Fluffy(7)

“Especially when it comes to the payload,” Spatula says somberly as he walks me down the long hallway. I must have misheard that, because payoff? Sure.

Payload?

He leads me into a small room, where I come face to face with a completely naked man covered in more hair than Sasquatch.

And he’s rubbing coconut oil on his decidedly hairless balls.





3





“That’s a penis,” I gasp, pointing at the obvious. If my neck pulse was pounding before, now it’s become an angry cat trapped in a tumbling clothes dryer, screaming and clawing to get out.

“Yes.”

“A big penis!”

The man grins nice and wide. “Sure is.”

“Why are you naked?” I’ve heard of Jamie Oliver, on Naked Chef, but he wasn't actually naked. Pretty sure, anyway. “Is this some kind of trend in the industry I don’t know about?”

Sasquatch laughs. “It’s my job.”

“It’s your job to be naked?” What kind of cooking show is this? Aren’t there health department regulations about this kind of thing? Beastman looks like a rug with arms and legs. I’m trying to imagine a cream pie made by a shedding bear.

I start to gag.

“Well.” He pauses and looks down at himself. “I guess I don’t have to be naked until we’re filming, but I like to get into character nice and early.”

“Beastman is all about method acting,” Spatula explains.

“And what method is that?” I squeak, controlling my throat muscles. This is definitely not the place to have a gag reflex.

“Not method. Meth head. Get it? Say it fast.” Spatula seems inordinately pleased with himself.

“You’re a meth head?” I ask Beastman, taking a step back.

“No.” Beastman glares at Spatula. “That’s just a stupid joke he keeps saying, as if it’ll eventually get funny.”

“It never will,” I say, shock tearing the air out of my lungs.

Beastman snorts. “See? Told you.”

Spatula shrugs. “I think it’s funny.”

“You think trampoline videos of guys bouncing out and cracking their balls on fence posts are funny,” Beastman shoots back. He looks at me as if to say, Can you believe that?

I can’t believe any of this. The room starts to spin.

Spatula laughs uncontrollably, reaching into his back pocket for a smartphone. “You seen the newest one I found?”

Beastman looks down at his crotch. “Dude. Not the time. You know those videos make me soft.”

Nothing on this hulking man’s body is soft. He looks like Jason Momoa crossed with Kingpin from Spiderverse.

“Heh.” Spatula mercifully puts his phone away. “Fine. After we’re done shooting, I’ll show you.”

“After we’re done shooting, my balls will hurt plenty,” Beastman says, his half grin somehow sad and proud at the same time. Kind eyes meet mine. “But this new lady will help that.”

“Mallory,” I gasp. “I’m Mallory.”

“Call her Mal,” Spatula instructs. “All her friends do.”

“Mal?” Beastman gives me side eye. “That means ‘bad’ in Spanish.”

“You know so much trivial crap, Beastman,” Spatula says. “You’re a walking encyclopedia.”

“No, dumbass. I just paid attention in school.”

“So did I,” Spatula defends himself. “Paid attention to the tramp stamps on the girls in front of me. That’s all the education I needed for this industry. That and home ec. We baked some awesome shit in there.” He points to Beastman’s penis and looks at me. “Here you go. We talked about the look we’re going for. We want all the height we can get, Mal.”

Beastman cups his balls, his half erection looking about as crestfallen as I feel.

“I can’t arrange that!”

“Why not?”

“It doesn’t fit any of my color palettes!”

What am I saying? Sweat blooms instantly between my breasts, under the soft curve of my overly tight, bound breasts in this too-small bra. I can’t stop staring at the half-limp penis resting on the pale inner thigh of a guy in his dressing room on a cooking show set. Undressed.

They should call it an undressing room.

“You don’t need to arrange it.”

“I don’t?” Maybe this is an elaborate joke.

“You need to make it look better.”

I shake my head slowly, sorrowfully. “No can do. Sorry.”

“What do you mean, ‘sorry’? It’s your job,” Spatula growls, his demeanor changing fast. Eyes that were friendly turn cold. “You’ve got five minutes to make this happen.” He looks at his phone. “I’ve got talent that needs Narcan in another location.” The doorbell rings. “He’d better be tight and gleaming when I get back. Jasmine's on her way to film with him, and she likes 'em ready to ride.”

“Jasmine?”

“Yeah. The star.”

“When is she coming?” I ask.

“On cue,” Spatula says with a smoky laugh. “Now get Beastman looking better, like I said.”