Best Timeline

DISCLAIMER: This story is pure FICTION and unhinged imagination. I mean come on, just the title makes it pretty clear.

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Tay >

Text Message

07/25/17 1:24 PM

SELENA I NEED YOUR HELP ROOM 68 ILL EXPLAIN THERE

I'm not sure about a lot of things in general, but I'm sure this is a serious situation. Had Taylor texted me from her home in L.A. I could brush it off as her usual frivolity or a prank, but this time the distressed call is coming from her suite in Manhattan, in the hotel that serves her as headquarters whenever she spends time in the city. She has all the help at hand there, an army of servants she knows by name and calls on a whim, whether day or night. She's not calling me to change her ink cartridge. Things are dire.

Lucky for her I was in New York myself when I got her text, and lucky for her I was just out of my lunch with Woody Allen, otherwise...

I mean: Amazon Studios for Pete's sake!

I throw myself on a cab and call her, and I don't get much out of her except her voice is shaking and she's scared to explain herself on the phone because she's scared of the NSA.

"Told you that's what happens when you vote Republican, Taylor."

Oops. Blunder. I hope the driver didn't hear that one.

Her new pet hobby sure is getting to me: paranoia. I don't entirely blame her though. Boy have the 10's been crazy so far: the election, the nude leaks, Snowden, that Ed Sheeran song... I hope the 20's will give us some break.

"I'm waiting in my room. When you get there knock my new single so I know it's you."

"Alright."

"I'm sorry I'm putting you through this."

"Don't worry 'bout it. I'm on my way."

As I hang up I see the guy throwing glances at me in the rearview mirror. He heard the anxiety in my voice. I have to smile:

"Show business emergency! All my master tapes caught on fire and I have to go record my new album all over again."

There. That's a good rumor. When he drops me in front of the hotel he has promised me he'd buy a copy to each of his daughters. God bless you Nasir.

The doorman greets me by name of course. Doesn't ease the paranoia. I blush like I'm here to cheat on my husband. Everyone knows me here, they have to, it's their job, and mine in a way. As I'll casually stroll through the lobby, some will nod, some will stay silent, all will look without looking, and you'll see, just as I'll step in the elevator, one of the receptionists, the only one staring down busy, he will have his face suddenly lit by the white glow of his screen: it's my personal profile turning up, to check what brand of orange juice I like or if I'm allergic to peanuts.

I feel like a spy in East-Berlin when I walk up the corridor to Taylor's suite.

She opens the moment I start a pretty good rendition of Look What You Made Me Do with my fists. She grabs and pulls me inside.

I don't get to see the entryway is bigger than my condo in Greenwich, I only see, as we go sit in the main room without a word, that Taylor is walking funny. And sitting funny.

"Coffee?" She hands me a cup. None for her.

"You don't have one?"

"It's really not the time. Sorry."

"Alright, so I'm here, what's up?"

Her sweatpants and oversized t-shirt make me feel awkward in my thin summer dress. Loungewear always looks grim on her, like the tinsel is off. And it means my suspicions were right. Her eyes are all puffy from recent tears.

At least I'm wearing underwear today (because Woody Allen) but I hesitate kicking my heels off like I'd naturally do among friends.

"Tay, you're making me nervous, just tell me what's wrong."

She struggles with her breathing, gathering her words. She's not eyeballing the pot of coffee but the bottles of liquor sitting unopened behind.

"Taylor!"

"First I want you to promise you won't freak out and you won't tell me to go to a hospital."

As a rule when people say this it means they do need to go to a hospital, but I remain silent, listening. I gulp down the brown water they dare to call cawfee.

She begins, with a trembling voice and reddening cheeks:

"You... um... K fuck dis, you know those horror stories of people going to the emergency room cause they have an object stuck inside their butt—"

"Oh my gosh you have to go to a hospital!!" I shout.

"Shhhh!" She flaps her hands at me and looks around with bulging eyes, so convincingly that I whisper as I reiterate: "You have to go to a hospital!"

"I know!" she hisses back. "But I can't. I'm Taylor Swift."

"How did this happen? When did this happen?"

"Just now. This morning. I texted you as soon as I was sure I was really fucked."

"Call your gynecologist!"

"No!"

"She can't tell anyone, there's like the doctor oath or something!"

"I don't trust doctors, they talk to each other, I know it! Richard Gere?! Hellooo?!"

"What does he have to do with anything?"

"You don't know? ... Anyway... I... Will you help me please?"

"What the hell do you want me to do?"

"Help me get it out. I couldn't do it myself. Please, Selena."

"But I..."

"Please. You're the only one—"

"What about Karlie?"

"She's in London."

"Can't you just wait for it to just...you know...get out and stuff?"

"No, it's really stuck."

"Does it hurt?"

Her crimsonness, which never left her face, deepens with a vengeance. "No, it's... No, it's fine."

"What is it exactly? You sat on the remote?"

"It's a dildo. Like...just a dildo."

We take a break from all the hissing, rubbing our temples like two NASA engineers in the control room.

In this moment of silence I notice a noise that I had so far mistaken for the AC. A soft buzzing coming from nowhere in particular. Or maybe it comes from the floor. Or maybe the table. No, it's in the chairs.

Taylor's chair.

We look at each other.

I mumble "Don't tell me it's—"

"It's so far up I can't even turn it off," she whispers, lowering her head.

I burst out laughing a very nervous laugh, ragged and contained at first but dragging on and on, til, defeated, it gets to a clear and gurgly racket and gets to Taylor who starts laughing too, louder, to tears.

I cackle, looking for something funny to say that would justify our sudden fit. Then our gaze meets again and there's no need for words anymore. We laugh like BFFs, like sisters of mischief and mayhem. My shoes go off by themselves. I feel the expensive carpet under my soles. I'm home. I gotchu homie.

Blowing my nose, I blurt out "This thing is going to kill you if we don't do something!"

"Yeah!" she chortles before her face twitches and her voice dies. Taylor doubles up on her chair.

"What? What's wrong?"

She gasps. She grunts. I understand and it makes me swear for like the fifteenth time of my life: "I can't fuckin' believe it..."

Before my eyes the most lusted after celebrity on earth is pressing her head on the table and hiding it under her arms, waiting for an orgasm to release its grip over her.

And I'm waiting.

Just...waiting.

Until finally she sits back up, winded, her face worse than the worst sunburn, her nipples like two rubies against the fabric of her shirt.

"Let's do this," she exhales.

"How do we proceed?"

She grabs me and no time to see the bedroom is bigger than the last stadium I performed in, Taylor climbs on the bed and pulls me with her.

There's a silver tray next to the pillows, covered with rests of breakfast, an iPad, lube, anal plugs, anal beads, lots of crumpled tissues and...a pocket mirror, a flashlight. Oh boy...

"You haven't told me how we proceed."

"It's gonna bring us back to the locker room in high-school," she says as she pulls down her pants.

"I was homeschooled."

"Whatever."

And there go her panties, removed fast enough so I don't see they're soaked beyond belief.

And here I am, in bed with a bottomless Taylor Swift. Strangely—I insist on strangely—it makes me physically remember I've been pretty busy lately. I haven't had sex in two weeks and haven't masturbated for probably as long.

The grooming habits of my best friend are finally revealed to me. Not that I cared. Her dark-blond pubes are trimmed into the shape of a heart, all around perfectly waxed.

"It's for Karlie."

"Whatever."

I mean all around because Taylor turns and gets on all fours, giving me an inescapable view of her crotch, her vagina, the cleft of her smooth and pink labia almost hiding tiny inner lips, only slightly darker—or pinker—and a clitoris, just as tiny, bravely protected by the tiniest hood, hardly towering over this undeniably damp landscape of feminity.

Then the highlight of the show: her anus, staring back at me from the center of her ass. I guess in normal times it would look as beautiful as sin but right now it's swollen and purple and covered in lube and in (Lord help me) ...ass juice(?).

The oh-so-romantic sight is broken by the buzzing noise which I can hear clearly now.

"Sorry to repeat myself but how do we procee—"

"I don't know. Can you try turning it off first?"

"I... oh gosh..."

"What?"

"I've never touched a woman before!"

"Really? I thought you and Demi..."

"Ew! No! Gross!"

"Oh... ok... so you did finger Justin at least? That little poof."

It's really not the moment but we crack up hysterically again. Just as hard as earlier. And just as earlier, the belly convulsions crush the Haha off Taylor and turn it into a Haaaa of embarrassed pleasure.

I can see her two holes clenching. A pearly-white cream appears from inside her vagina, slow and thick.

It reminds me of that night. Miley's birthday.

She had made me smoke for the first time. Miley weed. The strongest in show business after Willie Nelson's.

I was so stoned she insisted I sleep it off in one of her many guest rooms.

I masturbated til dawn.

Naively when I took that first hit I had imagined I would just laugh my ass off and have a chat with the cosmos, not have my pussy replaced with a race engine.

Never been this horny in my whole life. It was vicious. And to this day I've never come this hard again. Couldn't say how many times. Most of it is a blur of cries and kicks.

But I digress. At some point I remember I took a pocket mirror and looked at my pussy right while I was coming. Because I could feel, as I was having orgasms over and over, that a hot thick fluid was rising from the depths of my vagina hole and the next contractions would drive it out. It wasn't like simply being wet. I knew some women can ejaculate from their peehole. It wasn't it either.

So, in my lusty stupor, I squatted on the bed, right above the small round mirror, I opened my lips (which are of a light brown and a lot more pronounced than Taylor's) and I rubbed my clitoris once more. (As pink as Taylor usually, but much redder this far into the night. And swollen. And very much on the edge.)

It was weird watching myself. Exactly why I can never watch my own music videos. And inevitably, because I was legit tripping balls, it turned me on even more, to the point of dissociation.

My fingers were mashing my clit in a circle, meanwhile I was on the edge of my seat, deep inside my brain, getting off on the anticipation of witnessing my body do something new.

At this stage I wasn't very mindful of the whole house hearing me or not, my voice was broken anyway, and Miley was probably banging three guys and ten girls at the same time in her own room. I screamed my orgasm out inattentively, focused on the sight of my pussy spasming and then, as I had suspected, I saw it, the white pearly girlcum of an over-aroused Selena Gomez having her zillionth drug-enhanced orgasm of the night, so powerful and lengthy I was delirious, drooling, dismantled, ready to beg Miley for a dildo and pump myself dry.

I guess that ending is a little anticlimactic and anyway weeks later I figured out it was just cervical mucus but it was the first and last time I came so hard it leaked out of me. I don't even know why I'm thinking about this episode of my life.

"Selena, don't just stare at it! Do something before I die!"

Oh yeah I remember now. Taylor Swift is having an anal orgasm and it's having the same effect on her. She's high on croissants and tea and she's coming this hard.

"Put some lube on your hand and do like in the movies. You watched porn before, haven't you?"

Of course, I almost reply.

Everything on the tray looks shiny and greasy. I take the bottle of lube and cover my two hands, like hand sanitizer.

I kneel before the swifty butt, ready to save her life, to save face for someone whom if she said she never farts in an interview, everyone would believe it.

"Tell me if I hurt you."

"We're past this point, believe me."

Which finger should I use? The middle one? It's the longest. Her expertise settles it for me:

"Use your forefinger and middle finger, you'll go deeper."

I place my fingertips on her anus. It's soft and supple and scalding hot.

I push in, wriggling around to relax the sphincter. With her two hands she spreads her cheeks. Her body is so toned it parts her slit in the process, with a sloppy sound that makes me space out for a second.

Every knuckle slides in effortlessly. Taylor gasps, a little too sensually for comfort.

The inside of an ass feels...incredible. Why did I never try before? If she likes it so much, why wouldn't I like it?

"Jesus Christ, what are we doing?" I mutter.

"Can you feel it?"

"No."

"Shit. Put the other fingers in."

"Tay, I'll hurt you!"

"You will not!"

I pull out. Lube overflows from her hole but I put some more on my hand.

The same easiness blows my mind again as I put four fingers inside Taylor. The ring of her anus squashes them together into a bundle.

She takes my wrist and shoves me further inside, pressing against her pelvis.

The full length of my extended thumb comes to rest on her slit. The precious white fluid sticks to it. I could swoon. And...yes, it's her clitoris I feel on the pad.

Her voice unrecognizable, Taylor says: "You can move your fingers, it won't hurt either."

And all of a sudden, among the waves of her warm flesh I hit plastic, hard, harsh, alien.

"I got it!"

"The switch is on the base, do you feel it?"

It's so far up, the vibrating world I'm plunged in is so tight and unstable I have to use the tip of my fingernail to push the small button. It clicks across my phalanges and the buzzing stops. Taylor's ass flexes like I have awakened some sleeping god. The toy slips deeper up, away from my grasp.

It's a problem for later though, I pull out carefully as we both sigh in relief. I lean back on my elbows, realizing my heart's racing. Taylor turns around and mirrors my pose.

Time for another giggle to cover the awkward silence.

We sprawl and pant and laugh on the bed like... well like two people who just had marathonic sex would.

Our legs and our feet are touching. The hem of my dress has lifted up to my midriff; had it been an ordinary day, I would be as half-naked as Taylor. Nothing ordinary about today though. ¡Qué chingados! (Excuse my French)

"So you never had sex with a girl?" Taylor asks.

"I would have told you."

"Oh right. Miley told me she watched you jill it at her house one night. You were in such a frenzy she seriously considered joining in and give you a hand."

"That bitch!"

"Yea... you could have banged Miley Cyrus. And Cara told me she's like the best! Like, she leaves you in a puddle! Coming from Cara the fuckbeast—"

"Alright, TMI! I said I'm not into girls!"

"Sorry. At least I know you're doing all this with some 'doctor detachment'."

"And you seem to enjoy it a little too much."

"Oh shut the fuck up, I'm not! I'm on the verge of dying of eternal bleeding, remember?"

I laugh at the ceiling. Taylor snuggles into the pile of pillows at the head of the bed, taking her soft skin away from me. Maybe she felt this too because, immediately, she extends a leg to place her toes against mine, closing the circuit again.

Then says: "Speaking of enjoying it, you should go to the living room and have some more coffee cause I feel I have another orgasm to get out of my system before we continue. Better have one now than later on your fingers."

"I don't think I could stand on my legs right now."

"You sure? You don't mind?"

"Go ahead. We're past this point, like you said."

"I'll keep it low-profile."

In an ample movement, she takes her shirt off, leaving her completely naked.

"Sorry, it burns my nipples like a motherfucker."

I mean completely naked. No jewelry, no makeup. Just Taylor Alison Swift. Bare.

I wanna hold her in my arms at this moment and tell her how much I love her with the language of my arms. Like a sister.

No, cross that out, definitely not like a sister.

Like the lesbian I'm not.

What the fuck am I rambling about?...

While I'm rambling and cursing (for the sixteenth time of my life), my eyes are glued on her gorgeous body and it didn't dissuade her from beginning touching herself.

Like she said, she's low-key doing it, but even these slight movements between her legs are fascinating, beyond any idea of sexual orientation. Because every woman masturbates differently. Something I would have known if I had been a lesbian.

So I look. And it's beautiful. As in touching-beautiful.

To masturbate I (when I'm not sleeping at Miley's) sit cross-legged and I use the tip of my two forefingers to roll the hood of my clitoris around and over it. I'm quickly done. I tense up, still and silent, when the ball of pleasure explodes, then let it out of my mouth in a series of low moans as it rushes through me and my vagina clenches over and over and I can feel every fiber of its muscles in striking, perfect clarity up to my cervix.

For Taylor, as I discover, it's only one hand, cupping her vagina, opening it while her middle finger does a steady 'come hither' motion on the clit.

"S-So you..." I stammer, "you didn't tell me how it happened."

Her voice comes from far away, bumping over her heartbeat: "Nothing much to tell. I had the whole morning for myself... I was thinking of Karlie..." Her finger slows down at the mention of her lover. "I... I wanted to make her a surprise."

"You said she's in London."

"I was, like, rehearsing."

"I see... So you...really like it?...you know..."

"You never tried?"

"No."

"It was your first time feeling the inside of a butt?"

"Yes. It's so soft."

"I took your bugger cherry!"

"Don't be gross!"

Vicarious thoughts fall on my mind's eye. Maybe next time I masturbate, maybe I could try, maybe just my pinkie. Maybe I'll feel what she feels. Maybe I should stop thinking about this before she sees the glint in my eyes.

Taylor throws back her head on the pillows, brushes her left cheek against the silk and lets out soft little whimpers while her working finger is losing the tempo.

Her toes curl over mine.

If this is being a lesbian, maybe count me in?

What the fuck am I saying?

She stops moving. She keeps breathing. There's this cozy silence, like after the rain or a thunderstorm.

She's so beautiful. Karlie is one lucky girl.

Selena, for fuck's sake!

I'm woken up by a gentle "Ready. Ready?"

"I guess. But the thing is so deep inside now I don't know how we can get it out."

My words stay unheeded as she's already getting back into position, ass up. So I play one last card and it sounds stupid:

"Maybe we can ask the kitchens for one of them pliers they use to fry stuff."