A Stud is Born

By Noam de Pluma & kuro
published April 10, 2021
6859 words
Summary

Norman Aster is working his regular shift at the restaurant when a mysterious stranger walks in and changes his life forever… except his life has always been that way, right? Right?

Life as a waiter in an upscale restaurant often seemed more glamorous than it actually was. Breaks were short, customers frequently appallingly rude, and the perks were so weak as to be non-existent.

Fortunately, 10AM on a Thursday was one of the quieter periods at La P’tite Maison: after the breakfast crowd, but before the lunch rush. Norman hadn’t had any customers darken the door for almost thirty minutes.

Of course, as soon as he thought that, the tinkling bell chimed as the heavy glass doors swung open, admitting a shambling figure.

He couldn’t quite make out the details of this new customer, who was silhouetted against the sunlight, but something about the way he walked made Norman think he might not belong in this particular establishment. Plastering on a smile that could say either of “I deserve a big tip” or “I won’t take your shit, please leave,” depending on the words he chose to deploy, he walked up to the front and tried to angle himself away from the light so he could finally get a good look at the newcomer.

“Welcome to La P’tite Maison,” he said brightly. “How may I help you?”

“A table, please,” came the remarkably throaty response – the shaggy hair parting as the customer turned his face up to Norman’s. He was short enough that one might have mistook him for a child, were it not for the shabby, tweedy jacket and scraggly beard – as well as the pervasive, sharp scent that clung to him like a limpet.

The smell was almost offensively present, but it wasn’t unpleasant: rather, it was impossible to shut out, infiltrating Norman’s nostrils as he automatically began to breathe through his mouth.

Norman weighed his options. Obey the restaurant’s no-fragrance policy (whether the man’s… musk… was all natural or not)? Let him eat and clear out before the lunch rush and hopefully get a tip out of it?

He sighed internally. He was hard up for cash and needed all the money he could get without resorting to going gay for pay. Again. Fuck his luck that Bobbi and her shitty escort service paired him up with men more than women more often than not.

All this mental arithmetic occurred in less than a second, without disrupting the smile plastered onto his face. “Absolutely,” he chirped. “Will anyone be joining you today, sir?” He busied himself with the pile of menus.

“Only you,” the suddenly brassy voice returned, as the diner stumped around the wood panel obscuring the dining space from the street. The high ceilings and cream-coloured booths stood in contrast to the short, darkly-clothed man, who sagged into a table tucked into a corner.

Agile fingers snagged the à la carte menu, bushy brows furrowing as he blinked slowly at the French unrolling in front of him.

The scent seemed to be getting stronger and stronger – not cloying, but omnipresent as it surrounded Norman and bore down on his subtly pounding head-

-Until something bent and gave way, leaving Norman breathing easily: entirely oblivious to the aroma that filled his nose.

And suddenly Norman found himself in full earn-a-tip mode. “You’re in between breakfast and the lunch rush so the kitchen doesn’t have everything ready yet, but our daily soup – French onion – should be ready to go. I can also get them to make you anything off the breakfast menu before they switch over completely, or fire up a steak frites even though it’s a bit early. I’ll let you peruse the menu and come back in a minute. In the meantime, water coming right up. Or do you want something else? Another drink, maybe? I’ll be back with your water.”

He briefly wondered why he was babbling and waffling so much, and made to turn away towards the bar, cheeks burning.

“Water, yes. And steak.”

The words were – less hash than his previous short sentences had been. Clearly, the guy was uncurling at the prospect of lunch getting more imminent, his shoulders straightening ever so slightly as he tucked a curtain of hair behind an ear.

The action exposed an impressive sideburn and a cheekbone so sharp it would probably slice through butter without any effort whatsoever.

Norman got to the bar and released a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, leaning against the polished wood for support. What was going on with him? He’d been waiting tables long enough to be better than this. He shook out his hands and cricked his neck before grabbing a glass and filling it up. The rolled his eyes, dumped it out, added a scoop of ice, then filled it with water again.

He walked back to the table, winsome smile plastered on his face, and had just sat the glass down when his smile faltered. Shit. The steak.

“Sir, I apologize, I should have asked you earlier, but, um, about the steak, and, uh, how you want it cooked…”

He prayed that the man would cut him off already because, for some reason, he simply couldn’t stop himself from babbling. What was going on with him?

“Bleu.”

His spine had uncurled in the time Norman had been away, making him seem taller and – well, more respectable. The tweed wasn’t as bad as the waiter had initially thought: he looked more like a rumpled academic than a hobo. Rather than matted, his hair was just… long. Not even tangled, on reflection.

Now that his hair was tucked away, swept from his face, Norman got a startling glance from some highly penetrating green eyes.

“Two plates.”

“Yes, of course. But you said nobody else was coming?” Norman asked quizzically.

The customer raised an unimpressed eyebrow ever so slightly – more groomed than Norman had initially estimated when he’d seen it through the sheet of somewhat glossy hair – that sent the waiter scurrying back to the kitchen.

Norman gave the chef the order ticket and made himself scarce from the dining room, peeking his head in to make sure the customer didn’t need a refill of water and, fortunately, finding no need to return to the table. Hanging out in the kitchen made him feel more like himself. The air was clearer somehow. Maybe he was just hungry, and the smell of food (even lightly seared steak) helped centre him?

Whatever it was, it worked, and he made his return to the dining room with renewed bravado and two plates, one of which was laden with the rarest plate of steak frites he’d ever served. The familiar aroma of crispy fries filled his nostrils until he was just bending down to lay the plates when another aroma, some kind of musk he couldn’t quite place, shoved the fries aside and filled his mind with cobwebs again.

The man’s spidery hands grasped his knife and fork, stabilizing the steak as he delicately sawed through the raw flesh – juices seeping across the plate and staining the frites indelibly.

With a sudden, mild shock, Norman realized that as he’d been avidly watching the butchery, the stranger had been watching him.

The guest lifted half of the steak, still seeping gently, and deposited it on the clean plate, before spooning over a number of the darkened frites in turn, crispiness already beginning to degrade.

“Sit.”

Norman screwed up all the courage and concentration he could muster. “Sir, I’m afraid I can’t,” he said politely but firmly, tip-earning smile still plastered on his face, gently pulling the second chair out from under the table. “I’m on shift,” he continued, sitting down courteously, “and I’m definitely not allowed to eat with guests.” He pulled the chair in and looked at the man, whose sharp, angular (and frankly handsome) face was framed by flowing locks of jaw-length hair that fell artfully from where it was tucked behind his ears.

“You’re on break,” the man said matter-of-factly.

Satisfied with something imperceptible to Norman, he sat back a little and turned his attention to carving up the half of the steak that remained on his plate. Meanwhile, Norman’s mind was – unhurriedly, implacably – altered by the tendrils of something that had penetrated deeply into his body.

As he sat there, Norman’s mind stutter-stepped for the briefest of moments as it caught up with his actions.

“You know, I’ve had blue steak once before,” he said conversationally, politely cutting a bite for himself. “Really didn’t like it. Too bloody.” He raised his fork to his mouth and took the dripping piece of meat, chewing thoughtfully.

Dimly, he was aware that something was… wrong? He felt unsettled, but couldn’t place why, until… crap! If he was on break, he shouldn’t be wearing his work uniform, especially while eating with a customer in the dining room. Blushing, he began to shift uncomfortably and fidget at his waiter’s apron, uncertain of what to do with it in this compromised situation.

Not that he liked this job much, but he needed it. In fact, he couldn’t afford to lose it, staring down the face of prostitution (to say nothing of a likely gay for pay scenario) again. If the boss were to walk in on him…

“Nice suit,” the man observed – not even begrudgingly: more like it was a fact of life.

Although La P’tite Maison’s uniforms were nothing to sniff at – the frumpy bow ties and neat collared shirts contrasted well with the black aprons – they could never be confused with suits. Norman was just about to open his mouth, when Norman’s brain lit up in a few particular key places – just as the invisible cloud around him contracted and pulsed.

The change wasn’t major: the waistcoat that formed from the foaming surface of the apron was the same black-dyed cotton, with a simple cut. The jacket that spilt onto the back of Norman’s chair was merely created from the excess material, too. But it was clearly not a uniform, something that Norman’s momentarily fevered mind latched onto.

Norman finished adjusting the bit of shirt collar that had snagged uncomfortably in his suit jacket and blushed. “Thanks. It’s just a cheap thing I’m making sure still fits for this audition I have tomorrow. Could be a big part, my big break, you know?” Another morsel of steak found its way to his mouth via arms and hands operating on autopilot, and he chewed thoughtfully, lost in daydreams of fame and fortune.

“Audition?” the gentleman prompted, slicing through flesh without hesitation as he sat up fully – really, he was almost Norman’s height. His sharp nose and incisive eyes were still locked on Norman, but… they were having lunch. It only made sense to look at one’s interlocutor.

“Oh, yeah, I’m an actor,” Norman said cheerfully. “Kind of in between agents right now, but I have a good feeling about this part tomorrow. Friend of mine-” he shuddered momentarily, remembering the number of times he’d had to let himself get fucked by this ‘friend’ before getting access to his insider knowledge, “sent it over to me. Mid-20s male, earnest look, not too tall, handsome… it’s like they wrote it for me or something.” He chewed thoughtfully, unconsciously grimacing at the taste without registering his dislike of the extra-rare meat. “Say, are you in movies? You definitely look the part. The hair, the face, you’d be a shoo-in.”

The – stranger? – kept a steady gaze on Norman for a few seconds longer than was comfortable, before seeming to come to a decision.

“I’m an agent,” he confirmed briefly, as the slight heat-haze shimmer of scent cloaked both of them – rewriting an entire life’s back story, rather than the reality of a single apron.

Norman felt quite dizzy as his motives for sitting with the customer were tweaked for clarity: he hadn’t sat down at an invitation, but because he’d recognized the man. Flattery about looks was only so transparent: this was a route that wouldn’t involve dubious ‘friends’ if he didn’t want it.

Thank goodness he’d had his suit stashed in the back so he could change into it while the agent’s steak was getting prepped. Got to put your best foot forward, right?

“Yeah, you know how it is,” he said, pouring on as much charm as he could muster. “Professional waiter and silver screen audition-er Norman Aster, at your service. I’ve got a lot of range, you know, and never a bad review. I love just diving into a character, you know?” Technically, role-playing with clients counted as acting, right? None of his Janes or (sigh) Johns had ever complained, at any rate. Hopefully this agent would let him get away with his little lie of omission.

He shoved a mouthful of frites into his mouth just to get himself to shut up and stop babbling at the kingmaker he was lucky enough to be dining with. What was going on with him today?

Norman wasn’t certain, but it seemed like the man’s manner was a little different than before. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? Now if only Norman could remember the guy’s name. He was a face around town, but… the waiter was blanking.

“What sort of range?” the agent inquired, rolling his shoulders back – which put his eyeline a little higher than Norman’s.

“Oh, you know,” Norman said around his frites before swallowing. “Nice, friendly, trustworthy guy – that was for a deodorant commercial – scared college kid for a horror flick, um…” He trailed off, having exhausted his on-screen roles. But in more private settings, well…

“I’ve been the cold, domineering boyfriend, the warm-hearted teddy bear, the gim- I mean, subservient, eager-to-please guy,” he rattled off the list, mentally recalling all of his encounters with the escort agency. He swallowed hard, trying to quell is rising embarrassment. “Those were mostly indie projects, you wouldn’t have heard of them, but, like, I got into character man. Deep into character.”

“And you’re pretending to be an earnest waiter right now, to prove your acting chops,” the agent deduced, more verbose now that his role was revealed.

Norman, in turn, was about to refute the idea, but – as the mist around them almost thickened to visibility – he realized that he’d been busted. Getting a friend to let him wait tables on a day when he knew that his target would be eating at La P’tite Maison had seemed like such a flawless plan, too.

He turned on the charm and flashed his most winsome grin. “How’d I do?”

“Adequately,” the agent allowed, making Norman relax ever so slightly.

Without his gig as a waiter, his life was – unbeknownst to him – quite different from how it had been mere moments before. His will to become a proper actor, though, hadn’t changed: if anything, it had intensified.

As had his reliance on hooking to make ends meet. Without the steady (if meagre) income of waiting tables to support his audition-heavy lifestyle, moonlighting as a John-for-hire was becoming his go-to more and more. He’d found himself a bit of a niche serving past-their-prime women and, despite his reservations, a growing number of like-aged men.

He idly wondered how long it had been since he even got over his gag reflex before returning to the matter at hand. This agent to the stars with whom he was sharing a meal.

“Just adequate? I’d say I had the patter down pretty good.” He took his last bite of the half-steak on his plate. “So, now that we’re both out in the open… what are you looking for in up-and-coming actors to fill out your roster?”

“A chameleon, really. One willing to fully commit to whatever role they might be chosen for,” the agent explained – more expansive with every passing moment, his average height looming over Norman’s. His handsome face, framed by sleek, well-groomed hair, had the rent boy questioning why the agent had never gone in for acting himself. Or modelling, at the very least.

“For example – you’re wearing a tearaway suit. Justify that to me,” he nearly purred, as the stitching of Norman’s suit grew thin and the cut a little more adventurous.

Norman took a breath and allowed his heartbeat to slow, determined not to let the rush of embarrassment he felt show on his face. He had a client – one of his regulars, in fact, a retired and particularly kinky older gentleman – scheduled in just an hour or so and needed to be ready.

“Gotta be able to show layers and change character on a dime, right?” He asked, projecting confidence bordering on cockiness. “A minute ago I was a mild-mannered waiter. Now I’m a hard-nosed negotiator. Later on I’ve got this exclusive gig booked and, well, who knows what I’ll be underneath once I get there?”

“Who indeed,” the man said dryly. “Well – you’ve clearly done your research on me, which is commendable. You did a decent job at waiting, until you sat down to eat… so: tell me. What am I like?”

Norman’s throat had gone a little dry. Although he knew the man was a talented agent – had known enough to schedule this fortuitous meeting – the specifics on his erstwhile customer weren’t precisely nailed down. He didn’t even know the guy’s name, for heaven’s sake.

But people never got anywhere if they didn’t bluff. And if he buffed an ego in the process? That was all to the good.

“Well,” Norman said coyly, toying with the remaining frites on his plate, “you’re an agent. A good one. Lots of ins with the big studios, lots of leads into interesting projects.”

He stopped and considered; surely this kingmaker hadn’t been asking him for his resume.

“But, you know, beyond that,” he continued, making up what he hoped was the truth, “word is you’re a killer negotiator but also super generous. You treat your clients well, give them opportunities to grow, really show them the ropes. You’ve got quite the loyal following, from what I hear.”

A brief pause ensued, as if the agent was examining every angle of Norman’s words – before a smile slid slowly onto his face.

“You’re absolutely right – I do indeed focus on my clients’ growth, as well as being more than happy to tie them up for their benefits… so to speak. And it does seem to inspire loyalty, for what it’s worth. So let’s introduce ourselves properly.”

He reached a hand across the table, a smile dominating his face that had Norman’s stomach squirm slightly in – anticipation? Eagerness?

“Warren Edger.”

Norman’s heart leapt. An actual introduction to the Warren Edger!

“Norman,” he said, joining Warren’s soft, powerful hand in his. “Norman Aster.”

“A pleasure – though I can see it’s all yours,” he joked lightly, eyes flicking gently down to Norman’s crotch – which was fully obscured by the table.

Nevertheless, Norman couldn’t deny that he was strainingly hard, which was a legitimate concern in his tearaway suit. Fortunately, its designers had foreseen that particular issue and had made the stitching in the crotch a touch sturdier.

Still. Was it an auspicious beginning, or a terribly embarrassing omen?

“Yeah, well, uh,” he stammered, retracting his hand to run it through his hair, “I’m just… was just thinking about… well, I guess I’m casting-couch ready, ha-ha.” He trailed off, blushing furiously at both his predicament and the sheer stupidity of his weak attempt at humour.

“Oh? Do you really look forward to that aspect of the job that much?” he asked, a morbid fascination crossing his face. “I can’t say it’s a part of my process… not unless you really want it to be,” he chuckled, winking roguishly at Norman.

Norman’s boner gave a painful pulse at the implication, like it was raring to be involved in anything that might involve Warren.

Really, Norman couldn’t ignore the fact that the tall man – what, six feet? More? – was model-handsome, and probably better built than most of the people he represented. How the hell had he not been snapped up for an acting gig?

“Heh, well, I was joking, but I mean if push came to shove…” he trailed off and tried to stop digging himself into whatever grave he was beginning to suspect he’d found himself in.

“I’ve gotta ask – how did you get into the biz?” Maybe if he there some attention back on Warren he could get his footing back. “Modelling? You’ve got the looks for it.”

“No, no – I actually recommended a few of my friends to a casting agency, back in the day. They said I had a talent for it after they became stars, and tested me out on a few others… well, the rest is history. People I pick become stars,” he said – not immodestly, even. It was true. Some of the biggest names in Hollywood invariably had some connection to Edger.

Small wonder then that Norman felt electric prickles run up and down his spine at the possibility that he’d be chosen, forgetting entirely that he’d never heard the name ‘Warren Edger’ until five minutes earlier.

Then again, the rest of the world hadn’t, either, but he was now nestled in the black books of the most exclusive agencies in Hollywood. The industry was a funny place like that.

“So. Mr. Edger.” Norman put on what he hoped was his most professional tone and fervently ignored the throbbing in his pants. “Let’s get down to it. You’ve met me. You haven’t turned me out on my ass yet. Am I in? And if not, what’ll it take?”

“Well, from the way you’ve been eyeing me since I came in, it’s clear that your interest isn’t purely professional. I know you’ve heard the rumours – who hasn’t? – and, yes, it’s true. It is that perfect,” he said, smirk on his face.

Norman hesitated for the briefest moment, head clear as he wondered what the fuck Warren was talking about – before an involuntary lungful dispelled any pause. Yes, he’d heard the rumours about even the straightest of actors going gay for the rod in Warren’s pants – and always at their own request.

It was so bizarrely specific a rumour that it almost couldn’t have been made up, but… well. He’d just heard confirmation from the horse’s mouth.

“Look, Mr. Edger… I’ve done the whole gay-for-pay thing. So…” he licked his lips seductively and leaned forward, “if that’s all it takes, well, then, I’m your man.”

“Oh, no,” he said, looking revolted. “This isn’t a condition. It was an offer, if you wanted it – I had assumed, thanks to your little problem and your… staring… that it was on your mind. But I’d never have someone do anything they didn’t want to in the moment.”

This set Norman back on his heels. Gay sex was just something he did to pay the bills. He only considered it insofar as something he was willing to do, and never questioned whether he wanted to on any personal level.

The realization that he’d never considered his own wants in the matter – and that the Warren Edger had – struck a nerve. “I, well… thank you, Mr. Edger,” he stammered, blinking away unexpected tears. “That might be the nicest thing a guy has ever said to me about, you know. Sex.” His dick twitched again and shed a tear or two of its own. What would it be like to be with a man so considerate of his feelings after all this time?

“Regardless, it’s clearly something you’re not interested in,” Warren said pleasantly, “So we can get started on finding you some auditions on Monday. My card,” – he slid a sleek square across the table – “Is here. It has my personal number and email, should you need to reach me at any time.”

“Is there anything else?” he asked, looking not at all offended by Norman’s protest.

Norman’s cock throbbed angrily in his pants.

“Well, I, as a matter of fact, Mr. Edger,” Norman said, stammering once again. He sat up and squared his shoulders, having made a decision – with both his heads. “While I’m glad it’s not an obligation, your saying so only made me want it more. For real.” He clasped his hands in front of him and licked his lips again, this time to catch a bit of drool that threatened to ruin his controlled demeanour. He flashed the smile he usually reserved for girls he invited home. “So, if you’re still willing…”

“If you’re sure?” he said doubtfully, even as he spread his legs a little under the table. “I am willing, but you only need get under this table if it’s something that you wish to do. There’s no pressure whatsoever – I’ve had several amicable working relationships with clients who haven’t done anything of the sort,” he confessed with a self-conscious chuckle.

Norman barely heard the admission, deaf to anything but the rush of blood in his ears as it became apparent that he could be blowing Warren right at their very table.

The fog closed in around Norman’s brain again, leaving a single indelible conclusion: if even a tiny part of him wished to blow Warren Edger, then all of him needed to blow Warren Edger. It was as simple as that.

The burning need swirled through his head, erasing all other thoughts or considerations.

He flashed his trademark grin again and slid below the table, crawling through the darkness towards Warren’s legs, which slowly widened at his approach. He ran his hands along Warren’s thighs and drove his nose into the agent’s crotch, taking a deep whiff.

It smelt – clean. Faintly like laundry detergent, in fact: the pressed seams of the smart dark trousers felt perfectly tailored to Norman’s clumsy hands as he searched for a zipper.

Instead, he found a button, straining against taut fabric – and a bulge snaking down Warren’s left thigh, heat radiating from it like an oven.

The dense weave of the trousers felt like it was being spread by the sheer bulk of the shaft. Norman even thought he could see pale skin through the material, but it was purely a flight of fancy – particularly in the primordial darkness beneath the tablecloth.

With every passing second, the feedback loop in Norman’s brain intensified. He needed to suck Warren’s dick, which made him wish he could, which made him need it even more, which made him wish even harder, which intensified his need yet again, over and over and over.

He moaned involuntarily, mouthing the rapidly hardening rod through the straining fabric of his trousers while reaching around to grab Warren’s delicious cheeks and squeeze them, pulling him deeper into the agent’s crotch.

It felt almost profane, to moisten the fine material – but Norman couldn’t help himself, the tubular shape so bizarrely attractive even to his jaded view.

An elegant hand stole beneath the table to gently pet Norman’s hair, encouraging his gasping efforts. It stayed firmly away from the trousers’ buttons, letting the rent boy – aspiring actor – set his own pace, instead.

Norman whimpered with joy at the feel of Warren’s dick pressing through the fabric into his lips, redoubling his need to fellate his newfound business partner to completion. So complete was his focus on Warren’s manhood that he barely even registered the way his would-be agent gently threaded his fingers through Norman’s hair.

And, remarkably, Warren wasn’t lying. As far as Norman could tell, the star-maker’s cock was perfect in every way. It was Norman’s favourite kind of cock to service: hot, steel-hard, uncut (he was nearly certain from how it pressed against the fabric of Warren’s too-tight trousers), and what he judged to be about 5 inches long. The perfect mouthful for a gay-for-pay rent boy.

He failed to register that the member he was worshipping had almost certainly been larger – much larger – just a moment ago.

With desperate, clumsy hands, he began to work at the button fly of Warren’s trousers while moved down to tongue the agent’s balls through the expensive fabric.

The hand paused in its carding through Norman’s hair for the briefest moment, before resuming as Norman managed to get the twill of the trouser flaps open – revealing a pair of boxers with a moderately respectable cock straining behind it.

“You’re good at this,” Warren crooned from above. “You’ve done this so often that regular dicks just aren’t enough for you, are they?”

Norman muzzily supposed that Warren’s cock wasn’t regular, but – ah. If normal cocks weren’t enough for him, and Warren’s cock was perfect, therefore it was more than a normal cock.

His mind shot back to one of his more… exotic clients. The one with the dildo collection. Very imaginative dildos. Strap-ons with ridges, bumps, flare-outs, anything to make them more stimulating. The one who tipped Norman extra to give them a slow, luxurious blowjob while they jutted out from his groin. His throat had grown quite talented as a result, and almost missed the extra stimulation, the extra challenge, when blowing his regular Johns.

Hands shaking with excitement, Norman gently widened the gap of Warren’s fly and began to extract his cock. His eyes flew open in amazement as his fingertips sang with sensation and his mind exploded with lust.

Warren’s cock was improbably, impossibly, the living incarnation of these fanciful dildos. Norman shuddered with delight as his hands grasped, massaged, and slowly extracted an exotic sex toy made flesh. Six and a half inches with a disproportionately enormous head bigger than a golf ball and a latticework of thick, fleshy ridges that pulsed with every beat of Warren’s heart. It bulged and tapered subtly along its length, with each bulge growing wider towards the base.

Scarcely daring to believe what his fingertips were telling him he took an experimental lick from root to tip and shuddered in delight as his tongue passed over the unique, inhuman textures of this magical cock, swirled around the head, and licked up a pearl of the most divine precum he’d ever tasted.

It was, without a doubt, the most perfect cock he’d ever experienced in his life. And he needed it. Now.

With a cross between a needy whimper and a guttural moan, he dove down the impossible tool and forced the over large head to pop into his throat, and didn’t stop until his lips were locked to Warren’s groin, his hands once again squeezing the agent’s glutes to make sure every miraculous inch available stayed buried in his throat.

The bulbous head acted almost like a knot once it had snugly popped through the ring of Norman’s throat – the aspiring actor could tell that it wasn’t coming out without some degree of effort… or unless he got Warren to climax.

Not that that would be any form of hardship: the cock ticked every one of Norman’s boxes, even ones that he’d subconsciously suppressed or denied. How else could he explain the fact that it was leaking enough precum to fill a bucket? That its reassuring, thrumming pulse was strong enough that it felt almost like it was vibrating?

Warren’s petting continued, syncing with the agent’s enthusiasm and giving the ersatz waiter an accurate metric for how well he was doing. Fortunately, his technique for blowing unusual cocks had been honed repeatedly – though never in such a divinely satisfying way.

“You almost look like you’d rather do this than act,” Warren’s voice floated down to him, replete with a joking tone.

Norman moaned around Warren’s cock as it throbbed in his throat. The agent wasn’t wrong – almost was the right word. He loved the satisfaction of giving head to another man almost as much as he did diving into character.

He began to indulge in his deeper fantasies. That client with the dildos. Norman always secretly wished that his cock could look like them. That his own prick would take on the impossible pleasurable qualities of the last cock he sucked so he could try them out on his next conquest. Give her the same pleasure he was experiencing.

Heck, even return the favour to the guy he was blowing, give him a taste of his own medicine.

The perfect cock for him would do that practically by osmosis. Give him an identical prick that would fill his partner with as unquenchable a thirst as he felt this instant.

The perfect cock with the perfect precum and the perfect, massive, delicious cumshot.

He moaned around Warren’s length again and pulled back as far as he could before the engorged rim stopped him, and dove back down, starting a rhythmic deep throat that sent the magical prick in and out of his throat over and over with full, sensual strokes.

He failed to notice the swelling of Warren’s balls as they grew from average-sized walnuts to Mandarin oranges in order to accommodate his newfound virility.

Warren’s cock sawed in and out of him increasingly quickly, every ridge and ripple pleasantly rubbing against Norman’s throat as the pre coated his oesophagus ever more liberally. The sagging balls beneath the shaft twitched as they gained a particularly virulent payload: one which would only effect those it directly entered, but which would leave a permanent legacy: making Norman, or, indeed, any of the many stars who’d blown Warren, sexual chameleons in the cock department.

There had been a trend, once, of using cock doubles when sex scenes happened. Nowadays, though, it had fallen out of fashion: it was far more in vogue for the most popular stars around to just suck off a guy with the ideal sexual characteristics, in one of the better-kept secrets of Hollywood.

Provided they’d ever given Warren Edger a blowjob, of course.

Norman couldn’t have given a flying fuck about that, though: he was far busier getting his every sense railed by the experience that Warren provided without moving a muscle besides his most carnal one.

Norman was fast running out of breath, but wasn’t worried. He knew that the perfect cock would string him along just until he’d had just reach his limit before blowing, filling him with delicious spunk, making his dreams come true. All of them.

He bobbed up and down with increasing fervour, his need and lust redoubling every few second in his feedback loop. He wished to blow this perfect cock to completion, which made him need to, which made him wish for it, which made him need to, over and over and over…

His prick leaked what felt like gallons of precum as he jerked his head back harder and harder, pulling Warren out of his chair every time the plug-like ridge of the agent’s helmet caught the back of his throat. He just gripped Warren’s ass even harder, yanking him out of the chair, bumping his head and making the dishes on the table rattle.

The cock throbbed and swelled in his throat, signalling its impending release. Any time now, and he’d have that wondrous load. The perfect load. So close, close to stardom, close to passing out, closer, closer, closer…

As the edges of Norman’s vision greyed out and began to vignette, the precursor to a titanic load splashed the back of his throat: just a single drop, a harbinger of what was to come.

Its effect on Norman, though, was immediate. His cock felt like it was afire with pleasure as he jerked like a scaled cat, pulling Warren’s hips with him as he slid to the floor – the agent sinking beneath the table as his hands roughly fisted in Norman’s hair.

He couldn’t do much else, though, as the crashing wave of his orgasm peaked and crested, exploding down Norman’s gullet with main force and the intensity of mainlining a bucket of asbestos.

Norman’s eyes blew wide, the whites showing entirely around his irises as the cum flooded into him – the perfect cock and its perfect consequences colliding with his mortal body and its complex genetics. The perfection won out: his genome unwound, beginning to rewrite itself to be more adaptable – even as the other aspects of Norman’s idea of perfection deepened, enriched by waves of lust that unlocked his once-contained desires and fantasies.

The mental and literal fog throbbed around them both as Warren unloaded. Uncharacteristically, he moaned, losing a fraction of his poise and control. He sent spurt after spurt jetting down the young, aspiring actor’s throat and lost himself in the ecstasy of the moment.

For the briefest of intervals, he almost fancied he could feel cock – a perfect cock, blasting a load of cum directly down his throat, filling his belly more satisfyingly than the steak had just minutes before.

Then those intervals became longer.

Norman was experiencing quite the opposite set of sensations. The more Warren’s cock blasted down his gullet, filling him with a sense of euphoria greater than he’d ever known, his own cock unloaded in his pants, soaking through the cheap material and dripping onto the floor. Rope after rope spewed from his dildo-like mushroom head, pumped from his Mandarin-sized balls, and at times he almost fancied he could feel a greedy, needy mouth around his length, nursing him to completion.

Their heads swam as the fog nearly became tangible, weighing on them, before suddenly it lifted.

Norman grasped the arms of his chair and pulled himself back into a seated position, gasping for breath as his prick finally deposited its final spurt into the agent’s throat and began to deflate, releasing him at last. He’d never know it, but the Norman Aster who arose from under the table was a fair bit studlier than the version that had first gone under it. Stronger. Leaner. More filled out. Jaw more squared. But, of course, he’d always been that way.

Regardless, the luncheon had gone exceedingly well, he thought. Not only was he a moderately successful actor, but here he was being courted by one of the most powerful agents in Hollywood. A star-maker. One famous in certain circles for his perfect cock, improbably identical to his own, and for turning the tables on the stereotypical casting-couch horror stories.

He felt like his dreams were finally coming true.

Warren smiled shyly up at the actor, hopeful that he’d persuaded the Norman Aster, rising star of Tinseltown, to sign with him. Though he had a stable of actors, there was a unique star power to Norman that couldn’t be denied.

They’d bonded over their similar meteoric rises to fame – Norman had broken into Hollywood from nowhere, and Warren had gone through something similar, years before – and it had only seemed natural to segue into something a little more intimate.

Warren wasn’t aware of his powers, most of the time – but as long as he remained healthy and happy, he was happy. Things turned out for him, whether he was a masseuse, an artist, now an agent for Hollywood talent – but he had a certain contentment about him with the advent of fortuitously finding a kindred spirit.

He shuddered to think at the turn of events that led him to somehow becoming a homeless man that wandered into La P’tite Maison, but, well, he couldn’t argue with how things had turned out. He’d really have to be more careful with his suggestions in the future.

He texted his assistant to prepare the paperwork for Mr. Aster and signalled their waiter to come and take their dessert order. He looked forward to a fruitful relationship with his new talent and wondered, before his memory of anything supernatural faded from conscious thought once again, how and when he would flex his most unusual muscle going forward.

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