I, Porn Star (I #1) (18 page)

Russet and gold
stilettos snugly cocoon my freshly pampered feet, and on my wrist and throat,
touches of expensive perfume scent the air with each heartbeat. My ensemble is
completed when Stephanie steps forward with a stunning necklace and matching earrings.

“Are those real
diamonds
?”
I stare at the single row of gems that circle the necklace.

“Of course.”

Shocked laughter
bursts from my throat.
Of course
.

The laughter dies
when she steps back and examines me from head to toe. “You’re ready.” She hands
me a floor length silk robe.

“As I’ll ever be.”
I belt the robe and follow her to the door.

19

XXX

We walk in
silence to a small elevator I didn’t see earlier on my tour. She inserts a key
and when it slides open, she smiles at me. “You go alone. See you tomorrow.”

I step inside,
feeling like a gladiator at a Roman arena just before the steel gates rise up
to spit them out to face their doom.

Except, I’m
nowhere near gladiator-strong. My limbs are weak as kittens and my legs shake
so hard, I fall back against the elevator wall. Only to immediately straighten
because I don’t want to risk staining the robe, or anything else that has been
picked for this first meeting.

When the car
stops, I step out into a dark carpeted hallway and immediately notice this
place is as different from the rest of the house as night from day.

For one thing,
there’s tons of rigging. It begins at the door and runs along the walls both at
waist and overhead level. Then continues along on either side of the darkened
hallway and disappears into a room on the left from where a loud hum of
electricity and machines emits.

The hallway ends
before another set of double doors. They swing open before I reach them, and I
step in to yet another fantasy world. The decor in this section is bolder. Red
and gold blend with mahogany. Darker Italian marble stretches across polished
floors and expert stone masonry provides a backdrop for more stunning works of
art.

My clicking heels
draw to a stop at the counterpoint between two sweeping staircases, and I
wonder just how big this place is and whether I’ll ever be found if I manage to
get lost.

I turn in a full
circle. It’s only then that I notice the cameras. Small, discreet. Some are
rigged onto very thin cables. Others are stationary and blended into the decor.

But present. And
numerous. And all trained on me.

Self-conscious in
the extreme, I turn back to the stairs.

“Come upstairs,
Lucky.”

It’s absurd that
an electronic voice can grant me reassurance, but it’s exactly the impetus I
need to take the right set of stairs.

The royal blue
carpet muffles my footsteps, but I arrive at the top without falling on my
face. There are unlit hallways to my right and left, and another shorter,
illuminated hallway in front of me. I follow the lights and arrive in front of
an open door.

I step through
and stop.

The bedroom is
unapologetically male. The imposing bed is made of steel and wrought iron. The
sheets are black, the carpet a deep burgundy. There are several other items of
furniture dotted around the room. A chaise by the window. A rocking chair that
is in no way meant for an ageing man sits next to another commanding fireplace.
A long, blood-red spanking bench with a matching Ottoman is set against one
wall. And at the foot of the bed, a backless double scroll-sided seat with a
majestic and intricate design so beautiful, my breath catches. The plump seat
is made of pure black silk, but it is the bronze carvings set into the arms
that have me striding forward.

Halfway there, a
scent fills my nostrils. Smoked cedar, a hint of sage and the unmistakable musk
of predatory male. I lose sight of everything else, but that scent.

My gaze darts
around the room, seeking shadows where he could be waiting.

Watching.

I come up empty.
If he means for my anticipation to ramp up, he’s succeeding. I make a full
one-eighty, but I’m alone in the bedroom.

Alone with a
dozen cameras. Now that I know what they look like, it’s easy for me to pick
them out, even though the ones in here aren’t lit red yet.

Some are
suspended overhead, two are fixed to the headboard. More blended with the
furniture. Most of them are trained on the bed.

A soft whining
sound behind me refocuses my attention. I look over my shoulder to see the
doors swing shut.

“Your performance
is about to begin. Do the cameras make you nervous?”

Duh?
“Yes.”

“If you can
manage it, try to forget they’re there.”

I nod. “Okay.”

“Remove your
robe. Let me see you.”

Shaky fingers
pull the ties securing my robe. The silk slides off my shoulder with the barest
movement and pools on the floor. I slowly sink down, pick it up and lay it on
the bed.

“There’s a
blindfold on the table next to the bed. Go and get it and return to the end of
the bed.”

I step back from
the seat and locate the blindfold. It’s set next to a huge lamp on a wide teak
bedside table. My strides are slow, trepidatious, as I obey the instruction.

The blindfold is
made of heavy black silk. Although there’s a bow design attached to one string,
the two sides end with a metallic clasp design that would prevent accidental
loosening. I run my fingers over the soft material, which is already warming in
my hand.

With a firm hold
on it, I return to the scroll seat.

“Sit down,
Lucky.”

I take the seat,
rest the blindfold on my lap. The lights in the room dim a fraction, but the
one directly above me brightens, throwing me into soft spotlight.

One camera slowly
descends from the ceiling and stops a foot above my head. The blinking red
light tells me its recording my every blink. Every breath. I struggle to
contain my nerves and stare straight ahead.

I remain like
that for a good five minutes, before I see a shadow frame the closed frosted
bedroom doors.

He’s tall, broad
shouldered, well-muscled. That’s all I can tell from the hazy silhouette. My
pulse takes a turn from jumpy to frenzied.

“Put the
blindfold on. Secure it tightly. Then rest your hands beside you, palms down.”

The thought that
he’s going to deny me sight further unsettles me enough to make me hesitate. I
glance down at the blindfold, then back at his shadow.

“Do as you’re
told.” A harder command that demands my obedience. It’s also dangerous enough
to trigger a state of excitement. But the warmth of the spotlight reminds me
that I’m on a stage. That the cameras are picking up any signs of disobedience.

I only win this
game if I play my part right. As much as I want to see the man who has been so
expert at taking control of my emotions, I haven’t come all this way to fall
now.

I lift and place
the blindfold over my eyes.

Immediately, my
remaining ssenses scream with awareness. His scent is sharper, the soft air
filtering into the room rushes louder. The black silk comes alive, each
expensive thread leaping beneath my fingertips. My only deprived sense is a
taste of what’s to come. In anticipation, saliva floods my mouth.

But with all
these sensations come a heavy dose of trepidation.

This is
happening.

In front of
cameras.

Apprehension eats
away at the excitement. The trembling starts at my feet, works its way up to my
knees. Seconds later, my whole body is engulfed.

And that’s when I
hear the soft parting of the doors.

He’s here. In
living flesh. Right in front of me.

My throat moves
in a nervous swallow almost of its own accord, and my head jerks as I try to
hone in on him. But nerves have crossed to full-blown alarm, and he’s
uncontainable. He’s all around and inside me. My rapid breathing is a whisper
away from hyperventilation. Between my hands and the silk, a light coating of
sweat forms.

The rush of blood
through my veins grows into a roar, and the belief that I’m about to pass out
becomes real.

“You’re trembling.”
He’s right above me, large and powerful and domineering.

“Yes.” My
response is a shaky mess, the blackness behind the blindfold seeming to
thicken, even though rationally that is impossible.

“Are you afraid?”

I swallow hard.
“A little,” I lie.

“Of what?”

“Of the…unknown.”

“Do you think
I’ll hurt you?”

I start to shake
my head, but the naked truth slaps me in the face. “I don’t know. Will you?”

A brief pause.
“Would you like me to lie to you, Lucky?”

“N—no.”

“Then I’ll tell
you I don’t know either.”

There’s a note in
his voice. Twisted tendrils of acceptance, regret and elation at a state of
being. My breath strangles.

Before I can form
a coherent response, or think of a way to defend myself against the dark
anticipation, I feel a drift of air, a shift of power from towering to
enclosing.

He’s in front of
me. Like, right in front of my face.

“But I haven’t
forgotten your concerns. I may not succeed, but I’ll do my best not to breach
them.”

I suppose I
should be grateful for the consideration. But the dark delight and animalistic
hunger in his electric voice—how come he still sounds like that when he’s
right in front of me?—warns me gratitude might turn out to be a useless
commodity.

Another
unstoppable tremble races through me. My thoughts disjoint as I wait.

Wait.

But he’s in no
hurry. His prey is caught. Hypnotized by his presence alone.

“You’re
beautiful.” A heavy, unbiased compliment. A statement of pure ownership.

My breath is
gone. I don’t need air. Not right now. Not when he’s so close I feel his body
heat. Feel his breath when he speaks.

“I…thank you,” I
croak.

“I’m going to
touch you, Lucky.”

“Okay,” I
whisper.

The pads of two
fingers drift over my collarbone along the line where the diamond necklace
nestles.

My first
connection to Q.

I gasp at the
raw, gritty sensation that simple touch yields. He slowly explores one
collarbone and then moves, unhurried, to the other.

“I’ve dreamed of
touching you like this. Feeling your pulse beat beneath my fingers. I’ve
wondered what your skin would feel like.”

“Now…you know,” I
whisper.

“Now I know, I
want to taste it, lick every inch of it.”

Equal parts
desire and fear quiver through me. Desire because I want to be tasted. Licked.
Fear because he still sounds like a sexy automaton, a fallen angel trapped in a
machine. I can also hear the tiny whirrs of the cameras, can feel the lenses
moving over my skin, documenting my every breath.

I’m a whore for
his immediate pleasure, and will be a whore for his voyeuristic gratification
for all eternity.

Suddenly, I’m
grateful for the blindfold. It affords me a protection I know is only in my
mind, but I welcome it just the same. Whether he had me wear it for that
purpose or another, I’m grateful for it now.

I take my first
whole breath since he entered the room. I focus on his fingers as they move
back and forth, back and forth on my skin. Each slide sends sizzling heat to my
nipples and clit.

“I’ve waited a
while for this. So I won’t stop at just tasting and licking. I’m going to
devour you. Make you wet and wring you dry. And I’m going to do it many, many
times, Lucky.” Power and purpose and unfettered lust pound through his voice.

I have time to
take one more breath before Q pounces.

20

8MM

Strong fingers
sink into my hair. His grip is firm. Unbreakable. A tug that tilts my head
back, exposing my face, jaw and neck to the spotlight I feel burning into me.

“You’re mine.”

“Y…yes.”

His thumbs graze
gently over my cheeks as he angles my face this way and that. “Every inch of
you belongs to me,” he breathes.

The terrifying
finality of the statement ratchets up my every emotion.

I feel another
shift of air and the whirr of cameras as he rises, his hands till locked in my
hair. Rough fingers gently massage my scalp.

“Open your legs.”

My knees part. He
moves between them, bringing his essence and magnificence even closer. He tilts
my head further back, secures me with one hand. With the other, he sets a trail
along my jaw, my throat, pauses at my pulse, before drifting over my shoulder
to clasp my arm. I sense him bend forward.

His smoky cedar
wood scent intensifies. My belly quivers when his breath whispers over my face.

“I’m ready for
your lips, Lucky. Are you ready for mine?”

The tingle that
seizes my mouth is immediate. The russet red gloss applied on them in no way
alleviating their dryness. I slick my tongue over them. “Yes.”

A low laugh,
tinged with a whisper of the sinister. “I don’t mean those lips, honey. Those
can wait. The lips I crave are between those gorgeous legs.” He takes a step
back. “Stand up.”

I totter to my
feet. A little disoriented and drunk with heady emotion, I sway. He doesn’t
steady me. My arms flail for a second before I gain my feet. The impulse to
reach forward, touch him, fires through me. But I intrinsically know touching
is out of bounds until he gives me specific permission.

Or maybe I don’t
want to find out if he’s human or not? I curb the absurd thought and bring my
hands to my sides.

His hands land on
my shoulders, trail down my arms to the tips of my fingers before he sets me
free. I sense a huge height disparity between us. He must be thinking it too,
because his next words, over a foot above my head, are, “So small. So fragile.”

I shake my head,
a spark of rebellion firing. “I’m not—”

“Shh. Hush, my
little pocket firecracker. Take off your panties.”

Using the back of
the seat as my compass, I slowly turn around. I sense him take another step
back. The immediate whir of the camera makes me think they operate on motion
sensors. I try to block them out as I hook my fingers into the French shorts
and peel them over my hips, but the sound grows until I can’t block it out.

My fingers stall,
one corner of the panties over my hip, the other below.

“I’m waiting,
firecracker.” There’s a tense warning in his voice.

I swallow and
force myself to keep going. I lean forward to step out of the scrap of silk and
the scent of warm skin fills my nostrils. I’m not sure which parts of his body
I’m closest to, but I know he’s less than an inch from my face.

The knowledge
lances me with craving, hot and fierce. My panties drop. I carefully step out
of them, but I don’t want to straighten. I want to lean further forward. Taste
him.

“Found something
you want?” Q asks, his voice lending further fire to my heated core.

“Maybe,” I
whisper, my own voice weak.

“You have to
wait, Lucky. Until my craving is seen to. Do you understand?”

You’re
not in control here
.
He
said that to me in the kitchen this morning over the simple washing of a plate.
I know it’s a thousand times more so in this room.

“I do.”

“Sit back down.
Hands on the chair. Open your legs.”

I obey.

“Open wider.”

My knees part
until the sides brush the seat and I’m exposed. Soft air rushes over my core,
touching and attempting to cool the wetness forming there. Heat flares up my
neck and into my face.

“Your pussy is
beautiful, Lucky. So pretty, I almost don’t want to spoil it. But it belongs to
me. It’s
my
property. So I’m going to desecrate it. You know that, don’t
you? I’m going to smack, eat and pound it sore. Same with your ass.”

I gulp in air. My
thigh muscles quiver, but I’m unable to form words in the face of the powerful
imagery he creates, so I remain silent.

He drops to his
knees. “But first, I need my kiss. Lean back.”

I slowly relax my
body until the top of my back touches the end of the bed. I’ve been in a few
positions before in my life, but I’ve never felt this exposed, this vulnerable
before.

An exhalation of
breath is all I get before firm, masculine lips bracket my bare pussy. My hips
jerk and a hoarse gasp spills from my throat. Fire hot sensation races up my
spine, arches my back. The natural instinct to shut my legs, contain the
flames, is curtailed when merciless hands grab my knees and hold me open.

Q doesn’t
concentrate on a specific spot like my clit or my furnace-hot center. He’s making
out with my whole pussy, drawing my lips between his and tasting me with the
flat of his tongue.

The sensation is
like nothing else I’ve ever experienced. Already, my head feels woozy. Deprived
of sight, my remaining senses zero in on the sexy, dirty kiss being bestowed on
me. He’s eating me like I’m his favorite food. It feels good. So good.

A guttural purr,
transmitted with a distinct electronic wave fills the room.

God,
how is he doing that?

He kisses me
harder. The tip of his tongue flicks my engorged clit.

“
Oh!
”
Breath rushes from me. I tilt my hips
forward, seeking more of that singular pleasure.

He ignores my
need and goes back to frenching my pussy. Warm, firm tugs pulls my flesh into
his mouth, where he rolls my vulva over his tongue. The hood of my clit is
pulled deep, strong, steady sucks further inflaming the turgid bundle of
nerves. A long moan escapes me, and he raises his head.

I wish I could
see his expression. I wish I could drown out the unmistakable hum of the
camera.

I wish—

“Fuck, you’re
perfect. Taste so good.”

Hands hook under
my knees, throw my legs higher and wider. My head rolls back onto the bed and
my fingers curl into the seat as he goes back for a deeper, longer taste.
Pleasure spreads, thick and fast. My hips begin to writhe, my body caught in a
relentless pursuit of its first bona fide, non-masturbation induced climax.

“Oh God!”

Q stops without
warning. My head surges off the bed, although I can’t see anything.

“Please.” I’m not
sure why I whisper the word. Because I don’t want the camera to catch my plea?
Because even though I’m begging for it, I’m not sure I can withstand the
explosion I sense heading my way?

“Do you want to
come, Lucky?”

I swallow hard
and nod.

“Whose body is
this?” he asks.

“It’s…yours.”

He delivers
another open mouthed kiss between my legs. “Whose pussy?”

I have an inkling
of where this is going. I don’t like it. “Yours.”

“Whose cum?”

My thighs shake
with the force he has on my legs. “I…I’m…”

“
Whose. Cum
?”

“It’s yours, Q.”

Maybe I imagine
the shudder that runs through him. Maybe in saying those three words, something
shakes loose inside me. Maybe I’m out of my mind.

“
Mine
,” he
growls. “So let me ask again. Do you want to come, Lucky?”

“Yes. Please. But
with your permission,” I reply. I’m a fast learner.

It earns me
another kiss. Then another. The melting resumes, intensifies. My head falls
back. My arms ache with the tight hold I have on the seat.

Hoarse sounds and
electric hums mingle with my moans. I can’t escape the humiliating thought that
what’s happening to me is being recorded. That I wouldn’t be here if the
promise of an obscene amount of money didn’t wait at the end of my performance.

But I also can’t
stop the onrush of bliss gathering between my thighs. I gulp in air and exhale
on a jagged moan. My nipples, already tights points of almost excruciating
pleasure, chase against the russet half-Teddy as my breasts swell.

Q alters the mood
of his kiss. He lets go of my knees, curls his hands around my thighs, and uses
his thumbs to part my pussy. The hood of my clit is exposed to his warm breath
a split second before he tongues it with pointed, determined purpose. Just as I
think I’m about to lose control, he dips lower, stabs my entrance with his
tongue. The alternating attention teeters me on the brink, until colors begin
to swirl across my bound vision.

“Q…oh, God!
Please,” I gasp. “I want…I need to come.”

I don’t know if
his deep grunt is permission or denial of it. He doesn’t relent in his
ministrations.

Knowing how close
I’m skidding to damnation, I try again. “Please, may I come?” My voice is thick
and rough. I’m gearing up to plead again, in case I was incoherent, when he
hums against my pussy.

“So fucking good.
Want to keep licking this perfect cunt.”

A thunder-strong
tremor moves through me. I’m not sure how long I can hang on. I try gritting my
teeth, but the eruption is counting down in big, fat letters with each flick of
that wicked tongue. “May…may I come?
Oh God, please
?”

“Taste it…” His
voice is a hoarse, jumbled mess. “I want to taste it. Every drop.”

“
May I
?
”

“Hmm. Yes, my
little firecracker. Come for me… In my mouth.”

A sob rips from
my throat as I let go and surrender to the wave that slams into me. It rips me
apart, and I want to drown in it almost as much as I want to protect myself
from it. Q loosens his hold on me, but keeps my legs firmly open while he laps
me up in hungry licks.

“Fuck,” he
mutters against me as I jerk through my bliss.

Several whirs
penetrate my fog of pleasure, and I wonder how many cameras he’s activated to
record my climax. I start to stiffen, the idea that I’m enjoying this suddenly
drawing ever-growing shame.

I don’t know why
I know he senses it, or why I know I’ve pissed him off. But when he pulls at me
one last time, there’s a touch of cruelty that makes me wince.

I feel him settle
back on his legs. A second later he pulls off my shoes. “Crawl up on the bed.
Make sure the blindfold stays in place.” The mechanical tenor of his voice
still transmits an aroused hoarseness, but there’s implacable power as well as
an edgy aggression that slices icy warning into my stomach.

My languid body
is still thrumming, but I do as instructed, travelling a little slower when I
reach the top of the bed to avoid bumping into it.

Plump satin
pillows brace my body as I wait, hands once again at my sides.

I sense him
prowling the room. I know he’s watching me from the hyperawareness rippling
beneath my skin.

After a minute, I
hear his zipper lowering. The muscles in my belly bunch. I’m dying to know when
the blindfold is coming off, but I dare not ask. He warned me he might not be
able to help hurting me. I’ve just had a taste of his cruelty. I don’t want to
invite more.