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“There he is,” Dave drawled, not taking his eyes off the screen. “Don’t think you’re late?”
Dirk stood frozen in the doorway of the home theatre, his hand still on the doorknob.
The air inside was cool and sterile. The room was just filled with paraphernalia, money spent with no one else in mind. Opulent, but deeply gaudy. Dave never bothered with Dirk’s personal luxuries. That cash was always funnelled straight back into the altar of his own vices, and this room was the most blatant example.
Dirk had imagined it a hundred times over. The space he was perpetually forbidden from entering, but the reality was a different thing entirely. The silence in the room carried its own pressure. It felt like pressure against his eardrums, a soundproof bubble where a man like Dave could be alone with his ego. He could only imagine the sheer volume of bullshit that had been peddled in this room, the millions of deals struck, the thousands of arguments won, and the hundreds of movies watched in judgment. All while Dirk was left on the other side of the door.
Dave himself, currently, didn’t look like the director he so paraded himself to be. He more looked like a cheap idea of one, slouched low in a single seat recliner, one ankle crossed over his knee.
He held a phone in one hand, scrolling with a disinterested flick of his thumb. A tumbler of amber liquid sat on the small table beside him. He was the epicentre of a universe of Dirk held so dearly, and for that moment, he was just happy to be in his orbit, a tiny moon caught in his pull.
He took a hesitant step inside. The door swung shut behind him with a soft click.
“Dave,” he managed, his voice sounding thin and reedy to his own ears.
Dave finally tilted his head, a slow movement. A smirk played on his lips, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“That’s my name. Don’t wear it out. Come on in, don’t be shy. I’m not gonna bite.” He gestured with his glass to the empty seat beside him. “Drink?”
Dirk shook his head, his throat suddenly dry. “I’m good.”
“Suit yourself.” Dave took a slow sip of his whiskey, his eyes sweeping over Dirk, a quick, once over that made Dirk’s skin burst into goosebumps. It wasn’t judgmental, not exactly. “So, you’re probably wondering why the royal summons.”
“You said you wanted to show me something,” Dirk said, speaking a little stronger this time. He was trying to project his usual image of casual indifference, a feat he knew was failing spectacularly. He was here. He was in Dave’s inner sanctum. That was all that mattered.
I’m finally being acknowledged.
“Ah, yes. The film.” Dave set his glass down with a soft clink. He finally gave Dirk his full, undivided attention, and it was like being pinned under a spotlight. “The studio is breathing down my neck. Test audiences are a pack of braindead monkeys who need everything spoon fed to them. No fucking nuance, just bright colours and loud noises so their tiny brains don’t have to strain themselves. But this. this is the final cut. The director’s vision. And you, kid, get to be the first person on planet earth to see it. Feel special?”
Dirk nodded, a jerky, automatic motion. He did feel special.
“Good. You should.” Dave picked up a remote from the air of the chair. “Rule number one for this screening: you don’t talk. Rule number two: you don’t get bored. If I see you checking your phone, I’m throwing you out. This is art, Dirk. It demands respect.” He said it with a straight face, but there was a flicker of amusement in his tone, as if he were the only one in on a joke that Dirk couldn’t possibly understand.
“Okay,” Dirk breathed.
“Okay.” Dave’s smirk widened. He hit a button on the remote, and the lights began to dim, fading into a velvety blackness punctuated only by the soft glow of exit signs. The massive screen flickered to life, and the opening credits rolled.
For the thirty minutes, Dirk was utterly captivated. It was incredible. Explosions, car chases, and some A-list actor, on screen, as the unflappable hero, delivering one liners with a lazy drawl that made the packed theatre in Dirk’s imagination erupt in laughter. It really wasn’t art, a lazy cash-grab action drag racing movie would be far more accurate. But to Dirk, anything his older brother created was almost magic. He forgot his nerves. He was just a kid watching some hero save the world.
Then, Dave hit pause.
The screen froze on a massive fireball, the sound cutting out so abruptly that Dirk’s ears rang in the silence. The only light was the hellish orange glow reflecting off the velvet seats.
Dave let out a long theatrical sigh. “You know what? This is boring.”
Dirk blinked, his brain struggling to catch up. “What? It’s amazing.”
“It’s a product,” Dave corrected, voice flat. “It’s a carefully calculated sequence of explosions and quips designed to separate twelve year olds from their allowance. It’s fine.” He stood up, stretching with a languid motion, his silhouette a dark cutout against the fiery screen. “Real art… real art is alive. It’s messy. It can’t be scripted. It’s about capturing that a messy moment.”
He started walking towards Dirk. Covering the distance in only a few short steps.
Dave stopped right in front of him, so close Dirk could smell the faint perfume of whiskey and expensive cologne. He crouched down. Bringing himself to Dirk’s level. The light from the screen cast his face in sharp, harsh planes. Highlighted in the orange, creating a look that felt more akin to a something more monster than man.
“I think we can make some real art tonight,” Dave murmured, tone dropping into a conspiratorial hum. “You and me.”
Dirk’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. Something about this felt wrong. A distant, rational part of his brain was screaming it. But it was a tiny voice, easily drowned out by the roaring in his ears, and the fluttering in his chest. The desperate need for Dave’s attention and approval. How could he possibly say no?
“Stand up,” Dave commanded, his voice losing its softness. Morphing into something sharper, more commanding edge.
Dirk obeyed, his legs feeling like they were made of lead. Dave pointed to the wide aisle between the rows of seats. “Right there. That’s the stage.”
Dirk moved to the spot, his movements clumsy and stiff. He felt like a specimen under a microscope. The slide being slid exactly to the right angle.
Dave circled him slowly, the appraisal making Dirk’s chest tighten, and skin begin to grow hot.
“Okay, first things first. The costume is all wrong,” he stopped his stalk to pause in place “We need to get you out of… this.” He gestured vaguely at Dirk’s clothes with a look of mild disgust. “Take off your shirt.”
Dirk fumbled with the hem of his t shirt at first. Twisting the fabric tight around his fingers. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, and Dave’s voice cut through only a second later. “Did I stutter? Or do you think you have a better eye for this than I do?”
The shame of being scolded was immediate. What if Dave left because he couldn’t follow direction? Dirk pulled the shirt over his head, his movements jerky. He dropped it on the floor.
Dave made a tsking sound. “No grace. We’ll have to work on that. Keep going. Pants.”
Dirk’s hands shook as he undid his belt and button. He slid his jeans down his legs and stepped out of them, kicking them aside. He stood there in his plain white briefs, feeling more exposed and vulnerable than he ever had in his life. The air was cool on his skin, goosebumps breaking out once again.
“The rest,” Dave said, his voice flat.
Dirk hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear and slid them down. He stood there completely bare under the stagnant light of the screen. He resisted the urge to cover himself, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. Unclench, clench. On repeat.
Dave started his slow circle around him again. “Hmm. Better.”
He stopped in front of Dirk, his head tilted. He reached out, but didn’t touch him, his hand hovering just over Dirk’s chest. “You’re so small. Still just a kid.”
It wasn’t an insult. But just an observation, a statement of fact that somehow felt more damning than any insult could be. His chest was small, tiny mosquito bites, not yet filled out. Not like Dave’s usual taste. It made his stomach twist.
But then Dave’s gaze dropped lower, to the space between Dirk’s legs. “But not everywhere, are you?”
Dirk’s breath hitched. He knew what Dave was looking at. The soft, puffy folds of his cunt. The small, sensitive nub of his clit nestled at the top. He’d never felt so self-conscious about it, so dissected. Now, it was just another piece of set dressing for Dave’s ‘art’.
“Turn around,” Dave ordered.
Dirk did, presenting his back to him. He could feel Dave’s eyes on him, tracing the line of his spine, the curve of his ass. Not that there was much there yet. The silence enveloped, pulling too long, becoming suffocating. Dirk felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple.
“Face me again,” Dave said. “And kneel.”
Dirk sank to his knees on the carpeted floor. He looked up at Dave, who was now pulling out his phone. He tapped the screen a few times, a small smirk pulling at his lips once more.
“Gotta document the process,” Dave said. He held the phone up, aiming it at Dirk. “Let’s get a proper look at our star.”
The angling of the phone directly at him landed like a particularly bright spotlight. It felt like it was burning a hole right through him. Bright, hot and unyielding.
Dave walked around him, filming him from every angle. Getting close-ups of his face, his chest, his shaking hands. Still clenching at his sides. He was like a nature documentarian filming a timid creature. Dirk tried to hold still, to be a good subject.
“Look at you,” Dave cooed “All my best work.”
He stopped in front of Dirk and squatted, bringing the phone in for a close-up of his cunt. “There’s that pretty little pussy. All puffy and waiting for its close up. Fucking perfect.”
The word sent a jolt through Dirk. It was so crude, and so direct. And yet, coming from Dave, it sounded like the highest praise. A twisted warmth bloomed in his stomach. This was fine. This was just art. He sees me. He really sees me.
“Touch yourself,” Dave commanded. “Show me what you like. Show the camera what makes you feel good.”
Dirk’s mind went blank. His hands felt like they were frozen. He couldn’t. Not here, not like this. He hadn’t before. He couldn’t just try now. Not with the unblinking lens watching his every move. A flicker of horror went through him, a cold spike of what is happening? but it was quickly smothered by the desperate, pathetic need to please.
“I don’t have all day, Dirk,” Dave’s voice was cold now, all the warmth from that coo gone. “Are you an actor or not? Act.”
Swallowing hard, Dirk brought a trembling hand down between his legs. He hesitantly touched his folds. His fingers sliding against the surprisingly slick skin. He was wet. He was getting wet from this.
The realisation was a fresh wave of shame and arousal. His body was betraying him, responding to this degradation with a hunger. One he didn't know he possessed.
This is good, a small, desperate voice in his head chanted. He’s not out with some starlet. He’s here. With me. This is what he wants.
“Pathetic,” Dave scoffed, disappointment dripping from the word. “You don’t even know your own body. Don’t worry. I’ll teach you.”
He set the phone down on one of the seats, propping it up so it still had a clear view of the aisle. Then he moved to kneel in front of Dirk. He finally touched him. His hands were warm, completely sure of themselves. He traced the lips of Dirk’s cunt with his thumbs, spreading him open. Dirk gasped, sharp, surprised. A helpless sound.
“See?” Dave murmured, his voice right next to Dirk’s ear. “You just needed some guidance to show you how it’s done.”
He slid one finger inside him, and Dirk’s whole body jerked. It was an alien feeling, intrusive. Dave’s finger was long and thick, and it moved inside him with a practiced ease that made Dirk’s head spin, a thumb pressed harshly against his clit.
This was okay. This was a lesson. He’s teaching me. He cares enough to teach me.
“Look at you, getting all wet for me,” Dave breathed, his thumb slowly rubbing a maddening circle. “Such a good little star. You were born for this.”
Dirk couldn’t think. The wrongness of it was still there. A blaring siren in the back of his mind, but it was being drowned out by the overwhelming pleasure, by the intoxicating feeling of finally having his big brother’s undivided attention.
He was being seen as valuable. He was being touched. He was being wanted. That was all that mattered. He convinced himself this was fine. This was a special kind of lesson, a secret between them. A rite of passage. This was love, wasn't it? This intense, focused attention? It had to be.
Dave added a second finger, scissoring them inside him, stretching him open. The burn was almost painful. But Dirk’s hips began to rock, chasing the friction. He was past the point of caring how it looked. He just needed more.
More of this. More of him.
Maybe now he won’t need anyone else.
“Eager little thing, aren’t you?” Dave chuckled. He leaned in, sliding down against the floor to get a better angle and replaced his thumb with his mouth.
The shock of it was electric. He licked and sucked at Dirk’s clit, his fingers still working inside him. Dirk’s hands flew to Dave’s hair, his fingers tangling in the blond strands. He was gasping for air, his body trembling uncontrollably. It was too much. It was perfect. He was being devoured, consumed by his brother.
“Dave,” he whimpered, the name a prayer on his lips. To the god he all but worshipped.
Dave pulled back, his mouth slick and shiny. “Not yet,” he said. He pulled his fingers out of Dirk, leaving him feeling achingly empty. He stood up and began to untie his sweats.
Dirk watched, mesmerised, as Dave freed his cock. It was big. Bigger than Dirk had expected, imagined. Thick and hard and curving up towards his stomach. The sight of it sent another wave of heat through him. Another wave of wetness between his legs.
“On your hands and knees,” Dave ordered. “Face the phone. I want to see your face when I fuck you.”
Dirk scrambled to obey, his limbs feeling like jelly. He positioned himself on all fours, his ass in the air, his face turned towards the lens of the phone. He felt exposed, degraded, and more turned on than he had ever been in his life. If he ever had been.
I’m being good. I’m doing what he wants.
Dave knelt behind him. Dirk heard the sound of Dave spitting, and then a moment later, the blunt head of his cock was pressing against Dirk’s entrance.
“This is gonna hurt,” Dave warned, “But you’re gonna take it like a big boy, aren’t you?”
Dirk could only nod, his face pressed into the carpet. He could do this. He could be good for Dave.
Dave pushed in.
It wasn't a flash. Some orgasmic pleasure. A welcoming stretch. It was a tear. A searing rip that started at his entrance and radiated up his spine. A strangled cry was torn from his throat, his body locking up in a futile attempt to expel the intruder. It felt like he was being impaled, split open on a spit.
This is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong, it hurts, a part of him screamed, a voice of pure terror that was immediately, violently silenced by the overwhelming, nauseating thought: He’s inside me. He’s really inside me.
“Relax,” Dave commanded, his hands gripping Dirk’s hips hard enough to bruise, “Breathe.”
Dirk tried to obey, taking a shaky, hitching breath that did nothing to stop the pain. As he did, Dave pushed in deeper, burying himself to the hilt in one quick, relentless thrust. The pain didn’t fade. It only deepened. Becoming an ache that felt like it was rearranging his insides. He was so full. So completely and utterly possessed by his brother. This is what it feels like to be his. Completely his.
“Fuck,” Dave groaned, his head dropping forward onto Dirk’s back. “You’re so tight.” He stayed still for a moment, letting Dirk adjust, but there was no adjusting to this. Then he started to move.
His thrusts were deep and harsh, each one punching a pained gasp out of Dirk’s lungs. The sound of their skin slapping together was obscene, a wet, rhythmic beat in the silent theatre. Dave set a brutal pace, fucking Dirk with an almost punishing intensity. Every drag of his cock against the sensitive flesh inside him was a fresh agony. He’s marking me. He’s making me his.
Fat tears began to leak from Dirk’s eyes tracking down his cheeks. Hiccupping a little with every thrust. He couldn't stop them. The pain was too much. He was too small, too unprepared for this
“Look at the camera,” Dave grunted, his hand fisting in Dirk’s hair and pulling his head up. A sharp pain blossomed in Dirk’s scalp. “Tell them who’s fucking you.”
Dirk’s vision swam. He could see the unforgiving lens of the camera, a malevolent eye overlooking the scene.
“You,” he gasped, his voice swollen with snot and tears. “You are, Dave.”
“Say my name again.”
“Dave! Oh god, Dave.”
He was lost. Lost in the pain, the degradation, the sheer wrongness of it all. This was his brother. His hero. And he was using him. Dirk felt a strange, horrifying pride mixed with the agony. Every thrust, every bruising grip, every filthy word. It felt more like a claim.
He was Dave's now, and no one else could have him. No one else could have Dave either. He’d make sure of it.
Dave’s hand snaked around Dirk’s hip. Finding his clit again. He rubbed it in time with his thrusts.
Dirk’s vision went white.
The dual sensations of being filled so completely, the relentless stimulation on his clit were an overwhelming flurry, burning away every last coherent thought until there was nothing left but the feeling. The pain was still there, a throbbing undercurrent, but it was beginning to blur with the pleasure. A sickening, confusing mix.
“Cum for me,” Dave commanded, his voice coming out in a harsh pant. “Come on my cock like a good little slut.”
The combination of the command, the friction on his clit, and the cock pounding into him was too much.
Dirk’s orgasm tore through him with a force. He screamed, his body convulsing, his vision dissolving into a blur of colour and light. His cunt clenched around Dave’s cock, milking him, pulling him deeper. The pleasure was a white-hot supernova of stars behind his eyes, erasing all thought other than the pleading, euphoric. I’m his. I’m his. I’m his.
Dave followed him over the edge a moment later with a loud groan. He slammed into Dirk one last time, his hips stuttering as he came, filling Dirk with a hot, wet rush. It was almost like he was signing his name within him. A contract written and signed in his very being.
For a moment, they stayed like that. A panting, sweating tangle of limbs in the flickering orange light of the frozen explosion. Then, harshly, Dave pulled out. The feeling of emptiness was immediate. A trickle of wetness ran down Dirk’s thigh, a mixture of Dave’s cum and his own slick, and something else. Blood.
Dave stood up, leaving Dirk collapsed on the floor. Dirk felt a mess. A used up thing. He felt dirty, satisfied, but terrified all at once. He had done it. He had been a good actor.
Dave picked up his phone, stopping the recording. He leaned against one of the seats, scrolling through the footage with a critical eye. He watched his own performance, Dirk’s performance. He was reviewing the dailies.
“Your crying was good,” Dave said, his voice casual, as if they were discussing a take on a normal movie set. “Very authentic. But your O-face needs work. A little too… pornographic. We’ll practice.”
He didn’t offer Dirk a hand. He didn’t ask if he was okay. He tossed his expensive sweater at Dirk, still shivering on the floor.
“Clean yourself up,” Dave said, dismissively. “Don’t get jizz on the rug. It’s Italian.”
He just pulled his sweats back on clothes, running a hand through his hair. He was back on to the next thing. He walked towards the theatre door. His back to Dirk.
He paused with his hand on the doorknob, but he didn’t turn around. “Get some rest, kid. Big day tomorrow. We start blocking scene two.”
The door clicked shut, and Dirk was alone in the dark, the frozen fireball on the screen bathing him in its fiery glow. He pulled the sweater around himself, the fabric smelling like Dave. Like whiskey and cheap cologne. Now tainted with the smell of sex. He was a mess. He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, a small sniffle escaping him.
He had passed the audition.