Double Exposure: A Dark MMF Bisexual Romance

by Cassandra Dee

  “Well, you’ve never met Jenna Walsh before,” I replied, my breath catching as he shifted below me.

  And that was the beginning of a long ride towards heaven. I rocked myself to and fro, enjoying the feeling of dick coming in and out, squeezing my pussy walls, suctioning my flesh almost, it was so tight in there. But the real fucking didn’t start until Rafe took control, seizing my tiny waist in both hands, holding me still as he bucked upwards, banging me from below.

  “Unnh, unnh, unnh,” he grunted, his eyes fixated on my bouncing boobs, the nips bobbing up and down, the look of sheer ecstasy on my face. “Just a bit … more,” he rumbled, his voice cracking. And after a few seconds, he roared. The big man’s neck strained as he pumped shot after shot of semen into me, that virile, viscous white coating my insides, each spurt a hot gush of heaven, his dick pulsing inside my walls, my cunny clamping onto him.

  Because I’d come as well, my vag seizing and pulsing, twitching with each shot of ecstasy, my vision temporarily blackened as I was lifted to new heights. I almost cried, my body twisting in currents, my puss shooting with warm juices as I spurted, the cream spraying onto Rafe’s chest, coating him in a fine film, a bit even landing on his chin and neck as I lost control.

  And after our breathing evened, I sank back onto my heels, still locked in place by the huge donkey dong, in close contact with that massive male form.

  The big man rubbed his chin, tasting some of the juice that I’d left there, sweet pussy ambrosia.

  “Delicious,” he rumbled, licking his lips lasciviously, and that’s when I knew I was lost.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Rafe

  She was heaven on earth, delicious, warm, curvy, with big boobs and an ass, just the way I like it. We’d tried keeping our affair a secret, but it was damn near impossible, there was just too much publicity surrounding the newest It girl and the CEO of Levast.

  “Jenna!” screamed photographers when we stepped out of a restaurant. “Rafe! Picture picture picture!” And we’d stopped to oblige, the bulbs flashing non-stop, blinding in their brightness.

  Because our relationship was like a supernova. Against all odds, the curvy model had landed the cover of Sports Illustrated, her golden flesh rippling and luscious in a tiny white bikini, kneeling in the Bahamanian sand. And so a scrum of followers was to be expected, the endless paparazzi, gasps whenever strangers recognized us at a coffee shop or local drugstore.

  Jenna acknowledged it, even if she didn’t exactly love it.

  “You have to understand, Rafe,” she said quietly. “It’s part of my job. I’m not a traditional model so I have to promote myself. I can’t just wait for bookings to roll in.”

  I’d frowned. Of course I understood, but Jenna got more than enough work from my company alone, so it wasn’t entirely necessary to pimp herself out. Still, fame is fleeting these days and you’ve got to make the most of your fifteen minutes.

  But I was still waiting for her to reveal her ignominious start in the industry, the nudie pix with her legs spread, nipples bouncing, cunny on show for the world to see.

  “Jenna,” I said gently. “I understand that you’re eager to make your mark, but photos never really go away. Is there something you want to tell me?” I’d quizzed.

  A flush came over her cheeks, and she turned her face away, that perfect profile balanced and trembling slightly.

  “Umm…” she murmured. The blonde was a smart girl, she probably knew what I was getting at already. “Well …”

  “You know you can tell me anything,” I said reassuringly, reaching my hand to cover hers. I fully expected to hear her fess up, to hear her tell about her struggles with money, how she took the pictures because she was young and dumb and didn’t know better.

  But instead, Jenna detoured.

  “Well, you know I used to be engaged … to my sister’s husband,” she flushed darkly.

  I did know this, but fine, I could listen.

  “Tell me more,” I commanded.

  Jenna sighed heavily. “Well, I used to be different than how I am now,” she began slowly. “More … mercenary, I guess,” she said shamefaced, letting her hair cover her cheek.

  “What does that mean?” I asked, frowning.

  She sighed. “You know, I was young and dumb –“ okay, so this excuse was being used, “and I was really into guys with power. Not that you don’t have power, I mean you do,” she flubbed, “but you know what I mean…” she said helplessly.

  “No, I’m not sure that I do,” I ground out. I’ve been surrounded by gold-diggers all my life, and this wasn’t exactly what I wanted to hear.

  “Well,” she said helplessly, trying to continue. “I met Jake Sterling at a party in San Francisco, you know the CEO of Sterling Pharmaceutical, and I thought we were in love. I swear, I thought he loved me.”

  “Did he propose?” I asked flatly.

  “Not exactly,” she mumbled. “I went to Harry Winston and bought myself a diamond and pretended that Jake gave it to me. I just wanted to believe it so badly, he was handsome, rich, and I dunno … we seemed perfect together, like the charmed couple you see in movies.”

  “You’ve been watching too much Lifetime,” I said sternly. “That shit doesn’t exist in real life.”

  “I know,” she said softly. “But I was poor, I was desperate, so I clung to a man who embodied my wildest dreams. We were engaged until my sister got pregnant with his baby, and then boom! Jake was out of the picture.”

  “And are they married now?” I asked, my voice dangerous.

  “Yes, they have a baby named Janie, she’s beautiful. She was born prematurely and wasn’t well for the first six months of her life. I guess the stress pulled Jake and Tina together, being new parents to a sick child and all.”

  Okay, so at least the girl was somewhat honest about her goldigging past. Of course, there were two sides to every story, and that fucking Sterling scumbag impregnating his fiancee’s sister was no walk in the woods, I’m sure. But I still hadn’t heard what I was looking for.

  “Is there anything else?” I asked, deceptively casual. This was her time to fess up, to let her deepest, darkest secrets out. Surely she realized that as CEO of Levast, I’d already done a good bit of fact-checking into her past. Surely, Jenna didn’t think she could hide something like nude pix from the CEO of a media conglomerate.

  But Jenna shook her head slowly, her long blonde hair swaying gently.

  “No Rafe, that’s it,” she said. “I’ve been around some in my twenty-four years, but there’s nothing that crazy. Why, is there something you want to ask?” she said curiously, tipping her chin to look into my eyes, blue eyes clear.

  “Nothing,” I said smoothly. “It’s all good, I understand about the broken engagement,” I said in a deep voice. But the truth was that our relationship was essentially done. I’d given her the opportunity to open up, to confess the error of her ways, and she’d pretended like nothing was amiss. How could I trust her anymore?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Jenna

  I haven’t heard from Rafe in six weeks. I haven’t eaten, drank, or slept, and my body’s looking haggard, although of course industry rumors are that I’ve lost weight because people won’t hire me.

  At one fitting, they didn’t even try to disguise their comments. The atelier employees spoke Italian, thinking I couldn’t understand, but actually I’d studied the language during college and understood every word.

  “She looks fabulous, doesn’t she?” said one gay guy, giving me a charming smile. “Emaciated, just the way we like it.”

  “She does, but look at the poor thing,” clucked an older woman while draping a length of fabric across my chest. “Bags under her eyes, her skin is dull, and this hair! That blonde hair she was always known for, it’s now like straw, we’ve got to tell her agency she’s got some serious psychological problems.”

  “She’s not our responsibility,” scoffed the gay guy, turning me around this way and t
hat, as if studying a piece of meat. “The agency should be keeping tabs on her, and what do we care? As long as our clothes look good and fly off the rack, why should we give a shit if she dies?”

  I almost cried then, this was how people talked about me when they thought I couldn’t understand. Again, as my old self, I would have raged back at them in fluent Italian, telling them to fuck off, I was going to tell my boss, his name was Rafe Connor and wasn’t he their boss too?

  But the new me was different. Knowing my place, I bit my tongue even as a flush rose up my chest, my cheeks flaming.

  “Would you mind if I went to the bathroom for a moment?” I murmured. “I’ve been standing here for an hour and really need to use the loo.”

  “Of course not, honey,” said the older woman through a couple of pins in her mouth. “Let me just get this off you.”

  Of course the gay guy was shooting daggers at me with his eyes, but I was beyond that. I needed a moment of privacy to re-group, to steel my shoulders against this new assault.

  Because I felt like I’d been at war for the last six weeks. Not that Rafe ever fought back, it was the wall of silence that was killing me. I’d left countless messages on his cell, on his work phone, with his secretary, and all for nothing. All I got was a polite murmur of acknowledgment from his personal assistant, and one day a package came in the mail.

  It was astounding. I’d been feeling down in the dumps when my doorman called upstairs to inform me that something had arrived. “Yes, just send it up please,” I’d said weakly.

  “No,” said Herberto. “This requires your signature, they won’t take mine.”

  “Alright,” I said with a sigh. I rolled off the couch, looking my worst. I’d had no jobs today and had spent hours alone in a dark apartment, feeling miserable, re-running the sensual times I’d had with Rafe over and over in my head. My bedhead was disgusting and I probably smelled, I was wearing last night’s sweats with a very visible tomato stain on the knee.

  But I didn’t care. Since Rafe ghosted me, I was a mess psychologically. I couldn’t focus on anything and had become the type of model that designers look for – a clotheshanger with no personality, a sullen expression, caved in cheeks and a penchant for moodiness. It was nothing like the public persona I’d built for myself, sparkling, bouncy, healthy, a real California girl.

  So I schlepped downstairs in my slippers. Who cares if my neighbors saw? There were other celebrities in this building too, they could stalk Taylor Swift or Blake Lively instead.

  And when I got downstairs, the delivery man gawked a bit. I use the moniker Angela Adams, so I’m sure he wasn’t expecting to see top model Jenna Walsh appear, even in a disheveled state.

  But Herberto hurried it along.

  “Pen, Ms. Walsh,” he said. And I signed, taking the package into my arms. It was small and flat, covered in brown paper with no indication of the sender.

  But once I got back to my apartment, I scrutinized the package suspiciously. As a public figure, I need to be protective of my identity, but it’s actually pretty easy to figure out where famous people live in New York. There are celebrities walking around all the time and it doesn’t take much effort to trail someone back to their home. In fact, some of the male actors I knew were pretty careless, never wearing wigs or disguises, going about their business like they were regular people.

  But dammit, if this was a bomb, I was kind of okay with it at this point, life was so painful. The gray pallor that had taken over was stifling, like I was being drowned in a deep sea of murky water, unable to breathe, unable to lift my head even and open my eyes.

  With resigned fingers, I opened the seal to the brown paper, listlessly pulling out the box within. With uncurious eyes, I noted that it was from Harry Winston. Again, in my past life I would have jumped with joy because Harry Winston only meant one thing, and that was money, money, money.

  As I opened the beautiful plush purple velvet box, I saw how bony my fingers were, how my nails were ridged from malnutrition and dehydration, only partially obscured by my fancy manicure. God, I needed to take care of myself better.

  The box snapped open, and there it was. A beautiful diamond tennis bracelet, probably thirty carats total of perfect, emerald-cut stones. I lifted it to the light, and the bracelet flashed with fire and life, each diamond a perfect gem in and of itself, priceless in value.

  I reached listlessly for the card. There was no note, just a card with the word “Rafe” written in a cursive hand. Of course that wasn’t his handwriting, it was probably his secretary or worse, some nameless peon who worked at the jewelry store. Feeling sick, I hunched over, my shoulders heaving up and down as I took quick gasps of air.

  I should have felt happy. I should have felt elated, lucky even, for receiving a six-figure piece of jewelry, even if the relationship was now over. But instead I felt miserable, the sadness overwhelming. I hated the jewelry on sight, letting it slip through my fingers to clatter to the floor, uncaring where it landed.

  Rafe couldn’t even bother to talk to me, to end our relationship in person. I was the recipient of a pay-off, intended to silence me, some poor consolation prize. And I still had no idea what had ticked him off. One day we’d been fucking three times a day, enjoying each other’s bodies and company, and the next he was gone with the wind, a mystery of the ages. Was I so unlovable? Did I deserve this somehow?

  Like a bad memory, my mom’s voice rang in my head.

  “Jenna, look inside yourself,” she’d urged. “The world won’t do what you want just because you’re pretty so don’t take it for granted. Be nice, be kind to people, you never know what will happen.”

  I’d scoffed then, throwing my hair over my shoulders, disdaining her advice. The world had been at my fingertips thus far, I only had to smile at men and they did my every bidding. Who wasn’t to say that it wouldn’t last forever? Okay, maybe not forever, but a good twenty years more at least.

  “Whatever Ma,” I’d dashed off carelessly. “I know what I’m doing.”

  But the shake of her head and the sad look in her eyes were reproachful.

  “Look at me Jenna,” she said. “I was once a pretty girl, even prettier than you, and where am I now? A single mom with four daughters, struggling to make ends meet. I don’t want you to be like me.”

  I’d sighed exasperatedly. My mom’s mistake had been that she’d hooked up with my dad, who’d turned out to be a deadbeat loser. I knew better than that. Find a rich man, get married with no pre-nup, and boom! My problems were solved for life.

  “I’ll be fine, Ma,” I said shortly. “Go worry about someone else, like Tina. She needs to lose weight before she becomes a sack of potatoes, no one’s ever going to want her,” I’d sneered.

  My mom had sighed and turned away, but looking back, there was an uncanny element of truth to her words. Now it was Tina married to a rich man and I was getting dumped with a diamond bracelet as the consolation prize.

  I cried in the bathroom, grateful that atelier’s restroom had plush, fabric-covered walls, the better to muffle my sobs. Not knowing who to turn to, I dialed Deborah on my cell phone.

  “Deb, I can’t,” I cried into the phone. “The wardrobe folks have been so nasty to me, they say I look terrible and ugly. They say it right to my face, they think I can’t understand.”

  “Oh ignore them,” soothed Deborah. “Pepe is known for having a sharp tongue, you know how gay guys are, they’re jealous of women as if they were women themselves.”

  “I can’t,” I cried. “I can’t go back out there,” I said pitifully, sniffling into the phone.

  But Deborah, who’d been kind to me in the past, did a one-eighty.

  “You can and you will,” she said nastily. “Because you know what? The shit’s about to hit the fan.”

  “You can’t scare me with Rafe Connor,” I said woodenly. “I know I signed a contract with Levant Corp. but contracts get broken all the time, I’ll pay whatever penalties are required.” At leas
t my legal training was coming in handy.

  “No, you dumb bitch,” said Deborah, her voice like nails over the phone. “It’s that video you did … the video plus the nudie pix.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked slowly. “I’ve done nude photo shoots, I mean, you were there during one, but I’ve never done any video. What are you talking about?” I asked confusedly.

  “The porn!” screamed Deborah. “The porn you did is about to hit the wire!” Her voice lowered. “I heard it’s already got ten thousand streams on some seedy website, people watching you get pummeled every which way in some dirty gang-bang.” She continued. “Did you like it Jenna? Did you like being a slut in front of the camera? I suggest you finish this job because your career is about to be over.”

  The woman slammed the phone with a clack and I stood frozen in the tiny bathroom. What video? a voice screamed in my head. Was I being blackmailed? I had no idea what was going on and my only thought was to call Rafe for help.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Rafe

  I watched the stream dispassionately on my computer. It was coming from the Green Guys, a website known for its hardcore POV porn, gonzo shots where the girls are routinely humiliated, shamelessly fucked in public, that sort of thing.

  Jenna was gorgeous. Her blonde hair covered her face, but the moans were familiar, the sensuous body, the way her pussy twitched and squeezed as she was pummeled from behind.

  “Please,” her breathy voice moaned. “Do me, I need it hard,” she sighed as a big dude obliged, reaming her with his ten-incher, another guy feeding his cock into her mouth, muffling her moans even as her ruby lips parted willingly, eagerly even, to suck the glistening fuckpole.

  I slammed the cover of my laptop down, the snap a vicious crack in the silence of my office. I didn’t need to see more. Everything I’d believed about the girl was true, and then some. Not only did Jenna lie by omission, but the omission had been greater than what I’d believed.