This is the part where I should respond in kind, maybe growl something harsh and kinky, but I’m still in this bubble of goodwill and happiness, and my mind is full of Devi and stars, so instead I say, “I’m going to make you feel as beautiful as Cassiopeia today.”
Ginger gives me a look that isn’t just blank. It’s blankness with shock and ignorance and the slightest whiff of humiliation. She has no idea what I’ve just said, I think. So I add, “Cassiopeia was an ancient Greek queen.”
She looks a little taken aback by this, like she still doesn’t know how to respond, like Greek mythology has no place in a BDSM porn scene, and after a couple of beats, she arches her back and purrs, “But you can’t make me feel like a queen, because I’ve been such a bad girl.”
And then she wriggles in her restraints, her mouth in a little moue of disappointment. “Stop talking, and punish me, Sir.”
And my happy bubble starts to collapse in on itself.
Because of course Greek mythology has no place on a porn set. Of course Ginger doesn’t want to make small talk or flirt or listen to my stupid thoughts. She’s here to be flogged and fucked, and as friendly as we might be, we’re not friends in the normal sense of the word. We’re co-workers, colleagues, and Ginger is like the girl in the next cubicle at an office. As chatty as we might be in a meeting, we’ll never be anything more.
And it’s not just Ginger. Can I honestly claim that any of the other girls I work with are anything more than friendly co-workers? That they wouldn’t get impatient with me if I wanted to talk about constellations instead of simply get on with the scene so we can all get back to our lives?
Devi wouldn’t be like that, though.
Or would she? a worried voice in my mind wonders.
Tanner shifts behind me, and I snap out of my bubble-collapsing reverie. Focus, Logan. Now isn’t the time for existential fussing.
I return all of my attention to Ginger and run a practiced hand down her bare stomach. She shivers, and I walk over to the wall and come back with a flogger.
“So you’ve been a bad girl?” I say with rehearsed menace.
She nods, biting her lip. One of the light guys follows Tanner as he moves around the table, and I see the shadow of the flogger outlined on her stomach. And despite all of my internal complaining, my dick is responding precisely the way it should, still a hard rod in my jeans.
“Then let’s get started.”
Ginger squirms as I begin flogging her—lightly. Since this is one of the first real bondage scenes she’s done, I try to make it less about the pain and more about the subtle humiliation, more about the power dynamics between her and me. She doesn’t have very many limits, but she’d brought up extreme pain as one, and I’m doing my best to keep her feeling safe and comfortable, just like I told Devi to do this morning.
So I keep the riding crop light, with small, flat-sounding slaps against her skin, just enough to redden her freckled skin the tiniest bit. Then I reach down to pluck at her nipples and slide my fingers into her mouth, and after ten or fifteen minutes of this, I reach between her legs and find her swollen and wet.
“Look at me,” I tell her, and she does, her eyes glazed with lust and her hips moving on the table. She makes a small noise of frustration when I lift my hand from her pussy, and I know we’ve crossed the boundary between pretend and real, where the cameras and the contracts are starting to blur into the background as the needy hum in her core becomes all-consuming.
Which is perfect, because I’m hard as a fucking rock and aching to sink into her—into any woman, if I’m being honest—to get some relief.
I mean, there are other things I could do right now. I could bring out a different flogger, I could flip her over and paddle her, I could fuck her mouth until her eyes water. But Jesus fuck, I am so caught up in wanting Devi, in craving her, that I don’t have the patience to wait any longer. That raw, gripping need to come is clawing at me, and Ginger is so lovely right now, with her freckled limbs and panting mouth, and wet, pink cunt.
I unbuckle the cuffs quickly and easily, intoning in my sternest voice that she is not to move until she’s been given permission, and then I grab the spreader bar from the wall. There are a hundred creative things I could do right now—and should do, given that this is a bigger scene than usual—but I barely have enough focus left to flip her onto her hands and knees and attach the spreader bar to her ankles. I cuff her wrists to the spreader as well, which has the effect of forcing her head forward onto the table as her arms are stretched underneath her to the bar, and then I make a circle around the table. It looks as if I’m admiring my handiwork, which I am, to an extent, running a hand over her raised ass, biting my lip once I see how much her seam glistens in the dim, indoor light. But I’m also making one final check to make sure that she can breathe easily, that her weight is distributed comfortably, and to give her an easy opportunity to snap her fingers—our pre-arranged signal—if she needs a break or needs me to back off.
She’s comfortable and there’s no snapping; she even gives me a flirty wink when I walk around the side she’s facing. I give her ass a slap, hop up onto the table on my knees, and I’m as giddy as a teenage boy when I unzip my jeans and push them low enough to free my erection, which has been straining against the denim all this time.
After sheathing myself with a condom, I line up the head of my cock with her opening and push inside, giving her ass a few spanks as I do. She’s wet and warm and willing, all I need right now, and I can’t help my mind drifting to Devi, to the fantasy of Devi pinned underneath me as I finger her ass and fuck her pussy.
It’s filthy, but hey, I’m a filthy guy.
I get going, really get going, burying myself deep into Ginger’s channel and stroking back out again. Yeah, that feels good. So good.
“You feel amazing on my cock, baby,” I tell her, leaning forward to croon in her ear. I don’t know if the camera can hear us, but I don’t care, because I always talk to my girls, especially when they’re edging towards the brink like Ginger. “You feel like you were built to have a big dick in this pussy, isn’t that right? Don’t big cocks like mine need to be taken care of?”
She nods and moans as I find her clit with one hand and work her mercilessly, rubbing until she has no choice but to come, and she does, so hard that her leg muscles quiver and she lets out a little shriek.
“Another,” I growl, fucking her hard now, and I rub another climax out of her as I pound into her pussy, making her scream with pleasure.
And my vision splits and merges and splits again, sometimes Ginger’s pale ass up in the air, sometimes Devi’s bronze body writhing under mine, sometimes both. And then I’m grunting hard, pulling out just in time to yank off the condom and pump lashing jets of cum all over Ginger’s ass. I milk myself with long, taut strokes, but the orgasm keeps barreling through me, and by the time I’m finally done, I’m barely able to keep myself upright.
I fall back on my heels, spent and also a little grateful that I didn’t jerk off this morning, saving myself for this. It was worth it. Even if I had wished it were Devi the entire time.
“Um…” Ginger says with a weak, post-orgasmic laugh. “I think I may need some baby wipes over here.”
The laughter is contagious, spreading from me to Tanner to the cameramen, and I move to help her get uncuffed and cleaned up.
* * *
By the time mid-afternoon rolls around, my house is empty and I’m in my office, editing my monologue.
The digital version of me gazes out of the screen, raking his fingers through light brown hair and grinning as he talks about Ginger.
“...always a new fantasy,” the on-screen version of me is saying. “Today, I wanted to pretend that we’d just met at a BDSM club, and that she was a new submissive that I had to break in—gently at first, and then not-so-gently after.” The Logan on the screen goes on to elaborate on the fantasy—being a skilled Master at a club, the thrill of meeting a new submissive, the sat
isfaction of feeling a stranger come around my cock.
For the first time, in a very real and concrete way, I wish that the scene had been a mirror to my monologue. Normally, my words complement the scene, act as a stimulating adjuvant, and the sex is still the chief enjoyment for me. But something’s off today, and when I finish editing the thing and save it, I feel a sense of nostalgia, a slightly bitter pang of loss—both emotions so sudden and unexpected that I feel genuine shock once I realize they’re what I’m feeling.
From the moment Traci Aliss wrapped her lips around my cock, I knew that I’d found my calling. I knew that I loved to fuck, and what’s more, I knew that I loved to fuck around other people. I never forget while I’m filming that thousands of men and women will watch me at home—the women wishing it were me between their legs instead of their vibrator, the men wishing they were me, fucking a sweet pussy or a wet mouth or tight ass. And the thought of all that desire and jealousy heaped on me—it’s more than a turn-on. It’s a raison d’etre.
So what’s wrong today? Why don’t I have that post-scene high? I mean, of course there have been days where the sex was less than magical, where it honestly did feel like work, where the girl and I couldn’t connect, or maybe I was tired or unmotivated or whatever. But I’ve never felt like this. I’ve never felt this peculiar emptiness, this odd disappointment, especially not after such an amazing scene.
So what I am I disappointed about?
I have no idea.
I spin around in my chair a few times, rubbing my bare feet against the fuzzy-ass rug on my office floor, the one I bought even though Raven had hated it when we saw it in the store. I tap my fingers on my knees, I fiddle with a paperclip on my desk, and then finally, frustrated as hell, I stand up and walk out to the loft that overlooks my living room.
Other than a few low chairs and the waterfalls of golden sun pouring through the skylights, the room is vacant. An empty living room. An empty house.
Mentally, I direct the scene otherwise. I layer the sound of Prior’s paws scrabbling on the wood floors as he trots around the house looking for his squeaky toy. I layer in the angry goth punk music Raven played whenever she was here, and I layer in Raven herself, wearing something black and clingy, her phone wedged between her head and her shoulder as she stirred a pot of kale or something equally disgusting on the stove.
For the first time in three months, I consider—really consider—that maybe I wasn’t as in love with Raven as I was with the idea of having a relationship in the first place. That it wasn’t her I keened for in those bleak days in the movie theater or on my kitchen floor, it was that life. That life with noise and affection and connection.
The realization hits me like a freight train, freeing and terrifying all at once. I loved Raven, I know I did, but so much of that love was because she was filling a void for me, a void I hadn’t known was there until three months after it yawned open and empty again. She gave me a fantasy, the fantasy, and I slowly begin to understand that it is the fantasy that underpins all the ones I film for my scenes.
The fantasy of being in love.
Jesus.
I scrub my face with my hands, feeling liberated and also feeling pathetic. Who in this selfish, indulgent, spray-tanned city would ever guess that Logan O’Toole has a chewy caramel center? That under his I’ll-fuck-anything-that-moves veneer, there is a guy who just wants to love someone?
It’s ridiculous. And bad for business. I’m the guy who thinks with his dick, not his heart, and maybe my brand is to be a little bit of both, but I can’t give in to this inner boy band song. Maybe guys like me don’t get to have love. Not the kind of deep, real, raw love that I want. We get casual fucks and friendships coupled with the occasional stoned blowjob, and if we’re really lucky, maybe we meet a girl whose life will travel on parallel tracks to ours for a while. But those tracks always diverge, and then we’re left alone. Again.
This love shit isn’t just bad for business, Logan, it’s bad for you, a voice tells me. And I agree.
I let the image of my life with Raven fade away, until there’s only my ground floor again, every corner and every floorboard and every nook of the soaring ceiling screaming out the emptiness of my house. My hands grip the ledge tighter and then loosen as I let go of the memories of a life with love, let go of the fantasy.
But it all still tumbles around in my mind, tossed loosely around like clothes in a dryer, tangling with the texts from Devi that I keep re-reading, tangling with my strange disappointment over my scene with Ginger. And all of it tangling with Vida’s business proposal, until a new thought emerges, unformed and flopping as all new ideas are. But the moment my mind seizes hold of it, I can’t let it go.
I stand there for a moment more, blinking, and then I jog back to my office to find the card Vida gave me at her party. I dial the number on it, relieved to hear the Dutch-accented voice saying Hallo? after only three rings.
“Marieke,” I say. “It’s Logan. I have an idea for me and Lelie, and I’d like to tell you about it.”
7
I’m standing in line at the post office when my phone starts playing “Pussy Monster” by Lil Wayne, and I realize that I hadn’t fully considered this possible situation when I programmed all my contacts the night before to have distinct ringtones. At the time, assigning that song for Logan’s number seemed like a secret sexy joke. But now that my cell is singing, “I’m the Pussy Monster, and you better feed me pussy, pussy, pussy, pussy, pussy” in a crowded public building, I think I quite possibly made a bad decision.
With cheeks hot from humiliation and nervousness (Logan is calling me!), I abandon my place in line and head outside to dig through my purse and find my cell. I’m breathless when I finally hit talk. “Hello?”
“Devi?”
“Hi! Logan. I…” can’t believe it’s really you and ohmygod I can’t believe you’re calling me even though you text me pretty much every day.
I won’t tell him that. “Hello,” I say again instead. “Hi.” I’m an idiot.
Logan’s so smooth that he almost makes me feel at ease, even as he laughs. “I think we have a greeting established. Should we move on?”
“Yeah.” I cover my face with my hand. “Yes. Sorry. I was…distracted…when you called.”
“Distracted? That sounds intriguing. Tell me more about that.”
He has no idea that I have a massive secret crush on him, but sometimes, when his voice is layered like this with thick innuendo and comprehension, I wonder if he possibly could know.
Which is a ridiculous thing to wonder. He probably treats every woman as though she’s madly in love with him, and every woman likely is madly in love with him. So of course he knows I’m harboring affection as well. Because, who isn’t?
But hell if I’m admitting the ringtone I’ve assigned him.
“I just.” I sigh into the mouthpiece, regrouping. “I was in line at the post office, and I hadn’t realized my phone wasn’t on silent. So your call surprised me.”
“Ah. I see.” He’s quiet, and I decide he’s as disappointed with my lame answer as I am. He probably regrets calling me.
“But thank goodness it wasn’t on silent. Because then I would have missed you all together.” Yep, I’m totally transparent.
And I totally want to die.
But it’s not likely that I’m going to spontaneously fall dead, and also I’m curious about what he wants, so I ask, “Anyway, what’s up?” He’s never called before, and the reasons he could be calling now are swimming through my mind.
Or one reason is swimming—the reason that he might be calling for a date. The other ideas are drowning in my optimism.
“Actually, I…” He pauses, as though he’s nervous too, which, of course, is impossible, but wouldn’t it be nice if I could let myself think that? That he’s as off-balance around me as I am around him?
In his hesitation, the hopeful tension grows until I can’t stand it. “Yes?”
“I wond
ered if you were free later today,” he says quickly—excitedly, maybe. “I need to see you.”
“You do?” It’s probably not cool to question it. “I mean, no, I’m not. Or…did you ask if I was busy or if I was free?”
“You know, I don’t remember now.”
I let out a chuckle that sounds an awful lot like a giggle. “Well, whatever you said, I’m not busy. I could see you. If you want.” Way to sound nonchalant, Devi.
“I do want.” His tone is so low I almost am unsure that’s what he really said. Louder, he says, “That’s great. I have a meeting right now, but I could do three-ish?”
Somehow I manage to speak like an intelligent human being as we arrange the specifics. Then we hang up, and I clutch the phone to my chest and let out an uncharacteristic squeal.
Two women jogging by throw me narrow glances, but who cares? I already have to find another post office to patronize, and I have a date with Logan O’Toole.
* * *
When I arrive at the coffee shop where we’d agreed to meet, I find him already in line to order. He hasn’t seen me yet, and I take the opportunity to check him out. He’s wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, not too tight, but thin enough to make out the muscles in his back. I’m overwhelmed with sense memory—the way he smelled, the way his fingers dug into my jaw as he held the sides of my face, the way his tongue felt darting over my skin, between my lips.
I shiver. It’s been three years, and, yet, his is the only touch I remember.
I come up behind him in the line and nudge my shoulder against the back of his arm.
“Hey, there you are.” He turns to give me the hug that’s standard in Europe and Hollywood, and I have to force myself not to audibly sigh or cling.
I’m disappointed when he pulls away. But then he glides his eyes down my body, and I think I might not care if he never touched me again, as long as he keeps looking at me like he is now. His stare is invasive and warm and thoroughly sees every bit of me.
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