Justin was dizzy. He'd been dizzy for a while, actually. One month ago, Justin had been busting his butt for scandalously meager pay in a failing coffee bar three states away. Now, thanks to Great-uncle Mortimer's completely unexpected legacy (unexpected mostly because he hadn't even known he had a great-uncle Mortimer) he was the proud owner of a sweet little house in a respectable street, with a yard and everything, plus a moderately prosperous retail business tucked discreetly into the college district of town.
The late Mr Timberlake, the lawyer had informed him, ran the business with the aid of a single part-time employee. All the accounts were perfectly in order, the employee had been contacted and had been willing to increase his hours of work to keep things going until the new owner arrived. Congratulations, Mr Timberlake, the lawyer had said, and shaken his hand as he handed over the ownership papers.
He hadn't mentioned that it was a porn shop.
* * *
JLB was the part-time employee who'd been keeping the business going while the lawyers did their stuff and Justin itched away the summer months serving hot coffee to insane folks who should have been drinking iced tea or chilled sodas. JLB had left a comprehensive list of information in neat blue handwriting, from how to work the cash register to how many copies of Oriental Wet Snatch Quarterly to re-order to the best place to get pizza delivered.
* * *
The lawyer might have mentioned a tenant in the tiny apartment over the shop. But he definitely hadn't mentioned that the tenant had skin like clover honey and an expression as sweet and innocent as a choirboy fresh out of church.
Lance, the tenant, was a pair of incredibly beautiful, wide, limpid green eyes, staring up at him in surprise outside the back door of the porn shop.
Justin had two videos from stock under his arm as he locked up at the back. He dropped them onto Lance's feet. Lance looked at him reproachfully. Justin blushed to his toes, and fled.
* * *
Lance was the deep, mellow voice on the phone two days after Justin took possession of his inheritance, asking if Justin could let the TV repair guy into his apartment above the shop, he didn't want to miss class that day. So Lance was in college. Justin guessed he was majoring in music, or maybe English. He had a voice for reading love poetry.
* * *
JLB turned up for work Thursday evening, just like the schedule said he would. JLB turned out to have a deep mellow voice, skin like honey and the sweetest smile, and to go by Lance because, he said, his father was James and he'd always used his middle name.
Justin took two more videos home that night, but they weren't as much of a distraction as he'd hoped. None of the well-muscled guys on the screen had huge green eyes, and they certainly didn't look choirboy-pure and untouched.
* * *
"You like those?"
Justin fumbled the tapes he had been contemplating taking home tonight. Lance picked them up and handed them back without comment.
"You should think about getting some fresh stock in," Lance continued. Lance was majoring in business, and had dozens of ideas on maximizing revenue. "I know this new director, he's done some fabulous stuff, uses the prettiest boys you can imagine. Mort was an old-fashioned guy, he used to say plenty of muscles and farm machinery was good enough for him, but I reckon it's time to expand. Oh, you should try this one. Haystacks and tractors, same old same old, but the twink has the most amazing long legs. Very flexible, too." Lance's eyes flickered over Justin's body for a moment, then he winked. "You ever fucked in a barn? Believe me, that hay is not as soft as they tell you." He went back to reorganizing the stock—among great-uncle Mort's quirks had been the notion of displaying the tapes alphabetically, het and gay and fetish all jumbled together—leaving Justin dizzier than ever and quite uninterested in farm machinery, however impressive.
* * *
Within three weeks of his arrival, Justin was able to gaze round his freshly reorganized territory with pride. He rather thought he was getting the hang of this place. Smile at the customers, whatever they were buying or asking, reassure them it was perfectly normal to pick up some porn at lunchtime, or on the way home from work, or after dinner. No judgments, even for the (wtf?) goldfish porn.
The new DVDs had arrived, the ones Lance recommended. Justin thought maybe they deserved a special display, he'd ask Lance tomorrow. And when Lance came in before closing time—on a Saturday night? Didn't he have a hot date? Were the men blind in this city?—to pick up something to watch, Justin offered his idea, and asked what Lance thought.
"Cool. You could probably put a premium price on them, too, at least for the first month." Lance picked through the case. "We should check out the merchandise, though, before it goes on sale. Don't you think?"
"Yeah, I was planning to, um," Justin felt rather foolish, getting embarrassed over his own porn-watching habits, which Lance was perfectly well aware of.
But Lance just smiled that sweet, wholesome smile he gave the customers, and waved a box. "This one looks promising. Wanna watch it with me? I got beer."
"Oh. Yes." Yes! Or maybe, no! Flee! He had no business watching dirty v—watching erotic—oh, dammit, watching porn with the person who'd been featuring in his nightly fantasies for nearly three weeks now. But Justin was going to, anyway.
* * *
The apartment was what real-estate agents liked to call 'compact', but admirably neat. Lance didn't seem to have many possessions (Justin thought guiltily of his own collection of basketball posters, his secondhand guitar, his many baseball caps, his untidy litter of assorted coffee cups and mugs), but his TV was a good size, set in front of a well-aged but broad and comfortable couch.
Justin turned on the TV and put the DVD in, while Lance supplied beer and put out the lights.
It was good, what they were watching. Beautiful boys, hands gliding on polished skin, sighs and groans and wild, imaginative sex.
The taller male on the screen, the slim blond with curls, was arched almost into a C-shape, fucking his spreadeagled lover with artistry, when Lance's arm slid onto Justin's shoulder, and a voice like espresso murmured in his ear. "I told you they'd be pretty."
"Uh, hmm," replied Justin, incapable of coherent speech.
"But I think," Lance continued, "they've got it the wrong way round. I think the blond with the long legs would like to be fucked. I think he'd like to be the one lying there open and begging. I think the other guy would like to feel those fabulous legs round his waist, or over his elbows, or maybe the guy with curly hair could put his ankles on the other guy's shoulders, do you think? Do you think he's that flexible, Justin? I think maybe he is. I think he'd like to be pinned down and fucked, don't you? I think he'd like to feel the other guy's cock deep inside him, fucking him hard and slow, making him beg for more, I think he'd like that, Justin, don't you?"
Justin made a helpless noise.
"Or maybe the other guy should turn him over, spread him over the back of the couch or down on the floor and fuck him like that? That'd be good, Justin, don't you think? Do you think the guy with curls would scream, being fucked like that? I think he might scream, don't you?"
"Oh, fuck, please... I—please?"
"What do you think they should do, Justin? Should the guy with the curls be on his back or bent over the couch? Does he want it fast or real slow and careful?"
"Lance, please—I don't know. Anything, please, please."
"Take your clothes off, Justin. I think maybe you're prettier than that guy, I think you're going to look so beautiful when you come, yeah, that's good, you are pretty, aren't you, such a lovely firm body, lie back now, put your leg up here on my shoulder, that's right, the other foot on the floor, spread for me, you're so tight, Justin, so hot, I'm going to fuck you now and you are going to come so hard you'll think you died and went to heaven."
Lance was right.