Porn Star(21)

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 *, 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 f*cking 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 f*ck her mouth until her eyes water. But Jesus f*ck, 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 f*ck her *.

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 *, 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, f*cking her hard now, and I rub another climax out of her as I pound into her *, 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 wished it was 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 crew, 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 his 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 satisfaction 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.