12. Milo

I've gotto give it to him. Keaton Sinclair is a great actor. I almost believed he was being genuine during his livestream, but of course, I know better.

And because I know better, I immediately grab my phone when his live ends and shoot him a message on Cinderfella.

Fisheye25: I'm not scared.

Fisheye25: And I want to get to know you better too.

It's exactly what Milo—the Milo I'm playing whenever I'm with him—would do and say. That Milo wouldn't be scared off by this larger-than-life guy, who dumps his feelings all over the Internet's floor.

Kuddlebear: You do?

And just like that, the show goes on. I've never done this. Done the whole chatting thing, knowing screenshots or recaps will go out for the world to see. It's both intimidating and kinda sexy at the same time, but it also means I have to think extra hard about what I send, which can be a headache.

And I know we can always delete or cross out things that don't sound good or are too personal, but I kinda like that we've come to this silent agreement that anything exchanged via Cinderfella can go public, but anything exchanged by text messages is for our eyes only.

It makes our little sexting chain all the more precious.

Fisheye25: You bet.

Fisheye25: What are you doing tonight? How about I show you my part of the woods.

Kuddlebear: Wood, you say?

I can't help but laugh. He's incorrigible. Two seconds ago, he was "crying" about feeling too much, and now he's making puns out of normal phrases to the guy he didn't want to startle.

Good thing I don't startle easily.

That and, you know, being paid for it.

Fisheye25: Maybe. If you behave.

We go back and forth a little longer until I give him a time and a place, and then I go back to normal life.

Normal life, which is so boring now that I don't have the prospect of multiple gigs. I'm basically being paid to do nothing but entertain Keaton when he feels like it, which isn't the torture I make it out to be, but it does leave me with a lot more free time than I'm used to.

Especially since I can't go out clubbing or cruising.

Which leaves me with the one hobby I can indulge in.

I grab my camera and go out to find picture-worthy material for my collection.

Unlike my job, I like real stuff in front of my lens. Which is why venturing out into the streets of New York and trying to catch perfection is my addiction.

A little misstep from a clumsy guy here, a woman getting mustard on her red suit there, a spirited discussion between hipsters. I know it's intrusive, but that is exactly what I like about it. You can't lie. At least not in the pictures I take. You can't fake it. You can't manufacture them. I wouldn't like them if I did. Real images of real people tell a story. There's a whole-ass book in their eyes, their clothes, their expression. And it's entirely up to the viewers to interpret them like modern works of art.

A few hours and several snapshots later, I'm standing outside Siam Garden in my skinny blue jeans and loose-fitted T-shirt with a cardigan wrapped around my neck.

This is what dating apparel should look like. Not suits. Not ties. Just comfort. And a little sex appeal, of course. We're not animals. Although I can go feral at the snap of a finger, no matter the dress code.

A cab pulls up right in front of me, and Keaton gets out. He's on the phone, looking stern.

"Yes, have him call me back immediately. If he thinks he can avoid me, he's got another think coming. Oh, and don't forget to book something nice for Kennedy's birthday. I know he probably doesn't care to spend time with his big brother but tell him I don't give a shit what yacht he's sailing on. I want an hour or two of his time." He gives me a nod as he finishes up his call, and I sit back and watch him.

He's hot when he's giving orders.

"Oh really? Well, tell the mayor he can go fuck his many dildos and make sure to point out I have no reservations about making that statement public. And I think we all know his wife won't like that."

Ooh. The mayor likes to take it up the ass? How scandalous of his conservative little soul.

"Right. I've got to go. Don't call unless the world's on fire." He hangs up before giving the person on the other side of the line the appropriate time to respond and turns to me.

He spreads his hands to give me a full view of his attire. He's wearing navy-blue chinos—I'll give those a pass—and a baby-blue shirt with the first couple of buttons undone, out of which a bit of gray fur shows, and I hold back a growl.

"What? Too formal?" He opens his hands and looks at himself while glancing at me.

"I guess it'll do. I think I need to introduce you to slacks." I approach him and lift onto my toes to kiss his cheek. His beard scratches my sensitive lips and sandalwood infiltrates my nose. The combination sends shivers down my body.

I pull away before I forget this is a fake date again.

Hm…no flashes.

"No press today?"

Keaton shrugs.

"I thought maybe tonight I'll share what I want to share."

Is he doing it for me? Is he trying to impress me? Or does he have other plans in mind?

"Oh. Okay. Well, cool. That makes it easier, I guess. Hungry?"

"Oh yes," he growls, and his smirk makes me think he's talking about more than food.

Where was this Keaton last Friday?

Did our little sexting bring him out of his shell? Or has he realized if he's paying me for a year, he should take full advantage? Not that I'll complain, of course.

Whatever the answer, I give him my most sinful smile, take his hand, and step into Siam Garden, making sure to accentuate my ass as I move.

If he's going to be a tease, then so am I.

We're seated and order drinks, and thankfully, things go much smoother than our first date. Talking to Keaton is easier, and I'm not sure if it's because there are no cameras around or because we can talk freely about our arrangement.

Well, as freely as one can when out in public.

He tells me about his last trip to Thailand and how much he loves authentic Thai food, though it's too spicy for his palate, before he places our order in perfect Thai—well, to my ears anyway. The waitress, a short, elderly lady with too big of a smile, brightens even more, patting Keaton's shoulder like he's a long-lost grandchild.

He's fun to be around. That's another thing I didn't expect when Gracie told me who my client was. And even though he's twenty years older, I don't feel intimidated or patronized, which is a definite bonus.

Then again, so many gays were denied adolescence that they experienced it all throughout their twenties and thirties, and a lot of them past that.

Not that I think that's exactly the case with Keaton, but he is the child of billionaires. He may not have had to face a lot of prejudice and bullying, but he probably didn't have much of a regular childhood like most others. I've been with my fair share of rich men to know.

We dig in when our meal arrives, and I feel even more at ease. There's nothing like Thai food to make you feel content, complete, and satisfied. It's even better with good company.

I much prefer this date to the last one. It's more relaxed. More real—even though it's not exactly.

When we finish, our plates are cleared and we refuse dessert—is there anyone that ever has dessert at a Thai place—and we take a few pictures for the Insta. We can't forget about the purpose of this whole thing, can we?

We then venture into the streets to find an appropriate palate cleanser, and I can think of no better place than Patisserie Paris, just around the block from my apartment. I get a little berry tart, and he gets an apple tart, and by the time we reach my front door, we're sticky and sweet all over. The good kind.

And I'm dying to get sticky and sweet, the dirty kind.

Will he turn me down this time?

"Would you like to come up?"

Keaton looks at me through narrowed eyes and gently parted lips. My breath hitches while waiting for his response.

He has no right to look so sexy the way he does. He's got everything he could ever want in the world. Why does he get to be earth-shatteringly hot too?

I wish he wasn't that attractive. It'd make my job easier. I can fuck an ugly guy. I can fuck a regular guy. And I can fuck an attractive guy.

But give me sex on legs with character and style, and it gets trickier.

"Are you?—"

"Keaton fucking Sinclair, you're not about to reject me a second time as if I've got leprosy, especially not after you promised me a good time."

There. That's what happens when you give me sex on legs. I turn into a whore.

Well, even more of a whore than I already am.

"When you put it that way," he says and steps toward me.

I turn to open the door when I feel a hand grab my neck and spin me around right into Keaton's lips.

The impact makes me insta-hard, and I open my mouth to taste his tongue. It's still syrupy and fruity. A moan trembles in my throat, and I feel it in his chest before he slams me against the glass door. My cock throbs, and I feel the pulse of something large against my stomach.

It's huge. What is he carry?—

No.

It can't be.

But then again, he did send me a picture, and it did appear humongous there too. It only makes sense that it's humongous in real life.

I slide a hand between our bodies and confirm that it is indeed Keaton's giant cock jousting against my belly.

"Oh my God," I mumble in his mouth.

"I know," he mumbles back, grinding against my hand.

I'm fully prepared to give him a dry hand job right here, right now, public be damned, when the support disappears from my back and I almost fall over.

"Mr. Petrakis. Great night, isn't it?" The mustached older man grumbles, and I take big breaths, trying to compose myself and step out of the way.

My retired neighbor, who lives on the first floor and knows everything that goes on inside and outside the building in perfect detail, stares at me while his mustache twitches.

I don't blush though. Mr. Petrakis has caught me doing much worse on numerous occasions, so he's used to my free-spirited attempts at getting some.

"Uh-huh. Don't you have a home, young man?" he asks.

"I do, Mr. Petrakis."

"Use it then," he responds with his usual scowl before exiting the building. The tapping of his cane on the sidewalk rings loud and clear in my ears long after he's out of view.

I glance back at Keaton, who's red as can be but still out of breath, and I raise an eyebrow.

"Shall we?"

Keaton rushes through the door, and I follow him in. We only make it to the elevator before we're on each other again. And he's still rock-hard against me.

I can't wait to rip his clothes off and get a hold of him skin-to-skin, which is exactly what I do when I unlock my apartment.

I shut the door, throw him against it, and pull his shirt apart. The crack of fabric makes me hiss as buttons fly all over the floor. I make quick work of his pants and fly until Keaton Sinclair, the richest man in the world—the hottest man in the world—is standing in front of me just like Mother Nature intended. In full definition, muscle and penis galore.

"Is this okay?" I ask him, probably a little too late, but how can I stop and think right now?

"Yes," he gasps.

"It's not too fast?" He shakes his head, and I don't miss how his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows. "Good, because I'm gonna drop and give you the blowjob of a lifetime. If that's okay."

Keaton puts his hands up, and I deliver on my promise. I don't bother to take my clothes off or free my own throbbing heat. My hands get busy with his third leg.

I trap him with both, and there's still cock left at the end. And a leaking slit.

Wasting no time, I dart my tongue across it and taste his nectar. It's sweet and salty, just as expected, but it still drives me insane. It hits me right in the head like a drug-induced high, but all the more intense because it's all-natural.

I let go of one hand and push it against his lower abdomen, pressing him harder against the door as I cover his wet pink crown with my mouth and let his heat set me on fire.

A groan comes out of him, and it's so loud and crackly it makes the hairs on my nape stand on end. He fills every inch of my mouth and then some, but I can't complain. My gag reflex tickles the back of my throat and my head is about to explode as my own cock twitches, desperate to be freed and played with.

I can't resist. I unwrap my remaining hand from his girthy heaven and cup my groin, the pressure only making my need worse, and suck him even deeper inside me.

"Fu-uck," Keaton's shouts.

I release him long enough to witness the pleading expression on his face and go back down, coaxing another scream out of him.

The more I do it, the more life he gets into his body until he fucks my mouth just like I want him to, bucking his hips to choke me, using his hands on the back of my head to hold me hostage until I beg for mercy.

The thing about me is I'm not a quitter. If he wants to choke me, he can choke me. It's what he's paying me for, after all.

"Agh! Plea…please, Milo. Ple…fuck me." I barely hear his panting in my self-induced torture, but when it clicks, I finally pull away and look up at him.

"You…you want me to fuck you?"

"Yes," he answers without missing a beat. "Fuck me. Play with me. Use me. I don't care. I'm at your mercy."

Well, that's something I didn't expect.

Is Keaton Sinclair, girthy billionaire extraordinaire…a bottom?

And what exactly does he mean by "use me?"