She's a Star (a Hollywood Hotwife story) (9 page)

“See you in there?” her voice now broke me from my thoughts.

“Uh…sure,” I said, concealing the confusion circulating inside me.

“Don’t take too long—it’s supposed to start in five minutes.”

“Sure, honey. Won’t be a minute.”

I didn’t really need the restroom. I just needed a breather. I wandered upstairs, and found another bar catering to a similarly stellar crowd, though without Hayley on my arm I could slip in undetected. People stared through me—I was the invisible man. It was fine: I headed to the quietest corner of the bar and ordered an iced water, and at least there I felt I could just pause and think for a moment or two.

Hayley was a professional actress now, and by the signs of it, her career was really starting to take off. The sense I got from the people surrounding her in this party was that she had a future. There were so many people trying to butter her up, get on her good side. Of course she was going to come up against some of the most attractive men around. I’d always known I’d have to deal with it at some stage—I’d always had confidence she’d make it someday, even while she’d been merely waiting tables at a coffee shop in the East Village.

She deserved recognition for her hard work, her considerable acting talent—and, yes, for her beauty too.

I took a few deep breaths, calming myself, though strangely happy about the prospect of other people recognizing what a beauty my wife was—how that might build her confidence, add to that sexy little glint in her eye. Oh, I felt the jealousy, like acid in my stomach. I felt the cold fear that any moment, Hayley might become a bona fide celebrity, and therefore subject to the rules of celebrity, namely that marriages involving famous people always failed.

Yet the thought that someone as high and mighty as Aaron Simpson might envy me my wife made me feel curiously satisfied. The idea that Hayley could drive a man like that wild on set, and then come home to me, made me feel immense pleasure.

A couple of guys I didn’t recognize filled the space at the bar next to me, and I hardly gave them a second look. I couldn’t fail to hear their conversation, though.

“The critics won’t like it, but when has Aaron Simpson ever bothered with pleasing the critics?”

“He gets the box office, that’s the important thing.”

The tuxedo-clad guys seemed oblivious to who might be able to overhear their conversation just then. I just sipped my iced water and pretended I was off in my own world.

“It’s a happy coincidence that when he chooses a movie just so he gets the chance to bang another hot little starlet in front of the cameras, the audiences like it, too.”

I caught my breath, my heart rate suddenly picking up.

“Happy coincidence indeed. Well, apparently he’s stretched the boundaries to the full this time. It’ll be interesting to see how the audiences react.”

Sitting there listening to the conversation, I found myself recalling Hayley’s continued mantra: It’s only a movie. She’d said it so many times before they’d finally come out for this screening. But I was anxious about what the movie would finally be like—and how people would treat Hayley after seeing it.

“The money men have already signed up for a sequel, even before seeing the finished cut.”

“Jesus. He’s doing a sequel?”

“Supposedly. I heard he commissioned a script the moment he first laid eyes on his new leading lady.”

“Seriously? What’s her name? She’s nobody, right?”

“Hayley something. Marvin or Martin or Urchin or something like that. Supposed to be quite a looker. She was in GQ apparently, but I never saw it. Really got into the physical side of the love scenes, know what I mean.”

Drinks in hand, the two guys drifted back away from the bar, lost in the crowd, leaving me quivering there at the bar.

It’s only a movie, she had said.

She hadn’t mentioned anything about a sequel. Exactly how intimate had her sex scenes been with Aaron Simpson? What if he really did steal her from me, not least with the promise of making another movie?

I stood clutching my empty glass, and for a moment had to keep my stomach from evacuating its contents. Maybe I would need to find a restroom after all, if I was going to sit through three hours in which I would not be able to take a bathroom break, since I was the husband of one of the stars. Yet I was rock hard at the thought of Hayley being taken by someone else, and no amount of calm breathing was going to make that flag pole go down sufficient to use the bathroom.

I waited a few moments and decided just to head back downstairs to find my feet. Returning down to the front lobby, I found a dwindling number of people flocking into the main theater. The screening was about to start.

For a gut-wrenching few moments, I couldn’t see any sign of Hayley. My paranoia started creating scenarios in which she had slipped out the back of the theater with Aaron Simpson, to jump into a private limo for a quick ride to his hotel room.

I drifted into the auditorium, but there she was, near the front, turned to watch for her returning husband. I felt relief, but also the creeping hand of anxiety enclosing my heart at the thought that I was about to see, what it was that she’d done with her co-star in this damn movie.

“It’s only—” she whispered as the lights dimmed.

“A movie, yes, I know,” I finished her sentence, which seemed to satisfy her that the message was received and understood.

Chapter Eight

I was worried for a moment that Hayley would hear my pounding heart beat in the silence, as the initial credits appeared on screen. I just about managed to keep my breathing calm, regular.

Then, there she was. Jesus. She looked stunning.

I had seen Hayley on TV before, as an extra in various things, in her failed TV pilot. I’d seen her on stage, of course, too. But none of that quite prepared me for seeing her beauty up there on the silver screen, ten feet high.

Somehow, my beloved fresh-faced girl-next-door—with her pixyish face and freckles, her red hair tied loosely in a ponytail so she was forever tucking strands behind her ear—looked completely different, completely grown up, completely glamorous.

I was at once besotted, crushing hard on this actress the like of which I’d never seen before—and also knocked out of the park by the fact that this uncommon beauty was my wife.

Whatever the critics would say about the movie and its plot, Hayley was a natural up there on screen, and couldn’t fail to turn the heads of casting directors across Hollywood with this turn.

The movie was actually a lot more powerful a drama than I’d been expecting, though there were also the action sequences for which Aaron Simpson was better known. Hayley seemed to dominate the screen time since the story revolved around her and her relationship with both Aaron Simpson’s prison guard character and her character’s husband. I felt butterflies in my stomach each time she appeared alongside that Hollywood superstar, particularly as she began to charm and seduce him.

I found myself quietly gasping as I saw her fluttering her eyelids at him, playing with her hair, biting her lip to see a glimpse of his manly chest as the top button of his shirt came undone, or the way she was so flustered around him, flushing when he spoke to her.

It wasn’t real, and yet it was real because her acting was so good.

The growing bond between Hayley’s character and Aaron Simpson’s prison guard caused a little trembling in me to start with, but after a while, I was able to suspend my disbelief and see the two only as their characters, not their real life personas.

That was until the characters finally threw caution to the wind and kissed.

My stomach folded in on itself. Hayley was so beautiful, kissing the grizzled prison guard tenderly, caressing his cheek, pressing herself up against him. It was so real, his tongue snaking out, hers too, invading each other’s mouths, so depraved. He was fucking her mouth with his tongue.

This stranger who was not her husband.

In real life, sitting next to me, Hayley held my hand and squeezed gently, as though attempting to remind me: “It’s only a movie.”

But the kissing was only the beginning. As the plan developed, and the prisoner’s wife finally seduced the prison guard to persuade him to help them, I watched as she almost forced him to engage with her, slipping off her top as they sat together on a faded couch, turning to him, her bare breasts poised, nipples stiff, begging for his attention.

I was telling myself, it’s only a movie—but it was hard to believe seeing Hayley’s stiff nipples there on screen.

Kissing him, straddling him, melting the prison guard’s resolve, enticing him to respond, grabbing her, tearing off the rest of her clothes.

Oh God, seeing Hayley lying there bent over the couch, naked other than a tiny little thong, which Aaron Simpson now dragged down her smooth, coltish thighs. He ducked down to kiss her beautiful rounded rear, sweeping his hands over her soft skin, leaning down to press his face to her most personal area. The prison guard was tasting the wife of one of his inmates, kissing her sex before he pulled off his pants and lined up behind her.

Before he slid his cock inside Hayley from behind.

In real life, in the darkened theater, Hayley’s hand was all but crushing mine as though she was trying to distract me from the shocking infidelity I was watching in giant size before me.

As the prison guard turned her over, fucking her missionary style on that couch, the camera work exquisitely sophisticated and artful. I recognized the familiar moles on her upper chest, that little scar that was almost imperceptible on her knee—this was no body double.

There might not have been any actual penetration, though if there was it was perfectly hidden, but Aaron Simpson was naked on top of my lovely young wife, and whether or not it was acting, she was responding in blissful rapture, her face strained with sexual gratification, her moans so lifelike, her heaving chest and rock-hard nipples hard to put on so realistically.

I could see no flesh-colored underwear on either of them, though I conceded that computer graphics guys were very clever these days at digitally altering things on film.

And Jesus, it just never seemed to end. Soon she was on top of him, riding him, her thighs and her butt squeezing as she stirred with his hardness deep inside her.

She was kissing him, and then he was rolling her over, quite unmistakably powering to an orgasm—to apparently come deep inside her, with no hint of protection.

And as it all came to a powerful conclusion, she was crying gently: “How do you make me feel that way?”

And: “I’ve never felt like that before.”

And: “No one’s ever made me feel so good….”

I was shocked, stunned, breathless, but my cock strained in my pants, harder than it had ever been before at the wicked and glorious sight of my wife making love to another man, gaining her sexual freedom, indulging in the kind of physical exploration that wasn’t available to her as a married woman.

Taking real pleasure in this illicit encounter.

I wanted more, wanted to watch her adored by this Hollywood idol, wanted to see her pleasured by him, wanted to know she was being sexy and wicked, and experiencing something incredible as the result of my consent.

“You still love me?” she whispered as the sex scene came to an end. I turned my head to look at her, and there was no hint in her expression that she’d asked me that in jest, or irony, or anything other than straight concern.

She looked downright terrified.

Something about her obvious concern reassured me, seeing that I still meant something important to her.

“Of course,” I whispered in return.

Her expression turned to puzzled hope, that I wasn’t lying, that I wasn’t angry with her, even that I fully understood it was only acting.

The rest of the movie was something of a blur—the plot was, at least. I only saw Hayley and Aaron Simpson, how they looked at each other, the fiery chemistry they had with each other—chemistry that could not be faked, could not be acted. There were more sex scenes, of the detective calming the witness after an attempt had been made on her life, his quiet affection turning quickly to burning passion.

I was recognizing Hayley’s naked body while this other man—this famous man, this handsome, rich actor—kissed and licked her all over. It was no body double, she was no Julia Roberts, she really had another man lying between her thighs, pressing his cock against her, whatever state it was in.

And the way she acted in those sex scenes—it wasn’t the Hayley I knew so well from our own love-making. Here on the silver screen she seemed so brazen, so wicked, so alive. She might have started out in the movie as a demure innocent, but by the end of it, she was kneeling before him to take him into her mouth, straddling his lap as he sat in a chair, presenting her rear so they could have a quickie in a dark corner of the street, leading him into the bedroom where she could ride him, or be ridden, giving herself totally to him.

And there in the dark auditorium, in real life, Hayley just kept squeezing my hand, her eyes darting sideways to register my expression as I witnessed her Hollywood debut.