Nine
Blake
I jump up on my bed, pounding a fist in the air after reading over one of the emails I’ve been waiting on.
I got another modeling job. Reading over the contract, I laugh when I see what it says I’ll be doing.
It’s an underwear ad. Grabbing my phone, I pause when I’m on Logan’s name. What am I doing?
When you have big news to share, the first person you message shouldn’t be . . . What even is he to me? He was nothing . . . and then he unlocked this side of me I can’t help but want to explore.
He thought I hated him, but never was that true.
If anything, I envied him for getting to be his true self without merit.
It didn’t matter what others thought of him.
Our harsh treatment didn’t stop him either.
Not us, not his dad, or the stupid thoughts in his head screaming at him about consequences.
Logan wore what he wanted, hung out with everyone who would have him, and didn’t blink twice at going for his dream.
He was given more options, too, while all I had was my dad’s, or I risked starving.
It took so long for me to come back. I tried everything I could to prevent it.
Slept on strangers’ couches, accepted random jobs here and there—from babysitting, to pet sitting, to house cleaning, to stripping at several clubs.
But it all came down to the pictures. Logan wasn’t the only one to find them.
My dad did too, threatening to have my car repossessed if I didn’t come home.
It disn’t stop there either. So many people in the food industry owed him favors, and a friend of his spread rumors around where I danced, saying I was drugging the customers.
No one would hire me after that. My boss didn’t involve the cops, because he had other illegal shit going on in the back he didn’t want them accidentally stumbling on, but he did ask me to leave immediately without pay.
So I came back. I didn’t want to but I had no choice. Turns out my dad’s right—I can’t survive without him, and I can’t stop doing the wrong thing.
“You’re a fuck up. The worst excuse for a son,” he said yesterday, slamming a fist on the desk. “Get out and come back when you’re ready to make me proud.”
I look at the door and back at the white screen, rolling my thumb over Logan’s name. I have no one to tell the news to but him. No one else would understand or realize how important this is for me. His flickering eyes told me he did, and I couldn’t stop baring my soul to him with how relaxed I was.
My sister might let something slip to my parents, but what’s shared between me and Logan stays there. He’ll get a laugh out of his first guess finally being right. Alcohol ads really were gateways to Calvin Klein apparently.
I stare harder at the screen, a sheen of sweat spreading across my brow. I want him to know . . . I want . . . I bang my head against the headboard. What will he say back? Will he respond? Will he call me a . . . a good boy?
A smile plays on my lips and I slowly tap at the keys, sucking in a breath. Lifting my finger, I hold it in midair before continuing and hitting send.
Me: I got a call back from one of the agencies I met with. Guess what the job is?
I stare at the screen, heart galloping as I wait. Who knows how long I sit here, not moving, before finally getting a reply.
Logan: Lip?gloss ad?
I laugh into my hand, shifting in bed. What is this weird sensation fluttering through me?
Giddiness? Can’t be. That shit only happens in movies.
People fake finding the love of their life, allowing outsiders to see only their smiles and forced hand holding.
My parents took their masks off as soon as they were home.
My first crush in middle school was a bust too.
He got what he wanted twice and moved on to one of my friends the following week.
It’s not real. Loneliness has a way of fucking with your head. I bow my head, pinching between my brows. We’re merely taking a break from reality and finding new ways to survive.
Me: Guess again.
Logan: Hmm . . . sock commercial?
Me: Getting warmer.
Logan: Underwear.
Me: Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner!
Logan: Congrats. When’s the shoot?
Me: In a week, but I can show you what was in the portfolio I sent them if you want?
Logan: Or you can show me what they haven’t seen. A pair of panties no one has seen you in.
My heart stammers.
Me: You mean a private shoot just for you?
I stretch out my legs, letting my blanket fall past my thighs, exposing my stiffening cock.
Logan: A mini one. You can save a full interview for another time.
Kicking off the rest of my blanket, I scurry off the bed and rummage through my top drawer until I find a pair with the tags still on.
A baby?blue thong with lace in the front.
I can keep asking myself why I can’t stop listening and why I keep doing all these tasks asked of me, but the answer has been there all along, and as I’m slipping on the skimpy underwear, staring at the phone in anticipation, I can’t ignore it any longer.
I’m doing these things because I’m good at them and because he trusts that I will be.
He must if he isn’t going to someone else for them.
He’s unburied a part of me I didn’t think I could live out, and it feels so freeing.
Also, I can’t stay away. I just can’t. He’s been right about so many things, and I can feel that empty space inside me finally being fulfilled. I can feel him on me and I want more.
It’s nothing more than the alluring fantasy, reeling me in whenever reality gets too heavy, and that’s every damn day lately. He’s been my escape.
I adjust my cock, exhaling slowly as I climb back onto the bed.
Not only is the underwear different, the pose is too.
More seductive and submissive. I tug at my nipple ring, pushing out my chest and spreading my knees.
Lifting my phone, I snap a photo and then I position the phone after setting a timer.
I spin around, looking back as I push out my ass, rocking forward and smiling as the picture is being taken.
After capturing a few more—one with me lying back, with my fingers slipping through one leg opening of my panties, and another with the head of my cock peeking out at the top—I send all the photos at once.
Logan: I can see why they hired you. You’re a natural. Wear those on Saturday. Under something I can easily slip my hand into whenever I feel like testing out how good you really are at waiting.
My body vibrates, heart skipping a beat and hands shaking as I write back.
Me: Okay. You sure you don’t want to change it to Friday?
Logan: Saturday. Just think of how good you’ll feel when I finally let you come while touching me.
My hole clenches and I slide my fingers down my stomach, squeezing my cock beneath my panties.
I let go, not taking it further than that, my body at war with itself.
I need to come and it would be so easy to, lying here mostly naked with my tip leaking as his words swim around in my head.
And those groans from yesterday when he rubbed himself between my ass cheeks, getting himself off and leaving me emptier than I already was when he pulled away.
Sparks danced everywhere his skin touched mine and I wanted to move so bad. I want to move now. But I can’t. My hands are suffering from some type of paralysis when I try, my chest tightening to the point where I can’t breathe.
This is crazy. He doesn’t own my body. I’m not sure I do either anymore. If my hand doesn’t want to move then I’ll try another part of me. Shame hits at the first buck of my hips. Such a bad Blake. Such a bad boy.
Me: I won’t think of anything else.
Me: Don’t I get a picture too?
Logan: Will it make the wait feel longer if I send one?
Me: Yes.
Seconds later an image loads and my mouth waters.
He’s shirtless, sweat dripping between those large pecs and rope clutched under his arm.
His jeans hug his hips and there’s a slight bulge in the front.
But what affects me the most are his eyes.
Those fucking intense eyes with so much control beaming off them.
They say “don’t come.” They say “stop touching yourself.” They say so much and so little all at once that I’m over here foaming at the mouth thinking “okay.”