Chapter 12
Twelve
Asher
“You need this,” Amata says. When I turn, she’s holding up a terrifying ceramic clown jar. His hat is the lid. “It’s a cookie jar, I think, but you can keep your paintbrushes in it. Isn’t it vile?”
It is vile. I do need it. I gesture for her to put it in the basket.
I hadn’t particularly been in the mood for thrifting today, honestly, but it’s either that or wait at home for Christian to call.
Which I’ve been doing a lot lately, and I’m kinda sick of it.
Also, with his son in town and the small matter of sex off the table, I’m not sure how or why he even would.
I’ve been mulling over our last conversation, too, and about how I’d said I wasn’t sure what I wanted, and how the fact that he was still in love with his dead wife wasn’t really an issue for me. And I realise that I’d lied.
I do know what I want. I want all the things I told him I do: to be pounded regularly by him and for him not to ask me to give up porn. But there is something else I want, too, something I’ve never told anyone—not even Am.
I want a home. A family.
I don’t mean like kids and stuff, though I’m not against that in theory.
But I want somewhere to belong; I want to have a home and be part of a family.
A family that I don’t need to labour or pray or be pure in order to be accepted into.
I feel like unconditional love is something everyone deserves to have, and I want it.
Anyway, obviously I couldn’t say that to Christian because what the fuck would he be able to do about it.
The guy is scared shitless to even admit he wants to have sex with someone like me.
I don’t think it’s about me specifically; I think he’s probably been like this since his wife died.
Buttoned-up and terrified and ashamed of his own wants and desires.
The fact that he has a son, a dead wife, and a job in politics only makes everything harder for him.
I get it. I just wanna help him understand that he deserves to be happy, too.
“Let’s go look at the clothes,” Am says when we reach the end of the ceramic aisle.
I trawl after her, half distracted as I check my phone again.
There are a couple of messages on my socials from creators I’ve been wanting to work with for a while, which, for some reason, I’ve ignored.
I don’t really feel like committing to anything right now, but I really can’t afford not to either.
I don’t think I’m reluctant because of Christian’s presence in my life, and more that I’m worried he might need me. Though he has a whole house of staff to help him with that, and a son. I’m the last person he’d need if he got sick again.
“Your heart’s not in this,” Amata says accusatorily. “There’s vintage Westwood right there, and you barely even glanced at it.”
My head snaps up and goes to where she’s pointing. It’s not vintage Westwood.
“Lying bitch.”
She cackles. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t lying about your heart not being in it.” She comes toward me. “I thought he was fine? You didn’t kill him, so what’s the big deal?”
I glare at her heartlessness.
She sighs and slings an arm around me. “Let’s go get some alcohol and talk about it, then.”
“It’s 11am.”
“Fine. Coffee then,” she huffs.
??
“So that was all he said? He really didn’t have an issue with the porn?” Amata stirs her matcha latte slowly.
I shake my head. “He didn’t seem to, no. He was shocked, he said. And I felt like a dick for not giving him my real name, but you know that’s a habit more than anything now.”
She nods.
“Then his son arrived. Who obviously doesn’t know he likes men, or at least, that’s what I’m assuming. Fuck, it’s a mess, isn’t it? Why am I getting into this with some guy who’s still in love with his dead wife and can’t give me anything?”
Her eyes go wide. “He said that?”
I nod, feeling a little pathetic.
“Shit. When did she die?”
“Like five or six years ago.”
Amata gives me a look of pity that makes my skin crawl.
My phone buzzes and I lift it up. It’s Cole.
He had someone cancel on him next week and wonders if I’m free Friday.
My instinct is to say no to him, too, but I know the potential revenue this will bring in will be more than anything I’ve posted in months, and I need the money.
Paint supplies aren’t cheap. And though DC rent is cheaper than NY, it’s still eating into my savings like fucking Pac-Man.
I’ve also been wanting him to fuck me for the last year, so I push everything else to the back and respond with an enthusiastic:
yes! Tell me where and when and I’m there.
“How much did he buy the painting for?” she asks.
“Oh, he hasn’t yet. We were negotiating.” That had consisted of him asking me to name my price and me telling him no, he should tell me how much he thinks it’s worth, before both of us had gotten distracted with some heavy petting. The painting is still in my bedroom. Cole responds:
Next Friday, can you get up to Jersey City?
“I don’t understand any of this, you know,” she says. “Like, what is it about this guy? He’s giving mixed signals, is still in love with his wife—okay, dead wife—can’t fuck you for fear of his heart imploding, and you’re like… a simpering mess over him.”
I look up from my phone to find a look of mild disdain on her face. “I am not fucking simpering.”
“You’re simpering. Mooning.”
“Mooning? Fuck off, Am.”
She smirks as I type back my response to Cole:
I can. I’ll drive up early Friday and head back Saturday.
“Okay, well, whatever it is you’re not doing over him, maybe give him some space.
Do your thing, and when he’s feeling better, you can find out if it’s worth it.
The sex might not even be good, you barely got a chance to try him out.
Maybe your limerence will fade and you’ll be able to think straight over him.
” She snorts at her own joke. “Is that him you’re texting? ”
I shake my head. “Cole Sanders. He wants to shoot next week.”
“Oooooh yes, baby. Can I watch this one? He’s so fucking hot.”
I shrug. “If you like.”
“Oh, but can you make sure his fucking bedroom is tidy, especially his mirror. I swear that guy needs a fucking cleaner. It’s so distracting.”
“No one gives a shit about what his room looks like, Am. It’s his ten-inch dick they’re looking at.”
“I beg to differ, babes. Women care. And we all know that more women than ever are consuming gay porn. It was in your Dazed article.”
“Okay, sure, fine. I’ll ask him to tidy his room before he fucks me into next week with his monster dick.”
“Thank you, I appreciate it.”
??
I’m not expecting Christian to call, and I’ve been hesitant to reach out to him for a whole myriad of reasons.
But later that night, I’m finishing off some shadow work on the third new piece I’d started that week, when my cell phone rings.
It cuts through the techno blasting in my headphones, a little jump of excitement fluttering in my stomach when I see his name on the screen.
“Hello,” I answer.
“Hi,” he says. “How are you? Have you had a nice Sunday?” His voice is low and lazy; he sounds very relaxed.
“It’s been nice, yeah. I went out with a friend. Are you home?”
“Well, I’m out of the hospital. Not home. Home is an old property in Sussex with a drafty kitchen and an overgrown garden.”
“Sounds great. Though I thought you lived in London?”
“Ah, no. I have a property in London which I lived in while in government.” I shift so I’m sitting with my back against the sofa, and pull my legs crossed into a yoga pose. “I haven’t interrupted… anything, have I?” he asks.
“No. Nothing. I was painting.”
“Something new?”
I look at it. Oranges and blues and greens streaking across the canvas in a revolt of colour.
“Sort of. I’ve started so many things this week, but I can’t get anything to stick.”
“Uninspired?”
“Um… more like… distracted.” I hesitate over whether to say it or not. “I’ve just been worried about you, I guess.”
“Oh, sweetheart. I’m fine, really. Please don’t worry about me.”
I laugh a little, like it’s as simple as that. “Okay, I’ll try.”
He sighs softly. “So, I have a confession to make.”
“You do?”
“I did a little Google search on you… fell down a rabbit hole… watched a few videos.”
“Of mine?” My heart rate kicks up a notch.
He chuckles, sexily. “Yes, Asher. Of yours.”
“Wait, were they on a free site? Because all of my stuff should be paywalled.”
“Oh? Well, it looks like you have a leak in your camp.”
“Guess I’m filing another DMCA tomorrow then…”
“Well, it did make me want to pay for your subscription, so maybe it isn’t all bad?”
“It did?” I settle my legs out straight again, relaxing more. “You liked what you saw, then?”
“Very much.”
“What did you like about it?”
He makes a deep, reverberating noise that I feel all the way in my balls. “The way you look on screen is mesmerising. The way you give yourself over so completely to your partner and take what you’re given so well. You’re magnificent, Asher Fox. You were made for this.”
I’m smiling so fucking wide, my cheeks warm from pride even as my dick hardens in my shorts.
“I’m glad you think so. I really do love it.”
“Mmm, yes, I can tell,” he says.
“Did you wish it was you?” I ask. “Stretching me out like that?”
He groans softly. “Yes, I did.”
“It can be you, whenever you want. Fuck, I want it to be you.”
“But I found that I also enjoyed watching.”
“Yeah, you liked watching me get fucked by someone else?” The idea of him being turned on by it makes my own dick hard. I grab the head through my shorts and start playing with it.
“Mmm, very much. But I think I would like it even more knowing that you were wishing it was me. That’s what you said, wasn’t it? You’d wish it was me every time.”
“Yeah. Fuck, daddy, I want your dick in me so bad, want to feel you stretching me out, making me fit you.”
“Asher…” he groans my name. “Show me your hole, I need to see it.”
“You want a picture or you wanna switch to video?”
“Video,” he says.
I don’t hesitate, shoving down my shorts and kicking them off before I plant one leg up on the coffee table and switch on the camera.
He’s in bed in what looks to be a huge room, topless, wearing dark-framed glasses and looking like something out of my filthiest fucking fantasies.
I give him a seductive smile before angling the camera lower so it’s between my legs.
It’s an angle I’ve shot from a lot, so it takes me no time to find it.
“Oh, look at you,” Christian murmurs. “You’re perfect. Such a beautiful boy.”
I spread it a little with my fingers before circling it.
It’s newly waxed and sensitive as fuck, and the soft touch makes me shiver and gasp.
On instinct, I suck my fingers into my mouth and then bring them back down, dipping one inside.
Christian makes an unintelligible sound, and his breathing is coming quick now.
“Wait, should you even be doing this?” I say, sitting up. “What about what the doctor said?”
“I’m lying down, quite relaxed. I’m certain this isn’t considered strenuous exercise, sweetheart.”
I melt at the term. “Um, okay… if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure. Open your legs.”
I do as I’m told, Christian’s gaze zeroing in on the twitching ring of muscle between them. “It might be the most perfect hole I’ve ever seen.”
“Might be?” I pretend to be offended, even as I continue to rim it with my finger.
“I used to fuck a very talented ballet dancer; his was quite something, too.”
I’m not sure why I get a little burst of jealousy at this.
“Oh, so you had another illicit affair? Before me?”
“Now now,” he chastens. “He never made my heart pack in.”
I can’t help the stupid grin that travels over my mouth. “Gonna need this story later. Here was me thinking I was your great bi-awakening.”
“Ah, no, but that wasn’t him either. That was at university.”
My eyes widen.
“Later,” he says firmly. “Now push it inside, slowly.”
He makes me fuck my own fingers for a bit before asking to see how hard I am. Here he shows me his own dick, leaking and extremely thick through my phone screen. My hole clenches around nothing, desperate for him, for it to be pushed into me.
“You’re so beautiful, Asher. So, so beautiful…” he whispers, stroking himself. “Show me your body, darling.”
These are the sorts of praise and compliments I usually get when I’m filming, but they never hit.
Because they’re almost always for the camera, even when they sound totally genuine.
But fuck, when he tells me I’m beautiful in that sincere British accent with that slow, steady voice—the same voice he speaks to the UN and heads of other countries with—and when he looks at me like he’s doing right now, like he can’t believe I’m real, it hits. It hits like a fucking truck.
“Christian, I think I’m gonna come soon… I’m so… close… fuck.”
“Come for me, beautiful boy. Let me see how much you needed this.”
“Ugh…” I groan, my head dropping back. My hole clenches tight around my fingers as my orgasm rocks through me, balls to head and out, shooting over my stomach.
I’d shoved up my vest to show him my abs and nipples when he’d asked, both coated now with more cum than I can remember seeing come out of me before.
He comes a few moments later, gasping as he angles his dick up towards his own chest. It lands right in the brush of hair across his pecs.
After, we both meet each other’s gaze in the screen and laugh. “Still with me?” I ask. “How’s the old ticker?”
“I think I’m going to hang up now.”
“Oh, shoot and dip, I see how it is.”
“I’m… not sure I know what that means.”
“It means you just used me, Mr Ambassador.”
His eyes round with concern. “What? No, I didn’t—”
“Christian, chill, I’m joking.” I smile. “Anyway, I like feeling used sometimes, can be hot as fuck.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah, it is.”
He lets out a long, lazy sigh. “You’re quite something, Asher Fox.”
“Better than the ballet dancer?” I raise an eyebrow.
He chuckles quietly at this. “Actually, you remind me a little of him.”
“I do? So, what, you have a type?”
“Christ, I suppose I do.”
“So… this was fun,” I hedge.
“It was lovely, yes.”
“When will I see you again?”
He stares at me, openly. “I’m working on it.”
My heart lifts. He’s working on it. That is more than good enough for me.