She pulled back just enough to meet my eyes, her pupils blown wide in the fluorescent light, her lip gloss thoroughly ruined. “The one that says you’ve been imagining me with my legs spread since the second I walked past you, holding your notebook”
Fuck, his hands are shaking. That’s cute. No, that’s hot. No, both.
No point denying it. I yanked the zipper of her dress down in one motion — fffrrrpp — and the fabric pooled at her feet like shedding a second skin. No bra. Pink cotton panties, the kind that were almost aggressive in their plainness, the deliberate anti-lingerie of a woman who knows she doesn’t need the help. Her tits were small and perfect, nipples already peaked from the chill of the service corridor, areolas a pale rose against the cream of her skin.
“Fuck,” I said, which wasn’t poetry but it was honest.
4 Hours earlier
[August 17th, AVN Adult Entertainment Expo, Las Vegas Convention Center — 8:47 PM]
The air conditioning had given up somewhere around 4 PM, and by evening the convention floor had ripened into something unmistakable — sweat cut with vanilla body spray, the rubbery tang of freshly unboxed silicone, and underneath it all, the sharp chemical bite of cheap carpet cleaner failing at its job.
The ice‑cold bottled water I’d overpaid for twenty minutes ago was now almost room temperature. With my notebook tucked under my elbow, my press badge dangling from a lanyard, I set off to find my next interview. I’d already interviewed a lighting rig technician who kept checking his phone, a retired director who smelled like menthols and kept calling me “kid,” and a camgirl who’d brought her emotional support ferret.
The ferret had been the highlight.
Then Elsa Jean walked past the Fleshlight booth, and everything in the room became a slow-motion scene.
She was smaller in person — that was the first thing that landed. Five-foot-nothing in white platform sneakers that made her maybe five-three. Her frame compact and wiry like a gymnast who’d quit training but kept the muscle memory.
She had on this pale yellow sundress that was practically see-through when she stood in front of the door of the hall, letting in the late evening sun.
No makeup except mascara and something glossy on her lips. She could’ve been anybody’s college girlfriend, somebody’s roommate, or the barista who remembered your order.
She was Elsa Jean and everyone in the building had their own idea of who she was. I wanted to know the person she was.
She was laughing at something a booth attendant had said — some guy in a promotional t-shirt two sizes too small — and her laugh cut through the convention drone like a clean frequency. High, genuine, slightly dorky. The kind of laugh that made you want to be the one who caused it.
I looked away. Looked back.
She was looking at me.
Not the casual scan-everybody kind of look, either. The I-see-you-seeing-me kind, her head tilted just enough that the ponytail swung, one eyebrow arched. She held it for three beats — one, two, three — and then her mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
Press guy thinks he’s subtle. Adorable.
I raised my water bottle in her direction, a half-assed salute. She laughed again — that same clean frequency — and crooked a finger at me.
“Come here,” she said, motioning toward me.
The industry after-party was on the basement level of the convention center, in a room that’d been dressed up to look like a nightclub but still smelled like a parking garage. Purple lighting. A DJ playing something with too much bass. Clusters of performers, producers, and hangers-on arranged around high-top tables like constellations of ambition and cocaine.
Elsa had gathered a small orbit — herself, a redhead named Valentina who’d done exactly one scene with her three years ago and still called her “babe” like they were old college friends, and a guy built like a refrigerator who she introduced as “my security, don’t worry about him” before waving him off toward the bar.
“Journalist,” she said, pointing at me, then at Valentina. “Legit one. Has questions and shit,” she said with that same crooked smile.
Valentina looked me up the way you’d appraise a used car. “Questions about what?”
“Anything,” Elsa answered for me, plucking the notebook from under my arm and flipping it open to a blank page. “That’s the dangerous part.”
She’d pressed a pen into my hand — one of those cheap promotional ballpoints with a porn site logo on the side — and ordered me to interview her. Properly. On the record.
So I did. I asked her about the industry, about autonomy, about the difference between performing for a director and performing for her own ring light. She answered, candidly, thoughtfully, unafraid to call out certain directors “control freaks with tiny dicks” and co-stars as “secret Republicans.” The whole time I was lost in her eyes, her smile. Valentina had drifted off when she saw another performer she worked with. The security guy never came back.
At some point, I’d stopped taking notes. I leaned in, my hand on her knee; she set her hand over mine and tipped her head toward the emergency exit beside us.
[August 17th, Las Vegas Convention Center, Service Corridor B-12 — 11:24 PM]
We slipped through the door like a couple of high school kids skipping class.
The corridor beyond was all concrete and exposed piping, the fluorescent lighting blasting everything into bright clarity. The hallway was cooler than the rest of the building. Our footsteps echoed wrong, too loud, too fast. Elsa’s sneakers squeaked on the polished floor. Somewhere in the distance, muffled through three inches of drywall, the DJ was transitioning into a remix of a song that’d been popular six months ago.
“In here,” she breathed.
The door said MAINTENANCE, but the lock had been busted for what looked like decades. She shoved it open with her hip and pulled me inside, and then I was pressed against shelving units stacked with bulk toilet paper and industrial-sized bottles of bleach, and her mouth was on mine.
She tasted like the vodka cranberry and something else, something sharper underneath, the electric tang of adrenaline. Her tongue traced the inside of my bottom lip, and I groaned into her mouth, one hand finding the curve of her ass through that thin sundress, the other tangling in her ponytail and pulling just enough to tilt her head back.
“Mmf—” The sound she made was half-moan, half-laugh. “There it is,” she said with a grin.
“Here what is?” I asked
“Was starting to think you were all professionalism and follow-up questions.” Her hands were working at my belt, quick and sure, the way you handle something you’ve done a thousand times. “But you’ve got that look.”
“That look?”
She pulled back just enough to meet my eyes, her pupils blown wide in the fluorescent light, her lip gloss thoroughly ruined. “The one that says you’ve been imagining me with my legs spread since the second I walked past you, holding your notepad”
Fuck, his hands are shaking. That’s cute. No, that’s hot. No, both.
No point denying it. I yanked the zipper of her dress down in one motion — fffrrrpp — and the fabric pooled at her feet like shedding a second skin. No bra. Pink cotton panties, the kind that were almost aggressive in their plainness, the deliberate anti-lingerie of a woman who knows she doesn’t need the help. Her tits were small and perfect, nipples already peaked from the chill of the service corridor, areolas a pale rose against the cream of her skin.
“Fuck,” I said, which wasn’t poetry but it was honest.
“Mmhm.” She pushed my pants down past my hips, and then her hand was wrapped around my cock, “Oh, that’s nice. That’s — ” She squeezed, testing, her thumb tracing the ridge of the head. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”
She sank to her knees on the concrete.
The maintenance closet had a single bare bulb dangling from a frayed cord, and it cast her in this sickly yellow glow that should’ve been unflattering but somehow, perversely, wasn’t. Her ponytail had come half-undone, blonde strands sticking to her cheek and the corner of her mouth. She held my cock in her hand, studying it with the appraising squint of a professional, the curve that made it press against her palm, the head already slick with a bead of pre-cum that she pressed on her thumb and spread across her bottom lip like gloss.
“You gonna write about this?” she murmured.
“Fuck no.”
“Good boy.” And then she took me into her mouth. No teasing with her tongue or kissing the tip; she swallowed me whole.
The heat of it was staggering — wet, velvet-soft and eager, her tongue working the underside as she slid down the shaft, her hand stroking what she couldn’t fit. She made these sounds, these wet hungry little glk-glk noises every time she took me deeper, her throat fluttering around the head when she pushed past her gag reflex with practiced, almost clinical expertise. Her free hand was between her own thighs, fingers working under the cotton of her panties, and the muffled whimper that vibrated around my cock told me she’d found what she was looking for.
“Aaahh — Elsa — “
She pulled off with a wet pop, a strand of spit connecting her bottom lip to the tip of my cock, glistening in the glow of the light. “You close?”
“Getting there.”
“Not yet.” She stood, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and turned around. Bent over a stack of industrial paper towel boxes, her back arched, those plain pink panties stretched taut over the curve of her ass. She hooked a thumb into the waistband and dragged them down just enough — just enough to reveal the wet glisten of her cunt, the lips already swollen and parted, slick trailing down her inner thigh in a glossy line, the faint musky-sweet scent of her arousal cutting through the bleach and solvent.
God, I want him bare. Want to feel every inch. Want him to fill me up raw. Fuck the condom, I’m on the pill, I want to feel him pulse.
I stepped behind her, one hand on her hip, the other gripping the base of my cock. I dragged the head through her folds, parting them, the slick heat of her making my cock jump. Her cunt was soaked— sopping, the kind of wet that made an obscene squelching sound as I notched against her entrance, the head of my cock pressing against her opening but not pushing in. I wanted to savor the moment; the bare skin-on-skin contact was electric.
Her bald cunt was pink and puffy, the inner lips protruding just enough to frame where I was about to enter her, a pearl of her own wetness trembling at the edge before dripping down onto the concrete floor. The heat radiating from her was volcanic.
“Don’t tease,” she breathed, pushing back against me. “Put it in me. Fuck me, Raw. I want to feel you.”
I pushed.
The first inch was a slick, tight surrender — her cunt gripping me, pulling me in. No latex barrier between us, just the searing heat of her inner walls molding around my cock. I could feel everything — the ridges inside her, the flutter of her muscles adjusting, the slick glide of her natural lubrication coating the shaft of my cock. She made a guttural sound, something between a gasp and a moan. “Aaah-hnnngh— fuck—”
Oh yes, yes, he’s so thick, can feel every vein, every ridge, this is what I needed all night—
I pushed deeper, inch by glorious inch, her cunt enveloping me. The sensation was overwhelming — wet, hot, impossibly tight, her body gripping me like it didn’t want to let go. When I bottomed out, my balls pressed against her clit, her ass flush against my pelvis, she let out a shuddering breath.
“There,” she moaned. “Right fucking there.”
I pulled her even closer.
The shelving unit rattled with every thrust. Elsa had one hand braced on the paper towels and the other was back between her legs, fingers working her clit in fast, tight circles, her whole body shuddering every time I buried myself to the hilt. Her ponytail had come completely undone now, blonde waves spilling down her back, and I gathered them in one fist and pulled.
She arched harder, her back bowing, and the new angle made her even tighter somehow, her cunt squeezing around me, pulsing that matched the circles she was rubbing on her clit. The sounds were obscene — the wet shlick-shlick-shlick of my cock sliding in and out of her, the slap of my hips against her ass, her breathless “Uh! Uh! Uh!” with every thrust.
“Ffffuuck — yes — right there, right there, RIGHT THERE — “
She came with a moan that was almost wounded, her cunt spasming around my cock in rhythmic, milking waves, her inner walls fluttering and gripping, her thighs trembling so hard I had to hold her up by the hips. I could feel her release coating me, hot and slick, making everything even wetter, the excess dripping down my balls and onto the concrete floor. She pushed back into me, grinding, riding out the waves.
My mind spun; I had just given one of the most well-known porn stars in the world an orgasm, and my cock wasn’t finished with her yet. I should have blown my load the moment she put her lips on the head of my cock, but I had more to give.
“Don’t stop,” she gasped. “Don’t… fucking…stop.”
He’s still hard. Still pounding. I want his cum. Want to feel it dripping out of me for the rest of the night. Want to smell like sex and him.
I drove through her orgasm, the new slickness making every thrust glide faster, deeper. My cock was aching now, my balls drawn up tight, that familiar pressure building at the base of my spine. The feel of her bare flesh around me, the way her cunt fluttered and gripped, the little whimpers she made every time I hit that spot deep inside her — it was pushing me toward the edge fast.
“Where — ” I gritted out, my rhythm getting sloppy now, more animal than human.
“Inside,” she demanded, pushing back against me hard. “Fill me up. I want to feel you come. Want your cum inside me. Do it. Do it—”
Three more thrusts and I broke.
I buried myself to the base of my cock and came with a groan that tore out of my chest, my cock pulsing inside her, jet after jet of hot cum painting her insides. I could feel every spasm, every pulse of my release flooding her cunt, her inner walls clamping down and milking me for every last drop. She moaned with me, a low “Yeeesssss,” as she felt it, her hips grinding back in small circles, wringing me out.
When the last pulse faded, I stayed inside her, both of us panting, my forehead pressed against the back of her neck. I could feel my seed inside her, warm and slick, our combined fluids making a slow, obscene trail down the inside of her thigh.
After, we stayed like that for a long moment — her bent over the paper towels, me draped across her back, still inside her. Both of us breathing ragged, the smell of bleach had been replaced by sex, sweat and cum. The unmistakable sharp-sweet musk of our mingled arousal.
Somewhere, very far away, the DJ started playing “Wonderwall.”
Elsa laughed first. Then I did. And then we were both laughing, the kind of helpless, post-coital laughter that makes your stomach hurt, her still naked, my cum starting to flow out of her and spattering onto the maintenance closet floor, the absurdity of the whole thing crashing down around us like the rattling bleach bottles.
I pulled out slowly, and the sensation drew a shiver from both of us. I watched my cock emerge from her cunt, glistening with our combined fluids, a thick white trickle of my cum following it out and dripping onto the concrete floor. Her cunt was flushed pink, swollen, still gaping slightly, the evidence of what we’d just done smeared across her inner thighs.
“Journalist,” she said, her voice hoarse. “You’re gonna need a new notebook.”
“Worth it.”
She twisted her head around to look at me, mascara smudged, cheeks flushed, grinning as she’d just pulled off the best prank of her life. She reached down, scooped some of the mess from her inner thigh with two fingers, and licked them clean with a filthy little smile.
“Drinks?” she said. “I know a place that’s not a maintenance closet.”
“Your security guy?”
“Fuck him.” A pause. “Not literally. Never literally. He’s like a cousin.”
“As long as we’re clear.”
She pulled her dress back on, didn’t bother with the zipper, didn’t bother with the panties — just stuffed them into her purse and finger-combed her hair into something approximating respectability. “Come on, journalist. You can ask me follow-up questions over tequila.”
I zipped up. Buckled my belt. Retrieved my notebook from off the floor.
As she walked toward the fire door, I watched a thin trail of my cum slide down the back of her thigh, disappearing into the hem of her sundress. She didn’t bother wiping it away.
The emergency door groaned as she pushed it open, and the bass hit us like a wall of sound, and Elsa Jean walked back into the after party with sex hair, a cum-flush still fading from her chest, and my seed drying on her skin, and exactly nobody looked surprised.
I followed her to the bar, and we had our drinks.
The piece never did get written.
