She's a Star (a Hollywood Hotwife story) (7 page)

“So you need to do this because it’s right for your character in the movie, right?” I smiled.

“Something like that,” she said, and wriggled out of her jeans completely as I continued to tease the hair above her pussy.

My fingers slid lower, finding their way to the moisture and the heat of her sex, making her moan as they dipped inside her. I slumped down to my knees, pulling her jeans down the rest of the way to the floor, breathing the intoxicating smell of her excitement as I helped her step out of them.

“When are you doing it?” I craned my neck to touch my lips gently against the soft fuzz over her pussy, breathing in her spicy fragrance as I began to caress her doomed pussy hair with my face.

“I have an appointment in the morning.” She lifted one of her legs, so that her thigh rested over my shoulder, her foot touching against my back—controlling me so that my mouth was over the dewy lips of her pussy, locked in place under her.

“You know I’ll enjoy it one way or the other,” I said.

“Okay, because it’ll take a while to grow back,” she replied, leaning back against the cold glass of the mirror as I tended to her smoldering sex.

By now, it was almost expected that when she was done with her day’s shoot with Aaron, she would be horny, and I would get back to deliver her sweet release from any frustration that built up. I loved it—who wouldn’t, as beautiful as she was? But it was also a sense that she needed me, despite her overnight success, she still wanted me, she still loved me.

I came home the day of her waxing appointment, and she was waiting for me in her workout clothes. She stripped off to show me her new look.

“Wow, you really didn’t leave any at all.” I marveled at her as I slumped to my knees before her.

“It’s kind of expected these days.” She stroked her strangely smooth mound as she looked down on me, smiling a little self-consciously.

“Is it right for your character in the movie?” I grinned, leaning in to touch the back of my fingers gently against her soft, soft skin.

“She’s…I guess she’s a little younger than her husband in the movie, a little trashy perhaps….”

“And younger than the prison guard she has an affair with?”

“Well, of course,” she smiled at my dig at Aaron Simpson. “So you like it?”

I stooped slightly, and kissed her bare mound. “I like it both ways,” I said. “It’s nice to be a little different, though.”

She moaned as I kissed my way down to her smooth, smooth pussy lips, but warned: “Careful. It’s still pretty tender down there.”

But she didn’t stop me as I teased apart her pussy lips, playing with her gently, getting a feel for her waxed flesh. She also didn’t stop me as I pressed my mouth to her tender folds, and tasted the slickness that was already appearing. Wow. My wife had waxed her pussy for the purpose of appearing naked in a movie that would be seen by thousands.

I slipped a finger inside her as I sucked gently on her clit, and felt how wet she already was.

She sighed as I got myself familiar with her new look, as I indulged in the difference in her. She wasn’t kidding when she said she was still tender from the waxing, though. I had to stop, and then she would consent only to going down on me. While she took me in her mouth, though, she had me lie on the bed so she could lie over me, allowing me to gaze at her sweet hairless pussy until I was pumping my thick cream down her throat.

*

I wasn’t sure what would happen when the movie shoot headed abroad, and her confidence-boosting, libido-strengthening bursts in front of the cameras took place thousands of miles away from her husband. I bought her a brand-new luxury vibrator to help when I wasn’t available. She was happy enough at my gift, but I was quietly hoping she might relieve her tension with her co-star instead.

I did notice as Hayley moved through the production stage of the movie was that her confidence level shot through the roof. I wouldn’t say that it made her sexually dominant, but knowing that men really did adore her—from the fact she had been cast in that role, and the way she was treated on set—meant she made the most of her body, rather than coming to the process of sex as the shy girl I’d married.

When she came home, there was none of the self-consciousness that had occasionally seen us making love in the dark back in the early days. None of the reluctance to accept oral sex that had come from a deep-seated fear that men didn’t like it.

Now, she came home, sometimes she’d be stripping off before the front door had closed behind her, and called for me out of the need for my mouth on her pussy, or my hard cock inside her. If she felt like it, she’d stand while I sat on the ground beneath her to service her, she’d hold my head and ride me like a seat on a carousel. Or she’d pounce on me while I was lounging on the sofa, scrabbling to pull out my cock, or hopping up to deposit her soaking pussy on my face, with or without underwear. She’d come home in skirts that were so short they were virtually belts, drop her panties and bend over the kitchen counter demanding my attention.

And every time I’d ask her if something had happened with Aaron, something that might have got her particularly wound up, she simply smiled and said ‘no’, reminding me as I plunged my hardness into her quivering sex that Aaron was ever the consummate professional. That he was clearly interested, but that the business of making movies came first for him, and as producer he wasn’t one to mess with the help.

*

What she did when she went to Europe was to call home on Skype, and we’d do our best to relieve our tensions long-distance.

Video technology being as good as it was by now meant it was often as though we were in the same room. Only we couldn’t touch each other.

She’d watch me, demanding that I strip for her, that I touch my cock for her, that I get hard watching her slowly removing her clothes. I’d instruct her to remove her top, her skirt, and lie back to stroke her pussy through her panties as she watched my physical response to her.

“How’s Aaron?” I’d ask as she slowly took off her bra, revealing stiff little nipples I longed to take into my mouth.

“He’s fine,” she’d say, adding some description of a scene they were shooting—escaping through fields or remote country lanes, for the passage after the great prison escape, or enjoying the glitz and glamor of Paris as the prison guard romanced the wife of his inmate even to the extent of foreign travel.

“You had to kiss him today?”

“Not today,” she’d say, “but I think I will be tomorrow.”

And I might continue, “How was dinner last night?”

She’d say, “Very nice.”

“Aaron invite you back to his room for some script rehearsals?”

“I told him I was a little tired.” She’d blush, or tilt her head, or some other sign that she was hiding something, though I was okay about her taking her time in finding the strength to tell me all. Or maybe she wasn’t hiding something, and she was simply teasing me, knowing that I was on the edge of my seat every moment now, hoping that she’d relent and just try a little fling with another man.

Some nights, she might have had a few glasses of wine, and while I’d watch her lying there on her hotel bed, her legs parted, hand slipped inside her panties to stir circles around her beautifully waxed pussy, she’d be more in a mood to tease me.

“We were kissing a lot today,” she’d say. “He’s a pretty good kisser.”

“Great, it would be disappointing if he wasn’t,” I’d reply.

“I’m not sure it’s strictly stage kissing,” she’d beam, stretching the black lace of her panties this way or that to expose little glimpses of her pink slit to me across thousands of miles of space. “I mean, the director wants us to make it realistic, so you know…there’s tongues, there’s lips, there’s…”

She’d slide her panties down her thighs, and I’d see how wet she was. I’d see the faint white traces in her panties that she’d been wet at some point earlier that day.

“It’s nice, kissing him?” I’d ask her. “I bet it gets you all hot inside.”

“And wet. That’s what you want to hear, right?”

Then her panties would be gone, and she’d lie there breathing deeply, her fingers massaging her pussy, tracing out the length of her labia, circling around her clit, making wet noises through the crystal-clear microphone.

“And you know what,” she might say if I was really lucky. “When we were pressing against each other, and sucking face like there was no tomorrow…I could feel his…thing….”

This from my wife, who ruled out dating Aaron Simpson, but apparently enjoyed feeling his hard cock pressing against her while they filmed romantic scenes.

“I bet you’re tempted to offer him a little personal time in your trailer,” I’d say.

She’d smile and say, “But I’m a good little wife, I would never do something like that.”

Or if she was in a friskier mood, she’d say something like, “If I got him to take that thing out of his pants, filming would be so delayed it would probably make the movie go bust.”

I trusted her, she had no reason to lie. If she had wanted to fuck Aaron Simpson, she knew well enough that she could, and that I’d be happy with it, hoping she’d tell me the details when she was ready.

I’d watch her pulling out her vibrator, trailing its tip around her wet pussy as though it were some guy’s dick trying to get in. I’d watch her slide it inside her, and imagine that she was allowing Aaron Simpson to take that final step, to become the only other man inside her since we started dating.

“You think he’s as big as your vibrator?” I’d ask her.

“Bigger. Much bigger.”

We enjoyed teasing each other.

Driving each other crazy until one of us came first—like it was some kind of competition.

You could say we adjusted to the pressures placed upon our marriage.

The next series of pressures, though, included the return of the movie production to local studio space—and the start of the last stage of principal photography: the sex.

Chapter Six

It was when production came back to Los Angeles and I knew they were getting to the final scenes—the sex scenes—that I started feeling the fear that Aaron Simpson was really about to sleep with my wife.

I say fear, but there was still that sexual excitement in me every time I thought about my wife going away from me to be naughty with someone else.

But here there would be about a week where Hayley would do little but lay around a bed with Aaron Simpson and the guy who played her husband.

Frustratingly for me, when she returned home she refused to allow me to touch her sexually, for fear that it would affect her one way or another before the incredibly intimate work she was about to perform.

“I’ll make it up to you,” she promised. “Once these scenes are in the can, we should go away together.”

And Hayley wouldn’t even be staying at home when the scenes were shot: the studio put her up in a luxury hotel close to the set, so that she and Aaron could be brought in at any random time of day or night to continue filming once a shot had been set up.

The first evening she went away, her agent Liona turned up on our doorstep. I assumed as soon as I saw her that she would be accompanying Hayley to the hotel, and would be perhaps chaperoning her as the rest of the movie was shot. But to my surprise, after Hayley finished up straightening her casual-but-not-too-casual charcoal gray dress, checking the waves of long red hair flowing down her back, and perfecting her make-up in the mirror by the front door, before a little air-kissing goodbye to yours truly, she was escorted to the limousine by the chauffeur alone, leaving Liona to hang back with me.

“You’re not going with her?” I asked as we waved farewell to my exquisite wife.

“It’s a closed set,” said the sharp blonde in reply. “Authorized cast and crew only. And only a few of the crew at that.”

“Because of the sex scenes?”

She nodded, and smiled. “But I’m not here for her,” she said, surprising me. “Come on—I have a table booked at La Provençale.”

I wrinkled my brow. “For you and me?”

She grinned. “Would that be all right? Hayley asked me to keep you company a little this evening.”

“Uh…okay, I suppose that would be fine.”

She drove so I could drink, and I guess I did need a strong glass or two. It was a nice discreet restaurant with low-lighting and the kind of booths that could keep everyone but the waiting staff from intruding on a private conversation.

“So, how are you feeling?”

“Good. I think.”

Liona was sympathetic to my plight. It felt nice to have a reassuring person to talk to. “You know it’s just a movie, right?”

“Of course.”

“So I don’t have to tell you they won’t be…you know…fucking…for real?”

“I know.”

She nodded. “And most of the time they’re shooting, they’ll be wearing underwear anyway….”

“Most of the time?” I attempted a wry grin.

She broke out into another broad smile. She was one of those blondes who made you feel like you’d achieved something impressive just to make her smile like that. It warmed me a little inside, at least, where my nest of vipers was currently squirming.