by Jaden Tanner
And it was Maren’s colleague John Feyn of all people, who would be able to photograph her in her villa!
Maren doubted that their meeting had really been coincidental. Stein probably had a finger in the pie and made the necessary preparation from Hamburg. She was almost a little mad at the Editor in Chief of FLASH, because he’d kept it a secret. So this was the real reason why he had sent John along with her to L.A. — his assignment was to do a photo shoot with Chrissy Hilton.
Nevermind — I don’t want to be annoyed — neither at John, nor at Stein, she thought. And least of all at Caprice, who was in rainy London right now and probably envious of the Californian sunshine.
Maren tried to forget about all that.
It was probably down to the sweet smell of her shower gel and the sensation of the warm rain on her skin that she managed to shut out all ugly thoughts. The spray of water awoke her imagination; Maren could feel the tension that had built up over the last hours leave her body.
She took the showerhead from its attachment on the wall and guided it further down her body. Her breathing quickened and turned into a languorous moan. The showerhead grazed her small breasts. The water’s rhythmic flow felt like pleasant, tingling electric currents on her skin. She let the showerhead wander further down her body, while the fingers of her free hand found their way between her thighs on their own. The large tiles felt cool. Maren shuddered yet didn’t interrupt her play. She spread her thighs and gently touched her clitoris, which had already swelled from the jets of water. When a low moan escaped her throat, she bit her lower lip.
As if of their own accord, her left hand’s fingers slipped between her pussy’s lips, as her thumb playfully fondled her clit.
“Can I help wash your back?”
Maren nearly screamed at the top of her lungs.
John had silently opened the fogged up shower door and stepped in. He had gotten undressed and gave her a prompting smile. As Maren’s eyes ran down his body, she saw his erect penis pointing up at her.
“What the …” she stammered but he had long stepped under the shower with her and was now shutting her up with a kiss. His tongue passionately explored her mouth and as he took hold of the showerhead and put it back into the wall attachment, he slid his other hand between her legs. “You’re already wet.” He whispered between two kisses.
“Well, yeah. Water is wet after all …” she tried to gently object, but only made him laugh out quietly.
She reached for his penis, which reared up at her touch. When she let the index finger of her right hand rub over his smooth penis head, she could already feel the first drop of pre cum on it. He was ready for her and Maren wanted it, right here and now. John had lucked out and caught her at just the right moment. She wanted a good fuck.
Now he let his tongue travel down over her breasts. His tongue trailed downward. Once he reached her pubis, she dug her hands into his hair and pushed her pelvis towards him.
“You taste amazing,” he whispered and looked up in between pleasuring her. He plunged his tongue deep into her hot crevice. His licking was heavenly and while his strong hands rested on her pert butt, his tongue was driving her crazy.
“You’re dirty from the long trip,” he whispered in reprimand.
“Lick me clean …” Maren gasped and prayed that this moment wouldn’t pass.
“No.” He got up and looked deep into her eyes. “I won’t let you off the hook that easily, my dear sex fiend.”
When the tip of his cock gently, almost tentatively, touched her clitoris, Maren was breath away from climax — that’s how much he’d turned her on with his foreplay.
But John was agile enough to pull back at the very last moment. Then, suddenly and abruptly, he rammed his spear into her wet pussy, filling her up from one second to the next, pushing her to the edge of sanity.
She clawed at his ass with her fingers and pushed hungrily towards him, standing on one leg so she could wrap the other one around his hips.
“Not yet …” he gasped, after he had forcefully thrust into her a few times. As quickly as he had penetrated her, he now pulled out of her.
“Oh my god — what are you doing?” Maren cried. “I want it.”
He grinned and turned Maren around. “Turn around.”
She nodded and did what John demanded of her. From the corner of her eyes she saw him holding the shower gel and squeezing some of it on his hand before he started to gently, yet purposefully rub it onto her backside. Maren bent over and closed her eyes. She enjoyed his demanding touch and yearned for his cock to fill her up again. But John teased her, making her wait. Maren was presenting her ass to him, begging for release.
“You want to be fucked in the ass I guess, huh?” he whispered throatily and gently bit into her neck.
She nodded and trembled. “Do it …
His hand traveled over her ass, massaging the deliciously scented shower gel into her skin, while one finger closed in on her butt crack. When she felt his index finger massaging her rosebud, Maren moaned loudly. Soon afterwards, he was inside her. He penetrated her backdoor gently with his finger. Maren could hardly stand the urgency of her desire anymore — her hand slid between her thighs.
“You’re fingering yourself, while I’m supposed to be fucking you in the ass?” He laughed. Before Maren could reply, he pushed his cock into her asshole. It caused her pain and incredible pleasure all at once. Although he hardly moved, she could feel every tensing nerve in his member and felt as if she would explode with pleasure.
Then, once he had loosened her a little, John wrapped his hands around her hips and started screwing her with abandon.
When he leaned over her, she felt his hot breath in her neck. It didn’t take long and the waves of an orgasm that she never wanted to end, flooded through Maren. While she came, she could feel him emptying himself deep inside her. Her knees were soft, when he gently pulled out of her and turned her to him. His wet hair was hanging over his face and Maren couldn’t tell whether he was sweating or if it was the water from the shower that made his rugged face shimmer with moisture.
“You sexy little minx,” he grinned. “God that was fun. Now it’s time to throw myself into L.A.’s nightlife.” He took one of the bath towels, embroidered with the Saharan Hotel logo and dried Maren off with it.
She remembered now that he had wanted to celebrate his success.
“Where are we going?”
“I have to go … unfortunately.”
“Are you meeting Chrissy now?”
“Would you mind?”
“I don’t know.”
He kissed her neck and triggered a pleasant shiver. “No, I’m sure you won’t mind.”
Without drying himself off, John slipped on his slim cut jeans and buttoned them up. He hadn’t worn any boxers. Then he fished his t-shirt off the floor and nodded at her.
“You can take the car … I’ll take a cab,” he called over his shoulder. Shortly afterwards, Maren heard him pull the hotel door shut behind him.
***
“Mon dieu, this place is even worse than I thought,” Caprice moaned when her eyes finally settled over her room on the third floor of the Gore Hotel. Solid wooden beams supported the ceiling, dark stained furniture and colorful window glass as well as a heavy four-poster bed with a flowing canopy reinforced her suspicion that she might have taken an unwanted trip back to the 19th century.
The tiny flat screen TV that stood in the bookshelf was the only stylistic deviation — but its size, or more like its lack thereof, made the thing an assault on the senses, at least in Caprice’s eyes.
“Whose job was it collect all this junk from flea markets all over the world and lug it here?” she complained to the bellhop.
The young man awkwardly shrugged his shoulders. “Every room has its own unique style and décor.” He tried a half-hearted attempt to shine a positive light on the furnishings.
“I could actually believe that.” Caprice growled and pushed a few co
ins into his hand after he had heaved the suitcase onto her bed.
“I’m supposed to remind you that the press conference will start in an hour,” the boy said.
“Excuse me? That doesn't give me time to freshen up or change. Anyway …” She stopped short. She’d very nearly revealed that she knew that Tom Petterson would only reach London that evening, as Tyler had told her.
“Alright, kid. Just let me know if any of the production company’s plans change.” Caprice hastily pushed the bellhop to the door. “You never know.”
Then she was alone.
It was high time to get in touch with Maren, she thought and pulled her smartphone out of her handbag. With a tortured sigh, she looked around the room and typed a short email to her friend.
***
Maren stared indecisively at the rental car key John had dropped on the side table as he was leaving. She considered what to do now: Was it a good idea to dive into the hustle and bustle of Sunset Boulevard late at night and leave it up to fate whether she’d bump into a celebrity she could spontaneously interview?
Maren immediately dismissed the thought again. She’d gotten a clear assignment from Stein — to visit the home of Hollywood star Greg Wilson. The timing seemed perfect, as the majority of ‘Cinema Magic’ people were in London to plug the new project and get the European press excited about it.
Only the ousted leading man had remained behind in the States.
Excited now, she started looking through her suitcase that was lying on the little side table and decided on a chiffon Alberta Ferreti blouse and the shortest skirt she’d packed. She would go without stockings and panties today. Her heart was beating now as she slipped into her new Prada heels that Caprice had convinced her to buy the last time they’d gone shopping together in Rome, and checked herself out in the mirror.
“I do look a little like Caprice today,” she had to admit. “But the end justifies the means.” Maren was sure that her friend would have done the same, perhaps without thinking about it as long as she had beforehand.
Maren always needed a little more convincing to dress as overtly sexy.
She briefly thought back to her sexy adventure in the shower and John, who had been a heavenly fuck but had been anything but attentive afterwards.
Maybe her vengeful thoughts had made her decide to put her plans into action tonight.
She glanced at the clock and briefly contemplated. It was early morning in Hamburg, but maybe Lori was already in office. Maren dug her smartphone out of her handbag and selected the Editor in Chief’s number.
Lori picked up after the second ring.
“Maren, I hope you guys arrived safely in the States?”
“Of course.” Maren quickly updated her on their trip. “I want to stop by Greg Wilson’s place without an invitation,” she returned to her reason for calling. “Could you quickly check whether he’s in L.A. at the moment?”
“No problem, sweetheart. I’ll call you back in a minute.”
With those words, the secretary disconnected the call.
Maren stepped towards her window and pensively looked out into the night. The bright neon signs on the surrounding bars, restaurants, and shops were projecting their loudly colored lights into the darkness. She felt hungry and decided to eat a little something as soon as she’d gotten the information she needed from Lori. Meanwhile she opened up the Google Maps app on her smartphone to check out how she’d get to Greg Wilson’s house. His villa was in Bel Air, a half hour’s drive from her location on Sunset Boulevard.
The phone’s ringing pulled Maren out of her thoughts and back to reality. She could see from the name on the display that it was already Lori returning her call.
“And?” Maren asked nervously.
“I can’t tell you anything with a hundred percent certainty, sweetie. But I heard from his management, through the grapevine, that there aren’t any meetings on the books for Greg Wilson — whether he’s spending his off time at his villa until his next film shoot, nobody could or wanted to tell me. I called him but sadly only reached his voicemail. So either he isn’t home or he diverts all unknown calls to his voicemail.”
“OK, then I’ll just have to try my luck,” Maren replied.
“What’ve you got planned?” Lori’s voice sounded concerned.
“I will pay him a visit and try to ask him about the production of Dreams of Passion.”
“He’s not going to welcome you with open arms,” Stein’s secretary said with concern. “The villas in Bel Air are guarded by security services that are not to be trifled with. Even photographers aren’t welcome nearby.”
“Well, good thing I want to talk to him and not photograph him,” Maren laughed and thanked her.
“Enjoy the Californian sunshine!” Lori said before she rang off, “It snowed here last night — Hamburg is covered in white, and the roads are a complete mess.”
***
After she’d quelled her hunger at a bistro on Sunset Boulevard, she took off towards Bel Air. The display of the car’s GPS indicated a little over nine miles. She turned off the AC and opened the window. The gentle evening breeze played with her blonde hair; there was a scent of citrus fruit in the air. Maren happily discovered that driving was a much more relaxed experience in the U.S. than it was in Germany. Once she’d reached Beverly Hills, she turned onto Wilshire Boulevard and started mentally putting a strategy into place for how she could get to Wilson without running into the arms of his security detail.
Soon afterward, she reached the residential neighborhood of Bel Air through the East Gate and passed hedges, walls, and gates leading to luxurious estates of the rich and famous residing there.
Despite all the luxury, Maren doubted that she would feel comfortable living here. Every property had a huge plot of land surrounding it, yet its inhabitants still had to be wary of tourists, photographers and overzealous, nosy journalists as soon as they stepped out of their house.
The streets were pretty empty tonight. It was normally during the day that the catering delivery vans and droves of landscapers and their trucks belied the fact that the rich inhabitants liked to be pampered.
Maren had reached her destination. The headlights of her car traveled over the natural wall of orange trees and palms — their thick foliage was meant to distract from the actual wall behind, which was at least ten feet high. As with the other properties, here too a solid gate precluded entry to Greg Wilson’s driveway. Maren stopped the car and leaned over the steering wheel to take a closer look.
She couldn’t see any security guards, only a CCTV camera attached to a long pole. The camera’s blinking red light was a signal that she, the reporter, was being watched.
Maren slammed her foot on the accelerator and got away as fast as she could, before she was discovered. She had an idea. After having left the camera’s field of vision, she parked the car at the side of road. She pulled her nail file out of her handbag, stepped out and walked around the Chevrolet. When she reached the right back wheel, she squatted down and gingerly unscrewed the valve cap. Then she manipulated the valve with her nail file so that air could escape the wheel. It took a while for the wheel to become completely flat.
Then she screwed the valve cap on again and regarded her handiwork with satisfaction. She could definitely not get back to Hollywood like this.
She said a little prayer and hoped her plan would work.
Quickly jumping back into the driver’s seat, she reversed and returned to Wilson’s villa. The rotating rim had now completely finished off the flat tire and torn apart the rubber. She wouldn’t be able to drive another yard — that was clear.
Maren walked up to the cast iron gate and pushed the golden doorbell. She could see that there was an intercom speaker and another camera at the gate.
“Please move your car.” A dismissive sounding man’s voice demanded. “You’re blocking the driveway.”
“I would love to,” Maren said in perfect English. “But I’ve broke
n down.” She contritely looked into the little lens of the camera.
There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment. The security guy was obviously discussing the issue with his colleagues.
Then the intercom’s loudspeaker started crackling again. “Stay with your car; we’ll tow your vehicle and inform the repair shop!”
This wasn’t a well-meaning offer of assistance — it sounded like a demand. Maren nodded, muttered a brief “thanks” and started doubting whether this had been such a great strategy after all.
As she leaned back against her car and thought about how to proceed now, a car’s motor sounded. It sounded like a sports car, approaching quickly and coming to a screeching halt right behind Maren’s car. She saved herself with only a valiant leap out of the way. When the left winged door of the Italian sports car slid upwards, Maren forgot to breathe for a moment — it was Greg Wilson himself, who stepped out of the car.
For a split second, Maren almost shouted out with joy.
He looks even better in real life than on the big screen, she felt excitement tingling through her as she sized up the Hollywood star as inconspicuously as possible.
Wilson, about six-foot-five, was wearing his dark hair a little longer than in his last movie. A snug-fitted dove gray t-shirt stretched over his broad torso, which he wore with tight denim jeans that emphasized his well-formed butt, and comfortable loafers.
“What happened here, Miss?” he asked and bestowed his youthful grin on her, which famously made women swoon.
“I broke down,” Maren repeated. “The wheel is shot.” She stepped closer and pointed at the back wheel.
Wilson shrugged and squatted next to the back wheel. Maren couldn’t resist sneaking a peak at his butt.
“Yeah, I’m afraid it’s destroyed,” Wilson muttered and rose again. He looked deep into Maren’s eyes. So deep in fact that she immediately became weak in the knees.
“Your security has already called an auto repair shop,” Maren muttered, simply to say anything at all.
“That’s nice.” Wilson looked at his Rolex. “But I’m afraid that at this time of day, it’ll take a while for them to send someone out here.”