Chapter Eighteen
Eighteen
Asher
Cole texts to say he’s gonna be early, which is sort of irritating since we’d spent the morning lazing around eating fruit and pancakes (just fruit and black coffee for me) and making out like teenagers who’d just agreed to go steady.
Last night had been great too. After my little ‘episode’.
I’d expected to come back from my drive and snack run to a packed bag and an apologetic ‘sorry, this isn’t working for me anymore’ face, and for him to be back in DC by now.
But no. He fucking apologised to me. He apologised and told me he felt more himself when he’s with me than anywhere else.
How do I defend myself against that? Tell me? Because I’m all fucking ears.
This is the same guy who can’t offer me anything like love?
I don’t even think he means to fuck with my head, either.
It’s just who he is. Sure, he’s a politician, so maybe he’s just saying all this because that’s what these guys do, make you believe their lies and promises and then about turn when you least expect it.
But I just don’t think Christian Darling is like that.
He’s just a decent, sincere kinda guy. I’m sort of fucked here.
Last night, after he’d fingered and sucked me to orgasm, I’d fallen quickly into a deep, dreamless sleep. I’d woken up to piss through the night with his arm wrapped tight around me and my head tucked under his chin, curled toward each other like the branches of a tree.
It isn’t something I do very often, sleep next to another person, but I like it.
It’s intimate in a different way to how sex is intimate.
When I’d come back to bed, he’d lifted his arm and let me settle back beneath it, and I’d dropped back to sleep easily.
I don’t want to get out of bed. It’s too warm. Too comfortable. Too special.
“I gotta shower and prep real quick,” I groan as I untangle my limbs from his. “Cole will be here in forty minutes.”
He makes a noise of annoyance but lets me up.
“Do you need a hand in there?” he asks, folding an arm behind his head. He looks fucking sexy like that. Bed rumpled, sleepy, and seductive, and I hear another defensive wall start to crumble. Oh, who am I kidding? There are no walls, just a badly built fence.
“I’m still pretty loose from last night.
” He’d fingered me for what felt like hours, edged me until I thought I’d lose my mind, and then after I’d come on my chest, he’d licked me clean.
It still surprises me that he’s so loud and forceful with his desires.
Maybe all closeted men who have to hide themselves everywhere but the bedroom are like this?
He’d made me watch as he fucked his own hand.
I’d wanted to suck him off, but my bones had been hot clay, soft and molten, so I’d just enjoyed the view.
It was sexy as fuck. He was sexy as fuck.
“Is that a no?” he checks.
I shake my head, grinning. “No.”
He’s out of bed a second later and tugging me toward the shower.
??
Yeah, okay, I’m antsy. I mean, I can get antsy before a scene, if it’s a guy I don’t know or who’s ‘bigger’ than I am, popularity-wise.
But this has a slightly different edge to it.
A new flavour. I’d been watched before by a guy I was seeing.
Or thought I was seeing. It wasn’t a great experience for me.
Not long after the Dazed article, I started seeing a filmmaker—I mean, he called himself a filmmaker, but he was a photographer, really.
Older, well-travelled, and well-read. He’d taken me for dinner—guys who only wanted to fuck me usually never bothered with dinner—and paid.
He’d complimented me all night, talked about places he’d been, places he thought I’d like, because he knew I hadn’t left the States, telling me about them in ways that suggested he might want to take me there himself one day.
I cringe a little now, thinking about how desperate and na?ve and dazzled I must have come off to him.
On our third date, he took me to a club.
It looked like a lot of other clubs in New York at first, but as we descended the stairs and a curtain was pulled back, I knew it wasn’t.
I did porn, but I wasn’t what anyone would call experienced.
I’d made no secret of that; it was a large part of the reason I got hired at my first studio—my innocence, my sheltered religious upbringing—and I played up on it.
I was nineteen and so fucking into him that I said nothing when he took me into a room where another guy was waiting and made it very clear he wanted a live show.
“Do your thing, baby,” he’d said with hungry eyes.
And I did.
I did it the following week, too. Then one night I turned up at his place for a ‘movie night’ and his friend was there, and a camera was set up, and I understood I was expected to fuck his friend, too. I turned around and left. I never heard from him again.
The point is, I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking, inviting Christian here to watch this. Okay, that’s a lie, I was thinking a lot of things. It’s just that they’re all a bit of a jumble in my head now, and even when I try and untangle them, they don’t make a huge amount of sense.
Was I trying to put him in a position where he might get jealous? Where he might realise he doesn’t want to watch me with anyone else after all? That would make the most sense, right? But he’s here. He’s up for it. He even looks a little excited, and I don’t even know if I’m disappointed by that.
It’s like I keep putting him in these positions or making him take these tests just to prove things I already know.
I don’t mean to do it. I really don’t. Because I really don’t want him to fail these tests—I like him.
He treats me well, better than any partner (ha, there’s been three if you squint) I’ve ever had before.
So why am I doing it? I know why he’s doing it, and it’s because he’s into this kind of thing, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.
Voyeuristic fantasies are valid, and I’m not about yucking anybody’s yum.
So why can’t I just untangle all the other shit from that and let it be just that.
“Are you alright?” he says, eyeing me from across the suite where he’d been on his laptop.
“Huh? Yeah, fine, chill.” I’m not. “Are you?”
He nods, looking remarkably chill and remarkably fine.
“Good, good. That’s good. I need to piss.” As I pass him, he catches hold of my wrist.
“Sweetheart, if you’re having second thoughts about this, I can make myself scarce for a few hours. I’d completely understand. This is your job, and honestly, I don’t know how well I’d perform if you came into my office and watched me do my pointless diplomatic position for a couple of hours.”
It crosses my mind to tell him to go, it does, but I invited him here.
I was the one who put us in this position—put myself in this position—this was my choice, so I feel like I have to see it through.
Besides, this isn’t some dick photographer from NYC, it’s Christian, and beneath all the other confusing, complicated, tangled-up stuff going on inside me, I want to show him how good I am at what I do.
“You’re worried about my performance?” I raise an eyebrow, pushing down everything else.
He smiles, tugging me close. “Perhaps it’s this Cole fellow I should be worried about. You look positively sinful in this outfit.” He groans a little as he pushes his hips into me.
“He’s married.”
“You could tempt a priest dressed like this.” It was just a cropped tank top in baby blue and a pair of vintage cut-offs (girls), but he’d stared at me a really long time when I’d come out from the bedroom dressed, like he’d slipped into a trance.
“I’m glad you like it …” I say, and he groans against my lips, kissing me deep and slow. “I really do have to pee, though.”
Christian is showing Cole in when I get out of the bathroom. He’s even earlier than he said he’d be. We hug, and then he takes a step back, appraising me with his eyes.
“Look at you, Asher Foxxx, you really are a fine little thing, aren’t you?” He looks at Christian. “You’re one lucky guy, Chris.”
“Yes, I am rather,” says Christian, looking at me almost proudly. “You’re about to be too.”
Cole grins wolfishly at this. “That is very true… damn, can’t wait. Should we just get going then?” He turns to me. I nod, ignoring the uneasy feeling in my stomach.
It starts against the window. Cole kneeling behind me as he eats me out, one camera on a tripod on the side table to film us sideways and another on the floor filming us from below.
I can’t see Christian, but I know he’s on a stool by the bar behind me, and it’s hard not to turn my head to check what he’s doing, to see how he’s feeling.
Below me is the Hudson, a sheet of undulating pale grey, boats moving sluggishly in both directions.
“Fuck, you taste incredible, baby. So sweet.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “That feels so good, ah.”
Cole begins to use his finger to open me up as he lowers his head and sucks my balls into his mouth, rolling them gently over his tongue.
As distracted as I still am, it feels good, and I have to bite my lip to stop myself from crying out.
When he lets them fall from his mouth and begins sucking my dick instead, I let out a whine.
“Fuck,” I hiss, pushing back against his mouth and finger.
“Feel good?”
“Yeah… don’t stop.”
“Oh, I won’t,” he promises. “So pretty. I can’t wait to be inside you…”
Cole is one of those performers who talks during his scenes.
I don’t mind it, but when it comes to verbal, I prefer degradation over praise; praise feels too much like acting to me.
Like, I know he likely can’t wait to be inside me, that rings true, but calling me beautiful or pretty or perfect always feels insincere in this line of work.
I’m far more comfortable being called a whore or a slut or a little gay boy than anything complimentary.
My therapist used to say this is because deep down I’m programmed to think vanity is a sin or that I believe some of the shit Jeremiah used to call me.
I don’t, really. I just don’t take compliments very well.
While Cole tells me how good I taste, how soft my skin is, how pretty my hole is, I’m thinking of how last night I’d accused Christian of thinking I was desperate and available and easy.
He’d told me he didn’t think that at all, but for some reason I’m very conscious of this now, and of how I must look to him as Cole fingers and eats me out.
Is this really how I want him to see me?
Is this how I convince him that I’m worthy of his time and energy and something more?
He’s a diplomat. A human rights lawyer. He flies around the planet talking about world politics and trying to reduce human suffering, and now he’s sat here about to watch me be spread open and fucked by a guy with a ten-inch dick.
This is worse than the sex club in New York.
Worse than turning up to fucking date night.
I’m not ashamed of who I am, what I like, or how I make a living, but this isn’t Christian’s fucking world, and he’s about to see that and run from it.
It’s about as far removed from his world as it gets, and while it might have excited him a little to know that I get fucked on camera for money, I’m pretty sure the reality of that is going to sober him up any second now, and he’s going to leave the room and never want to look at me again.
This is going to be the end, I’m sure of it.
I’m already thinking about the awkward car ride back to DC.
The inevitable ghosting. Nah, he’s not a ghoster; the inevitable text: things are really busy now that I’m back at work.
And then: Sorry, Asher, this isn’t really what I’m looking for.
You’re incredible, but we’re from different worlds.
And we are. It’s a fight in my head between: What was I thinking?
And fuck, I’ve really ruined this. I’ve likely ruined the scene, too, because there’s no way I’m going to be able to stay hard now.
Unless he gets up and leaves. If he leaves, then I can pretend he doesn’t exist for a bit and get this done; I’ve performed under worse conditions.
I can deal with the fallout with Christian after.
I just need to get through this, I just—
I’m in the middle of this thought when Cole spins me around to face him, pushing my overheated ass against the window, and I get my first look at Christian. My breath catches in my throat.
He doesn’t look disgusted or like he wants to escape.
He looks… mesmerised.
As Cole sucks my dick into his mouth, Christian’s dark eyes lock with mine, and his mouth curls up into the faintest hint of a smirk. When he gives me a small, reassuring nod and leans back in his chair, everything inside me mellows and relaxes. Christian isn’t going anywhere. He’s enjoying this.
Cole notices something is different because he lifts his head, pops off my dick, and gives me a sexy, toothy smile as he comes to his feet.
Then, leaning in to press a kiss below my ear, he whispers: “Now, let’s show him what a good fucking boy you are…
” Louder for the cameras, he says, “Go to the couch and spread yourself open.” Desire spikes through me, my asshole clenching, desperate to be filled and fucked.
I push away from the window and go to the couch, giving Christian a smile as I kneel up on it.
I hope he’s thinking about what I’d said to him before.
I’ll wish it was you every time, because that’s exactly what I’m about to do.
I wish it was him. I want it to be him. But knowing that I haven’t ruined this, knowing that he’s going to have a front row seat when Cole slides his monstrous dick into my hole, and that he’s turned on by it, is very much enough for right now.