The Bad Boy Wants Me

I obey him.

He smiles slowly. Then he bends down and sucks my pussy. Laps up all the juices.

I enjoy the sensation of his gentle licking. When he lifts his head I sigh.

‘That was nice,’ I whisper.

‘This will be better than nice,’ he says, and thrusts his cock into me again. He pounds me until he comes, his hands possessively gripping my hips and with a triumphant roar. He lays beside me, the scent of sex all around us.

'Cash?’

‘Mmmm …’

‘Why didn’t you want to give an autograph to those two girls in the club? It seemed a bit mean. It was so little to ask and it was obvious how important it was to them. It would have been something they would have treasured for a long time, maybe even for the rest of their lives. Years from now they will be talking about the time they met Cash Hunter.’

For a few seconds Cash doesn’t say anything and I think he is not going to answer me, then he sighs. ‘The fans think they own you. They have the right to walk up to you anywhere they see you and get their little piece of you. For the most part I can put on my ‘play nice’ face and sign their CDs or little scraps of paper or body parts, but sometimes, like tonight, when they want to intrude even in my smallest moments of privacy and beauty, I lose it.’

He turns his head to look at me.

‘Fucking hell, Tori, some of them are so crazily hooked they simply can’t get enough of you. They’re so mad they actually come up to me and tell me their rooms are shrines to me! Can you believe that? They own every Cash Hunter record, mug, spoon, pillowcase, doll. Because they watched every video and documentary and read every magazine article on me, they think they know who I am. How I think. How I feel. They think that they know the real Cash Hunter. The fuck they do!’

He gets up on his elbow.

‘Cash Hunter is a fantasy. Created in part by myself, but mostly by the record company’s PR machine, and enhanced by a mercenary media’s ravenous hunger for celebrity scandal. The irony is even I don't know who the fuck Cash Hunter is anymore, babe.’

He lays his palm on my belly and strokes it absently.

‘The worst ones are the ones that stalk you and try to pass their number to you through any means possible. They’ll bombard the record company with messages of love and whatever else. They’ll come to gigs and they’ll lie, cheat and do anything to get backstage. Those are the ones who want to get with me. Like being fucked by me is going to change their lives in some meaningful way. There are some who promise never to wash again. I mean can you believe that shit!’

He shakes his head and I feel the coldness seep into my heart. I see me from his point of view. The crazy mad fan he is describing was once me. My room was a shrine to him. I read and watched everything about him and convinced myself that I was in love with him.

‘Isn’t it wonderful that your fans love you so much?’ I whisper.

‘No, it’s not wonderful to be mobbed, or have your clothes torn off your body, or have girls befriend your sister just to get to you. It was definitely not wonderful when one of them climbed the gate, broke a window and ended up inside my house. She told the police she didn’t mean any harm. She was in love with me and was only looking for memorabilia.’

‘Well, I really should be going back,’ I say, and my voice shakes. My heart feels hurt. What will he think when I tell him about me? About the real me? The me that was crazy about him? The me that travelled across half the world to close the door on my crush? Will I too become that person he holds in so much contempt?

‘Are you OK?’ he asks with a frown.

I force a smile. ‘Sure. Just don’t want to accidentally fall asleep here.’

‘When do you plan to tell my sister? I don’t like this sneaking about?’

‘Soon,’ I promise.

But first I have to tell you about the real me and then you might not want to be in a relationship with me anymore.