Ben was flat broke, so broke that he’d scraped together his last coins just to get to this interview. The trip home was going to be a long, miserable walk unless his potential new boss felt generous enough to front him some cash. New boss, his mind sneered, mocking his own desperation. The “job” had come through Mark, of all people. Mark wasn’t evil, wasn’t dumb, wasn’t even particularly shady. Mark was simply the guy Ben had spent countless late nights jerking off with on cam, two silhouettes stroking to the same filthy clips.

Ben shook his head, half in regret, half in disbelief, as the ancient bus wheezed to a halt beside a charred, abandoned shelter. According to the address Mark had sent, he had a solid twenty-minute hike ahead through the crumbling industrial park. Plenty of time to talk himself out of this insanity.

It had started innocently enough—or as innocent as these things ever get.

“You’ve been online a lot lately,” Mark had typed, his webcam framing a soft, hairy gut, graying pubes, and thick, ringed fingers lazily pumping a heavy, leaking cock.

Back then Ben had idly wondered whether those gaudy rings added anything interesting to the sensation. Now he just wondered why the hell he kept ending up in sessions with total strangers. He’d been stroking with guys online since his first year out of high school, sharing a dorm room and a screen with a roommate who’d been just as curious. They’d edged together for hours, never quite crossing the line, always more interested in the girls moaning on the laptop than in each other.

Mark had found him on one of the gooning boards—places where guys posted for marathon mutual-masturbation partners. Broke, single, living rent-free in his parents’ empty house while they traveled for work, Ben had nothing but time. He spent his days naked, gaming or camming, hard more often than not. Mark liked the same extreme niches, loved Ben’s lean, hairless frame and—especially—his cock.

To Ben it was just a dick: straight, circumcised, a little longer than average, maybe a touch thinner, pale shaft laced with raised veins, a fat plum-colored head. To half the internet, apparently, it was a work of art. Mark never shut up about it.

Walking past collapsed fencing and vine-choked husks of factories, Ben cursed under his breath. Older guys always gravitated toward him online—fifties, sixties, married, lonely, whatever. A twisted little corner of his brain liked the attention, the hungry praise, the way they talked to him like they were guiding a prize thoroughbred. That was the part that had landed him here.

The conversation with Mark had drifted the way they always did: what they’d do to the girl, what they’d do to the guy, how they’d rewrite the scene entirely. Then Mark broke the cardinal rule and turned his camera up to show his face—early fifties, too much bad plastic surgery, skin pulled tight in all the wrong places.

“I’ve got an offer,” he’d said, voice suddenly serious. “If you’re interested.”

Ben had nearly killed the call. He wasn’t for sale. But four hours of edging later, half-delirious and desperate for cash, he’d listened.

Mark claimed he knew people who ran a small softcore studio—solo sets, girl/girl, the occasional boy/girl teaser stuff that sold on clip sites. Cash paid same day. No scams, no upfront fees. He even gave Ben the manager’s direct number.

The call with Tom had been short, gruff, professional in a sleazy sort of way: health check, previous experience (none), rates discussed, interview scheduled. When Ben asked, stunned, “You’re actually going to pay me?” Tom had laughed like it was the dumbest question he’d heard all week.

So here he was, last bus fare spent, trudging through a post-apocalyptic industrial wasteland toward “Honeytime Studios.”

At last a single tidy building appeared among the decay—gray cinderblock, fresh paint, mowed grass that looked almost offensive in context. A faux-cobblestone path led to tinted glass doors stenciled with the studio logo: a curvy cartoon bee winking over one shoulder, her fat striped ass practically a second title.

Ben exhaled shakily and pushed inside.

A blast of arctic air hit him. The lobby was bizarrely plush—thick white carpet, walls papered in purple-and-yellow hexagons like a psychedelic hive, a massive reception desk hiding whoever was on the phone.

“Honeytime Studios, how may I direct your call?” The voice was young, nasal, bubbly.

Ben hesitated. The receptionist sounded barely out of school—and she had a job. He was twenty-something, broke, and about to whore himself out for rent money. Great.

“Thanks for your inquiry, but we’re not looking for models right now—”

He almost bolted. Of course it was a prank. Mark and this Tom guy were probably laughing their asses off somewhere.

Then the strap on his ancient backpack snapped, spilling books, a towel, and random junk across the pristine carpet.

“Fuck,” he hissed, dropping to stuff everything back in.

“Hi there!”

He startled so hard he nearly head-butted the desk. The receptionist had come around barefoot and silent. She was tiny—petite, pert, blonde ponytail swinging—and wearing nothing but a purple micro-bikini that covered exactly two nipples and a hint of labia, leaving a neat blonde landing strip completely exposed.

“Jesus—sorry,” he stammered.

She giggled. “Welcome to Honeytime! You must be Ben Simmonds?”

He could only nod, mouth dry.

“I’m Trixie!” She bounced—literally bounced—on the purple yoga ball she used as a chair, the motion making her barely-covered ass spread deliciously against the rubber. “He’s here,” she purred into the desk phone, green eyes raking over Ben. “Yeah, super skittish though. Like a colt.” She hung up, hopped off the ball, and beckoned. “This way, cutie.”

He followed in a daze, staring at the tremor of her pale little cheeks as she walked. His cock was already aching.

She stopped at a door marked MANAGER, gave him one last teasing twirl—blonde muff framing an obscene cameltoe—and chirped, “See ya soon, big guy,” before sauntering off, scent of sweet musk trailing behind her.

Ben pushed the door open.

The office smelled of cigar smoke and leather. Behind a huge wooden desk sat Tom—exactly as advertised: seventies porn-stache gone white, purple-tinted aviators, unlit cigar clamped in his teeth.

“Glad you made it, kid. Bus?” He sounded personally offended. “Next time we send a car. This ain’t the nicest zip code after dark.”

Ben blinked. A car. They were sending a car.

Tom poured two fat fingers of bourbon, slid one across the desk. “Drink. You’ll need it.”

Before Ben could ask why, the door banged open again.

“Really, Tom? I heard you the first goddamn time.”

The woman who stormed in was stark naked except for thigh-high fishnets. Heavy olive-skinned tits swayed with every step, dark hair tumbling down her back, wide hips and a mouth-watering, apple-round ass that jiggled just right. She slapped a manila folder onto the desk.

“Anne, darling—” Tom started.

“Don’t ‘darling’ me, old man. Who told you the kid was here? Me. Who fetched his paperwork? Also me.” She turned to Ben, hands on hips, pussy completely on display. “Hey, sweetheart. Eyes up here when I’m talking—kidding. Look all you want. That’s literally the job.”

She cupped her tits and leaned forward, offering them like ripe fruit. “Nice, right?”

Ben made a strangled noise.

Anne laughed, letting them drop with a bounce. “Relax, honey. You see me, Trixie, or any of the girls naked around here? Stare. Touch if we say yes. That’s the gig.” She handed him a big fluffy towel. “Now come on. Follow Mama Anne’s fat ass to wardrobe and medical. We’ve got a full day of making you famous.” She spun, arched her back, and gave her rear a playful smack. “Let’s move, pretty boy.”