I feel like an imposter. But it's ok. This isn't actually happening to me. Sitting here, across from Kate Winslet in the outdoor seating area of an upscale Los Angeles café, I figure she can probably hear my heart pounding through my chest. She's chain smoking in a casual summer blouse and designer slacks, her dark red lipstick perfectly unmarred on her full lips. She turns her head occasionally to blow a strand of beautiful auburn hair off her cheek. It smells like herbal shampoo. I can detect the scent of her perfume lingering on the breeze, and it's driving me crazy. I ask her if my writing distracts her, and she shakes her head no. My hands are unsure as I awkwardly place a burgundy cloth napkin on my lap to hide the beginnings of an erection. The sun is shining too brightly in my eyes when I try to look at her, and squinting isn't exactly my most flattering facial expression. I guess you could say I'm nervous.
She's wearing sunglasses that look expensive, and I can see my reflection in them before I lower my gaze. I hear the clinking sound of silverware and delicate plates on metal trays in the background as the serving men and women hurry about their business. There's a gentle hum of cars passing on the street to our right, occasionally punctuated by a honking horn, or someone yelling. Or both. Everyone's always yelling at someone in this city. Thankfully none of the passers-by have recognized her. Yet. That's one of the things about LA. Everyone's either too damn busy or self-important to take any notice of what's going on in the world around them. Too trendy. Too stoned. Or just too jaded. Well, today at least, I'm grateful for that. I feel like I'll be sick if I have to look at anything or anyone right now so I'm keeping a steady focus on my shoelaces and praying that I look like I know what I'm fucking doing. I'm an imposter sitting here though. If anyone would so much as glance at me they'd know it too. 'What's that kid doing sitting with a movie star?' someone must be thinking. 'Does he think he's some kind of reporter or something? He looks like he's about to hurl.' But the mindless herd of fake important people just walk on by.
I'm a journalist major, ok? But this doesn't seem real. My newsletter doesn't get interviews with A-list celebrities, so this obviously isn't happening. My hands are sweaty. My head is spinning. My left shoelaces are slightly longer than my right, and I'm having lunch with Kate Winslet. This is what passes for a professional interview in this city. She's saying something now so I'm forced to look up and meet her eyes. She looks at me in a way that might make some people uncomfortable. It's like we're old friends, perhaps, like we've shared secrets and had sleep-overs. She looks like she wants me, I realize, shocked. I force the notion from my mind, trying to concentrate on my notes.
"I'm sorry, what was that?" I'm blushing already god dammit.
"I said, we can begin whenever you're ready, Mr..."
"Please, call me Jack."
"Mr Jack." She smiles sweetly at me. I'm already fumbling for words in my head, but nothing comes out straight.
The waiter comes and she orders a salad that's not on the menu and some wine. He's a tall fellow, the waiter, with olive skin and slick black hair. I can see in his eyes that he's asking himself why her face looks so familiar. It'll come to him. The billboards and TV spots might help. I don't think I can eat anything right now, but I order a turkey sandwich to be polite and count myself lucky for the brief interruption, as I pause to collect my thoughts. But what I'm thinking is this; I'm thinking how I used to get off to this picture in a magazine I had of her back in high school, and it's not helping my situation here at all. I mean this is really sad, you know? Here I am, dressed in my best clothes trying to fake my way through the most anxious moment of my life, and the only thing I can think of is that damn photo and the number of times I've sprayed my load over her gorgeous face. The face that's looking at me right now. We watch the waiter take our menus away in silence.
"Are you alright, Jack?" She sounds sincere. And the way she says my name has me thinking "Titanic" and Kate's line 'I'll never let go, Jack.' I can't help but laugh.
"I'm fine, really. Just a little..." I want to cum on your face. "...anxious."
"Would you like to do this another time, maybe?"
"No, please. I think I just need to eat something." I lie.
"God, me too." she declares. "I'd kill for something real to eat. Everything is low-carb nowadays. I'm dieting at the moment, of course, 'cause I'm such a bloody cow." You quickly learn that everyone in Hollywood is on a diet of some form or another.
"Jesus! You're shitting me, Kate. You look amazing." I'm starting to get harder, making a tent of that poor burgundy cloth napkin.
"You just called me Kate." She looks me right in the eyes as she says it and I go numb. Dizzy. I'm wishing I could crawl under the table and hide. I'm starting to really think that this was a mistake coming here, and trying to sputter out an apology, when she laughs and gently touches my arm. "I like that," she giggles, smiling her flawless smile, "it's refreshing." She's touching my arm, and my cock's aching beneath the taut fabric of my corduroys.
She lights another cigarette just before the waiter returns with our food, and I steal a quick glance at the shape of her breasts beneath her shirt, watching them rise softly as she inhales. We're sitting right under a no-smoking sign, but I'm pretty sure the waiter recognizes who she is by now, because he lets it slide without so much as a word. I can just make out the faint impressions that her nipples are making on the front of her blouse before she thanks him in her proper British accent and turns back to me. I avert my eyes hastily, but she might've caught me staring. "So, you wanted to ask me about my last film, yeah?" she says, eying me with a slight eloquent smirk.
"Well..." She's in this new film, right? And everyone who's seen it is saying it's her best role yet. They're saying she'll finally get that Oscar. I'm supposed to ask her all the typical questions. You know, what was it like to work with director so and so? What was the most challenging aspect of the filming process for you? That's the idea here, but the truth is I've already seen the film four times and the review is typed, edited and saved on my PC at home. I'd rather ask her why she chose to have this interview with my small-beans newsletter when the one she did with Rolling Stone is hitting the shelves next month. I'm also far more interested in determining the best way to excuse myself from the table without shooting off in my pants.
She's noticed that something's amiss but covers my falter remarkably well. "Well, I'm starving." she announces, reaching right across the table for my untouched sandwich. She takes a rather large bite and speaks with her mouth full. You're totally allowed to do things like that when you're a celebrity. "God, that's nearly orgasmic." she moans. I notice that I'm suddenly very hungry for that lucky sandwich. "You can't tell anyone that I'm eating this, ok?" She says this as if we weren't sitting outside a fancy restaurant on a public street. I nod, transfixed. Her secrets are safe with me. Someone walking on the other side of the street sees her and points, turning to their friend excitedly, but I'm not paying any attention. I'm having lunch with my high school wet-dream and she's eating my turkey sandwich. And she's staring at my crotch I realize in horror. She's got some mayo on her lip that could pass for a dribble of my cum when I relive this moment in my fantasies, and there's an unreadable expression on her face. I ignore the tingles in my cock as my mind races for a way out of this. Frantically, I search my brain for an excuse of any kind. And then I have it.
"W-What's the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to you?" I manage to stammer while taking a sip of water and nearly spilling the whole glass in my trembling hands. I'm really trying to be a professional here. She looks up at me, puzzled for a moment, but at least her mind is startled away from my enormous hard-on.
"I...That's the most unusual question I've been asked on an interview in some time." she says, but I notice a smile starting to form on her lips. "But then why else did I agree to this, right?"
"I expect an honest answer" I say, sounding braver than I really feel. In fact, I'm feeling a sudden wave of excited courage come over me.
"Honesty in Hollywood, Mr Jack?" she says, smirking devilishly as she swallows some wine. She licks the mayo off her bottom lip and gives me an accusatory look. I should have told her it was there. "Ok. I was caught humping a pillow when I was 15." She's not even coy enough to blush, and I almost manage to choke on my water. "It was the only way I used to be able to get myself off. Oh, that's such a dreadful word, hump. How disgusting." she laughs outrageously. "I've never told that to anyone." Despite her words, she doesn't look the slightest bit disgusted. I can see the heat rising in her cheeks, and there's a feverish intense quality to her voice as she continues. "I hadn't even realized that my flat-mate was watching me until after I'd cum. I'm one of those people who can't help but make those really loud sex noises when I'm masturbating."
I'm remembering her turkey sandwich moan as she says this. "I turned around and she's just, you know, glaring at me in my sticky danger-mouse knickers. The skirt of my school uniform is hiked up around my waist, and I'm holding a pillow with this bloody big wet spot on it, obvious as you please. She left the room without even saying a word! Not that I blame her, poor dear. I felt so dirty and thrilled at the same time. So excited. That was when I might have realized my own fetish for voyeurism." My mouth's hanging open as she pauses to take a healthy gulp of wine. "I saw her again, my flat-mate, a few years ago. She's working at this department store in London. We spoke pleasantly, of course, and she's telling me how she loved "Titanic," but the whole time I can see in her eyes that she remembers. I mean, this is a very polite conversation we're having, me and her, but she's standing there picturing me naked again with my thighs soaked in cum, and we both know it." As Kate's saying all of this between pulls on her cigarette I'm noticing that her legs are parted under the tablecloth and her feet are toying with mine. "It wasn't even my own pillow." she concludes. This is just her reaction to the wine she's been drinking I tell myself as she exhales a perfect cloud of smoke. The shape of her pert nipples on her blouse has become more distinct now. I can smell something other than perfume and smoke in the air, but it's oddly out of place and I can't quite say what it is.
"Why did you tell me that?" I ask her, after a moment, barely able to control my own shaky voice.
"Because you've got a nice hard cock and I'd love to see it spurt." she offers bluntly. "Plus, I already told you, voyeurism fascinates me." I had hoped like mad that she hadn't noticed. Again with that smile and laugh. "And now it's my turn. How old are you, Jack?"
I'm speechless for a full minute before managing to form any words. "...21" I tell her.
"You're so fucking adorable." And then it's happening. She's pushing her hand up my thigh and rubbing my cock through my pants even as she deftly unzips the fly. "Shhh, honey." she whispers in my ear as if we were lovers who'd done this a thousand times before. And that's when I realize that the other thing I'm smelling is her pussy. "Touch me." she pleads with giddy excitement. "Right here." she gently reaches for my hand and guides it under the table to between her thighs. I can feel the heat coming through her panties. Don't ask me how she managed to undo the buttons of her slacks without my noticing.
"Feel how hot I am." She's actually telling me to do this. The movie star is in complete control here. She pushes my fingers up and down, over her soft silk knickers. And then under. She's breathless and wet as she releases my cock from its prison. She dips her fingers in my pre-cum and uses it to lubricate her palm as she strokes me off. She's being gentle but firm, every so often giving a tight squeeze that almost causes me to go off. Once again I'm glad we're in LA. The only place I can think of where Kate Winslet can give a hand job to a young journalist on a public street and go unnoticed.
I carefully slide my fingers through her damp, matted pubic hair and feel for her pussy lips. She's absolutely drenched down there, and I'm just waiting for someone around us to notice her strong scent. The couple to our left is arguing heatedly, and no one around us even looks up. I love LA. Kate lets out a low groan as I push my fingers into her slippery pussy and feel her muscles tighten around me, hungrily sucking them in. She's biting her lip hard and I hesitate. "Don't stop," she coaxes "I'm ok." I push deeper and she gasps and surrenders, shuddering. She's wonderfully tight for a mother, which surprises me. The warm flow from her pussy has soaked through her knickers completely. My entire hand feels as if it's in a sauna as I massage her clit with my thumb, causing her to buck suddenly. The wine on the table spills onto her blouse, but I can't tell if she even notices at this point. She's gripping my cock too hard now and grinding herself against my hand. "God, I'm so close." she pants heavily. "Please, don't stop." I hadn't planned on stopping. "Please." she begs again as her breath quickens into short violent gasps.
I can see her nipples now clearly against the wet cotton blouse, soft and pink on her plump, quaking breasts. She uses her unoccupied hand to play with them, tracing her fingers along the outlines of her areolas and sighing pleasurably, her face betraying her satisfaction.
"You're so beautiful, Ms Winslet." I can't help but stare. My own movie star, generously sharing her pussy juice with my fingers. She's moaning as she speaks.
"I...thought (huh) you were calling me...Kate, oh!" she spasms and rocks her head back, humping my fingers desperately.
"Kate." I whisper in her ear, and the name sounds right when I say it this time. I nibble at her earlobe while she's still working her hand up and down my stiff cock. Her skin tastes salty with sweat. She rests her head on my shoulder, so close to me she's practically sitting on my lap.
"I love that." she coos emphatically. "Do you feel how wet I am?" Indeed, it's now a veritable sticky froth I'm working my fingers through, made more so with each warm glob forced from her pussy every time she clenches her muscles. "I'll show you." She moves her hand from her nipple to where my fingers are inside of her and caresses my arm lovingly, before gathering a small pool of fluid in her palm and bringing it to her mouth. Her lipstick stays intact as she licks up her own juices and shoots me a fierce, smoky look. I can feel the heat coming from her body in waves, but nothing could equal the fire in those eyes.
And then we're kissing. And she's biting my lips. I'm sucking the warm, tangy taste of her pussy off of her tongue, and I can tell she enjoys it. My spare hand trembles as I firmly cup her right breast and massage her protruding nipple. Her practiced hand works my cock even faster, while my thumb circles her excited clit. Her face is flushed, and she's squeezing my hand between her sweaty thighs and thrusting rhythmically. "Oh my god, oh my...g. I'm gonna cum...I'm...gonna..." I'm pinching her nipple hard as she arches her back, and I feel a warm flood of wetness spraying my hand and her thighs. Her pussy is contracting and releasing in tight convulsions, as she's moaning loudly. A woman looks up from her cell phone, but Kate just keeps on cumming. My cock shudders and clenches and then I'm depositing my load all over the tablecloth and her hand. "Oh, yeah Jack, that's it. Cum for me. Cum hard." Hot ropes of sticky cum are showering her hand as she tries her best to shield the tablecloth with my old friend, the napkin. I'm shooting it on her clit and pussy lips and pubic hair as she straddles herself onto me, sliding down over my lap and forcing my cock inside of her wet pussy, eagerly drinking the last drops. Her warm liquid dribbles down my cock as she humps me until her orgasm subsides.
"You're still hard." She muses, after a moment, and kisses me playfully. She sucks my cum off her fingers and reaches for a bite of salad, pressing her breasts to my face, so I can lick her nipples under her Chardonnay-soaked blouse. Still tastes fresh. Salty skin and expensive wine. "You're going to fuck me, Jack." I look at her, incredulous.
"What, now? Here?"
"Of course not here. Take me somewhere. You have a car, right?" My mind isn't functioning properly while my cock is still buried in Kate's cunt.
"But the interview..."
"Has been rather unusual, I agree. Not that I'm complaining." She's smiling at me again like we're old friends. Like we've done this a thousand times. "C'mon Jacky-boy. You make me shoot my girly-sperm. Take me somewhere and I promise you'll have the rest of your precious interview, alright?"
"There's a park near here, but I..."
"Atta' boy." she says, grinning. "You're so cute. Can you grab my coat?" I stretch my arms out for the jacket on the back of the chair behind her and lift it around her shoulders. She deftly buttons up the front to hide the stains, then picks her purse off the table and fumbles through it for a pen to scribble something hastily in my notebook. It's her phone number. She squeezes my cock with her pussy once more before gently lifting herself off of me and pulling her slacks up. It looks like she's pissed herself with the amount of wetness her pants are showing, but no one's going to notice. That's the thing about this city, no one ever notices anything that's going on around them.
Kate Winslet. The movie star. She lights one last cigarette and puts the pack back into her purse, lazily blowing smoke at a strand of auburn hair on her cheek. "Shall we?" She puts her sunglasses back on and motions for the check.