Chapter 20 #2
She hands it over, and I switch the music over from Eighties cheese to a dark, sexy Ex Habit song that’s currently trending on TikTok and which has lots of references to choking and other things that might serve as a timely reminder to Aida Russell that she has a masked man in the room and she’s playing with fire here.
‘Here’s what’s going to happen,’ I say, throwing the phone onto the bar and lowering my voice until it’s downright menacing.
‘You’re going to come a lot closer. You’re going to let me mess you up a little.
We’ll deal with the dress—I’ll buy you a new one if I have to.
But it’s about time I remind you of what happens if you’re not a good girl for me, because we both know how that goes. Got it, sweetheart?’
Her dark eyes, so dramatic, so expressive, flit over me in what looks like a mix of panic and desire. ‘Mmm-hmm,’ she says, edging closer and sliding her hands over my oiled-up shoulders.
‘Good girl. Like what you feel? Like what you see?’
‘Yeah.’ She tugs at her scarlet bottom lip with her teeth.
‘Good. Because you’re still the most beautiful, intoxicating woman I’ve ever, ever seen. And I’d stop doing that thing with your lip if I were you, unless you want that lipstick smeared around my cock by the time Graf shows up.’
She immediately stops worrying at her lip.
‘You know what I’m going to do when we’re done?’ I ask.
‘Go and protect that poor dog’s ass from Norm?’ she guesses, and I let out a pained laugh.
‘Fucking Norm. No. The dogs can go fuck themselves. I’m going to get you in a room, and chain you to the bed, and we’re going to fuck like we did that very first time, got it?’
She lets her eyes drift closed for a moment. ‘You were so fucking rough that night.’
‘Yes, I was.’
She slides a hand down over my slick chest and stomach, and I’m so into her I don’t even ask her to be careful not to smudge my contouring. Then she cups my dick and gives it a really good squeeze.
‘I want it rough like that today,’ she murmurs, and I marvel once again at the fact that this incredible, smoking-hot woman, beloved and respected by millions, wants a chump like me.
I’m fully hard by the time poor old Graf saunters in.
* * *
MAX
Filming a showering scene when we’ve decided on no nudity is a creative conundrum I feel absolutely qualified to solve. It’s a shame, really, because Dex and I spend a lot of time in the gym. Our arses are domes of steel at the moment.
And don’t get me started on our wife. While I’ve had vivid fantasies about her being pregnant since shamefully early on in our relationship, nothing could have prepared me for the spectacular vision of fertility that is Darcy at five months along. The entire world should see this body.
I suppose it makes sense that a bastion of British industry (yours truly) should maintain some levels of decency. Do any other FTSE100 CEOs get their kits off for charity? Thankfully no. Ugh. I shudder. Ghastly thought.
The devil on my shoulder, though, asks why the fuck we shouldn’t?
I’m a trailblazer—a queer bloke in a polyamorous marriage, and my spouses happen to be model-grade hot.
If Wolff’s board of directors disapproves of their CEO getting his arse out for charity, tough shit.
And Dex and Darcy have no one to answer to but themselves.
I think a tasteful, black-and-white shot of the three of us having fun under the spray would be just the ticket.
And once the tabloids get hold of the images, I know for a fact that having Max Hunter bare all with his husband and wife will have sales of the calendar skyrocketing before you can say peeping Tom.
I muse aloud on this front as we stand in the very room that hosted our first threesome. We’ve been back many times since. The shower pressure is still first class.
My wife, unsurprisingly, takes my ruminations and runs with them like a Labrador with a stolen rotisserie chicken.
‘We could recreate that kind of Eiffel Tower moment when I sucked Dex off and he sucked your thumb!’ she suggests with indecent zeal.
I laugh. ‘Darling, there’s a scale, you see. Tasteful nudity is at one end, and fully-fledged on-camera fellatio is at the other. Let’s not go hardcore porno in front of the camera, shall we?’
‘Glad one of you has some propriety,’ Dex mutters, and I laugh and lean in so I can rake my fingers through his hair. Dex Hunter-Scott is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, and in about four months’ time, his gene pool will be unleashed on the world.
That’s right.
Dex is the biological father of Darcy’s unborn son.
Our unborn son.
The funny thing is, I think Dex and Darce feel a little worried on my behalf—as if I’ll be devastated when the little guy arrives and I have no blood ties to him.
The sweet, sweet things are utterly deluded. Dear God, I’m not that bad at biology. Dex takes Darcy’s cunt far more often than I do.
I want this for him.
While this relationship has made the three of us blissfully happy, it’s Dex who’s given up the most to make it a reality.
It’s he who’s had to overcome every word of toxicity and dogma he’s been force-fed all his life.
He who’s had to find courage beyond bounds, sever ties with his father, for Christ’s sake.
The very least I can do is ensure that the man who’s sacrificed so much to be with me fulfils his wish to father a child.
In any case, everyone knows that blood means far less in the definition of fatherhood than other factors, factors I intend to ace with every ounce of energy in my alpha heart.
* * *
With a lighting stand in the bathroom, it feels pretty cramped. I suspect this will be more of an in-the-moment action shot than some of the others.
‘We’re going to do it in the nude,’ Darcy explains gleefully to a nervous-looking Graf.
The guy’s a fashion photographer, so he can’t be a total prude.
Models are always getting their kits off, aren’t they?
Perhaps he’s more worried about bringing that lovely antique Leica into a steamy bathroom than he is about being assaulted with a whole load of sex organs.
‘Look,’ I tell him. ‘There’ll be boners. I apologise in advance, but it’s pretty much a given when the three of us are in the shower together. Just, um, shoot around them, all right mate?’
‘So,’ he says wearily—and possibly warily, ‘we’re aiming for an above-the-waist shot, is that correct?’
Darce, Dex and I glance at each other. I can see in their eyes that they’re happy for me to take the lead on this.
‘If that’s how you want to frame the shot,’ I say, ‘then fine. But feel free to go wider. No dicks or cunts in shot. We’ll try to keep Darcy within the bounds of decency, but it would be a shame not to celebrate this gorgeous baby bump.’ And these gorgeous pregnancy tits.
‘I totally agree,’ he says, his gaze sweeping over her.
The only reason I tolerate it is that Graf is married to a high profile male magazine editor.
I know that an aesthete like him can’t see a display of femininity and fertility like the one our wife will put on and not be moved to immortalise it in the most exquisite images.
We strip off our clothes and head into the shower, Graf’s instructions ringing in our ears.
He wants playfulness. Spontaneity. He wants to show the sheer joy that comes from the three of us being together with clothes and boundaries and inhibitions shed (not that there are ever many of the latter where my beloved wife is concerned).
I’m the first to get naked and head for the shower, the hungriest racehorse out of the starting blocks. Dex catches me with a whack of his t-shirt across my arse as I go, and when I turn back to him, he’s laughing. I shake my head at him, grinning, the happiness hitting me like a freight train.
It’s all so different from that first time when he followed Darcy in here like a lamb to the fucking slaughter. When he used every ounce of his Catholic mulishness to deny, to subjugate every desire he thought he shouldn’t want.
He’s a different man now.
He is his true and wonderful self.
‘You’re playing a dangerous game,’ I remark as I saunter through.
I crank up the two shower heads and turn the heat to just north of tepid.
We don’t want so much steam that it impedes visibility—or fogs up the camera.
‘Come on, you two!’ I shout. ‘And for fuck’s sake, try to remember we have company. ’
I’m operating under the safe assumption that as soon as Graf’s got his shot, the steam level in here will ramp up far higher, both figuratively and literally.
They’re with me in moments, joining me under the torrent of water, Dex turning his head this way and that to wet his hair, exactly as he did all that time ago, reaching up to slick back his hair.
There’s no less desire as I watch him, but it’s a fuller, cleaner desire, rendered positively luminous by my certainty that he’ll bend over for me, or at the very least get on his knees for me, before this session is over.
Those shadows that taunted me of fear and want and worry that I’d never, ever get him to acquiesce have long since faded.
My wife’s hair is turning darker under the spray, the water sluicing over her pregnancy curves.
She’s needed—and demanded—every bit of both of us we can give, these past couple of months in bed.
If I thought Darcy was insatiable before, pregnancy has her as ravenous for dick as it does for food.
Happily for all of us, we’re more than content to sate her fierce appetites on both fronts.
‘Can I come through?’ Tobias calls.
‘Sure!’ Dex replies, blithe as you like. The man who hid his desires in the darkness is about to put on a show for a photographer, and he’s happy as hell about it. It’s a wonderful thing to see.