International Manwhore – Part 6

Everyone in this story is 18+

The private club Asher dragged me to was a dimly lit den of leather armchairs and crystal decanters, tucked away in a Mayfair backstreet where the air smelled like aged whiskey and quiet deals. It was the kind of place where billionaires like my dad, whispered about mergers over cigars, but tonight it was our "social immersion" spot. Leona's orders: practice blending into Adrien's world without looking like a fish out of water. Asher lounged across from me in a booth, swirling a scotch, his green eyes catching the low light like they were designed for it.

"You still look like you're about to chug a keg," he said, smirking over the rim of his glass. "Loosen up, Tucker. Strategic seduction starts with presence. Adrien's crowd doesn't do frat vibes—they do subtle power plays."

I leaned back, nursing my bourbon, the burn steadying my nerves. The place was quiet, just us and a few suits in corners. "Yeah, well, I'm not here to sip tea. What's the lesson today, professor? More posture drills?"

Asher's laugh was low, that throaty rumble that grated on me. "Posture's step one. Step two: reading the room, drawing them in without a word. Watch." He set his glass down, leaning forward, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that pinned me in place. The space between us shrank, even though he hadn't moved. His fingers traced the edge of the table, casual but deliberate, like he was mapping something else entirely.

I shifted, the leather creaking under me. "What, you're demonstrating on me? That's not creepy at all."

He grinned, wicked. "Best way to learn—feel it firsthand. Pretend I'm Adrien. What do you do?"

I shrugged, playing it cool. "Buy him a drink? Crack a joke?"

"Wrong." Asher's voice dropped, smooth as the silk sheets. He reached across, his hand brushing mine as he took my glass, fingers lingering just long enough to register. The contact was light, but it sent a weird fuzz through my head, like the bourbon hitting harder than it should. "Seduction's about tension. Build it slow. Make them lean in." His eyes held mine, unblinking, and damn if the room didn't feel warmer, the jasmine from last night's session echoing in my mind.

I pulled my hand back, laughing it off. "Okay, Casanova. So you're bi, huh? How does that work, like... not that it's relevant. Just making small talk."

Asher's eyebrow arched, his smirk deepening. "Curious, Tucker? Bi means I don't limit my options. Women, men—it's about the spark, the game. Why? Thinking of expanding your horizons?" He leaned closer, breath warm against my ear as he whispered, "Or just fishing for tips?"

My face heated, but I waved it off. "Nah, just wondering. Like I said, small talk. I'm straight—end of story."

He pulled back, chuckling. "Sure you are. But for the mission, you need to sell the bi angle. Watch this." Before I could protest, he shifted gears, his demeanor changing like a switch. His hand found my knee under the table, a firm press that wasn't aggressive but insistent, fingers tracing a slow circle. The touch was calculated, sending a light-headed rush through me, my pulse kicking up as the whiskey swirled in my veins. "See? That's the hook—touch that lingers, makes them question." His voice was velvet, eyes boring into mine, pulling me in despite myself.

I swallowed, the room tilting a bit, fuzzier than before. "Yeah, well... effective, I guess." My head swam, a dizzy warmth spreading, but I shook it off. Just the booze, right? Or Asher's damn theatrics.

He withdrew his hand, grinning. "Your turn. Try it on me."

I barked a laugh. "No way. I'm not practicing on you."

"Suit yourself, manwhore. But Adrien won't wait for you to catch up." We bantered a bit more, the night blurring into easy jabs—him mocking my old preppy style, me firing back about his satchel. But that light-headed buzz lingered, nagging at me as I headed back to my suite.

◆◆◆

Alone in the hotel room, the silk sheets cool under me, I grabbed my laptop again. Jules had been a fluke—feminine enough to trick my body. But Asher's demo? That touch? It stuck in my head, a curiosity I couldn't shake. I typed femboy porn into the search bar, hitting enter before I could overthink it.

Clips loaded: amateur stuff, grainy phone cams and bedroom lights, slender guys in lace, makeup a bit smudged but real, bodies smooth and curved like invitations. I clicked one—a femboy in thigh-highs and a cropped top, on all fours in what looked like a messy apartment, facing a mirror. The guy behind him was straight-acting, built like me—tall, muscled, no frills, just jeans shoved down his thighs, gripping the femboy's hips with strong hands.

The video played raw: the straight guy spat on his palm, slicking his thick dick before pressing the head against the femboy's entrance, the camera catching the stretch as he pushed in slow, the femboy's back arching, a gasp escaping painted lips. The straight guy's thrusts started steady, building to a rhythm that slapped skin against skin, the femboy's ass jiggling with each impact, lace panties pulled aside, exposing the tight grip around the invading shaft. The femboy moaned high and breathy, fingers clawing the sheets, while the straight guy grunted low, one hand tangling in long hair to pull back, exposing the femboy's throat for nips and bites.

It was amateur heat—no polished sets, just sweaty bodies and shaky cam, the straight guy's abs flexing as he pounded deeper, the femboy's slim dick bouncing untouched between his legs, leaking clear strands onto the bed. The straight guy looked like me—dark blonde hair, sharp jaw, that cocky thrust like he owned the room. Hotter than studio crap, real and unfiltered, the femboy's delicate frame yielding under the raw force.

I watched, hand slipping under my waistband, expecting the usual nothing. But the sight gripped me—the feminine sway of the femboy's hips, the delicate whimpers contrasting the straight guy's rough grunts, the way the femboy's ass clenched around the shaft, rippling with each withdrawal and slam. My body betrayed me, swelling thick in my fist, veins pulsing under my grip as I stroked firm, matching the video's pace. The friction built hot, pre-cum slicking my palm, the amateur messiness making it hotter—the femboy's makeup running from sweat, the straight guy's handprint blooming red on pale cheeks.

The femboy came first, untouched, ropes jetting across the sheets in messy arcs, body trembling as the straight guy drove harder, chasing his own edge. The surge hit me too, muscles tensing as I unloaded in heavy pulses, thick spurts painting my abs, leaving me gasping, chest heaving. I lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling, wiping up with a tissue.