d.i.c.k Dynasty.

Porter.

by David Michael.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fict.i.tiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

The usual suspects always come first where these things are concerned: My grandmother, my mom, and Lola. Without these three women, I wouldn't be where I am today. Thank you from the very bottom of my heart of hearts.

My street team: You ladies (and Nathan) seriously rock my world. The naked men threads in the middle of the night are an inspiration and your not-always-kind words are the kick in the a.s.s that I need more often than not. Not to mention all the crazy wild pimping you do for me.

To the book bloggers: You guys are seriously the life-blood of the Indie community. None of us would be able to do this without you!.

And to my fans; both new and old: Thank you. Thank you for taking a risk on a new author. Thank you for standing by the tried-and-true authors you love. Thank you for the late night messages in my inbox berating me for making you cry. Thank you for taking time out of your day to review my work and tell the rest of the world how much you loved (or didn't) it! From every author on the planet to every reader that ever has been, is, or will be: We love you.

For Amy.

I'm singin' don't worry...

I've been called a lot of things, starting with Porter Hale and going downhill from there.

I've spent my whole life trying to live up to the legendary reputation of my father-the man was a G.o.d amongst men when it came to his work. My mother did her best to make sure that our home life stayed out of the spotlight that constantly shone on him but sometimes there was just no helping it. Call it a hazard of the trade.

As the oldest of three brothers, it falls on my shoulders to set a good example and make sure my younger brothers, Parker and Preston, stay on the straight and narrow, right?

Well I suck at it.

Instead of sticking around to do the college thing like our mom had always wanted, I set off in Dad's footsteps. I wanted the fame and the glory and the parties with all the rock stars.

Not to mention the p.u.s.s.y.

So I ditched college after a few semesters, hopped on the old man's coattails, and started going by the name of Ryder. Ryder Ruff.

I know, I know: It's awful, but I can't change it now.

My brothers followed suit.

Turns out I filled my father's shoes and then some.

Industry headlines have dubbed us "The Princes of p.o.r.n."

We call ourselves the d.i.c.k Dynasty.

As my finger pressed down on the glowing yellow light of the doorbell, I adjusted the heavy leather utility belt around my waist and waited as the chimes inside the house finished their generic melody. Why they made me wear the stupid hardhat is beyond me, but it sat heavily on my head as the poorly sized plastic supports dug into my skull.

Honestly, a cable installer doesn't need a f.u.c.king hardhat.

The door swung open at last and a busty blond thirty-something woman in a nightgown ran a finger down the doorframe like it was made of the kind of wood that would harden at her touch.

It was all I could do not to roll my eyes at her.

"I hear you're in need of servicing."

"Please," she swept her arm to the side, "come inside."

I stepped over the threshold into the tiled entryway and choked back the scoff of disgust that threatened to escape from my throat. There are few things in this world that make me want to break s.h.i.t: tacky decor is one of them.

The place was like something out of a nightmare: cream, gold, and honey-colored oak. The carpet was cream, the couches were cream with gold paisleys, and the G.o.d-awful wallpaper matched it. The entertainment center was the same colored oak as the baseboards and coffee tables.

The ceiling was textured like popcorn and had gold flecks of glitter in the white paint that hadn't been used since the seventies. A ma.s.sive chandelier hung from the middle of the twenty-foot vaulted ceilings. The soft yellow lights burning in the sockets just made the entire s.p.a.ce look dingy.

"My box is in the bedroom," she purred.

I followed the swish of her curvy hips down the hallway and bit down on my tongue. I was sickened by how over-the-top the silk and lace camisole was as it flowed behind her, rippling in the air with every step.

"I think it's back here," she leaned over a small computer desk that had been set up in the master suite, causing the silk to ride up her thighs and over the firm globes of her a.s.s.

She wasn't wearing any panties and she was bent at the perfect angle to allow me access to her hungry slit.

"You didn't call me here to work on your cable box, ma'am." I pulled at the buckle of the tool belt and let it fall to the floor with a clatter that probably could've woken the dead.

She straightened and turned slowly, feigning ignorance as I slowly stepped toward her, "I'm sure I don't know what you mean!"

"I think you know exactly what I mean, Miss," I reached down and undid the first of the b.u.t.tons on my low-slung denim jeans, "I don't doubt that you called me here to work your box-just not the one that plugs into the wall."

Her hand went to her throat as her eyes bugged out of her head and her mouth popped open. "Sir!" she shouted, "I am a married woman!"

"I don't see your husband around to service your box for you," another b.u.t.ton undone, "you must be lonely here all by yourself."

Her hand dropped a little lower, pushing open the top of her nightie and revealing the swell of her obviously man-made b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

I closed the distance between us as I undid the last b.u.t.ton on my jeans and used my hips to slam her into the desk she'd been leaning over. She gasped and pressed against my chest in a half-a.s.sed attempt to fight me off.

I could tell she wanted me though. They all did.

In a room full of women, all I had to do was snap my fingers and every single one of them would drop to their knees and pop their mouths open like miniature champagne bottles.

It was too easy. There was nothing real about it. I could feel myself going limp.

"Cut!"

The director, Richard Dixon (I know), stepped out from behind his camera, "What the f.u.c.k, Ryder?"

I blew out a frustrated breath as the blonde draped herself on my shoulder, "I told you, d.i.c.k, you've gotta stop casting me with these dumb b.i.t.c.hes that would love nothing more than to have me b.a.l.l.s deep inside of them if you want the helpless damsel bit to feel real."

I peeled my mostly-naked co-star off me and made my way into the dining room we were using as a prep-room. d.i.c.k was hot on my heels.

"We don't pay them, or you for that matter, to act, Ryder. We pay you to f.u.c.k. That's it. So what's the problem?"

"What's the problem?" I pushed down the front of my still-unb.u.t.toned jeans and grabbed my seven inches of limp d.i.c.k, waving it at him like a Styrofoam pool noodle, "The problem is that even my p.e.c.k.e.r knows this is s.h.i.t, d.i.c.k. You've got the biggest name in the p.o.r.n industry on your project and you can't even bother to give me something half-decent to work with!"

"Actors!" d.i.c.k yelled, throwing his hands in the air, "Get me a fluffer in here! I need King Ruff ready in five minutes! No f.u.c.king excuses!"

I popped a few cashews into my mouth and watched him storm out of the room as a pet.i.te little brunette dropped to her knees and started working my piece with her mouth. She wasn't half bad. a.s.suming she could cope with the demands of the industry, she'd probably work her way from fluffer to female lead in good time.

My mind wandered as she went about her business and I went over my to-do list for the day. After the shoot, I needed to hit the gym and make sure I got some shopping in before hitting a premier party for Preston's latest flick.

With him being the youngest of us, I couldn't help but feel a little pang of pride at the name he'd made for himself. Parker had his own niche carved out in the more extreme circles of the industry, but Preston's, dare I say 'versatility', gave him a much wider market to work with-and the kid had worked it like a pro.

"Ryder! Get your hard-on in here and do your f.u.c.king job!" d.i.c.k's voice carried through the house.

The young thing bobbing on my k.n.o.b pulled her head back with a pop and a smile as she wiped her mouth. Her big green eyes beamed up at me and I couldn't help but smile back at her, "Thanks, Kelly."

"My pleasure, but my name's not Kelly." She pushed herself to her feet and sauntered off toward the G.o.d-awful living room to wait for her next call to duty.

I tucked my hard-on back into my jeans and made my way to the bedroom where we were filming.

Get your s.h.i.t together, Porter. It's go time.

I took my position between Blondie's thighs and waited for my cue.

"Action!" d.i.c.k's eyes were glued to his camera, ready for a show.

Blondie's hands came back to my chest and she resumed her half-a.s.sed attempt at pushing me away. I palmed one of her t.i.ts, hard enough that it'd probably bruise, and pinned her to the wall as I rolled on a rubber with my other hand.

"Your box is about to be serviced, as requested," I nearly choked on the cheesy line as I rammed my now-solid nine and a half inches into her as far as it would go.

"Ouch! f.u.c.k!" she cried as I drilled into her again and again. It was the first believable thing that had come out of her mouth since the moment I walked into the house.

The drawers of the desk started to shake open as I slammed her into the wall again and again. Both hands were now kneading at her fake t.i.ts through the slip of silk she wore. At the rate I was going, the thing was probably going to end up on the floor in the next few thrusts, so I chose to be proactive about it and rip it off, leaving it wrapped around her arms and pinning her wrists behind her.

"Flip her around," d.i.c.k instructed.

I grabbed a fist full of her bleached hair as I pulled out and used it to spin her so that she was facing the wall. I straightened my arm, pressing her face into the gleaming surface of the desk, and slammed back into her from behind. The top of her head pounded into the wall in time to the thrust of my hips and I made sure to grunt every now and then so that it looked good for the cameras.

I'm sure she was howling like a b.i.t.c.h in heat, but I was more concerned with the laundry list of s.h.i.t I had to get done. I didn't hear any of it.

"Get her on her back on the floor."

Once again making use of the handle I had turned her hair into, I jerked her backwards, eliciting another sharp cry, and she all but fell to the floor to avoid further forceful handling.

I mechanically followed d.i.c.k's directions, straddled her right thigh, and threw her left calf over my shoulder.

I'm not sure how long we were in that position or how much rug burn ended up on her back, but d.i.c.k finally gave me the green light to finish and my mind came tumbling back to the business at hand.

"On her t.i.ts," he demanded.

I pulled the condom off with a snap and fisted my moneymaker; pumping myself toward the single moment they paid me for.

As my b.a.l.l.s drew up close to my body, I pressed the fingertips of my left hand into the inside of my inner thigh and tried my best to block out the moaning, writhing ma.s.s of silicone and over-used flesh on the floor between my knees.

I felt my abs tighten and the familiar warmth spread throughout my body as the messy spray of come shot out of my d.i.c.k and rained down on her t.i.ts, face, hair, and the floor around her.

She practically screamed in ecstasy, faking her o.r.g.a.s.m to make d.i.c.k happy, and I shook off the remainder of my climax into her open mouth.

"That's a wrap, people!"

I pushed myself to my feet, grabbed my jeans off the floor, and walked to the bathroom to wash the rancid smell of her perfume and any of her stray juices off me.

"Money in the bank," I a.s.sured my reflection.

I wiped the lube from the condom off with the hand towel next to the sink, splashed some water on my face, and stepped back into my jeans.

"I'll be waiting for my check, d.i.c.k!" I yelled as I walked through the front door.

He might have shouted something back to me, but I took a deep breath of the warm southern California air and climbed in my Land Rover, blocking him out.

It was time to party with my brothers and that always turned out to be a s.h.i.t show.

It's gonna be a long night.

I typed my destination into the built-in GPS and backed out of the driveway.

I needed to shop. There's nothing a new pair of Diesel's and a new beanie can't fix in my experience.

Except for maybe bad casting.

"I'm a casting director for one of the largest agencies in Los Angeles County, Becks," I huffed out a frustrated sigh as I slammed my Audi A5 into park beside the curb, "a premier party for a f.u.c.king p.o.r.no flick is the last place I want to be tonight!"

My best friend and long-time Devil's Advocate, Rebecca Sloan, growled into the phone, "Holly, I would give up my new set of t.i.ts-which I paid a pretty penny for, mind you-to have been invited to that party! And by Roman Ruff none-the-less!"

I felt my eyes roll around in their sockets, "Becks, his name is Preston. That nom de plume is heinous."

"I don't care what you call him, sweetheart. The boy is hot, he's loaded, he's hung, and most importantly, he's got two exceptionally good-looking brothers. I'd prefer Ryder, but I'll settle for Ryan if I have to. Your mission, should you choose to accept it or not, is to hook your best friend up. And since your buddy Preston happens to swing both ways, try and find yourself in bed with two really hot guys tonight so you can tell me about it all tomorrow."

The line went dead before I could protest any further.

I couldn't believe that I, Holly Nash, was about to walk into a premier party for a p.o.r.n movie.

"What the h.e.l.l is wrong with my life?" I asked my steering wheel as I pulled on the door handle. I swung my legs out of the car until my too-tall Jimmy Choos touched down on the asphalt.