                  ... Banging a Straight Butt
                               by
                        Richard A. White


	Richard professed to be straight, but he'd get a throbbing
hard-on at least once during every shoot. He'd modeled for
drawings, centerfolds, greeting cards, calendars, covers, and ads
in all the gay magazines. His fee was never very high, so I knew
it wasn't the money that kept bringing him back to my studio. I
never touched him except to adjust his pose. I wanted to put him
into my work more than I wanted to put him into my bed.
	
	Richard is about five-feet-ten, black-haired, blue-eyes, and
of French-Canadian and Irish descent. As an instructor at a Wall
Street health club, he has carved himself a powerful body. The
light sprinkling of hair on his buns, chest, legs, and belly
doesn't hide the cuts and thick veins of his muscles. His cock is
smaller than average, but his hard, square, marble buns were what
I noticed first about him.

	He was sitting at the pier, sunning, in gym shorts and socks
and sneakers. It took me an hour to work up the courage to ask him
to model for me, and when he responded so quickly and easily I was
a bit taken aback. He grinned, wiped his brow, and stuffed his
sunglasses down the front of his shorts, giving me a quick flash
of his black bush. He seemed to have no shyness at all. I gave him
my card and told him to call me so he could see my work and make
up his mind about modeling.

	He called the next day, and half an hour later he arrived
wearing jeans that hugged his butt like wet paper. He looked at my
drawings and photographs, both straight and gay, and, liking what
he saw, asked my fees. I quoted him my lowest, and he nodded his
acceptance. When he reminded me he wasn't gay, I lied and said I
had thought so. It was really just the reverse. He looked to me
like the classic New York clone - pumped, cut, short-haired,
mustachioed, and wired with a Walkman. But I knew I could get a
lot of mileage out of him, so I let him have whatever illusion he
wanted.

	For our first session, I dressed him in gym shorts and
tanktop. As soon as the initial portrait shots were finished, I had
him slip his shorts down to his knees and raise his tanktop over
his head as if he were undressing. His cock dripped a single pearl
of pre-cum and started lengthening. He seemed totally unabashed,
even proud, but I don't think that barely six inches was so much
to be proud of.

	The body, however, was a marvel of sculpted symmetry. I found
no bad angles, no muscle overlooked in his bodybuilding regimen.
So many clones are built like ice-cream cones - ballooning tits and
arms, chicken parts below the waist - but Richard was perfection.
His butt was so firm that even when he walked away from me, towards
the backdrop paper, it didn't shimmer; the mounds rotated
gracefully on thick, hairy legs.

	The tiny black hairs at the base of his spine, over his deeply
cleft cheeks, added to my obsession with his "straight" butt. I
posed him so that as much of his hole as possible was showing. I
stood him spread-legged over a mirror and shot down into it.
("These are the dirty shots," he chuckled, when he saw the prints.)
I then had him squat on his hands and knees over the mirror, giving
the view one would have it one were rimming him. Black ringlets
wreathed his puckered, pink hole, and his balls hung low, swinging
slightly when he talked or laughed. Finally, I dressed him as a
construction worker - jock, boots, helmet, and sunglasses - and in
a series of shots he removed those items one by one.

	That first set of poses resulted in a series of covers,
centerfolds, and greeting cards. The next set - with Richard in a
leather jacket, boots, and chains - resulted in a best-selling
poster and another centerfold. Not bad for one day's shooting.

	He modeled again about two months later, right after coming
from the beach. His tan was still shiny with oil, and he smelled
of salt and sweat. He was slightly self-conscious of his funky
aroma and asked if he could shower.

	"Not on your life," I said. "It'll inspire me."

	I dressed him in full wing-collar tuxedo and handed him a
large champagne glass. I lit candles and seated him on a white sofa
to show off his tan. He slowly stripped, shot by shot, down to a
semi-transparent black jock. When he peeled the ripe-smelling cloth
below his swelling ballsac, his cock rose to attention.

	That tuxedo shoot also became a classic - covers, cards,
posters, and even a deck of playing cards. I gave Richard samples
of all of them.

	"You always make my dick look longer than it really is,
don't you?"

	I smiled and said, "There's a secret. It's the lens and the
angle. I'll say no more." I didn't think he needed any more
compliments than I'd already given the rest of his body, the parts
I didn't have to enhance.

	I finally took the chance of asking him to model with another
guy - no sex, no kissing, just two bodybuilders rubbing each other
down and working out. I was stunned when he said yes. The partner
I picked for him was an ex-lover of mine. Sam's body is the most
remarkable duplicate of Michaelangelo's David I've ever seen. He is
also fair-haired, so I knew he'd complement the bigger, darker,
hairier Richard.

	At one point, Sam was putting mineral oil on Richard's back,
glancing down at his by-now-famous buns, and Sam started to get a
hard-on. I had them reverse positions quickly, Sam standing with
his back to Richard as Richard oiled my ex-lover's back. Like
bookends, both now sported boners. I enjoyed watching Richard's
avoidance of any eye contact with Sam. The pictures were a
tremendous hit. I later told the editor that the models were
straight, and the magazine made played that up in the spread, which
made their physical contact all that more electric.

	It was now six months later, and Richard had arrived even
later than usual for our first session in half a year. His excuse?
A sore asshole, which had made it impossible for him to ride his
bike to my studio. He'd had to walk, poor baby. I didn't bother to
ask him how a straight guy gets a sore asshole.

	Despite my contempt for his sexual cowardice, my physical
attraction to him was undeniable. His beauty had even inspired me
to work out myself, so I was a good, hard picture of manly health
now. He noticed immediately.

	"Looks good...real good," he said, lightly smacking my rippled
tummy.

	His swaggering macho attitude seemed a fraud to me, but I
thanked him for the compliment.

	He quickly stripped down to a pair of transparent black boxer
sports. Everything showed through, even the hairs on his ass. "Like
'em? Anne bought them for me. They're real silky, like her
panties." He chucked a bit and then had me feel the fabric.

	"Polyester," I said coyly, "but nice. Aren't they awfully warm
though?"

	Richard toyed with a prescription jar and said, "Nah, I'm used
to nylon gym shorts anyway. This is the shit I have to use on my
ass." He held it out for me to see. "Doctor says it's probably
nerves, holding my ass too tight or something'," and he chuckled.
	
	I read the label, didn't recognize the medicine, and handed
it back to him. "Probably some antiseptic cream with painkiller in
it," I said off-handedly.

	"Will it show in the shots if I put it on? I mean, I don't know
watcha got in mind for today."

	I told him we were going to dress him as a bodybuilder, with
weights in one hand, money in the other, and a cock ring on his
price. "It's a story of bodybuilders who sell sex to support their
careers as statues," I sneered.

	Richard's smile faded. "Do some of them really do that, ya
think?"

	I had to work hard to swallow my laughter. "Sure," I said.
"Why work if you don't have to?"

	I set up lights and the barbells as props. Richard stripped
out of the sheer black shorts and struggled into the cock ring.

	"Haven't you ever used one of those?" I asked.

	He looked up at me, shrugged, went back to what he was doing,
and said, "Nope. Never needed one. I always get hard real easy."

	I walked over to help and helped him fasten the metal snaps
on the leather band. "Like this. Real tight."

	He walked to the stand, then rubbed his butt a bit, wincing.

	"Does the medicine sting?" I asked.

	"No, I didn't put any on. I was afraid it'd show in the shots.
Maybe you could do it, so it won't show. It's a funny color."

	It was indeed: a puke orange. I couldn't believe he had asked
me to apply it. "All right, stand with your cheeks spread," I said
softly, walking to him under the bright quartz lamps. He straddled
the stand, a foot above the floor, and spread his cheeks wide open.
I slicked my index with the gook and aimed at his angry, red hole.

	"Careful," he said, chucking, "I'm a virgin."

	I slid my finger into his tailpipe and he hissed a bit as I
went in. I wanted to shove my whole fucking hand in there after his
last remark! "Does that hurt you?" I asked.

	"No, the medicine feels cool and soothing. Keep puttin' more
in there."

	I stuck two fingers into the goop, then slid my middle finger
into his steamy vent and ran the other around the outside. He was
no longer hissing; he was moaning now. His balls swelled back
against my hand and I could feel the thick vein under his groin
filing his horn with blood. He spread his butt cheeks wide apart
and told me to put more in, especially inside the hold. I greased
my finger again and slowly rotated it inside him.

	"Man, you sure know how to handle ass. That feels great! Let's
get this shooting going. I feel better now."

	He turned to face me, and at the tip of his cock a tiny stream
of pre-cum glittered in the light. He'd never been so hard! His
cock stood up proud, throbbing and making circles in the air. The
silvery stream stretched unbroken to the floor and shimmered like
an icicle. His knob was a deeper purple than I'd ever seen - the
cock ring was doing it job. We finished the shoot in record time.
I didn't have to wait for his hard-ons. That porker stayed engorged
for a full hour.

	Afterwards, my throat was so dry from lusting after his
asshole that I went for some wine in the refrigerator. I offered
Richard some, and he accepted. He also lit up a joint. He stood
behind me, smoking, still hard, still wearing the cock ring.

	"I like this thing. Feels great on my cock," he said. "I'll
hafta try one on Anne."

	"Why, does she have trouble keeping a hard-on?"

	He laughed. "You know what I mean." He toked his joint. "I
mean put it on me when I fuck her."

	I chuckled at his dimness, poured our wine, and went back to
the living room. He put his jeans under him and sat next to me on
the sofa, his hard-on still bobbing in the air.

	"Look at that. I mean, I always get hard easy but this has
been up for an hour already."

	I smiled and sipped my wine. "You forget who's been looking
at it more than you have."

	He laughed. "Oh, yeah. Right." He was stoned already. "Listen,
can you put some more of that stuff on me. I think my sweating has
made it not so good anymore," he said slowly, his tongue thick from
marijuana.

	"Sure," I said. I felt calmer with half a glass of wine in me.
"Stand in front of me and spread."

	He sprang up, handed me the sticky substance, and bent to
touch his toes, his hole right at my eye level. I slicked my hand
up with goo and slid around his hole.

	"That medicine feels great in there," he sighed.
	
	It's not the medicine, it's my finger that feels good, I
thought to myself.

	"Fuckin' Jesus, you can really handle ass. I heard some boxers
use dildos to relax their asses before a fight. Is it true, ya
think?"

	It is, if you want it to be, I thought. "I don't know," I
said.

	"Does it feel good to get fucked in the ass? I mean, this
doesn't hurt at all. Feels fuckin' great, in fact. Sweet Jesus, I
like it!" His head hung upside-down between his gigantic thighs,
the dope apparently going to his brain.

	"I don't get fucked much. I prefer to do the fucking."

	He grinned at me ad grabbed my throbbing sausage through my
sweat pants. "I can see why," he said. "Why waste a tool like
that?"

	I was still probing his manhole, watching it loosen and get
slick and slimy as my finger wormed around in it. He was writhing
back onto my finger now, stoned and craving the feeling I was
giving him.

	"God, that's wild. I really love it. Can I lay on the couch?
My legs are getting stiff."

	With one deft movement, never taking my hand out of his hole,
I reached under the sofa for a guest blanket and threw it across
the cushion. He climbed slowly, both because he was stoned and so
as not to let my fingers get away. He clamped his hairy vice around
my knuckle and bent forward, leaning on his side and spreading one
cheek.

	"Get naked," he said, "then I won't be the only one showin'
everything, y'know?"

	I let my finger slip out gently, then quickly stripped off my
shirt and slipped my finger right back into him. I slid out of my
pants and jock with one hand.

	"Jesus, that is some dick you got!" he squeaked enviously.
	
	I got onto the sofa and he raised himself up. "Slide your legs
under me and I can rest on you," he whispered. He spread open his
cheeks again, and my cock, since it curves downward, fell against
his butthole, next to my fingers. "Look at that thing. Think it'd
feel good in me, like your finger?"

	"Much better," I said huskily. "It'll go deeper to the heart
of the problem."

	He grinned and tugged my fingers out slowly and squeezed my
thickening shaft. He ran his hand up and down it.

	"That's good. Get me good and hard. It'll get real big for
you. Keep spreadin' that cheek so I can watch it slide inside your
asshole."

	He rotated his hairy fingers around my cock, then suddenly
looked me in the eyes, probably the most direct stare he's ever
given me. We knew each other now; he wanted it, and he knew I knew
it.

	"Ready?" he hissed, licking his sweaty mouth, sweat dripping
down his forehand.

	"Are you?" I whispered.

	He ran his hand back over my rippled stomach. He beamed with
approval, then grabbed my swaying horsemeat. "Make love to my
asshole, real slow now, but I want it all up my ass - the whole
fuckin' thing."

	My cockhead was bloated to the size of a ripe plum, oozing
sweat, piss, and a ribbon of pre-cum that stuck to the black fringe
around his hole. He slid back, and winced as the head slid in.

	"That's the worst part," I said. "It'll get easier now."

	He relaxed his grip on my cock and reached down for my low-
slung cummakers. "Big balls, too. God was good to you. Feels fuckin'
great in there, man. You know your shit. Keep workin' it in there
like that. Yeah, all the way in and all the way out."

	He bent more forward and buried his handsome face in the
blanket, raising his ass high int eh air. I stood on my feet,
raised his cheeks even higher, and slammed deep into his hole. He
was never going to forget this fuck! I pulled his ballsac like
reins on a horse. He hollered but didn't try to stop me.

	"Fuck! Ride me! Ride me! Rape the fuckin' shit outa me! Gimme
that fuckin' fat thing. Make it come outa my ears when you shoot
your cum. Bang the fuck outa my asshole!" He screamed and bucked
and slammed his ass back at me, devouring my cock with his asshole.

	I reached under his abdomen and grabbed his rod. He sighed
deeply as I stroked him and slowed down my ramming. I wanted him
to shoot with me. I wasn't going to forget this fuck either.

	I settled his ass down on my thighs so I could reach his cock
better. He pulled himself up, straddling my lap and rubbing up and
down on my cock. I ran the other hand over his furry tits and
belly. He rolled his head back against my neck, and I rocked him
in my arms, slathering his cock, squeezing him close.

	Suddenly, I felt moved to tenderness by his vulnerability. I
had all of his now- my cock in his ass, my hand around his dong,
his head against my cheek. As I stroked this body that I had made
so famous, I felt genuine affection for him. I wanted to please
him.

	I gave long strokes to his cock, sliding into his bowels each
time my hand reached his root. He was close to coming now, so I
speeded up my fucking. His barrel-chest swelled and heated in my
arm. I was deep inside him when he shot right t the wall - long
platinum ribbons of steaming juices. He screamed when I hit bottom
and shot him full of my juices.

	We seemed to come forever, his hairy hole gagging on my cock
and his load still splattering the wall. Even when we stopped
exploding, he continued to ride me, and I continued to stroke his
quivering manhood. He leaned back and licked sweat from my neck,
then shoved his tongue into my mouth.

	"Mmmmmmmm," he moaned.

	I was ecstatic.

	Hours later, we were sill lying in a tangled ball of sweat,
muscles, hair, and cum. We stroked and fondled each other, my
softening log still in him. We sipped wine, kissed, and lavished
affection on one another. It was a nice truce; we liked each other.
Gone was that manufactured macho attitude of his. I wiped the sweat
off his face, kissed his shoulders, neck, and face.

	He kissed my mouth, tenderly and smiled. "Well, doctor, I
think you treatment was a success. My ass hurts good now. But I
think I'll hafta come over for regular treatments."

	We both chuckled.

	"I suggest an overnight stay at the hospital," I said, smiling
at him.

	We wound ourselves together in my big bed and slept soundly,
each a visitor in the other's dreams.
