I almost moan. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s so fucking hot. My hand moves faster as he starts to slowly uncoil the pearls. I can see the tip of his cock, beautifully dark pink in contrast to the jewellery, the bead of precum almost matching the pearls before he gently rubs it in, arching his back as he does it.
He uncoils even more, revealing his cock, layer by layer, drawing my eyes to every inch of skin, every vein. He reaches the base, and I watch as he gathers the pearls up and winds them round his hand. He smoothes what looks like lube over himself with the other hand, then he wraps his pearl-covered hand round his cock and starts moving.
Holy fuck, that looks good. I imagine what it must be like to have them sliding against your skin. Each pearl is a point of pressure gliding smoothly up and down. I want them on my cock, those pearls in my hands, and then I want my hands wrapped round both of us, skimming the beads up and down us both together as I see him come undone from my touch.
My hand on my own dick moves faster as I watch him thrust into his hand. Our strokes are in unison, as are our orgasms, as I hear him moan loud enough to be heard over the music. I roar through my release, coming harder than I have for a long time before slowly coming to a stop. He lifts his hand, cum dripping off the pearls. I’d like to suck each one of the beads clean for him, and in my post-orgasm state I nearly write a pledge to ask for that. Only then does a small part of my brain kick in that this had not been the point of the exercise. I’m going to regret this in the morning, but right now I’m too sated to care.
CHAPTER 16
KAI
Icheck the results of this week’s poll on which of the glass dildos my followers want to see. It was no surprise that last week they chose the longest, so I’ve removed that and added in another. This time the most votes are for one which is shaped like a tentacle, curled at the base with suckers, though the other end is very dick-shaped. I can have fun with that. Going through the closet, I find a length of aquamarine netting and a few shells. These will set the scene perfectly. There’s another silk shawl, this time with a blue and green pattern that could pass for scales, so I grab that too. I spy the pearls on the dressing table, they’re sea related so might work. They’re certainly popular. The last video I did with the pearls has made over quarter of a million pounds in just the four days it’s been live.
I decide to use the bed for this video, so I move my setup into the neighbouring bedroom. I arrange the netting so it looks a little like the sea, bunching up a white duvet beneath to give it the appearance of waves, then I scatter the shells around. I’m probably getting more carried away with dressing the set than Ineed to, but it’s tapped into a creative need I didn’t know was there and I’m enjoying it. I also think it sets my account apart from others, which is helping with the way it’s growing. I can almost believe that I’m going to make enough money.
I fashion a thing from the pearls and wrap the shawl of scales around my waist, letting it hang down, encasing my legs like a merman’s tail. I make sure the tentacle and lube is close by before starting the music and hitting record on my phone, then I climb onto the bed, starting the video while lying down propped up on one elbow. I tease to the camera, running my hands down my chest and over my groin, tracing my cock through the shawl, making sure its hardness is evident. Every time I touch myself I think of Jason. At first it was difficult to make sure I was hard for the camera, and the only way I could do that consistently was imagine Jason’s large warm hands on my body, how they’d feel gliding over my skin. But now, like some sort of conditioned response, when I touch myself it’s with him in my mind, and even though he doesn’t like what I’m doing I can’t help it.
I bring the dildo into play, rubbing it over my skin and licking it, taking it into my mouth and miming a blow job with it before I trace down my neck, touching the glass to my nipples, enjoying the cold on my sensitive nubs. I kneel up and let the shawl drop away, showing my cock caught up in the thong of pearls. I line up the tentacle against my cock, gripping them both for a few seconds before pulling off the pearls and stroking. As gracefully as I can, I turn over, putting my arse on display, and I thrust it back towards the camera while I reach for the lube. It’s time to give the audience what they want.
Pleasuring myself isn’t an act, though I might exaggerate the movements for show. But my enjoyment of the ridged suckers is real, and so are my gasps as I angle it to hit my prostate. I go foras long as I can, drawing it out until I need to come. I don’t even need to touch my cock, and I shudder with pleasure as I come, spilling over the shawl. As an extra show for my fans, I swipe the tentacle dildo through my cum, and then flip over to face the camera and let it drip onto my tongue before licking the full length.
I stop the recording and then lie back on the bed, resting for a while before I start tidying up. I put everything that needs cleaning into a laundry basket that Jones provided for me, discreetly and with no more fuss than to inform me what it was for. Within twenty-four hours all the contents are usually cleaned and returned to their places in the room or closet.
Next I take a shower, letting the warm water wash over me. I rest my head against the tiles. It doesn’t matter how hot the water is, I can’t rid myself of the cold grip of loneliness. It’s happening more often after I make a video, but it’s not just about sex. I ache for the touch of another human, just to be held. The comfort of being close, sharing space and feeling secure. I sigh and shut off the water. The path I’ve taken has meant I’ve sacrificed that, and for now there’s no point dwelling on it.
In sweatpants and a hoodie I go to my uncle’s study, buzzing for Jones as soon as I enter. I need coffee.
“Hi, Roberta,” I greet her, and she looks up from the paperwork on my uncle’s desk. I didn’t see any point in moving everything elsewhere for her to work, so she uses the desk. I’m far more comfortable curled up on a couch, and if I’m honest, I like the quiet companionship. She’ll also tell me interesting points I need to know as she comes across them. She’s only been working for three days but it feels like longer. I sit and start to edit my video, ready to upload. It only takes a few minutes.
“I have the full inventory of the estate from Nagle,” she says. “Also, hi,” she adds as an afterthought. I don’t mind. It shows how much she’s concentrating.
“And...” I prompt, because I’m sure she’s leading to something else.
“How much did Nagle say you could sell some of the paintings for?”
“He said I could get a million for a couple of them. Why?” I say and see her frown.
“It doesn’t add up. There’s a Rubens listed here for two million. Of course that would have to be valued and authenticated if you did want to sell it.”
I cross quickly to the desk and look down at the list. My first thought is why did he lie, and the second is did I even need to start the For my Fans account. Not that I mind as I find it fun, but I still feel the pressure of needing to keep performing.
“Why didn’t he tell me this?” I look at a couple of other items listed, which seem like more than I thought.
“That’s a very good question. Did you say he came and put pressure on you to sell?”
“Yes, he did.” I think back to that day and something in my brain clicks. “He never expected me to have access to this list. He made it look like it would be impossible to raise the money so I’d sell. He showed up when I didn’t straight away.”
“Exactly,” Roberta agrees. “But what we don’t know yet is why.”
“Not yet, but we’ll find out. Tell me, though, is the estate valued correctly or do I owe even more money?”
“Let me check.” Roberta returns to her paperwork, and while I await the verdict I pick up my uncle’s last journal. I’m still working on the identity of the man who I now think of as my uncle’s great love. He’s just referred to as M in his diaries. Jones comes in with our coffees. I gratefully accept a mug and then he hands one to Roberta. Watching them, an idea strikes me. Bob, short for Robert. What if M is short for something else. A name that doesn’t begin with an M. I bring up the photo of the statue on my phone and stare at it as I think. I reach for a copy of who’s who from a few years ago that I found on my uncle’s bookshelves. A quick internet search for a photo and I almost whoop with joy. I know who M is.
“Yes, it all adds up correctly,” Roberta calls out across the room, reminding me of the present problem.
“That’s a relief,” I sigh, glad things are no worse.
“Yes, it seems he got that right. But I can photograph a few of these paintings if you want, and send them to my friend. It might help if you can raise more money. How much do you have so far?”
