Into the Wilde

"Why don't you come on in, I'm getting lonely," I say, turning around and treading water.

"Aren't you cold?"

"Baby, it's warm in here."

Ryan shrugs out of his suit jacket. "Let's see if I can't warm you up some more."

I duck my mouth under the surface and blow a stream of bubbles so that I don't laugh out loud.

"Carter, we can see that, stop doing it," Robert says bluntly, crouched behind a tripod with Sophia and his assistant.


"Don't be sorry, be better."

Ryan hasn't broken character and is still slowly stripping off the Brioni tux Robert's probably sold his soul -or somebody else's- to rent for the week. I cringe as the beautiful fabric puddles around his feet on the grass, hoping someone keen is going to swoop in and pick it up before it gets damp.

I blow one last bubble before standing up, slicking my hair back with two palms of water.

"Get in here then, make me hot." It comes out kind of sexy even if the delivery is a little bit flat. Ryan gives me a smouldering look as he winches off his tie, winding it slowly around one fist and then letting it drop, curling, to the ground.

He's wearing a black speedo, stretched nearly transparent over his bulge. I think he's been fluffed while I was in wardrobe. I try to look around at the crew without splashing too much. Did one of them suck him off? I try to find Sophia in my peripheral. The pool area is crowded with people, all rugged up against the brisk air in coats and scarves. The pool itself is heated which is why I'm reluctant to follow direction and actually stand up with the waterline under my ribs. The steam's also creating a few problems for the camera guys.

"Carter. We're rolling," Robert says in a tired voice.

I stand up slowly, trying not to feel the way the tepid water beads turn icy as they roll over my chest.


"No," Ryan says, slipping into the pool as graceful as a cat. We took five reels of me getting in and out 'with poise' until Robert made the executive decision to have my just go splashing in. It sort of works better with my character anyway. I'm playing a punk, an escort invited up to some millionaire's penthouse and taking advantage of the rooftop pool, and my client's stoic reluctance to play. It's at once terrifically exciting and not as cool as I imagined, since my co-star is a real-life stiff.

Ripples slap up against my chest as he wades closer, the pool light and steam playing off all that tanned flesh, drawing erratic, cracked lines of luminescence over his neck and abs, blue light reflected in his eyes. This might be a dream if Briar wasn't hanging his fishing-pole mic directly over our heads.

If he's cold he doesn't show it, hands sliding up over my goose-pimpled arms just as a frigid stream of water drools out of the cowlick at the back of my neck and makes me shiver so violently it probably looks like full-blown lust. He quirks an eyebrow.


"Of a good boy like you?"

He lets me walk him backwards through the water, our feet brushing each other out of the camera's sight, arms locked and slippery. With a murmured word from Robert, Ryan twists us around, pressing my back against the pool wall, the edge jarring between two vertebrae but I don't really give a fuck. His hands are moving up over my shoulders and into my hair.

"Oh yeah," I breathe, "Pull it hard."

Oh fuck. Not in the script.

Ryan's eyes narrow, flick up to Robert, back to me. His hands ball against my scalp, tightening to the point of pain before abruptly letting go. Almost tenderly he presses his lips to the corner of my mouth and I feel my eyes sink shut against the feeling. Then his thumbs are pressing, hard, either side of my voice box -his hands are shaking, I realize, cold?- and my mouth is dropping open, his tongue thrusting in, hot and cold at once, pushing against mine so inconsiderately I find myself groaning around it.

We make out for so long my lips start to pulse, and the friction of our stubble rubbing is becoming unbearably sore, a sort of overstimulation in itself. The water on our chests has evaporated and the bump of his nipples against mine is way too much. My dick feels so hot it's numb in my shorts. Slowly I start to slide my hands down his back, over the fine muscles either side of his spine and down around at his waist, palm seeking for his dick. I just know I'm going to shoot if I get to touch it.

Suddenly there're fingers clamped down hard around my wrist, squeezing. Ryan pulls his mouth from mine and I kill the whimper that tries to spill out after it.

"You don't need to do that," he murmurs in my ear, "The camera can't see." I swallow, barely grasping the meaning behind his words. He pointedly interlocks his fingers with mine, shoving my hand up against pool edge so that I can feel the coarse stone tile abrading the back of my hand. It doesn't matter because he's kissing a line down the cord of my neck, sinking his teeth into the erogenous flesh of my suprasternal notch.

Jenna with a razor, Jenna with a razor, I think, gritting my teeth against the slow wave of pleasure sinking through my lower stomach and settling in my balls. The muscle from navel to the base of my shaft feels tense and if he accidentally brushes it with his hip one more time I swear I'm going to shove his head under the water and make him finish me.

"Alright," Robert says, reminding us that he's still there, camera hovering, "Now Ryan, you lift Carter up on the rim and give him some head."

I nod, already crooking my elbows to help him hoist me out of the water. The assist never comes.

"Wouldn't it make sense for him to blow me?" Ryan says. The question's directed at Robert but his eyes are fixed on my mouth.

"Wait, that's not in the script-" I start.

"Only if you insist, Ryan," Robert says with a hard look. Ryan doesn't even acknowledge him, just levers himself, dripping, out of the water. I slide into place between his legs with a questioning glance at the director. Robert merely nods exasperatedly before disappearing behind the tripod.

"This is what I've really wanted all night," I improvise, rubbing my cheek along his thigh, ignoring the chill, my fingers seeking under the band of his speedo and rolling it down over his hips just enough to pull his cock out. He hisses as I draw him out with my cold fingers.

I end up with my elbows resting either side of his thighs, hunched over his dick and breathing steamy air onto the head. That makes him shiver, or at least the out-of-pool temperature does. For me, it's an awkward angle, and the sopping, cold fabric exposed to the chill air is distracting. It's like having someone pour ice water down your crack.

"Do it. Suck on that meat," Ryan says in a low voice. It takes every ounce of impulse control not to roll my eyes.

I don't honestly know how a boy hooker would go about sucking cock but I've never had any problem diving on in there so I trust my natural technique and start with my mouth around the base, trying to keep in mind that I won't be able to use my hand. To get enough leverage I sort of have to balance myself on my forearms, knees grazing against the pool wall and feet treading water. I keep my tongue wrapped firmly under his shaft lest his unappreciative cock flop sideways and force me to reposition to grab it.

He starts to get hot when I'm laving on his vein, making sure to rub the flat of my tongue in hard, rocking motions under the glans on upward strokes and sucking on the head. I feel him become aroused; the tell-tale push of his legs against my arms, his dick expanding in my mouth, making me sigh with pleasure. He tastes like chlorine, and kind of salty and the water's made the head almost rubbery against the back of my throat.

I can't properly go down on him at this angle but nobody stops me trying, straining up on my elbows and trying to suck more of him into my mouth, feeling him flinch as his dick knocks against my molars. My left hand is curling reflexively against the stone, missing the action. Damn it. I'm good at this, he could be coming right now.

"Ah ahh f-," he moans shakily after a while of me lightly flicking my tongue under the head. I feel the faint pressure of his fingers on my hair and try not to grin. I keep going. Repetition is, after all, the key to a man's heart. Only a minute later and his chest is heaving, the speedo fabric bunching under his ass as he squirms, trying to get away from the pleasure-pain of my tongue tip under his ridge.

"Ahh, fuckshit, I'm gonna-" he hisses as I ply a wet kiss on top of my ministrations.

I pull back- as per script- so that he can jack himself frenziedly against my lips. He pauses, jacks again just a little slower and I stick my tongue out to catch some of the shot as he tips his head back and groans.


"I think he's angry at me," I say to Holly as she towels me down in the suite's bathroom. I'm cold through to my bones and I'm just about willing to ask Robert to take a hundred bucks off my check if he'll let me chill in the spa-bath for a while, maybe order homestyle chicken pie off the room service menu.

"No shit Sherlock. That was supposed to last 20 minutes not ten." She heaves a sigh, attacking my hair with a comb and frowning when it gets stuck. "Robert seemed happy enough with what they got I guess. Just stick to the script next time, ok?"

"Tell that to Dynamite out there," I grumble.

She sniggers. "Some guys are useless unless they get to butter up. Guess he couldn't what with the pool and all. Close you eyes," she warns a second after spritzing something at my fringe and directly into my eyes.

"Yargh! What is that? Mace? What do you mean, 'butter up'?" I manage between coughs.

"You know, butter, desensitizing creams. You guys use it to…'stay?'"

"Oh. Nope. Never used it."

But I've tasted it, I realize, reflecting on yesterday's model shots.

She shrugs, fluffing up the hair at the back of my neck with a disapproving look and searching for her scissors. "Does this never sit flat? I'll tell you one thing -at least his hair is easier to work with than yours."

"Oh so it's not just me he's an asshole to?"

"Ssh keep your voice down," she says mildly. "Anyway, they're all like that, aren't they? He's just throwing his weight around, testing how much Robert will give."

"What about me? Does anyone care about me?" I turn my head to pout at her and she locks her fingers over my skull, keeping me in place while she trims.

"Buck up. Your star will get a chance to shine. Then maybe you'll be the diva. Demanding your co-stars all get shaved…refusing to go down on anyone…"

"I'd never refuse to go down on anyone," I say bluntly. "It would be in my contract that they have to let me go down on them at least once."


"Did you see the suit?" I say, changing the topic. "It's a fucking Brioni. Bespoke."

"And you bet Robert knows it. Daz said he was considering hiring security on just for the suit, but with the money that's going into production and marketing…the cost of using the hotel's penthouse…"

"Oh yeah, how do I get back to the Heights from here?"

She snorts. "Just look out the window. You can see half the city from up here. Briar won't go near it you realize -the window. He's afraid of heights. We had to pull the curtains while he was setting up sound in the master suite for scene one."

I pluck at the khaki jacket. "Enter the classy street punk."

"Yeah, there's an original plot line. At least you don't have to explode. Listen, I've got to go touch up your 'concierge' for his solo scene -guy actually needs makeup, pimple on his ass the size of Texas but that's what you boys get for DIY waxing." I make a pained face. That's where they come from? "Would you do me a favor and go get Ryan from next door, you guys start shooting in ten."

I nod reluctantly as she deposits a key card in my hands -still pruny from the chlorine.

"And don't even think of stealing the shampoo."


I run into Jake of all people on the floor beneath the penthouse which is where the editors are working, and also where Ryan is supposed to be getting washed and tux'd up. It shouldn't be such a surprise since Daz told me earlier, before we left HQ, that Hard Pop would be filming more standard productions, splitting the cost of having to hire the entire floor beneath the penthouse with some of the other smaller porn studios -an industry standard, according to Daz. The hotels accept their rooms are going to be used to make adult films so they corner the studios into a buying up a whole block of rooms as a 'buffer' and to absorb some of the cost the studio then loans out the rooms to other studios to make their videos. A sort of win-win for everyone involved. Except it meant the entire 50thth floor was teaming with half-naked actors, used towels and camera equipment.

Jake almost crashes into me, reeling out the door to 5012 with his DKNY jacket bundled in his arms and his shirt sweated clean through. He looks kind of hot all tousled and flushed.

I steady him with two hands on his narrow shoulders.

"Hey, stranger."

His mouth drops open. "Carter? What- what are you doing here?" His eyes dart back to the closed door.

I chuckle. "Hey don't worry about it. I, uh, I'm making a film too."

He doesn't look relieved. "Really? What, uh, what's it about? Oh wait, let me guess, you're a hooker."

"Is it the racoon-fur collar that made it obvious or the acid wash jeans?"

We share a laugh, going quiet as an enormous black guy emerges from the same room, towel over his shoulders. He's at least 6'5", shoulders so broad they just about brush the goddamn walls. He winks at Jake as he passes who turns bright red. I try to refrain from smiling too smugly.



He pushes back his sweaty quiff. I think I can actually see a little bit of spunk in his hair… "You're not at the restaurant much these days. Ziggy's getting lonely, keeps cracking onto me," he says with a little laugh.

"Ha. Anyway, this is the life right? Do you know Robert com'p half my taxi fare here? Half! Isn't that crazy?"

"Yeah…crazy. Listen, Carter, I sort of have to run so…"

"Oh yeah, shit, don't let me keep you. Hot date?"

"Nah, just Magenta's. You know, Wednesday nights."

I nod, remembering what I'm supposed to be doing and checking my watch. "Shit, Jake, I've gotta run. See you Sunday shift?"

His "Sure" is lost in the loud 'ding' of the elevator opening and two camera guys stumbling out, cursing with a truly massive piece of machine slung between them.

I'm still dwelling on the oddness of that conversation when I reach the suite at the end of the hall, which is what I blame for swiping the key card and opening the door without knocking.

"Shit," I hiss, closing the door softly behind me. "Uh, Ryan." I don't know why I'm whispering.

No response.

"Ryan, it's me…Carter."

I check the kitchenette and the bedroom even though I can hear the shower running. I'm just dreading having to disturb him in the shower. Then again, I might get lucky and catch him jerking off. The thought of all that delicious muscle tensed up, thrusting with abandon into his own fist under the hot shower spray is what drives me to crack the ensuite door open, light bouncing off the bright, white tiles blinding me for a moment.

He's not in the shower. He's sitting on the toilet and for one heart-stopping moment I think I've caught him mid-shit and there's just no coming back from that. Then I realize it's worse. Much worse. Because he's got a swab packet clenched between his perfect teeth and his eyes are fixed with single-minded, almost zen concentration on the needle sliding into the side of his penis.

"What the fuck…?"

His head jerks up. Did I really just say that out loud? Those icy-blues are pinning me where I stand with one hand slack on the brass doorknob. His beautiful, straight brows crease into a frown. He makes an annoyed clicking sound out the corner of his mouth, focusing on withdrawing the syringe. I slam the door between us, pressing my back up against the lacquered wood and trying to calm my pounding heart.

"Uhh, Robert wants us upstairs in three -two minutes, so if you're, uh, done in there, with…that…I mean, no problem man, I don't judge." Fuck fuck fuuuuck.

The door pulls open and I spin around to find him leaning in the door frame, expression cool, tuxedo immaculate. Dick very much in his pants.

"It's Caverject."

"Ok…bro. I feel that."

He sighs through his nostrils, irritated and bored all at once. "It's injectable viagra. Helps me get hard for this sort of stuff."

What? I'm confused and suspicious and hurt all at once. It comes out before I can stop it. I've always been stupidly honest like that.

"I don't get you hard."

His lips twitch but his eyes are unsmiling, almost dead. "You're a man."

"Oh." I think about the way he chose to ask Sophia of all people yesterday. "Why are you in gay porn then?"

His bored face tightens into a glare. "Are you for real? Gay. Pays. More," he says, punctuating each syllable with a stab of his finger against my chest. "Aren't we late for something?"

Oh shit.

We decide to take the stairs up, both of us too chicken shit to endure the elevator ride. Robert is quietly fuming, which is to say there's no actual way of detecting he's angry, but he's especially polite, ordering us to get our lighting checks as if he's ushering the Queen to sit for tea. Surprisingly, the guy on the bed, still in an open, red and gold brocade concierge jacket, is none other than Hunter, looking very satisfied with a puddle of semen cooling between his cut lines. He looks over from where Briar is congratulating him animatedly to give me a small, shy smile.

"Hey, Carter. How's it going?" he asks, wandering closer. He seems utterly unaware of the spunk situation, not to mention his wet cock hanging between us.

"Pretty good so far," I say uncertainly.

He looks ashamed. I think I can actually see a faint blush staining his bronzed cheeks. "Look, Carter, I feel really bad about the other day. I've got to learn to control my temper. Nothing personal, right? I hope I didn't bruise your shoulder." He reaches out and rubs the spot where he bumped me, smiling kind of wistfully and then ducks past to the bathroom.

Huh, the things that will embarrass a porn star.

"Ok, Carter, if you could start outside," Robert says, gesturing at the door without looking up from his copy of the manuscript. Crew and extras are filing out of the slightly crowded master suit now that the cameras are in position. "Knock when you're ready and we'll roll from there. Remember, he's called you, but you're in charge. Getting enough footage for the fuck scene might take a while so we'll go for four hours and if we can't use it we'll start up again in the morning. Everyone ready? Ok, Carter, if you would." His lackey opens the door for me. I'm still looking at the digital clock on the bedside table. It's 9pm already and we've been filming since 10 in the morning…

Once I'm outside by myself in the oddly moderated climate of the hotel hallway, it takes a while to psych myself up to knock on the door. I find myself transfixed with my knuckles paused over the line between the two ornate doors, knowing that one of them is going to open and I'll be staring at Ryan Wilde's beautiful, uninterested face while he delivers his line, "You're late", with perfect poise, Sophia with her camera behind him; and, inexplicably, I start to imagine my father- who, fuck's sake! I don't even know what he looks like anymore it's been so long- staring back at me too.

Fuck that.

I knock.


"You're late."

I raise an eyebrow, propped lazily against the doorframe. "Things to do, boys to see," I drawl, pushing past him into the room. "Nice place."

It really is nice, done out in a warm, Californian style, all wood and burnt, ochre colors against leather and ceramics. The sort of place where the windows are supposed to be open on a summer day with long white curtains dancing in on the breeze. The pool outside is a smear of glowing blue, the skyline a haze of glowing lights and beacons. I really probably could see my apartment building.

"How do you normally do this?" Ryan asks from behind me. He looks too good in that suit, the thin lapels clinging perfectly to the contour of his chest, the pant legs untraditionally tight, the seams dead on.

"How do you want to do this?" I quip back, stroking a finger along his lightly stubbled jawline. "You're the client." I make a show of sauntering around the room, idly running my fingers along the low-lying cabinet, over the designer trinkets and ornaments, the drooping lilies in their no doubt priceless vase; toying with the mahogany scalloping on the bed-end.

"Don't call me that," Ryan says darkly.

I shoot him a coy expression before flopping down on the edge of the bed. "What? 'Client'? But that's what you are, aren't you? Didn't you call me here so you could suck me? Fuck me blind, tie me up and make me come all over myself?" The mean-spirited teasing comes out way too easily as I bounce on the coverlet, testing the springs playfully.

"Don't," Ryan growls. The sensual tone of it crawls all the way down to the poor, neglected hard-on already perking back up. His eyes practically crackle with anger, whether it's in character or because I interrupted his little viagra-junkie session, I don't know.

"No need to get touchy about it, daddy," I say, "Just put the money down on the table and I'll call you whatever you want." I snap open my legs, drawing a hand over where my dick is straining against the seam of my jeans. His eyes track the movement hungrily.

He carefully unbuttons the tux jacket with one hand, the slow movements a specific direction from Robert, and draws out several bills, placing them on top of the cabinet.

"Undress yourself." I genuinely shiver at that, sliding to my feet and unzipping the jacket with what is hopefully a seductive look, and not the stoned gaze I've been told I actually affect mid-coitus. Ryan is yanking off his tie, the ill-chosen watch flashing in the light, eyes drinking me in like I'm a painting he finds pretentious. For the second time that night the suit jacket gets thrown haphazardly on the floor, its masterfully structured shoulders refusing to crumple and pool with the rest of the fabric.

He's on me faster than the script read-through could have prepared me for, grabbing the back of my jacket in one fist from behind while my back is turned and shoving me face first onto the bed; fisted pressure keeping my head down while he strokes long fingers up the inside of my awkwardly splayed leg, thumb digging into the seam of my pants over my hole.

I feel that dry pressure like it's personal. This might be the most arousing thing that a guy's ever done to me and fuck it if I'm not going to enjoy it.

"Yes, fuck!" I breathe into the satiny coverlet as the rest of his fingers stroke over my balls. All I can hear is the deep tick and coil of springs two feet of mattress below us and the crunch of my khaki as he winches it tighter, twisting so that I feel like the cheap fabric's cutting of the circulation under my armpits.

I feel his dick lining up against my crack, hot and insistent even through so many layers.

"Oh yes," I moan, "Oh yes, that's how I like it."

I feel him pause, minutely, against me and he expels a shaky breath. "Shut up."

I moan even louder.

His grip tightens. Now my arms feel like they're going to come off. "Shut. Up," he hisses. No, you're supposed to say, "I make the rules here", I think, annoyed. Then the pressure under my arms releases all of a sudden and he's shoving my head into the quilt, dick grinding up the back of my thigh.

I stay quiet as he flips me over although I can hear Sophia whispering something to Robert behind the ring of lighting and equipment. He yanks the jacket off me so roughly that I jerk up, almost sitting with my forehead bent to his chest before he slams me back down, pulling open the shirt underneath so that it stretches and tears like it's supposed to.

"Shut up," he mutters again, so softly that I can see Briar leaning in close with his microphone, straining to capture it.

He drags the back of his hand down my face, nails tickling pleasantly. Then he does it again, rougher, then cuffs me lightly, experimentally. Ok, a little improvisation. I can deal with that.

"Is that how you need it baby, rough?"

In response he slaps me, hard enough to make my eyes sting but not hard enough to kill my erection.

Slowly he stretches out on top of me, bringing our groins into contact, the hot hard feel of him making me grind my head into the mattress, eyes falling shut. He bites the edge of my jaw in punishment. Ok. Eyes open then.

I find myself staring at the tiny, perfect mole under his eye as he grinds a long, firm line down my body, hands stretching my arms out at the wrist so they're hanging half off the bed. I'm pretty sure we were supposed to keep this centred but what the hell.

"Going to fuck you," he moans against my neck. "Going to make you," he nips my ear and I start at the intensity of the feeling, "scream."

"God yes. Do it. Fuck me."

He groans into my hair, hips drawing jagged against me so that my legs shake with the pleasure of it, the sharp, rolling feeling of arousal fanning out, throbbing in the nerves behind my cock. We rock together, harsh and discordant, his hipbone catching on mine, the friction not enough between the silkiness of his suit pants and the thick denim of my jeans. I feel suffocated and electrified, like I'm going to come but knowing it will sting.

My leg bends out naturally, curving around, rubbing my calf up the back of his corded thigh and shoving him down onto me. He ruts down on my dick hard, gasping in my ear and then-

Everything's gone, the friction, the pressure, the weight of his arms over mine.

"Fuck this," Ryan's saying, already shuffling to end of the bed. "He's not working, I can't-" He sounds so angry it's coming out choked.

Robert is trying to calm him. "Come on Ryan, we got some really good footage there-"

"No. I won't work with him. It was a fuck up from the start. It was supposed to be Reid, even you can admit that."

"Yes," Robert says carefully while I sit there like a stunned mullet, my crotch throbbing and my stomach clenching so hard I think I'm gonna puke. "Yes, Tanner was the original choice but you signed after agreeing to work with-"

"I don't give a shit. It's shady. This isn't what we agreed on when you called me in to make the movie," he says, shrugging the jacket back on off the floor. I stare at the crease running from tailbone to armpit as he strides over to the door.

"Wilde-" Sophia starts, hard steel in her voice.

"No, Sophia, let him go," Robert sighs, stepping away from his camera and sinking into a chair. "He's right. It's not working. They're too…I'm sorry Carter. Perhaps we'll try again tomorrow."

I swallow around the sinking feeling of rejection. But I was doing everything so right!

"It's cool," I hear myself say, dully.

Robert shakes his head. "No, I'm sorry. It really has been a patchwork from the out. We'll just have to try and salvage something tomorrow once he's cooled down."

"And if he doesn't?"

He throws his hands up in a 'then we're fucked' way.

Briar clears his throat. "I thought it was good."

No one bothers answering him. Sophia starts to angrily pack up her gear.

"I think I'm going to…" I point in the direction of the bathroom. Have a cry and steal a fuckload of shampoo, I think, but don't say it out loud.

"Yes of course. You'll want to get cleaned up for tonight," Robert says blandly, staring at the manuscript rolled loosely between his hands.

"It's a sort of soirée for Ryan's full-length debut," he says, seeing my confused look. "Francis Gold is hosting it." The name rings a bell but I'm too tired to care. "Daz should have sent it through to your email."

I shake my head, grabbing the jacket off the floor and then on second thought, dropping it dejectedly.

"I can't. I'm on breakfast shift tomorrow."

"Too bad. You're part of the studio, Carter. People who've seen your profile will be expecting you. It's all very…" He seems to give up there, staring into space so I just not my head in defeat and make to leave.

"Wait," Robert says suddenly. I turn around. "Did anyone get the suit off him?"

A/N: Hurrah, the great unsexy world of porn! And angst. Ah the angst.

The pimple thing is just something I've always assumed about twinky pornsters. Why is there always a lone ass zit? If someone knows, please tell me. And thanks for all the really cool reviews guys :)