Always Alchemy: The Ever After Book (Alchemy #6)

20. Lights, Camera, and Plenty of Action

20

LIGHTS, CAMERA, AND PLENTY OF ACTION

CAL

N at is a bloody rockstar. She’s pulled out of the bag all sorts of experts who are willing to lend their services for free. Max may have scoffed at my environmental campaign, but it’s definitely drawn the fashion crowds. Although, I suppose Gossamer has made such a huge name for itself as a sustainable fashion brand that it makes sense the people Nat’s team collaborates with are eco-conscious.

In any case, with her and Gen’s combined—and scarily efficient—help, I’ve pulled together the shoot schedule with relative ease. I’m pretty sure everyone in the calendar—particularly Adam and Max—should be far busier than they seem to be, but they’ve all cleared their diaries for this.

I suppose sexy posing with your loved one, or ones, beats HR sit-downs and forecasting meetings or whatever the fuck else they do all day.

Aside from the off-location shoots in Adam’s gym and Max’s office, we’re hoping to get everything wrapped today and tomorrow. Tobias Graf, fashion photographer extraordinaire, is here with his team and, unfortunately, his dog, Ludo, a pretty little pug whose nasal passage is so comprised that you can hear him coming long before you see him, and whose plump, intact scrotum is a source of great intrigue and, it appears, arousal to Norm.

What could possibly go wrong?

ADAM

Cal’s artistic vision for me taking my youthful-looking wife over an old-school wooden desk while she carries off the soon-to-be-violated schoolgirl look with aplomb is so on the money that I make a mental note to (a) shake him by the hand later and (b) ensure that we take this uniform home with us. Why I’ve never thought to act out this particular fantasy with Nat, I have no fucking clue, but consider that an oversight I’ll probably compensate for every weekend.

While I think of it, I might try to take this desk home, too. It would work well with the spanking bench in the basement.

My wife looks like a porno version (tasteful porno, but porno nonetheless) of a schoolgirl from that godawful show she made me binge-watch with her when she had a virus. What was it called? Something Girls. Oh, Gilmore Girls . Total drivel, but Nat’s take on the little tartan skirt, and knee-high white socks, and modest looking blouse and tie, and this fucking prep-school ponytail she’s swinging around is something I can very much get on board with .

She’s even got plain white panties on, very similar to the ones she wore that first time I took her over my knee in here. Her skirt is so short, and I’m hyper-conscious that they’re right there.

I might make her walk all the way home in front of me, just so I can watch that flippy little hem swing.

It seems she’s as tickled by my appearance as I am by hers, though I have no idea why. She dressed me in the kind of khakis a teacher might wear (though far nicer—God knows, she won’t get me in Gap khakis even for the Amazon), and a blue and white checked shirt, open at the neck. Over it I’m wearing a V-necked navy merino tank, and I have my sleeves rolled up to mid-forearm.

My wife has told me the forearm porn is a very important part of this and that I must make sure I flex as hard as I can when I’m pretending to spank her.

My favourite part of this costume? The wooden foot-long ruler I’m supposed to spank her with. As I slap it against my palm, I note how pleasingly flexible it is. This should sting nicely.

The brief for the shoot is tasteful. Moody. Sophisticated.

I can do that.

The lighting is rigged up and ready. Graf is standing by.

‘Over to you,’ he says to me and Nat. ’Why don’t you try out a few positions? Get comfortable, and then I’ll see what works?’

‘You heard the man,’ I croon in my wife’s ear as I stand behind her. I wrap her glossy ponytail around my fist and tug her ear even closer to my mouth. ‘Why don’t you bend over for Mr Wright and let him show you what a very bad girl you’ve been today, hmm?’

I don’t miss the little moan she makes, for my ears only. I know how much she loves it when I’m in disciplinarian mode. I release her ponytail and put a palm between her shoulder blades, coaxing her forward so she’s hinged over the wooden desk. I nudge her legs wider so I can step right in behind her. My poor cock is aching already. ‘Like this?’ I ask Graf.

‘Very nice,’ he says, cocking his head thoughtfully. ‘Natalie, can you try coming up onto your elbows, and then wrap your fingers around the far edge of the desk as if you’re holding on for dear life?’

‘Yep,’ she says, pulling herself up. By doing so, she arches her back more fully and thrusts that barely-concealed little backside against me.

‘That’s wonderful,’ he says approvingly. ‘Turn your head a little so you’re facing the camera. Now Adam, you can pretend to spank her.’

Hmm. Pretend , my arse. I flip up Nat’s little skirt like we’ve pre-agreed, baring her pristine white schoolgirl panties to view. Holy fuck, it’s a good thing I didn’t pursue a teaching vocation. I would have got myself arrested, in all likelihood. With my free hand, I give her bottom a leisurely stroke, and she lets out an embarrassed giggle.

‘Adam!’

‘ Mr Wright to you, young lady.’

She squirms.

‘Ready?’ I ask the photographer, and he gives me the nod.

Because I’m a philanthropic kind of guy and feel deeply about putting my best foot forward for the rainforests, I put one hand between Nat’s legs—no one can see it but me—and stroke the cotton covering her pussy as I bring this excellent wooden ruler up in the air .

Two things then happen at once.

One, Graf starts snapping on his old-school camera.

And two, the ruler hits the part of Nat’s cheek not covered by her panties as a lovely clean thwack rings through the air, immediately accompanied by her audible gasp.

I’d put good money on her mouth making the most authentic O of schoolgirl shock at the same time as I smirk triumphantly.

That’s what I call the perfect shot.

CAL

I’m dragged away from what feels like a full-time job of dog chaperoning and coffee making and prop lugging to shoot my Mr Balaclava moment with my lovely wife. Tobias was very taken by the lustre of the backlit pink onyx bar and proclaimed that we absolutely needed to shoot at least one scene in the bar area. Apparently, it will glow beautifully in black and white.

You would think it’d take Aida longer than me to get ready for a shot like this than me. Trousers and balaclava, you might say. What else does the guy need?

In my defence, Aida arrived straight from the hairdresser with a full—and immaculate—face of makeup already on. There’s a makeup artist here, but my news anchor wife has learnt so many tricks of the trade over the past couple of decades that she claims not to need assistance, even for TV appearances.

Also in my defence, she’ll be wearing a mask anyway. And in additional evidence, I’d also like to point out that her dress is very easy to put on (and even easier to take off). It’s the same gorgeous red one she wore that first time we fucked, and presumably will match the bar far better in black and white than it does in colour.

The final part of my defence is that a good part of my prep time involves having the makeup artist contour my abs and oil up my entire torso. What? It makes perfect sense. I’m taking this thing seriously, and I want to look my best under the lights. Rafe and Zach may be keeping their clothes on, but I’m fucking well giving anyone who shells out for one of these calendars their money’s worth.

I’m considerate like that.

‘What the fuck is that?’ Aida asks as I stroll into the bar. She’s lounging against the bar itself, looking like a red-hot Italian temptress, her ornate gold mask on a nearby table. I grin, knowing she can never resist me with my balaclava on. When the mask goes on, it’s game on, too.

‘What’s what?’ I ask.

‘All that shit on your body. Is that oil?’

‘Yes it is, baby,’ I say, advancing on her.

She starts to laugh. ‘Oh my God! You look like a Chippendale circa 1986.’

‘You’d know.’

She barks out a disbelieving laugh that I’m age-shaming her. ‘He’s bitchy, too. Wowzers. Should we lose the mask and get you a nice Chippendale bowtie instead?’

‘Now now. That’s extremely hurtful. Do you have any idea how many women would kill to be in your position? A lot, that’s how many.’ I pull my phone out of my pocket and hook it up to the sound system, swivelling around to face her in a Patrick Swayze style move as those excellent opening beats of Robert Palmer’s Addicted to Love pump out .

My wife watches with wide-eyed disbelief as I gyrate in front of her.

‘Hang on,’ she says, grabbing her phone. ‘I have to get this on camera.’

She holds the phone up and records, backing away from me as I give her all my best moves. ‘Don’t come near me. If you get that stuff on this satin I swear I’ll crucify you.’

‘That’s not very nice,’ I croon. ‘Anyway, I think Zach and Mads have that scene covered next door.’

I know I look good. I have at least five minutes of hard evidence from admiring myself in the mirror—from every angle. My guns look fan-fucking-tastic, and this high-shine look is extremely flattering to my abs, which are as expertly contoured as a Kardashian’s face right now.

I’d forgotten how bloody brilliant this song was. It’s epic. We should definitely do an Eighties night here, and soon. I hold my guns up and flex, thrusting my crotch as I do, and she guffaws. ‘Oh my God! This is literal gold.’

Right. Much as I enjoy entertaining my hot wife, I’d rather she was looking at me with more incredulous desire and less incredulous amusement.

It’s time for the kill.

I put out my hand. ‘Give me my phone.’

She hands it over, and I switch the music over from Eighties cheese to a dark, sexy Ex Habit song that’s currently trending on TikTok and which has lots of references to choking and other things that might serve as a timely reminder to Aida Russell that she has a masked man in the room and she’s playing with fire here.

‘Here’s what’s going to happen,’ I say, throwing the phone onto the bar and lowering my voice until it’s downright menacing. ‘You’re going to come a lot closer. You’re going to let me mess you up a little. We’ll deal with the dress— I’ll buy you a new one if I have to. But it’s about time I remind you of what happens if you’re not a good girl for me, because we both know how that goes. Got it, sweetheart?’

Her dark eyes, so dramatic, so expressive, flit over me in what looks like a mix of panic and desire. ‘Mmm-hmm,’ she says, edging closer and sliding her hands over my oiled-up shoulders.

‘Good girl. Like what you feel? Like what you see?’

‘Yeah.’ She tugs at her scarlet bottom lip with her teeth.

‘Good. Because you’re still the most beautiful, intoxicating woman I’ve ever, ever seen. And I’d stop doing that thing with your lip if I were you, unless you want that lipstick smeared around my cock by the time Graf shows up.’

She immediately stops worrying at her lip.

‘You know what I’m going to do when we’re done?’ I ask.

‘Go and protect that poor dog’s ass from Norm?’ she guesses, and I let out a pained laugh.

‘Fucking Norm. No. The dogs can go fuck themselves. I’m going to get you in a room, and chain you to the bed, and we’re going to fuck like we did that very first time, got it?’

She lets her eyes drift closed for a moment. ‘You were so fucking rough that night.’

‘Yes, I was.’

She slides a hand down over my slick chest and stomach, and I’m so into her I don’t even ask her to be careful not to smudge my contouring. Then she cups my dick and gives it a really good squeeze.

‘I want it rough like that today,’ she murmurs, and I marvel once again at the fact that this incredible, smoking-hot woman, beloved and respected by millions, wants a chump like me .

I’m fully hard by the time poor old Graf saunters in.

MAX

Filming a showering scene when we’ve decided on no nudity is a creative conundrum I feel absolutely qualified to solve. It’s a shame, really, because Dex and I spend a lot of time in the gym. Our arses are domes of steel at the moment.

And don’t get me started on our wife. While I’ve had vivid fantasies about her being pregnant since shamefully early on in our relationship, nothing could have prepared me for the spectacular vision of fertility that is Darcy at five months along. The entire world should see this body.

I suppose it makes sense that a bastion of British industry (yours truly) should maintain some levels of decency. Do any other FTSE100 CEOs get their kits off for charity? Thankfully no. Ugh. I shudder. Ghastly thought.

The devil on my shoulder, though, asks why the fuck we shouldn’t? I’m a trailblazer—a queer bloke in a polyamorous marriage, and my spouses happen to be model-grade hot. If Wolff’s board of directors disapproves of their CEO getting his arse out for charity, tough shit. And Dex and Darcy have no one to answer to but themselves.

I think a tasteful, black-and-white shot of the three of us having fun under the spray would be just the ticket. And once the tabloids get hold of the images, I know for a fact that having Max Hunter bare all with his husband and wife will have sales of the calendar skyrocketing before you can say peeping Tom .

I muse aloud on this front as we stand in the very room that hosted our first threesome. We’ve been back many times since. The shower pressure is still first class.

My wife, unsurprisingly, takes my ruminations and runs with them like a Labrador with a stolen rotisserie chicken.

‘We could recreate that kind of Eiffel Tower moment when I sucked Dex off and he sucked your thumb!’ she suggests with indecent zeal.

I laugh. ‘Darling, there’s a scale, you see. Tasteful nudity is at one end, and fully-fledged on-camera fellatio is at the other. Let’s not go hardcore porno in front of the camera, shall we?’

‘Glad one of you has some propriety,’ Dex mutters, and I laugh and lean in so I can rake my fingers through his hair. Dex Hunter-Scott is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, and in about four months’ time, his gene pool will be unleashed on the world.

That’s right.

Dex is the biological father of Darcy’s unborn son.

Our unborn son.

The funny thing is, I think Dex and Darce feel a little worried on my behalf—as if I’ll be devastated when the little guy arrives and I have no blood ties to him.

The sweet, sweet things are utterly deluded. Dear God, I’m not that bad at biology. Dex takes Darcy’s cunt far more often than I do.

I want this for him.

While this relationship has made the three of us blissfully happy, it’s Dex who’s given up the most to make it a reality. It’s he who’s had to overcome every word of toxicity and dogma he’s been force-fed all his life. He who’s had to find courage beyond bounds, sever ties with his father, for Christ’s sake .

The very least I can do is ensure that the man who’s sacrificed so much to be with me fulfils his wish to father a child.

In any case, everyone knows that blood means far less in the definition of fatherhood than other factors, factors I intend to ace with every ounce of energy in my alpha heart.

With a lighting stand in the bathroom, it feels pretty cramped. I suspect this will be more of an in-the-moment action shot than some of the others.

‘We’re going to do it in the nude,’ Darcy explains gleefully to a nervous-looking Graf. The guy’s a fashion photographer, so he can’t be a total prude. Models are always getting their kits off, aren’t they? Perhaps he’s more worried about bringing that lovely antique Leica into a steamy bathroom than he is about being assaulted with a whole load of sex organs.

‘Look,’ I tell him. ‘There’ll be boners. I apologise in advance, but it’s pretty much a given when the three of us are in the shower together. Just, um, shoot around them, all right mate?’

‘So,’ he says wearily—and possibly warily, ‘we’re aiming for an above-the-waist shot, is that correct?’

Darce, Dex and I glance at each other. I can see in their eyes that they’re happy for me to take the lead on this.

‘If that’s how you want to frame the shot,’ I say, ‘then fine. But feel free to go wider. No dicks or cunts in shot. We’ll try to keep Darcy within the bounds of decency, but it would be a shame not to celebrate this gorgeous baby bump.’ And these gorgeous pregnancy tits.

‘I totally agree,’ he says, his gaze sweeping over her. The only reason I tolerate it is that Graf is married to a high profile male magazine editor. I know that an aesthete like him can’t see a display of femininity and fertility like the one our wife will put on and not be moved to immortalise it in the most exquisite images.

We strip off our clothes and head into the shower, Graf’s instructions ringing in our ears. He wants playfulness. Spontaneity. He wants to show the sheer joy that comes from the three of us being together with clothes and boundaries and inhibitions shed (not that there are ever many of the latter where my beloved wife is concerned).

I’m the first to get naked and head for the shower, the hungriest racehorse out of the starting blocks. Dex catches me with a whack of his t-shirt across my arse as I go, and when I turn back to him, he’s laughing. I shake my head at him, grinning, the happiness hitting me like a freight train.

It’s all so different from that first time when he followed Darcy in here like a lamb to the fucking slaughter. When he used every ounce of his Catholic mulishness to deny, to subjugate every desire he thought he shouldn’t want.

He’s a different man now.

He is his true and wonderful self.

‘You’re playing a dangerous game,’ I remark as I saunter through. I crank up the two shower heads and turn the heat to just north of tepid. We don’t want so much steam that it impedes visibility—or fogs up the camera. ‘Come on, you two!’ I shout. ‘And for fuck’s sake, try to remember we have company.’

I’m operating under the safe assumption that as soon as Graf’s got his shot, the steam level in here will ramp up far higher, both figuratively and literally.

They’re with me in moments, joining me under the torrent of water, Dex turning his head this way and that to wet his hair, exactly as he did all that time ago, reaching up to slick back his hair. There’s no less desire as I watch him, but it’s a fuller, cleaner desire, rendered positively luminous by my certainty that he’ll bend over for me, or at the very least get on his knees for me, before this session is over. Those shadows that taunted me of fear and want and worry that I’d never, ever get him to acquiesce have long since faded.

My wife’s hair is turning darker under the spray, the water sluicing over her pregnancy curves. She’s needed—and demanded—every bit of both of us we can give, these past couple of months in bed. If I thought Darcy was insatiable before, pregnancy has her as ravenous for dick as it does for food. Happily for all of us, we’re more than content to sate her fierce appetites on both fronts.

‘Can I come through?’ Tobias calls.

‘Sure!’ Dex replies, blithe as you like. The man who hid his desires in the darkness is about to put on a show for a photographer, and he’s happy as hell about it. It’s a wonderful thing to see.

‘As you are,’ Graf says, fiddling with his camera. I take him at his word and start to shampoo Darcy’s hair. As I lather her up from behind and massage her skull, the noises of appreciation she makes are positively orgasmic. Dex steps up in front of her, rubbing lavender-scented shower gel lovingly over her belly.

‘Any action?’ I ask him.

‘Not yet,’ he says.

It’s only been a few days since he and I have been able to feel anything, though Darcy’s felt flutters inside her for a few weeks longer. Checking for them, though, is our new favourite pastime.

‘Time to rinse,’ I tell her gently. She tips her head back, and I’m sufficiently taller than her to enjoy the view of her water-sluiced face and starry lashes, her radiant smile and the shampoo streaming over her swollen tits and stomach in foamy rivulets. As I drag my gaze away from her, my eyes meet Dex’s. He’s transfixed, too.

In a few months, we’ll be knee-deep in shitty nappies and drunk on adoration and sleep deprivation. We’ll be the most grateful, worshipful, incredulous servants to our queen and our little prince, and it will be the messiest, most exhilarating adventure of our lives.

But for now, we’re here together with our love and our hopes and our visions for the future—visions that, like tremulous buds, are startlingly close to bursting into the full glory of their reality.

As I rinse Darcy’s hair clean of shampoo and Dex smooths the suds over her belly, I hear the click of a camera shutter and a moment preserved in time.

ZACH

‘This is the very best kind of déjà vu,’ I say, sauntering towards my wife with one hand in my pocket and a black silk blindfold fluttering from the other.

She looks staggering, standing there in front of the very cross I trussed her up on that first time. Resplendent. We jointly agreed that our Slave Night reenactment would involve marginally less skin on show than that first time. There’s no fucking way random guys get to perv at my wife’s spectacular tits for the paltry sum of a hundred pounds—the price the calendar will sell for. That would be laughable.

So this afternoon, while the girls are at school and Jonny naps at home with Ruth, Maddy has decked herself out in a one-piece that’s all black lace and tiny straps. She’s had her hair professionally blow-dried so it cascades over her shoulders in dark, glossy waves, and she’s resurrected those sexy-as-fuck bondage-style gladiator sandals, their leather ties crisscrossing up her legs in a way that’s so hot I wonder why we don’t get them out more often.

In a word: she is spectacular .

‘At least you’re getting me for free today,’ she says cheerily, and I laugh, recalling the blind panic I felt that night at the knowledge that I had to somehow win the bidding for my dangerous little colleague without blowing the girls’ entire school fees fund. The preemptive horror in my mind that I might well not win, that some other fuckwit would outbid me and take her off to do all manner of filthy things to her, and that she would without a doubt let him to teach me a lesson.

I shake my head at the mere thought of it.

‘I mean, technically,’ I say. ‘This may be the least expensive day of our marriage, in fact.’

‘Haha. That’s so uncool. I’m very low maintenance.’

Nothing about my wife is low maintenance. Especially when she goes shopping with Belle, Darcy and Nat or gets invited along by Gen to one of the trunk shows she loves to throw.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

‘The Maddy Master Expenditure spreadsheet says otherwise.’

We grin at each other. There is no spreadsheet, obviously, but I like to taunt her at regular intervals with the possibility that there is.

‘Better get your money’s worth then,’ she says, our eyes still locked. It’s a similar sentiment to the one she shared on Slave Night, and the thought makes my dick throb. I lick my lips.

‘I’ll be sure to. Let’s get you ready, shall we?’

She nods, instantly more pliant. I love this about my wife. She’s so feisty, but as soon as I go remotely Dom on her she rolls over like a kitten. I will never, ever stop finding it sexy as hell.

I step up so I’m right in front of her and hold out the blindfold.

‘I love you all in black,’ she murmurs, staring at my mouth. I too have resuscitated my ensemble from that indelibly memorable night.

‘I love you in every single way,’ I whisper back.

‘I hope Graf gets this over quickly,’ she says. ‘It’s not like we often get The Playroom to ourselves.’

I laugh. ‘That’s a lie, and you know it.’ We’ve definitely crept in here on many an occasion. The benefits of working with your wife in an actual sex club are infinite.

‘Okay,’ she says with a pout, ‘but we’re not usually dressed like this .’

‘Excellent point well made, Mrs French.’ I smile at her as I hold the blindfold up to her eyes and tie it gently at the back of her head.

‘Fluff my hair out, will you? I don’t want blindfold head.’

‘I don’t think that’s a thing, sweetheart,’ I say as I oblige, fanning out her dark curls so they tease the golden skin of her shoulders and chest and arms.

I help her gain her foothold on the cross and then stoop so I can buckle the leather cuffs around each ankle. Her legs are smooth and glossy. I kiss the inside of her knee, just above where the leather straps of her sandals stop, and then, rising slowly to my feet, I kiss my way up one thigh before pressing my mouth to that lace-covered spot just north of her pubic bone.

She sighs happily and strokes along my shoulders until she finds my neck. My hair.

‘Let’s get your hands fastened,’ I say, snagging her wrist so I can kiss her pulse point.

‘Okay.’ She holds her arms up, and I work on fastening them. And then, when my wife is nicely trussed up, I take a step back to admire my handiwork.

‘Absolutely ravishing,’ I pronounce, and she smiles.

‘Ravish me, then.’

I glance back towards the door. ‘Graf’ll be here any second. He was just taking a leak.’ I wouldn’t have restrained her arms above her head if he wasn’t yet imminent.

‘Come on,’ she whispers. ‘Give me something to think about so I really do look turned on in the photos.’

I skim my hands up her thighs, following the curves of her hips, dipping in at her waist and then dragging them upwards so I can palm her beautiful little tits. ‘I can’t think what you mean.’

‘Mmm. Rub them hard, darling.’

‘Like this?’ I find her nipples through the fabric and rub them until they become hard little points. ‘Does the lace make it feel better?’

She inhales sharply through her teeth. ‘Oh God, yes. Just like that.’

‘My little slave girl likes knowing she’s in my hands, I think,’ I muse. I remove one hand and slide it between her legs where the lace is hot and damp. ‘She likes knowing her master can do whatever the fuck he wants to her and she has to take it.’

Jesus fucking Christ, I should get her up on this thing far more often. It’s so insanely hot, having my wife trussed up like this.

‘Oh my God,’ she moans, trying to thrust against my hand, but she doesn’t have much leverage in this position.

I tug the lace to one side and drive a couple of fingers roughly inside her, kissing her jawline instead of her mouth so I don’t ruin her lipstick.

‘She likes knowing I’ve bought her. She’s mine to do every single unspeakable thing I want to her.’

Unspeakable things.

The phrase that Maddy used to proposition me when she figured out how badly I wanted to use her beautiful body to release all my pain and grief and stress on.

The phrase we still whisper to each other whenever we’re feeling horny.

The phrase that feels even more illicit and filthy with my wife playing a crucified slave girl for me.

‘Sir.’ Her breath comes in big, ragged gasps as I drive my fingers wetly in and out and work her clit with rough swipes of my thumb. She’s panting, shaking, and I marvel, as I often do, at how wonderfully responsive my wife is, how quickly I can get her from nought to sixty.

‘My slave girl needs to come really fucking quickly for her master,’ I say now, my cock an agonisingly rigid pole against my zipper, ‘or she won’t get to come at all.’

‘Jesus. Harder. Harder .’

‘Please, sir.’

‘Please, sir. Oh my God, please. Fuck?—’

She starts to buck, her inner walls contracting around my fingers, and?—

‘Oh, you’re all set up for me. Excellent!’

From behind me comes Tobias’ voice and the unmistakeable scrambling of overexcited dogs as, in front of me, my wife falls noisily, gloriously, apart.

TOBIAS

Never in my life have I encountered such a bunch of rampant sex addicts, and I did a shoot inside the Playboy Mansion for Vanity Fair that one time in the Noughties.

I need a very large whisky now.