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The White Stud presents

Pewhole's painting --- a new Roman & Clay story

By Dangeris F.A.G.

(This is the seventh installment of our series on Romàn & Clay, the irresistible avant-garde team of sexual liberation; enjoy:)

Roman & Clay were happy to step away from the whole dumbshit college thing. They pulled out on principle, just before the conferring of any credentials, being that the academic trip was nothing but a wasteland of whiny bitches and faggots and pussy profs, and they wanted too much fucking money. And so, using their staggering beauty and “acting” skills, Roman & Clay had passed themselves into the hands of an amateur video startup in Montreal called UpShot, whose main draw and marketing profile got to be Roman & Clay doing various dangerous homosex experiments, some of which failed on a strictly legal basis and had to go unreleased. Anyway, the brand was hard sadomasochism with “unique” models and outstanding production values. UpShot handpicked their stud and bottom pairings from video portfolios submitted from around the world. Audience and critics viewed them as first rate, and naturally Roman & Clay had been raking in shit tons of cash for their work. But let’s get on to what they’re doing in Paris.

The academic trip was nothing but
a wasteland of whiny bitches
and faggots and pussy profs.

First, Roman wished to visit his gay uncle Emile, who was known in French intellectual circles as some kind of radical genius, in the mold of Foucault maybe, though Emile was aware as any philosopher that the high-discourse game of Foucault’s generation had long since flamed out in a muddle of pretentiousness. So instead Emile had helped pioneer the New Frontier – something to do with strictly male anal anarchy, or rectal terrorism or something, the vagina having crashed, frankly, as a thing. Roman and Emile talked this over in French. Clay couldn’t give a fuck. Anyhow, it turned out Emile was on intimate terms with Roman & Clay’s favorite American artist/pornographer Cooper Pewhole, who’d moved his operation to Paris a few years ago. That was the main reason for their sojourn to France.

He was known in French intellectual circles
as some kind of radical genius.

Pewhole’s mission was to make the entire collective art scene pinch its nostrils while admitting they were unable to resist adoring his work. What artist doesn’t yearn for that? When Emile rang him up to arrange an introduction it happened that Pewhole was already quite familiar with their celebrated work in the high “art” industry. In an hour they hammered out a contract with R&C’s people in Montreal for some digital filth under Cooper Pewhole’s direction.

    They found Pewhole’s vast upper-floor studio, known as l’Abbetoir and located deep in the Marais district, crowded with boys lolling around on their phones doing nothing, some near naked though it was cold as fuck in here (this was in February), and also a bunch of tech guys who were busy working with video, sound, lighting, editing equipment. One might call l’Abbetoir reminiscent of Warhol’s Factory scene of yesteryear. When Roman & Clay made their entrance the dilettante boys made a subtle show of ignoring them, while the techies, eight or ten in all, raced over to kiss them a warm welcome. Roman & Clay had been anticipated. And what was anticipated was a one-take production shoot this very afternoon featuring the hottest international sensations in the homo-noir industry.

The upper-floor was crowded with boys

    Cooper didn’t show for half an hour. When he did he scoped them up and down – he’d seen them plenty on screen, though never wearing so much in the way of clothes – kissed them and said, “I hate Paris!” Pewhole was American, after all, from Arizona (his Spanish/Mexican family name was spelled Pujol but he recognized the Anglicized spelling early in life as perfect for his outre artist persona). Cooper’s tragedy, though, was that his return to the U.S. was prohibited by law because of a child rape case, a la Polanski, that was awaiting him – okay, so the kid had been seventeen, now twenty and still Cooper’s houseboy in Paris. “I can’t work here,” Cooper went on. “I’m always cold. Fuck this city. I gotta get back to Barcelona.”

    Clay indicated all the ambitious deadbeat toys hanging around wishing to be noticed and asked Cooper, “These assholes know dick about your painting?”
    “Of course not,” said Cooper.
    “Then get ‘em the fuck out. Romey & me, we wanna word with you.”

    Pewhole smiled and obliged. All other parties that got to stay felt terribly psyched about the immediate future. When the evacuation was accomplished they talked, and their conversation was recorded by two cams and a boom mic; if it was any good the interview would precede the main action on the final cut.  Cooper served some gooey hashish and an excellent Bourgogne. And after the remaining techies disappeared to get ready for the scene, Cooper asked Roman & Clay about their preferences for today. For instance, he asked, “Classical or modern?”

All other parties felt terribly psyched.

    “Your call,” Roman answered. They’d both made a pledge to subject their bodies to whatever liking Cooper saw fit to execute upon them. Because they knew they were in the best hands. And with contract and consent forms signed (in the event one or both didn’t survive) Cooper ushered Roman & Clay deeper into the bowels of his enormous abbetoir, where it grew darker and much warmer.

In the steamy belly of it all, the crew were setting up mics and spotlighting. Peering around, one took in the waiting sling, bondage racks both vertical and horizontal, hard “work” benches, a torture throne designed to look like an electric chair, selection of whips and crops lining the walls like pool cues, overhead suspension bars, ropes, chains, manacles, shelves of graduated dildos. The floor seemed an endless dark rubber mat.

Clay said, “Nice mise en scene.”

Waiting for them here was also a handsome young chap named Adolf, Cooper’s able assistant for today’s shoot. Adolf stood at about six feet, dressed only in a zippered black leather jock and serious military boots; he was mainly free of body hair, pale-skinned and nice assed and his muscles were tasteful rather than grotesque. This Adolf asked whether they had douched. They had.  For that he thanked them in his sexy German accent. “It is not so that I dislike shit, but not for this scene. Please undress yourselves now completely. You may place over there your clothing.”

Waiting for them was also a chap named Adolf

While they complied Adolf asked Clay for a safe word, and Clay answered, “Antidisestablishmentarianism.”

Finally, once R&C are naked and present themselves as vulnerable subjects, then it’s lights up, cams rolling. Copper Pewhole nods. Things get started.

First, Adolf directs them to face a bare wall, to bend and brace themselves. He spreads their legs and addresses with his open hand their respective buttocks, hard and loud. Roman takes his with a smile, turns to see Clay’s familiar cock fully erect and already glistening with pre-cum, and witnesses the following 10 second exchange: Clay straightens up, turns, slaps Adolf’s insolent face. Adolf retaliates immediately with a much harder backhand that makes Clay stagger back against the wall where Adolf pins him in a chokehold with a forearm over the belligerent subject’s Adam’s apple. The result: Clay’s dick only stiffens tighter and twitches in the hot lights. He’s obviously playing the violent resistance role. Clay knows this position is respected, as it should be, that Adolf’s not here to dally with just another pussy bottom boy. And thus Clay is conducted hither in the dark to be shown who’s in control.

Roman would love to play that role, but Clay’s kind of counter-insurgency isn’t in his nature. In fact, Roman would assert that Clay is more SS than this Adolf Nazi pretender any day. Nah, Roman’s more interested in fielding Bataille’s universe of continuous existence in death rather than the discontinuous self, trapped in the lonely grip of ego – as exhibited brilliantly in the execrable world of Pewhole’s painting. Roman’s had enough practice at this to put his body in his mind’s place, and vice versa, as he’s being positioned by Adolf on a hard table: on his knees, ass up, wide entrance exposed. Next: cold steel dilating tool, called a gaper, inserted, expanded. Clink, clank. Icy pressure. Spike of ecstasy jetting up the spine. Relax. Tip of some hard tool inserted to stroke up and down the prostate. Lightning spasms out the shoulders. Severe stitch through the balls. Then: ass-stretcher popped out, upper-gauge plug popped in. Body dragged to vertical rack and immobilized. Blindfold, tit clamps, suspension manacles, testicle strap, scrotum clips.

The interesting thing to Roman about flogging pain is the displacement of what ordinarily would be pain itself. His theory in practice involves the dialectical properties of internal/external, subject/object, perception/reality, presence/absence, etc. I.e., Pain and Pleasure. The excruciating pleasure of being presumably, not-so-symbolically pleasure-deprived.

The interesting thing to Roman about flogging
pain is the displacement of what ordinarily
would be pain itself.

More specifically, the flogging progresses through its pitiless variations: 30 tail thud stinger, braided cat tails, 5 ft. leather bullwhip, the forked tongue, the dread whistler. When Roman’s involuntary vocalizations become too annoying Adolf applies a ball gag.

Freeze, burn, scorch. Primary colors strobing behind the blindfold and eyelids, gulping down your own dry spit, taste of blood and iron. Are you pissing? Are you laughing? Is your cock as hard and strong as it feels? Is it even there? Or is Roman wondering about any of this, given he’s in another world -- even if the scrotum clamps bother him some? He’s lost track of his place in the world, but even so, Roman’s naked body is scalding, nipping, shivery, thriving!

Then, blindfold removed, Roman locates the grinning bearded face of Pewhole, who announces, smiling, “I’m takin’ over now, boy.”

So we abandon, momentarily, the ruins of Rome.

Clay’s a very different case. In all this time he seems barely softened up by Cooper. In Clay’s mind’s universe is a dubious passivity, which forces him to admit he hates this shit, though he doesn’t fear it. He says this by hollering in the affirmative at every attempt to scourge him, knowing it seriously fucks with his “master.” Power in pain, as Clay would put it, since he bends toward the adversarial. For instance, having a fist up his ass (not for the first time) is making him laugh. To that Adolf twists his wrist and ratchets his knuckles against Clay’s prostate – like dragging a tin cup along jailhouse bars. Uttering a grunt of gratitude, Clay’s mind sees, for some reason, the formation of mountains. He’s aware of the camera taking a close face shot, so he looks into the lens directly (a thing you’re not supposed to do) and kind of winces, once, for Adolf’s/Pewhole’s benefit. Then he winks for his own. But this is why they make editors.

He's aware of the camera taking a close face shot

When Clay says he hates this, though, he’s lying. He has the perfect opportunity here to practice his “(w)hole” theory, where his hole becomes holy and wholly dangerous, and not simply a cavernous site of empty/occupied space. Like the artist who kills himself while simultaneously creating something beautiful outside himself. After all, the artist, if he’s worth a shit, has a unique correspondence with pain. Here, Clay’s merely performing it. And nothing they do seems to make his cock go soft. Pewhole gave up after Clay farted at him derisively and called him Periwinkle.

Adolf’s turn now.

Maybe some ordinary edging would break him – that is, withholding sexual completion rather than granting it in the form of suffering, persecution, martyrdom. Le petit mort in all events. So Clay is bound tight to a suspended crucifixion beam by steel wrist and bicep manacles, and his legs are spread and fixed that way with another heavy beam between his ankles. His white flesh is still blood-streaked in places from his flogging, and there’s even a trickle of blood from his nose. Also, if he doesn’t shut his fucking mouth he’ll get the ball gag too. But his cock remains upright. It’s among his finest physical features, Clay’s cock. In size, shape, rigidity, longevity, and his ability to wield it – well, in other circumstances, maybe – Clay’s dick is nonpareil.  How then can Adolf use it against him?

Adolf begins by removing his leather cock trap and directing his dazzling white buttocks toward Clay’s observing gaze – naturally Clay cannot resist taking them in in all their fleshy/firm, creamy luster and clarity. Between Adolf’s buttocks runs a just discernable line of dark crack hair: Clay’s perennial weakness. Obviously Adolf and Cooper are playing to Clay’s base instinct here, which they may be getting closer to decoding. When he turns his front matter to Clay, it happens that Adolf’s cock is the uncut version of Clay’s own and his black groin hair is virtually untrimmed. Against this brutal provocation Clay is not immune from betraying an agitated grunt as his dick does a helicopter in the supercharged air. Ah, so maybe he’s grudgingly enthralled now. And when Adolf turns his back again, climbs the hard bench directly before Clay’s glare and exhibits his breach and its winking chasm, well, for once today Clay has shut up. Maybe now, at last, he’s merely relegated to suffering, simpering nullity. Or maybe he’s just trying out a new role intended to thwart, eventually, his fascist tormentor. Who knows what Clay’s ever up to? But when Adolf backs his beckoning asshole up to within an inch of Clay’s cockhead Clay tries to be brave but it’s evident now that he’s begun to drip torrents of sweat.

Adolf begins by removing his leather
cock trap and directing his dazzling
white buttocks toward Clay’s observing gaze

So far Adolf appears to be winning. And what does he do next?  He climbs down and disappears. Simply leaves Clay in this silent, rattled state for a quarter of eternity.

And during this purgatorial hiatus Clay actually starts to wither and droop.

Tick-tock. Finally: re-enter Adolf with pale naked Roman, who’s been instructed in his part in this “final solution” – namely to ignore Clay altogether, to deny his very existence, while they go about pleasuring themselves, Roman and Adolf, openly, right under Clay’s darkening eyes without so much as a glance in his direction. Even the cameras turn away from him. Cooper Pewhole’s made a study of Clay during this session, and before that even in looking over Clay’s art and writing, and thus in playing as much as possible against Clay’s formidable strengths. Cooper’s working hypothesis is that jealousy, to anyone susceptible, is the most intense negative thrill of all. It’s agonizingly private, viscerally torturous, and Pewhole reckoned it was worth a try in this case.

That case being that Roman & Clay despise being in love with each other – it’s simply beyond either one’s capacity to modify or justify such a curse. As long as they’re hanging out together, in other words, Roman & Clay are hobbled by love.

Pewhole isn’t far off in his calculus. As soon as Adolf submits himself and opens his impossibly fetching butthole to Roman and Roman plunges in his oversized dick and Adolf commences to whine and call out for everything Roman’s got – then Clay sure enough starts to sob, involuntarily, all his muscles straining against his confines. Oddly, though, his dick reflexively swells up again, more robust than ever. No, in truth Clay even likes this shit!

His oversized dick

It’s on. And Pewhole is roaring triumphantly, thinking this development is quaint, as it also appears to validate his expertise and vindicate his reputation. (They both, Clay and Pewhole, know the stakes in this competition.)

Now Clay’s making that ambiguous babble of laughing and/or crying as he witnesses Roman’s solemn commitment to the Kraut’s hungry, unguarded entry, and presently one of the cameras is directed to catch what’s about to happen, and so another cameraman turns too to catch Clay’s exploding money shot from another angle as the shiny bobbing purple pike, all on its own, jets out endless ropes of creampie love for its unfaithful boyfriend without the aid of anything but the grievous spectacle at his feet.

It’s the most exquisitely painful nut Clay’s ever delivered!

Much as he feels alleviated though, Clay’s game isn’t quite finished. Now, after recovering some breath and balance, he swivels his hips from side-to-side as much as his restraints will allow and urinates all over Adolf and Roman, who are continuing to insult him right under his nose – Clay means it, too, he’s been saving it for this. While the audio picks up the delicious splashing of piss on flesh, along with Adolf’s and Roman’s vocal enthusiasm for each other, the two conspirators eventually lather each other with their copious sperm – for the cams but also for themselves, to be sure. And while the first camera captures an incomparable three-shot, the other two frame the tighter action perfectly.

Much as he feels alleviated though,
Clay’s game isn’t quite finished.

Pewhoule announces "Cut," and everyone involved knows hat this project will be an instant classic.
Later, at Les Papilles, a trendy bistro in rue Gay Lussac, Roman & Clay were cheerful again and they all toasted Uncle Emile and Cooper Pewhole, who returned the compliment to their cast and crew and Emile’s charming, handsome nephew Roman, who they acknowledged was gifted with European manners. Also to the strange powerhouse Clay. It transpired, too, that evening, that Roman had decided to break up his partnership with Clay and remain indefinitely in Paris. Unsurprisingly, Clay embraced his decision. They’d obviously been drawn into a hideous regard for each other that had become troublesome and almost sentimental and, worse, addictive. Thus, in the following few days, their last together, they cried and fucked, sometimes concurrently, until Clay had to board his plane for Berlin, where he had more work  on his hands.

 <Go here for the previous R&C story, and here for the next one>

Dangeris F.A.G. (his nom de plume) lives deeply and obscurely in the American fly-over, between north and south, where he tought creative writing at a college  -- he is older than he oughta be. This is the seventh part of a short story collection built on Romàn & Clay's characters. More are forthcoming.


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