Page 56 of Darling
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 jumblein 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—Ilikehim. 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, butIinvited 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 aboutmy 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 awhore or a slut or a little gay boythan 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 tryingto 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.