Porn Star by Laurelin Paige
Logan stands up, but only long enough to fold my legs in toward my stomach. His eyes scan hungrily over my cunt. “Keep going.” His words are marinated in heavy desire. “You stop, I stop.”
“The story is over.” I sound desperate because I am. I don’t think I can take anymore of his torture, but I’m certain I can’t stand it if he stops.
“Then tell me another,” he says, and so I do. I tell him another and another and another, dredging up every myth I’ve ever been told about the constellations and the planets and the balls of fire that flicker and flame above us until I release again. And then again. And I can’t talk anymore, drunk on coming. Drunk on Logan and this night and the poetry he’s written in my most private parts.
Still, he doesn’t let up.
I’m limp and sweat-soaked when he straightens and tugs me up to meet him. With his fingers still buried inside of me, his mouth finds mine, his lips are smeared with my wetness and his tongue is thick with my taste, and the kiss he gives me turns me inside out.
Soon he pulls away and mumbles at my ear, so softly that I wonder if he’s forgotten that he’s filming or if he’s just gotten too caught up to care, because there’s no way the camera is picking up these words. “You’re making me so hard, Devi.” He grinds against the curve of my ass, proving his point. “My cock is fucking lead because of you.”
Unbelievably, this turns me on even more. I tighten around his finger, and he groans. “You should pay for this. For being such a tease. For making me this goddamned turned on.”
I close my eyes as yet another climax crests, but he jerks my chin up toward him.
“Look at me,” he says, and I do. His features are strained as if he’s the one close to orgasm instead of me. As if giving me pleasure is as intense for him as it is for me to receive. It’s shocking and thrilling and perfect and I can’t look away, both because he’s told me not to and because he’s too beautiful not to look at. Especially with his face framed by the night behind him, the tiny dots of stars twinkling like candles he’s lit just for me.
But the brightest lights before me are the twin sparks in his eyes as he urges, “give it to me. Give it to me.”
And then the stars are falling, shooting across his face, across my vision, and I understand why Juliet paired her thoughts of orgasm with Romeo cut up into stars and preserved forever as a constellation. Because I will now forever pair this bliss with Logan and the heavenly bodies above me now.
I’m gasping against his mouth, tears are falling from my eyes, and every muscle in my body is vibrating with this release—this orgasm so violent, so intense, that I’m sure my heart has stalled.
“Jesus, Devi! Yes! Yes.” He’s pleased. Excited by the potency of my climax. “More. Give it to me. Give it all to me.”
I shatter around him, until I’m nothing, nothing, nothing,
I’m also desperate to do to him what he’s done to me so when I’m able to move my limbs again, I sit up, into his kiss, and fumble to get into his pants. Eagerly, he gropes my breast, half climbing on top of me as he bucks against my hands, muttering for me to hurry with my task.
But before I even have his belt undone, red and blue lights streak through the now pitch black night, and the headlights of a police car land on the road beside us.
“Fuuuuck,” Logan says, sliding off of me. He turns away toward the camera and a second later I see the red record light disappear.
I sit up, and smooth my skirt over my thighs then run my fingers through my hair, so that I’m—hopefully—presentable by the time the cop gets out of his car and approaches us.
“Good evening,” he says in greeting.
“Hello, officer.” I give him my flirtiest grin. In my periphery I see Logan pull down his shirt to cover his erection.
The cop narrows his eyes, surveying the scene in front of him. “What are you two doing out here tonight?”
“Just looking at the stars,” Logan says, turning to join the conversation. He points to the sky. “That’s Jupiter and Venus over there. Do you want to see my Wilderness Pass?”
“Not necessary.” The officer never takes his eyes off us. There’s no way he’s fooled. The scent of sex is clinging heavily to me, and I’m sure my hair is even more mussed than Logan’s.
With a knowing nod of his head, the policeman says, “It’s probably best you get moving on now.”
“Yep. Going.” Logan is already loading up the camera and tripod. I clean up the remains of our dinner, and within a handful of minutes, we’re in the Mustang, driving down the highway back toward the lights of the city.
And then another minute, and we burst into laughter. I laugh so hard my eyes water and my sides hurt by the time I can speak. “Wow. That was a first.” I wipe at the tears running down my cheeks.
“I’ve had cops shoo me away from locations before, but always because I have a hard time remembering to carry a permit. Or to get one in the first place.”
Another fit of giggles rips through me.
“Pretty sure this is the first time my dick didn’t go limp the minute I saw the lights though.” He lifts his hips to adjust himself, and a pang of guilt runs through me, silencing my laughs. He got me off so many times, and he’s still stone hard.
The guilt is gone in a flash and replaced with a yearning so deep, so intense, I’ve never felt anything like it. My mouth waters, and suddenly I have to have him in my mouth. Not because I feel sorry for the blue balls he’s sporting, but because I need to please him. I need to stroke his cock and suck him off and watch him fall to pieces in front of me.
Or, perhaps, not quite that far. He’s driving, after all.
Without any preamble, I undo my seatbelt and lean across the console to work on his pants. His cock leaps as my palm grazes his granite erection. Damn, he’s hard. My chest flutters with anticipation.
But even though Logan groans at my touch, he says, “You don’t have to do that, Devi.”
“I want to.” Translation: I’m greedy for it. “I can’t leave you like this.” Translation: I can’t leave me like this.
“Don’t worry about me.” Then, when I’m still fumbling with his zipper, he puts a hand on my shoulder and gently nudges me off. Nudges me away.
Slowly, I sit up. Confusion follows surprise, and I study him with disbelief.
He glances toward me, and my expression must be transparent, because he says, “I think this episode will have more of an impact if you don’t reciprocate this time. You know, it’s more of a romantic gesture this way. It’s better. For the show.”
“Right. The show.” That sinking feeling from the day before returns, but then I glance at Logan’s profile, and it hits me—he’s as mixed up about all this as I am. It’s written all over his face. He’s longing. He’s conflicted. He’s nobler than he realizes.
It’s possible that I’m making it all up, that I’m seeing things that aren’t there. But the camera’s off. That look on his face is genuine, and I know that expression. It’s the same one that met me in the mirror when I got ready tonight.
I settle back into my seat and, with my elbow propped on the door, I chew on my knuckle, and try to dissect the strange discontentment that has crept over me. Yes, I like the guy. There’s no dancing around that fact. But what’s going on with him? Why is he pushing me away when his body language and his body parts are telling me he wants, wants, wants?
Is it me? Is it my age? Is he still hung up on his ex? Has the industry jaded him against relationships in general?
The truth is, I don’t know him well enough to begin to form any real answer. What I do know, is that no matter how real this chemistry is between us, he’s a closed set. No matter what he reveals on camera, he’s not letting me in any further than that.
“Star-crossed,” I say, breaking the silence that’s stretched between us. “I think that’s what you should call the show.”
“Star-crossed?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s good. I like it.??
I don’t have to wonder why he accepts my suggestion so readily. I’m sure it’s because he realizes as well as I do how fitting of a title it is to describe us—two lovers never meant to be together who meet occasionally in the night.
10
Devi’s quiet when we approach her apartment, and I’m not sure what to say. I’m not sure I can say anything, because I’m still hard as a rock, and every time I breathe, I breathe in the smell of her. It lingers everywhere—my hands, her thighs, my lips—and it’s driving me fucking crazy. When she reached for me earlier, her hands fumbling eagerly with my zipper, I had almost climaxed right then and there. I may be a man renowned for his control, and my scenes usually highlight this about me, but with Devi, I have nothing. Nothing. No shred of patience or restraint, and going down on her on the hood of my Mustang had already driven me into a fucking frenzy. (Because what man doesn’t fantasize about that at some point—a beautiful woman spread open on the hood of a muscle car, cunt exposed, hair like tousled cascades on the sleek metal?)
And fuck if getting caught hadn’t made me harder, sent my mind spiraling into the filthiest, most depraved fantasies possible—watching Devi try to “convince” the officers to let us go, first with her mouth and then with her pussy, the kind of fantasies I would never admit to anyone else. And then we got on the highway and she dove for my dick like a madwoman, and I hope God was watching what a fucking gentleman I was, because it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life to push her away.
Except now I’m in her driveway saying goodbye and I’m throbbing with misery and I can tell she’s a little hurt, and shit. Why did I push her away?
I wasn’t lying when I told her that I thought it would be better for the show for her not to reciprocate tonight. I do think that, and also I’d like to plan another visually dynamic venue for the blowjob, not just the interior of my goddamn car (even though it’s the best car in the world.)
But that’s not the real reason, and the real reason is so fragile even in my own mind that I know I have no hope of explaining it to her. Because those thirty minutes with her on my hood, when I tongued her to orgasm over and over again while she told me Persian and Greek fables in that breathy, faltering voice, the big feeling had come, and I was drunk on it. It came with my mouth on Devi’s silken skin, with her words drifting into the desert, and it was more powerful than I’d ever felt with anyone, ever. More than my first scene, my favorite films, or my most elaborate and creative ideas.
No, this was something beyond anything I’ve ever felt, so powerful and elemental that I could feel it coursing through my body and into the rocky ground underneath me and into the speckled, glittering sky above me, and the world dissolved into pure, celestial magic.
Sparkling.
Atomic.
Holy.
And then the world came together again, normal once more but still charged with the ionized memory of our magic, and we sped into the dark, laughing at our near-miss.
So why did I push her away?
Because I couldn’t bear the thought of something so unbearably sexy, so indelibly perfect, being brought down to earth with something as mercenary and trite as forcing her to suck me off in my car. I mean, I knew at the time that I wasn’t forcing anything, that she would have been happy to do it, but it would have ultimately been me leading the transition from the stars to the slurping, and it felt wrong.
It still feels wrong. I chose the right thing, I know it, even as I sit here listening to Devi gather up her things and unbuckle herself.
“I’ll walk you inside,” I say suddenly, unbuckling too.
“Okay,” she says. Her voice betrays nothing, and this is one of the strangest things I’ve learned about Devi in the past few weeks. She can be so friendly, so straightforward, so adorably young, that it would be tempting to think that she’s an open book. But she’s not always, only when she chooses to be, and there are times when she’s just as unreadable as the stars. More Queen Cassiopeia than Layla.
We get out and I follow her up the walk, up to her front door. The moment is pregnant as she unlocks it, as we both recall our searing first kiss here, and I wonder how she remembers it. She wanted it, I know, just like she genuinely wanted to blow me tonight in my car. Devi is a modern, sex-positive girl; she enjoys having sex and she likes me as a friend. And there have been a few moments where I’ve thought I’ve glimpsed something more, kernels of yearning in her voice, a bite of the lip or a quick blink as she looks away from me.
But I still think it might have just been a hot kiss for her and nothing more. Not the revelation it was for me.
The moment passes and then we’re walking up the old wooden stairs to the upper floor and unlocking another door there.
She flicks a light on, and a yellow CFL bulb illuminates a cozy living room lined with bookshelves and dominated by the ugliest couch I’ve ever seen in my life, a hulking thing of orange velvet. It’s either the kind of couch you find in your great-aunt’s basement or the kind of couch you pay too much money for at a place like Anthropologie.
I walk over to investigate it further, and then I hear Devi clear her throat like she’s going to speak, like it’s easier for her to speak when we’re not looking at each other. I brace myself for whatever she is going to say.
“Why wouldn’t you let me blow you?” she asks softly.
Dammit. The one question I would pay real, American money for her not to ask.
I turn to face her, my filmmaker brain having tiny seizures when I see how sweet and vulnerable she looks framed against her sagging, overwhelmed bookshelves. “Devi, it’s just about the show, it’s not because I don’t--”
“Bullshit.” There’s no menace or heat in her voice right now, just the matter-of-fact voice she would use to tell me about star formation.
I hesitate. She tilts her head at me.
I speak after a long moment, trying to fumble my way towards the truth without exposing how deeply, crazily, ridiculously I am caught up in her. “I didn’t want to use you, Devi. I didn’t want to cheapen what we shared in the desert.”
She raises an eyebrow, and I realize suddenly I’ve said something wrong.
“For one thing,” she says, using her fingers to tick off her words, suddenly not looking like a girl at all, but a confident—and irritated—woman, “there’s nothing cheap about my choosing to do any sexual act with you. I make the choice—I choose to use my body, either for work or for pleasure, and tonight I was choosing to go down on you, even though I knew the cameras were off. When you call that choice cheap, it makes me feel cheap.”
Shit shit shit.
“That’s not at all what I meant,” I hurry to explain. “I just meant—”
“And for another thing,” she continues, as if I haven’t spoken, “I feel like you’re holding yourself back from me, and I don’t get it at all. Logan, your body isn’t a machine, and I don’t expect it to be—I don’t expect you to turn yourself off like a switch when the camera turns off. You’re human, you’re going to keep needing and craving even after a scene ends. Of course, you don’t want to use women, and of course you aren’t the kind of guy who tries to fuck around with girls onset when the cameras aren’t rolling. It’s one of the things I like best about you.”
I don’t know what to say to this, because I’m so floored and grateful that she has noticed those things about me, but I also know that she’s not finished talking yet and that I’m still in trouble.
“But Logan—” she steps forward “—I offered. I was offering because I wanted to. I wanted to and I chose it, and you wouldn’t have been manipulating or even coaxing me into it. Please...as we move forward...please open up to me more. I’m your friend and I think I’m—” she breaks off, swallowing and glancing away. “I’m so turned on for you all the time,” she finishes, and it makes my dick ache and my heart beat hard, even as my mind recognizes that she changed course at the last moment.
She changed course...why? My
What would I say back?
The answer rises to my lips immediately: Me too me too me too.
She drags my mind away from those thoughts with a soft sigh, the kind of sigh that makes me remember the noises she made on the hood of my car. Something snaps inside of me, something big.
“Sit on the couch,” I command. My voice is firm, loud and a little harsh in the small, warm space. Some distant part of me wonders if I’ve crossed a line.
But she sits.
I walk over to her. “On the edge,” I say, and she obeys, and then I kick her legs apart, so that she’s not only sitting on the edge but has her legs splayed wide. Her skirt rides up, baring her pussy.
She peers up at me with those golden eyes at the same time that I smell her scent again. My pulse thuds in my neck and wrists and groin, and it hits me.
I’m not just caught up in Devi, I’m truly, honestly falling for her. I have feelings.
Capital F Feelings.
Somehow my crush has gone from “casually obsessed with” to “move in with me,” and I have no idea what the fuck to do with that, much less what Devi would do with it if she knew. She’s obviously attracted to me, but that in no way equates romance, especially in our line of work. It’s too soon for me to feel this way, and it’s not right to drag that into the middle of a project. And if I’m being honest, I’m scared. Not a little scared, but a lot scared, because the last time I had capital F feelings, I lost my dog, my heart, and my sobriety in one fell swoop.
But I can’t just ignore this, and clearly, I can’t hide it from Devi, nor do I want to.
There has to be a middle ground, right? Between pretending it away and proposing marriage?