The Flood

"Please! Shoot it into my mouth."

And I was still wondering whether I'd said that out loud, or if the thought merely echoed in my head, when I felt him flex, push and pause. Then heat, texture, taste, my mouth filledto overflowing with his come, while his cock pistoned into my throat as though pushing the stuff into my throat.

I loved it. Everything. The sudden shock, the flash of flavor, the flood. The gooey-ness that clung to my tongue and teeth, the trickling overflow that I could feel leaking out between his cock and my lips. The sound he made as his balls emptied out, half moan, half cry, and buried somewhere within, a long breathy "fuuuuuuck." The way his cock bucked as it bathed in the dam-burst of sperm that I had no choice but to swallow down, to make room (I hoped) for more of the same.

And then I stopped wondering because I was coming too, crying out around the thick shaft that still glided in and out, swallowing and laughing at the same time, and gripping his ass cheeks with taut fingers.

He pulled out and knelt to kiss me; I shifted on my knees, parted my legs as his hand roamed up my inner thigh, then lay back as his head dipped towards my still pulsing cunt. And this time I did speak, loud and deliberately.

"Suck my clit. Hard."

——

The soundstage lights were already going down as my agent Angie and I walked towards the red lettered glow of the exit. We were discussing... I don't remember what. Probably something to do with the production. Or not. It doesn't matter. At the door, the old security guy, James, nodded a goodnight and I turned towards my trailer. If I didn't get out of this costume, and rid myself of this head dress, I was going to explode.

A figure stepped out of the shadows. "Angie? Matt from Triple Exposure. You said...."

"I know," she said, adopting that tone of insufferable weariness she employed whenever she had bad news to deliver. "But I don't think...."

"What?" I asked.

"I forgot to tell you. I told Matt you might give him an interview before the gala, but after a day like today...." Her voice trailed off, as though I had just emerged from the most hellish experiences imaginable, and I thought of playing along. At the same time, though, it's fun to fuck with Angie, just to remind her that I am capable of making my own decisions occasionally.

Plus, he was cute. Plus, he was wearing a promo T-shirt from my last-but-one movie. Plus, it would be interesting to do an interview with a live human being, rather than a pixellated blogger with a freebie Zoom account.

"What time do we have to be at... this thing?" I don't know why the studio felt it so imperative that I entertain this stupid charity bash; I'd certainly have preferred to spend the evening in the tub with a book. But Angie had insisted, and this was my opportunity to get back at her.

"The limo's picking us up at 9."

I glanced at my watch. "It's only 7 now. Matt?" I glanced over. "Do you want to do it now?"

Angie was about to speak, so I pressed on. "Tell me about this magazine you write for?"

He delved into the rucksack he was carrying and pulled out a copy, handing it to me as we walked. "Actually, I own it. I've been doing it nearly five years now. We're in all the big chains... a few drugstores as well. I suppose you'd say we cover cult movies, but I'm more interested in the people who make them. The cast, the crew, the writers...."

I paused and gestured at the vast lot that spread out around us. "This is hardly what I'd call a cult movie." Remaking Cleopatra with that guy who looks like a young Alan Rickman, a seven figure budget and an eight Oscar director doesn't come cheap.

Matt looked thoughtful. "No, but that's where you started and so did a lot of the others in the production. I'm interested in how you reconcile the two aesthetics."

Angie finally got a word in. "Are you sure you want to do this now? You still need to get ready for tonight."

"I can do both. Matt, are you okay with me changing while we do it? I'll be behind a screen, and I do need a shower, but I can still answer questions."

He nodded, Angie fumed and we walked away from her. The last thing she said was, "and remember, no questions about the photos, the sex film or her private life." Which, of course, meant that the moment we were in my trailer, and I finally got shot of the 10lb head dress and several tons of jewelry I'd been stuck in all day, I asked what he wanted to know about the photos.

The expression on his face was itself well worth photographing.

There really was nothing to say, after all. Back when I was first starting, my then-agent had agreed to me doing a nude photo shoot. I said yes, but only if the photographer took off all his clothes as well. Which he agreed to on the phone, only to renege on the deal once we were in the studio. So I refused to undress as well, only for him to then go bleating to the media about how I was a fraud, a prude, and so on and so forth.

It just went from there, an undignified disagreement that suddenly became a two week wonder in supermarket tabloids that had never even mentioned my name in the past. And which, as it began to fade, I rejuvenated by calling a press conference in a strip club in West Hollywood, and walking out to greet the cameras and questions completely naked. It was all as simple as that.

"You lost your Disney contract as a result," Matt ventured.

"I did. But only after three other studios came in to offer me twice as much money as I'd been on before."

The sex film was another matter entirely, a college boyfriend who suddenly realized that the girl he'd dated for three semesters way back was now a hot media property. "How did you feel when it came out?" ventured Matt, and I did my best to look thoughtful.

"Do you mean the one that was all shadows and darkness, and really could have been anyone? Or the one that came out later, which was very obviously me?"

"Both. Either."

"Put it this way. I let a boyfriend film me... well you've seen it, you know what I was doing... and stupidly, I let him keep it. He actually tried to blackmail me, saying he'd send the online link to the papers. So I beat him to it and remade it. Did my hair the same way, wore the same necklace. Made the same noises. Moved the same way. Only this time, it was professionally filmed, and someone told me it got more views in a week than the original had in a month."

The rest of his questions... the ones he had not been forbidden to ask... were less controversial, talking through my career, the early movies, the breakthrough, the people I'd worked with, just regular movie mag stuff. But at least he framed his questions in such a way that I wanted to answer them, as opposed to the mundane queries and personal opinions with which most journalists approach an interview. By the time Angie knocked on the door to tell me the limo was five minutes away, we were still barely halfway through the story.

Matt rose to leave, and asked if we could set a time to finish the interview? "I'll check and call you tomorrow," Angie said. "Or," I rejoined, "you could come along to this thing with us, and we'll carry on there. I only have to sit around and look fabulous, so I might as well talk to someone while I'm doing it."

And I knew exactly what Angie was about to say, so I said it for her. "That way, when all tomorrow's papers publish photos of you and ask who is the new mystery man in my life, maybe you could write another article about that - ‘my life on the other side of the typewriter'."

Oh, Angie looked furious!

In fact, we didn't finish the interview there, either. Too many interruptions, too many cameras... at one point Matt went to the bathroom, and by the time he was back at our table, he'd had three offers to sell his story to a tabloid, one to do a shirtless photoshoot, and one demanding to know if he was the guy in the sex film. I was kinda disappointed that he'd said "no" to them all. "Next one that asks, say yes. Just give my performance a good review."

From the gala, we found our way to my hotel bar; from there, once I'd assured him that I had more rooms, and beds, in my suite than I knew what do with, we went upstairs and continued the interview there. Then we took a shower together.

I've always loved being fucked in the shower. Bending forward, arms out-stretched with my palms flat on the wall, a fat cock gliding in and out of my cunt, and hands on my hips to hold me still. It's probably because that's how I lost my virginity, but you'll have to wait for my autobiography for that story. As for how Matt and I wound up in there, it's simple. We'd wrapped the interview and I'd shown him where he'd be sleeping, and he asked if it was okay for him to have a quick shower? Of course I said yes; then, once he'd turned the water on, I joined him. Like I said, simple.

He had a good cock. Seven inches, maybe? I've never been good at gauging such things. But it dwarfed the hand I wrapped around him while he was soaping my back, and as I reached between my legs to guide him inside me, I know I winced a little as he pushed, and my cunt stretched as wide as it ever had before.

His hands were on my tits now, kneading and squeezing and pinching the nipples. I wondered what his mouth would feel like there; how hard he might bite with a little encouragement; and what it might feel like elsewhere, as well. In fact, I almost asked him to eat me there and then, just kneel and push his tongue inside me, while I ground myself into his face.

Or maybe... not my cunt. Tongue-fuck my asshole, while I flick my clit till I come. All these thoughts, all these thrills, and then I was coming and he was too, his cock so deep it almost hurt, my legs so weak I almost fell. And when his softness finally slipped from my cunt, and I felt it ache around the sudden emptiness that embraced it, I knew I wasn't going to make it to the toilet in time. So I turned as he tried to pull me to where he was now crouching, and I pissed on his cock. Laughing at the look of shock on his face, as it faded into delight.

We rinsed down, dried off, then raided the mini bar, lying on the floor just talking and giggling as I teased him about giving me the magazine cover, and asking who'd appeared on it in the past. "A lot of very pretty women," I summarized when he'd finished. "Did you fuck them as well?"

He shook his head. "No."

"Did you want to, though?"

Sheepish now. "A few." I raised my eyebrows. "Who?" My hand was between his legs, his cock still soft but I could feel the blood pumping, and its weight increasing - and, can I just say, how great that feels, the flesh pushing against my grip as he starts to harden; shifting my fingers as I squeeze him mid-shaft; glancing down to see him fully erect, his cock head straining ever upwards as my other hand descends and two sharply-nailed finger tips scrape at the tight flesh of his cock head, parting the slit of his pee-hole and burrowing softly inside.

"Stand up," I whispered and he obeyed. I rose too, taking his hand and walking him the few steps towards the vast picture window that overlooked the city. "I love this view," I told him as I inclined my head to suck on a nipple. My hand was back on his cock, stroking gently.

A mischievous thought struck me. "Have you ever jerked off to one of my movies? He blushed. "I'll take that as a yes," I giggled. "Which one?"

"Ones," he corrected me, his face now so flushed that I was amazed he had sufficient blood to keep his cock hard as well. He named three or four and I pressed him for the specific scenes. Two, I'd already guessed. One surprised me ("but all I did was speak") and one... "seriously? You got a boner because I pushed my hair out of my face?"

He nodded. "Shit, if I'd known that, I could have kept you hard all evening long."

He laughed. "Don't worry, you did it a couple of times anyway," and I leaned in, on my knees how, to kiss the very tip of his cock. Just a brush, so gentle that even I barely felt it. But his cock bucked hard in my hand, so I did it again, but lingered this time, feeling his heat against my lips, and the pressure of velvet weight.

"I wonder if you can guess what I'm thinking?" I'd moved back, looking up into his eyes, my hand still holding his dick.

"I think so," he half-stammered.

"What?" I challenged.

"You're thinking..." he fell silent. I was still staring into his face, and I raised my eyebrows questioningly. "I'm thinking.... What?"

"You're thinking about putting me in your mouth," he murmured, his voice hesitant, shaking... embarrassed, teehee.

"No, I thought about that ages ago. Now I'm thinking what I'm going to do with it once it's in there." And now I leaned back in, parting my lips and slowly letting them spread across his glans, while my tongue rolled firmly across it.

Although, if I'm honest, that wasn't what I was thinking at all. I was wondering whether I'd even be able to fit him into my mouth. Because I swear, he felt bigger now than he ever had in the shower, longer and fatter and stronger and what the hell. I braced myself for my jaw to start complaining, and drew him deeper into my mouth, clamping my lips as tightly as I could and then, as I felt myself finally relaxing around his monster, I started to suck.

It's funny. Not counting the college thing, I've done five explicit sex scenes in my movies... six if you include the one that opens Cleopatra... and, in every one, I'm sucking cock. "Because that's what you're known for," one of my early directors somewhat clumsily explained. "Everyone who's seen ‘the other' film, they'll watch this but they'll be visualizing that one."

Which made sense, in an oddly sordid kind of way, although in truth, giving head had never been a major part of my sexual repertoire. I don't know why. I always enjoyed it when I did it, but I usually had other things on my mind, like getting him either in my cunt or between my tits. That's why the college film was only a couple of minutes long, because I had other plans all along.

Now, though... now, I wanted it, and I wanted him, as deep inside my mouth as I could fit him, and I didn't give a shit about the pain in my jaw, or needing to breathe, or even the gag reflex that he was already dangerously close to igniting. So I sucked until I had to take a breath, or swallow the saliva that was flowing like the Hudson, and I bobbed my head to draw him deeper, and all the while my heart pounded wildly, as if to ask why I didn't do this all the time? All the time.

Matt's breathing was heavy but even, his face - exquisitely framed by the sea of lights beyond the window - a mask of pleasure and, I think, still a little surprise. I don't know why; even movie stars deserve a night off occasionally, and how boring to only be fucking other stars? I was talking one night with one of the veterans of the trade, and she admitted that she dreaded it when one of her contemporaries published their memoirs... not because she might be in it, but in case she wasn't. "And the worst thing is, they never include an index, so you have to read the entire fucking book just to see if you get a mention.

I asked her if she would ever write a kiss and tell? She said she already had. "It's my address book."

My lungs were bursting... too many shallow "my mouth is full of meat"-impaired breaths can do that. I released him, breathed and licked at his shaft, all the way up and exactly how long is this thing?. Strings of spit clung to his flesh, I licked them off, then deposited fresh drool on the tip; dipped to slurp on the balls that clung so tightly to the base of his cock, then drew one of them gently into my mouth.

His cock twitched impatiently - "what about me?" So I kissed his ball bag goodbye and opened my mouth, his cock just inches from my face, and that slit wet and open wide, pre-cum flowing, almost flooding, and that was when my heart... no, my entire body... lurched and every fiber of my being knew precisely what I wanted to happen next.

And I never did figure out if I said those words, or if he read my mind or even didn't care, just so long as he shot his load down my throat. But, like I told him as we lay on the floor, both on our backs staring up at the ceiling and reliving every moment in our still pounding heart-filled minds,

"Next time, I think you should be on top when we do that. And maybe," I grinned as I propped myself on one elbow, "we could remake the remake of my first ever film.

"But we'll use my camera this time."