“Medical play. It’s all the rage these days. See how we’ve got her legs up in the stirrups?”
Now that he mentioned it, I looked at the bank of monitors and noticed that the girl on camera had her legs up in stirrups. The set looked just like a doctor’s office. The model (we called them models rather than actresses because our videos didn’t require any acting) had dark hair and dark eyes with curvy breasts and hips, and a slender waist. For a second her face was replaced in my mind with the even prettier face of Dynassy Barnes, and I couldn’t drag my eyes away.
If Barvo noticed, he didn’t say anything. He probably thought I’d stopped to admire the scene he’d set up. It was, in fact, amazing. Everything looked exactly like a doctor’s office.
I shook my head and the girl went back to looking like herself. The momentary vision of a naked Dynassy was gone, but I’d filed it away in my head for later.
As strange as I found it sometimes to actually be in the pornography business, I had to admit, my friend Barvo had a serious knack for the artistic side of the business. The lovely raven-haired model lay back on what looked to be a medical exam table, her legs spread wide in a set of obstetric/gynecological stirrups, while one of my fucking machines shoved a condom-covered dildo in and out of her dripping pussy. The girl’s head swung from side to side, moans escaping her lips.
“Can I finger my clit?” she asked no one in particular.
Barvo pressed a button, “Sure, hon. Whatever you want.” Then he glared at me. “That would have been much better if the doctor had answered her. Then I could edit it into the scene, make a better vid.”
I blew out a deep breath. “Sorry, okay. I had to stay late. My boss went home early, leaving me to handle all the customer service shit on top of the cars I was supposed to be working on.” I stood up, took a step and pressed the same button Barvo had. “Yes. Play with yourself however you like. It all helps with the research.”
The model giggled and started to roll her clit between her fingers, tilting her hips up slightly.
“See? That’s it!” Barvo shook his head. “Even your fucking voice is more of a turn on than mine.”
I shrugged. I wasn’t in the mood for Barvo’s never-ending pity party about how unfair it was that women favored me over him. It hadn’t been Barvo who’d come home from Iraq with a war injury to find his fiancée was fucking one of his “friends.” It’s not like things had been easy for me with women, but Barvo conveniently ignored this bit of history.
Hell, Barvo got laid all the time. The guy just had a jealous nature. Insecure. No matter how many women he banged, he still felt the need to compete with me. Probably some old baggage left over from high school when the jocks had given him wedgies and swirled his head in toilet bowls. That’s what my mother would have said, anyway. The poor guy would probably never get over it.
Rather than sit and listen to Barvo’s insecurities, I went to the bathroom to scrub myself as clean as possible. The model’s moans served as a familiar background melody.
“That’s it,” I heard Barvo say through the mic. “Let me know if you want it faster or slower.”
“Mmm. Faster, I think,” she purred back.
I stuck my head out of the door, soap all over my hands. “Make it slower.”
Barvo looked at me like I was nuts. “She just said faster, dude.”
“So what? I’m telling you, if you do it slower, it will drive her insane. Make it even hotter.”
“Listen, you can’t do the opposite of what the model asks for. It’s like non-consent or something. We’ll have models telling their friends that we fucked them, and not in the good way. You can’t do that, man.”
“Trust me,” I said, then went back to washing my hands. Things were getting tenser between me and Barvo all the time. These days it seemed like we disagreed on just about everything. What the fuck was that about?
The sounds from the monitor floated into the bathroom, and I could hear the model. “Oh my God! That’s amazing. Oh my God! Oh, oh, oh…oh…I’m going to come!”
Hands all clean, I came back into the studio. “You made it slower?”
“Fuck you,” Barvo answered, which meant he had. My unspoken “I told you so” hung in the air. To have said it out loud would have just been redundant.
This wasn’t a good time to tell Barvo I’d met Dynassy Barnes. He would have hounded me to introduce him, and there was no way in hell I was gonna do that, because experience told me he’d either ask her out, or worse, try to talk her into doing a shoot for us.
I also didn’t want to risk being outed as a pornographer. Pornographers were old, hairy-chested guys who unbuttoned their shirts down to their navels and wore gold necklaces. That wasn’t me. I’m a veteran, a SEAL, for God’s sake. My two lives didn’t mesh, and it fucked with my head.
Plus, Dynassy Barnes was not the kind of girl who masturbated on camera for other people to watch. There had been a sex tape out there with her in it once, hadn’t there? I couldn’t remember. Pop culture was my partner’s venue, not mine. I might have to google it later.
Barvo and I had come a long way from the day he had asked me if he could borrow my new invention.
My fiancée had just left me, and I was depressed. What did I care if Barvo borrowed my sex machine for a kinky date with some girl? All I’d asked was that he put a condom on the thing before he stuck it inside anyone. After that, I forgot all about it.
I’d built the thing for my fiancée after my nether regions had gotten blown to bits in an IED explosion overseas. Scared I’d never be able to satisfy her again, I created a machine that could. Unfortunately, once I got home, I found out my (now former) best friend had taken over that job, and she wouldn’t be needing me or my machine.
A week after borrowing the thing, Barvo showed up with the news that he’d taken a video of his adventurous date boinking the machine then uploaded it to the internet. Within a matter of days, the video had over a million views on an amateur porn site. When Barvo suggested we host our own site and make some money, I hadn’t objected. Back then, I’d been so depressed, I probably would have agreed to anything if it would make him leave me alone. I was in and out of the hospital. Over the past four years, I’d had nineteen surgeries, and I was optimistic I wouldn’t need a twentieth. But back then, I’d been a fucking mess.
Along the way, Barvo kept having great ideas and I kept okaying them. He was a creative genius, and I worked on the mechanical side between my hospital stays. The money just kept rolling in, until one day I turned around and realized I needed a financial adviser.
There were times when I wondered how Barvo and I had gotten where we are—top-tier pornographers, pulling down tens of millions of dollars a year. Barvo worked on the business full-time. I tried that for a while, but it drove me crazy. I needed to keep busy, doing something with my hands. I needed to be more active than sitting in a studio all day watching girls fuck themselves. Don’t get me wrong, it was great the first one or two hundred times. But once the novelty wore off, it became an exercise in frustration.
Because, I couldn’t jack off to it.
Getting aroused only reminded me that I was half a man.
So I worked, doing what I was best at—being a mechanic. But while I’d originally wanted something part-time to keep my busy, that had grown into Sal leaning on me more and more. The old man had taken advantage of my need to be needed and before I knew it, he’d heaped a ton of responsibility on me. After today, I was wondering how much more I could take.
As if reading my mind, Barvo said, “Man, I don’t know why you don’t quit that fucking job. You don’t have to put up with that guy’s bullshit, so I don’t know why you do. You could buy him out three times over.”
“Yeah, I’m thinkin’ about quitting.” I inspected my hands. They weren’t as clean as a surgeon’s, but they were about as clean as a mechanic’s were going to get. My cuticles harbored black stains that were likely permanent and the majority of my skin was rou
gh and calloused, broken in places. “Where are those gloves? These hands aren’t going to fool anybody.”
Barvo inspected them and made a face. “Eww, you’re right. Yeah, let me get you those gloves.” He got up and went into the prop room.
While he was gone, the model asked, “Hey, Doctor, can I come again—please?” She trilled the “please” out longer as she pinched one of her nipples between her fingers. I watched her toy with it, first gently, then tugging on it more roughly, waiting to feel a stirring in my groin. None came.
Pressing the button, I answered, “Yes, you may come. And what a good patient you were to ask so nicely.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” She bit her bottom lip and tweaked her other nipple. Then she rubbed the apex of her sex, stimulating the hood of her clitoris just the way she liked it. Her body began to tense, and I froze, watching her. Watching someone bring themselves to orgasm never failed to fascinate.
Each human’s body is different, and female bodies are more mysterious and unique. It was as if, no matter how many times I saw it, how many women, each orgasm was a singular event all its own. The way they teach you in school that each fingerprint is like none other in the world, or each snowflake is unique. That’s how I saw orgasms—each one was magical and special.
Sex could be like that too, but watching the models, that was as close as I could get to any sort of release.
Barvo handed me a pair of latex gloves, and I put them on. We both watched the lovely woman as spasms overtook her body and her moans morphed into squeals.
“You know, if you ever want to get more involved, I can have her suck your cock,” Barvo said. “I mean, if things start working right down there.” He motioned to my crotch.
I shook my head, reminding myself that my friend meant well. We didn’t talk much about my struggles in the erection department. Several of the girls had asked him if I would be interested in filming a scene with them, and I think Barvo hoped I’d be up for it one day, if only so he could live vicariously through me. But tonight I was tired, and I wasn’t about to get into it now. “Just give me the script.”
Barvo sighed and handed me a sheet of paper with minimal stage directions on it, and as I opened the door and crossed into the room where the model flinched with pleasure, we both watched as she curled her toes and her lashes fluttered open.
“Oh Doctor, am I glad to see you!”
CHAPTER THREE
Dynassy
Part spin doctor, part TV mom, my mother, Lucinda Barnes, always knew how to work the system and have herself and her children come out looking good. Or at the very least, have the public talking about them.
In fact, the day after it came out that the man in that damning video with me was a veteran, my mother started plotting a counterattack. Her brainchild to get me out of hot water was for our family to do a big fundraiser for veterans.
She’s calling it “A Barnes Family 4th.” Her idea was that, in America, we’re as close to royalty as it gets. (At least that’s my mother’s warped perception.) But in her defense, my twin brother and sister are probably the most beloved pop stars on the planet, my brother is an All-Star basketball player, and I’ve been accused of “breaking Twitter” with a few of my racier selfies.
We’re certainly not royalty, though our dad was a rock star whose fame rivaled Elvis’, and who has only grown in stature since his death when I was eight, but we’re a staple of popular culture. I’m not so sure trying to associate us with patriotism will work, but a lot of people will watch it.
The show is to be broadcast over the internet, and while most of it will be a live performance from Ivy and Leo, the rest of us are filming segments ahead of time to fill the three-hour program. Nick’s going to do a basketball camp with inner-city kids and we’ll air highlights from that. Mom’s got something planned where she’s sponsoring some budding American fashion designers and setting them up with US factories to help them create their garments for retail sale.
In preparation for the big event, Lucinda had me attending an event for wounded warriors. It was for injured vets and service dogs, so Lucinda figured there would be plenty of opportunities for photo ops and footage of me with the guys and the dogs that they could air during “A Barnes Family 4th” that would make me look more sympathetic to those who have served our country.
Lucinda wanted me to wear red, white, and blue, but I put my foot down and chose a figure-hugging red dress with a modest round collar. No cleavage for this event.
I swear sometimes my mother’s sense of taste was all in her mouth. She thought of herself as a style maven, but honestly, Ivy and I think she’d about five years behind. We always talk about it. Thank God we have stylists who can give us another voice when we disagree with Lucinda the Great.
When I woke up this morning, I’d actually been dreading this appearance. What if the vets who were here at the event believed that I was an insensitive bitch who stomped on their homeless brothers?
I doubted they would do anything to me, and my security team could take on even the baddest of the bad, but I still worried some of them would make a snide remark or give me dirty looks.
As I got ready to get out of my car, I took a deep breath, plastered on a smile, and climbed out. Here goes nothing.
My nerves had me a bit jumpy for the first few minutes, but as I followed the event coordinator to the area where I’d be signing pictures, I noted the admiring looks coming in my direction from the majority of the men we passed. That helped me breathe easier.
We started with a photo op of me and a three-legged German shepherd named Jackson. Jackson had been injured in a bomb blast that had killed his handler, but the Army had seen to his recovery and he had been retired with full honors. He now resided with one of his handler’s friends, an Army buddy who’d also lost a leg in the same explosion.
“Come get in this next shot,” I said to Jackson’s owner.
“If you insist, Ms. Barnes.” The young man’s name was Tyler and he kept tugging at his scruff of a beard nervously. “Ms.” was much better than the ma’am I’d been getting lately. I found I was enjoying Jackson and his friends already.
We got a couple of selfies for Tyler’s phone, and a line started to form.
Somebody from the film crew had given me a cup of water and while I sipped it, my eyes scanned the room. I noticed a handsome guy about thirty yards away whose eyes were locked in on mine.
It wasn’t unusual for a guy to be staring at me, but this guy looked familiar.
Then I realized it was Bridger Thompson from the auto repair shop.
Before I could plot a reaction, a thrill ran through me, and I broke into a wide grin. What was he doing here? Did he have a friend who was injured? Or maybe he had rescued one of the injured dogs. That was so sweet. Suddenly, he was even more attractive to me, if that was possible.
He grinned back then looked away and before I knew it, he disappeared into the crowd.
I hoped he would come by and speak to me, but it seemed silly for him to stand in this line to shake my hand and have his picture taken with me when we’d
already met. It wasn’t like he was a fan of mine.
Still, as the event wore on, I couldn’t help but peek over and through people in the crowd to see if I could spy Bridger again. My portion of the event was winding down, the camera crew had started to put things away, and the last couple of people got their pictures taken with me. I thanked them for coming out before glancing down at my phone.
The raw masculinity of Bridger’s voice interrupted my surfing. “I didn’t expect to see you here, Ms. Barnes.”
My head snapped up. “Ms.? Why does everyone want to call me Ms.? Or worse, ma’am? It makes me feel so old. I wish you’d call me Dynassy.”
His eyebrows flew up. “Dynassy it is. Sorry.”
Crap. Now I’d offended him. He was only trying to be polite, and here I was coming across like a bitch. Not only what I didn’t need to be seen as by him, but that was what
this whole event was supposed to do, counteract the perception that I was a bitch. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. Sometimes I guess I’m just too sensitive. But I didn’t expect to see you here either.”
He nodded, but gave me no explanation for his presence, so I probed further. “Are you affiliated with the organization?” There. That was vague enough to make him have to fill in the blanks.
“Yeah, this organization helped me more than I can ever repay.”
“Do you have a dog?” The man didn’t look like anything was wrong with him. If he had a prosthetic hidden under those jeans, you couldn’t tell it. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that people could be wounded in ways you might not be able to see. Maybe this organization had services for people with PTSD. If that was the case, maybe he didn’t want to talk about it, and I’d stuck my foot in my mouth yet again.
“I’m a former SEAL. When I came back from Iraq, I was pretty messed up. Had to have a lot of surgeries, it’s been a long journey.”
My heart clenched. Whatever it was that had happened to him, it had been significant. I was about to launch into the whole “I’m so sorry” bit, but he didn’t give me a chance.
“Music’s about to start. Want to go over there?”
He extended his hand, and there was nothing in the world to do but accept it. I curled my fingers around his. The warmth of his touch made me swoon a little, and I allowed him to pull me into the adjacent room where a country band was starting to play. I looked over my shoulder and waved to my production assistant Marla, and she nodded back.
It was standing-room only, and when the music started, Bridger winked at me then pulled me into his arms. He held me close and whispered, “Do you know how to two-step?”
“I do,” I smirked.
This must’ve surprised him because he eyed me skeptically. “You do?”
“My brother lived in Texas for two years. Don’t think I didn’t go dancing when I went to visit.”
The Barnes Family Romances: (Books 1-3) Page 20
