Chapter Seven

Loncey

"Fuck me, Daddy! Fuck me harder. Harder!" Harley calls out as she looks over her shoulder at me and I slam into her from behind.

Jesus, Harley, I say to myself and feel my jaw harden to the point where it hurts. I've told you about calling me Daddy. I fucking hate it.

Whack! A hand claps down on the side of her face.

"Did I tell you you could take your mouth off my cock?" Miko grabs the back of her head, pulling at the roots of her hair, and forces her mouth back on his silicone dick. She's sucking hard on it instantly, her cheeks hollowing out.

"Such a greedy girl," I say to Miko, who is watching his girlfriend with a telling smile.

"Such a needy girl," he says and his harsh thrusts contradict the gentle stroke he gives her cheek. He raises his voice so the camera can pick it up clearly. "Only ever satisfied by two cocks. Or more. Dirty, dirty slut."

He slaps her cheek again and Harley moans with pleasure as she continues to suck him. I don't need to see her to know she's salivating around him, drool falling down her chin. Imagining this and the tears slipping out of her eyes should spur me on, get me closer to my climax, but it doesn't. For some reason, I am finding it very hard to get close.

It could be because I shot a huge load yesterday when I filmed a solo scene after edging myself for the best part of three days, but considering it's been nearly two weeks since I was last inside someone, I should be raring to go during this scene. But I'm not. It's easily been over twenty minutes – the minimum amount of time I like a scene to be before I come – and so I can let go, let the climax build, but it's not happening. Time to take action.

I look down and spit on my hand. I bend low over Harley's body.

"Can I touch your pretty little dick, Harley?" I ask in a gravelly voice.

Harley has already given me consent to touch her but I didn't get my name, ‘Consent Guru' for no reason.

"Do you want me to make you come, Harley?"

She groans, loudly.

"Slide a finger inside Miko if that's a yes," I say slyly.

We're known for having fun in our scenes, for having banter and play and teasing each other. The viewers will love this shit.

"Ah!" Miko throws his head back. "That was a very enthusiastic yes," he tells me.

I'm laughing lightly as I stroke Harley's dick and it swells under my grip. I wish we had someone behind the camera who could move to see my hand at work for a close-up.

I always prefer to have a cameraperson filming our scenes because it's just one less very important thing to think about, but this scene was a last-minute arrangement as we were all getting requests for another threesome together and seeing as Miko and Harley are about to travel to the East Coast to film with some other content creators we decided to just go for it.

When I feel a small bead of pre-cum at the top of her dick, I pull back and slow my thrusts. I bring the tip of my thumb that caught the salty pearl of liquid to my mouth and I suck hard.

"You taste good, Harley, girl," I tell her and she moans around Miko's cock.

"Fuck, yeah," Miko says, reaffirming the praise.

"You're so hot, Harley baby," I tell her. "So hot and tight."

Harley starts to whimper in little high-pitched squeaks.

"Fuck, I love those noises." Miko throws his head back. "I'm so fucking close."

Miko looks so hot right now. His neck elongated and a vein throbbing on one side. Every muscle in his hard-earned sculpted torso is tight and strained, the scars under his pectorals two soft lines of pink. His cherry-coloured nipples are hard little points I'd love to have in my mouth.

And yet, I'm still not close.

"Do you want me to come on your mouth and your fingers, you dirty little whore?" Miko has one hand on the harness at his hips, loosening it. Yes, I think. I'd like to see that. I try to imagine his clit growing bigger and harder in Harley's mouth. I think about him holding Harley's face close to his cunt. These are thoughts that would normally get me closer to coming, but once again, nada, nothing.

"Fuck," I grunt out and I know for the camera and my partners it will read as pleasure, but instead it's deep frustration.

I've filmed scenes where I don't come. I like to keep it real and use those scenes as opportunities to talk about how sex isn't only about orgasms or ending with a climax, especially as a penis owner. But today, I want to come. I would really like to come inside someone. I would like to come fully present in the scene that's happening in front of me, namely Harley sliding another finger into Miko as she deepens the arch in her back and takes his big clit completely in her mouth. I would like to come off the back of seeing Miko's face twist with pleasure.

And not thinking about the way a certain young Irish woman tosses her hair over her shoulder. Not recalling the way she pouts when she's thinking of what to say next in a talking video. Not about the way she shakes her slender hips in her old dancing TikToks. Not like I made myself come – so, so hard – last night.

Jesus. Now I'm close.

How the fuck does that work? It's been nearly two weeks since we shared those weird and yet strangely endearing messages. It's been nearly two weeks since she said she'd think about us doing a social media collab and she hasn't sent anything else. It's been nearly two weeks of me checking that conversation thread daily before then scrolling through her years and years' worth of content to find another cute dancing or lipsync video of her that puts a smile on my face, which is something I simply don't do. Not with someone who looks like her, and not with somebody who pretty much told me to fuck off multiple times.

But nothing makes sense right now. Here I am pounding into a hot, tight hole and watching a beautiful man close his eyes as he climaxes all over his moaning girlfriend, and yet it's thinking about Mae, no, Maeve, and her innocent hair tosses, thoughtful pouts and cute little dance moves that has me closing my eyes and giving in.

I come thinking about how sweet and soft and warm those pouting lips of hers would be against mine. I come thinking about what it would be like to watch her eyes close as she approaches me for that kiss. I come thinking about what her motherfucking hair smells like.

"Fuck," I grunt again, but this time it sounds a lot like hopelessness.

*****

A couple of hours later and I'm pulling into my mother's driveway. I feel exhausted but I'm not surprised. It was an intense scene and I had to do a lot of mental Olympics to stay in the moment, and then afterward I gave Harley the aftercare she deserved, holding her in the shower as she leaned back into Miko's touch while he washed her hair. I also noticed Miko needed a little aftercare too so I offered to give him a massage which I think helped him with his Dom drop. And then Harley had insisted on cooking and so I stayed for a late lunch, even though I was itching to get home. To check that Jessica was okay, that she'd done her physical therapy and that she wasn't alone. as Mom was on call for a birth today.

I don't like my sister being home alone, which is why I'm relieved when I see my mom's car still in the driveway.

Taking my bags with me, I open the front door and am surprised to hear music blasting from upstairs. My mother is in the living room, sitting on the couch wearing her noise-canceling headphones with her legs folded under her. She's reading a book, her reading glasses at the end of her nose and a highlighter poised in her mouth like it often is.

"Hey Momma," I call out as I drop my bag and walk toward her. "What the fuck is going on upstairs?"

Seeing me, she slides her headphones off and they hang around her neck as she uses the highlighter as a bookmark.

"Taylor is over." Mom shrugs. "They're having fun."

"That festival smuggler," I tut.

Mom's eyes narrow on me. "She's the only one of Jessica's friends who has actually stuck around. I'll not hear a word against her."

"Is she wearing a mask?"

"Of course she is. Don't insult me or your sister." It's Mom's turn to tut and it's much louder and firmer than my own.

"So you haven't been called out?"

Mom glances at the phone resting on her full stomach which is covered with one of her many linen smock dresses. My mom wouldn't be my mom if she wasn't floating around the house draped in loose linen, her graying locs piled on top of her head and the scent of patchouli and sage following her everywhere.

"Not yet, but I can feel it's going to happen soon. The mother's a Leo and Mercury has just started to retrograde in Leo so I'm ready for a possibly very eventful birth."

Yeah, my Momma taught me about the stars growing up.

It's why I've decided to not give too much attention to thinking about Maeve getting me to climax a couple of hours ago. I discovered from one of her videos that she's a Cancer and I had a notification from one of the astrology sites I'm signed up to this morning about the new moon in Cancer. Considering Cancer is a Moon sign, that only increases the pull of the sign, especially over a Scorpio sun sign like myself, as connected as us Water signs are.

But while I'm a Scorpio sun, I'm also an Aries moon and a Taurus rising which means I can be focused and determined when I want to be, when I need to be, and right now I need to get this blonde Irish girl out of my head. All I have to do is put my mind to it, and put my mind to it I will.

"Let me go make us some food," I say, my voice still pitched above the thumping noise coming from upstairs. It's been a few days since I cooked for my mom and Jessica.

"Don't go to any trouble." Mom waves her hand around and looks like she's about to stand up.

"I want to," I say. "Sit down. Read. Fill your book with highlights."

"You don't have to tell me twice." She leans back against the couch's soft cushions. "You were just with Harley and Miko, weren't you? How are they?"

I used to blush or mumble or feel self-conscious when my mom would make any reference to my work, but these days it doesn't prompt any sort of weird reaction. I've never lied to my mother about what I do and she met Miko and Harley countless times when we were all together.

"They're good. Still at each other's throats half the time." I roll my eyes.

"It's their love language." Mom smiles softly.

"Fighting? Conflict? Being on-off and on-off again?"

"Research actually shows that people who fight a lot tend to be more in love than those who don't."

"Bullshit, Mom!" I declare.

"Not to mention how much arguing, and obviously the making up afterward, can increase sexual desire," Mom says and is there any surprise I'm a sex worker and a sexual health and intimacy advocate when my mother has always talked to me like that?

"I'm not convinced." I pull a face.

"It may not make sense to your self-preservation-obsessed Scorpio ass, but believe it. And there's something to be said for partners who can have conflict and work through it. As long as there's repair and communication, it's no bad thing."

"Well, it's not my love language," I say. "I mean, even if I was interested in a romantic relationship with someone again, I wouldn't want there to be conflict in it."

"You can't avoid conflict in life, Loncey," my mom says after a beat that feels heavy and charged. "No matter what you do."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I cock an eyebrow.

Mom studies me, and that's exactly what she's doing, her eyes drilling into me. There aren't that many people who know me as well as my mom does and I don't like it.

"Fish tacos okay?" I ask before turning on my heel and walking into the kitchen. I point a finger up the stairs as I call out to my mother, "And they get ten more minutes of this racket and then I'm going upstairs to tell them to turn it down and I swear to God, if I see either of them with their masks off…"

*****

Cooking dinner achieves what I hope it will in terms of keeping a certain Irish woman out of my mind. It also stops me from wondering what my mom was trying to say with all the words she didn't speak. It's not like her to not share what she's feeling but more and more recently I've felt those silent looks dig their way inside me, as if she's trying to excavate a part of me that I don't know exists.

But I'm an open book too. I don't hide my feelings or my thoughts. I'm always honest about the work I do. I chronically overshare on my social channels in the hope that my experience as a Black, pansexual, aromantic and polyamorous non-binary sex worker may help someone. I meditate. I read. I journal and I go to therapy when I feel the need. I show my love freely and enthusiastically.

Which is what I plan on doing when I climb the stairs to invite my sister's friend to stay for dinner. Jessica struggles to eat the extra calories she needs at mealtimes, or at any time of day, and often having something, or someone, to distract her can help her put more food away than usual.

I didn't tell them to turn their music down after ten minutes. I was too busy chopping and marinating and making tortillas from scratch. But in the end, the volume was lowered around twenty minutes ago, so I didn't have to endure much more of the pulsing bassline bruising my eardrums through the ceiling.

I knock on the door and I hear the giggling that was happening behind Jessica's bedroom wall come to a sudden halt. A few moments later, the door opens and my sister is standing in front of me, and she is not wearing a mask.

"Jessica!" I exclaim.

"What?" She challenges me as she leans against the door, and it is a challenge, her dark eyes lighting up and the corners of her mouth twitching.

"Your mask?" I say, my hands rolling into fists by my side.

"I'm wearing mine!" A voice calls out from inside the room. I can see Taylor's feet wriggling at the end of Jessica's bed.

"It was getting stuffy in here." Jessica shrugs. And then she coughs. She tries to swallow it down, push it away, but we all know that's useless. It bubbles up again, rattling her lungs and making her bend with its force.

Yeah, fuck this.

I push the door open and grip my sister's arm, effectively holding her up as she continues to cough. As I fully expect, it gets worse before it improves.

"It's okay, Jess," I say, stroking my thumb against her skin and the hem of her T-shirt. I notice then that she's wearing make-up. A lot of make-up. So that's what they were doing.

Stuff like this kills me. My twenty-six-year-old sister still doing makeovers with her childhood best friend. She shouldn't be spending her time like that. She should be out working, chasing her dreams, whatever they are. Not stuck inside playing around with eyeshadows and body glitter like a teenager.

Jessica continues to cough and she gasps for each breath in between.

"Do you need to go to the bathroom?" I ask, really questioning whether she needs to cough up some of the mucus that is clogging her lungs and airways. Sometimes she doesn't like to do that in front of other people.

She shakes her head.

"Shit," Taylor says behind us, and I look up to see her sitting on the edge of the bed her eyes wide. "I haven't seen her this bad for a long time," she says to me when my gaze find hers.

"She's still recovering from an infection," I say as if to explain it, but really, that's not the whole truth. Sometimes Jessica just coughs and coughs and coughs and needs long, desperate minutes to find her breath again.

And I hate it. I hate not being able to stop my sister from coughing. I hate not being able to make her breathe without wheezing, which is what she's doing now the coughing is slowing. I hate that this happens to my sister daily, and the fact Taylor hasn't seen it for a while is simply because she doesn't see Jessica every day. Taylor has her own life. She works full-time and is studying to get her real estate license.

For all the loyalty she has shown my sister, Taylor still has a full life of her own, one that keeps her busy and active in a way I know my sister can only dream of.

And it's not fair. It's so unfair the injustice of it all hits me like an uppercut to my diaphragm, winding me and making me feel uncomfortably alert.

"You've got this, Jessica." My hand moves to start stroking her back. Her breathing is still labored, each wheeze thick with effort and mucus, but she's stopped coughing. She nods toward one of her spit bags near her bed and I lead her to them. Taylor and I both look away as she hacks up into the open paper bag.

"What can I do?" Taylor asks, standing up when Jessica is finished.

You can stop taking her to festivals. You can stop dancing to loud music like I assume you were just doing. You can help me make sure Jessica understands that all these risks are real and serious and life-threatening. You can stop giving her a taste of honey she's never going to enjoy for more than a minute or two without serious repercussions.

"Nothing." I sigh.

Jessica turns her body to press her forehead to my chest and I feel so much in the move. I feel her succumbing to being taken care of. I feel her exhaustion weigh her bones down. I feel her run out of whatever little energy she had left to fight me. And I could be totally wrong, but it also feels a bit like an apology.

I wrap my arms around my little sister, my hand brushing up against the hard white circle that is her CGM, her Continuous Glucose Monitor, on her upper arm. Jess is pretty good at managing her Cystic Fibrosis Related Diabetes herself thanks to this device and her being a lot more chill about needles than I am. I like to play my part by making sure she eats right and ensuring our fridge is full of the best ingredients. "I came up to tell you both dinner is nearly ready, and to find out if Taylor wants to stay and eat with us."

"Sounds good!" Taylor's face moves and I know she's smiling, hard. She's not a bad kid. Well, she's not a kid at all. She's twenty-six, like Jessica, and although more often than not she's in joggers and a T-shirt at our house, when she's standing in front of me now in the skirt suit I assume she wore to work today, this morning's make-up still on her olive skin and her dark brown hair pulled back into a messy bun on the top of her head, I can see the adult she really is.

The kind of adult I don't think Jessica will ever get a chance to be.

Another bolt of discomfort stabs me in the gut as I pull back from Jessica to get an answer.

She looks up at me with her big brown eyes, her slim frame feeling almost fragile in my hands and she nods, making her tight curls bob around her heart-shaped face.

"That would be nice," she says.

"It's fish tacos."

That draws out a smile. Jessica pulls back and turns toward Taylor, who steps closer to us. "They make the best fish tacos."

"I don't need any further encouragement. Sign me up!"

"Five minutes," I say and I subtly take the bag out of Jessica's hand. "Wash up!"

As I start descending the stairs, I glance back and see my sister slide her hand into Taylor's. It's such a small action, and I'd normally think nothing of it, but then I look up and see the way they're looking at each other and out of the blue, I start to wonder if I have a very different problem on my hands.

*****

Two hours later and I am alone again. Blissfully, happily alone. Dinner was a success – my sister ate three and a half tacos – and Taylor told us all many hilarious stories about the homes she's recently been involved in selling. My mom's phone didn't ring until we were stacking plates afterward and she quickly left after dishing out forehead kisses to us all. The kitchen has been cleaned up. Taylor left to go to the gym and I tried to ignore the way she and Jessica were holding hands again as they said goodbye. I sat with my sister as she did her last vest physio of the day, did her insulin injection and took her meds, and then I checked the house was locked up before I took a shower in the house's guest bathroom.

But now I'm back in my cabin. Back in my cabin, clean and fresh and slipping a cream silk negligee over my head. I exhale deeply as the cool, smooth fabric kisses my skin and I look down at myself. The definition of my stomach and pectoral muscles pressing up against the silk has me running a hand down my body. The outline of my penis and the way my thighs stretch the material has me feeling sexier than I did in the scene I filmed with Miko and Harley.

As something of a self-professed sexpert, I should have an understanding of why I feel so sensual when I wear clothes like this. As someone who came out as non-binary over three years ago, I should be able to vocalize why indulging my feminine side, in my stereotypically masculine body, feels like a deeply spiritual act. As somebody who has been doing this – wearing clothes deemed only suitable for women by society – since their formative years, I should maybe be more comfortable with this side of my gender expression, so comfortable that I share it with the world… but I don't.

As always I don't dwell on the reasons why that is any longer than I have to. Too many bad memories that threaten to take away this high I'm feeling. A high I tell myself I'm happy to keep to myself, where it's safe and protected. Instead I focus on the freedom I feel moving around the cabin toward my bed as the feather-light material that caresses my thighs and the thin spaghetti straps rest on my collar bones.

A year ago, I stopped taking my phone to bed with me in a bid to have more clearly established on and offline time, but this last week, I've undone those good habits and I've slipped under the covers with my device in hand, just like I'm doing now.

Once comfortable, my fingers move without my conscious thought and I'm only mildly surprised when I'm looking at Maeve's profile. The kick of excitement I feel when I see she has a new video is possibly something I should be concerned about, but I've been quite successful dismissing potential concerns this evening so why not just continue.

"Alright, time to try sell you all something again!" she declares to the camera, her face all done up and her hair in a too-perfect arrangement of waves around her face and down her chest. "And I have to be real with you. This was the last product I thought I'd ever try and sell you but it's actually turned out to be one of the most interesting and almost, you know, fun."

She goes on to explain that she's just had her birth chart tracked through an app and that she's discovered she's more than just the Cancer sun sign she knew she was. She now knows she has a Gemini moon and her rising sign is in Pisces. After she reads out more about her birth chart and what each sign potentially means for her personality and the trajectory of her life, she puts the device she's reading from down and fixes the camera with a firm stare.

"I mean, obviously, it could all still be utter bollocks, but it was kind of fun to explore a little bit, to understand better what so many people are rightly or wrongly convinced is gospel. And hey, why not have something to blame for how irritated the general population often makes me. It's because I was born when Capricorn was in Mercury."

I couldn't stop my fingers if I tried as I open our chat in my inbox. After ignoring the way she has yet to respond to the I'll think about it.> message, I start typing.

With all due respect, re: your birth chart video, it's not bollocks. We are aligned with the planets and the stars more than you may think. Understanding how the journey of planets can affect our moods and energy is one of the best things you can do for your personal growth and spirituality. I'd be happy to point you to a few books to help you understand it better. I did a TikTok about it a few weeks ago, in fact. Peace, L>