Self Made Cuckold
- 4 years ago
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I feel his eyes on me and it shouldn’t matter because everyone’s eyes are on me but Cole’s attention is one of the only things that can still make me feel uncomfortable. I know what he’s thinking. I know that he can’t stand the burning heat; that he wants nothing more than to go back to the hotel bar and order a scotch on the rocks. But he doesn’t. He can’t. He has to wait until we’re done, he has to lean against the Audi in his heat-absorbing black t-shirt and jeans and wait until the photoshoot’s over.
Cole knows me like I know him and it isn’t healthy. We have history. I’ve overshared and maybe he has too but his secrets aren’t worth millions of dollars to gossip magazines. I should keep my mouth shut but what can I say? He’s easy to talk to. He listens. I don’t think I could live without him.
*
It’s midsummer in LA and we’re shooting outdoors, doing the first cover option for Blank magazine. There’ll be a choice of three covers by the time the day is done, plus ten shots to accompany the interview article inside. I’m wearing a metallic-look multicolored leather jacket and in the heat, it looks as though the colors are literally melting into each other.
I can’t decide which I hate more; the jacket, the Alexander Wang sweater it covers, or the skintight Gucci jeans suffocating my legs. In between shots, I gaze longingly at the clothes rails the stylists are rifling through. T-shirts. Floaty blouses. Maxi-dresses. Anything would be better than leather meets wool meets denim.
The heat is relentless; the sky cloudless and the sun so hot that every five minutes my makeup requires retouching. I am eternally grateful for the wind machine even though the shot calls for it to provide little more than a gentle breeze. The set designer has struggled to diffuse the direct sunlight but Marc, the photographer, is optimistic.
“Beautiful, beautiful,” he yells, “Walk towards the camera, Lana. Slowly! Yes, yes! Perfect!”
Marc Jenkins is the next Mario Testino, Jenny tells me. Jenny’s my agent. She’s also the closest thing I have to a friend and I trust her because if I didn’t, I’d be lost. She organizes everything, even packs my suitcase. Our relationship teeters on the border between professional and social. When she asked for my approval for the engagement announcement, she hesitated a second at the door.
“We don’t have to do it so soon, Lana,” she’d said.
“Why would we wait?” I’d asked and she’d paused like she had something more to say but then she’d nodded and disappeared.
The statement was released yesterday. I approved the final draft a week ago, but seeing it reproduced on the internet and knowing that millions of strangers are reading it feels surreal. Why did I say yes? The answer’s obvious. Brandon is perfect in all the conventional ways. He has money, a good heart, good looks and all of these qualities are wrapped up in a tantalizing promise of security. There’s only one problem. Cole.
I don’t talk to Brandon about the things that worry me. He gets the sunshine, the smiles, the laughter and champagne. Cole gets the rain. He drives, I talk. Sometimes he replies. Most of the time he just listens. I know it’s careless, but I can’t help sharing, unable to shake the feeling that he somehow understands. Perhaps it’s because he’s been the only constant since my professional life began. Two years older than me, his first job came around at the same time as mine, only he had to fight off violent paparazzi for a tiny percentage of the money I got for sauntering down a runway.
Eight years have passed, and I’m pretty sure he’s felt each one of them. Eight years of being dragged around the world, of having to endure endless stalkers and journalists. I know it’s wearing thin on him. He wants more from life. He had a thing with one of the VS hairstylists six months ago and I had Jenny surreptitiously get rid of her. He knew. We didn’t talk about it but the way he looked at me the day after made me feel as though he knew my darkest secrets.
I know he’s seen the press release but we haven’t spoken about it in the same way we never talk about our relationships. I have a feeling it’s the final straw, though. The tension between us has become unbearable; it's reached the point where he puts the radio on when we’re in the car alone. He’s never said, but I know he doesn’t like Brandon, or at least what Brandon represents. I have an uneasy feeling that he’s going to do something radical, something unexpected and unstoppable but why would he? He knows the way the world works.
We had one night and I’ve tried desperately to draw a line under it. But how do you forget something that changed everything you’ve ever believed in? Brandon and I were going steady at the time; had hit a one-year milestone and Cole had been on the verge of moving on, finding a place to settle down, a regular job. I couldn’t lose him. Fucking him hadn’t been an official part of the plan but when it happened, I couldn’t regret it. He knew how to fuck and wasn’t afraid to go hard. Sex with him brought up every emotion I’d ever had even though the act itself was unapologetically physical.
Bodies. Sweat. Desperation. Intimidation. He’s the only man who towers over me. He must be six-four, maybe even six-five and my god, he made me feel everything he had on me. Height, weight, strength. Even his confidence eclipsed mine.
I can’t forget. The memory taunts me night after night, torturing me with what could have been. I know it’s counter-productive but I don’t stop myself dreaming about the way he touched me. Touched probably isn’t the right word. Grabbed. Scratched. Ravaged. Reached in and took everything I could give and then some more too. There’s something addictive about losing responsibility, about being helpless, about being so thoroughly taken.
*
“Okay, let’s go for the next shot,” Marc yells, finally satisfied with the third cover. “Ten minutes, guys!”
His accent makes everyone smile. It’s cut like glass, so impossibly British like Michael Caine in the movies. He’s handsome in a conventional way. Elise and Sara, the make-up girls, are watching him and laughing, daring one another to ask him out.
“Come on everyone!” Mandy snaps. She’s the producer and her voice immediately moderates my smile. I don’t know if she’s intentionally bitchy or if the stress is getting to her. Either way, I’m not a fan.
I head into the makeshift dressing room, the stylists in tow. Different outfit, different makeup, different hair. We move fast and methodically, keeping on track with the schedule. It’s the second time I’ve worked with Marc and while the energy on set is buzzing, I can’t enjoy it. Everything is in place, I’m comfortable with the crew and the music is pulsing but I don’t feel it. I do my job, of course, but if it were someone other than Marc behind the camera, I probably would have played hooky.
“Beautiful,” he encourages, as we go through the motions of the next shot. “Perfect. Hold that face! Yes! Walk towards me.Gio, keep up! Yes!”
It happened too fast. It’s the first time the thought occurs to me because I’m usually busy telling myself how lucky I am and how I need to appreciate it all. But it’s been too much. Too many castings, photo-shoots, hours in hair and makeup, and way too many bitchy Mail articles. All of it has left no time for me to be me. I’m not even sure who Lana Kent is anymore. The version of myself I recall is still trying to remember her locker code at junior high.
Young. Innocent. Despite my height, I’d felt invisible at school. A giraffe. A freak. The insults stopped when I signed with IMG or maybe I just wasn’t around to hear them. Life changed. Colorado turned into New York City, Paris, London, Milan. At sixteen, I walked twenty three shows at NYFW. Marc Jacobs, Versace, Chanel, Valentino. I met people I’d read about in magazines. I preferred them in the magazines.
High school had to be finished by correspondence and it became a conscious task to stay in touch with my family. The media loves my family. Two older brothers; one a dentist, one a hotshot criminal defense lawyer. Dad’s been an ER doctor his entire life. Mom, an elementary school teacher. Picket fences and apple pies. Birthday parties and neighborhood bake sales. Life goes on.
Everyone uses what they have. Academics use their brains. Athletes use their bodies. Singers use their voices. Girls like me use their looks. It’s typical of society to deride us but there’s nothing wrong with utilizing your qualities. If I wanted to, I could wear unflattering clothes and work at a supermarket but I’d be wasting what I have. When it comes down to it, everyone has something and if you get a chance to use it, you’d be crazy not to.
It’s a self-serving attempt at justification, but what else is there? What else do you tell yourself when you walk down a runway for thousands of dollars while kids are starving the world over? Everyone’s stuck in a loop, chasing work, chasing money, chasing happiness and even though you know fulfillment can only come from within, isn’t it easier when everything outside falls into place?
*
It’s the last shot of the day and the sun hasn’t waned. The look is sexy-casual, a white tank over ripped denim shorts and wedge sandals. During the Blank interview I said something careless about feeling as though opportunities had come to me rather than being earned, as though I’d been ‘hitching’ rides from people in the industry. The writer made a big hitchhiking metaphor about it in her article and so Marc wants a shot to show it.
The stylists have taken to the theme with joy, draping me in beaded jewelry; going straight for the hippie look. I can’t blame them. Fashion can be so outlandish that’s it’s nice to have an actual story behind a look. My sweat-dampened hair is down in tousled waves, but apparently, it suits the shot. I’ve also been handed a battered old suitcase, the likes of which I imagine as a feature piece in a minimalist NYC loft.
“Isn’t that suitcase too old?” Cole asks. Everyone looks at him, surprise at the interruption quickly morphing into disdain. I can almost hear their identical thoughts: What the fuck does a security guy know?
Mandy looks at the suitcase, then narrows her eyes at Cole.
“Too old?” she snaps.
Cole’s broad shoulders lift in a shrug.
“Well, she’s some rich girl hitching a ride. Her clothes are new, expensive. The case is such an obvious prop.”
I stare at him. He doesn’t look at me.
The prop stylist is making angry noises and the set designer is trying to calm him. Mandy is livid. She hates the heat, she hates Marc and right now, I’m pretty sure she detests Cole. She deploys one of her patented withering stares on him. He looks back at her expectantly.
“The case is fine,” she eventually announces to no-one in particular. “Lana, hold your arm out.”
Marc isn’t happy. He scrutinizes the scene and shakes his head.
“It’s not suggestive enough,” he frowns. “Nobody’s thinking she’s actually gonna get picked up. We need a car in the background.” He spins around and points at Cole.
“You.”
Cole raises an eyebrow.
“What?”
“Take your car fifty meters down the road, turn and then crawl it back up. When I say stop, you stop. Okay?”
Cole doesn’t move. He chews his gum with a frown.
“I’m security,” he says but he eventually walks around to the driver’s side of the Audi and gets in, slamming the door shut. He’s pissed off and not afraid to show it. I drop my arm and set the suitcase down. All eyes are on Cole as he starts the car and moves off with unnecessary speed, leaving an angry cloud of dust in his wake. The smell of gas hits me and I can’t help inhaling. It’s almost enough to make my head spin.
“Maybe cross your legs,” Marc deliberates as he surveys me. “Yeah.”
The Chainsmokers pound out of the speakers. The crew is restless, trying to surreptitiously pack up without Mandy noticing. Marc holds up a hand, signaling for Cole to stop. The Audi screeches to a halt, then backs up a little as if to compensate. I resume the pose. Marc starts shooting.
“Beautiful,” he enthuses, moving to get another shot. “Keep that face! Brilliant. Shift your weight to the other leg. Perfect!”
Thankfully, it doesn’t take long until he’s satisfied. I change quickly in the dressing room, not wanting to delay anyone and step outside to let the stylists finish up. Mandy is stomping around the half-dismantled set, yelling at her assistants. Marc is swiping through photos on his tablet.
I take a long drink of water, eyes narrowed against the sun. Cole’s walking over, ready to leave. He looks endlessly attractive but more than that, he looks like home. I try to swallow the thought. It was just sex. Sex is nothing. It doesn’t count. I have a goddamn fiancée. I try to think about Brandon but my mind goes grey with suits and paperwork. What the fuck is wrong with me? As much as I try to stay calm and cool, my heart is thumping faster as Cole gets closer.
His shadow falls over me, blocking out the burning sun.
“Hey,” he says. “Ready to go?”
*
The paparazzi are outside the hotel so instead of walking into a mob armed with flashing cameras, Cole parks up next to the delivery entrance and we slip inside unnoticed. Apparently, we’re still not safe. Jenny gives word that journalists masquerading as guests are currently loitering outside my suite. We wind up having to go to Cole’s room. It’s small, with no balcony, and definitely no sea view.
I set my bag down tentatively on the floor and watch as he looks out the window. He hasn’t said more than five words to me since we got out of the car.
I swallow hard.
“Cole, is everything okay?”
He scoffs.
“What the hell do you think?”
I watch warily as he stalks across the room and picks up a hold-all.
“I’m through,” he clarifies.“I’m tired of being used. Maybe you don’t even realize you do it but at the end of the day, you’re the one hitching rides to Paris, Hollywood, the goddamn UN. And I'm dragged along like the fucking suitcase, used up and worn-out and I’m not doing it anymore, Lana. I’ve spent too many years kidding myself that something will change.”
I frown.
“So I’ll change it. You want money? What do you want, Cole?”
He throws his few personal items into the bag and zips it up.
“I want to get away from this. From you. You make out like you’ve got it all figured out, like you know how much of yourself is an act but you’ve gone too far.”
My mind is racing. Panic. Anxiety. Is he leaving? What is he saying?
“What d’you mean?” I ask.
“I mean it doesn’t matter what you say to me when I’m driving you someplace. All that matters is what you actually put out into the world. Doesn’t matter if you think you know better. It doesn’t change anything. You’re marrying him, Lana.” He looks at me.“You’re actually fucking marrying the guy.”
We’ve reached the root. No more pretense.
“Brandon’s a nice guy,” I say.
Cole laughs.
“He doesn’t know you, Lana.”
My mouth is dry. “How can you say that? You don’t know him.”
“No. But I know you. I know you don’t talk to him like you do to me,” His eyes meet mine.“Does he fuck like I do?”
We never talk about the sex. It’s an unspoken rule. But things have gone too far; he’s lost it and I’m fast losing him.
I clear my throat. “Cole, you were a mistake.”
He abandons the hold-all and takes a step towards me.
“You cheated on him. With me. Does he know?”
“No, and he doesn’t need to,” I tilt my chin up.“It didn’t mean anything.”
It’s a lie I’ve told myself a thousand times and it sounds even less credible out loud.
“So you don’t think about it?” Cole asks, undeterred. “About the way we fucked?”
I suck in a breath.
“Cole, you’re way out of line, I -”
“Cut the crap, princess,” he snaps.“This is me, okay? I know you. I bet you fake it with him.”
My mouth drops open and he smiles.
“You do, don’t you? God, I knew it!”
“Stop it, Cole,” My voice is weak. “Please.”
He ignores me.
“I’d never let you fake it,” he says and there’s something dark and wistful in his voice. “Lana, you know what you want. You know what makes sense. Why can’t you just – live?”
“You don’t know what I want.”
“I know you want me.”
I let my eyes move over him.
“You?” I breathe, “Why the hell would I want you?”
He doesn’t buy it. He’s not even insulted.
“’Cause we’re both the same. We know how to talk, how to fuck. You keep up this act long enough and it’ll stop being an act.”
“It’s not an act.”
“It isn’t?” He takes another step towards me.“So why’d you get rid of Abby? If I mean nothing to you, why would you interfere?”
Checkmate. It’s hard to look at him.
“You really need to figure yourself out,” he says. His voice has dropped low. “You want me to help?”
I want him. In the small, suffocating hotel room with the broken AC and the closed windows I desperately want him. Part of me is adamant that he’s the only man who can ever really satiate me. And then there’s another corner of my brain which suggests that perhaps my memories of him have been edited by fantasies. Perhaps he wasn’t all that good, only I made it out to be so in my head. And if so, I’ve been willfully dreaming about a man who doesn’t really exist.
Cole exists. But I don’t know if my version of him does. Maybe I’m obsessed with an ideal. Maybe all the lights and flashing cameras and late nights and broken high-heels have gotten to me. Maybe I’ve been dreaming of a dream. It’s plausible. In fact, I’m beginning to think I need an appointment with a $10,000 per hour shrink. But then he makes his move. He doesn’t kiss me in the way Brandon kisses me. His mouth is harder; taking more than it gives, stealing my breath and every coherent thought I’ve ever had. I kiss him back instinctively, my hands moving up to wind around his neck but he catches my wrists before I can touch him. Being overpowered shouldn’t turn me on so much.
I can smell his sweat. He tastes like mint and cigarettes. His fingers are holding my wrists so tight that I don’t even consider trying to pull away. I’m intensely aware of his bulking masculinity and there’s something bizarrely reassuring about it. His teeth catch my lip and tug on it hard, giving me a moment to gasp in air. His body pushes against mine and I feel the hardness in his jeans before I feel anything else. It makes me shudder.
“You want it?” He holds my hands to the small of my back, pulling me into him.
“Cole, I -”
“You want me to fuck you, princess?”
I don’t know what to say. I should protest. It would be the sensible thing to do.
But then he kisses me again, an aggressive kiss, but so full of need and want that I can’t even think of pushing him away. I’ve dreamed of this, thought of it every time I’ve caught him watching me in the rearview mirror, every time he’s shared a cigarette with me, every last goddamn time he’s opened my car door. Cole Nolan. Dark eyes, muscle, secrets, and fantasies.
He releases my wrists but before I can move, he pushes on my shoulders, guiding me to kneel in front of him. I look up at him. He looks down at me. He’s breathing a little hard, hands fumbling with the zipper on his jeans. He keeps me in place with his eyes.
“I didn’t get your mouth last time,” he says as if there’s a need to explain. “And I fucking regretted it.”
I wet my lips and as soon as he’s liberated his hard cock, he pushes into my mouth. The size of him catches me off guard. I’m no stranger to giving head but he’s bigger than anyone who’s come before, in every way possible. And he doesn’t go slow. His hand clamps to the back of my head as he pushes forward forcefully, hitting the back of my throat and almost making me choke. He thrusts a couple of times as though warming us both up before pressing steadily into my throat.
“That’s right,” His voice is a grunt. “Just – take it.”
I take it. His eyes are locked on mine, dark with need and for some reason I feel a need to prove myself; as though I want him to know I can take all he wants to give. It’s violently intimate. His eyes never leave mine, even as he rams in and out of my mouth, even as he lets up and my tongue curls hesitantly against his throbbing cock.
“I’m actually fucking the face of Lancôme,” he says and despite his steely determination, it’s as though he can scarcely believe it. He pauses a second and digs his cellphone out of his jeans pocket.
“What?” he breathes, as my tongue hovers in indecision. “One photo, Lana. No?”
He pulls back to hear my answer. I’m too breathless to reply. He frowns. His hand catches my upper arm and pulls me up off the floor before spinning me around to face the wall. Instinctively, I catch myself on my hands. He pulls up the skirt of my dress and his hand moves between my legs.
“No?” he asks again. “Why not, princess? You don’t trust me?”
His fingers press hard against my damp underwear.
“No – it’s just – I don’t see why,” I gasp.
“Why? ’Cause you made me think it’d all been a dream,” he growls. “The way you were. So fucking uptight. Every girl I hooked up with felt like nothing after you. Nothing. And you acted like it didn’t happen.”
His hand comes down hard on my ass, indecently loud and my heart thumps, terrified that someone will hear. He doesn’t stop and as the burning heat intensifies, I start to worry he might leave bruises.
“Cole, for god’s sake! I have a swimwear shoot in two days!”
He doesn’t let up.
“One photo. That’s all I want.”
As soon as I acquiesce, I find myself on my knees again.It’s not one photo. It’s an endless pornographic reel. He eases in and out of my mouth before making me suck him down to the base. My eyes water but he doesn’t let up and neither do I, almost goading him by holding on every time he gives me a chance to retreat. There’s a desperate urgency fuelling me; something repentant, as though I’m trying to make up for everything I’ve put him through. And then there’s the heat inside me, the cloudy haze of scorching desire, the intrinsic knowledge that I’m as turned on as him. I only have to shift my legs to feel how dripping wet my snatch is.
I feel his cock jerk a little in my mouth and he pulls back almost immediately. He drags his shirt off, tossing it onto the bed with his phone and then he’s hauling me up off the floor, sweeping my dress off just before we land on the bed. I want to touch him but he moves fast, maneuvering me onto my hands and knees. There’s no waiting, no drawn-out moment. He drags off my underwear, moves between my legs and pushes his cock inside me.
It’s like being fucked for the first time. Each thrust hurts in the most beautiful way. He spears into me repeatedly, going so deep that I’m almost afraid he’ll do some kind of damage. There’s a mechanical resilience to the way he fucks; each thrust is timed and every time I think I’m about to catch my breath, it’s taken away all over again. Every searching stroke is like a violation, assaulting and then pacifying as he stills momentarily inside me. He’s forceful, impatient; working up to a demanding rhythm.
“Does he fuck like this?”
It’s a nasty question but there’s a need in his voice, an aching sense of inferiority as though there’s some reason I picked Brandon over him. There’s no good reason. There never has been a decent reason. I’m gasping too hard to reply but he must know my answer; it comes off me like sweat. Nobody has ever fucked me the way Cole does. It’s selfishly mutual; painfully sweet; dirty but purgative; punishment and reward mixed up in a jarring blur of colliding bodies.
“You kill me, Lana,” he grunts. “You fucking know that?”
It hurts to hear him say it. His rough hands dig into my waist, holding me in place on his throbbing cock.
“I’m gonna fuck your ass,”
He says it like the idea’s only just come to him, but I know the thought’s a decision and I can’t stop him. My heart beats faster, protests flickering through my mind like camera flashes. I don’t speak, don’t move. He eases back, leaving me suddenly empty.
I look over my shoulder at him; his impossibly-defined physique, the perspiration shining off his chest.
“Cole,” My voice is thin. “I’ve never – I mean, maybe another time?”
“He hasn’t,” Cole’s voice is low. His fingers ease inside my snatch and drag wetly back over my tight knot. I clench hard and he lets out a constrained breath.
“Sometimes you just have to take,” he hisses.
I’m so wet that I can hear his fingers as they push in and out of me. His thumb presses against my untried hole and then he spits against it. I feel the warm moisture trickle downwards and he does it again, pushing his thumb inside me. His cock isn’t so easy. I squirm as the head presses against my resistant hole and he sucks in a long breath.
“Fucking relax,” he hisses.
His hands move over my body as though he’s trying to reassure me. The more he touches me, the harder he pushes and soon enough, I feel myself yield to the intruder. It doesn’t take long for him to push the length of his cock into me. The intense pressure is fulfilling. He grinds against me as though reiterating possession and then he’s moving back, withdrawing a little before sliding back in, slowly increasing the length of each thrust until we’re fucking again. It’s different; tighter and more thorough. My breathing is erratic, and the sheets are caught up in my clenched, sweaty fists. Cole moves with angry grace, building the speed, his fingers moving to circle my clit.
“You like it?” he demands. “You like my cock in your ass?”
I can only moan. It’s so wrong but nothing has ever felt more right. His free hand is dragging over my body. I feel his touch on my neck and shoulders, before his fingertips dig into the firm flesh of one tit. He fucks hard and without restraint, stretching me out, fuelled on by each gasping moan. He’s everything. I have never felt more in sync with another person.
I feel his cock pulse inside me and yet he doesn’t stop thrusting. His fingers work my clit relentlessly and while I’ve been on the edge of orgasm since we began, it’s tangible now, the first tremors pouring through me.
“Oh god, Cole!”
He shudders out a breath, his orgasm as close as mine.
“What, princess? What?”
The rhythm has become erratic.
“You’re so – good,” I gasp. I’m stating the obvious, but hearing it pushes him over the edge and I hear his long, lamenting groan as he comes deep inside me. After all this time and even though I’ve only heard it once before, the sound is beautifully familiar. His weight pushes down on me as I shudder through an intense, lingering orgasm, the kind that feels as though it should never stop.
He moves to lie next to me.
“You have to leave him,” he says.
It’s a fact, not a request.
I think briefly of Brandon, of our relationship, awards ceremonies, airplanes and separate lives. I don’t really know what I’ll say to him.
Cole is watching me. His phone buzzes, lost somewhere in the sheets but he ignores it.
“I know a lot about you,” His voice is soft. “I don’t want more games. I want you. So don’t push me, Lana.”
I know what he’s saying is something of a threat, but all I feel in that hot, sweaty hotel room is relief. For the first time in years I’m not a name, not a face, not an ambassador, not a brand, but a person. I need Cole. Everything else comes after.
Cathalina
- 15.06.2021
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