1.
At half past ten a.m., Buck emerged from the bathroom into the set. Jack watched him step into the room—an airy atrium where natural light centered on a king-size bed. Buck had increased his training and it showed—his warm ivory skin stretched taut over testosterone-laden muscle. His thick cock swayed over his heavy balls as he walked with the swagger of a young gamecock.
All eyes turned to Jack for his response. Kyu, the two-man crew, and the two bottoms. None were new to the business, and with any other first-timer, they’d get right to work. But the unique dynamic on this particular shoot—Jack’s return and his proprietary interest—called for some deference.
Buck was a stunning physical specimen. No question. And if anyone knew, it was Jack.
“Looking good, sport,” Jack said, tapping the brim of his blue cap, mustering a cool affect. “You don’t have to get hard yet.”
“S’okay,” Buck replied with a muscular shrug, lazily palming his erection.
“You got a long time to go,” Jack added.
“I’m good,” Buck answered.
Jack sighed, glancing down at Buck’s stiff prick. “Yeah, I’ll bet you are.”
He ran a hand over his scruffy jaw and turned his back on the bed newbie and onto the production.
It had been nearly two decades since Jack had been on a set, and the new technology fascinated him. It was hard to keep from putting his hands on Matthew and Eduardo’s cameras. He'd always had a keen mind for such things, despite lacking formal education, in this or any other subject. As he took in the changes, it set his blood pumping.
The atrium was in a Pacific Heights home, discreetly loaned for the filming. Kyu had a knack for finding such locations—properties of well-off gay fans who were thrilled to have their homes featured in his scenes. He chose his sets with the eye of a painter, seeking natural light that he augmented with his own sleek lamps. Lush foliage and carefully placed furniture created clean, composed color blocks.
The high-end look of the setting wasn't lost on Jack. It was a sight better than anything they'd used in the 90s, where cheap hotel rooms were the order of the day. Even when Jack took control and made his own improvements, their sets had never reached this level.
Honestly, it felt a little much, missing the raw, masculine quality that defined his style.
Back then, Kyu had captured every golden hair on Jack's tawny hide in ways no other cameraman could. His camera loved Jack—his predatory grace, the barely contained power of his body. Jack had known, even then, that Kyu was different.
Now, Jack wanted that same magic for Buck. To capture his unblemished marble skin, for the light to catch on the perfect swell of his tits, the tension in his heavy cock. What was the point of looking like that if not to put it on film?
Kyu was the only man he trusted with this job.
Jack watched his old friend work with quiet focus, placing his cameras and gauging the shifting sunlight by eye, moving from one perspective to another until satisfied. Kyu had come a long fucking way from being the skinny immigrant art student with a video camera on his shoulder.
“Looking good to you?” Jack asked, working hard not to hover.
Kyu had volunteered to supervise the camera team as a favor, and Jack wanted to show appropriate respect and gratitude. Now a big-name director himself, it was no small thing for Kyu to take a back seat to Jack.
Kyu would be the first to say he owed his career to Jack, after all, and the stripped-down, unapologetically masculine style Jack had perfected. But they were both gentlemen after a fashion and had an understanding. They didn’t need to discuss these things.
Kyu nodded, approving. “What name’s he using?”
“Not sure,” Jack answered. He’d wondered himself. “Just Buck so far.”
“Ah,” said Kyu, making one of his inscrutable sounds that Jack understood to have a deeper meaning, though he never knew quite what. “Okay then.”
Kyu silently nodded to the crew to assume their places. Jack considered one last check-in with Buck, to see if he was sure he wanted to do this. But they’d talked enough over the last few weeks. The boy was set on it.
“Alright, you guys.” Jack pushed his cockscomb of blond hair back and pulled his blue cap tight over it, visor forward.
He’d doubled up his own workout in the last months leading up to the shoot and could feel the sleeves of his black polo shirt tighten on his thick biceps as they flexed. A big grin spread over his still-handsome face.
He was really on the set again. “Let’s make porn!”
“Aright Dad,” said Buck with a cocky smirk.
2.
Jack had hoped Buck would become a lawyer. No one in the family had gone to college before, and though Jack had done well for himself without a degree, he’d assumed Buck would be the first to break the cycle. He’d socked away enough for a princely education, but when Buck told him he wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps, Jack had felt a surprising, undeniable swell of pride.
Facts were facts: Buck had the body, the face, and the dick. And more importantly, Buck loved to fuck.
Jack was well aware of that particular fact. He’d spent too many nights lying awake, listening to the rhythmic thud of Buck’s headboard punishing the drywall between their rooms. He’d never been a prude, but he had to shake his head at the irony; he’d retired from the front end of the business only to find himself living in a domestic version of it the moment Buck came of age.
It came complete with the laundry loads of stiff towels and the unfiltered, guttural groans echoing through the vents. “Yeah, just like that,” he’d heard Buck growl. “Cum for me, baby. Give it to me.” Jack had just stared at the ceiling, wondering if he should turn up the TV or take notes.
Maybe I shouldn't have named him Buck, Jack had mused more than once, his head bobbing in time with the headboard slams, as if the rhyme had predetermined the boy’s fate.
He’d never been the kind of father who wanted a junior version of himself. Not in name or career. He hated the guys who wouldn’t let a kid have his own identity. Buck sounded enough like Jack to link them without being a carbon copy. It was a no-nonsense name for a stand-up guy, which Jack hoped his son would be, discounting the ordinary, high-testosterone fuck-ups of youth.
There was no reason the kid couldn't become a lawyer later, Jack reasoned. Everybody had a past nowadays, what with the internet and the blurring of lines. And the kid really did have the aptitude for the work—and the attitude: curious, up for anything, and possessed by a fierce, innate will to perform. He’d always liked attention a little more than most. He was an exhibitionist at heart, the kind of kid who never quite bothered to pull the curtains shut. Jack smiled faintly, thinking the boy came by it honestly.
Knowing Buck, once the decision was made, he would have taken the most impetuous route possible—likely setting up some slapdash OnlyFans account and shooting grainy vertical video in his messy bedroom.
Why not let Jack’s production company do it right? A little investment to have it shot professionally, own the master files—a gift from Jack—and let the boy keep every cent of the profit. It was enough to pull Jack out of his self-imposed retirement to direct.
He could still recall his own first scenes, back before he was a star with the clout to call the shots. It was a high-risk line of work if you weren’t smart about it, and Jack would be damned if he’d let some random sleazoid producer exploit his boy.
He’d seen too many young guys focused on the high of a boner in a warm hole while some suit no one would ever want to see on screen sat in the shadows counting the profits. Jack had dealt with enough of those bottom-feeders—the kind who’d try to hold back your pay if you didn't agree to something off-contract or "extra" while you were still catching your breath.
Jack had survived because even when he was deep in it, his mind was already working on how to get The Nut—the real money—before his spent cock was even out of the hole. If anyone was going to make a fortune off the sweat of a Chance’s back, it ought to be Jack.
The way he saw it, he’d helm the camera for Buck until the kid knew the ropes. Just this one scene and a couple more. Maybe a few more after that.
The kid was already more sophisticated than Jack had been at that age, but in a way, far more naive. His privileged life meant he'd been sheltered from the rougher sides of the world Jack had emerged from. Jack reflected, not for the first time, that maybe he’d been too much Buck’s buddy growing up, and not enough his father. The line had always been so damn hard to draw.
He wished he could have slowed things down at the end there, just to help get Buck ready to be a man. Not forever, just a little longer.
But Buck was eighteen now, his birthday having passed just a few weeks ago on New Year’s Day. It was a miracle he still wanted to spend time with his dad at all, much less make a porno together. God knows Jack had no time for his own bastard father at that age.
From here on out, Buck would have to decide for himself what kind of man he wanted to be. And strangely enough, at forty-six and change, with a soon-to-be-empty nest, Jack realized he was going to have to do the exact same thing.
3.
The bottoms, Tyler and Griff, were experienced but not so much as to intimidate Buck. Jack had seen to that. He’d screened them both personally, but he’d let Buck make the final choices. Jack had been forced to fuck enough guys with zero chemistry when he started out, and he wanted better than that for his son—as a father and as a director.
Same as in real life, there was nothing better than chemistry in a fuck scene. It could manifest in a lot of different ways, but it couldn't be faked for any amount of money.
Tyler was a good-looking Black guy, dark and muscular. Not with Buck’s mass, but cut like a diamond. Griff was a handsome enigma—maybe Middle Eastern, maybe Latino—with plush lips and olive skin stretched tight over an athletic frame that would stop traffic in any other context. Here, they were merely the frame for the masterpiece.
“Alright, let's clear the frame,” Jack commanded, his voice cutting through the Pacific Heights atrium. “Tyler, Griff—center stage. Buck, I want you hovering just off the shoulder. I want to see that swagger in the peripheral before you even touch them.”
Jack watched the monitors, his eyes tracking the way the natural light caught the ivory skin he was so intent on capturing. He could feel the familiar electric hum of a rolling set—the specific, heavy silence that falls right before the first touch.
He glanced over at Buck. The kid was looming, his equipment swaying slightly as he shifted his weight. His eyes were fixed on the two bottoms like a predator deciding where to bite first.
“This is for the master files, Buck,” Jack said, his voice dropping into a low, professional rasp. “Every move you make is a deposit in the bank. You understand?”
Buck’s lip curled, a sharp flash of teeth. “I got it, Dad. Just make sure you’re catching my good side.”
“You don’t have a bad one, kid,” Jack grunted, stepping back to his chair, his director’s eye blurring with a jagged spike of paternal pride. “Camera one, rolling. Camera two, rolling. And… action.”
As the clothes hit the floor, tongues lapped and fingers spread over firm, young flesh. Buck's creamy skin flushed a soft rose. His rounded pecs flexed as Griff's hands traced their contours, grazing his nipples. Flanked by the two darker men, Buck looked like a snowy white young bull.
"Slower, guys," Jack called out, letting his smooth director's voice take over. "Taste him first. I want to see the worship."
It was weird, of course. Jack was no stranger to the idea of Buck being sexual, but seeing it was different. Seeing Buck’s full-lipped mouth opening for alternating tongues, his own wet tongue firmly thrusting back. His cock seemed to find an extra half inch as it surged against his belly, rising to the occasion. Pure Chance DNA in action.
"Jesus," Jack muttered, barely audible even to himself.
Griff latched onto a dusky rose nipple on Buck’s pec while Tyler dropped low to get a hand on Buck’s big bull cock. The boy groaned, his head tipping back. "Fuck, yeah," he rasped, and his body surrendered to the worship as if he was born to the work—which in a way, he was.
Tyler opened his pretty mouth to take in Buck’s cockhead, and then to go down further, inch by inch, swallowing him.
Holy fuck, thought Jack, watching Buck’s thick cock be engulfed by those chocolatey lips. Seeing Tyler’s throat flex to take it in. Jack shifted his weight in his folding chair as his own denim became uncomfortably tight, his pulse thumping in his throat and his groin. He flipped his cap to face backward and leaned in for a better view. That boy has a gift.
The camera guys did their jobs, silently gliding around the trio. With nods and gestures, Kyu urged them to additional angles: the release when Tyler came up for air, a thick strand of saliva hanging from his bottom lip to Buck’s cock, stretching like a silver wire under the atrium lights. Then the focus shifted to Griff’s tan hands, his fingers kneading Buck’s muscles as they rolled under that marble skin.
“Fuck,” Buck groaned against Griff’s lips, shuddering as Tyler swallowed him again. “I want you both sucking my fucking dick at the same time. Get down there, Griff.”
Jack froze. Off-script already?
A knot of surprise and a dark, competitive heat tightened in his chest. He’d always plotted loosely, letting the chemistry of the performers take over, but for Buck he’d been more determined to get it right. And now it was already derailing.
Kyu was also motionless, but observant. Waiting to see what would come next.
Griff weaved around Buck and came to his knees, mirroring Tyler, their two mouths working Buck’s length and girth. Buck took their heads in his big hands, guiding them as he slowly thrust forward with his hips, his glistening cock fucking the union of their wet lips. “Fuck yeah,” he groaned and his top lip trembled under the lens.
Then with his cock gleaming and dripping with spit and precum, he stopped them. He rose from the bed, shook a muscular thigh out to settle his heavy balls, and turned to face the wall. He ran hands over his rounded ass cheeks, prying them apart to expose his hole.
“Which one of you is going to tongue-fuck this first?” he growled. “I want to feel it in my gut.”
Kyu slowly nodded yes, and with a graceful wave of his fingers indicated to the camera guys where to position themselves to focus in on Buck’s virgin hole.
Jack didn't take it as well.
Goddamnit, he thought, vexed at the boy’s improvisation. He was the director. He’d blocked this out. But his frustration was a losing battle against the reality of the monitor: the kid had the instincts.
“Oh yeah, eat it. Get your tongue deep in my hole,” Buck grunted as they took turns tongue-fucking him.
Tyler stood up to kiss Buck, the taste of Buck's ass on his mouth. His own hard cock slid up along the crack of Buck’s ass, just gliding between the full cheeks. A stream of precum gushed from his cockhead.
Jack lurched forward and then caught himself.
He pulled his cap off, rubbed his face and put it on again, visor forward. It was some protective instinct. Stupid and unnecessary. He knew how these scenes went, and the heavy swell in his own pants told him this was right on the money.
Keep your director pants on and your dad pants off, he thought. But that didn’t sound quite right either.
He shifted in his chair, unable to find a comfortable position. Buck, despite the off-script moment, was a pro in the making.
4.
Jack got his start in the 1990s.
Leaving the backwoods with a high school diploma, he knew only one thing: Your head will lead you astray from time to time, and the heart’s a deceiver, but your boner will never lie.
A hard dick is the one true compass a man has in this world. And he trusted his to serve him well.
When he landed in the big city, he could see the clear choice between breaking his back on construction jobs or getting his cock sucked for cash. He'd never had trouble throwing hard on command or going back-to-back with loads. Never had a problem fucking dudes, either. There were guys hungry for a man with Jack’s looks and his dick, even back in Oklahoma. The money in gay porn was better, too—or it could be, if he played his cards right.
The studio wanted to give him a stupid, hard-on-reference name like they did in those days—Steel, Girth, Rod. But Jack insisted on his own first name and added Chance. He liked the sound of it. He had no weight to throw around other than his cock, but he was hot as fuck—dirty blond chest hair just filling in, and shoulders that looked carved from some working-class marble. He was pure trade—the kind of guy who looked like he’d just stepped off a loading dock and hadn't yet realized he was the most beautiful thing in the room.
No sleazy director cared enough to fight him on the name. Jack could see right off how “Jack Chance” could be a pun goldmine in video titles; he didn’t mention that to the directors, banking the idea for his own future use.
He’d never had a problem playing dumb, and he spent most of a year asking questions during shoots and in post-production to figure out the business. If they could do it, he could learn it. And if some jackoff was going to make a buck off the literal sweat of his back, no one was better suited or more deserving than Jack himself.
He used a loophole he’d spotted in their clumsily drafted contract to get out of the studio so he could start his own company. The studio was shocked that the dummy with the big pecs and the power dick could read after all.
Jack enjoyed that almost more than freeing himself. Blessed by nature with a bewildered face and a wily mind, he’d always enjoyed being underestimated.
Even in those days of shit production values, it took money to start a company. Jack was only just getting to be popular, not yet a bankable name. He leveraged that popularity into “loans” from a few older, moneyed fans. He could have just paid them off with sex—they wouldn’t have cared much, and most would have considered it a bargain. But Jack wasn’t inclined to owe anyone anything.
He worked hard to pay down the debt with interest, keeping his books as clean as his conscience.
But what a way to do it. He still remembered the very first time he sunk his stiff prick into another guy's slicked-up hole on camera, groaning as the tight heat swallowed him. He realized right then that he was getting paid a premium to feel like a king. Every thrust in every ass he topped, he could hear the cash register’s ka-ching. Every trail of sweat that ran down the small of his back while he humped some pretty boy mapped the path of independence. The cumshots were—well yeah, those were fun, too.
Jack had no training, so he made videos the way his gut said to. No processed looks, no poofy hair or shaved-bare crotches like the studios shelled out. His look was natural, with dark-blond body hair and real muscles from real work. His videos had balls.
Some scoffed at his first releases as amateurish. A few praised them as revivals of old Bijou and Bullet productions. Jack didn’t opine. He thought of his vids as just guys doing shit guys do. If people wanted to pay to see them, so much the better. And pay they did.
He pulled his old title ideas out of his back pocket. He never could resist a pun. He produced Chance of a Lifetime, Snowball’s Chance, Last Chance (the first of several profitable “final” vids), and Second Chance (the first of the even more profitable comeback vids). He even insured his dick for a million dollars as a publicity stunt. He released One In A Million Chance, and when sales eventually dipped, he issued a special collector’s edition that came with a copy of the insurance certificate.
There was just one kink in the plan, so to speak.
It came in the form of his co-star, Savannah Smiles, in his first bi video, Fifty-Fifty Chance. Jack had never lost control like that on a shoot before, not even in the early days when he was still finding his rhythm. But Savannah had a way of looking at you that made you feel like she was actively trying to drain the marrow out of your bones through your cock.
For the first time in his career, Jack had lost it like a damn virgin and fucked his load right into her while the cameras were still rolling. It was a fluke, a one-in-a-million shot that took hold instantly. He could tell even before she knew; when she showed up on set the next day, her tits looked bigger and higher, her skin glowing. She was knocked up.
Buck’s birth wasn’t documented on video, but his conception was—captured by a young, hungry film student named Kyu who was only shooting porn to make his rent. The boy didn’t just have porn star parents; he was literally made in and of porn.
Once Jack realized he was going to be a father, the business shifted into overdrive. Having only the example of his own shitty father, Jack was determined to do it right, and on his own terms.
That meant he’d need to pay off Savannah for full custody—a clean break that wouldn't come cheap—and then he’d have a kid to be responsible for.
He wished there was another way around that, but Jack knew Savannah had no interest and no business in being a mother. She had her own fucked-up childhood shit to work through, worse than Jack’s. But if things had been different—if things had only been different—what a woman she was. The only person to ever make Jack lose it in a video, with that yielding open mouth of hers and her own powerful gift for pleasure.
More than ever, he had an incentive to control who made the real bank off his broad back and his big, baby-making balls.
He went into a frenzy of production, fucking overtime, humping for the future, stacking up a record number of scenes and vaulting them to be released slowly over the coming years. He was building a fortress of content, a wall of passive income that would allow him to step back when the time came.
Jack had no shame about the work itself, but now that he was going to be a father, he intended to keep his porn life at arm’s length—or in his case, dick’s length. He wanted Buck to have as ordinary a childhood as possible, especially since he wouldn’t have a mom around.
Fatherhood aside, Jack could see the business was changing. The internet allowed for new amateur sites to provide porn directly to the customer, bypassing the studio system and the porn shops. For $15 a month, subscribers could get unlimited access to new videos every week, downloaded straight to their computer, rather than the $65 to buy a Jack Chance movie on DVD.
Guys would subscribe to these sites directly, Jack knew, at least until they figured out a way to pirate them.
It was the democratization of porn, Jack said at the time. And just like the other kind of democracy, the upside was anyone could do it, and the downside was anyone could do it.
But there was still a buck to be made. Jack developed a new amateur site with no connection to his name—no puns, no "Chance" branding, nothing to link the suburban father to the screen. He had a good feeling about Kyu, the young cameraman, and invited him to manage it as 50/50 partners: Jack’s capital and Kyu’s labor.
Kyu pumped out videos weekly of “young college studs”—naturally athletic guys who were either straight or could convincingly play the part. They sure as hell weren't actual college material, but throw them in backwards caps and athletic socks, and they made perfect, horny frat bros.
The formula was simple and effective: they were young, dumb, and full of cum. Jack and Kyu mapped out a digital assembly line of corruption that the fans couldn't get enough of. A boy would start with a solo "Introduction" video, just jerking off and looking shy for the lens. By the next month, he was getting blown. Still later he was pounding ass, and finally—the big money shot—he was being pounded himself.
The site tracked their "graduation" from innocent jock to seasoned performers, and the money flowed in a constant, digital stream. This, on top of his nest egg, set Jack up for retirement before he was thirty—giving him the freedom to work out, travel, go surfing and, of course, parent.
Jack had no intention of ever being poor again.
He knew he’d miss the work. But even though a full head of hair and fit body would serve him well for years to come, he couldn’t make porn forever. No one ever heard of a gay porn star older than thirty, after all. He was set for life and had a son to raise. It was time to grow up.
On December 31st, while the world braced for a Y2K catastrophe that never happened, Buck was born at the stroke of midnight. The ‘90s were done, and Jack Chance vanished. It was a new millennium.
5.
Two hours later, Buck’s erection was holding up well. He clearly got off on being worshiped by Tyler and Griff, and he knew how to give back, too—to Jack’s mixed surprise and relief. He was a complete natural. And, Jack noted, still a little too eager.
Movie fucking isn’t like real fucking—and not just because there’s a crew crawling around you. There’s a pace to keep, to allow for the shots at different angles. You have to master your body and remember that what you’re doing is for the benefit of the viewer, not your own pleasure—though you need just enough of that pleasure to keep the meat standing.
Buck, with his raw enthusiasm, seemed to be missing that crucial distinction. Jack had intuited it from his very first scene in the '90s. Why hadn’t his son?
Buck had gotten himself on top of Tyler, straddling the man's face. The arch of his back revealed itself with each thrust, muscles rolling beneath that luminous skin as he plowed Tyler's throat with the full, thick length of his cock. It was a thing of beauty.
At the same time, Buck worked Griff’s dick, alternating between his own mouth and a tight fist. His thumb caught the bead of precum at the head with ease, he sucked it off and then returned with a hungry mouth.
It was shocking for Jack to see his boy suck cock so well, pretty much confirming it wasn’t his first. Jack had surmised as much, but seeing the wet, rhythmic slide of it was something else.
What alarmed Jack more was the growing pace of his son’s hips. There was an increasingly doggy franticness to Buck’s movements—more primal and less performance—his balls slapping hard against Tyler's chin with every thrust.
"Don't just throat-fuck him into a gag, Buck," Jack muttered under his breath, watching the monitor. "Give the lens a look at the base. Let 'em see the spit dripping off your nuts."
Buck grunted that Tyler was just lubing him for Griff’s ass, and he growled at Tyler to "take every fucking inch" like a good boy. But Jack knew the signs: the sweat pooling in the small of Buck’s back, the frantic arch of his spine, the way his toes curled into the mattress. The kid was perilously near to blowing his load, whether he knew it or not.
“Buck, slow down,” Jack said softly but firmly.
Buck shot a pissed-off glance over his shoulder, his face flushed and his eyes glazed. He shook it off and thrust his hips hard, making Tyler retch out loud as Buck’s erection penetrated to a new, punishing depth in his throat.
“That’s enough,” Jack said, walking into the frame. “Cut the fucking cameras. Take a break.”
“I’m good,” barked Buck, his prick still buried in Tyler’s hot, wet mouth. “Keep shooting.”
Jack paused, his jaw clenching so hard the veins in his neck bulged. "Take. A. Fucking. Break." He locked eyes with Buck. "Now."
The crew stepped back, creating a wide berth. Even the sound equipment seemed to retreat. The performers broke away from each other—even Buck, drawing his throbbing cock from Tyler's raw throat with a wet slide. Tyler turned on his side, coughing and spitting into a nearby towel while Griff scrambled to pull on a robe.
Jack looked around the set—the cutting-edge cameras and lights, the foliage and elegant furniture. He paced, eyes darting, scanning for something cheap enough to throw. He spun around. "And all this—this god damn CRAP!" he waved a hand and swatted at one elephant-ear-sized leaf on a potted plant, leaving it quivering. "This is just artifice."
He fixed his gaze on Kyu. "I thought we were making porn. Nasty, back of the bus porn. I want to see the way a man looks when he’s gut-fucking, not one of your tableaux of boys who look like flat-chested girls scissoring each other.” There was a low growl underlying his words.
He spun and kicked the air—a sudden, violent snap of his boot that made the crew flinch. Kyu sat silent and still. Whatever he thought of Jack’s comment was known only to him.
Jack turned away. "There's snacks and drinks. Bottoms, liquids only. You know the drill." He turned to Buck and pointed at him with one thick finger. "Come with me."
Jack stepped to the room just off the atrium and Buck swaggered after him, his heavy cock still slick and semi-hard. Jack knew the look on his son’s face well enough to know this wasn’t going to be fun.
“What the fuck was that about?” Jack asked in harsh but hushed tones.
“I was doing fine,” Buck answered. “I know myself.”
“You were going to shoot down that kid’s throat,” Jack replied with an exasperated eye-roll. “And you have a long way to go.”
“I can knock out another load, no problem,” Buck sneered. "I've got enough rope in me to paint this whole room."
“And you’re going to waste your big load—the one you’ve been saving—in his throat?” Jack rested his palm against his forehead. "Buck, it may have eluded you, but we’re not filming an endoscopy here. We want that money-shot where we can see it—all over his face and tits, not disappearing into his stomach. Fans are paying for a climax they can see, not a private dinner.”
Buck rolled his eyes, grumbling, “Yeah, whatever.” He stroked his cock absentmindedly. “You just—never mind.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Say it. Get it out, Buck.”
“You can’t even let me fuck without telling me how,” Buck spat.
“Yeah, I’m the director. That’s my job here.” They stared at each other, identical jaws thrust forward stubbornly. “Damn it, Buck, I’m trying to help!”
“You’re supposed to be retired!” Buck grunted. “Why can’t you let me do this on my own?”
The boy turned away, running a hand lazily over one big pec. There was sparse hair at the center of his chest, not grown in as thick as his father’s had been at the same age. Jack realized suddenly it might never come in like his did.
“Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this together.” Jack was surprised at his own words.
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t my idea,” Buck muttered and walked away.
It hit Jack like a sledgehammer that what Buck said was true. It had never been Buck's idea to begin with.
6.
Jack had waited until the morning of Buck’s eighteenth birthday to tell him the truth about his career. Until then, the cover story had been a vague tale of "private investments." It was hard to find the right balance between being a father and being a buddy, especially since it was just the two of them, with no other parent to ally with. In the end, Jack figured if he was old enough to be in the business at eighteen, Buck was old enough to know.
He simply placed a heavy, scuffed plastic bin on the reclaimed wood dining table. It looked out of place in their clean, quiet home.
He popped the lid. Inside was a chaotic timeline of the 1990s—weathered paper VHS boxes and DVD cases with cracked plastic. The covers featured a younger, rawer version of the man standing in front of Buck: golden, tanned, and often sporting a handlebar mustache that looked like an invitation to trouble.
Buck reached in, brushing past gold-plated trophies from awards shows that didn't exist anymore, their bases etched with Jack’s name. Beneath them lay a heavy object wrapped in stained bubble wrap—the master mold for the original Jack Chance dildo. A literal cast of the cock that made him.
Beneath it were copies of Mandate, alongside a million-dollar insurance certificate, nestled next to a stack of old interviews and profiles.
Buck didn't say a word. He didn't even look at Jack. He reached in and pulled out a copy of Fifty-Fifty Chance. He stared at the cover—Jack and Savannah Smiles, locked in a lusty embrace. If he saw the dead-ringer appearance between his own face and the woman’s, he didn't say a word about it.
Instead, Buck simply closed the lid, gripped the handles of the heavy bin, and carried it to his room. The trophies clinked against the master mold inside, a metallic sound that trailed down the hall.
Jack sat at the table for three hours. He heard the faint, rhythmic thumping of bass from the speakers in Buck’s room—the cheesy, synthesized soundtracks of Jack’s life in the 90s. He sat there, staring at his coffee, his mind racing through the contents of the bin.
He imagined Buck watching him in the middle of a sweat-slicked orgy, his younger self nutting on faces or filling heavy, translucent condoms to the bursting point. He pictured Buck seeing the unedited reality of the man he’d only ever known as Dad.
And then, watching the conception video—watching his father bottom out inside a woman who looked like she wanted to eat him alive.
When Buck finally emerged, the sun was hitting the table at a different angle. The boy stood in the doorway, his skin dewy at the hairline, his face and neck flushed a deep, frantic red. He didn't look like a boy who had seen too much. He looked like a boy who had seen just enough.
When Buck finally emerged, the sun was hitting the table at a different angle. The boy stood in the doorway, his skin dewy at the hairline, his face and neck flushed a deep, frantic red. He didn't look like a boy who had seen too much. He looked like a boy who had seen just enough.
"I wanna make one," Buck said.
Jack could have argued, but what could he say? And Buck was Buck. He was always willful, and now he had the legal status to back it up. He said he’d use his own first name, like Jack had done, though he couldn’t settle on a last name yet. Maybe it was just nature. Put two porn stars’ genes together in the laboratory of a porn shoot, and they’re going to make a porn star.
Jack reached out to Kyu, who had his own company now, Q-BOYS. Jack appreciated the play on the name. Kyu had a stable of young performers of every ethnicity whose careers he shepherded with the same attention he lavished on filming. He was famous now for productions that were half-smut, half-high art. People called him the Vermeer of gay porn. It wasn’t Jack’s style—Jack preferred a camera that stayed on the friction and the grit—but Kyu was the best. Of course he’d help.
Finally, Jack FaceTimed his old co-star, Savannah Smiles.
He’d had full custody of Buck since birth, so he’d never needed her permission, but he checked in from time to time. Sometimes he just liked to see her. When Jack left the business, fans speculated about where he’d gone. His favorite Whatever Happened to Jack Chance theory was that he was the "kept man" of a Saudi billionaire—the prize bull in his harem. This particular tale tickled Jack because, while it was off the mark for him, it was pretty on the nose for Savannah. She lived the life of a pampered pet in Denmark, the treasured concubine of an expatriate Middle Eastern prince.
Jack sat in his bed for the call, setting his phone on his knee. She was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. That Lebanese-Scots heritage blended into an ideal form that still drew him in and left him helpless. Even now, seeing her pixels glowing in the dim room made his cock throb with the memory of how she’d drained him.
She laughed on hearing the news about their son’s debut. “Well, he is his father’s son,” she said, her voice smooth as silk.
“He is,” Jack admitted.
It made his hard-on surge to hear her liken him to their handsome boy—a reminder that Buck was the living proof of the one time Jack’s dick had completely overruled his head.
But to Jack, the resemblance was between mother and son. Buck had Jack’s jaw, but the mouth, the dark hair, and the dusky rose coloring of his lips and nipples were all hers. Even Buck’s build, while masculine, had more in common with her ample tits and abundant glutes than Jack’s squared-off muscle.
“You’re looking good, Sav,” Jack said, feeling strangely shy about the rekindled attraction.
“You too, Jack,” she said, watching his hand slide down to reach into his sweats.
She reclined in her posh bedroom in a negligee, looking every part the pampered courtesan. She pulled out her breasts for Jack as he stroked himself, spreading her legs. She knew exactly what she was doing, damn it, watching him with that heavy-lidded gaze that had sold a million DVDs.
She still has me by the balls, Jack thought. But he had her, too. He could see it in her eyes when he jerked down his sweats and let his towering cock stand free, twitching with a life of its own.
He bit his bottom lip at the sight of her curves. What really got him was her smooth belly. He felt a primal desire to pump another baby into it, to see her with something of his in there again, mixing with her.
Being a father was his life’s calling, but Buck would be moving on. The thought of filling her up with another son was like a hand around his balls. Without warning, he spewed a hot load onto his own furry belly while she built to her own climax.
When she came, he was still slow-pumping the last of his cum out, letting it run over his knuckles. His chest rose and fell in sync with hers. Afterward, they both laughed breathlessly, like two kids.
"Still got it," Jack panted, wiping his belly with his tank top. "The Sheikh’s not going to declare a fatwa on me?"
“Haddad’s not like that,” she smirked. “He’d be more likely to fly you out so he could watch. He appreciates a fine stallion.”
“Hey, I could take a trip. I haven’t been to Denmark yet,” Jack offered eagerly. The idea of cucking a prince—with his blessing—was the kind of trip Jack could get behind.
“Ah Jack,” Savannah dismissed the notion with a soft sigh. “Maybe we should let the past be the past.”
“Yeah,” Jack shrugged. “I just—did you ever think we should have done it again? Made another Buck?”
“No, Jack,” she chuckled. “Never. No regrets, but I like my life as it is. I like it very much.”
He could see she’d found her place. God knows she deserved it. Like a lot of women in the business, she had a rough start in life, and many ended up worse than they began. Not Savannah. She parlayed her brief stardom into a life she never even knew existed, but one that gave her everything she wanted. She was taken care of the way she needed to be. Deserved to be. She was happy.
“We could have really been something, though,” he replied wistfully. “Made movies together. Got married.”
He pictured their life together, even now in their forties, still in love and fucking and having adventures. He would never say it to anyone, could barely articulate it to himself, but maybe it was a mistake to invest so much of himself in a son who would grow up and go off on his own, just as he once had.
“Jack, nostalgia’s a liar. A charming liar, but a liar. Besides, you’re already married,” she teased. “To Buck.”
Jack sat bolt upright, his face going hot. “You don’t—you don't think I’m...”
“I don’t mean that way,” she laughed. “There are a lot of ways to be married. Who would ever want to come between the two of you?”
It hit Jack, how much you can long for someone you could never be with. He laughed to think how he’d made a fortune off that very concept, inspiring so much longing in his fans, but it was something he was still learning about himself.
7.
Jack wandered into a guest bathroom away from the atrium to regroup.
He didn’t turn the light on, just left the door ajar. In the mirror, he looked all of his forty-six years. His strong, square jaw had some middle-aged softening. There were creases around his eyes that spoke of countless expressions. He lifted his cap. The wheat-and-gold hair rich gay men once paid just to touch was thinning at the crown.
With a sigh, he slowly lifted his shirt to see what it covered. His dirty blond chest hair caught the light. There was a map of gray threading through it. He was more fit than ninety percent of guys his age—more fit than most guys half his age, for that matter. The muscle was still there, but he was thicker—softer—in his belly than he used to be.
Face it, Jack. You’re not peak, he thought to his reflection. And you never will be again. So grow the fuck up.
He’d really thought it had been Buck’s idea for him to direct. But looking back on it, they were only talking, and Jack’s brainstorming had gotten out of hand. He knew so much about making porn, and that had gone untapped for so long. He’d forgotten more than almost anyone ever knew. Even the things he thought were dead were still there, dormant, waiting for a purpose.
The idea of filming again triggered things in him—storylines, angles, marketing. Calling the shots, literally and figuratively. He thought he could share that with Buck, that they could make something together. He just didn’t notice that Buck never actually asked for it.
You fucked up royally this time, buddy. Jack glowered in the mirror. You put everything you were ever any good at on hold to be a dad. Now the boy is moving on. And you’ve got nothing.
Savannah was right, sitting there in her boudoir like some god damn odalisque oracle. Nostalgia is a liar. She was the smart one. She had her sheikh and her life of Nordic luxury. Kyu had his business and his reputation and his boys. Buck had the world by the balls and his whole life ahead of him. And what did Jack have? A pathetic ploy to stretch out his glory days with his son.
What the hell was he thinking? Were they supposed to be porn bros? Make movies together?
Fat Chance. There was the title, he derided himself, grabbing a handful of soft flesh at his belly.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Even by porn standards, it wasn't an eloquent monologue, but it was the best he had at the moment.
He’d fucked it all up, and unlike Buck, he didn’t have the excuse of youth. He decided to quit the shoot. He’d go home, or to a bar, hopefully find someone to bang, and leave Buck’s scene for Kyu to direct. This was Buck’s time, his millennium, and he was his own man. The man Jack made, for better or worse.
Jack splashed water on his face and dried off with a hand towel. As he did, he heard snickering and instinctively pulled back into the shadows.
“Did you see him checking out my camera?” asked one voice. “I was like, Yeah, sure Grandpa. It’s amazing. What a dinosaur.”
“Who the hell is he anyway?” asked the other.
“Pfft, used to be some big deal,” answered the first.
Jack knew the voices. Matthew and Eduardo. Kyu’s camera guys.
“The son is hot,” said Eduardo. “But can you imagine? Having your dad watch you get a blow job?”
“Or give one!” squealed Matthew.
“I’ve seen some shit, but that’s kinda fucked up, right?”
The two laughed. Jack prepared to walk out and let them know he was there. No point in being coy. It was time to face the truth.
“Hey,” said a third voice. One Jack knew well. Better than any other. “You guys talking about my dad?”
A heavy silence followed. “Oh... Buck,” answered Matthew. “Sorry man, didn’t know you were there.”
“Yeah,” Buck replied. “I am.”
“Buck, no offense—” interrupted Eduardo.
“Hold up,” Buck went on, talking over the camera guy. “Cause there’s a fuck-lot you don’t know. Like I guess you didn’t know my dad was the only porn star to ever sweep the Grabby Awards. Best Actor, Best Movie, Best Cumshot, Best Director. He won in every category but Best Bottom—not something he aspired to. Later that year he swept the AVNs for Take A Chance At Sugarbakers. I can go on if you want.”
“Buck...” Matthew tried to interject.
“You probably didn’t know,” Buck continued, his voice steadying, “that when he walked onto the set of Pure Chance in his packed Speedo, Mike Branson and Tom Chase quit on the spot. Or that by the time he retired, there were a dozen knockoff performers named Chance, because his name was gold. He gave your boss his start. He invented techniques you guys are still aping today, just not as well. You wouldn’t be here if it wasn't for him.”
Matthew and Eduardo were finally silent. Buck took a breath.
“And you probably didn’t know that in Fifty-Fifty Chance, after he did an internal cum shot in Savannah Smiles, he pulled his dick out for the camera to see, then fucked the loads out of two guys and finished again on Savannah. In one take. His scene was so hot the cameramen nutted watching it.”
Jack bit into his knuckle to keep from laughing out loud. The mouth on that kid.
“And I assume you didn’t know,” Buck went on, his voice rising, “my dad was not A gay porn star. He was THE gay porn star. His dildo wasn’t just a dildo. It was made from a mold of his hardon as-is—no increase in size, like every other star dildo, because he didn’t need it. When it went on the market, it sold faster than any piece of silicone in history. They ran out in one weekend, across the entire country.”
“The last one was auctioned off in London, and the winning bid was Madonna’s, for a million dollars. And when she made the winning bid, the auctioneer threw it to her, right there on the spot. And that dildo didn’t just get thrown. It flew over the heads of every losing bidder. And Madonna? She caught it. In. Her. Hand.”
Jack muffled his laughter into his palms, tears streaming over his knuckles. The boy would have made a great lawyer after all.
Buck cleared his throat. “My dad is walking around here with that million-dollar cock in his pants right now. You owe your careers to him, and Kyu does too. That’s why—just so you and your two-dollar dicks will know—THIS. Is the house. That Jack. Built.”
“We didn’t know, Buck,” said Matthew.
“Well now you do,” Buck chided. “And the name is Buck Chance, by the way. Now get back to work.”
Buck Chance? Jack mused. He liked the sound of that.
Jack assessed his reflection one last time. His eyes were clear now.
He was thicker, yeah, but what other guy half his age looked half as good? He flexed his big square pecs, and adjusted his hips, feeling the power still coiled in them. He rolled his shoulders, pulled on his cap, visor forward, and jutted out his jaw. He looked hot as fuck, to be honest. Second peak, even. And Buck was right; it was time to get to work.
8.
By nearly 4 p.m., Buck had been through a dizzying porn gauntlet. He’d sucked and been sucked, rimmed and been rimmed, and fucked both Tyler and Griff in nearly every position conceivable. Outside of breaks, he’d maintained a hard-on and a relentless, professional attitude. All that was left was the finale. The money shot.
As he took his place standing behind Griff, who was positioned on the edge of the bed on all fours, Buck hesitated. He didn’t say a word, but his eyes darted to meet Jack’s. Jack knew that look—guys who had held back on their cum shot so long they couldn’t let go. After hours of friction and control, Buck’s nervous system was holding onto the climax like a fist.
Observant as always, Kyu nudged Jack. “Talk to him.”
Jack had tried to lay low since the blow-up, but he could see the boy was drowning under the lights. “You guys are all doing great,” Jack announced with feigned cheer, stepping into the heat of the set. “Almost home. Just want a word with my… top.”
He clapped a hand on his son's sweaty shoulder. His skin was scorching, and Jack let go quickly, the contact too charged. He reached up and flipped the visor of his blue cap to the back. “Talk to me,” Jack said in a hush.
“Dad,” Buck whispered, his voice cracking. “What if I can’t? What if I’m done?”
“Buddy, no problem,” Jack whispered back. “We can stop right now. You don’t even have to cross the finish line.”
“Yeah, right,” Buck smirked, the cocky kid returning for a split second. “No money shot? Come on.”
“Buck, you’ve got this,” Jack reassured him. “You’re a volcano. I know you’ve got it in you. I do the laundry, Buck. I've seen the evidence.”
As Jack stepped away, Buck’s head spun back. “Dad,” he said quietly. “Stay.”
Jack looked to Kyu, who nodded. Jack settled in by Buck’s side and, without thinking, snapped his visor back to the front. Director mode.
Buck sunk his near-painfully swollen cock into Griff’s well-plowed hole. Griff groaned as his ass filled with Buck’s meat. Jack stood back just enough to give the camera room. “That’s my boy,” Jack said. “You’ve got this.”
Buck immediately rammed Griff hard, knocking the bottom to his elbows. He started a frantic, jackrabbit fuck—a pure amateur move. It was a bad sign. He was trying to force the feeling back into a numb head.
It would be enough for some directors. But this was Jack. And his boy.
“Let me help you,” Jack said, pulling close. He slid a hand between Buck’s hip and Griff’s ass. “I know you’re numb, but let’s take this slow and build you back up.” Jack could feel the heat radiating between them. He slowed Buck almost to a stop, guiding the boy’s pelvic bone under his palm.
Then he started Buck up again—smooth, drawing out and plunging in again to revive the feeling. Buck’s skin was luminous under Jack’s rough palm, the friction making soft whispering sounds that Jack tried not to hear.
Jack ignored the torque in his own briefs and the pulse hammering against his zipper. “There you go,” he said. “That feel good?”
Buck nodded, gliding his fat cock in and nearly out of Griff’s ass, playing for the camera. The arch of his back was a perfect curve, muscles rolling with each controlled thrust. Beautiful. He whispered, "Thanks, big guy," giving his dad a wink as his hips sandwiched Jack’s hand deeper into the wet crevice.
“Tricks of the trade,” Jack shrugged, acting breezy despite the wet, suctioning sound of Griff’s hole on Buck’s hard cock. He pulled his hand away. “You’re a fucking champ,” he whispered into Buck’s ear.
He stepped back, but with each step away, Buck’s pace faltered. His rhythm splintered; without Jack’s hand as a stabilizer. Jack could see him over-thinking his depth, his thrusts becoming shallow and tentative.
Jack and Kyu traded glances.
“Get in there, Jack,” Kyu whispered. “We’ll edit around you.”
Jack assessed the situation: Buck plowing Griff from behind, Tyler at Griff’s head.
He didn't go back to the spot beside Buck. He tapped Tyler. “Take five, buddy. I've got this.”
Jack gave Tyler a wink to show he hadn’t done anything wrong, and stepped into the space, crouching near Griff’s head. He tousled the bottom’s hair. “We’re gonna bring this home.”
He locked eyes with his boy. Buck’s pace steadied instantly, the connection locking back into place. God, he was beautiful when he fucked.
“You filling up that hole, Buck? Tell me,” Jack coached. “Feel that heat? I want to hear it.”
“Yeah, Dad. I think I'm bottoming out.”
“Good,” Jack commanded. “Forget the cameras, Buck. Just you and me.”
Buck’s lip turned up. “Dad,” he gasped, “I need a target. Take off your shirt?”
Jack felt another hot surge, but simply nodded. He pulled the black polo over his head, his cap with it, and threw them to the floor. He stayed crouched, running a hand over his furry pecs. He tapped the center of his chest, right over his heart. “Come on, slugger. Knock it out of the park.”
“Aw yeah,” Buck grunted. Jack could see the tension cresting, Buck’s eyes on his dad;s chest, his mouth opening in a way that looked so achingly like Savannah.
“Give it to me,” Jack mouthed. “Give me that load.”
Buck’s eyebrows knit as he looked pleadingly into Jack’s eyes. “I’m cumming, I’m…”
He pulled out. His cock was a vein-mapped beast in his fist. Buck didn’t jerk it—just held there.
“Now!” Jack growled, leaning into the line of fire.
A single, milky spurt dribbled out of the head. It hit Griff’s lower back, and then...
Nothing.
The atrium went graveyard silent. Buck’s eyes were shut, his cock rigid but empty, his upper lip twitching.
Jack felt a spike of pure, protective agony, ready to jump in and cover for the kid—to call off the cameras, to say it was enough.
Then, Buck’s body bucked. His throat let out a raw, guttural “FUCK!” and his cock triggered again—not a dribble this time.
A magnificent, high-arching comet of cum spewed from him, clearing Griff’s back entirely and landing with an audible smack right in the center of the dark blond thatch of hair on Jack’s chest.
It was the Fourth of July of cum. The next volley smacked Griff’s spine, painting white streaks against his tan skin like a Jackson Pollock. The camera guys let out involuntary gasps, but their lenses followed the arcs as Buck emptied himself with a force that seemed to lift his heels off the floor.
“Good boy,” Jack whispered, his voice a gruff rumble of paternal pride.
Still reeling, Buck plunged back into Griff, like a hot iron into cool water, easing the rest of his load inside, his thighs trembling.
Jack had never seen a top pull off a shot like that.
As Buck came back to earth, Jack bounced up on his heels. He didn’t wipe the jizz from his chest. He wore the mess like a medal of honor.
He rounded the bed, and sidled up next to his son as Buck slid out of Griff with a long, wet slurp.
Jack reached down. His hand ran over Griff’s ass cheeks, inspecting the wet gape. The muscle contracted and released. A portion of Buck’s load oozed out—pure Chance DNA.
“Matthew, stay on that drip,” Jack commanded.
His hand squeezed the flesh, his eyes hypnotized by the Buck-lubed hole.
A man could only take so much, even if that man was Jack Chance.
“Griff,” Jack asked, already unbuckling his belt, “you mind if I take a dip?”
Griff hiked his ass up and growled as Jack’s button fly burst open in a series of pops. Jack jerked his saturated briefs down, letting his own erection stand free. It was a thick tower, too noble for any measure as crude as inches.
The cameramen’s jaws dropped.
“Keep filming, boys,” Jack told the crew, his eyes focused. “Matthew, I want the over-the-shoulder. Kyu, tighten the frame on the point of entry. We’re making porn.”
He plunged into Griff, making the bottom quiver as he pushed deeper than Buck had touched. He pulled back and dove in again, Griff whimpered, white knuckling the sheets. Jack was back where he belonged—he was a fool to ever have left.
As Jack fucked Griff, the cameras caught the powerful roll of his haunches and the way the golden light hit the tawny hairs on his damp skin. He looked down at the pale streaks of Buck's load still drying on his own chest, using the visual and the memory to fuel each deep thrust.
Buck leaned in on one side, Tyler on the other, throwing their arms over Jack’s broad shoulders, sandwiching him between them as he power-fucked Griff.
In the haze of the moment, Jack caught Buck’s face—that mouth so like Savannah’s—his dusky lip curled into a sly snarl. Yeah, Dad. Do it. Fucking do it.
Jack began to lean in, but then turned away, squeezing his eyes shut to freeze that haunting image in his mind. He turned to the other side and plunged his tongue into Tyler’s mouth instead, using the stranger's body to ground himself in a fantasy while his balls slapped Griff’s.
His breath came fast, and he felt a hand on the small of his back—Buck’s hand. It put him over the edge.
“Fuck” Jack groaned, equal parts Dad and Jack Chance, and both losing control. He pulled his engine out of Griff’s warm ass.
Buck and Tyler watched. Kyu held his breath.
The first jet of Jack’s load arced up even higher than Buck’s had, landing on Griff’s spine. SPLAT! The next and the next crossed the streaks of Buck’s load and mixing with them. Jack’s chest rose and fell as he pumped out the rest, the crew catching every drop on film.
As he stabilized, Jack wiped the sweat from his lashes with his thumb. He shuddered with giddiness. He turned to Buck. “Okay, let’s get these bottoms off.”
“Yeah, Dad” answered Buck, his hand still on Jack’s sweat-streaked back.
Eduardo turned to Kyu. “What do we do?”
“You heard the man.” Kyu chuckled. “Keep filming. Jack’s back… Jack’s back.”
9.
Jack and Kyu got everyone squared away after the shoot. The catering spread was finally uncovered, and suddenly it was a feeding frenzy. Tyler and Griff, who had been running on empty stomachs all day to prep for the heavy bottoming, were finally getting some solid food. They stood completely naked in the middle of the atrium, practically inhaling sandwiches.
Buck was right there with them, eating like a wolf, the drying remnants of the scene still flaking on his skin. Jack had already taken a wet towel to himself, scrubbing the sweat and his son's spooge out of his chest hair before pulling on his polo.
Jack told Buck to hit the shower, and as the boy walked away with a half-eaten wrap in his hand, Jack and Kyu watched his high, round ass cheeks slowly sway with every step. A thoroughbred cooling down after a Triple Crown run.
“About the things I said,” Jack offered to Kyu. “I just…”
“I know,” Kyu replied, nodding. His monotone was a relief; they had a history that couldn’t be upset by a few rash words in the heat of a production.
“What a crazy fucking road it’s been,” Jack sighed, shaking his head.
“But it’s the road that got us here,” Kyu replied.
Jack turned to his old friend. “You always say shit like that. Like you know something deep.”
Kyu shrugged. “Just shooting the shit, Jack. You know I have low blood pressure.”
Matthew and Eduardo put on some Madonna and danced to “Express Yourself”—a song much older than either of them—as they mopped the floor. And when you're gone, he might regret it...
Jesus, thought Jack, watching the soapy water swirl. There was more DNA on these tiles than a crime scene.
By the time they were finishing, Buck emerged from the shower. His milky skin was flushed pink from the hot water and he looked fresh and clean, though his deep yawn conveyed that the day was finally catching up with him.
“’m hungry,” he said, rubbing his eyes. He stretched, and Jack caught the fluid movement of his shoulders spreading, his back arching in a long curve. So much physical potential, still unfolding.
“You want to go to a steakhouse?” Jack asked. He’d always liked a thick steak after filming a good fuck; it felt like putting the iron back into his blood.
“Sure,” answered Buck with a drowsy smirk. “If you’re paying.”
“Okay, big spender,” Jack laughed. He reached up and flipped his blue cap to the back—just Dad again. “I’m not going to make you blow your first paycheck on my meal.”
The February air was bracing as they made their way to Jack’s car. It was chilly even for San Francisco. Buck dropped into the passenger seat and Jack turned the ignition, rolling the car onto the road to face the setting sun.
“I was thinking maybe Double Your Chances,” Buck mumbled after a brief silence. “For a title.”
“Oh, yeah?” asked Jack. “For today? I like that.” He glanced at Buck’s handsome profile, careful not to draw the boy’s attention. The car was always where they had their best talks—side by side, facing forward together. “You and me, huh?”
Buck shrugged. “Yeah. Sorry I had a thing this morning.” His drowsy eyes rested on the road ahead.
“It’s cool,” Jack replied. “I messed up, too.”
“We’ll do better next time.”
“Next time?” Jack asked, his heart giving a small, unexpected thud. Together? The words felt like a promise of a future he hadn't dared to script.
“Duh. I still have to bottom,” Buck said.
The car lurched hard as Jack’s foot inadvertently slammed the gas pedal. Getting Buck’s money shot on his chest was one thing. But taking Buck’s cherry? On film?
“Oh?” he managed, letting the car ease back into a smooth cruise, his jaw clenched.
“I talked with Tyler about doing it,” Buck offered, oblivious to the heart attack his father was having three feet away.
“Tyler. Right. Of course.” Not a family affair. Just a business one.
“Yeah,” Buck chuckled, shaking his head. “Who’d you think?”
“Tyler’s great.” Jack exhaled, forcing his pulse back down while his cock gave one last stubborn throb against his thigh. Relief flooded in—mostly. “Good looking. Nice guy. Big… dick.”
Buck nodded, and Jack’s mind immediately went into a high-speed render. He could see the composition. The soft, surprised gasp of Buck’s mouth as Tyler entered him. Filled him. The same way Savannah’s face looked when Jack had slid into her to fill her with their son. What a shot that would be— captured in 4K.
“So you’re gonna bottom?” Jack asked, adjusting himself in his seat.
“Sure,” Buck chuckled. “It’s not the 90s.”
“No, it’s not.” Jack grinned, feeling the gears of his old life and his new one finally locking into place. “No, it’s not.”
As he drove, Jack's mind raced. He thought of all the things Buck could do. All the things he could do. The industry was a different beast now, and he wanted to get his arms around all of it. He’d like to work with a trans performer; he’d never done that before, and the idea of a scene with a trans guy felt fresh—something Jack Chance could really sink his cock into.
He could pull together an old-timers' all-star movie. A roundup of the legends from the 90s. See what Mike Branson and Max Grand were up to. He’d always wanted to fuck Max Grand, but somehow the time had gotten away from him, as it tends to do.
“How much longer till we get there?” Buck asked, impatiently bouncing his leg.
“Just a little longer, partner,” Jack answered, taking a glance at his boy in the full swell of all his pride and admiration and love. There was so much potential to be realized. “Just a little longer.”
Jack set his eyes on the road ahead.
END
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