She's a Star (a Hollywood Hotwife story)

by Sebastian, Max

  “The money men have already signed up for a sequel, even before seeing the finished cut.”

  “Jesus. He’s doing a sequel?”

  “Supposedly. I heard he commissioned a script the moment he first laid eyes on his new leading lady.”

  “Seriously? What’s her name? She’s nobody, right?”

  “Hayley something. Marvin or Martin or Urchin or something like that. Supposed to be quite a looker. She was in GQ apparently, but I never saw it. Really got into the physical side of the love scenes, know what I mean.”

  Drinks in hand, the two guys drifted back away from the bar, lost in the crowd, leaving me quivering there at the bar.

  It’s only a movie, she had said.

  She hadn’t mentioned anything about a sequel. Exactly how intimate had her sex scenes been with Aaron Simpson? What if he really did steal her from me, not least with the promise of making another movie?

  I stood clutching my empty glass, and for a moment had to keep my stomach from evacuating its contents. Maybe I would need to find a restroom after all, if I was going to sit through three hours in which I would not be able to take a bathroom break, since I was the husband of one of the stars. Yet I was rock hard at the thought of Hayley being taken by someone else, and no amount of calm breathing was going to make that flag pole go down sufficient to use the bathroom.

  I waited a few moments and decided just to head back downstairs to find my feet. Returning down to the front lobby, I found a dwindling number of people flocking into the main theater. The screening was about to start.

  For a gut-wrenching few moments, I couldn’t see any sign of Hayley. My paranoia started creating scenarios in which she had slipped out the back of the theater with Aaron Simpson, to jump into a private limo for a quick ride to his hotel room.

  I drifted into the auditorium, but there she was, near the front, turned to watch for her returning husband. I felt relief, but also the creeping hand of anxiety enclosing my heart at the thought that I was about to see, what it was that she’d done with her co-star in this damn movie.

  “It’s only—” she whispered as the lights dimmed.

  “A movie, yes, I know,” I finished her sentence, which seemed to satisfy her that the message was received and understood.

  Chapter Eight

  I was worried for a moment that Hayley would hear my pounding heart beat in the silence, as the initial credits appeared on screen. I just about managed to keep my breathing calm, regular.

  Then, there she was. Jesus. She looked stunning.

  I had seen Hayley on TV before, as an extra in various things, in her failed TV pilot. I’d seen her on stage, of course, too. But none of that quite prepared me for seeing her beauty up there on the silver screen, ten feet high.

  Somehow, my beloved fresh-faced girl-next-door—with her pixyish face and freckles, her red hair tied loosely in a ponytail so she was forever tucking strands behind her ear—looked completely different, completely grown up, completely glamorous.

  I was at once besotted, crushing hard on this actress the like of which I’d never seen before—and also knocked out of the park by the fact that this uncommon beauty was my wife.

  Whatever the critics would say about the movie and its plot, Hayley was a natural up there on screen, and couldn’t fail to turn the heads of casting directors across Hollywood with this turn.

  The movie was actually a lot more powerful a drama than I’d been expecting, though there were also the action sequences for which Aaron Simpson was better known. Hayley seemed to dominate the screen time since the story revolved around her and her relationship with both Aaron Simpson’s prison guard character and her character’s husband. I felt butterflies in my stomach each time she appeared alongside that Hollywood superstar, particularly as she began to charm and seduce him.

  I found myself quietly gasping as I saw her fluttering her eyelids at him, playing with her hair, biting her lip to see a glimpse of his manly chest as the top button of his shirt came undone, or the way she was so flustered around him, flushing when he spoke to her.

  It wasn’t real, and yet it was real because her acting was so good.

  The growing bond between Hayley’s character and Aaron Simpson’s prison guard caused a little trembling in me to start with, but after a while, I was able to suspend my disbelief and see the two only as their characters, not their real life personas.

  That was until the characters finally threw caution to the wind and kissed.

  My stomach folded in on itself. Hayley was so beautiful, kissing the grizzled prison guard tenderly, caressing his cheek, pressing herself up against him. It was so real, his tongue snaking out, hers too, invading each other’s mouths, so depraved. He was fucking her mouth with his tongue.

  This stranger who was not her husband.

  In real life, sitting next to me, Hayley held my hand and squeezed gently, as though attempting to remind me: “It’s only a movie.”

  But the kissing was only the beginning. As the plan developed, and the prisoner’s wife finally seduced the prison guard to persuade him to help them, I watched as she almost forced him to engage with her, slipping off her top as they sat together on a faded couch, turning to him, her bare breasts poised, nipples stiff, begging for his attention.

  I was telling myself, it’s only a movie—but it was hard to believe seeing Hayley’s stiff nipples there on screen.

  Kissing him, straddling him, melting the prison guard’s resolve, enticing him to respond, grabbing her, tearing off the rest of her clothes.

  Oh God, seeing Hayley lying there bent over the couch, naked other than a tiny little thong, which Aaron Simpson now dragged down her smooth, coltish thighs. He ducked down to kiss her beautiful rounded rear, sweeping his hands over her soft skin, leaning down to press his face to her most personal area. The prison guard was tasting the wife of one of his inmates, kissing her sex before he pulled off his pants and lined up behind her.

  Before he slid his cock inside Hayley from behind.

  In real life, in the darkened theater, Hayley’s hand was all but crushing mine as though she was trying to distract me from the shocking infidelity I was watching in giant size before me.

  As the prison guard turned her over, fucking her missionary style on that couch, the camera work exquisitely sophisticated and artful. I recognized the familiar moles on her upper chest, that little scar that was almost imperceptible on her knee—this was no body double.

  There might not have been any actual penetration, though if there was it was perfectly hidden, but Aaron Simpson was naked on top of my lovely young wife, and whether or not it was acting, she was responding in blissful rapture, her face strained with sexual gratification, her moans so lifelike, her heaving chest and rock-hard nipples hard to put on so realistically.

  I could see no flesh-colored underwear on either of them, though I conceded that computer graphics guys were very clever these days at digitally altering things on film.

  And Jesus, it just never seemed to end. Soon she was on top of him, riding him, her thighs and her butt squeezing as she stirred with his hardness deep inside her.

  She was kissing him, and then he was rolling her over, quite unmistakably powering to an orgasm—to apparently come deep inside her, with no hint of protection.

  And as it all came to a powerful conclusion, she was crying gently: “How do you make me feel that way?”

  And: “I’ve never felt like that before.”

  And: “No one’s ever made me feel so good….”

  I was shocked, stunned, breathless, but my cock strained in my pants, harder than it had ever been before at the wicked and glorious sight of my wife making love to another man, gaining her sexual freedom, indulging in the kind of physical exploration that wasn’t available to her as a married woman.

  Taking real pleasure in this illicit encounter.

  I wanted more, wanted to watch her adored by this Hollywood idol, wanted to see her pleasured by him, wanted to k
now she was being sexy and wicked, and experiencing something incredible as the result of my consent.

  “You still love me?” she whispered as the sex scene came to an end. I turned my head to look at her, and there was no hint in her expression that she’d asked me that in jest, or irony, or anything other than straight concern.

  She looked downright terrified.

  Something about her obvious concern reassured me, seeing that I still meant something important to her.

  “Of course,” I whispered in return.

  Her expression turned to puzzled hope, that I wasn’t lying, that I wasn’t angry with her, even that I fully understood it was only acting.

  The rest of the movie was something of a blur—the plot was, at least. I only saw Hayley and Aaron Simpson, how they looked at each other, the fiery chemistry they had with each other—chemistry that could not be faked, could not be acted. There were more sex scenes, of the detective calming the witness after an attempt had been made on her life, his quiet affection turning quickly to burning passion.

  I was recognizing Hayley’s naked body while this other man—this famous man, this handsome, rich actor—kissed and licked her all over. It was no body double, she was no Julia Roberts, she really had another man lying between her thighs, pressing his cock against her, whatever state it was in.

  And the way she acted in those sex scenes—it wasn’t the Hayley I knew so well from our own love-making. Here on the silver screen she seemed so brazen, so wicked, so alive. She might have started out in the movie as a demure innocent, but by the end of it, she was kneeling before him to take him into her mouth, straddling his lap as he sat in a chair, presenting her rear so they could have a quickie in a dark corner of the street, leading him into the bedroom where she could ride him, or be ridden, giving herself totally to him.

  And there in the dark auditorium, in real life, Hayley just kept squeezing my hand, her eyes darting sideways to register my expression as I witnessed her Hollywood debut.

  *

  Afterwards, I was quiet for a while.

  I was silent in the car journey to the after party, as a show-biz journalist with a studio-agreed exclusive came along for the ride, talking so animatedly to the “hot new star” that Hayley hardly managed to get a word in.

  I was even feeling a little moody at the after party, as the pitying glances rained down on me, all of those watery looks offering me sympathy for being the husband of the actress who did that with her co-star.

  Moody was only for a few minutes, though, before I looked at Hayley toiling so hard to work the room—ever aware that she was now technically between jobs again—and pulled myself together.

  I wasn’t actively angry with her. The silence, the mood, the strong desire to crawl away and hide in some dark corner where nobody could see me—that was more to do with my dealing with the overwhelmingly strong feelings flowing through me.

  I had enjoyed the sight of my wife sleeping with another man. I just didn’t know what it meant now that my wife was about to leap onto the Hollywood A-list.

  At the after party, I took a deep breath and excused myself to the rest room once again. I just needed to step out, take a break, and then go back to the party to provide Hayley with the support she needed at this daunting yet exciting moment in her career.

  Hayley flashed me a look of concern, but I gave her a smile that attempted to be reassuring.

  I was thankful to find my way down a flight of stairs to a less busy restroom. Only a couple of guys were in there, and they were on their way out.

  Inside a stall on my own, I sat and just breathed, not even caring about the strong scent of cleaning products.

  It was only a movie, I told myself. And my fantasy was only a fantasy: I didn’t have to have it come true, I didn’t have to risk the loss of my incredible wife.

  Yet while I had been watching her up there on screen—as she acted as though she were now unconstrained by the expectations of her husband, playing up her sexuality, her femininity, her desirability for a new man—my body had been craving the reality of this fantasy, desperate for this to come true.

  But my head told me that Hayley couldn’t do anything even remotely risky now that she was a celebrity.

  I heard the door of the restroom bang, and male voices coming to spoil his moment of isolation.

  “Apparently they were inseparable during the shoot. He was like her puppy dog.”

  “Hound dog, more like.”

  “Oh no, you know she played hard to get?”

  “You’re serious? With Aaron Simpson?”

  My ears were burning, my heart palpitating, knowing who they were talking about. My cock thickened uncontrollably.

  “Okay, you breathe a word of this….”

  “Hey, bro, who d’you think I am?”

  “Well you know she’s married.”

  “I heard that.”

  “She spent the whole shoot flashing her ring at him. God, she was driving him crazy!”

  I smiled, and felt pure relief wash through my body. Clinging to the toilet like that, knees now up awkwardly under my chin as though I was worried one of those guys would look under the door to check they weren’t being overheard—I did look faintly ridiculous.

  “But they were still together the whole time?”

  “Oh, it was so obvious she’s into him. He’s never had anyone turn him down before, so he’s into her, too, like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “Jesus, he must have gone nuts. Here.”

  There was a pause, and then I heard the sound of a rapid inhalation of air—a sniff—and then a long sigh. Jesus, were they doing—

  “Shit, that’s good.”

  “I told you, right? Super pure.”

  My face went red. I knew this was the movie industry, but I guess I hadn’t considered the side that involved such casual drug use.

  “So anyway, rumor is he got the writers to put together a fourth sex scene just to get a little more skin-time with her.” More sniffs. How much blow were these guys doing out there?

  “Fourth? There was no fourth—”

  “Oh, you can bet it ended up on the cutting room floor, would have got the movie an NC-17-rating straight off, maybe worse.”

  I felt my blood run cold. A fourth, secret sex scene? She hadn’t mentioned anything…but then, she probably didn’t know that it had all been a ploy. What was in that lost sex scene? What had she done with him?

  Listening, I tried to keep calm, thinking about Hayley’s explanation: It’s only a movie. Not real. Away from the cameras, she’d turned Aaron Simpson down, rejected his advances.

  “Woulda liked to see that scene.”

  “It’ll surface one day, I’ll bet. Beautiful—God, she is so fucking hot.”

  “With tits like that, she’s gonna go far. Like into Aaron Simpson’s bed.”

  “Oh, she’s clever. She held out on him, so he’ll get a sequel together so he can have another pop. She’ll get another zero on her pay check, too.”

  “Clever.”

  “Then once that check clears, he’s not gonna take ‘no’ for an answer.”

  “Can I quote you on that?”

  “Bud, don’t even joke about that shit….”

  The bathroom door banged as it closed, and I let out my breath.

  Was Hayley really playing Aaron Simpson like that? Was she going to have an affair as soon as the sequel was confirmed?

  I shook my head. She wasn’t like that. She was my Hayley, my wife, I could trust her to the ends of the earth. She’d simply been leading Aaron Simpson on, as I had encouraged her to do. An extra zero on her pay check, though—that was quite serious temptation for her to try something behind my back.

  I stood up, about to lift up the toilet lid to use the facilities—but again, I was so hard, there was no way I’d be able to pee, not for a while. Jesus, here I was thinking about my wife actually being tempted to cheat on me, and I was turned on like never before.

  I couldn�
�t deny it, couldn’t lie to myself. While my stomach burned with jealousy, and the fear quietly chilled my blood, I couldn’t stop the pictures running around my head of Hayley, so stunningly beautiful, making love to Aaron Simpson. It terrified me, but it thrilled me more than I could even understand—making me want her more than ever.

  I just didn’t want her to do it behind my back.

  I couldn’t help being turned on by the thought of Hayley as seductress, as a sexy devil intent on corrupting men. Her lithe, elfin form writhing as she rode another man, the wicked glow in her cheeks from her own thrill at breaking the rules, giving in to her sexuality and the craving for a huge cock that was not her husband’s.

  Jesus. A therapist might suggest this was a coping mechanism, my brain putting up defenses against the inevitable loss of my wife to a Hollywood megastar. But I couldn’t halt the feelings, and the curious fascination that was developing inside me to have Hayley actually take Aaron Simpson up on his offer, to have an affair with him.

  Was I resigned to losing her? That prospect crushed my heart as I made my way back through the crowd, finding it easy to locate my beautiful bride, since she was apparently the center of the party.

  I saw her need for me to be a politician’s spouse, nod and smile gratefully at all the people congratulating her, only so pleased to tell anyone who wanted to know what it felt like to be married to the girl of the moment, Hollywood’s next hottest property, the woman who had tamed Aaron Simpson on screen.

  Hayley seemed to have quickly moved on from any concerns about how her husband felt about her on-screen debut, or her in-someone-else’s-bed-debut. But I saw that once again, it was a pretense—every time she looked at me, our eyes connecting, there was apology in that gaze of hers, worry, love.

  “So when do you start shooting the sequel?”

  “Oh, they still have to finalize a script, I think.”

  I realized two things as we were floating around the hordes of glamorous people sipping Champagne and wearing designer clothes and smiles as fake as their conversations. Firstly, this was Hayley’s life now. People would adore her, men would lust after her, naked co-stars would share beds with her on screen.