Textual Confusion, page 2
Asher whined like the man could actually hear him, releasing his cock to reach down further, until he was touching his most intimate place. He carefully circled the pink pucker of his asshole with a finger.
It was risky, but…
Would you spank my hole?
You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d love it if I played with your hole, stretching you open with my fingers until you were crying for my cock, desperate to be filled.
Please, fuck me, Daddy! I’d suck you in so good. I promise to lay there and take everything you have to give me.
You don’t know what you’re asking for, baby. I’d ruin you for anyone else. Stuff you so full of my fat cock, you wouldn’t be able to walk for a week.
Anytime you moved, you’d be reminded of me. There’d be no other thoughts in that pretty little head of yours other than me and my cock. You’d crave it constantly, spending your days dreaming about the next time you could have it.
You’d beg to be my little pillow princess, wanting nothing more than to be filled to the brim with my cum 24/7, until you were bloated with it, constantly dripping.
A strangled noise escaped the back of Asher’s throat.
The imagery of it – of his little belly distending in its effort to hold all the faceless man’s cum, of the white stuff dripping down his thighs… it was too much for Asher.
Abandoning his phone, he beat his cock with one hand while the other continued to toy with his hole. One stroke, then two – it was downright embarrassing how little it took to send Asher over the edge.
He cried out, his back arching as his orgasm rocked through him. His hole latched around his finger, milking it like it was an actual cock as he made a mess of his stomach, painting it with hot streaks of cum.
He was breathing hard by the time he was completely spent, feeling a little out of it from what was probably the most intense orgasm he’d ever been able to give himself with his own two hands.
He glanced at the phone beside him, unsure how to let the man on the other side know he’d finished himself off.
What was the standard protocol here?
Asher always felt a bit loopy after his orgasms, needy in a way he typically wasn’t any other time. (It was an annoying trait, according to his ex, who always complained about being too sticky or tired to cuddle or talk much after sex.)
But how did one partake in afterglow via text message?
Asher picked up his phone, debating on what kind of message to send.
Apparently, however, he needn’t worry about it.
I deposited an extra $500 into your account. 11:00 PM. Don’t be late tomorrow.
Asher stared uncomprehending at the message, understanding on some level that he’d just been paid for sex, but too strung out from his orgasm to truly take in what it meant.
He did, however, recognize the message as the abrupt end to their conversation that it was, and Asher couldn’t help but feel a little hurt. Sure, he knew Mystery Man didn’t owe him anything (if anything, Asher owed him for deceiving him), but feelings weren’t exactly logical.
Still, he managed to brush the hurt away after a few minutes of moping.
Deciding he was too tired to examine what had just happened, Asher made the executive decision to wait until tomorrow to properly overthink things. So after making a quick trip to the bathroom to clean himself up, he snuggled under the covers of his bed and promptly returned to the welcoming arms of sleep.
CHAPTER TWO
WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE COLOR?
Unfortunately, Asher wasn’t too loopy from sex to properly freak out about it the next day.
He’d almost chalked Mystery Man up to a dream when his 5:00 alarm went off. In fact, it wasn’t until he’d stepped out of the shower and spotted the pair of pink panties in his laundry basket that there had been an uncomfortable jolt in his chest. A jolt which had prompted him to race over to his phone and frantically scrolled through his messages, verifying that Mystery Man was real and that, yes, they had participated in phone sex last night.
Phone sex Asher had gotten a $500 tip for, apparently.
Not that he was the one receiving the money.
Asher’s first instinct was to panic, but he couldn’t afford to be late for work, so throwing on the first shirt and pair of jeans he could get his hands on, he raced out the door to the nearest bus stop, which would take him to Honeycomb Café, where he was employed as a baker.
Honeycomb Café was owned by a crotchety old man named Jack Brittle, who didn’t take well to tardiness. Or idleness. Or anything, really.
For reasons that Asher failed to comprehend, however, the man had taken a liking to him. Perhaps because Asher had been working for him for nearly five years now and had never given him any trouble. (He’d started part time as a freshman in college and had moved to full time when he had graduated from school with a bachelor’s degree in the Culinary Arts – with an emphasis in Pastry – last year.)
Whatever the reason, he had allowed Asher to take charge of all the baking at Honeycomb Café two years ago, going so far as to give him full creative control of the baked goods menu. The only downside was that Asher’s shift always started before sunrise to ensure there were fresh batches of scones, muffins, and donuts for the morning rush.
Hopping off the bus and letting himself in the back door of Honeycomb Café, Asher turned on all the lights in the kitchen before getting to work, forcing himself to focus solely on his list of tasks, refusing to even think of Mystery Man as he measured ingredients, scooped batter, and drizzled sugary glaze onto a variety of confections.
Soon his co-workers began to arrive and the smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the air. They opened promptly at 7:00 AM, and the morning rush immediately began, leaving no time for Asher to focus on anything other than making sure the display case at the front of the coffeeshop was constantly stocked with fresh rolls and pastries.
It wasn’t until nearly noon, when he'd finally gone on break, that his friend Sasha cornered him in the back of the kitchen and forced him to face the truth of what he’d done last night.
Asher had sat down at the counter, and he was nibbling on a croissant sandwich and sipping on his caramel latte (the biggest perk of working at the café was definitely the free drinks), when he was ambushed.
“Well?” Sasha demanded, arms crossed under her ample chest, pushing up her boobs until they threatened to pop out of the top of the apron she wore as a barista. Sasha had blonde hair, blue eyes, and was classically pretty in a way no one could deny.
“Well what?” Asher asked, secretly surprised it’d taken so long for the girl to confront him. (She’d been sending him pointed looks all morning.)
“Are you going to tell me what happened with Mr. Not-Quite-a-Dick-Pic last night? I think that’s the least I’m owed considering you woke me up at 1:00 in the morning with your gay crisis.”
Sasha was also a blunt bitch. A straight shooter who never hid what she thought or how she was feeling. What you saw was what you got with Sasha, and although not everyone could handle being friends with someone like that, Asher absolutely adored her.
Which is probably why it didn’t take more than that little bit of prodding for the entire story to come spilling out of him. By the time he was finished relaying what had happened, it felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He didn’t even care that Sasha’s eyebrows had shot up halfway through the sordid tale and had failed to go back down again by the time he was finished.
“Can I see them?” she asked.
“See what?”
“The texts.”
Shrugging, Asher unlocked his phone and handed it over, watching as she scrolled through the messages. When she was finished, she silently handed it back to him. And Asher’s nerves made a swift return.
Why was she being so quiet? Sasha always had something to say.
“Well?” he demanded, crossing his arms over his chest, only realizing after the fact that he was mirroring how she’d stood earlier.
“I can’t believe you earned some prostitute a $500 tip, and you’ll never see a penny of it.”
Asher frowned. “Out of everything, that’s what you choose to focus on?”
“What? $500 is a lot of money!” Sasha exclaimed. “Especially for what was essentially ten minutes of sexting. You’re a kinky little shit by the way. And what’s with the daddy thing? I never knew you were into that. Or spanking, for that matter.”
Asher bit his lip. “Me neither,” he admitted, a bit of red creeping up his neck.
Sasha tapped her pursed mouth with a finger as she visibly pondered something. “It was probably the picture of your ass.”
“Huh?”
“That cute pic of your butt. It’s probably what got you the tip. Nice panties, by the way.” She winked.
Asher groaned, sinking back into his chair. “Can you focus please? I mean, what am I going to do?”
“I say we open an OnlyFans account and start selling pictures of your ass. I mean, the going price is apparently 500 bucks a pop. What the hell are we working here for?”
“Your plan is to profit off my ass?” Asher asked incredulously.
“I mean, it is pretty magnificent. A bona fide piece of art. And I would know, I majored in Art.” A pause. “Which is probably why I’m still working at this dump.”
“It’s not that bad here.”
“You only say that because Mr. Brittle has a perpetual hard-on for you. Again, probably because of that ass.”
“Mr. Brittle’s old enough to be my grandpa. His… equipment probably doesn’t even work! He just likes me because I’m on time and respectful. I, for one, never told him that the saggy skin under his neck makes him resemble a mastiff.”
“What? It was a compliment! I love dogs. Everyone loves dogs.”
“That doesn’t mean they want to be told they look like one!” Asher pinched the bridge of his nose. “Anyway, can we focus on the topic at hand, please? You read the messages. I’m supposed to be meeting this guy tonight.”
She scoffed. “No, you’re not supposed to be meeting him. His hooker or sugar baby or whoever it is he apparently pays for orgasms is supposed to meet him. Those messages were intended for that person, not you.”
Asher frowned. “Yeah, but I’m the one who received them. I’m the one who-”
“-told him you wanted him to spank your hole. Yeah, I saw. But he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know who you are. Because you didn’t tell him.”
Asher’s face burned as Sasha laid out the facts. He knew she wasn’t trying to be mean – just honest – but that didn’t make him feel any less awful about it.
“Am I a horrible person for leading him on?” he asked, voice small.
“Considering how into it he seemed, I’m going to go with a solid no.”
“So… what should I do?”
Sashed leaned down, resting her elbows on the counter so that they were face to face. “The way I see it, you have two options. You either tell him who you actually are-”
“Pass,” Asher cut her off immediately.
Sasha frowned. “Why? What’s wrong with who you are?”
“Nothing,” Asher responded hastily, knowing he’d be in for a lecture about his self-esteem if he hesitated or answered any other way. (His sense of self-worth was something they’d been working on since it’d been reduced to shambles by his ex.)
“That’s right. Nothing’s wrong with you. You’re adorable with your curly hair and big brown puppy dog eyes. You’re the cutest, sweetest thing ever, and I’ll fight to the death anyone who disagrees.”
“Thanks, Sasha… I think. But I’m still not a woman. I’m missing certain parts, and equipped with other parts instead.”
“Yeah, you have a cock. So what? I read the messages. Sure, it’s possible the guy thought he was talking to a woman, but he never explicitly said anything about tits or a pussy. Maybe he did suspect he was talking to a man.” She shrugged. “Or maybe he’s an equal opportunity sort of guy.”
It seemed like a bit of a stretch, but… “Maybe,” Asher admitted. Still, he didn’t want to get his hopes up. “Regardless, you said I have two options. What’s my other one?”
“Delete the messages,” she said frankly. “Block the guy’s number. It was only one night of sexting. It doesn’t have to mean anything, and you certainly don’t owe the man anything. Put it – and him – out of your mind, and this can just be a funny anecdote we talk about a year from now.”
She had a point, and truthfully, it was the logical thing to do.
So why did Asher feel stick to his stomach at the thought of it? There was no way he could have gotten so attached over one orgasm, no matter how satisfying it’d been. He hadn’t even seen the guy’s face, for fuck’s sake.
“You okay?” Sasha asked carefully when he didn’t immediately respond.
Asher hated lying, especially to Sasha, so he could admit he was more than a little relieved when Mr. Brittle suddenly swung open the kitchen door and saved him from answering. He scowled in their direction. (Or, in Sasha’s direction, anyway.) “What are you doing back here?” he barked. “You’re not on break. Get back on the register.”
Sasha rolled her eyes, making sure Mr. Brittle wouldn’t be able to see. “See?” she mouthed soundlessly before turning around with a bright smile. “Right away, Mr. Brittle!”
Asher stood, starting to wrap what remained of his croissant back in its plastic packaging. “I’ll go take inventory,” he offered.
“Nonsense,” Mr. Brittle replied, waving him off, “you work hard enough. Sit down and finish your sandwich. You’re already too skinny,” he admonished before meandering back to the front of the coffeeshop.
Asher snorted. “Thanks, Mr. Brittle,” he mumbled, hiding a smile behind his caramel latte.
He didn’t subscribe to Sasha’s theory about Mr. Brittle having a thing for his ass, but she might have had a point about his blatant favoritism.
Sasha
Did you block Mystery Man’s number yet?
Not yet.
Do you think he’ll text you tonight when he gets stood up by his hooker? I actually feel a little bad for the guy. Then I remember he’s rich enough to be dropping hundreds of dollars on butt pics and the sympathy instantly vanishes.
We’re not supposed to meet until 11:00, so I supposed I’ll know by then…
What are you going to do if he does text? Wait. What if he calls you?
Not answer, obviously.
Talking to Sasha about the situation was only giving him anxiety, so Asher put down his phone and busied himself with making supper. One package of ramen later, he found himself cleaning his apartment in an effort to distract himself. It only took him an hour to scrub his entire kitchen spotless and fold and put away the pile of clean laundry that had slowly been accumulating on his couch.
When Asher was finished, he reluctantly plopped down in front of his television and turned on a true crime documentary that he found on Netflix. Unfortunately, he found himself zoning out only minutes into the documentary, suspicious blood splatter and decapitated body parts unable to hold his interest over other matters.
Asher told himself that he didn’t care one way or the other if Mystery Man texted him. When 10:00 rolled around, and then 10:30, and then 11:00 with no new notifications from his phone, however, Asher couldn’t deny the sinking feeling of disappointment in his gut.
It was ridiculous.
He didn’t even know this guy.
Which is why Asher would deny with his dying breath the way he eagerly snatched up his phone when it buzzed at 11:12 PM exactly.
Sasha
Anything?
Asher sighed, unduly annoyed that it was only Sasha checking in on him. He typed a quick reply before flopping backwards onto his couch. Get ahold of yourself, he scolded himself. This is pathetic.
Knowing he had to get up early again the next morning, Asher forced himself to abandon his phone and dragged himself into the shower.
Fifteen minutes later, he was squeaky clean and throwing on the same ratty t-shirt he always used for pajamas before crawling into bed. It wasn’t until he reached over to double-check that his alarm was set on his phone that he saw one missed call and three unread texts from Mystery Man.
Asher's heart skipped a beat before starting back up double time.
He swiped away the missed call, focusing instead on the messages.
Mystery Man
Where the hell are you?
Do you think this is cute?
The whole point of our arrangement was so I could avoid these ridiculous games.
Mystery Man sounded upset, and Asher could feel his stomach churn with guilt. Even if this guy was paying some stranger to be his booty call, Asher assumed he had his reasons for such an “arrangement”, as he put it.
Plus, Asher was probably getting whoever the man thought he was communicating with in trouble.
Asher gnawed nervously on the flesh of his inner cheek. Maybe it was time to come clean.
Before that idea could truly take root, however, Mystery Man sent another message, and any guilt Asher was feeling was immediately buried under a swell of indignant anger.
I didn’t agree to pay you a ridiculous amount of money just so you could act like a disobedient whore.
I’m not a whore!
