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Behind the Scenes

By G.R. Richards

Published by

JMS Books LLC

Visit

jms-books.com

for more information.

G.R. Richards

ISBN 9781611522310

Cover Credits:

Bram Janssens

kate_sept2004

Used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
Cover Design:

J.M. Snyder

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purposes of review.

This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains

substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which
may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your
files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and

incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination
and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to
actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States of America.
NOTE: This story was previously published by Torquere

Press.

* * * *

Behind the Scenes

by G.R. Richards

I’ll always be able to say, “I knew him when…”
When Brandon took me on as his “unpaid apprentice-

intern,” I’d never set foot in a design classroom, or a theatre
college, or any institute of higher learning, for that matter. After
high school, lord almighty, I’d had enough of school! The
educational experience is hard enough for a “fat fuck fag” among
gorgeous closet cases. Add dyslexia to the mix and you’ve got
the recipe for a disastrous four years. Granted, I never pushed
myself to be all that I could be, blessed and hindered as I was by
a mother who thought I shit gold nuggets. I suppose our
relationship could be described as co-dependent. She needed
me in order to feel useful, and I relied on her for praise.

There came a day, as there does in all relationships,

when I was too much underfoot and mom was too looming. We
had a fight. I’d eaten the last of the leftover feijoada she’d
planned on taking for lunch the next day. It was one of those
arguments people have when they’re too close. That was the
day mom insisted I get out of the house and do something with
my talents. Everybody knew I could sew up a storm. A friend of
my mom’s from choir had a friend in theatre, she told me. He’d
set me up with some work in costuming.

Apparently, designers were relegated to working late into

the night. When I first set foot inside the hole-in-the-wall
backspace called Studio Theatre, it was well after hours. During
the day, the actors rehearsed. Early evening was the terrain of
the sound and lighting designer. Brandon, the company’s multi-
purpose design talent, usually took possession of the space
around eight at night. He left the door propped open for me.
When I crept inside as quietly as I could on these big elephant
hooves of mine, I spotted him for the first time. The paint fumes
hit me like a reeking cloud of noxious gas as glorious Pink
Martini played on a small stereo near the stage. Brandon stood
on the ground-level stage, running a paint roller up and down the

only unfinished wall. With outdated furniture in shades of harvest
gold, his set looked like Archie Bunker’s living room.

“What play are we doing?” I asked, creeping from the

raised audience level down onto the stage.

Brandon must have jumped three feet in the air before

spinning on his heels, paint roller in hand. You’d have laughed if
you saw how he was dressed. He looked like an old-timey train
conductor in his ridiculous outfit of denim coveralls, striped cap,
and a red bandana around his neck. All the same, my heart
palpitated at the sight of his diminutive features and the dark
stubble ensnaring his mouth like a soon-to-be-goatee. I’d never
outgrown my baby fat, but Brandon stood tall and thin of frame.
He was my perfect complement. I knew that from the start.

“Sang Sacré!” he squealed, advancing on me until he was

close enough to smack my shoulder. “I almost shit myself!”

“Sorry. I’ll make more noise next time,” I assured him,

extending a hand. “I’m Matheus. My mom’s friends with…”

“Yeah, I know who you are,” he said. Turning his back on

me, he set his roller to the back wall. “You’re the little queer I’m
supposed to babysit.”

It was hard to tell if Brandon was joking around or if he

was just a huge bitch. He was cute and I liked him—immediately
and inexplicably—so I gave him the benefit of the doubt.
Anyway, I could give as good as I got. “Yup, that’s me.” I tossed
my shoulder bag on one of the chairs in the audience before
rolling up my sleeves. “You know, I was really nervous coming
here tonight. I thought I’d totally ruin your design. It’s comforting
to see you’ve managed to do that yourself.”

He turned, slack-jawed, to face me. For a minute there, I

wasn’t sure if he was going to laugh or throw a paint roller at my
face. “Oh my God, I know!” he finally squealed. “Doesn’t it look
like ass?” Setting his roller in the tray, he brushed paint from the
side of his hand onto his overalls. “You know the director, Ardal?”

“No…” God, the paint fumes wreaked havoc with my

temples.

Brandon dressed his voice in an on-again, off-again

French accent. “Sang Sacré! I thought the douche directors in

theatre school were bad, but these small-time professionals are
even worse. Ardal is the absolute biggest penis-head I’ve ever
worked with.”

I stifled a laugh at the “penis-head” comment. I’d sure as

shit been called a dickhead in my high school days, but I’d never
heard anybody call anybody a penis-head. I’d have to remember
that one. But Brandon’s overall assessment of theatre directors
rolled off my back, since I knew diddly-squat about the theatre
world. Anyway, his judgment against his boss might have struck
me as more accurate if the guy looked even a day over twenty-
three. I wondered what I’d got myself into.

“So, what show is this anyway?”
Stamping his foot on the stage, Brandon held out his

hands like manna might fall from heaven. “Give me strength,
honey. It’s Streetcar!” When I gazed around the set in disbelief,
he held a diva hand in the air to stifle me. “Don’t even say it.”

“Okay, I wasn’t the best student,” I admitted, “but even I

know this play should not be set in fricken’ Archie Bunker’s living
room.”

“Thank you! That is exactly what Ardal the egomaniacal

control freak needs to hear. Good God of Me and Tennessee,
this is an abomination!” Shaking his head, Brandon picked a
handfull of diamond-shaped stencils off the set sofa. “It’s all
because of these ugly-ass things! They’ve ruined my life!” he
said, waving the stencils in the air. “I’d nearly finished building
the most beautiful set you could ever imagine when he came in
yesterday like, ‘I picked up these stencils at a garage sale for ten
cents! They’ve changed my vision for this production.’ I was just
like, ‘Oh my God, please tell me you are not serious!’ but he’s
like, ‘Yeah, I want to set our Streetcar in Married with Children
world’ and dress our Southern Belle in fucking spandex leggings!
Can you imagine? Oh my lord I almost fell to my knees and
wept. I’d already bought, fitted, and adjusted period costumes for
all the actors. They were done!”

So I was wrong about which TV set inspired this one. It

was Al Bundy, not Archie Bunker. All the same, I understood the
frustration of doing all that work for nothing. “Did you tell him

that?” I asked.

“There’s no point,” Brandon cried, waving his arms as he

spoke. “Ardal says, ‘I’m the director. I have the vision. If you
don’t want to be a part of my vision, there are plenty of other
designers who do.’ Seriously! So three days away from
previews, I have to redo everything.”

“Holy crap,” I said. “What an ass-face. Remind me never

to work in theatre.”

With a smirk on his pouting pink lips, Brandon prowled up

to me like a jaguar. He came so close he was nearly standing on
my shoes. I could hardly breathe as he whispered, “Hate to
break it to you, kid, but you already are.” Slipping the stencils
into my shaking hand, he said, “The stage right wall should be
dry. Why don’t you get stencilling?”

Though he was taller than me, his breath fell hot on my

ear. My body screamed to get belly-to-belly, lip-to-lip with him,
while my fear of rejection wanted me to run far, far away. The
stupid fear won out. When I turned, wandering aimlessly to my
right, Brandon smacked my butt. “You’re going to need some
paint, don’t you think?”

I swallowed hard as my body screamed for his love.

“Yeah, I guess so,” I chuckled. My mind was so frazzled I
couldn’t come up with anything clever.

He handed me a small tin of hideous orange paint. “And

your little dog too?” he said, handing me a fat-ended stencil brush.

Even in his silly train conductor’s get-up, Brandon was the

hottest guy I’d ever met. I loved his confidence. Guys with a
strong sense of what they wanted made me sizzle. After
simultaneously talking and painting the night away, we retreated
to the actors’ dressing room. There was a sink in the multi-
mirrored space where we could wash our brushes. That’s where
Brandon made it eminently clear he wanted me.

At the time, I didn’t tell him he was the first guy I allowed

to see me naked. In fact, that’s not something I ever wanted him
to know. It was pure ego, I guess. I didn’t want him to think of me
as inexperienced. I’d sucked a lot of cock in my day, but
nobody’d ever been in my pants. The moment he came up

behind me and grabbed my junk, I knew that was about to
change. I looked into the mirror, into his rugged pixie face behind
me, and dropped the wet brushes in the sink. As much as I
wanted to keep staring into those smouldering faux-French eyes,
I wanted to kiss him ten times more.

The moment I turned, his tongue slipped into my mouth like

a sea serpent. It thrashed at everything it came up against as
Brandon explored the flesh underneath my top. I loved his hands
for loving my skin and I touched his face to tell him so. He flipped
on the mirror lights and turned off the fluorescents in the ceiling.
The room glowed with star-studded ambience, but at three in the
morning, it was only for us. When he squeezed my sides, I did the
unthinkable and lifted my top up and over my head. Nobody else
got to see me like this. He growled as he kissed me, and fondled
my fat tits. I’d never been so glad to have them as when his hands
cupped that warm flesh and squeezed. As I leaned back against
the dressing table, Brandon leaned into me. He wrapped me in his
arms and I felt his hard cock against my belly.

I took a chance and unclipped his paint-spattered overalls.

They fell to the floor, leaving him in nothing but a tight white
undershirt, hanky and cap. That didn’t stay on long. When he
tore his top over his head, it took his cap along for the ride. Only
the red bandana around his neck remained, and that was fine by
me. Running my hand through his messy brown hair, I brought
him close for a kiss. It was so unlike me, but it made me feel hot
to know a guy as sexy as Brandon could enjoy my body. He dug
through my pants and into my underwear, letting them fall down
on his overalls.

He took my hand from his hair and brought it all the way

down to greet his meat. His cock surged when I held it. It pulled
me forward like a wilful dog on a leash, and when he grabbed
hold of me, my cock did the same thing.

“Do you like mirrors?” Brandon asked.
I let out a wry laugh. “Not particularly.”
“You will,” he assured me. He tottered to the left, bringing

my swollen cock and I along for the ride. “Look at us.”

In the mirror, we were stars. Even my flabby belly didn’t

bother me. Brandon held it with one hand as he pulled on my
shaft with the other. In a room with so many mirrors, everywhere
I looked Brandon yanked me while I tugged on his wood. I
watched, stupefied by our reflections. Is that me? Is that him?
Are we really doing this? Usually when I kissed a guy, right away
he’d be unzipping his fly and pushing my head down between his
legs. It seemed to go without saying—Matheus was the fat boy,
and the fat boy was the cocksucker. Nobody’d ever wanted to
see me naked before.

When Brandon pulled me in for a kiss, it set my heart on

fire. Maybe this sounds a little stupid, but if I weren’t already in
love with him, that kiss would have done it. He brought me so
close my cock met his flat stomach. We were so near each other
he had to stroke my erection straight up and down. I held his
cock against my middle and rubbed his shaft against the blubber.
Throwing his arm around my neck, he thrust between my palm
and my belly. His fist soared against my meat. It felt so good I
could barely stay upright. I had to lean against the dressing
counter at my side. The dozens of incandescent bulbs above the
mirrors heated the room until I was sweating from their radiance.
Or was it the gorgeous guy getting me off that made me
overheat?

When I wrapped an arm around Brandon and smacked

his ass, his whole body seemed to tremble. He launched his
cock against my belly until a caterwaul rose from his throat. He
came all over my middle.

I tried to hold him up, but he sank into one of the chairs by

the counter, still holding me tight. When I looked down past my
boy boobs and belly to find Brandon’s worshipful eyes staring
back up at me, I was overcome with emotion. My heart felt too
big for my chest. The second he wrapped his full pink lips around
my cockhead, I burst like a fire hose. I’d never come so hard in
my life. Looking into his face as he slipped my waning cock in his
cream-filled mouth, I was all his. Forever.

* * * *

Brandon taught me everything I know about design. As

we worked together, show after show, he let me in on the trade
secrets he’d picked up in school and beyond. The more time we
spent together, the more I flourished in every aspect of life. His
attraction made me feel good about myself, and the better I felt,
the better care I took of my body. I knew from that first night in
the dressing room we’d get serious, but I never imagined how
serious.

“When you know it’s right, you just have to go for it,”

Brandon said one night at the theatre. He was building props
while I hand-stitched costumes. Offering me the bundle of fake
flowers he’d put together for a wedding scene, he fell to his
knees at my feet. “I love you. I want to be with you.” His voice
broke as he took my hand, barely avoiding the needle. “Let’s get
married.”

I thought that would be the happiest moment of my life.

And then came the wedding. We decided on a small civil
ceremony because we wanted to get hitched ASAP. Never know
when some dick wad’ll come into power and revoke our hard-
earned rights. My parents would have preferred a church
wedding, but the whole family came anyway. Brandon’s did too.
Even though his glaring, tight-lipped mother seemed like she’d
rather be anywhere else upon arrival, she was in tears by the
time we’d finished our vows. She wasn’t the only one. My voice
cracked half way through, and that was it. I blubbered like a
baby, but Brandon took me in his arms and held me. With him, I
would always feel safe and warm. That’s what I wanted to
communicate to his family, and to mine. The depth of his love
revived me. Squeezing his hands, I looked into his eyes and
said, “I promise to respect you always, to be honest with you
always, and to forever share my adventures in life with you.”

When we kissed for the first time as a married couple, that

was the sweetest kiss of all.

A blissful two years later, Brandon got a phone call out of

the blue. Someone from the Shakespeare Summer Festival had
seen his work at the Studio. They wanted to hire him on as an
assistant. The job would be a huge step up for Brandon—and it

paid a tidy sum, and he was getting bored with Studio anyway.
There was no way he could refuse, even if it meant moving out
to the boonies for six months of the year. Why were summer
festivals always so damn far from home?

I’d fully planned on going with Brandon—he was my

husband, after all—until the powers that be at Studio asked me to
take over his full-time design job in his absence. All I could think
was, “Seriously? Me? Seriously?” But yeah, they were serious,
and it was an offer I had to consider. I couldn’t imagine designing
an entire show by myself, but ultimately we decided I couldn’t
pass up the opportunity. When Brandon told me I was capable of
something, I always believed him. He had that effect on me.

Brandon took a small apartment near the festival

headquarters while I stayed in the city. It wasn’t ideal, but we
visited each other as often as we could. When his six-month
contract was up, he’d come back home. Still, it was tough while
he was away.

“How busy are you this week?” I asked him over the phone.
“Busy,” he said. I pictured him standing on a stage just as

I was doing. “We’re into the all-nighters over here.”

I held the phone tight, staring down at the nonsense script

in my hand. “Damn it,” I said under my breath. “That’s too bad.”

“What?” he snapped. Arguments often started this way. “I

don’t have time for guessing games. Either tell me what’s wrong
or don’t.”

His tone irritated me, but I needed his help. “Oh, it’s Ardal.

After that ridiculous change he made yesterday, he comes in
today with the script for the next play. He wants sketches by next
week! Like, hello! I’ve got a whole show to redesign before
previews and…you know…reading…”

Usually, when I got a new script, Brandon helped me

through it. When I tried by myself, the words on the page
seemed to tease and taunt me, like they knew I’d never
understand them. Brandon breathed deeply on the line. “You
know I’d get back if I could,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do, but
it’s not looking good.”

“I miss you,” I told him. I knew how whiny I sounded, but I

didn’t care. “When I go to bed and you’re not there, I feel like my
world is crumbling. I need you.”

Brandon seemed distracted. Had he heard a word I’d

said? “Look, I can’t talk right now. I have to get back.”

As I hung up the phone, my heart fell, but a loud knock at

the door made it rebound into my throat. I was sure it was
Brandon, and he’d placed that phone call outside the theatre just
to goad me. I ran through the empty auditorium and swung open
the door. No Brandon. Just a boy in a pizza delivery uniform.

“Sorry,” I said, though pizza would have made a great

comfort food just then. “You’ve got the wrong address.”

When he jammed his foot in the door, I nearly jumped.

“No,” he said, pushing it open. Looking down at his uniform, he
laughed. “Oh, no, I just got off work. The jobs we gotta do while
we’re breaking into the business, am I right?”

I didn’t know what the hell this kid was talking about, but

he had confidence enough for the both of us. Waltzing into the
theatre, he ambled through the house like he owned the place.
“You’re Matheus, right? You designed the last couple shows
here—I saw your headshot in the program.”

“Oh,” I stammered. A fan of my work? “Yeah, that’s right.

And you are…?”

The guy turned to look at me with an expression of

disbelief. “It’s me—Carver!”

Carver? An actor? A vocal coach? A janitor? I had no

idea. “Sorry. You’re going to have to help me out.”

“Of course I’m going to help you out,” he laughed. “That’s

what I’m here for. So, what play are we working on?”

A design assistant! Of course! When I complained to my

mother about all the work I had to do on my own, she offered to
ask around for someone who could help. Apparently, this was
him. “Carver?” I said. “Interesting name.”

“Yeah.” Unbuttoning his pizza delivery shirt, he tossed it

on the back of a chair, leaving only a grey tank top to shield his
dark brown chest from the stagnant theatre air. “My mom likes to
tell people we’re descended from George Washington Carver.
She always wanted me to be a scientist. Closest I came was

eating a whole bunch of peanut butter sandwiches growing up.
But my tastes have evolved since then—I’ve moved on to penis
butter, if you know what I’m saying.”

Was he coming on to me? I swallowed hard as he

laughed out loud. Cute, young, and the body of a Marine. All I
could think about was my marriage bed…with him in it. It
seemed like Brandon had been gone forever. I had to steel
myself. “If you’re here to work, let’s get to work,” I told him. “This
is a small theatre company, so our job encompasses all aspects
of design—costume, set, and properties. My specialty is
costuming, so I’d be grateful if you could start on the painting.
Most of the scenes take place in a disco, so we’re putting up
flats, painting them black, and covering them with glitter.”

“Cool, yeah, I can do that.” The guy named Carver

nodded his head as I handed him paint and a roller. “So, what
show are we working on?”

Preparing myself for his reaction, I mumbled, “A Long

Day’s Journey…”

He cackled before I’d even finished the title. “Into Night?

Set in a circa 1977 disco? You have got to be kidding me!”

“Don’t,” I cut him off, holding my hand up in the air. “I

know, and I just don’t need to hear it. Because you know what?
Not my idea. Not my plan. Fucking Ardal comes in after watching
Saturday Night Fever on TV and says, ‘I’ve been inspired! These
characters are coping with addiction. The 70’s is the perfect
place for them.’ So, here we are, a week before previews, and
I’m starting from scratch!”

For a moment, Carver stared at me in silence. I hoped to

God he wouldn’t run away. I needed help. “Guess you must be
glad you’ve got me,” he said with a sneak’s smile.

I really and truly was. Carver took on the painting while I

sorted through the afternoon’s thrift-store purchases. As I hand-
stitched adjustments, Carver threw glitter onto wet paint and told
me how tough it was to get into design school. “To apply, you’ve
already got to know what you’re doing. You need experience to
get the education, man, but how do you get the education
without the experience? Plus, it costs a whole shitload of money

for entrance fees, tuition, materials, so I’m working for the cash
and getting all the hands-on experience I can. Hopefully when I
apply again next year, they’ll take me seriously.”

“I never went to design school,” I told him, hoping he’d be

encouraged. “I started exactly where you are. I came in to help
the designer—Brandon, at the time—then became his assistant,
and now that he’s moved on I design here full-time.”

“Good thing,” Carver said. “I saw some of that guy’s

designs. Yours are way better.”

There were two routes I could have gone on that one. I

could have told the guy Brandon was limited by his directors’
bizarre visions for the classics, or I could say, “Watch it. That guy
is my husband.”

Carver looked up at me, wide-eyed. “Sorry, man. I didn’t

know.”

In all honesty, I wasn’t taken aback. My chest swelled at

Carver’s compliment—that my work outshined Brandon’s. I’d
always suspected it was true, but you never want to admit
something like that to your life partner. He was my husband and I
loved him, but my artistic flare came out in my work whereas
Brandon’s got all tangled up in his personality. In fact, I bet he
got that job at the Shakespeare festival thanks to my work on his
sets. Wasn’t that always the way? He had the celebrity persona.
He’d always get the glory. I’d always be the little wife behind the
successful man. I sewed with such resentment in my veins I
stabbed myself with my needle. “Damn it!”

“What’s up?” Carver asked from the stage. Setting down

his roller, he came to my side.

“Nothing,” I said. “Just poked my finger.”
Before I knew what was happening, he’d taken my hand

in his and plunged the wound inside his mouth. He sucked my
finger. His warm tongue circled, drawing it deeper inside his wet
mouth. He held my wrist with both hands so I couldn’t steal it
away. In truth, I didn’t want to, but I figured any action hot
enough to give me an instant erection must qualify as cheating. I
turned around, hoping to find Brandon standing at the top of the
stairs. That would have made things easy. He’d bitch-slap

Carver around the stage, crying, “Get your hands off my man!”
and that would settle it. But no luck. No Brandon. I had to speak
up for myself and say, “Stop. Please.”

Carver held my wrist a moment longer before releasing

me. When he offered no explanation, I said, “I have a husband.
Besides, we just met. Don’t you think you’re being a little
forward? This is work. You’re not at a club.”

With a huge smile, Carver pointed to the disco set. “Oh

yeah? What do you call that? Come on, put some music on.
Let’s dance.”

“I don't have time to dance,” I snapped. “I barely have

time to finish these costumes. If you’re not here to work, you
need to leave.”

Maybe I was a little harsh, but with the changes Ardal

heaped on me and no husband at home, stresses mounted. I
needed an outlet, and if sex wasn’t it, shouting at my assistant
would have to suffice.

Carver went back to work and stayed the whole night. To

my great astonishment, he came back the next night too. By the
time our fourth all-nighter rolled around, I’d changed my mind
about him. Sure, he made the odd flirty comment, but no more
attempts to suck any portion of my anatomy. As he helped me
re-upholster a sofa for the set, we got to talking about
relationships and all that. It was two in the morning, so my mind
whirled off into a land of its own. “Do you think it’s possible,” I
asked him, “ to only have sex with one person in your entire life?”

“No,” he said right away. “Nope. You know all those happy

old couples you see who’ve been together forty years? Only
reason they’re still together is they spent thirty of those years
cheating on each other. Humans are not monogamous animals.
Men got to spread that seed, you know?”

He pulled the hideous silver fabric flush as I stapled it into

the base of the sofa. “I don’t know,” I said. The harder I tried to
concentrate on my task, the more I thought about gettin’ it on. It
didn’t help that Carver’d brought in a Barrie White CD that night.
“I’ve never liked arguments that relied too much on nature.
They’re not generally homo-friendly.”

“Okay,” Carver replied, “but my answer stands. I don’t

think it’s possible to just be with one person.” And then he looked
up at me with a glint in his eye. “Why? Don’t tell me you ain’t
been with no one but Brandon.”

I couldn’t hide my blush. Setting down the staple gun, I

motioned for him to give me a hand, and we lifted the sofa onto
its feet. Snackish, I went to my bag and grabbed a carton of
cherry tomatoes. I’d quickly learned what Carver liked. “I guess it
depends on your definition of sex,” I said, sharing my food with
him. “I’ve fooled around with other guys.”

“What’s that mean?” he challenged as we tested out our

newly-upholstered sofa. “Like, making out? Hand jobs?”

“Blowjobs,” I admitted. “I sucked a lot of cock before I met

Brandon.”

Carver poked a tomato through his full lips. “Oh, well,” he

said, chomping down on it. “That counts as sex.”

“Does it?” I didn’t feel like it did.
“Of course,” he said. “When any body part enters any

orifice, that’s sex.”

I popped a tomato with my teeth, and its contents gushed

to fill my mouth with juicy sweetness. “So, when you sucked my
finger the first day here, that was sex?” Ha ha!

“No,” he admitted. “Fingers don’t count.”
I had him now. “What about a finger in an ass? Does that

count?”

“Yeah, of course that counts,” he said. “Just like a penis in

a mouth counts.”

I should have joined the debate team in high school. I had

this boy by the nads! “But what about kissing? That’s two
tongues in two mouths. Is that sex?”

“No, that’s not sex.” When he stretched his arm around

me on the back of the sofa, I noticed, but I didn’t slip away. “But
a penis in a mouth—that’s sex.”

I found myself getting close to him, moving toward him

almost imperceptibly. “I don’t think you’ve proven your case.” I
could hear the flirtation in my voice, and I couldn’t seem to stop it.

Carver got up from the sofa and stood tall between my

open legs. I felt like I was under his spell. I couldn’t move, except
to grip my little basket of cherry tomatoes. “If you’re so convinced
a blowjob isn’t real sex,” he said, “I’ll give you one right now.”

My balls tingled. When I looked up at him, all I could see

was the mouth I wanted to feel wrapped around my cock. He
sank to his knees. I gasped, audibly, which made him laugh.
“What’ll it be?” he asked. “Want me to suck your dick?”

“Yes,” I said. “Of course I do.” My throat closed up. I had

more words to speak, but they weren’t coming. I wanted it so
badly. My whole body wanted it, but my lips said, “I can’t.” My
breath rushed from my lungs. “I have a husband.”

Carver sat back on his heels and nodded. “I can respect

that.”

I looked around the stage for some way to escape his

enticing gaze. If I sat there any longer, I’d change my mind.
“We’ve still got so much to do,” I said, sneaking up to the seat in
the auditorium where my sewing sat in waiting.

While I made some final adjustments to my costumes,

Carver painted set pieces to match Ardal’s last-minute change in
colour scheme. We were quiet for a long time before he said,
“You asked me if it was possible only to have one sexual
partner—and you obviously asked because you’re tempted by
other guys. You feel inferior and curious, but at the same time
you made a commitment to your husband and you don’t want to
cheat.”

I could hardly breathe. He was so spot on. “I don’t want to

cheat,” I repeated. When he went on painting, I said, in
desperation, “What do I do?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” he teased, stroking his brush

against wood. “Easy enough answer—you bring a third into the
relationship.”

At first I wasn’t sure what he was getting at. When it hit

me, I saw Carver’s true brilliance for the first time. “A
threesome.”

“Mmm-hmm.”
It was the most perfect idea anyone had ever come up

with—so perfect I didn’t want to jinx it by repeating the word. I

waited until I got home at four in the morning to call Brandon.
“Where are you?” he asked me.

“Home. You?”
“Where do you think?”
“Still at work?” I guessed.
He laughed in his perfectly sarcastic manner. “Where

else? But we’re just heading out for the night. What’s up?”

The sound of his voice made my heart so full, I said, “I

love you,” before slipping naked into bed.

“I love you too,” he said. “Why? What did you break?”
I adored his diva-like suspicion of all things good and

pure. “I haven’t broken anything,” I laughed. “Especially not our
wedding vows.” I told him about Carver, from the finger-sucking
to the offer of a blowjob. Brandon listened in silence as I shared
Carver’s threesome idea. “It isn’t that you’re not enough,” I told
him. I was surprised by how choked-up I felt. “It’s just that you’re
not here in bed with me. I have a husband, and still I’m alone.”

Brandon was quiet for a time. When he spoke, it was only

to say, “Everybody’s heading out now. I’ll call you when I get
home.”

Those were the longest twenty minutes of my life. I had no

idea whether Brandon was pissed or titillated by the idea, but if I
knew my husband, three in a bed would excite the hell out of
him. I suppose that was the question—how well did I know my
husband?

A wave of simultaneous tension and relief came over me

when my phone rang. He was either about to smother me with
telephonic kisses or chew me out. “You know the problem with
that idea,” he said as soon as I picked up. He didn’t wait for me
to respond. “It means I have to be there. If you’re so inclined to
fuck someone else because you miss me, and your solution to
that problem involves me being there, how does that resolve the
issue? Right? Even if I come back to the city for a night, I’ll still
leave the next morning and you’ll miss me all over again.”

He was right. “But this conversation with Carver didn’t

start because I missed you. It was all about experience. I don’t
want to hurt you. I don’t want to cheat. At the same time, I guess

I’ve always felt inferior because you’re the only guy I’ve ever truly
made love to.”

“Oh, give me a break,” he squealed. “There were other

guys before me.”

I took a long breath before asking, “Where are you now?”
“In bed.”
“Met too.”
After a pause, I said, “Nobody’s ever seen me naked.

Nobody but you. Hell, I was a fat fuck when we met.”

“Yeah,” Brandon agreed. For some reason, his candour

made me laugh.

“I want to go back in time with this body,” I told him. “Not

that I’m as fit as you are, but I look a hell of a lot better than I did.
And this guy, Carver, he’s attracted to me. He won’t let up.”
Closing my eyes, I pictured Brandon naked in his short-term rental
while I lay naked in our marriage bed. I never considered how
hard this situation was on him. He was the one away from home
and family, sleeping on a lumpy mattress in a tiny apartment. “I’m
sorry,” I said. “I don’t know why I’m putting all this on you.”

“Because I’m your husband,” he chuckled.
In my mind’s eye, I could see the smile on his cherry lips. I

thought back on the first night we met, when he’d wrapped them
around my cockhead and I’d come in his mouth.

“And because I’m such a caring, generous, and open-

minded husband,” Brandon went on, “I say the next time this guy
offers to suck your dick, you let him.”

I laughed until I realized he meant it. “Brandon,” I said. “I

couldn’t do that.”

“Sure you could,” he replied. “Just sit back, relax, and let

him do all the work. It couldn’t be easier.”

“No, I mean I couldn’t do that to you.” My heart beat on

my ribs like a timpani mallet. How could I even consider this? “I
couldn’t.”

“Suit yourself,” Brandon said with a big yawn. “But if you

do, don’t feel guilty. Just tell me about it after.”

I shook my head at the phone. All I could think to say was,

“I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” he said. “Dream of me.”
There’s every chance I did, but my alarm erased any

memory of it. Ten after eleven, and another day of gritted teeth
as Ardal changed his mind about the women’s wigs. Aside from
that slight adjustment, there really wasn’t too much to do. When
Carver swaggered in through the open door, I said, “Hey, why
don’t you take the night off?”

His face fell as he stood in the middle aisle of the

auditorium. “I’m already here. There’s nothing I can help with?”

I took a look at my To Do list, pointed at one item and

laughed. I still had to read Ardal’s next play. Brandon usually
helped me, but he wasn’t going to be around. Could I admit to
Carver I had trouble reading? I didn’t like telling people. Even
Ardal and the other directors didn’t know. I managed to cover
most of the time by claiming I couldn’t read their handwriting.
Anyway, it’s not like I was illiterate. I knew how to read, it was
just hard for me. Everything looked mixed-up on the page. I had
to concentrate so hard it gave me a headache.

Apart from reading the play, the rest of my To Do list

consisted of little items easier to complete myself than explain.
So, pulling the script from my bag, I asked Carver to read it to
me as I put the finishing touches on my props.

“Earnest!” he said. “Shit, yeah! This was my favourite play

in high school.”

“Well, abandon all hope, ye who enter here,” I warned.

“Ardal’s directing and he can’t keep a period in its place. We’ll be
lucky if we get out of this one without creating a reproduction of
the Fresh Prince set and putting the whole cast in circa-1989 hip
hop gear.”

Carver cackled. “Oh, you’re scaring me now.”
“Yeah, and you think I’m joking.”
So, he sat on the silver sofa and read the Wilde play.

When he saw I’d finished my work, he said, “Come down here.
We can read together.”

“No,” I said, searching my tote bags for busy work. My

heart thumped. “I’m not quite done…”

He interrupted my attempt to pull the wool over his eyes,

saying, “Come on, you read Jack, I’ll read Lady Bracknell.”

Grabbing my sketchbook, I said, “How about you keep

reading and I’ll plan my sets and costumes?”

“That’s no fun,” he said as I sat down beside him. When

he pushed the script into my lap, something snapped. A surge of
frustration ran through my veins, and I hit it away with my
sketchbook. The script flew across the stage until it came to a
feathery halt against a sparkly flat.

In the few days I’d known him, I’d never seen Carver

speechless. Without a word, he crossed the stage to pick up the
script lying like a dead pigeon on the floor. “I’m sorry,” I said,
knowing he couldn’t hear the extent of my emotion.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You’re the designer, I’m the assistant.

You draw, I’ll read.”

“No, it isn’t like that,” I said as he fell like iron on the sofa. I

had to come clean. Swallowing my pride, I told him, “I need you
to read because I can’t.”

He gazed up at me with dubious eyes. “You can’t?”
“Well, I can, but it’s slow-going. I’m dyslexic.”
Smacking my chest with the script, Carver laughed, “Aw,

some excuse, man! Dump all your work on me just cause you’ve
got a little tiny learning disability.”

Just as my fingers tightened into fists, I looked into

Carver’s face and saw the support in his eyes. When he put his
arm around my shoulder, my heart gushed warmth.

“Okay,” he laughed, “I’ll read this one, but the next play we

work on, we’re reading together. I don’t care if it takes all night.”

As a huge smile grew across my lips and I set my head on

Carver’s shoulder, the door at the back of the audience flew
open. A dark form with a familiar voice shouted, “No!” as it ran
through the house. “Stop! Have you done it yet? Don’t do it!”

Lifting my head from Carver’s shoulder, I said, “Brandon?”

At first I didn’t believe my eyes. When it finally sunk in that he
wasn’t a mirage, I jumped off the sofa to take his trim body in my
arms. Lifting him clear off the ground, I swung him in circles.

“Oh my God, put me down!” he laughed. “Seriously. I’m

gonna hurl.”

I set him down, but I didn’t let go. “You’re here!” Had

something horrible happened? I looked into his face. “Why are
you here?”

“I couldn’t let you do it,” he said, staring at Carver. “It’s all I

could think about.”

In Brandon’s ear, I whispered, “Nothing happened.” I

didn’t want Carver to overhear. “He’s been reading the next play
for me.”

Without taking his eyes off Carver, he asked, “What play?”
“Earnest,” said the guy on the silver sofa, holding up the

script. “I’m Carver, by the way.”

Slipping out of my arms, Brandon walked across the stage

like a slinky. With a smile the size of the Met plastered across his
face, he held out a ridiculously limp hand. His on-again, off-again
accent flipped on. “Enchanté, monsieur.”

“You’re the husband?”
Brandon nodded.
“Matheus never told me you were such a looker,” Carver

said like a film noir detective. Brandon nearly sat on his lap.

I covered my face with my hands. Their flirtation was so

over the top it made me laugh. “God, you guys. You’re crazy.”

Ignoring me completely, Carver asked if I’d told Brandon

about his offer. “Oh yes,” Brandon said in reply. When he set his
hand on Carver’s thigh, we both gasped.

I can’t describe exactly how I felt in that moment. I want to

say there was some jealousy in there, but mostly my legs just felt
numb. Falling in beside Carver on the sofa, I picked up my
sketchbook and said, “Why don’t you two read the play so I can
finish my design?” At least that would get them to stop groping
each other. They complied, but infused the play with such
homoeroticism I could hardly breathe at times. Carver and
Brandon played off one another, building jokes on jokes, and
advising me to dress Gwendolen as a bull dyke and Cecily as
her lipstick femme. Sad thing is, Ardal probably would have gone
for every one of their ideas.

By the time they’d finished reading and I’d finished

drawing, breathy silence filled the stage. We were three hot boys

on a silver seventies sofa, until Brandon got up to turn on the
disco ball overhead. He put dance music on the stereo, with the
volume down and the bass up. As I sat close to Carver, I felt the
rhythm thumping in my balls. My cock took notice of the hands
sliding down my chest even before my eyes caught sight of them.
They were Brandon’s hands. I would have known them anywhere.
Most guys didn’t paint their fingernails with blue sparkles, but my
husband did. I chuckled as he rested his head against my
shoulder and pressed his stubbly cheek against mine.

“Now we have music,” Carver said, getting up from the

couch. “Are you finally going to dance with me?”

I laughed. “Yeah right. Fat fucks don't dance.”
“I will!” Brandon cried, hopping over my re-upholstered sofa.
“Okay,” Carver sang as Brandon got close to him. Real

close. So close their tight cotton T’s touched as they rubbed their
bodies one against the other. “Just let us know when you get
jealous, okay Mattie?”

I couldn’t breathe to respond. Anyway, I didn’t know what

to say. As I watched Carver—the hot, funny, friendly guy who
wanted to suck my cock—grinding against my man, all I could
feel was the steady rise of my cock inside my jockeys. If they
were into it, so was I. “Take off your tops,” I begged them.

Without a word, Carver slipped his hands under my

husband’s paint-splattered T and lifted it over his head. Brandon
tore off Carver’s top in turn. A thick gold chain shimmered
against his fit brown chest under the star-like glimmer of the
mirror ball. Pale writhed against dark skin. Denim against denim.
“Kiss,” I said. They wanted it. Their eyes told me everything I
needed to know.

Temple to temple, nipples brushing nipples, they looked

down at me. Brandon was the first to speak. “We’ll kiss when you
get naked.”

“Yeah,” Carver chimed in.
The music seemed to get louder. It pounded against my

back, and straight through my chest. That’s when I realized what
sex was for me. It had nothing to do with who did what to whom.
For me, it was all about the nudity. The minute Carver saw me out

of my protective armour, we’d have attained a level of intimacy I’d
only shared with my husband. But as I sat on that sofa, under that
disco ball, dance music pounding through my body, and I watched
Brandon and Carver skin-on-skin, I knew the time for
contemplation was long past. This was time for action.

I unbuttoned my top at lightning speed, and tore out of my

pants and shorts and shoes and socks. My naked cock pointed
at the shirtless hotties as I announced, “I’m naked!” They looked
straight at me. “You can kiss now.”

Turning until their foreheads and the tips of their noses

met, they looked at one another and smiled. They seemed to
move in slow motion as lips approached lips and touched,
pecked, and pecked again. Wrapped in each other’s long arms,
they kissed full-on. I watched in stupefied awe as Carver’s
tongue emerged to snake inside Brandon’s mouth. They
devoured each other, running hands across backs and butts. I
couldn’t keep away. Closing in on my hottie husband and topless
assistant, I ran my hands across their gleaming shoulders. When
they looked at me, I felt like a jackrabbit stared down by two
foxes. Gladly, I submitted my body to their hunger for flesh.

We kissed, all three of us—sometimes in alternation,

sometimes in one slobbering heap of lust. Carver lost his pants
as Brandon kissed my neck. When Brandon’s tongue pierced my
mouth again, Carver tore off his jeans. As we kissed, cockheads
teased my shaft. Fingers next, and fists. I hardly knew whose
was whose as the guys pawed at my flesh. When I grabbed a
cock with each hand and pumped wood, they both gasped. “I
don't even know where to start!” Carver said with distinct glee in
his voice.

“Haven’t we started already?” I asked.
“I know exactly what to do,” Brandon said, forcing my

willing body down on the sofa. He got on his knees beside me on
the cushion and grabbed my shaft while he flicked the slit of my
cockhead with the tip of his tongue. I loved getting head from
Brandon—it felt fucking fantastic! As I sent an errant hand
through my husband’s hair, he squeezed the base of my cock
while he took the tip between his lips.

“Oh, I’ve gotta get in on this,” jealous Carver cried. Falling

at my feet, he snuck between my legs. As Brandon swallowed
my cock, Carver took my balls in his mouth. I grabbed his
shoulder and squeezed. Nothing in the world had ever felt so
good. When Carver started fingering the pathway to my hot hole,
I eased forward on the sofa. If he wanted to get inside me, I
wasn’t going to stop him—and it didn’t look like my husband
would either!

“I have lube,” Brandon said. Reaching for his pants, he

pulled condoms out of his pocket along with the sample packs of
lube he kept in the car in case of “emergency.” In his world, that
meant sex in a broken-down vehicle while we waited for the tow-
truck.

Brandon tore open a condom packet while Carver

snapped off the top of the lube sample with his teeth. Fitting a
latex sheath over my straining meat, my husband drew a
flavoured condom down my shaft. Carver seemed to salivate as
he squeezed a generous dab of lube on his finger.

“It’s all yours,” Brandon said to Carver. Taking a seat

beside me on the sofa, my husband pinched one of my nipples
while he sucked the other. When Carver wrapped his lips around
the latex and pressed his finger just inside my grasping asshole,
I thought I’d lose it. While Brandon sucked the remnants of my
big boytits, Carver sucked me like a pro, all the while fingering
my ass fast and furious. I looked down to see Brandon sucking
my titties and Carver’s head bobbing on my wood. It was like
living a dream.

Rising up, Carver handed the lube to Brandon and asked,

“What do you think?”

“I think yes!” Brandon shouted, squeezing lube over my

cockhead. When Carver straddled me, a knee on either side of
my body, I knew exactly what was about to happen. I couldn’t
speak, I was so turned on! Setting my arms across the back of
the sofa, I watched Brandon lube up his long finger and ease it
into my assistant’s ass.

When I threw my head back and laughed, the guys both

asked, “What?”

“I was just thinking—you put the ass in assistant!” I

chuckled.

“Groan!” Carver said. But he was getting ahead of himself.

When Brandon held my cock steady and Carver sank his hot
hole down on it, he and I groaned in unison. My cockhead
popped like a horny mushroom past his tight assring. When he
clenched his buttcheeks around my meat, every muscle in my
body tightened up. Weaving his fingers behind my neck, he
eased up his ass and slid down my cock like it was a greased-up
fire pole. I hissed with satisfaction as his dark cock slapped my
belly. Every time he rose and fell, his meat smacked my front. I
bucked up in his tight ass until Brandon came at him with
another tasty bit of latex. Covering Carver’s hard wood with the
condom, he leaned down for a meal of black cock. All I could see
as Carver’s ass ate my wood was my husband’s pale back.
When I traced my fingers down his spine, he sighed, and I knew
how much he loved me. He’d come all the way to the city so we
could be together and experience the delights of another man’s
body. I swallowed hard.

Leaning across my husband, Carver kissed my lips as he

worked my erection with his butt muscles. He moaned at the
double pleasure of my cock in his ass while Brandon sucked him
off. Again, my hips got hungry. I thrust into Carver’s ass while
Brandon pumped the guy’s shaft with his fist. My muscles
trembled. My balls quaked. I was coming and no man could stop
me now. Grabbing hold of Carver’s tight butt, I bounced him in
my lap, plunging my cock deep inside his hole until I filled him
with cum—or, at least, until I filled my condom with cum. All the
same, I liked to picture my jizz streaming up through my shaft
and out into his ass. It made me feel warm inside.

I could have slept like a baby after that, but I loved

Brandon with all my heart and soul and I wanted to suck him like
a viper. Shifting Carver from my lap, I got Brandon to lie on his
back. The sofa was short. His body was long. When he lay with
his beautiful butt on one armrest, his head hung off the other.
Carver took it as an invitation. As I took Brandon’s waning
erection in my mouth, he held Carver’s by the shaft and sucked

his sheathed cockhead. I was happy to service a familiar dick.
Brandon’s cock was a thing of beauty. It was perfect in its
imperfection. No, it wasn’t arrow-straight. It curved up a bit. That
gave it character. As I sucked, he grew in my mouth. He thrust
his hips at my face and I took it. Scampering up the sofa, he got
his feet up at one end and his palms flat at the other. Lifting his
torso into the air—and bringing my mouth along for the ride—he
sucked Carver off in a weird upside-down pose. It made me
laugh. “I never thought all that yoga would pay off,” I told him.

Carver chuckled even as he gasped. Soon his expression

rose to bliss. He closed his eyes and went still. I stopped
servicing Brandon to watch him bring my assistant to a mind-
blowing orgasm. Carver made no noise. He simply grasped
Brandon’s head like Atlas holding the world between his legs.
Brandon was an expert cocksucker. He never stopped, even
after you’d come. He’d keep at you until you couldn’t take
anymore—until it started to tickle, or hurt, or just feel so mind-
blowingly good you couldn’t handle the pleasure. His insistence
inspired me. With a big glob of lube on my finger, I fondled his
asshole. Taking his balls in one hand, I shoved my finger up his
ass. As I sucked him and fingerfucked him, Carver pulled his
spent dick from my husband’s mouth and moved in to do his tits.

With my lips around his cock and Carver’s on his nipples,

Brandon gasped. He lay down, spreading his legs and tossing
one foot over the sofa back. I reamed him with my hand. I knew
my husband. He liked fingers in his ass better than a cock in
there. He was quirky like that. I moved fast inside him as he
thrust like a gangbanger in my mouth. When he stopped moving,
I knew we’d brought him there. Brandon squealed as he
released his load in my mouth. Lucky bastard.

Carver kept on licking his tits as I moved down to the floor

with him and lay my head against Brandon’s naked skin. We were
all gone. The dance music played on in the background and the
mirror ball shone above us. We lay together, exhausted, in awe,
until we realized how funny sex was. And then we laughed.

* * * *

Brandon had to get back and I had to stay in the city until

Ardal was satisfied. When I had a few days off, I visited Brandon.
I lived in his bed as his sex slave and in his kitchen as his cook
until I had to head back to the city to start building the Earnest
set. As I geared up to leave, Brandon kissed me and said, “I
know how much you hate an empty bed. If you want to sleep
with Carver, even without me, you can.”

I felt so blessed that Brandon would say so, but I just

couldn’t do it. I liked our friend Carver, and I had no qualms
about gettin’ it on with him, but only when my husband was
around to join in. Even when Brandon was out of town, he was
still my true love. I wasn’t going to chase after design assistants
behind the scenes. Brandon would never do that to me and,
even with his permission, I could never do it to him. He was my
husband—whether he was in our bed or out of town, he was my
one and only.

THE END

ABOUT G.R. RICHARDS

There's a reason guys growl for G.R. Richards’ Erotica.

You would never know it by the love of public television
documentaries and great food in high-end restaurants, but
G.R. Richards pens some of the world's steamiest guy-on-guy
stories.

ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC

Founded in 2010, JMS Books LLC is owned and operated

by author J.M. Snyder. We publish a variety of genres, including
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Short stories and novellas are available as e-books and
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