Starstruck Pt. 01

Author's note:

This is part one of a story that will be my longest, and most explicit, yet. It involves heavy cuckolding and femdom, including things that you might find gross if you're not into. Check the tags of each part to see if you can handle it - please don't moan in the comments about the nature of the content. You have been warned!

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My goddess, the woman I live for and the woman I worship, is a beautiful Latina by the name of Maria Julieta Veracruz. You've probably heard of her. She's pretty famous these days, especially among younger people. Only 19, and already three number one hits and an album that went gold. Despite that, she seems to have stayed humble, doesn't seek the limelight, doesn't get involved in controversy.

Well, that's how she seems to the public eye, anyway. To me, she's someone quite different. I am privileged to see a side of her not many see.

***

I'll start at the start. It was a crazy twist of fate that even enabled me to meet her in the first place. I'm not famous, I'm not rich - I am quite good-looking in a somewhat delicate way, I'll admit to that, but that's not enough to get you involved with music royalty. The circumstances of our meeting were a complete accident.

I was in a high-end bar, alone in a booth. I was early - I'm always early, because I get anxious about meeting people. I'm quite a nervous person in general. On that day I was there to meet up with some friends that I hadn't seen since I left college, a couple of years ago. They were all quite well-off, certainly moreso than me, so I had made a real effort to look my best and wear something presentable. Even so, I felt very out of place here. I was an ordinary, lower-middle-class type, and British too; the glamour of American cities was always a little difficult for me to adjust to, but I was finding it especially hard here. I had known this bar was well-to-do, but when I arrived it was clear from the clothes, perfect white smiles and gleaming jewellery of the people around me that I had underestimated the wealth of its clientele. I felt very drab; a pigeon in a room of peacocks.

Since I was early, the waitress showed me to the booth, where I settled down alone. I ordered the cheapest beer on the menu and sat, people-watching and occasionally checking my phone. A Rolex here, a Gucci bag there. It was all making me feel acutely self-conscious. Were they watching me? Were they wondering how this intruder had broken into their world?

"Hey!" A gruff voice broke me out of my reverie. I looked up, startled, to see a burly man in a dark shirt. He must have been ten or more years older than me, in his mid-thirties. Behind him was a group of about five young people, who were extremely well-dressed.

"This booth is reserved," the man said. "Who let you in here?"

I began to stammer and point at the waitress, who came over flustered and fussing. She started to apologise and usher me out. Clearly there had been a mix-up. I had been sat in the booth of these people, who appeared to be very important.

As I was moving, a clear, firm voice rang out and stopped everyone in their tracks.

"Stop, everyone. How could we be so rude? It's not this man's fault he's been shown to our booth".

The source of the voice was one of the five young adults. She was perhaps the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Her smooth skin was the colour of light coffee, and her soft face was perfectly proportioned. If I had to guess, I would say she was mestiza by descent; certainly there was a strong mix of ethnicities in her features. She was short, standing certainly no taller than 5'2, and her body had a certain grace and lightness of frame that made me feel I could have picked her up with one hand. Despite this, her tone and aura when she spoke were commanding, and the people around her clearly deferred to her. It was immediately clear that she was the centre, the focus, the leader of this group in front of me.

I didn't yet realise it, but that was my first view of the young woman who was to rule my life.

"I apologise for the coarseness of my bodyguard," she addressed me directly, smiling. The intensity of having this commanding beauty speak to me directly made my breath catch in my throat. "Why don't you join us for a few drinks?"

I saw the other young people behind her, two boys and two girls, trade glances. Clearly, they weren't too comfortable with the idea, but I sensed they wouldn't contradict the young woman. I didn't have the courage to either. Instead I smiled weakly and sat back down.

Julieta, as she introduced herself, was a master of conversation. She put me immediately at ease, and despite my nerves, within ten minutes I was delighting in her attention. She introduced me around the group; two were her friends, two her cousins, and the tall man in black was her bodyguard. He sat somewhat apart from the group.

I'm not generally au fait with popular music, so I didn't yet know that she was a singer. I could certainly tell, though, that she was someone famous. Her mannerisms, her confidence, the fact the waiters and waitresses seemed afraid to approach her, the way people walking past tried to catch a subtle glance - clearly she was an important client for this place.

The night wore on. Julieta paid for all of our drinks. I found myself becoming pleasantly tipsy. I had completely forgotten about the college friends I was supposed to be meeting.

The other began to get restless.

"Come and dance!" implored one of the girls, "it's my favourite song!"

My chest tightened. I am not a confident man and my dancing skills leave something to be desired. Julieta saw the fear in my expression.

"You four go," she smiled, "I'll stay here with my new British friend. I want to ask him something private, anyway."

The girl shrugged and pulled her friends up to dance. Julieta indicated with a flick of her eyes that the bodyguard should leave too, and he loped off to drink at the bar, where he could keep a watchful eye on both sets of his charges.

Now it was just Julieta and I. My heart quickened and I felt a dryness in my mouth. It was easier to talk to her when there was the distraction of the noise and hubbub in the booth. How was I going to keep this gorgeous girl entertained all by myself?

She softly clasped one of my hands under the table, and stroked the back of it. It was a move that was comforting and sensual, but somehow not flirtatious. I hoped that she couldn't feel the sweat on my palms.

She leaned in close and asked me something which shocked me.

"Why aren't you trying to fuck me?"

I started and met her eyes. Had I heard right?

I stuttered out the beginnings of a reply. "I... uh..."

She didn't allow me to finish.

"Most guys I meet want to fuck me right away. I know how pretty I am. I can see how they fuck me with their eyes from the moment they meet me, they don't even hide it. Sometimes I like it, but most of the time I don't. You're different though. Maybe it's because of your nationality, I know you Brits can be more reserved than people around here. But I don't think so. I can tell you're attracted to me, but you won't make any moves. We're just having a nice conversation."

Here she leaned in even closer, and for the first time her voice was seductive.

"Don't you want to fuck me?"

My head was swimming. I hadn't prepared for this. Truth be told, I wasn't good at picking women up. I had had a few long-term girlfriends, but the realm of hook-ups and bar flirtation was totally alien to me. I was out of my depth.

I opened my mouth to reply, but once again she simply talked over me.

"I don't think you're that kind of guy. I think you're scared of me. Isn't that right? You're intimidated by me. That's OK though. I kind of like that. I think it's cute." Here she ruffled my hair slightly, and I blushed bright red, my embarrassment partially hidden by the dark of the bar.

"Well," she laughed, "since you're such a nice guy, why don't you come and visit me tomorrow instead? It's a relief that you're not the fucking kind. Instead, you could be a great friend. Here." She wrote down an address on a napkin and slipped it into my shirt pocket. "Go and meet your college friends. You're off work tomorrow, right, seeing as it's a Saturday? Great! Swing by tomorrow morning and we can continue our delightful conversation then."

She laughed once more, a bright, joyful peal of laughter, and rose from her seat, smoothing down her dress.

"I'm off to dance. See you tomorrow!"

Julieta leaned over and gave me the lightest of kisses on my cheek. I felt a frisson go down my neck. I was so confused - I had no idea what the implication of this was. So, like always, I simply smiled and went along with it. I, too, got up and left the group, to go and sit with my college friends.

The rest of the night passed quietly. My friends wondered where I had been. When I indicated towards the booth, there was a sudden silence around the table.

Scott, one of the college friends, looked at me open-mouthed.

"Do you know who that is?"

I shook my head.

"That's Julieta Veracruz! *The* Julieta Veracruz! She's maybe the hottest popstar around at the moment, in more ways than one... have you been living under a rock?"

When I carried on my story, there was even more disbelief.

"Dude, I can't believe you didn't make a move... Julieta has a really innocent public persona, but there's rumours around here that she picks up a different guy every week. If she was interested in you, you definitely could have had her."

Sarah, another one of my friends, slapped Scott playfully on the shoulder and burst out laughing. "Oh, come on! He's not that kind of guy. He doesn't go round picking girls up. He's nice and sweet, aren't you? A girl like that would eat him up, he needs to settle down with someone a bit quieter. He's not a tiger, more of a puppy dog."

I laughed along with them, but my pride was wounded. Is that how people perceived me? Is that how Julieta had perceived me?

***

The next morning, after wavering on the decision for an hour or so, I drove to the address Julieta had given me.

It was huge, in a suburban area where every house was a mansion. I had to wait at the gate to be let in, which was a new experience for me. When I knocked, a voice called out to let me know the door was open, so I walked in and waited in the huge hallway.

Julieta came bounding down the huge staircase in front of me. She saw me and let out a shriek of joy, throwing her arms around my neck.

I was surprised but pleased by the sudden display of affection - not confident enough to throw my arms around her in return, though.

She stepped back and beamed. "Well, well - if it isn't my favourite Brit!"

I smiled back. "Hi, Julieta."

"I don't like it when you call me that," she pouted, "We're friends now, aren't we? Julieta's just my middle name - I use it as a stage name. You should call me Mari like the rest of my friends. Short for Maria."

"Oh-okay, Mari," I stuttered back, worried I had made a faux-pas.

But she just giggled, grabbed my by the hand and pulled me up to her room.

There, in the sunshine, I could get a better look at her than in the bar.

She truly was beautiful. Perhaps the most naturally attractive girl I had ever seen. Slender and gracile, naturally slim but still a healthy weight, her body was gorgeous. In the heat of the day, she was wearing shorts that showed off her perfectly-shaped legs, and she was barefoot. Her feet, just like the rest of her, were lovely. They were small, brown and high-arched, ending in delicate, rounded toes. I tried not to make it obvious I was looking at them.

Her skin had looked nice in the bar, but here in the sun, I could see that it was flawless; unmarked, and a deep caramel brown that was simply irresistible.

Clearly, the sunlight had the opposite effect on me. I looked painfully pale compared to Mari. She had noticed too.

"Gawd, you're so white, such a gringo," she said, giggling at me, "Look at our arms together. It must be because you live in England where there's no sun. I get really brown, especially in the summer. My Grandma always says to stay out of the sun because tanning makes me look more india, you know, like," she searched for the word, "indigenous. But I like my brown skin. It's good to be proud of your heritage. Don't you think?"

I struggled to find a response that wouldn't sound creepy or lecherous. Truth be told, I had always had a preference for darker-skinned girls, and Mari's skin tone was just about perfect for me. Kissed by the sun, but oh, how I wished it could be kissed by me too.

"I agree," I said, "your skin is really nice. Beautiful, in fact." The last part was accidental, and I felt myself starting to blush again.

But Mari defused the situation. "Such a charmer," she said, and laughed.

After that, the conversation flowed naturally. We chatted for what seemed like hours, her lounging on a beanbag, me cross-legged on her rug. In truth, at points I was finding it hard to follow what she was saying, so captivated was I by the way she flicked her hair, smiled with those full lips, flexed her toes on the rug in front of her.

Eventually Mari checked her watch.

"Oh," she said, "I need to do some chores. You don't mind if we chat while I'm doing them?"

"Of course not!" I replied. Then, hoping not to be rude, "I can help if you like?"

Mari positively beamed. "Thanks!"

And so we started on her list. Not five minutes had gone, however, when her phone started beeping.

"Shit!" she said. "I totally forgot, I have this really important meeting with the label execs now. I really really can't miss it. Oh god, how am I going to get all this done?"

Desperate to impress her, I leapt in right away.

"Give me your list," I said. "I'll do it while you're in your meeting."

I had expected her to put up some token resistance, but she accepted right away. "Thanks, cutie," she said playfully, and gave me another of those oh-so-wonderful kisses on the cheek. My chest puffed up with pride as I started the tasks.

Over the next couple of hours I washed up her dishes and mopped and dusted the upstairs of her house. It occurred to me that considering the size and grandeur of Mari's mansion, it was strange she didn't also have a maid to clean it. But I thought it would be rude to ask. In any case, I got a thrill of pleasure from tidying after Mari and doing her chores for her. Anything that would make her happy, and raise me up in her esteem, I was more than content to do.

The last task on the list was to do her washing. When I took it from the basket to the washing machine downstairs, I suddenly noticed that her underwear were included in the pile. I blushed involuntarily, and looked around, hoping nobody had spotted me with them. I felt perverted just carrying them, even though Mari had asked me to.

I shoved everything into the machine, with the panties going in last...

My hand stopped. A very naughty thought crossed my mind.

I was all alone. I could hear Mari talking on her video meeting upstairs. Nobody could see me.

I couldn't possibly... It would be wrong... a gross violation of this girl's trust...

Maybe just a peek?

The panties were black, and crumpled up. My heard raced as I held them in my hand. The thought that the fabric touching my skin had previously touched her most intimate places gave me a shiver of arousal. Slowly, I straightened them out. The gusset was coated with a dried white discharge. There was so much of it... surely it couldn't be from her? Did that mean it was...?

Though I had restricted myself to looking, I had to check. I brought the underwear up to my nose, and gave it a sniff. It was the distinctive smell of pussy juice mixed with male cum. She had worn these after someone came inside her! Scott was right, she obviously did pick up guys at the bar - here was the evidence, in black and white. She had seemed so restrained with me; the thought of her being a secret slut turned me on, against the more rational part of my brain telling me to stop being so interested in her private business.

My penis, now rock hard, overrode my gentlemanly sensibilities, and I decided to take another sniff, deeper this time. The mix of odors was delightful. I could smell the whole history of her night out; the scent of her pussy and ass sweat from the dancefloor, her natural wetness oozing as she caught the eye of a cute, muscular guy - which dried when she threw them onto the floor of his apartment, ready to be fucked. Then, a whole new wetness, soaking them through - she hadn't bothered to clean up after the sex, instead letting his cum flow out of her and into the panties, enjoying the naughty, damp sensation of his semen still pressing into her pussy. She probably delighted in the sluttiness of it, hand pressed to her crotch in the back seat of her car while the oblivious chauffeur drove her home. Finally, she had thrown the panties off for the last time, into the washing basket, where the delectable mixture had dried, and ended up in my hand.

Oh, to see that side of Mari...

Suddenly, I heard the creak of her foot on the stairs. Her meeting had finished! Embarrassed and fearful of being caught, I chucked the panties into the washing machine and slammed it shut. As she walked in, I pretended to be engrossed in the "spin" and "temperature" dials, hoping she wouldn't notice the red rising up my neck.

"Hey there, my wonderful hired help," she joked. "Wow, you're already on the washing! You've done such a great job. Maybe there's a job for you around here as my cleaner - no, wait, you're an Englishman - my butler!"

I swelled with pride. She was only playing, of course, but I was happy to have done a good job. Mari seemed like one of those girls who people were happy to run around after, and I was happier than most. Truthfully, most of my relationships had been like that too. My girlfriends had always taken the lead. Sometimes they had liked it; more often, they had grown frustrated with my shyness and passivity, and dropped me when they got bored.

But that's why it was so satisfying to be appreciated by Mari. I was a just a friend, and a new one at that, but I could see that she was very content to take charge in our interactions. And I was content to be useful to her.

The day finished, and I drove off home to make myself dinner. I was glowing though - because at the door, Mari had told me to come back again the next day.

***

It was Sunday, and instead of relaxing at home and getting ready for the next workday, I once again found myself seated in Mari's bedroom.

Somehow, we hadn't run out of things to talk about yet. Well, to be precise, she hadn't - it was her who did most of the talking in our conversations. I was learning so much about her; how she wrote her songs, how she had been discovered on YouTube, her meteoric rise to success. It hadn't exactly been a reversal of fortunes though; her family had always been rich, practically aristocracy back in the home country, and her father had plenty of connections in the creative industries who had given a little helping hand when "discovering" her. Amazingly, this mansion had been their family house before she was famous. Mari had never wanted for anything, and it showed - she was a little spoiled, true, but the sheer confidence her upbringing and expensive schooling had given her made her a delight to listen to.

"We've talked so much about me," she said after a few hours, "tell me about yourself."

And so I did. My dreary, mundane childhood in a two-bed semi in a particularly rainy part of middle England. How I had outperformed the other children at my school, had been bookish and unathletic, and the consequent bullying. How I had won a scholarship to Harvard, been successful there, and found a high-paying job in the US - but how I was homesick and lonely, too. How I missed my family and friends.