“Really?” Barry asks, enticed by this invitation. If he’s used to drugging his victims, this might seem too good to be true.
“I found Adam to be very accommodating when he first came to me for help,” Cassius says, picking at an invisible piece of lint on his sports coat. “He has an excellent understanding of how this business works, and his cock sucking abilities are truly next level. Why don’t you take him for a spin, Barr?”
Barry’s nostrils flare, and his gaze remains riveted on my face. “Such beautiful lips,” he says as he traces his thumb over my bottom one. I brush the edge of it with my tongue. His skin tastes like stale tobacco. “Is it true what your manager says?”
I say huskily, “Yes, sir, I know exactly what it takes to get ahead. I’ve been practicing for a long time, too. I can make you come so hard you see stars.” Barry nods and I sink down to my knees on the tile floor while he stands and begins unbuttoning his pants. I get a glimpse of his cock and balls, kind of wrinkly, which makes me wonder if Barry’s had work done on his face because the two don’t seem to match up.
“You can have him for the night, Barry,” Cassius says, “to do what you want with him, but I need some assurances from you too.”
“He can have the part,” Barry says impatiently. “I’ll have the casting director make you a formal offer tomorrow.” Barry sits down again with his hairy old man legs spread wide and reaches out to grab my jaw with his bony fingers. From the corner of my eye, I see Cassius stand.
“That’s quite enough,” he says, and I immediately pull back. Cassius’s face is stony, and his eyes are sharp as glass. He’s furious, and I only hope it’s not at me. He tosses me the keys to the Malibu and says tightly, “Adam, go wait in the car.”
A shivery thrill races through me. I love it when Cassius takes control. Competence is my kink.
“It was really nice meeting you, Mr. Behrakis,” I say with a smile before rising to my feet. I don’t know what Cassius has planned, but I trust my boyfriend to deliver.
Chapter11
Cassius
Ifinish playing back the recording of Barry trying to coerce my boyfriend into sex, then launch into my final offer, concluding with, “And if you decide to go back on your word and not offer Adam the part you promised, you will be hearing from my law firm Lachlan, Takeda, and Howe. That’safterthe exposé I give to theHollywood Reporteron your sickening depravity and the class-action lawsuit against your production company because I predict it won’t take long for my PI to dig up the names of your other protégés. Your time is up, Barry. Hashtag MeToo.”
Barry, who now looks like a mere ghost of himself, shrinks away from where I tower over him while nodding adamantly. I make a dramatic exit out of his charming home to find Adam sitting obediently in the passenger seat of my Malibu, scrolling through his Instagram feed, no doubt looking for the latest deprecating comment from Rey Pavo-Real, more fodder for his self-obsession. Christ, being Adam’s boyfriend is going to give me premature gray hair.
“How did it go?” he asks, looking up at me like a lost sheepdog. Damn his innocence and naivety. This was supposed to be a short-lived affair, and here I am threatening powerful Hollywood producers on his behalf.
“It went fine. Barry was very understanding. You have the part.”
“Really?” he asks, beaming.
“I told you I always deliver on my promises.” I loosen my tie. I did not expect to get so hot under the collar.
“Thank you, Cassius.” He grabs me from across the center console and smothers me in a hug that is more like a chokehold—he’s a lot stronger than he realizes.
“Tell me you were acting in there,” I say, finding his performance a little too convincing.
“Of course, I was. His dick was wrinkly.”
“So, if he’d had a juicier dick?”
“I obviously would have sucked it,” he says, laughing.
“You’re a supreme pain in my ass,” I say and pinch him for good measure.
“Seriously, though, thank you for doing that for me. I would have been so lost without you.” He stares at me with a shine in his eyes until I nod in response. His sincerity always catches me off guard.
“Don’t thank me yet. Tonight, I’m getting exactly what I want out of you.”
“Oh yeah, and what’s that?” he says, cocky as ever.
“You’ll see soon enough.”
* * *
Adam loves the enema,not surprising, and begs me to let him weigh himself after our shower, which I do. He’s a pound under his new target weight—and the scale is accurate this time—which is clearly the cherry atop his body dysmorphia sundae.
“New rule, Adam,” I tell him because I can already see where this is headed. “No enemas, no douching, no suppositories, and no laxatives without my permission. That goes for diuretic cleanses too.”
