Make Me A Star

Montana bred me for bigger lights. Now I'm on Hollywood Boulevard like it owes me something. Tourists buzz past the names in the concrete. Then she cuts through them—Lena Nicole, my favorite body on the screen. She stops. Talks. Says I got the look. My knees shake. She invites me up to her suite for a private lesson. One nod and I'm in the elevator, heart hammering the walls. Door shuts. She tells me to strip. I obey. Naked under that cold air-conditioning, every inch exposed while she watches like she's already directing. She steps close, fingers slide between my thighs, testing how wet the dream makes me. I moan her name into her mouth while she records the whole thing—close-ups of her tongue working my clit, my fingers buried deep in her heat, bodies grinding across silk sheets till we lock and grind through the kind of orgasm that could wreck careers. Later she smiles, hits stop, and says we won't send that tape anywhere but her private vault. I laugh, shaky, still tasting her. Sometimes the stars you chase pull you into their orbit instead.