Make Me A Star

I used to think I could make it in Hollywood. Walking the Walk of Fame even as a tourist still pumped me full of that star-drug. Then I got lucky. Lena Nicole. My idol. I told her I wanted the life, and she smiled like she already knew what I’d trade for it. “You have potential,” she said. I nearly soaked through my panties right there on the sidewalk. An hour later I was standing naked in her penthouse, mouth open, thighs shaking. She circled me like a director choosing angles, then pushed me onto silk sheets and told me the camera was already rolling. The first kiss was slow, testing. The second was not. I tasted lip gloss and champagne. Her hands found every soft place I hadn’t shown anyone since high school, and when she spread me open for the lens I felt my future split wide right along with my legs. She whispered that the audition had started and that I should moan like the camera would make me famous. I did. I still don’t know what she’ll do with the tape, but I already know I’ll beg for a second take.