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If anyone were to ask you what life’s like now that you’ve known the feel of Director Deren’s bed, you wouldn’t really know what to say. You wouldn’t know which instance of carefully shot debauchery would be able to fully encapsulate the sort of mischief that a certified creative lunatic like Deren can cobble together with a hard enough dick. And you, being her chosen star and enraptured lover, can do nothing but helplessly follow her vision to a T.
That blind amour you hold for your celebrity girlfriend has led you to many spots. Right now, it’s the back of a limousine with faint music coming through the installed speakers.
The designer who made Deren’s outfit for tonight’s film festival called it “Midnight Fantasia.” Each little curated detail draws your eye to an enticing snippet of Deren’s body meticulously exposed by the subtle openings in the ensemble; sitting on top of her messily styled hair is a pair of red film strips attached to glinting silver frames—the sort of sunglasses that’d look cheap and gimmicky if it weren’t for the expensive blood-red tint bleeding through the entirety of the lenses, giving the scenes behind and in front of them that signature high-contrast look only achieved by a photographer’s priceless wratten number twenty-five. As you dare yourself to glance past the faux oblivious look on Deren’s face (faux, because someone as detail-oriented as Deren can’t possibly miss how obvious you are right now, hungry with want as she sits, unbothered, pretending to watch the city lights blur past across the lake under the busy highway), you feel something in your chest constrict once your shy gaze lands on the choker around her neck and the thick silver jewelry hanging below it.
“Hey, still doing good?” You hear Deren’s drawl, and while it sounds miles away, the faint thread of amusement hanging on isn’t lost on you. You just can’t tear your eyes away from how her slender throat swallows after, shifting the crimson velvet sitting on top.
You’re so obsessed it’s ridiculous. Clearly, you need to be sedated.
“Can you repeat that? Sorry, I’m just…” Alright, a good excuse. C’mon, you’ve got a good excuse rattling around in your head somewhere. “Tired?” From the thirty-minute nap you just took? “I-I pulled an all-nighter, uh, yesterday.” So relevant. What else? “Or something.” Perfect.
Dumbass.
You try not to wince as you flash Deren a smile. God, she’s not going to buy that. Deren wouldn’t judge you for eyeing her up like she’s just a sexy cardboard cut-out of your favorite actor placed in front of a movie theater, but it’s precisely because she welcomes your attention so casually that your stomach flips just thinking about what she’ll do about it.
But Deren, as if sensing your attention, lazily smiles back. Her squinted eyes don’t betray even a hint of her thoughts as she turns back to the tinted windows. “Help yourself to another nap then,” she says, “it’s rush hour, so we’re going to be on this highway for a while. Just let me know if you’re hungry.”
Cool. Another hour or two in the same car as Deren. Stewing in your self-inflicted horniness, itching to touch her. Cool.
You try to be normal again. You pick under your manicured nails, cycle through three ways to cross your legs, fidget with your hair—and, desperate to take your mind off of the absurdly attractive director a few inches to your right, you even knock on the divider separating the driver from the two of you in the backseat. You ask him to change the song playing in the car to some obnoxious pop song that’s been circulating DisMyth for the past week. He does. The divider slides back closed. It doesn’t work. Not only are you horny, but now you’ve also got the lyrics of that stupid song cutting in between the mental image of dragging Deren’s ass to the edge of the car seat and eating her out sloppy-style like your life depended on it.
You smush the side of your face against the cold window, mitigating the heat flooding through you only by a margin. It’s enough to make you sigh and continue to silently wallow in your misery.
Nothing’s going to change. You can’t do anything. Deren herself isn’t even doing anything, and yet here you are, falling all over yourself, wanting nothing more than to hear her moans in the small space of this luxury car’s backseat as her windows fog from the heat rolling off your bodies like sweat and desire.
Your gaze drifts again, and you’ve shamefully given up on the virginal pretense of pretending Deren isn’t this extraordinary mix of handsome and beautiful. You blame yourself for being such an aesthete.
Behind heavy eyelids, you watch that careless way Deren plucks her sunglasses off her head with one hand and uses her gloved one to push her hair back. The black leather blends in with her effortlessly stylish image, asymmetrical to provoke interest. And as it drops back onto her lap, you greedily chase the motion until you stop at the open collar of her blouse. The peek of skin has you biting your lip. The open style is so relaxed that it’s obviously intentional. The “scandelousness” is a big part of the appeal. When the press bombards your faces with cameras at the film center’s entrance later, netizens are going to blow up their feeds with photos of Deren’s stupidly sexy blouse, going on and on about how it looks good on her, how good she looks in it, how tempting it’d be to ghost a touch along her abs.
(Scratch the fans, you’ve got a bone to pick with the designer behind that top because who makes a blouse with just two buttons?)
You lick your lips. You sigh. Again.
This time, when you meet Deren’s prodding gaze, the veil of obliviousness previously shrouding her expression has fallen away to display her unfettered amusement, her eyes clear like starlight as she smirks.
“Hungry?” she asks.
“Yeah,” you exhale shakily.
Deren spreads her legs.
Your pupils dilate. Fuck. Okay, you’re doing this now. You don’t waste any more time and scramble to get in between them as if this fantasy would dissolve in a second’s hesitation.
“Oh, you look good from this angle.” The smooth leather of Deren’s glove combs through your hair, dragging your senses out of the merciless buzz of want and taking back your focus as you dive forward to kiss the toned expanse of her stomach. You feel her chuckle resonate a little higher up as you kiss down her navel. The heat from her body makes you dizzy. “Not a lot of people can look as enticing as you do from the top-down perspective. You’ve got a natural talent.”
“For… Being on my knees?” Your face burns. “A little on the nose, don’t you think?”
Deren’s sleepy eyes squint in that cryptic way they usually do. “It’s however you want to interpret it.” She smiles. Her body moves like silk as she relaxes into the leather carseat, and while the shifting of fabric atop a stunning figure feeds your aesthetic appetite, you’re naturally drawn to how her other hand casually settles on top of her belt buckle, silver-adorned fingers caressing the deceptively simple accessory.
With permission like that, there’s no way to interpret it as anything but the declaration of undeniable, mutual desire.
You get yourself comfortable on your knees. One round is bound to tumble into another. Ignoring your own throbbing center has become a defined skill in the field of servicing your dearest director, and while the wait and lack of attention can get unbearable at times, somehow you find yourself managing to finish anyway just by feeling her clench around you and groan from her drawn-out release. An untouched, sticky mess in your underwear is a small embarrassment you’re willing to bear just to see Deren well and truly disheveled any time.
So while it’d be nice to slip a hand between your legs, you push the urge down and instead deftly undo Deren’s belt. The metal buckle clicks as the leather is pulled from the loops and hits the car’s carpeted flooring with a dull thump.
Deren tilts her head. “Hope we don’t forget that before getting out of the car…” For her nonchalance, she doesn’t bother controlling the hint of red dusting the tips of her ears.
“There’s no way we would,” you reply, dubious.
“Because you’ve been staring at me for the entire car ride?”
You knew you weren’t being subtle. “Very perceptive of you, Director Deren,” you mutter, sheepish.
You quickly undo her fly. The faster you get her pants off and your mouth on her pussy, the better. The heavy fabric bears more of the cosmetic weight than the rest of Deren’s outfit, ran up with bold red stitches across printed patches sewn on the edges before the legs flare with more black gabardine.
“Off.” You pat her knee.
Deren cooperates and lifts her hips, letting you carefully shimmy the insanely expensive article of clothing down her legs before shaking the caught fabric off her dress shoes, which you also help her slip off, carefully setting the pair aside.
“Fuck.” Heat shoots up your spine. Your hands, which you’ve absentmindedly decided to rest on top of Deren’s thighs, feel so much of the warmth her body is radiating. Or maybe it’s just yours. You don’t think it’s from the pants. Obviously, you’re not that clueless. It doesn’t help that Deren’s skin is soft to the touch and unblemished by even a single freckle. You’d figure the fact alone that Deren even let you take her pants off would be a big enough indicator that she doesn’t just tolerate but also wants your touch, but… Seriously. Is Deren insane? Shouldn’t some A-list actor be in your place right now? What is someone like Deren doing with someone like you?
“You’re absurd.” Despite yourself, you can’t tear your eyes away from the way her abs tense as you caress her thighs.
Glancing up, you notice Deren’s placid expression is done over with a hazy flush that still doesn’t betray her composure. Her gray eyes look like silver moons as the corners of her lips tick upwards. Patiently, she brushes your hair out of your face as this little world you two share in the backseat continues to be bathed in the cool reds and oranges of stagnant tail lights outside the dark windows like you had all the time in the world.
“Thanks,” she muses.
“If someone looks in…”
“Right, right, scandals.” She sighs. “Headlines are gonna be hard to ignore with a picture of your face in my cunt printed on every tabloid article handed out in Eastside. My assistant would be hard-pressed to salvage my reputation, my career’s going to be in the gutter, and you’ll be so embarrassed that you’ll break things off with me and leave without looking back.”
Your face twists in horror. “No.”
“No? Was that… Not the direction you were going in?” she innocently prods.
Your fingers twitch on top of her knee. “It’s just—I’m… I’m surprised you’re not stopping me.”
Something like understanding flickers in her eyes. She hums, thumb thoughtfully rubbing away the crease between your brows that you weren’t even aware of. “I know this is a little different from what we usually do, but it’s kind of thrilling, isn’t it?”
You slowly nod.
You feel the heat radiating from her palm as she cups the back of your hand. You know where this is going, but you can’t bring yourself to flinch back as she makes you caress her inner thigh, and your own shyness helplessly crackles like a fizzling electrical socket overwhelmed by its own sparks. Your hand is smearing cold sweat over her pristine skin, and you swear you hear her moan as if she’s getting off on your fluster. With your fingertips ghosting the seam of her boxers, you belatedly realize this is the closest you’ve gotten to her cunt this entire night. You’re going to die.
“Deren—”
Her gloved finger lazily urges you to slide your index up and down her clothed slit, and Deren herself bites her lip with the simper of a privileged feline finally getting what she wants, utterly apathetic to your shaky breathing disturbing the air beyond finding it arousing.
“You’re asking me why I’m not stopping you,” she drawls, “but who said anything about getting caught?”
You don’t even notice it at first, but the subtle shift in the air and the pattering raindrops slowing to a stop make the hair on your arms stand. The realization hits you. “Your sinner powers…?”
Deren inclines her head in place of a nod, the gray in her eyes gleaming brighter at how the tension seems to leave your body all too easily. Like you’re endearing.
You feel the worry leave your body as you anchor yourself to the moment. You close your eyes and breathe deep the scent of Deren’s cologne intermingling with the fragrance of mint until your care for the world beyond this is completely stolen from you, leaving only Deren in your trembling hands, which you steady and use to drag her to the edge of the leather seat. Your half-lidded gaze meets hers as you dip your thumbs into the waistline of her boxers, and with her low hum of permission, you make sure she feels the weight of your hands as you peel the soaked fabric off of her.
“So pretty,” you breathe out, kissing a hungry line of kisses down her navel as her flushed cunt pulses from the cold air. Your ears burn as Deren’s moan scores across your nape, your vision blurring like your mind doesn’t know which way to savor her best, only that you have to feel her. So you wet your fingers with your mouth before eagerly sliding them over the dark thatch of her cunt and between her soaked folds to find her clenching hole. You circle the soft rim like you’re petting her, and the teasing motion earns you the sight of Deren’s stupidly sexy shirt falling open a little more as her back arches and her hips jerk forward. “Feels nice? Should I do more?”
Obviously you should do more. Your eyes are glazing over at the sight of her, the heat boiling your face that you probably couldn’t be able to figure out what face you’re making right now, even with a mirror in front of you.
You fit a finger inside and swallow the urge to moan at how tight she is. She’s sucking you in, her body growing lax as she tries to push her hips down on that single digit. Deren groans, and it kicks your entire nervous system into action; you dip your head between her spread legs. She’s velvet-soft against your lips as your tongue delves between her folds, and she tastes divine. Hot—It’s so hot. And it’s not just a metaphor. When that paranoid part of you prompts you to glance at the windows, they’re so fogged that it’d be ridiculous to keep worrying about being seen. Thinking about Deren being so aroused that each thrust of your finger teases out a filthy squelch makes you squeeze her thigh to ground yourself, lest you start grinding your own cunt over your heel.
“Mmh… Your fingers always treat me so well,” Deren purrs. Your stomach curls as her praise pours into your ears like honey. Each word is rich with her pleasure. “And look at you, pretty girl, following me perfectly. Come on, just a little deeper…”
You’re weak. You’re utterly weak for that leisurely firmness she speaks in. You exhale harshly, steam rising from your flushed face as you wiggle your finger in deeper just as she asked. This is what being Deren’s star entailed—getting to see her wanton desires laid out like a screenplay and being expected to hit every plot beat like a rookie actor jumping through hoops to impress their superiors. And you don’t know how bad it is that you’re pretty happy to keep jumping through every flaming hoop to satisfy Deren’s needs. Who else has ever gotten close enough to see the stars in this elusive director’s eyes? Even without watching her interviews and reading the blogs of her diehard fans, you know that the masses can’t handle many things about her—her lunacy, most of all, but also who she is when she’s out of the director’s seat.
You would know. You’ve made her arch off of it a hundred times. That’s enough familiarity to tell you that curling your finger just-so makes her—
“Mm…!” A full-body tremble races up Deren’s spine as she seizes your wrist, her head falling back against the backseat, and her sunglasses clattering somewhere behind her. Her chest heaves, and her stomach tenses as beads of sweat roll down the exposed skin you can see.
You feel a little mischievous. “Here?” You push your finger deeper inside, knuckles kissing her folds, and stroke along her clenching walls just to miss her sweet spot.
Deren squeezes her eyes shut and forces a laugh, her painted nails digging into your skin. “Someone’s getting cocky…”
The pain bites at your wrist. You wince and quickly correct your angle lest your hand pops off like a firecracker. “I-It was an, uh, genuine question,” you stammer. Apologetic kisses are pressed along her thighs and—thankfully—she changes her grip, now gently threading through your hair. Not that it means she buys your flimsy excuse, but Deren’s patience is godsent.
“You know how to touch me,” she sighs, her head lolling to the side as she watches you through half-lidded eyes. “Let me feel my girl doing a good job.”
She fists your hair and drags you into her cunt. You get the memo and continue where you left off, licking up the mess she’s making from the source. Your hot breath intermingles with the heat between her legs, her arousal tangy on your tongue, and faintly sweet enough that your mind absentmindedly thinks of pomegranates with their tart flavors. You’ve taken her apart like one enough times in the past—in wildly more inappropriate places—that innuendos about fingers wedging in between chunks of a fruit dripping with its juices fluster you more times than you can count. It’s too similar. Deren’s preference for roughness depends on the day, but your meticulous approach to her pleasure is like a well-steeped cup of coffee—she’d never pass it up. You’re always intentional to a fault, parting her legs, kissing the crease between pelvis and thigh, spreading her lower lips, watching her wetness trickle before claiming it with your tongue, feeling her grind against your face as the tightness in her core threatens to snap.
Cramped in the backseat, you’re not exactly given the luxury of spreading Deren out as you think she deserves, but you don’t let it stop you. You swirl your tongue around her stiff clit before taking it into your mouth and playing with it, plying Deren with enough pleasure that your second finger is accepted alongside the first one without a struggle.
“F-Fuck…” She pants, fisting your hair as her body tenses. “Fuck. Oh… You really want to be my good girl, huh? Don’t stop, just like that. J-Just… Just like that.”
Deren’s groan has you clenching your legs together as you focus on your pace, ignoring the cramps creeping into your arm and jaw. She’s murmuring praise, words jumbling together with her moans as it gets harder and harder for her to think beyond you working her closer to the edge. Her slick is trickling down your knuckles, pushed out as your fingers coax open her pliant pussy. Another gush follows a particularly hard throb. You moan, and it vibrates against her swollen bud. She violently clenches down around you with a curse, holding you in like that.
God, you wish you’d brought the strap. You wish you could push Deren’s legs back and do what you’ve been craving to do for the past hour; you’ve wanted to tear her shirt open so badly and take her chest into your greedy hands, kneading and squeezing, before pinching her nipples in that way that makes her back arch and her hips jerk, all while her flushed pussy chokes on your thick strap, coating it in her slick, and she moans without a word in between, making her come over and over—however many times she liked—as if you were just her toy. Her favorite. Her only.
You hear the clink of jewelry before you realize Deren’s sitting up. You get even less time to collect yourself before she’s pushing you into her more insistently, a slight tremble in the way she grips your hair.
“How do you want me to finish, baby?” she huffs, “in your mouth? Yeah?”
You squeeze your eyes shut and moan against her, unable to bear the desire crushing your self-control. You can’t nod, so you plunge your fingers in as deep as they can go and massage her sweet spot with an intensity bordering on demanding, scraping it with quick and shallow thrusts. Deren makes a strangled noise above you, and you hear the squeak of fingers dragging against leather—then of a palm hitting glass. She desperately uses your face like a grinding pad, trying to stand despite the limited space just to get more control of her movement.
The car shifts on its wheels. The air inside has long since risen to a sweltering temperature, making your expensive evening attire cling to your backs, but neither of you seems to care. You just yank Deren closer, pushing her onto your wet mouth by her ass. Her legs tremble at your insistence. You don’t stop. You can’t, especially when she’s shuddering over you and unable to control the shakiness of her breath.
Come for me, please, please, please—
“Mhn!”
Pain spikes across your scalp just as Deren squirts into your mouth. Caught off guard, some trickles down your chin before you hurriedly take your fingers out and replace them with your mouth. Deren pants, her grip shakily relaxing as she cups the back of your head, rocking her pussy against you while your tongue provides her all the stimulation she could want, dipping in and out and licking around her entrance. It throbs with each wet swipe.
“Ah…” she murmurs, a tinge of satisfaction accompanying the loving caress of her thumb across your cheek. “S-So good for me, cleaning me up…”
As Deren collapses back onto the car seat, eyes already slipping shut as she holds her sweaty bangs back, you get the idea to slip your fingers back inside for her, letting her clench around you as you finally lean up to kiss her. The low hum that tiredly rumbles from the back of her throat lets you know that she can definitely taste herself, and unlike so many nitpicky elites (based on your assumptions), she doesn’t particularly mind. Nothing a breath mint—or a quick dip into the venue’s bathroom with a hygiene kit—can’t fix.
“Out.” Deren lazily gropes your ass through your outfit to punctuate the simple command, and you promptly slide your fingers out of her with a wet squelch. A pleased sigh escapes her, the emptiness blessedly satiated by your efforts. “Good girl.”
She pulls your hips down and seats you on her bare lap like a prized pet, simpering down at you while the gravity of what you just did dawns slowly on you. Her hand brushes down the curve of your back, and you can feel the impression of each silver ring rolling over your spine, pulling goosebumps up from your skin.
Damn it. Your one-week streak of no outdoor sex—broken, just like that. You groan into Deren’s chest, weak and flustered and mortified, and all she does is chuckle at your plight. The nerve. And yet, you still want to kiss her. Your desire for this woman is its own untameable beast.
“We can’t go to the premiere like this,” you deadpan.
Deren leisurely wraps her arms around your waist in a loose embrace, her eyes already falling shut as if she’s purposefully ignoring you. Makes you wonder what her assistant has to deal with on a daily basis. “I know.” She kisses the top of your head. “Rest is the number one priority before any socializing. I think we can squeeze in… An hour for a nap? Sounds pretty good to me.”
This stupid, sexy, bum of a woman.
You sigh and relent. Seeing as the raindrops have still ceased to move from their initial positions midair, you’ve decided that there’s really no harm in sleeping with Deren here in the backseat for a while. Worst case scenario, you two wake up not in the mood and decide to ditch the premiere entirely, though you doubt Deren would want to endure the rounds of interviews to make up for her absence.
But just as Deren’s ready to lie down across the seats, you smack her arm and grab her boxers off the floor with a huff. “At least put these back on,” you scold.
“Pft, what a bossy clapper,” Deren teases. Nevertheless, she takes the article of clothing—imagines it fresh and dry, for convenience—and slips it back on. “There, nothing too scandalous for the press to latch onto.”
With nothing else for you to complain about, she pulls you back into her arms and keeps you close as you both squeeze into the narrow row of seats, your legs tangling together like spotlight cables. The air grows colder again as you settle down. Deren’s heart is calm as you’re pressed close enough to hear it.
“You really were amazing,” her voice is a gentle purr. Earnest as someone like her can be.
Your eyes fall shut as you hum, heat crawling back up to your face. “I owe it to my experience. Do you know how hard it is to eat someone out in a car? It’s not beginner-friendly. I’m just…” You awkwardly clear your throat. “Glad. That you liked it.”
“Hmm?”
You pause. “That’s what we’re talking about, right…?”
You glance up at Deren and catch that indecipherable look on her face. Something coy and fond, as if she knew something you didn’t and found that cute. “Sure.” She’s clearly stifling a chuckle. She just pulls you tighter to her chest, your warm bodies blanketed by the traffic lights and stars. “Whatever you think it is, pretty girl.”
So while you are closer to Deren than most of Eastside is, the fact doesn’t change that there’s still a small gap you need to cross to fully understand her. Thankfully, you were born to pursue the mystique. You’re a chaser of what eyes can only hope to gaze at, and that trait is the one that’s gotten you so intricately intertwined with the definitive movements of a director in the first place. You won’t stop. How can you? Your heart pounds for novelty, and the life that Deren curates promises that in excess.
You sigh.
After this little stint, though, it wouldn’t hurt to practice some self-control.