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Pinkie Promise

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“Brucey, baby,” Mills said, swirling his top-of-the-bottom rockgut whiskey in the plastic tumbler he’d brought with him. “How are you doing?”

Bruce’s answer was an ice-cold glare. “Mills, the Budapest shoot was a joke…”

“Just a minor formality!” Mills grinned, clapping his client hard on the back. “I’m already working something new up! It’s gonna be big! Bigger than big! Huge!”

Bruce glared at his so-called agent, yanking his shoulder out of his grip. “Good. Look, Mills, I’m running out of options here. I have two mortgages, the ex-old-lady is breathing down my neck for more alimony, and Cheryl has her heart set on a new place – she thinks the one I shared with Christine had ‘bad vibes’, whatever the hell that means.”

Mills nodded. “Ahh, casheroonie flow problems.” He smirked. “Well, Bruce, I do believe your troubles just might be over.” He pulled a thin document out of his coat pocket, and then watched with an eager grin as Bruce’s eyes turned into saucers.

“Did I just read the word ‘Disney’ on that thing, or is the booze getting to me?”

Mills smirked. “Would I lie to you pal? This,” he said, “is a supporting deal with Disney. It’s got a pilot offer attached, but it’s also got a two-picture guarantee.”

“T-t-two picture deal,” he gaped. Then he swallowed hard and narrowed his eyes. “All right, what’s the catch?”

“Oh, no catch pally,” Mills grinned. “You’ve got the Toddner guarantee; I stand in front of every one of my actors.”

“You mean behind?”

“No,” Mills said, unzipping his fly, “in front.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “You’re kidding me.”

Mills ran the zipper up and down twice more.

Bruce eyed Mills’ fly and its contents if it were a heavily-befanged alien from the planet CaveAlien. “C’mon, Mills,” he complained. “I haven’t played Stroke The Salmon with a guy since I was sixteen.” He added, with a whisper, “and whatever Sam Raimi tells you, I lasted longer than he did.”

Mills rolled his eyes. “Bruce, there comes a time in every man’s life where he has to suck a little cock. Yours is now, under a messy table in a go-go bar.”
Bruce eyed Mills’ fly. Saw the contract again.

And sighed as he got on his knees and climbed under the table, his body and face concealed by the beer-stained tablecloth.

He reached up with rough hands, stroking blindly at the semi-hard concealed within. Not bad, size-wise, he decided, and then started rhythmically tugging and pulling at the shaft. He moved on-beat to the music, one fist over the other, pulling Mills’ meat like he was throwing a pot.

“Hey, easy.”

“Sorry, I really like this song!” Bruce muttered. Then he came eye-to-eye with Mills’ cock. It wasn’t as intimidating as he’d thought it would be – in fact, the sight was rather exciting.

Well, there was only one way to face this problem, and that was head-on. Bruce stuck out his tongue and licked the head. Salt. Hmm. Into his mouth went the head. Then two more inches disappeared down his throat. He got a solid rhythm going without having to take too many inches down into his gullet. The experience wasn’t too awful – it wasn’t even the most humiliating thing he’d ever done to get a role before. In fact the salty tang was dangerously close to being pleasant.

“Courtney!! Heyy!”

….Was he taking a meeting during this?

“Oh no, nothing important, just straightening a few things out.” He yanked his cock out of Bruce’s mouth and slapped him across the cheek with it, then gave him another blow to the chin. Bruce got the mute hint - after all, he’d used it on women before – and started taking his cock in deeper. He somehow remembered to suck and move his tongue at the same time, which was a difficult task no matter how much ground he had. Mills grabbed the back of his head and slammed his hips forward; Bruce held his gag reflex, even though his eyes were watering.

He started counting chunks of gum on the bottom of the table. His nose was pressed deep into a sweaty patch of pubic hair.

One slurp, a locking of eyes.

“…I gottagoimportantchatbye.” Bruce felt Mills’ thighs tighten two seconds before he pulled his cock free, jetting a stream of hot come right between his eyes.

“OW,” he whined, but obediently sat there and took it even though his eyes were stinging. Mills slumped back in his chair for a second, then fixed a twenty-watt smile on Bruce’s face.

“With a mouth like that,” he declared, “you’re always gonna have a spot on my roster.”

“Whatever. Got a napkin?”

Mills passed one down, and he grunted as he wiped his stinging eyes. After surfacing, Mills held out a bottle of beer. Bruce took it and glugged down as much as he could in one swallow.

“To us?” Mills teased.

“Yeah,” Bruce said, rolling his eyes. “To us.”

With that Mills yanked out the piece of paper and Bruce was a Disney star.

And spent the next six months in a dog costume at Disney World greeting restroom users near the Monorail.