable trainers on his feet.

Sensing the air of virgin awkwardness rising, Paul decided it best just to get the story moving.

“Right, well, I think you’ll both have a lot of fun today,” he said, eyeing Matthew’s body with the camera, “so do you want to start by both putting your clothes on the sofa for me?”

Always gentle questions. Never sharp commands.

“Yep!” Matthew and I both said in tandem, accompanied by cute nervous laughter.

It took me longer than usual to strip-off, what with having packed myself into clothes I would never usually wear. Or fit into. Or stomach the sight of. Matthew’s body language was still unsure, but the sight of my growing nudity seemed to put him at ease. Once we were both naked, we stood side-by-side with our arms around each other’s waists. Matthew already had an erection, which Paul knelt down to capture in full.

“You both look great together!” Paul said, in a moment of profound professional satisfaction.

Matthew and I gave nervous giggles again, as if we were brother and sister experimenting while our parents were out.

Paul stood up and came in for a medium two-shot of our faces.

“Do you want to give each other a kiss then?” He said, surreptitiously checking the timer on the camera.

“Okay.” Said Matthew, as if this was his first time.

If he was just acting, he was very good. 

We turned to each other and began kissing ravenously. Our lips locking and spit mixing together into a cocktail. The cocktail drooled from our mouths to course its way through my cleavage. I lost track of time and felt my knees quivering, even a few drops of moisture from between my legs ran down to our entangled toes.

Matthew pulled away and ran his hands over my chest.

“I nearly came then.” He said, his breath becoming heavier and heavier.

“Me too. I like how your dick is pressing against me.” I said, running my hands up and down his bony thigh.

“Right, well, we’ve got plenty more to do, so shall we move on through to the bathroom and get going?” Said Paul, a new tape in his hand ready to swap out the nearly-full current one with.

Matthew and I nodded, excitedly.

“And cut!” Said Paul, his hand shaking so much with his own excitement that the camera nearly flew out of it.

I lunged forward and helped him regain control.

“Are you okay?” I said, sensing something was wrong.

Paul shook his head.

“No, I’m fine, today just feels special, that’s all.” He said, the love of his job shining through brighter than ever.

I gave him a hug of genuine platonic affection.

The wet room was on the ground floor, for logistical and leak-proof reasons. Everything had been meticulously setup long before I had turned up, and the room was at a pleasantly warm temperature, especially for dealing with nude people playing about without the hot water flowing.

Well, not yet anyway.

Matthew and I stood close enough to the shower’s drain so as to catch any fluids, but far enough away from the wall that the shot didn’t look ugly on tape. The lighting was flatteringly even, so Paul didn’t need to make any further adjustments now that his models were in place.

Action!

“Right, Matthew, do you want to give Kelly’s tits a nice suck?” He said, angling down to my chest.

Matthew nodded and, without needing further coercion, stooped down and began to lap away at me. His hand rubbed and squeezed my other nipple. I gave an unintentional moan, but it ended up looking great on camera. Matthew’s erection was now so high that it was pressing against his own flat tummy. I gave it a gentle stroke, pulling back the foreskin and feeling the sticky precum run over my fingers.

“That looks great.” Said Paul, his usual director’s enthusiasm softened by his own feelings of passion. “Kelly, can you get down on your knees and suck Matthew’s dick for me?”

I nodded and waited while Paul placed a thick gym mat down to protect my knees. That moment would be cut from the final edit.

As my head bobbed up and down on Matthew’s dick, I felt myself losing more and more control. I was prepared to ignore my own list of wills and wonts at that point, but I regained my composure. The crazy side of Kelly Watson was still to come.

The dick sucking sequence went on for quite some time, as apparently that’s what guys really like to watch. I almost broke character and asked if we could move on, as I could swear Paul had fallen asleep while standing up, but suddenly he burst back into action.

“Cut!” He said, once again checking his camera and replacing the tape. “So, do you want to take a break or are you happy to get to the dirty stuff?”

“I’m okay to go on.” Said Matthew, unconsciously rubbing his dick and balls.

“Yeah, let’s do this!” I said, the near future a blank canvass that I was ready to fill.

Action!

“Matthew, do you want to turn round for me?” Said Paul, himself now naked for splash-back reasons.

Matthew twirled like a ballerina, his porcelain cheeks now an inch from my face.

“Kelly, do you want to spread those apart and get your tongue in there?” Said Paul, moving his camera in closer.

I slowly tucked my face between the boy’s buttocks and took a long, hard sniff. He had cleaned himself very thoroughly, unlike most boys his age. I assumed Paul had given him some preparatory notes.

“Is that nice?” Said Paul, his hand running uncharacteristically down my back, but I was okay with it.

We knew each other well enough at that point for him to touch me.

“He smells yummy!” I said, my tongue running from Matthew’s balls up to his lower back.

“That tickles!” He said, squirming a little.

“Do you both want to go on?” Said Paul, rubbing his own erect penis.

Both of us models gave the affirmative.

“Great!” Said Paul, pulling apart one of Matthew’s buttocks with his free hand. “Kelly, why don’t you give his anus a nice lick, see how far you can get it in there.”

I roused masterfully to the request, mouth-fucking Matthew’s arsehole for a good five minutes. Once my tongue went numb and I could continue no further, I put my index finger to use instead. Matthew was wet enough now with my spit that he didn’t need lubricant, so my finger slid in and out with ease. Suddenly, I could feel something up there.

“Feels like you’re all bunged up, mate!” I said, licking the dirt off my finger once I’d pulled it back out.

“Sorry, I forgot to go before I left the house.” He said, staying in character.

“That’s okay, sweetie, why don’t you just go now?” I said, taking over directing duties from our actual auteur.

Paul was in too much of a sensual daze to be offended.

“Are you sure, it’ll be smelly!” Said Matthew, his voice weakening to a more youthful pitch.

“Go on, I don’t mind!” I said, cupping my hands under his buttocks. “Push it out! I’ll catch it!”

Matthew stooped slightly as he strained to relieve himself. There were a few gaseous emissions, but nothing too off-putting. Soon he began to crown and groan in agony.

“It really hurts!” He said, pressing down on his own rear in an attempt to aid the release. “I’m so sorry!”

“You can do it, boy! Come on!” Said Paul, his mouth watering.

Finally, Matthew gave one great birthing yelp and his waste fell into my hands. It was so warm and sticky, with a thin coating of runnier matter that made it all nearly slip out of my grasp. The smell was so intense that I vomited uncontrollably, but the diet I’d been on over the past few days meant nothing solid emerged.

“That’s amazing, Matthew!” Said Paul, admiring the birth. “Well done!”

After placing the shit carefully down between my thighs, I leaned back in and licked Matthew’s greasy arsehole clean. I did it slowly. Lovingly. Not missing a single smear. I then licked my lips and teeth and gave the camera a nice, big, shit-eating grin.

“Mmm, so what now?!” I said, knowing full well what, but still playing the innocent part Paul had asked me to play.

Paul coughed at the thickening stench in the room.

“Well, Matthew, why don’t you come down here with Kelly and help her paint herself?” He said, gagging slightly.

Matthew sat cross-legged down on the tiled floor, the mat having now been removed from under my knees, and we each took turns pulling clumps of shit from the core load and painted each other’s bodies with care. We smeared our faces and chests and bellies and legs. I even wanked Matthew’s dick until it was coated in brown mess.

“You’re both works of art now!” Said Paul. “We’ll quickly cut there as we’ve been rolling for ages!”

Before the moment was gone, Paul found himself back before us with a fresh tape.

Action!

“Right, Kelly, can you get on all fours and show us your tight arse?”

I nodded my shit-smeared face and turned around, pulling my own cheeks apart and letting Paul get a close-up of my hungry anus.

“Do you have anything inside you to show us too?” He said, fingering me for show.

“I do , just one second!” I said, as I began to strain and feel things moving about.

“Matthew, once Kelly’s been, I want you to immediately stick your dick inside her.” Said Paul, spitting on my telescoping rectum. “And Kelly, don’t clench after you’re done, I want Matthew to use your shit as a lubricant!”

Suddenly, it seemed polite requests had turned to passionate orders. It was perfectly in keeping with the moment though, so neither myself nor Matthew felt intimidated.

Being on my knees meant that it was easier to shit than if I’d been stood up like Matthew. It came out quicker, but was much smaller. Matthew shuffled forward, crushing my waste under his knees and shins, and inserted himself up inside me.

“Fuck yes, just like that!” I said, my head cowering down in ecstasy. “Just fuck me all day, you filthy bastard!”

As Matthew’s balls slapped away at the backs of my legs, Paul stood up and professionally obtained multiple angles of us in the throws. I soon began screaming and rubbing myself at a frenzied pace. I pushed Matthew’s shit up there. My own shit. I sucked my fingers and puked once again.

“I’m gonna fucking cum soon!” Said Matthew, looking up at Paul for direction.

“Okay, stop there then.” The director said, turning on the shower and backing safely away with his electronic device. “Wrap your legs around each other and piss the shit off, then you can shower properly.”

We did. I had far more in my bladder than Matthew, who was amusingly urine-shy. Soon, however, a nice warm stream of his liquid sprayed all over me, and I used it to wash as much of the shit off as I could. The piss was delicious and salty, unlike semen, which I always think tastes sweet like honey. Who knows where it gets that salty reputation!

Matthew never got to ejaculate, as the two of us were washed and dressed before Paul realised he had forgotten to get a cumshot. Everything else going on in the bathroom just seemed far more important. Also, all three of us were so exhausted by the end that Paul agreed to have us come back in, no pun intended, to shoot that final moment. Paul’s special soap had worked wonders, so I didn’t feel the need to stay over, wanting instead to get back to my coursework and cheap red wine.

I gave Matthew a kiss before he drove off back to wherever he’d come from. He was a sweet boy, and we did end up shooting a few more videos together, although never quite so unique.

At the end of my two year college course, I found myself with a life-changing decision to make: carry on to university, or see whether Paul was still interested in training an apprentice full-time.

As I started up my rickety student-mobile the morning I had to make my choice, I realised I still hadn’t made up my mind. Do I drop my application at the admissions office, or knock on Paul’s studio door. I do not regret my final decision to this very day.

THE END