Page 72 of Taking Turns

“Yes.” Bric nods. And then he leans in to kiss me. “We’re going to do dirty, dirty things for that camera tonight. Starting the moment you get in the car.”

And even though I do not want to feel that creeping hot wetness between my legs, it’s there. It’s ready.

When Bric gets in the driver’s side, after closing my door and telling me to fasten my seatbelt, he says, “Turn it on,” as he unbuttons and unzips his pants and pulls out his cock. “He’s not gonna want to miss this.”

My head is in his lap, the camera mounted on the dash, and I suck his cock the entire twenty-minute drive over to an estate in Cherry Creek.

I swallow his come and lick my lips as he holds the camera, while we’re parked on the street. And then I reapply my lipstick and we go inside.

The party is boring. The people are old. And those ninety minutes can’t go by fast enough.

I film Bric fingering me on the way back to Turning Point Club. And when we get upstairs and I don’t have to worry about documenting our depravity anymore, I choose the whip when he lays out his four toys on the bed.

My thighs are red and raw by the time eleven thirty rolls around. My pussy is sore, but still wants more when he takes me to my house and walks me up to the door.

We kiss. Passionately. His fingers inside me again, his dick harder than ever. And then he turns away without a word and leaves me in the hands of his friend.

I open the door, close it behind me, and then lean back with a sigh.

If you want to go dark, go dark.

Don’t take a light.

And then a phone rings in the kitchen. I walk through the dark house, wondering if I smell paint, but put that out of my mind as I reach for the lit-up cell phone on the kitchen island.

“Hello?” I ask the phone.

“I have something you might like to see upstairs,” Smith says on the other end of the call. “Walk up to your room and don’t hang up.”

I flick on the lights and see the reason my house smells like paint. “You painted my orange wall?”

“You hated it. You need to be walking, Chella. I need you upstairs right now.”

Not only did he paint my orange wall—which I did hate, but… it’s my wall. My house—but there’s new furniture as well. New art on the walls. New rugs.

A small bedside lamp is glowing in the guest room on the second floor and I stop to look at what’s going on in there.

“Keep walking, Chella,” Smith says.

I look up at the ceiling, wondering where the cameras are. Because he obviously has cameras in here now too.

“You’re sleeping in there?” I ask, bewildered. He’s been at my house all week from the looks of it. He really has moved in.

“Bedroom, Chella. Now,” Smith growls.

I climb the final flight of stairs up to the third floor. There’s a light on up here too. Not one I had before Smith came into my life. The whole room has been redecorated.

“You refurnished my bedroom?” I ask.

“I can’t fuck you on a bed I didn’t buy new. But that’s not what I wanted you to see. Turn on the TV.”

The remote has been placed at the end of the bed, along with the two napkins he used to send me messages.

I click the remote on, ignoring the napkins, and the moaning starts up immediately.

It’s Bric fucking me tonight.

Then scenes from last night flick through in a tightly edited sequence of my moaning and sucking his cock.