Page 97 of The Influencer

But as I watch myself come on the screen, my dick pours precum, soaking the front of my compression shorts. I tremble with the effort not to take hold of my cock. But none of that matters when Asher comes. The sound he makes is as good as a mouth around my dick. I come on a choked gasp because I swear to God, I can literally feel that Prince Albert dragging along my prostate—his mouth sucking a hickey on my inner thigh. The sudden orgasm is quick and powerful, the kind I experience in wet dreams where I wake in cum-covered sheets with my hands nowhere near my cock. I shudder and squirm through the aftermath, feeling like a dirty child with a filthy mind.

Slumping in my chair, I cover my face with both hands and burst into tears. I let myself sob like a fucking baby for a solid five or so minutes until the tears finally dry up and the screen goes black. Shakily, without even changing my pants, I cut the very beginning and very end of the video, add a soft filter, and splice together the four angles I filmed. It’s simple enough with the sound off. I’ve done it dozens of times by now. I know what sells.

When I think I’m done, I force myself to watch it one more time. This time, I don’t get off on it. I cry through the entire thing. Not the violent sobs that wracked my body from the humiliation of coming hands-free in the privacy of my own home like a pathetic loser. Just silent tears pouring down my face because they weren’t all dried up after all. They were just waiting for the perfect edit.

I post the video with a $100 price tag and use a teaser clip of Asher sucking my balls. And then I’m done with it. It’s over. I slam my laptop closed and rush to take a shower and change clothes.

By the time I come out of the bathroom, I’m fifteen thousand dollars richer, and all my fans want to know if I’m in love.

Fuck.

I’m not in love and I can prove it. My Grindr date that night is named Matt. He’s in his mid-thirties with clean-cut blonde hair, a slim frame, and glasses. At first, I wonder if he even tops, but the more I talk to him, the more I remember never to judge a book by its cover.

He’s married to a woman—though he’s not wearing a ring and claims he’s separated. He’s Christian as fuck. He’s also in middle management at an accounting firm. And he’s got a lot of pent-up lust, burning to come out. He can’t keep his hands off me. He’s proprietary even. A little dominant. Controlling. Guiding me around the bar where we meet up with a hand on the back of my neck, which I accept, because I need to get out of my head, and I get off on possessive men. That’s definitely ironic.

When he asks me what I do for a living, I tell him. Not about the Instagram revenue streams but about the OnlyFans. I tell him I’m a slut and probably need to be punished because I’m ready to take this back to the house, and I don’t want him to be surprised by my bedroom and get weird.

He fucks me roughly from behind, but his dick’s an underwhelming average size. To compensate, he chokes me out, slaps my ass hard enough to leave marks, and insists on coming on my face. He finishes me by draining my balls with his mouth on my cock. I’m not his first man—that much is obvious.

It’s more like he does this any chance he gets, and he’s not half bad at it. I’m satisfied with my care.

I stay in bed while he puts himself together and makes his excuses to go. I thank him for the date, and he tells me I’m the best he’s ever had. He says it in a way that leads me to believe he doesn’t say that to all the boys.

I accept the compliment but decline his request for my phone number. He knows how to get in touch with me. When he leaves, with traces of his cum still on my face, I take some selfies. Close-ups where the milky beads are obvious. Best he’s ever had is the caption. In my story, I caption a slightly different angle with even more of Matt’s cum visible with Who wants to be next?

And then I take a fucking shower, scrubbing my face for five solid minutes with a microfiber cloth and brushing my teeth until my gums bleed a little. After a quick soapsuds enema, I’m worn out and fall into a restless sleep, pretty sure I’m finally done processing the whole Asher fiasco and back to normal.

It’s not as big of a relief as I’d wanted it to be, but oh well.

28

asher

Who wants to be next?

Clever caption, Jade. “This is him,” I say, sliding my phone across the dining room table to Elio. We’re the first ones up. He’s sipping a cappuccino, and I’m gulping a smoothie.

Elio is the oldest member of the throuple involving two of Adam’s former teammates from back when he used to play for the LA Flames.

“Is that…cum? On his face?”

“That, or he’s trying a new moisturizer,” I say drily because obviously it’s cum, and it’s not an old picture either. The septum ring and his quilted wall are dead giveaways.

“He’s beautiful,” Elio says, a note of admiration in his voice.

“Yeah.”

He chuckles. “And I thought I had my hands full.”

I reluctantly grin, taking the phone as he passes it back, clicking on Jade’s most recent post again. It feels pointed, although I’m not sure why I get that impression. Maybe something in his eyes. They aren’t seductive like they are in most of his photos, they’re more—smug.

“It shouldn’t turn me on, should it?” I ask.

Elio arches a dark brow. He’s younger than Sawyer, but older than the rest of us in the penthouse. Late thirties, I think. He used to be a famous porn star, and now he produces and directs adult films. He’s been maintaining a polyamorous relationship with Vince and Race since last winter, and if anyone could possibly understand the rise I get out of knowing the guy I like to fuck likes to fuck other men, maybe it’s him.

“Desire can be a mysterious thing,” he says. “For me—watching Vince with Race… it’s… beyond erotic.”

“I’m not sure whether or not I’m interested in watching, though. It’s more about the knowing…”

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