Chapter 34: The Casting and the Claim
The two-week interlude was a fiction. They spent it in a rented villa in Portugal, swimming in a salt-water pool and eating grilled fish, the sun bleaching the intensity from their skin. Catriona read paperbacks, her blonde hair loose and sun-streaked. Aidan fixed things that weren’t broken. They didn’t film a thing. They barely touched. It was a treaty of silence, a mutual understanding that the Berlin performance had been a peak they needed to descend from, carefully.
The return to London was a grey, damp shock. The familiarity of their flat felt like a costume that no longer fit properly. The client’s silence was a held breath.
Then, the new commission arrived. Not a location this time. A person.
Her name was Yuki. The brief included a photo—a young Japanese woman with sharp black bangs and eyes that held a preternatural calm. She was 19. A submissive. A professional. Her role was logistical, the brief explained. The client required a specific technical component for the next scene: a double-penetration sequence of cinematic quality. To achieve this, they needed an exact, medical-grade replica of Aidan’s cock. Yuki would arrive with a casting kit. Her instructions were explicit.
Catriona read the brief twice, her fingers cold. “A mold.”
“Yeah.” Aidan scrolled through the attached specifications. “Silicone. For a… well, a toy. For the scene.”
“She’s going to make it.”
“That’s what it says.”
Catriona looked up from the tablet. The anxiety was there, a faint flutter in her throat, but beneath it ran a darker, smoother current of curiosity. “She’ll have to get you hard. To get the impression.”
Aidan met her gaze. “That’s what it says.”
The appointed evening arrived. Aidan’s bedroom had been transformed back into a set. The velvet drapes were drawn against the London night. The amber lights cast a low, honeyed glow. The camera on its tripod was powered on, a single red eye winking in the dimness. The air smelled of vanilla from a diffuser, undercut by the clean scent of linen and the vague, waiting emptiness of the equipment cases.
Yuki arrived precisely at eight. She was smaller in person, bird-like, dressed in a simple black dress and tights. She carried a hard-shell plastic case. She bowed slightly, her movements economical. “Aidan-sama. Catriona-san. Thank you for having me.” Her English was flawless, softly accented.
“Please, just Aidan. Catriona,” Aidan said, his Yorkshire tone rough against her formality.
Yuki gave a small, polite smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “As you wish. I will prepare.”
She worked with silent efficiency. Opening the case, she laid out items on a clean towel on the dresser: mixing bowls, spatulas, a thick, pink silicone compound in tubes, a release agent, a slender vibrating wand. It looked like a dentist’s kit or an artist’s palette. Finally, she unzipped a long, cylindrical mold case and laid it flat.
Catriona sat in the armchair in the corner, wrapped in a silk robe. She felt like a director observing a technical rehearsal. Aidan stood by the bed, arms crossed, watching Yuki.
“The process requires a full, erect state for an accurate impression,” Yuki stated, matter-of-fact. She approached Aidan, her head tilting back to look up at him. There was no seduction in her face, only professional assessment. “I will facilitate this. The client approved the method. Is this acceptable to you?”
Aidan glanced at Catriona. She gave a single, slow nod, her hazel eyes dark in the low light. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s acceptable.”
“Please, make yourself comfortable on the bed.”
Aidan sat on the edge of the mattress. The sheets were cool. Yuki knelt on the floor between his legs, her posture perfect. She didn’t look at Catriona. Her entire world seemed to narrow to the task.
Her hands, when she touched him, were cool and dry. She applied the release agent with a clinical touch, her fingers smoothing it over his softness. Then she leaned in.
She didn’t start with her mouth. She used her hands first, coaxing blood flow with a firm, rhythmic stroke that was utterly devoid of personal feeling. She watched her own work with a detached focus. When he began to stir, she bent her head and licked a long, slow stripe from base to tip. Her tongue was pointed, precise.
A soft sound escaped Catriona. She tightened the belt of her robe.
Yuki took him into her mouth, her lips stretching into a smooth O. She worked him to full hardness with a technician’s dedication, her cheeks hollowing, one small hand cupping his balls with just the right pressure. There was a desperation in it, but it felt learned, a performance of hunger rather than the thing itself. Her throat bulged visibly as she took him deep, holding him there, her eyes closed in concentration. A low moan vibrated through her, a sound engineered for maximum auditory feedback.
“Fuck,” Aidan whispered, his head tipping back. His hands clenched in the duvet.
Yuki pulled back, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his glistening tip. “The erection is sufficient,” she announced, her voice slightly thick. “I will begin the primary mix.”
She returned to her kit, mixing the two silicone compounds with swift, practised strokes. The smell was chemical, sweet and plasticky. She brought the bowl and the cylindrical mold casing back to him. The material was a vibrant, fleshy pink.
“I must work quickly. The pot life is ninety seconds. You must maintain your state.”
She poured the silicone into the cylindrical mold. Then, without ceremony, she guided him into the opening, sinking him into the cool, viscous gel until he was fully submerged, his hips pressed against the rim. The sensation was bizarre—a tight, clinging cold.
“Hold perfectly still. Forty-five seconds.”
The room was silent except for the hum of the lights and Aidan’s strained breathing. Catriona watched, mesmerized, as the girl knelt, her eyes fixed on the timer on her phone, one hand resting lightly on Aidan’s thigh to monitor for any movement. Her other hand slid under her own dress. Catriona saw the subtle shift of her shoulders, the minute tension in her wrist. She was touching herself, maintaining the scene’s energy, keeping herself in the necessary headspace. It was the most personal thing she’d done since arriving.
The timer chimed. “We wait five minutes for the initial set. You may withdraw.”
Aidan pulled out with a soft, sucking sound. The mold held its shape perfectly. Yuki capped the end, sealing him inside it. She set it aside carefully.
“The replica will cure fully in one hour. It will be…” she finally looked at Catriona, a spark of something real flashing in her dark eyes, “…very accurate.”
Aidan was still painfully hard, the release agent making his skin gleam under the lights. Yuki observed him, her professional mask slipping for a fraction of a second, revealing a glimpse of raw want. She licked her lips, a quick, unconscious gesture.
“The client’s instructions are complete,” she said, her voice quieter now. “My duties are fulfilled.”
Aidan looked from the sealed mold, a perfect negative of himself, to the girl kneeling on his floor. He saw the faint tremor in her fingers as she packed a spatula away. He understood the transaction wasn’t just about silicone.
“You’ve been very thorough,” he said, his voice a low rasp.
He stood. Reached down. Took her by the elbow and guided her up. She came easily, pliant, her body slight against his. He turned her to face the bed, his hand smoothing over her hip, up under the hem of her black dress. She shuddered, a full-body tremor, and let out a small, shattered sigh.
“Such a good, precise girl,” he murmured into her hair, his fingers finding the wet heat between her legs. She was soaked. “You’ve earned a reward for your thorough work.”
Over Yuki’s shoulder, his eyes found Catriona’s. He was asking a question. Catriona held his gaze, her own arousal a sharp, sweet ache in her belly. She saw no threat in this small, hungry stranger, only a reflection. She untied the belt of her robe and let it fall open, a silent, sovereign permission.
Yuki moaned as Aidan’s fingers worked her, her head falling back against his chest. Her demure eyes were closed, her professional composure gone, replaced by the simple, desperate need to be used. Aidan looked at the camera, its red eye watching, and then back at Catriona, who was now slowly stroking her own breast, a quiet queen overseeing her kingdom.
The mold lay on the towel, a testament to what was to come. But this, now, was something else. A footnote. A gift. The chapter before the next performance began.