Showtime Ch. 01

Fair warning - there's not a lot of actual stroke material in this one. If you're just looking to rub one out, maybe skip ahead. All characters involved in sexual acts are over the age of 18.

CW: Implied non-con, some emotional distress.

Showtime, Chapter 1: Prologue

Marcia hung up the phone, managing to fight the little tremble of anticipation back down as she replaced the handset. The red plastic receiver, a digital thing made to look analogue, clicked as she laid it back in its cradle. Allen had bought it online.

She had been short as a child and in adulthood, very little had changed - the very peak of her scalp just grazed five-foot-one, and Marcia was under no illusions that her sons would tower over her before long, just like their father. A thick, curly mop of dark brown hair spiralled down off her head, coiling up just short of her shoulders and typically finding a way to tumble across her face.

The last of the baby fat from her pregnancy with Alex continued to linger about her hips; while she had found herself sighing in the mirror at first, it had quickly become apparent that Allen loved it.

So Marcia came to forgive herself for not dropping the weight the way she had promised herself she would.

Everything was in place - her mother-in-law had phoned to let her speak to the kids before bedtime, promising again not to let them come home stuffed full of ice cream again. Doctor Wheeler had already made it clear at their last appointment that Alex, the younger of the two boys, was on his way to a cavity and Marcia and her husband were determined to cut back on sugar around the house.

Allen's mother had been very understanding, hinting at some idea of what Marcia and her son had planned for the weekend.

"I know, honey. Oh believe me, I know" she'd said wistfully, and Marcia could practically feel the knowing smile trickling into her voice on the other end.

"It's important for a husband and wife to have some time to themselves - and, you know, we're always happy to see the babies."

Marcia bit her tongue; if Allen's mother knew exactly what they were planning to do with the 36 hours they had to themselves, there may have been a different tone to the conversation. But she didn't, and the knowing of the not-knowing made it all the sweeter for Marcia.

From upstairs, Marcia could hear the shower running and Allen's voice thrumming softly through the walls as he sang to himself. From the kitchen, the deep, wine-and-herb laded smell of chicken wafted from the oven. When Allen was out of the shower, they'd dance in the living room, like they had in their first apartment, then share dinner.

And when dinner was finished, it would be time for the show.

Five hours.

This time, Marcia allowed herself a squeal.

***

The trucks had been arriving since six that morning, set decorators and maintenance men clambering silently out of the back. They were dressed to work; boots and cargo pants all.

They were paid handsomely and those who had worked the show before knew better than to talk, making sure any newbies followed suit. Their employers preferred that things be arranged quickly and quietly and, for the amount of money Miguel received after the curtains finally fell, he would certainly oblige.

Once inside and out of immediate view, he rubbed his forehead with the back of his wrist and went over the clipboard with his crew's number on it, muttering softly in Spanish as he took in their work detail and began to relay the day's orders. A pushbroom mustache lay across his top lip, his skin a dark tan and wrinkled in places. He looked almost to be made from leather.

"OK...they haven't redesigned so many of the rooms since last month" Miguel began, checking again to make sure he wasn't reading the set descriptions wrong. "Dani, take Rog and Lou out to truck number five. Get everything unloaded"

The lanky pole raised a hand to catch the keys as they were tossed to him, nodding to the other two specified and leading them back outside to start retrieving the set pieces.

The others waited for Miguel to speak again as he flipped through the pages on his board.

"The rest of you...A, B, C A, B, C..." he started, pointing at heads until everyone had been assigned a letter. "A's, you take one through four. B's, five through eight. C's, Nine through twelve. We've got a little under..."

Another pause, this time to check his watch.

"...Fourteen hours to get everything up and running. Any screw ups and we don't get paid."

Miguel walked over to a store cupboard and opened it up, revealing brooms, mops and other cleaning equipment. Racked up toward the back were a series of toolboxes, mostly beaten up.

The tools inside were anything but - anything that needed sharpening had been sharpened. Anything Miguel said needed replacing after last month's show had been restocked or replaced entirely with a newer model.

He turned back and pointed out the doors to where Dani and the others were hoisting boxes from the back of the truck.

"Every room has got to be ready. I do not want a repeat of last time, you understand?" he asked.

A low murmur of acknowledgement rumbled from the crowd of men before him, and Miguel nodded curtly.

"Alright, Chico, Jax, Abe, you're taking rooms one and two..." he began.

They worked through the day, pausing once for coffee mid morning and again for lunch at around two. The sets were easy enough to build, it was just that some of them became...difficult to work in once they were fully set up. After checking the specifications for Room 6 again, he gave the order to hold back on the barrels until right before the curtains came up. You never know what might need doing at the last second until the cameras are already rolling and it's too late.

Miguel delegated where possible, but time constraints meant that as crunch time started to press down on the crew, he ended up on his hands and knees in Room 10, searching for a blockage in one of the pipes that kept the showers from running.

With the offending pipe removed and replaced as quickly as he was able, Miguel rose to his feet and began to check in with the rest of his team.

The technicians were filing in and so he danced his way between them as they adjusted lighting and checked cameras.

He found Dani in the doorway of Room 10 on a stepladder, taking the cover off the light fixture over the door and unscrewing the bulb.

"All good?" Miguel asked, hands on his hips.

Dani reached down silently to hand him the dead LED and the light cover - with his hands now free, he set about replacing the bulb, again reaching down for the cover to reaffix it to the casing.

"Yeah. I mean, me and my guys are good Miggy. I don't know who you gotta tell though, but they gotta stop buying whatever cheap shit lights they're ordering in, man."

Miguel promised to run that one up the ladder and left Dani to it.

Four hours he told himself, feet aching in his workboots.

Rog called his name and waved to him from Room 3, snapping Miguel out of his moment of relief.

Four hours.

***

It didn't matter that Harold lived alone. It didn't even especially matter that he lived on the top floor of his apartment block. When it came to showtime, he locked his bedroom door and drew the blinds. Somehow, it just made the whole thing feel less embarrassing for him.

Harold almost never participated, except for the occasional donation here and there when a scene really caught his eye...but this month was different. His grandmother had died not two weeks earlier and before she went she'd left her only grandchild the bulk of her liquid assets. His parents got the house and the land; Harold got a cool fifty thousand in the form of a cheque and that meant, just this once, he could afford to splurge a little.

The rest of the money would be going into getting out of this shitty goddamn apartment.

He'd heard that particularly generous donors got invited to watch in-house, sometimes even to participate. Harold was embarrassed enough just jerking off in front of his computer and the thought of god-knows-how-many people watching him flop around with his knee brace rattling made his skin crawl and his face heat.

There was still some time before the show started and checking the streaming page, no matter how often he did it, did nothing to speed it up. There were some left-over accounts Gibson had E-Mailed over from the office he guessed he could look at, but the thought of going straight from work to the show, connecting his professional life with his predilections made Harold almost nauseous.

He knew the girls in the office laughed at him. Even the ones who pitied him.

Especially the ones who pitied him.

The idea that these women would find out what he watched, that their laughter would grow louder, or worse, sour and turn deliberately cruel rather than incidentally humiliated him more.

The accounts could wait until Sunday; Harold would make himself sit down and work through them. They'd be back in Gibson's inbox before he was in the office on Monday and Harold could go back to pretending he wasn't just filling time between shows at this point.

Swearing this would be his last one, he checked the timer again.

Three hours.

Like the clock wasn't moving at all.

***

They'd danced, slowly swaying through the floorspace of the living room, holding each other close as the music washed over them.

As Marcia had taken the children to his parents', Allen had spent the time moving the furniture in the living room, the six feet of him stooped low as he pushed. With a space cleared against the wall, he had then carefully pushed the coffee table to the edge of the room, opening the floor up for the evening's activities.

Allen ran a hand down his wife's back, taking in the arc of her spine as she pressed herself into him, the backs of his fingers whistling softly over the fabric of her dress.

She'd chosen the pale yellow number, with the purple flowers here and there - a little garish perhaps, but Marcia knew her husband liked it and he loved her the more for wearing it.

When Marcia returned, she set to work preparing dinner while he, in turn, made sure everything was set in their bedroom.

TV, HDMI, laptop, phone. He rattled through the checklist, finding himself hurrying. There was no need to, the show wouldn't start for hours yet, but the thought of each item, of the night ahead excited him and all he wanted was for it to start.

From the shower, crooning some song he'd heard on the drive back from work earlier that day, Allen heard Marcia answer the phone downstairs. His hand remained at its post, gripping the upper half of his cock and pumping furiously.

The water from the showerhead sprayed over his chest; he and Marcia had long since found they agreed on temperature, and the dial was rarely moved. Allen's remaining hair had been a gunmetal grey before accepting no amount of combing could save it. It had surprised Marcia when he appeared in her bedroom, razor in hand and asking her opinion on the new look.

She'd sucked on her lip and told him she liked it, then admitted it reminded her of some of the men in the videos.

The rest of the afternoon was spent between their sheets, Marcia mewling and pleading as he growled into her ear.

"Harder" she'd all but begged.

Allen stopped for a moment to bite back a gasp and didn't know why he'd bothered. Marcia, presumably, knew what he was doing and, if she did, why. The show would begin in five hours and Allen wanted to make sure he'd last as long as possible - that meant clearing the pipes before they began.

A friend had made him aware of it to begin with, this pay-per-view darkweb thing that he promised to be unlike anything else. You pay in at the start, your first ten minutes in one go and after that by the minute.

Alex had just started kindergarten, Allen remembered that. Marcia was no longer run ragged looking after the boy during the day and when their sex life didn't pick up again the way he had hoped it would, Allen had allowed himself to peer into this new, ostensibly forbidden world.

Just the once, which soon became just one more time.

And then Marcia had caught him, back early from some PTA meeting, his laptop left in the open while he was in the bathroom

Allen gripped his shaft tighter, circling his cockhead with the flat of his thumb, water beating down over his back and shoulders.

He had emerged to find his wife staring at the screen, the volume still low so his sons downstairs wouldn't hear what he was watching. In the still of the moment, Allen could make out the noise of the scene as he had left it. The cursing, the muffled moaning, occasional protesting grunts.

The girl could only have just turned eighteen when she was on the show, and she had been immaculate when she entered. Even now, the thought of watching her smeared and used, makeup ruined and fluids sticking in her hair, those succulent, pert breasts mauled and groped and the quivering pink pussy stuffed over, and over, and over, and over...

Allen slowed his movements, sucking on his bottom lip, inching closer to his destination. Fast and furious had gotten him this far and, straightening up, he began to massage his sac, knowing he could ease himself into the climax at any point he wanted now.

But the memory was mostly a fond one, so Allen chose to ride it out in full.

For two days, Marcia had slept at her sister's and when she finally returned, their bed was stiff and tense for almost a week.

Finally, she had told him she wanted to join him next time he watched. She wanted to know what excited him. That had been the first time they sent the children to stay with his parents.

They had settled into their bed, laptop resting on his thighs over the covers, Marcia keeping her distance as the show began. Slowly, his wife had inched closer to him as they watched the first scene until her hand was in his lap and her breasts, the pair of C cups he loved even as they were starting to be tugged at by age, were pressed into his arm.

She started to stroke him beneath the duvet. It was gentle, almost tender, nothing like what was on display and the serenity of the moment was quickly shattered when she whispered to him

"Is that what you want?"

Completely in her thrall, Allen could scarcely give more than a nod in reply.

Marcia had pulled the covers off herself then and moved the computer from his lap, presenting herself to him on all fours, quietly insisting he take her "like that whore" and Allen, at first trancelike, obliged.

Their lovemaking was fierce and vicious that night, filled with slaps and scratches. The petite brunette he had married, all curly hair and dimples was replaced by some vile creature moaning and dripping wet beneath his weight as Allen fucked her, every carefully maintained middle-aged muscle behind him as he thrust downward into his wife's cunt. He remembered the noises she'd made, noises he didn't know she had in her, and the things he had called her, obscenities he hadn't known himself capable of until then. He took her on all fours, then took her on her back, kissing and sucking at each other's flesh all the while.

He finished with her on her knees by their marital bed, where they had conceived both their children, calling her every foul name he could think of, every vile utterance he could conjure up, every tepid idea of intercourse they'd had until then suddenly and permanently discarded.

Allen had held his wife tight, one hand on her throat, the other wrapped tightly in her hair as he pistoned his hips into her face relentlessly, listening to her gurgled, frantic moaning. With a final roar, Allen erupted in her mouth, the first time she had ever let him. The memory coursed through him as he pleasured himself to it, the images flashing across his mind as he came in her fucking whore mouth and made her swallow it, knowing in his heart of hearts she was orgasming beneath him and never loving her more than he had then.

The laptop lay on the floor, screen smashed when it was thrown from the bed in the turbulence and Allen replaced it the next day, soon followed by the screen mounted on their bedroom wall.

His time in the shower finished soon after, more stroking, a few final gasps and then the sight of his seed washing down the drain. The orgasm was short and perfunctory, in service of greater things to come.

Allen and Marcia danced together in the living room not long after, breathing in the scent of each other, the smell of his wife's hair igniting every nerve up and down his body. When he finished his surveying of her back, his hand came to rest on her backside and when she giggled it was all he could do not to take her there and then.

With the chicken on the table, they ate quietly, very little conversation required; Allen praised Marcia's cooking while gently caressing her calf with his foot beneath the table, their hands interlinked briefly by their plates.

After the remains of the carcass had been stowed in the fridge to be converted into soup later in the week, Allen quickly cleared the table while Marcia retrieved the two lemon tarts she had made the night before. Checking the clock over his shoulder, he was pleased to see there were two more hours until curtains up. More than enough time to finish their dinner, then maybe take a walk around the small park next to their house to get it digested before settling in.

***

The girl would be arriving soon, Janey though. She would be ushered from the back of a black-windowed SUV into the waiting area, passed among the lawyers and the makeup artists and everyone else who needed something checked off like a chew toy before the curtains could come up.

She and Rob waited backstage behind Room 11, their hair and makeup already done. Wardrobe had been and gone too - Janey had been stuffed into a mint green latex number, the outfit crinkling whenever she breathed in, D-cups suspended in mid-air by their choice of bra. A couple of crosses here and there and the little cap on her head, long blonde hair piled up faux-messily, finished up the approximation of a nurse's uniform clinging to her like a second skin. Rob had been given an outfit too, though evidently what he wore was far less important.

Janey resisted the urge to bite her lip as she watched him tilt his head back and exhale through his nose, abs flexing as she gently, carefully caressed his shaft. Draped over his shoulders was a white rubber lab coat, his arms slung down the sleeves. Hanging from his neck, a pale blue surgeon's mask. Like most guys on the show, Rob kept his head shaved. Unlike most, he didn't bother down below...though Janey didn't mind so much.

Rob suddenly gasped and bucked his hips up at her and Janey knew it was time to ease off again, let him retreat back from the edge. They had been in their green room for nearly twenty minutes now, getting Rob close and then inching away again.

Once Janey was satisfied he wouldn't burst, she wrapped her fingers around his base and started again.

Up and down, up and down.

Janey listened to him breathe and shift on the sofa, cursing under his breath as she denied him and every time her heart melted a little more. They couldn't risk damaging what makeup and wardrobe had spent so long doing for her though, so much as Janey wanted to take his glistening helmet between her lips and have him all over her tongue, until they got their green light hands was all he was allowed.

They had met on a previous show originally, then later realised they lived in the same building and had simply never met. It had been awkward at first, but eventually she realised that was stupid - anything and everything to be embarassed by had already happened, and it wasn't like she could take it back. The run-ins on the staircase or, worse, being trapped for the minute or so it took for the elevator to get from the ground floor to hers together became less dreaded. Soon enough, she looked forward to them.