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 doggie position, my chest and cheek pressed to the mattress, mounted me high, and took over the fuck pumping.

Ed had said that flip-flop and unusual position films sold well.

From across the room, he gave an Italian finger tips-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 boys.

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.

When we got going real good, I let a hand travel down to her V, and I found her clit and worked her there and inside her clit while she rose and fell on the cock I had up her ass. I was thick and long. She moaned in that deep, husky voice of hers, but she didn’t complain. All the time I was with her, she wouldn’t let me fuck her in the cunt, only the ass. And she only wanted me to bareback her there and come inside her.

She didn’t tell me where we were headed in the car, and I was surprised when we finally landed. The silver boat, Tonya at the wheel, not making a peep the entire time she drove and I fucked Susan, cruised into a dark side street and pulled up to the curb at a storefront that looked deserted. Tonya held the back door for us, and Susan and I, both somewhat dressed again, came out. Susan went before me, and by the time I staggered out of the backseat, she was ringing a bell at the storefront’s door, lights were coming on, and a little man in a black suit, with a tape measure dangling around his neck, came out and opened the door. He didn’t seem surprised we’d shown up after hours.

“So, what’s this all about?” I asked, as we moved into the shop.

“I have to go to a premier tomorrow,” Susan said. It was about the first thing she’d said to me since I’d gotten into her fancy car.

“The premier of what? So, you’re having a dress made?”

She laughed her throaty laugh. “I’ve forgotten what the premier is for. Where is it at, Tonya?” She turned to the petite chauffeur.

“Grauman’s Chinese Theater on Hollywood and North Highland,” Tonya answered.

“Just around the corner from the club,” I said, really meaning it wasn’t far from the apartment Delon and I shared.

“And I’m not having a dress made,” Susan said. “You’re having a tux made. I need an escort. You’re it.”

Oh. The little man measured me, promised to have the tux ready the next afternoon, and we piled back in the silver boat. We didn’t have far to drive. Tonya pulled up to Loew’s Hollywood Hotel, which, like the Highland Nightclub, was just around the corner on North Highland from Grauman’s Theater.

“We’ll stay here,” Susan said. “There’s no reason to be coming back and forth from the house.”

I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I soon was sure that the hotel room had already been booked, and it was only one room.

I was lying on the foot of the bed, my legs spread, my toes touching the thick carpet of the hotel room. Both of the women, naked, other than Susan still wore her spike heels, and kneeling below me, were working on me. Obviously, Tonya’s chauffeur duties were far ranging. I was on my back, arching it a bit, my arms outstretched, bunching up gobs of the silky bedspread. Susan was cupping my erection, touching the tender skin lightly with flaming-red fingernails and taking the cock in her mouth through flaming-red lips. Tonya was below her, a hand laced through my balls, distending them, and sucking on them.

I, of course, was moaning deeply and focusing on the ceiling tiles, trying not to explode. I knew, though, that they would keep this up until I did. Susan had said she would give me head until I came and that she wanted me to come in her throat.

I had already danced, naked, for the ladies, and I had already fucked Susan, doggie style on the bed, in her ass. I was just a plaything for them, but I was being paid well for the humiliation.

It was sometime after 2:00 in the morning.

Susan moved up on my body until she was hovering her cunt over my face. I took the hint, grasped her hips between my hands, and ate out her cunt, as, below me, Tonya took my cock in her mouth and gave me head. Tonya kept giving me head, going back to lacing my balls in her fingers and distending and squeezing them, while Susan bounced off the bed, came back with a bottle still a quarter full of champagne, dribbled that down my torso into my pubes, and then licked down my body, dispossessing Tonya of my cock when she reached my crotch with her lips, and it was Susan who took me to a finish and received my cum deep in her throat, just as she said she would.

I lay there, panting and humming, while, beside me, on the bed, Susan and Tonya writhed in each other’s embrace, one body melting into the other, Susan doing quite a job in manipulating Tonya’s mammaries.

I woke up sometime later, finding the three of us stretched out in the bed, against each other, me in the middle. Susan seemed asleep. Tonya wasn’t. She had a hand on my dick, stroking it. I had gone erect before I went to sleep.

“Fuck me,” she whispered. “Be a man for me and do it the way you want to. Take charge. Please yourself.”

I rolled over on top of her, spreading her legs as I did so. She was soft and curvy, voluptuous. I slid inside her, buried my face between her pendulous breasts, covered her tits with my hands, kneading them, as I fucked her. It was my turn on the magnificent mammaries. She cupped my head in her hands and moved her body to go with the rhythm of the thrusts.

“Yes, yes. Take what you want,” she murmured. I plowed her with vigor, plunging deep, making her jerk, pant, give me little cries of passion, and dig her fingernails into my shoulder blades.

Susan, wakening, had rolled off the bed, but she came back, in a strap-on harness, the phallus greased up. She crouched over me from behind, worked the phallus into my ass, and there we were, me fucking Tonya and Susan fucking me. I was back under their control, the two of them using me to make love to each other.

The next time I woke, I was alone in the hotel room. There was a thermos of coffee and couple of breakfast rolls on a table along with a note saying the women had gone shopping and that I’d find what I needed in the bathroom. I did, indeed, find the dressing area outside the bathroom supplied with my immediate needs. On the sink there was a soft-leather toiletry case with all of the expensive grooming items I needed. Slacks, a sports shirt, underwear, and socks were folded on the counter next to the sink. My new tuxedo, encased in a bag, hung from a hook.

The women returned as I was getting in the shower. Susan and I fucked there, she turned to the tiled wall, ass jutted out. I fucked her in the ass. Always in the ass, with Susan. I cupped her V with one of my hands, and rubbed her clit with a finger while I fucked her, taking her to liftoff. Susan had quick climaxes, often in succession, and a deep rumbling from inside her each time told me they were satisfying ones.

We went out. We lunched. We, or, rather, Susan shopped, and Tonya and I played the roles of pack mules. Susan and I had dinner in the hotel restaurant, fucked in the bathtub, and arrived on the red carpet of Grauman’s Chinese Theater, with me, at least—and Susan too, I suspect—not knowing what the occasion there was. We, or rather she, was expected anyway and ushered up to the balcony at the back of the audience, where we were very privately seated in one of four balcony boxes. How she scored these seats, I had no idea and I didn’t ask. I was just arm candy there.

She wore a slinky dress much like the one she’d worn at the Highland Nightclub the evening before—a sparkly, clinging sheath that was “down to there” in front and “up to here” on the sides. Last night’s was white; this night’s was blue. Everyone below was dressed to the nines. So was I. My tux fit me like a glove, and I knew I looked very presentable indeed. I already had a tux, of course, but Susan didn’t ask and I hadn’t volunteered that information. She had seemed intent on clothing me. In any case, the tux I had wasn’t anything like this tux. This was how the upper crust tuxed themselves.

The first half of whatever was happening in the theater, happened most in the dark, and consistent of ten-to-fifteen-minute outtakes of five different films. In the dark, Susan took my hand and inserted it into one of her side slits in in her dress. I found that, like the previous night, she wasn’t wearing anything under the sheath. She moved my hand into position, and I finger fucked her cunt right there, in the dark, as films played on the theater screen. The whole time I was with her she didn’t let me put my cock there, but she had no trouble with the penetration of my fingers.