description: A male backup dancer is hired by Beyoncé—and learns she does not want a dancer, but a male stud to impregnate her.. In a twisted parody of beehive mating rituals, Beyoncé lures six men into a fuck-or-die contest aboard her private yacht. The winner gets to make a baby with her. The losers are eliminated from the hive.
“Around the virgin queen are hundreds of exuberant males, forever drunk on honey; the sole reason for their existence being one act of love. (…) Each day, when the sun shines resplendent, this plumed horde sallies forth in search of the bride, who is more difficult of conquest than the most inaccessible princess of fairy legend, and from these ten thousand one alone will be chosen for the unique kiss that shall wed him to death no less than to happiness…” (The Life of the Bee by Maurice Maeterlinck, published May 1901 and edited by me)
tags: mature, milf, anal, impregnation, blowjob, titfuck, anal, MILF, femdom
Antoine had been queuing on the sidewalk for years.
He twisted his upper body out of the audition line, checking the door of the Broadway office. It had moved a dozen paces closer in the past hour. Or rather, he’d moved toward it. The line was so slow it was hard to tell.
Beside the door was a sign.
BEYONCE OPEN AUDITIONS – MALE BACKUP DANCERS.
6 spots left were scrawled in Sharpie underneath.
This is weird. Stars of Beyoncé’s luminosity did not hold open auditions. They hired agencied talent, like his roommate Torsten.
The sign, weird or not, had attracted a line of applicants that stretched from Broadway to the corner of 6th Ave.
Antoine ran his eyes up and down the line of heads, dismayed at their number. Jesus, I’m competing for the job against like a hundred people. This city has a plague of dancers… Then he remembered who he was, and where he was.
He was plague.
You could easily clock the dancers in the line. Antoine had no problem telling his competition from their parents, sisters, brothers, boyfriends, family members, wellwishers, and parole officers. Dancers didn’t stand like regular humans: they had hypermobile joints, tucked shoulders, loose scapulae, and not a trace of anterior pelvic tilt. They were the ones who kept limbering up with obsessive little gestures: bouncing and skipping in place and heel-rocking to restore blood flow. They all wore their hair in one of two ways: buzzed cancer-patient-short (like Antoine’s), or long, with a weird wave at the jawline where bunning and hairnetting had bent it permanently out of shape. Antoine smiled when he saw a guy standing on tiptoes—he’d taken years to break himself of that ballet shoe habit. Fucking pointes, man. He thought, remembering with relish the day he’d flung them in the trash. They’ll change a guy.
When he made eye contact, he saw another dancer tell.
Desperation.
6 spots. The math was bleak for these hundred hopefuls, baking in the Midtown Manhattan sun.
Just six would go home today as Beyoncé’s new dancers. The others would simply go home.
Antoine had progressed glacially up the line when a commotion broke out ahead.
A door burst open on the Broadway building. A man in a faded business suit staggered out, rudely thrusting aside dancers. Complaints rang out.
“Hey, old fuck, you just shove me?”
“You work for ’Yonce, gramps? What’s the holdup in there?”
“Yeah, we’ve been waiting for hours!”
“Leave him alone. He’s old. Probably has Alzheimer’s.”
But the man panting and wheezing on the sidewalk didn’t look that old to Antoine. Maybe sixty?
But yeah, a rough fucking sixty.
He was disturbed by the man’s appearance. His body was wasted and skeletal inside the suit. His hair was gone. Heavy wattled jowls quivered from his mouth as he gasped for air. Small, horrified eyes blinked wetly in a face like dry and rotted parchment. He seemed to have no idea where he was.
He looks like grandma at the end. Just a small withered bag in the NYU Langone onco ward. Cancer eating her hollow. Barely any woman left. Like something you could bury, not in the ground, but in the sky above, an empty husk of skin that the slightest breeze could carry off.
He didn’t look up as he spoke.
“Leave, or you die.”
Dancers looked confused as words rattled from him like dry stones. “Do not go inside. Do not sign her contract. This is not what you think it is. You will not dance. You will die.”
Silence fell along the line. A hundred faces waited for this to get funny. Alright, gramps. That’s the setup. We gonna get the punchline to the joke now, or…?
He raised a withered mummy hand, and let it flop to his side. Antoine had no idea what he’d tried to point to.
“I used to work for her.” He barked a hideous laugh. Phlegm flew and went splat on the pavement. “I don’t anymore. So why not tell you all the truth?” His lips curled back in a hideous leer, revealing nicotine-stained teeth. “You’re dead if you sign that contract. And I’m dead for telling you.”
Then he staggered down the sidewalk to the corner of 6th Ave, then unpredictably darted out onto the street. Horns blared. Brakes snarled.
None of the dancers left the line. Snickers became laughs. The joke had a punchline after all: him.
“Nutjob…” the guy behind him whispered to a friend. “This city, man…”
Yeah, Antoine thought as the line shuffled forward another step. A crazy person. Not like us, queuing a hundred bodies deep for six jobs. We’re totally sane.
Antoine’s turn came soon after.
“Next! Step this way, sir.”
He stood before the doorway. Cold air blizzarded out from the offices within. There was nobody ahead of him now, yet his destination seemed further and less approachable than ever. An enormous doorman, built to the spec of an IFBB bodybuilder, waved him forward.
Antoine gulped, and approached the dark throat of the building.
His audition for Beyoncé would now begin.
Antoine loved dancing. It did not love him back.
From early childhood, ballet was the air he breathed, the ground he walked upon. Waking at five-thirty for early school, out with the final bell at three, riding the B train from Williamsburg to Queens, ballet rehearsals vampiring the hours away until darkness poured over the rubber floormats and its gallery of twisted, tortured children, finally stumbling out onto 6th Ave at eight or nine or even ten o’clock at sometimes, nerves buzzing, head spinning, adrenaline racing loops through his body like the Daytona Speedway, muscles screaming or burning or freezing or hanging off him in rubber, Tchaikovsky oozing from his ears, La Sylphide falling from his asshole, his friend Torsten reeling slump-shouldered and dancefucked beside him, the two of them just flopping bonelessly onto subway seats, too exhausted to talk or to move or even think, and after Torsten dropped out of Joffrey because he twisted his ankle and could no longer do second arabesque, Antoine riding the B train alone, which felt almost romantic, him against the world, just a boy and a dream, and then…
At age seventeen, in like twenty seconds, it had ended.
Instructor Ramon Boyd had rapped a knuckle on his shoulder after class. “Hold up, Ant. I got something to tell you.”
They’d hunkered by the balance bars. Antoine had assumed something meant you need to come out of fouetté into second tighter or something.
“Ant…this is never easy to tell a kid.” Mr. Boyd had looked downcast. “You’re a model student, and you work real hard. But… you just ain’t got the build for ballet.”
His shoulders were too wide, Mr Boyd had said. And his arches were low. The exact reasons had been hard to hear beneath the roar of static engulfing his ears.
“You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s just genetics, that mean ol’ bitch.” Mr. Boyd had shrugged. “I’ll keep training you if you want. It’s not impossible with your structure—odder things have happened. But I can’t in good conscience say nothing.” He shook his head gravely. “If I was you, Ant, I would find something else to do with my life.”
He couldn’t even say he’d ruined his chance by getting injured, as Torsten had. His dream had died so hard it had never been real.
Antoine remembered walking out into the night, into the worst night of his life, feeling hollow inside, like a clawed hand had clawed out everything in his middle. A human donut.
He would have cried, if he’d found tears. But suddenly, there seemed to be nothing inside him to draw on. Nothing at all. Just a cold, bloodless hole, full of night.
I am not a ballet dancer, he thought on the subway, trying to assay this new emptiness. So what am I?
At the time, he’d been rooming in a shitty third-floor walkup in Manhattan with Torsten, who’d just begun a meteoric rise as a background dancer.
His childhood friend had signed to a major talent agency, was training with coaches like Mic Thompson and Lavelle Smith, and had just signed a contract for a six-date Taylor Swift tour. He was eighteen years old.
That twisted ankle was the best thing to ever happen to Torsten Lind.
“You’re not jealous, are you?” Torsten had asked, packing his bags for the Taylor tour.
Antoine had stared at the wristband on his childhood’s friend’s wrist.
TAYLOR SWIFT — PERSONNEL (ADMIT BACKSTAGE)
Jealous? Ha ha ha ha no, of course not.
“I just got lucky,” Torsten said with a shrug. “One of her dancers is out with shin splints and they needed a sub. Her choreographer knows my choreographer, and my name got mentioned. That’s all.”
He clapped a consolatory hand on Antoine’s shoulder. “Figure out something else, man, and grind at it. Sucks about ballet, but there’s other things you can do. You’re too good at dancing to be ignored. Ramon Boyd is a dickbag, anyway.”
Antoine had taught himself some modern dance from YouTube videos. Bounce, isolation, wave, and similar shit. Soon he was working festivals, popping and raving as part of a crew, and actually making money—two hundred, three hundred a show. Nothing like what Torsten was earning on Taylor Swift’s kickline (and soon after, Miley Cyrus’s), but at least he was dancing. Doing the thing he loved.
Then the EDM festival scene collapsed, COVID rammed its syphilis-infected cock up the world’s ass, and he lost that, too.
There is no scrap of dignity is so small that the world won’t steal it from you, Antoine realized as his crew disbanded. No dream so tiny that your heart won’t break when it dies.
Antoine slunk back to the Manhattan walkup, broken and bitter by failure. Watching his friend Torsten tour the world on Youtube, his heart tumbling into a void. I wish that was me. I gave everything so that would be me. It wasn’t enough.
He’d sold his soul, and the check had bounced.
Antoine had just turned twenty-two, and bagged groceries at Costco.
He had not danced in over a year when he’d seen the Beyoncé ad.
“You comin’ in or what, buddy?” the bouncer said behind mirrored shades.
Antoine hesitated at the doorway. Crazy, the moments performance anxiety chose to roll a truck over you. Suddenly, he was desperate to go to the back of the line and wait another hour or day or year.
They didn’t even let him wait five seconds.
“C’mon.” A hand the size of a Christmas ham reached out and dragged him inside. The interior seemed like a cave after hours of street and sunlight. Someone waved a metal wand over his body, someone else yanked his backpack from his fist—“we’ll watch this for you”, a ponytailed girl assured him, less than convincingly—then an unseen hand pushed him through an office door marked PARKWOOD ENTERTAINMENT.
Antoine found himself in an office. It was tiny and full of people, most of whom were women. A fan whirred in the corner. Lacquered nails machine-gunned against keyboards. Every ear had a phone in it, every mouth was yapping. Antoine’s mind spun with the beginnings, ends, and middles of conversations. —I’ll get back to you— No, the PJR report says— —Beyoncé won’t be happy if—
He glanced around in a panic, wondering where he was supposed to go.
A tall woman with a voice like a pneumatic drill hung up a call, saw him, and clicked her fingers for his attention. “Hey! Dance-boy! Giselle wants you in that room there! No, not that! The other room! Jesus! Go! Now!”
Dance-boy. Antoine sweated, hurrying into the room. Life had a way of keeping you humble.
He found himself in a larger, quieter office, furnished in oak and metal plate. An AC unit purred cold air.
He found himself facing a desk with scrolled and curled feet. Behind it sat a strikingly attractive black woman. Her eyes zipped up, and met his.
She stood, revealing a thick and busty figure.
Over a quick, firm handshake, she introduced herself so fast that her name bounced off Antoine’s brain completely. Beyoncé’s secretary was stacked like Jenga. Her fleshy body was all he could think about. She pressed a pen into one of his hands, and a stack of legal-looking documents into the other.
“Okay,” she said efficiently. “Let’s start.”
Then they were off, the woman steering him at high speed through the stack of forms.
Sign this. Sign that. Block-letter your name here, here, and here. Got your medical reports? Got your proof of US residency? Got your visa? Height? Weight? Dietary needs?
All of this was standard.
As he filled in the forms, he watched the buxom woman strut around the office. Her kingdom. Her huge-breasted figure seemed perpetually in motion. Opening filing cabinets. Shutting filing cabinets. Hunting for pens. Putting them back.
Beyoncé’s secretary was about forty, and dressed like a sixteen-year-old trying to get suspended. She’d squeezed her huge-breasted body into a wrong loliwhore outfit that bulged lewdly with obscene gallons of flesh. It was utterly unprofessional, yet she owned it totally.
She had tortoiseshell glasses, and her hair was permed and bobbed in a tight updo. A pillbox beret jutted from it like a pink tombstone.
Her thick, explosive figure was petticoated and skirted and accented with a white French bib. As she walked from behind her desk, he got a flash of thick thighs scissoring against each other. They were wrapped in sheer tights.
Antoine was in awe of her body. It whiplashed, wicked with physics. Big titties went sloshing, wobbling, and cannonballing around each time she stopped, started, or changed direction.
As she darted behind him, he took his eyes off the contracts, stealing a furtive glance at her big, arrogant rump. Beneath face-smothering ass cheeks, he saw her thick calves bulging from out of stacked pleasers that boosted her height by four inches of acrylic.
Despite her whorish, unprofessional clothes, she moved with a secretary’s comportment. Maximum politeness, minimal humanity.
Antoine didn’t dislike her.
He just knew how she saw him: a weird sheet of paper that had somehow learned to walk and talk and fart and yet was still fundamentally a document, lying loose in her office. Something to be filed and forgotten.
“Finished?” She nodded curtly.
He nodded, handing the forms back.
Her pleasers clacked industriously as she bustled back to her desk. She dropped into her seat with such speed that two heavy breasts slung upward, almost exploding them out of her neckline.
She looked at the sheets of papers. “I need to ask you some further questions, Ann-Toyn.”
Antoine nodded. That’s not how you say my name.
She asked for (and received) his height (74 inches) and weight (170 pounds) and dietary needs (none) and health issues (broken heart, ha ha. She didn’t laugh, but then, neither had he.)
This, too, was standard, and similar to the Miley Cyrus and Taylor Swift contracts Torsten had given him a (quite illegal) glance at.
But then she started asking other questions.
And these were not standard at all.
“Are you sexually active, Ann-Toyn?” The heavy-titted woman stared up at him: curious eyes under a bobbed perm.
“No.” …What?
“Any history of sexually transmitted disease?”
“No.” …The?
“How many sexual partners have you had?” …Fuck?
“Why do you want to know, lady?” Antoine asked. “I’m a dancer. Why are you asking me about my sex life?”
Her lips curled in displeasure at lady. She tapped a mauve-tipped finger at her gilded desk nameplate.
GISELLE PERRINEAU
PERSONAL UNDERSECRETARY to BEYONCE KNOWLES
“Ann-Toyn, you ain’t gotta answer any questions you don’t want to.” Giselle gave a curt nod over her shoulder, as if to say there’s the door.. “But for your information, these questions are standard risk management. Beyoncé’s tour is being underwritten by Lloyd’s of London, and they require due diligence before they can insure us..”
“Okay, but…”
“I will be blunt, Ann-Toyn. Professional male dancers are eight times more likely than average to have HIV. Your sexual history is very relevant to your insurance risk here.”
“Oh.” Antoine’s mind churned. Even though I’ve told them I don’t have a disease, I might have caught the Anally Injected Death Sentence in the past week and don’t know it yet. Knowing my sexual activity lets them bound that risk. It had a certain Kafka-esque logic, he supposed. Except that Torsten’s contracts hadn’t required him to divulge any such information.
“Fine,” he said, and shaded the truth a little. “I have had two sexual partners.”
Giselle preened with smug triumph, as if she’d armbarred him into submission. “Male or female?”
“Both female.” Antoine gritted his teeth, resolving to tough this out. He’d just spent two hours standing in the hot sun, and could handle some odd questions.
When you paid for the ticket, you took the ride.
Nothing would phase him, he told himself.
Nothing.
Giselle ticked a box. “Next question: how many inches is your erect penis?”
Antoine’s mouth was silent for a long time. And open for a long time.
So long that Beyoncé’s secretary was actually shamed into modifying her tactics.
She stared at him, as if seeing him—truly seeing him—for the first time. Her foot slid out beneath the desk. An acrylic pleaser-heel nudged his seat closer to him.
“Please sit down, Ann-toyn. Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee?” She smiled in a game attempt at friendliness.
He shook his head. Can I get a correct pronunciation on my name, with two sugars?
“Fine,” she sighed. “If you won’t talk, then you’ll listen. I’m gonna make sure nobody’s listening, then I’ll tell you a thing I don’t have to.”
She stepped out from her desk. pleasers clacking. She shut the door, drew the blinds.
“Beyoncé has one dancing position left on her tour.”
“But the sign at the door says—”
Antoine figured it out, and didn’t finish.
Yeah, it said six. It would have said a million, except that wouldn’t be believable. Who’s wasting their Sunday morning queuing for a one in a hundred shot? Gotta dangle some hope in front of the Tisch undergrads and NYCB poseurs.
Giselle continued speaking. “I have about twenty people left to interview, but I’d be happy to end the auditions right here with you. You look the part. You have experience. Joffrey Ballet School alone sends your resume to the top of the pile. You’re closer than you think to being lucky number six…but you have to be willing to play the game, Ann-Toyn—”
“That’s not my name.”
She jerked back, as if slapped. “Excuse me?”
“It’s not ‘Ann-toyn.’,” he said patiently. “You say it more like ‘Hont-won’, with the H kinda silent. It’s French for ‘Anthony’.”
Her smug, secretarial manner evaporated. Color surged and churned beneath her brown cheeks. He’d made her angry. Why? Why had he done that? Why was he sabotaging what might be his final chance at his dancing dream?
Because my REAL dream is to be worth something. I’m sick of being treated like cattle, because it’s making me believe I’m cattle, and I’m not. Pronounce my name right, you dingbat. It’s not hard. Antoine had once seen his ballet coach send someone home for pronouncing Terpsichore as Terpsy-core.
“Fine,” Giselle spat hatefully.
She wrote on a sheet of memo paper, tore it off, then held it in front of him. Her handwriting was flawless cursive. You could have framed it.
YOUR FEE WILL BE $10M USD! DO NOT FUCK THIS UP!!! xoxo
The note stayed in his face just long enough to stun him, then she tore it in half, then in quarters. The pieces of paper fluttered in the trash.
“Antoine, you are very close to getting the job. So close! It would be a shame to force me to fail you for a silly reason, like you didn’t want to give me answers to my questions. It’d be like tripping right at the finish line, wouldn’t it?”
Antoine again felt her words sailing over his head, which felt like it had been belted with a hammer. Ten million what? Indian rupees? Iraqi dinars? Oh my fucking God, no way, no way, this is a sick scam or a joke…no dancer has ever made ten million dollars from one job before…
He flogged his tongue into life.
“I’m just trying to understand your needs so I can help you.” Antoine said, falling into the negotiation patter his coach had taught him. “That’s all. How can my penis size be relevant to this audition?”
Giselle steepled her fingers.
“Well, because this is not a normal audition. Get that out of your head. Nor is the job about dancing, precisely. It’s a complicated thing, but you’d be wise to regard it as more of a metaphorical dance than a literal one.”
Alarm bells were already ringing and now rang louder. “Huh?”
Giselle resumed speaking. “Beyoncé requires her dancers to spend six weeks in a preparatory boot camp, supervised by her. This will take place on her private yacht, with little contact with the outside world. You will have surprising and unusual duties. Duties which, naturally, you will not be permitted to discuss this with anyone. If you talk to the press, you will find the best lawyers in the business being assholes to you via registered US mail. Got it?”
Faced with this firehose of weirdness, he just nodded, thinking ten million, ten million, ten million…
“I got it.”
It was too good to be true, surely. These were the same people who’d advertised six open positions when there were one.
“Glad to hear.” Giselle’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Then tell me your penis size.”
“Kinda sevenish inches or something.”
“Can you be more exact?” Giselle asked.
“Not really.” Antoine had never really thought about his dick much, except when they put him behind the pretty girl in class at Joffrey.
Sex was a distraction he’d never allowed in his life. Aside from Tricia and Erika, he would still be a virgin. Well, aside from the fucking he’d gotten from ballet itself, he supposed.
Her lip curled. “Fine. Next question. How much semen do you typically ejaculate?”
Antoine laughed. “Zero clue. Who the hell even knows that?”
“Guess. Typical male seminal volume is 5ml, or about a teaspoon. Is that normal for you, when you masturbate?”
“I don’t masturbate.” Antoine said.
She rolled her eyes. “I was not born yesterday, Antoine. Every man does.”
“I don’t.” He was telling the truth. He didn’t.
He’d spent his teenage years riding in trains (with no privacy), and wrecking his nervous system in ballet classes (also with no privacy). Each night, he’d fallen into bed too exhausted to think, let alone play with his cock. By the time he’d flunked out of ballet school, he had never gotten into the habit of touching himself. Even now, it felt weird.
However…
“I have wet dreams a few times a week,” Antoine admitted.
“A few times a week?” Giselle raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, is that okay with you?” Antoine had an edge in his voice now. “Damn, hope I have your permission to have wet dreams.”
She scowled. “Antoine, most boys have a few wet dreams at puberty, and then they stop. It’s very unusual for men to still be having them in their twenties.”
“I’ve had hundreds. I guess that relieves the pressure. But no, I don’t masturbate ever.”
“Okay,” she said skeptically. “But that leaves me two important boxes unticked that really need to be ticked… Fine—as it happens, I have instruction from Beyoncé on this. If applicants for her drone program refuse to divulge their personal details, we must…extract them.”
Drone program? What the fuck is that? Military drones?
She snatched up a handset, and dialed an extension. “Esme, sweetie. I’m sending through another young man. For Queen Bey. Get Daph, Alya, and Ikram in position. Same as before.”
Then she hung up, and smiled, baring teeth that gleamed like a beartrap.
“I bet you need to use the bathroom, Antoine.”
“Um, I’m fine.” His bladder discipline was tremendous. “I’d rather get started with the audition.”
She raised an eyebrow. Her face shifted, going strangely tight. She looked like a comedian waiting for him to get the point.
“The bathroom is out that door around the corner. We would really prefer that you go there before your audition starts.”
He stood. Waited.
When nothing more was forthcoming from the forbidding, big-breasted secretary, he just shrugged.
“Fine. Whatever. I’ll go.”
I hope you choke. Lady.
He left the office and hunted for the bathroom.
He fumed with anger over Giselle. She’d made him feel like a liar. Or worse, a freak. Every man masturbates. No man has wet dreams. What business was it of hers what he did or didn’t do?
His sex life was normal, albeit barely existent. Antoine had dated two girlfriends. Not at the same time, obviously. He had sexual urges. Just no time to fulfill them.
He and Tricia Mordenheim had been a half-assed sort of item for a while at Joffrey. At the afterparty of a student Le Sacre du printemps demonstration, they’d gotten drunk at a West End bar, and she’d taken him back to her apartment. They’d fooled around, and then they were naked, tumbling over each other in bed.
Tricia seemed frantic with fear as his cock came out. He pawed and manhandled her, feeling her tighten up like a violin string through foreplay, then went to mount her.
As his glans probed her slit, she’d freaked out.
No. No. Baby. Please stop. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.
So he’d stopped. Reluctantly.
I’m just not ready for sex, baby, Tricia said. Let’s wait. It’ll be good when it happens. I promise.
It had not happened for three years. Then she’d moved to another school, and they’d broken up. According to a story he’d heard, she’d screwed three guys in a forty-eight hour period as soon as she dumped him.
He’d had sex with Erika Gillespie a few times. She had seemed to enjoy it.
But each time he ejaculated, the condom had burst.
After the fourth mess, Erika grew suspicious. “Are you poking holes in them or something? Trying to get me pregnant?”
He hadn’t been. He honestly didn’t know the reason his orgasms broke condoms. Faced with a complete lack of answers, Erika had not wanted to continue the relationship.
There was no reason Giselle, that coldblooded archivist of facts and of humans, needed to know any of this. He did not give a fuck about her.
He stepped into the male bathroom, and snapped on the light. He dropped his pants in front of the urinal, and—
—the lights snapped off.
It was so sudden that he thought the power had failed.
Then he heard movement. Barely-audible slithers, as though panthers were moving through the black to circle him.
Like a blade…a voice from the dark slid into his ear from below.
“I’m Esmerelda.”
Breath rushed hot over his bare thighs, both heard and felt. He jerked back…right into a pair of hands, that gripped his bare ass.
“I’m Ikram…” a voice from behind said, as her hands cupped his buttocks.
Two more presences crawled across the floor to him. One on each side. Without sight, he knew where they were by the nearness of their breath.
“I’m Daphne.” Two huge flesh-sacks spilled against his left leg. Are those a woman’s breasts? No way. They’re as big as basketballs.
“I’m Alya.” Another serpentine figure coiled onto him from the right, wrapping arms around him and tugging playfully, as if trying to de-stabilize him.
He felt hands slithering into the fork of his legs. He did not know whose they were.
“We want to make you happy, Antoine.” Daphne gasped. Fingers squeezed his scrotum, as if testing the ripeness of fruit. He felt the coldness of a wedding ring on one finger.
“And what we want, we always get,” Alya cooed from the side, kissing his quadricep.
An onslaught of tactile sensation threatened to overwhelm his mind. Eight hands began tugging and sculpting his shivering flesh, coaxing pleasure out of nerves he hadn’t realized he had. This is like foreplay with an octopus, he thought.
An octopus that also had four tongues, moist and hot, dragging wet onto his skin.
Esmerelda, Daphne, Alya, and Ikram. Four compass points reversed and arrowing inward upon him. The destination was his body, his cock, his balls.
As manicured hands caressed his genitals, his nostrils flared in desire. His heart was racing-racing-racing. Each of the four women were just driving him crazy, tearing him to pieces with their luscious crawling bodies and slick dexterous tongues. As four aggressively sexual women lewdly ground their bodies onto him, his cock swelled into a huge steel battering ram.
“We’re gonna empty out everything in you,” Esme said. A fingernail tormented his aching ballsack. It jerked upward, and a squirt of watery precum sluiced down his shaft as it throbbed.
He did not speak as a glow-in-the-dark tape measure seemed to float in the air, rising before his crotch. Held by an unseen hand, each measurement line glowed neon blue as it was slapped against his prick.
“Eight point one inches.” Esme said, and the tape measure disappeared.
Then she placed her elbows on his thighs, leaning her full weight on his legs.
Fragrant, eager breath rolled like fog over him. His cock swelled before the heat of her breathing.
It wanted to be inside. To be experiencing that warmth right from the source.
Esme’s lipsticked mouth squikked lewdly as it slid over the head of his cock. Rapture engulfed him. Totalizing full-body pleasure wracked and twisted his dancer’s muscles.
“Ohhh…”
Her tongue licked and slobbered, raking his length from base to head. Diverting it into one cheek, then into the other. The agonizing blowjob made hairs stand up on his ankles. He moaned, suddenly glad that there were three other girls to help steady him. What if I fall over? Oh my God, how can you be ready for something like this.
The drool-slippery blowjob went on and on.
Then Esme stopped playing around.
She sucked and didn’t relent, tugged his cock forward and didn’t give it back. The vein-engorged prick she was swallowing on her knees in the darkened bathroom seemed like a tug of war rope, and she was determined to best him.
Antoine’s mind cracked with fire as she deep-throated his prick over long minutes. Down and down and down it went into her gullet, weeping pre-cum, until his balls were flattened against his chin and his erection was packed in a throat-fucking curve inside her. Gagging-length, had she any reflex left to gag with.
gwak gwakkkk gwakkk She pulled against him with her tonsils, her tongue. Nipped lightly at the base with her teeth. As she extracted pleasure from his crotch, a huge stream of combined saliva and precum slid in a rope down her chin, splattering on the floor.
Antoine moaned, tossing his hips…but as he pulled back, he found himself under assault from the other side, too.
Ikram was pulling his ass-cheeks apart.
“What are you d…doing?” he stammered, as cold air and then sweet warm breath tickled his sensitive asshole.
Then it became obvious.
Antoine gasped as her tongue drove like a lance, planting itself into his rectum. It squelched forward, powering shamelessly and lewdly into his guts like a slippery, wriggly snake.
“Hggggnnnnhhh!!!” He squealed softly, embarrassingly as her tongue rotated in his ass. Ikram’s drool was spilling in silver rivers down his buttocks, gathering on his balls.
SHLOOP-SHHHHLURRRRRKKK! The noise of her rectal investigations was astonishingly loud and rude.
Blowjobbed and asslicked, spitroasted like a rotisserie chicken on two lethally effective tongues, he grew ragingly aroused. His cock was a throbbing pillar of meat, spewing strands of precum into the silk-voiced woman’s mouth.
His crotch jerked, pounding into Esme’s sucking mouth with wet slaps. She flung her head forward, driving his hips back against Ikram’s ass-eating mouth.
schlop, schlop, schlop…
Ikram’s thick tongue pounded and stabbed at his asshole, matching his thrusts and slurping at his prostate. Sending maddening pleasure rising up in him.
Ramming his prick into a wet mouth, and being defiled at the other end, he was aware that he was losing control
“Uhhh…uhhh…ugghhhh…!”
His husky grunts seemed to hang in the air like sweat.
Esme’s slick, velvet throat gripped his spasming erection. Her hands grasped the heaving pillars of his thighs, pulling at the bands of muscle as he pumped his hips forward with moist, sinful heaves.
Sinking his crotch into her, he tugged it back out with explosions of sound.
slurp, squish, blurrpp
He grunted in animalistic pleasure as he fucked his underused prick thoroughly through her wet terminal sulcus.
He felt two moist tongues laying slow trackwork on his skin. Daphne on the left, Alya on the right. They were licking his sweat-frosted skin, making it shiver. Alya found his left nipple, and gnawed it between her foxlike teeth.
Daphne squeezed her torso deeper onto his leg, letting vast boobs balloon out in heavy, hot pillows. She wrapped her lips around his ballsack, and began sucking hard and slow.
A volcanic eruption was coming.
The kind of sky-shattering pyroclasm that cancels summer for the next four years.
First, his hypogastric and pelvic nerves went into overdrive. Stimulated to screaming point by two sucking, flaying tongues, they sent the signal that it was time to orgasm.
Swiftly, bulbs and viaducts of flesh in his body closed and opened like shutters, milking and squeezing his bodily fluids.
Sperm poured in white-hot spurts from the epididymis coiled atop his scrotum, expelled into the vas deferens, where smooth muscular contractions propelled them through the spermatic cord into to the ejaculatory duct.
He listened to faint glugging sounds from inside his crotch as this happened. Inside his ejaculatory duct, alkalinizing fluid blended with his sperm as it raced through his system, creating a rich, slippery mixture designed to pierce through a woman’s defenses, overwhelming her eggs.
Cyclic contractions of his bulbospongiosus and ischiocavernosus began seesawing back and forth.
Creating the pressure dynamics necessary to turn his cock into a firehose.
Tongue up his ass, Ikram no doubt felt his muscles pumping cum through the depths of his body. Her mouth engaged between his buttcheeks, but in the moment before Antoine roared in climax, he felt her reach around him, tapping Esmerelda on the shoulder.
This seemed to be a prearranged signal between them. He’s cumming.
Esmerelda tugged her dripping mouth off his cock with a meaty schlock, then fitted something over his cock. It felt like a condom. He wasn’t sure. Not of this fact, nor of anything else.
His cock throbbed.
Antoine shivered, feeling cum streaming out through his bulbourethral gland, ready to spew in high-pressure jets through the urethral meatus.
Expulsion.
Ejaculation.
Life.
Death.
In the dark, tongues whirled and lashed and dripped and slurped, his skin puckered and tightened, and oh God HOLY GOD IN HEAVEN—
—Explosion.—
—White hot—
His piss-slit gaped, and white-hot lances of semen belched forth.
“AAAHHHHH!”
There was a gushing, spurting noise as Antoine’s ass-cheeks clenched, busting out cum in porridge-thick splatters.
He expected to hear his cumshots slap and crack loudly against Esme’s face—or failing that, the paneled sheet metal of the urinal.
Instead, he found a condom slipped like a noose around his cock.
“Uhh! Uhh!” Antoine jerked out over and over, lungs tearing out sound, muscles cramping. Hot surges of baby batter just kept shooting out of his cock with shotgun force, filling the condom until it bulged like a balloon beneath him.
Squirt. Squirt. Squirt…
In the dark, he counted.
Five. Six. Seven shots.
He gasped. Sucked in breath. His cock leaped, bending beneath the weight of the cum-loaded condom. Then everything stopped for three slow, heartbleeding seconds.
“He’s done,” Esmerelda said to her helpmates.
He wasn’t. Another wave of sperm arrived, more pleasure nuked his brain, and his crotch began slapping frantically again, blasting more spunk.
Squirt. Squirt. Squirt…
Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven.
He roared, pleasure detonating in his skull. His hips lunged and surged, nearly fucking the condom out of her hand.
“Oh my God…” Daphne whispered as spurts flew into the bulging condom, curled like a cat at his left leg. “It just keeps coming! How can there be so much in his balls?”
“He’s like a farm animal…” Alya averred, arms wrapped around his right.
“A bull.”
“A total stallion.”
Gouts of cum spurted with savage force, flung by sudden jerks of his hips. Antoine shuddered, feeling his cock spew out thick, slippery ropes into the plastic bag. They seemed endless. Esme was lucky to hang on to the condom as it grew heavier and heavier.
Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.
Then he tapered off. Fifteen was a small, desultory dribble.
His penis gave a final rubbery surge, then collapsed, slackening in the condom’s mouth. It became soft, finally popping out.
Esma, Alya, Daphne, and Ikram all seemed awed by what he’d just done.
“There’s so much!” Daphne squealed as she tied a knot in the condom. “Feel it! It’s so full! Careful, don’t break it!”
“Imagine all of that shooting out inside you…” Esme sighed dreamily. “Your eggs wouldn’t stand a fucking chance…”
“When the queen bee’s done with him, I want him to impregnate me right now…” Alya moaned.
Ikram’s lips unsuctioned from his ass with a noisy smack. “She’s going to be so happy.”
The condom vanished somewhere, and these nymphs of the night began dressing him. Once this was done, they pecked him with kisses—blew one on him, in Ikram’s case—and then flitted away. He could not tell where they’d vanished to. Narnia, Neverland, and Middle Earth all seemed like compelling possibilities.
He was alone.
Antoine’s shaking hand groped, found the light switch, flicked.
Light flashbanged him, revealing an empty bathroom.
He remembered saliva and precum falling on the floor, but it was perfectly clean, as if someone had licked up his mess.
If not for the raw, painful vacuum that had been sucked into his balls, if not for the orgasmic thunder still pulsing in his head, Antoine would have wondered if any of it had happened.
“Wuh…what was that?” he stammered.
Back in Giselle’s office, shudders wracked his chest. Oh God, if they expect me to dance after that…
A dream. A nightmare. MC Escher and Hieronymus Bosch dumping their bang-from-behind love child on Lewis Carroll’s doorstep.
“A thing that never happened. That’s what it was.” Giselle said. “As a reminder, you have signed various binding non-disclosure agreements, and—”
Antoine rubbed his crotch with his hand, feeling his cock ache and retract beneath his thumb. It was buzzing, every nerve on his glans reporting murder. His prostatic muscles still ached with the force of his expulsion.
Ouch.
“Yes, I know,” he was in no mood for legal bullying. After the black sorcery he’d just experienced, it seemed an utterly insulting comedown. Like following up hollow-tipped bullets with Nerf Jarts.
“I know I can’t tell anyone. I know you’ll sue me if I even think about this wrong. I know.”
“In that case, business is concluded and we wish you a good day.” Giselle shuffled papers in front of her with the manner of a Vegas dealer. “That will be all. You know the way out.”
“So, um, when’s the audition?” Antoine asked.
“We have everything that we need from you.” She said simply. “We will call you if Beyoncé requires your services for her tour.”
He laughed.
“But I haven’t even performed…”
Giselle had no more professional need of politeness, and none to give for free.
“Go.” She pointed at the door, eyes on her paperwork.
Antoine headed for the door, hearing Giselle stand and walk toward her own door—the tall wooden one leading to a room behind behind her desk. It had glass windows, but the blinds were drawn. Antoine had no idea what was behind them.
He heard her step through it, apparently into yet another part of Beyoncé’s Parkwood Entertainment labyrinth.
He heard voices.
Murmuring in the next room, conspiratorial and muffled by wood. His hand froze on the jamb.
Silent, en pointe, he slunk past Giselle’s desk, lowered his head, and listened at the door.
Giselle was talking to another woman. He heard their conversations in scraps and fragments. Not quite enough thread to stitch into a conversation.
“…measured fifteen milliliters. Esme says that…”
“…fifteen! But that’s…”
“…yes, I know.”
“Daph says this is ninety-nine point point nine nine nine performance. Or maybe there was another nine…”
““…oh my God! We need motility checks, but…”
“…yes, already running those…”
Crouched low, ear to the keyhole, Antoine’s thigh cramped and he shifted posture. He trusted a floorboard with too much weight, and it ratfucked him.
—creeeeaaaakkk—
A brown female hand suddenly yanked the slat blinds down. He saw hazel brown eyes, which narrowed in fury.
He fled.
Antoine staggered outside. Sunlight fell on him like scalding rain. He reeled, hardly noticing them shove his backpack into his open hand, hardly noticing it close around it. He was a man running on autopilot.
He got walking, hoping he was heading for the subway. His inner compass was broken, along with so much else.
Giselle’s estimate of twenty more “auditions” was optimistic. The queue of dancers was still winding out into the street, at least thirty deep.
So many, Ant thought, staring for a moment in pity. So many elastic action-figure poses. So many buzzcut skulls gleaming. So many desperate eyes.
Unless Giselle had lied, Beyoncé’s last dancer had quite possibly already been chosen, and all of these hopefuls were wasting their time.
He felt bad. Shitty. Like he was a collaborator: an enemy to these men.
The light was hostile to him. It felt cast by an eye, an eye that saw him down into the deepest cracks, where light never ever went. It didn’t like what it saw.
He got out his phone, and brought up Google.
What is Beyoncé Knowles’s eye color…
“I auditioned for Beyoncé today.” Antoine flopped into a couch, panting from the climb up two staircases.
And from what had happened before.
“Didja now?” Torsten cracked open a beer. Hssss
Torsten spent a lot of time on the couch these days, watching ESPN.
His career, after a promising start, was spinning its wheels in mud. He’d finished with Miley six weeks ago. Since then, no further work had come his way. He’d auditioned for the Broadway Beauty and the Beast, and for the male Rockettes. Neither had called him back.
“It was…weird.”
“You tell me,” Torsten said. “I actually tried to get on Beyoncé’s tour myself. I’m kind of starving right now, as you are well aware. I know a guy who knows a guy, and figured he could hook me up.”
“Wow, dancing is so fair and meritocratic.”
“…He told me that Bey wasn’t hiring male dancers this tour cycle.”
“What?” Antoine was confused.
“She’s working with an all-girl backup line for her upcoming world tour. You know, rah-rah feminism and solidarity and all that shit. No dudes allowed.”
Antoine scratched his head. “So why did I stand in an audition line with a hundred male dancers, for a singer who doesn’t want them?”
Torsten stared at him. “Are you sure you actually auditioned for Beyoncé? Lotta scammers out there.”
“It was on Broadway, at her Parkwood Entertainment address.”
Torsten shrugged.
“Well, maybe she changed her mind and is hiring dudes after all. It’s just…ehh…”
“What?”
“Forget it. Heard some stuff.”
“What have you heard?”
“Just stories. Apparently Beyoncé’s had assistants ringing around every IVF specialist in New York, asking for a risk profile screening on a 44-year-old African American woman. Word on the street is, she wants a baby. Next, she’ll be hunting around for that baby’s daddy.”
“Good for her,” Antoine shrugged. “And what does that have to do with me?”
Torsten peevishly crushed the beer can to recyclable dimensions with his fist. Veins stood out.
“Look, this is gonna sound problematic. We dancers are the genetic elite, okay? We’re like, Übermensch. If Queen Bey’s looking for big-shot caliber baby batter, she wouldn’t be the first to get it from a dancer’s cock. Britney Spears and Kevin Federline. Mariah Carey and Bryan Tanaka. So what did your audition involve? Did they have you pop and lock to music? Something normal?”
No.
He remembered hands, tongues, breasts. A welter of oppressive female flesh, squirming around him like an octopus, milking out excruciating pleasure. Harvesting his sperm. Measuring it.
Not quite normal.
Antoine hedged. “I…don’t think I’m allowed to tell anyone.”
Torsten shrugged. Have it your way. “A woman of Beyoncé’s caliber can select the very best of the best. Whether it’s dancing or, y’know, the other thing…it’s not the worst thing in the world to be chosen by her. Wouldn’t mind if it was me.”
Torsten entered a sulk, staring at the TV with his arms crossed.
“I’m not jealous.” Torsten spat out suddenly, completely unprovoked. “I mean, God. You probably won’t even get picked. You know that, right? You’re up against a hundred other guys, who actually have resumes. Don’t quit your day job, as they say.”
Antoine went to get a beer of his own, thinking damn, where did that come from?
Antoine tried jerking off that night.
His hand gleamed in the bathroom ceiling light, pumping out slippery strokes over his cock. The movement was uncertain and cautious. It had been a long time since he’d done this.
He’d internalized masturbation as a sign of weakness, the sort of fleshy frailty that an elite Balanchine-bound dancer could not afford. He’d been doing No Nut November before it was cool (not to mention the other eleven months out of the year.)
What do guys think about when they beat off? He wondered as his rhythm slackened.
He filled his head with Giselle. Her meaty body, shrinkwrapped up in pastel pink, and how badly he’d wanted to touch it.
That set him off.
An itch built behind his prostate. His balls squirmed, and his scrotum tightened against the base of his fist.
“Oooommfff…”
After the monstrous load he’d blown at Beyoncé’s headquarters, he expected to be shooting dregs.
Instead, he sprayed out so much that he drowned half a dozen tissues. More than a teaspoon of cum. Far more.
He waited another hour, then jerked off again. His balls tensed up, and another huge cumshot rushed out of him.
His ejaculatory volume was considerable, and seemed to barely reduce between orgasms.
Huh. He shook his cock, letting a final strand of ropey, snot-thick sperm fly into the toilet bowl, where nearly ten others already floated. Maybe I had super-sperm all along and didn’t know it.
A useless skill.
Just like dancing was a useless skill…until you got lucky, and it became the most valuable thing in the world. He decided to take all this as it came. Perhaps literally.
Rent-controlled apartments in Manhattan have thin walls. As Antoine cleaned up in the bathroom, he heard Torsten bitching on the phone to one of his industry contacts on the phone.
…Yeah. I know that’s what you said. But now my roommate’s telling me that he actually attended an audition for Beyoncé today, so what am I supposed to think? Like, dude, you know I’ve done a lot for you, right? If my fucking roommate—who hasn’t danced professionally since, like, ever—gets a job that could and should have gone to me because of YOUR wrong information, then we’re gonna have an issue…
Antoine smiled.
Someone’s jealous. Enjoy, Torsten. That strange, unfamiliar feeling you’ve got in your gut, eating you alive? It’s been my life for the past three years.
Antoine couldn’t sleep that night. He was conscious of too many things. Conscious of New York screaming like a banshee in heat, ratcheting his heart-rate up and up with sirens and car horns and firecrackers. Conscious of the night sky whirling above the cold face of the planet.
He lay in bed, thumbing his phone. He read a news story on his feed.
A murder had occurred, not a mile away from Torsten’s apartment.
61-year old Queens resident Nicholas Altman was found dead in Williamsburg at 3:45pm today, according to a 7th Precinct NYPD bulletin…
Altman had been shot execution-style beneath the Williamsburg Bridge. His killer or killers had forced him to kneel against the easternmost abutment, face to steel, and then gunned in the side of the head. Two more shots had been placed post-mortem into Mr. Altman’s abdomen. The 7th Precinct was unwilling to comment on whether this was a known gang calling card, but the victim appeared to have no criminal history.
Mr. Altman had spent three decades working in New York’s music industry. Most recently as a logistics manager for Parkwood Entertainment, the record label founded and owned by Beyoncé Giselle Knowles-Carter.
The story had a photo of the deceased, provided by his sister.
Blurry and years out of date, it showed a smiling man who looked forty. No wattles clung to his neck, no lines to his eyes.
Antoine zoomed in, holding the phone so close that the man’s face blurred, nearly dissolving in a wash of tricolored liquid crystals.
He mouthed words, trying to imagine the smiling mouth saying them too.
You’re dead if you sign that contract. And I’m dead for telling you.
The NYPD had issued a standing call for witnesses—or anyone else with information on Mr. Altman’s murder—to come forward.
Next morning, Antoine got a text from Giselle.
He had the job.
To be continued…
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