Going Up

Hearts hammering. They walk on set and the place hits like a slap, all bass and smoke. Then he steps out of the dark, Quinton James, Paris Paige’s manager, lean, black suit cut sharp enough to cut skin. Smells like leather, sweat, and cigarettes. One grin and Ella’s nipples stiffen. Blake’s mouth goes dry. Quinton grabs Ella’s waist, pulls her close till her hips press to his thigh, then snaps Blake forward by the belt. “Show me what you got,” he says, voice low. Ella drops, tongue flicking past her teeth, taking Quinton down her throat while Blake shoves two fingers straight into her cunt and twists. Quinton watches, lazy smile, smoke curling from his lips. He grips Blake’s hair, yanks him forward, tongue sliding past Blake’s while Ella keeps choking herself on cock. Every thrust from Quinton’s hips sends Ella’s spit dripping down Blake’s wrist. Quinton talks the whole time, filthy and quick, promising a spotlight that shines on skin, not talent, cocks throbbing under camera lights, three bodies grinding to the beat, sweat mixing with bass so loud it feels like another pulse inside them.