Day Out in Hollywood

I landed in Hollywood California on a hot day and there she stood—Presley, like trouble walking. She skipped hello and went straight to: hotel room, now. I followed, dick already half-hard at the thought. Once inside she killed the lights except one bedside lamp, set her camera on its tripod, hit record. Didn’t bother with small talk. She pulled up grainy snaps from Thailand, tits brushing my shoulder every time she leaned across the laptop. I’m not looking at the goddamn pictures. I’m eye-fucking the thong cutting between those cheeks she keeps shoving my way. I tell her to hold still. Zoom the lens in on that ass—perfect heart-shaped muscle, skin stretched tight. Palm it, feel the give, give it a crack that leaves my handprint blooming. She moans, pushes back into my grip. Then her eyes drop to my shorts and she whispers she wants proof I’m as worked up as she is. I peel the shirt, drop the waistband just enough so my cockhead bobs out. Instead of grabbing myself I bend into some half-assed yoga pose, arching so every muscle lines up straight under the light, letting her watch the hard length swing. She licks her bottom lip, camera still rolling, already reaching for my waistband. The clip cuts there. The rest is still getting edited.