Chapter 1 #2
I should follow him over the edge as his ass clenches around me, but despite the buildup, I stall out. It’s been taking me longer to get there lately. I have a mental block that I’ve been trying to push past.
As I pull out, I close my eyes and start to stroke. I try to conjure up images of what I know will get me off, but after years of having sex for a living, the fantasies are diluted and not having the same impact they used to. Way too much time passes, and dryness and chafing start slowing me down.
Corey gives me a sympathetic look. “Do you want some help with that?” God, this is so embarrassing. I’m a professional, and cum shots are the moneymakers.
“Yeah, suck me off,” I say, hoping that might help. I rarely let my emotions get the better of me, but I’ve psyched myself out. I’m not sure it will happen.
He spits on my dick, gives me a few strokes, and then deep throats me. The wet heat feels good, so I close my eyes and clear my head, letting him work me up.
Finally, I can feel the buildup again. I can do this.
Pulling out of his mouth, I give myself a few more tugs before spilling a pitiful amount of jizz on my hand, having one of the weakest orgasms I think I’ve ever had.
Before I’m even finished, Corey is on his feet and grabbing his clothes off the floor.
“Do you mind if I use the bathroom before I head out?” he asks, barely making eye contact with me. This is not how I imagined this day going. The awkwardness after my poor performance feels humiliating.
“Of course, it’s through there,” I tell him, pointing to the only open door.
I close the doors of the rooms I don’t want anyone to go into after learning the hard way after a guy stole a couple of pieces from my movie memorabilia collection when I wasn’t paying attention. I won’t make that mistake again, even if it’s a friend.
While he heads to the bathroom, I pull my shorts and T-shirt back on, skipping the jockstrap since I’ll shower again after he leaves.
Queuing up the video transfer from the DSLR, I send it to my laptop and do the same with the phone footage, then turn off the lights and stash the rigs back in the corner of the living room.
Corey comes out with a sheepish grin on his handsome face. “Thanks for that, babe. You always know how to show a guy a good time.”
I know he means well, but the line feels more like pity than praise. He got off at least.
I force a smile. “Anytime,” I reply as I walk him to the door.
He’s a nice guy, no question. I had planned to ask him out, but after today, the idea falls flat.
“You’ll send me the footage when it’s ready?” he asks.
We’d hashed out the collab terms over text when we were setting this up.
“Of course. I’ve got a backlog to get through first, but I’ll cut it down to just the good parts. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of days.” I lean in, give him a quick peck on the cheek, and watch him leave.
The door of the spare bedroom creaks open as I let out my two very needy cats, who are eager for attention after being confined. I grab some treats from the kitchen, spend a few minutes playing with them, and then head off to take another shower.
My bedroom is my sanctuary, with a plush king-size bed, soft gray-and-white linens, a reading nook with a cozy chair in the corner, and a spacious en suite bathroom.
The girls have claimed the end of the bed as their permanent nesting spot.
My favorite part is the large subway-tiled walk-in shower, where I often film myself jerking off for my subscribers.
As the steady stream of water pounds against my skin, a wave of familiar sadness washes over me.
It’s been happening more often lately. I’m tired of a life filled with transactional sex, of the loneliness that sneaks in during quiet moments, and of responding to comments and messages from strangers instead of holding someone at night.
I’ve dated on and off. Five years ago, I managed six months with a guy who had a nine-to-five.
At first, he thought my lifestyle was exciting and hot, but eventually the novelty wore off, and so did we.
And while I liked him, I could never see myself falling in love with him.
The truth is, my heart can never fully let go of someone else.
Maybe it’s time to schedule an appointment with my therapist. I’ve untangled plenty of knots with her before, but the heartaches from my past don’t just vanish; they hide and then resurface when I least expect them.
After getting dressed, I settle into my desk chair in the spare bedroom as Maisy drapes across my lap, while Daisy curls up next to the warmth of my laptop.
I send an email to my therapist to book an appointment, and text my friend Lauren to plan a much-needed night out. Mac sent the itinerary for Fort Lauderdale, so I book my flight and hotel.
The rest of the night is a blur. After eating takeout and working on a paper for my Legal Practices for Entrepreneurs class, I spend hours editing videos, juggling posts, and responding to comments and DMs. Content creation is a full-time gig.
By the time I finally collapse into bed, it’s past midnight.
Sleep doesn’t come easily as my mind betrays me, drifting back in time.
A young, handsome face fills my vision; the faint memories of late afternoon hikes in the heat of summer, movie marathons on our birthdays, secret kisses under the bleachers, and the promise of one day holding his hand while walking down the street.
I allow myself to indulge until the sweet memories fade into pain and despair. So, I do what I’ve trained myself to do—lock it down and shove it all back into the vault where it belongs.