Short Story: A Stitch in Tāne (NSFW)

(1000 word flash fiction)

A guerilla film shoot and a well-timed wardrobe malfunction give a hunky bear and a sexy Māori dancer more than they bargained for.

**This was meant to be a thriller, as per the flash fiction draw, but I flouted the rules and made it a mini-romance about the filming of a thriller.**

Genre: thriller. Setting: sewer. Object: suitcase.

***

    “So, Ian, Ngaire sent you the script?” Rangi glances over at me as he drives. 

     “No, but she sent all the other stuff. I managed to scrounge round and get possible solutions for the remaining costumes.” 

     “Awesome! Well, in a nutshell, the film’s about an ageing Michael Jackson impersonator on the run from a scary Islander gang because he stole a bunch of money from them to remake the “Thriller” clip for his YouTube channel.” 

     “So… it’s a thriller about Thriller?” 

     Rangi laughs. “Can I use that as my tagline?” 

     We’ve known each other since film school twenty years ago, when Rangi first came to Australia from New Zealand. Directing this short is his pet project and I’ve been roped in tonight to help with wardrobe. 

     We drive through some kind of industrial wasteland and pull up near an empty stormwater sewer—a large, open canal, with various huge drainage tunnels here and there. Rangi jumps out and forces open the old gate. He has a talent for this kind of guerilla filmmaking. I’m surprised he hasn’t gotten into more trouble, really. 

     I lug my bulky suitcase of costume gear behind me as I follow him down some metal steps leading into the canal. I set up in a tunnel, stringing a large sheet across the entrance for privacy. 

     “Ian, this is Tāne.” Rangi has popped in with a ruggedly attractive Maori guy. “He’s our Michael.” 

     I shake his hand, instantly assessing him for wanky actor traits, but his smile is warm and genuine. “Great to meet you, Tāne. Ready to try on your awful vinyl suit?” 

     Tāne laughs and gets undressed. He’s tall, fortyish and in great shape. I’m concerned his legs will be too solid for the trousers and I’m right. It’s a strenuous task getting them pulled all the way up—a lot of huffing and puffing from both of us, with me on my knees, dangerously close to his crotch. 

     “Guess they’re staying on for the duration,” chuckles Tāne, giving me a charming grin that lingers way too long. He’s not the only one who’s uncomfortable in his pants now. I daren’t stand up without readjusting my erection. 

     I’m pleased to discover a number of the cast have organised their own costumes and I manage to dress the rest. Finally I’m free to go and watch the shoot. Tonight’s scenes are for the “Thriller” clip, and Tāne has the moves down pat. 

     As soon as there’s a coffee break, Tāne makes a beeline straight for me, smiling. I’m nervous. My heart’s thumping. “You’re an amazing dancer, Tāne.” 

     “Thanks.” He blushes. His humility is gorgeous. “I had to change up the choreography a bit for copyright reasons.” 

     “Choreography, too? Man of many talents!” 

     There’s that blush again. “Nah, just a jack-of-all-trades.” 

     After break and a few costume touch-ups, we’re back to filming. It’s all going so well when Tāne does a high kick and rips the pants right up the rear seam. I get him back into my tunnel and survey the damage. “It’s OK, I can stitch them by hand.” 

     We try to get the pants down, but with all the heat and humidity and dancing and sweat, the vinyl is sticking to Tāne’s muscly thighs. “Can you do it while I’m wearing them?” 

     “I’ll give it a go. Promise I won’t stab you.” 

     It’s torture. One of my hands is inside the pants, pressed against this Polynesian god’s arse, while the other weaves the needle in and out. It’s a constant negotiation, but at last I get it done. When I stand up again, I’m immediately wrapped in a tight hug, enveloped in warm, sweaty manliness. 

     “Thanks, Ian,” Tāne whispers in my ear, and I nearly faint. I smile shakily and help him on with his jacket. 

     We finish filming late in the evening. Tāne’s the last cast member left when he comes back to my tunnel. He shucks his jacket, shirt and shoes and we get to work on the pants. They’re stuck fast now. We can’t get the thighs to budge. We yank harder and harder. Suddenly they give way, sliding down and taking Tāne’s briefs with them. He stumbles forward and his dick slaps me fair in the face. 

     “Oh shit, sorry!” He’s mortified, but I’m exhilarated. Beaming.

     “Best thing to happen to me in ages, Tāne.” 

     “Oh, really?” Tāne’s looking down at me, eyebrows raised. He pulls my head forward. I’m immersed in the damp, heady musk of his dark, hairy crotch. I feel the warm flesh of his cock swell and flex against my lips. My tongue shoots out in automatic response, licking over the puckered end of his foreskin. 

     “Oh God,” moans Tāne. “Get up here, now.” He pulls me to my feet. “You’re the hottest bear I’ve ever laid eyes on.” 

     I open my mouth to gush about his beauty, but he mashes his lips against mine, driving his tongue into me. He’s voracious—devouring me, hands around the back of my head, pulling me in tight. I’m groaning into his mouth. He kisses along my cheek, rubbing his face against my beard, till he reaches my neck. 

     “This isn’t fair,” he pants, in between smooches. “I’m standing here starkers and you’re fully dressed.” 

     I pull his hand over my fat, throbbing penis. “Here’s a preview. Your place or mine?” 

     Tāne growls and grabs for his briefs, holding them high. I’ve inadvertently sewn them into the vinyl trousers. “My place,” he grins.

***

That’s where I’ve been for the last three days. Holed up naked in Tāne’s flat. Every time I think I should go home, he rolls over and lavishes me with more affection. 

     We’ve both got film shoots later this week. 

     Maybe I could hang out a couple more days and then leave? 

     I’m shaken out of my thoughts by a warm hug and a moist pair of lips suckling my nipple. 

     Maybe I never will.

***

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: