I, Porn Star (I #1)

by Zara Cox

  I’m a babbling wreck begging, screaming to come. Sweat from his body drips down my back by the time he snarls his permission. The convulsions that shatter through me triggers a shout from him. My insides are on fire, squeezing the life out of the thick cock buried inside me.

  He withdraws and fights his way back through my rippling muscles with another animal grunt. And then, he’s flooding me with jet streams of cum.

  “Jesus!”

  The hands banding my waist squeeze me to the point of pain I’m sure he isn’t aware he’s inflicting. His cock jerks wildly inside me and spasms rock the bed.

  After an eternity, he lets go of me, falls forward and catches himself on his forearms. The whir that follows reminds me of the cameras. But I’m too shattered to do more than chase my next breath.

  Slowly, our breaths quiet. I feel his long exhalations between my shoulder blades. Fingers move my damp hair to one side to expose my nape. A kiss lands on my skin, sending a residual shudder through me.

  “Next time, I’m coming on those perfect tits,” he murmurs with the indolence of a satisfied jungle cat. “The time after that, it’ll be all over that gorgeous ass. Say yes, Q.”

  I struggle to work my vocal cords. “Yes, Q.”

  He jerks once inside me. Another kiss between my shoulder blades. Then another, lower. All the way to the end of my spine, and back up again.

  He rears up a fraction away from me. I feel the power of his stare, his slow, deep breathing. He starts to lower himself again.

  He lays his head on my back.

  That’s when I feel it. The touch of cold metal where his face should be.

  22

  FREEZE FRAME

  It is a deliberate, chilling move.

  Calculated to what? Frighten me? Remind me that I’ve let a total stranger fuck me senseless? Or that he’s in control? That I belong to him and he has the power to do with me as he pleases?

  Each thought sends a shiver rippling over me. Each shiver centers on the cold metal resting on my back.

  Is he wearing a mask? That voice…the metal… Is he some sort of bionic man? But I felt his mouth, his tongue. His cock. Whatever he is, a greater part of him is human. But his face…

  The more that the part of my mind not flooded with panic ponders the question, the more I steer away from the absurd. He’s not a bionic freak. But it’s possible he may be damaged somehow.

  The voice, the mask, the need for anonymity…it makes sense.

  My heart lurches.

  “Are…are you okay?” I venture.

  He tenses, but he doesn’t move away. “I should be asking you that. Are you?”

  My sex throbs as if a thousand drops of wax have been dripped onto it. I’ll be sore as hell for a long while, but I shake my head. “I’m fine.”

  He lets out a small grunt of disbelief, but he doesn’t vocally contradict me. His fingers trail down my sides, pause when I jerk a little in reaction to the ultra-sensitivity.

  “The cameras are off,” he says.

  A thick knot of tension releases, and I sag deeper into the bed. We remain like that, my hands still tied above my head, his body bracketing mine. My eyesight still blackened.

  “Can I take the blindfold off?”

  He doesn’t respond for several seconds. “No.”

  It’s a definitive answer, but I swallow and try and find words that won’t cause offence. “I…I don’t care what you look like.”

  A harsh, metallic laugh that burns my skin. “Yes. You do.” Again definitive.

  This time I heed it and remain silent. He continues to caress me, even though the gentleness is gone. Both hands reach beneath my body and cup my breasts.

  Inside me, I feel his thickness expand.

  “Shit, I want to fuck you again.”

  My groan escapes before I can stop it.

  “My body. My cunt.” A harsh claiming, tinged with rage.

  My belly quivers. He’s angry. I’m not exactly sure why. He pulls out of me and slides his cock, slick with our mingled juices, upward between my butt cheeks. Back and forth he rocks, his hands still squeezing and teasing my breasts.

  “If I decide to fuck you again, no cameras. Just for me this time, would you object?”

  Two parts of what he’s just said jars me cold. What does he mean by just for him? And hadn’t he reminded me a moment ago that my body belonged to him? My frown replicates the confusion twisting through my brain. “I…”

  “You like to be fucked, Lucky. There’s no shame in admitting it.”

  I shake my head because he’s wrong. I don’t like to be fucked. At least, I didn’t until tonight. Until he gave me three orgasms I only ever managed by my own hand a million years ago, when sex was a cozy mystery not a clinical reality with the sole objective of putting food in my stomach.

  “You own me. For a month. Fucking me when you please is part of the deal.” I use my best The Villa voice, even though deep inside I’m confounded by what he said.

  “I do, don’t I?” he purrs. The anger is vacant from his voice. As if whatever overtook him has been wrestled under control. He slides between my butt cheeks again and emits a groan. “I’m going to turn the cameras back on. It would be such a shame to miss capturing your next orgasm on film.”

  He rises, taking the cold metal and hot body with him.

  Tension seizes me again when the hum returns. I’m still dealing with it when he flicks me onto my back again. His attention returns to my tits. Licking, biting, tweaking. I’m ready to fall into the vortex of sexual need, when he pulls away. He delivers attention to the rest of my body. When he reaches my thighs, he unclips the garters and slowly rolls the hose down one leg, then the other. The garter follows and I’m well and truly naked.

  His thumbs trail up my inner thigh to rest on either side of my pulsating lips. “My body. My sweet fucking pussy.”

  A moan slips past my lips.

  He laughs. “That turns you on, doesn’t it?” The pad of one thumb brushes lightly over my clit, earning him a shudder. His laughter deepens. He bends close until his mouth hovers over my ear. “Did you think you wouldn’t be?” he whispers. “That this would be a clinical fucking, a rutting exercise that you’d talk yourself through and then walk away from when done?”

  Oh fuck. What did I do wrong now?

  He’s angry again. My head is spinning from the mercurial mood swings he’s bombarding me with.

  I lick my lips and whisper back. “Q, please tell me what you want.”

  “I want to fuck the shit out of you. And I want you to love it.”

  “I…do.”

  “You don’t sound sure.” The edge is sharper, the electricity from the voice distorter sizzling the last of my nerves. “If I remember correctly, you questioned our compatibility.”

  “I don’t. Not anymore.”

  “Hmm. But I like to be thorough. So shall we be absolutely sure?” he rasps into my ear.

  I don’t get a chance to respond. His rigid cock slams into me, taking me from empty to full in a nanosecond.

  I scream.

  He grunts, sinister satisfaction lacing the sound. He slams through my slickness a second time. The intensity of pleasure smashing through me makes my heart race in wild alarm.

  Q lifts away from me. “You like that.” He’s no longer whispering. Whether he’s asking me for the cameras’ sake or because he needs vocal confirmation of what must be comically obvious to him, I don’t know.

  But as I’ve been painfully reminded, he’s in control. “Yes,” I whimper.

  “Louder, baby, I can’t hear you.”

  “Yes!”

  His strokes are sublime. I don’t know whether to breathe or hold my breath and surrender to the impending explosion.

  “I thought so. Your cream is threatening to drown me. Shall I make it so you can’t walk tomorrow, Lucky?” he growls.

  How the fuck do I answer that? I want to be able to walk. But how do I say no without flipping his switch back
to anger. I settle for a neutral zone I fear may not exist. “Whatever you want, Q.”

  “What I want is for you to take more of my cock. I want all of me inside you.”

  Panic trickles down my spine, eroding a little bit of pleasure. How much more of him is there? The question barely flares to life before he flips me onto my side and throws one leg over his shoulder. Guess I’m about to find out.

  He impales me, and my breath strangles. He lifts my lower half off the bed, and with almost effortless strength, begins to slide me up and down on his length. Unbelievably, each thrust seats him deeper inside me. The position must please him because he fucks me faster, his breath growing rattled and uneven. I wrap my hand around the rope fastening me to the bed and hold on tight for the insane ride.

  Before long, the pressure builds to breaking point. “Please…come…I want…can I please…”

  I’m a puppet on his string. The words tumble uselessly from my lips as he bounces me into ecstasy.

  “Q…”

  “Wait,” he grits. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.

  Hot drops of sweat land on my leg and slide down toward my core. His touch turns slick and I realize I’m drenched in sweat too. I’m thinking the possibility of walking tomorrow looks like an unlikely event, when he grunts.

  “Now, Lucky.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut tight behind the blindfold and glory in the explosion of color across my vision and the detonation of pleasure in my body. Q shouts out his own climax and once again, I’m flooded with his seed.

  This orgasm is short, sharp and sublime. But it still blazes from the inside out, and I’m useless by the time it’s done with me.

  Q pulls out of me almost immediately. I’m slick from head to toe, but especially drenched between my thighs. I hear a click as he leaves the bed. I remember the cameras, and I try not to grimace at the sight I must make.

  I’m still catching my breath when firm hands release me from the rope. He massages my wrists in silence then brings them to my sides. He retreats for a couple of minutes, then I sense his return.

  “Sit up for me,” he instructs. His voice is neither harsh nor gentle. He’s settled for a middle ground that throws me into even more confusion.

  I raise myself up, and he slips something around my shoulders. My robe. I push my arms through the sleeves and secure the belt.

  “I’m going to take you back now. Don’t remove the blindfold until I tell you to.”

  Questions crowd my brain, but I nod. “Okay.”

  He lifts me into his arms easily, and I’m once again intimate with hard abs and tensile strength. When he starts to walk I reach out, intending to secure my arm around his neck.

  He freezes. “No.”

  I snatch my hand away. “Umm…sorry.”

  “I won’t let you fall, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “The blindfold. It’s just…I’m not used to it.”

  “It won’t be on for much longer,” he rasps as he resumes walking.

  Too much has happened to me tonight. I don’t possess the brain power to ponder if he means that statement in reference to right now or to the immediate future. His strides are sure and fast as he heads for the wing where I slept last night. The fact that he doesn’t need to open or close doors makes me wonder if there’s someone else aiding him. I skitter away from that thought. I have enough things on my mind to drive me crazy.

  He enters what I assume to be my bedroom and the sound of running water mingled with the scent of bath salts permeates the air. The sound grows louder as we enter the bathroom.

  “A bath will help with any discomfort.”

  He lowers me down and takes the robe off my shoulders. He takes my hand and leads me a few steps to the edge of the tub. “Test the temperature.”

  I bend cautiously and touch the warm water. “It’s fine.”

  He picks me up and gently places me in the tub and holds on to my hands. “Sit down.”

  I lower myself in, and give a small moan when the water and bubbles engulf me. The scent is a heavenly mix of lavender, eucalyptus and aloe. He lets go of my hands, and I lower them to the water to resist the temptation to indulge in one brief touch.

  He helps me remove the diamond necklace and earrings, but he doesn’t leave immediately after. My breath freezes, and I know I’m dying for him to tell me to remove the blindfold. When he doesn’t say anything for a full minute, I tilt my head toward him.

  “Q?”

  “Goodnight, Lucky. Stephanie is nearby. If you need help call for her. Let her know how you feel tomorrow. If you need medical attention it’ll be provided.”

  My insides recoil. I’m proud of myself for not letting it show on the outside. But I’m also kicking myself for entertaining the thought that there could ever be a connection between us.

  I’m here to be fucked ten ways to Sunday, every hour of every day if he chooses. Whatever extra-curricular scenarios my brain is conjuring up needs to be stopped. Right now.

  “Goodnight, Q.”

  He leaves immediately. Only the possibility that there could be hidden cameras in the bathroom stops me from removing the blindfold the moment the bathroom door shuts. Five minutes go by before I hear a soft click.

  “You can take the blindfold off now.”

  I release the clasp and blink in the thankfully low light of the beautifully decorated bathroom. I stare at the blindfold, a million more question piling on the ones already crowding my brain, but one punches through.

  The possibility that Q isn’t doing this for himself.

  That all this has been staged for someone else’s benefit scrambles my brain.

  The soothing water of the Jacuzzi begins to work on my overused muscles. I toss the blindfold on the vanity and relax in the water, then I weigh the pros and cons of tonight in my mind.

  Pro. He fucks hard and he is borderline insatiable. But he’s not a sadist. He seems to be considerate and cares about my comfort.

  Con. He’s not a sadist. But the potential is there.

  I pick up a sponge and wash myself. When I touch myself between the legs, my breath shudders out and my mind loops back to the final fucking.

  That brief exhibition of a darker character lurking in the shadows scared the crap out of me. My instincts warned me to tread carefully with Q. I ignore that warning at my own peril.

  I linger in the bath until the water turns cool. The temptation to warm it up again and linger for a while longer is strong. But I’m worn out and can’t risk falling asleep in the bath.

  Although…he might be watching. And what, he’ll come save me? What if watching me drown in the bath is part of this bizarre deal?

  The macabre thought and the full knowledge that Q has me twisting in a quagmire of confusion sends me out of the bath.

  My eye on the prize is what I need to concentrate on. I’ve made it through performance one.

  Only nine more to go.

  Despite that thought planted firmly in my mind, I still stagger to a stop when I re-enter the bedroom.

  Because sitting on the bed is a small open case.

  Inside it, ten stacks of ten thousand dollars arranged neatly in the case.

  Performance one.

  One hundred thousand dollars.

  For sex with a man whose face I still haven’t seen.

  ***

  Q

  I watch her sleep from one of the large monitors gracing my living room. I wonder if she always sleeps in the nude or if she’s choosing to do so tonight because she’s sore. I resisted the temptation to turn on the monitor in her bedroom until the need got too strong to deny. The reason for resisting in the first place escaped me the moment I flipped the switch. Wait. No. It was because I was torn between either watching her, or waking her up and summoning her back to the bedroom in the south wing.

  Tonight was…

  I take a sip of whiskey as I contemplate, but an accurate description fails to yield to me.

  I can’t descri
be how tonight went.

  One thing is painfully evident though. I’ll be repeating the experience tomorrow, whether she’s sore or not. Because, fuck it, she’s as addictive as the black hole I’ve spent the last ten years feeding.

  I relax in the armchair, wrap my hand around the raging hard on that shows no signs of abating and squeeze myself.

  What the fuck? The volcanic arousal that engulfs me is like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Hell, the last time I staged a performance, I was forced to resort to a little blue pill halfway through the week, such was my lack of pleasure in the whole thing. I get the distinct feeling I won’t be needing any such enhancer this time around. Unless it is to ensure the pleasure already fully present achieves its maximum benefit.

  Twenty-four hours buried fully inside her. The idea isn’t without its enticing merits.

  I toss the idea in my mind as I watch her toss and turn.

  She’s not resting comfortably. I want to think it’s because she still feels my presence between her legs—Jesus, she was ridiculously small—but I caught her expression when she walked out of the bathroom and saw the first installment of her payment.

  Like the confirmation of the one million dollar pay out during her second interview, she didn’t react predictably to the sight of the money. Her predecessor had leapt with joy, tossed a handful of the bills in the air and then quickly darted around, scrambling them up before, God forbid, they disappeared.

  Lucky merely shut the case, looked around the room for a secure place and ended up shoving it on the high shelf in her dressing room. She totally missed the typed note on top of the first stack, recommending she put the money in the bedroom safe and instructions for using the safe.

  Whatever she needs the money for, it isn’t for personal satisfaction. Or perhaps it is deeply personal?

  I step away from examining that unpredictable reaction and return to what happened in the south wing bedroom. To certain facets that need analysis.

  Purely on a pleasure scale—because there’s no other parameter for me to measure—fucking her was a singularly gratifying experience. She’s reminded me again how much I like to fuck. How much I enjoy that sweet place between a woman’s legs. And that’s a tick in her favor. Hell for a minute, I might even manage to let myself indulge.