Chapter 1

Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Heterosexual, Fiction, .

Desc: Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Star Dust is a world famous recording artist but she's always lost out in the love department. Ian Astor is a renegade Hollywood director with a romantic reputation to match. When these two team up for a music video, sparks fly. Can they make a long distance relationship work? Find out. read their story, access their private emails, voicemails and texts.

Oh myyyy. I can't believe I'm admitting this. Can't believe I'm going to let you see it. Please, promise me. You won't tell anyone. Promise?

Thank you!

Why am I asking you to keep this on the dl? I mean, anyone's life might get torn apart if certain things were leaked to social media, right? It is out of control. Look at James Franco's Instagram scandal? Poor Jimmy. {{{Just so you know, he's even dreamier in person!}}}

You've heard it before, right? According to PR gods, any publicity is good publicity. That doesn't mean it feels good when your personal life, your torrid mistakes, are spread across magazines and laptops for everyone and your mom to see. And heaven forbid horrible pictures. Double chins, drunk face, or some photo taken out of context. Did anyone ever post a terrible pic of you online??

It's the worst!

I know about big scale media stuff because, the plain truth is ... I'm kinda famous.

Okay, that's an understatement. I'm really famous. You know who I am.

I'm not being conceited, it's just that if you listen to the radio, you've heard my music. If you watch MTV award shows or youtube, you've seen me perform and my vids. Who knows? Maybe you've downloaded my music or you've been to one of my concerts? If so, I hope you had fun. I heart my fans!!!

I performed last night.

Wanna see what it looked like?

Yes

no

Look at this gorgeous crowd!

This was snapped right before I came out. I'm in India right now, doing surprise pop-up shows to promote my new album. I performed for an Indian awards show in Goa, last night. The stage sat right on the beach. It was humid, sticky and hedonistic, just how I like it.

A good concert is like delicious sex. The audience and I come together, we exchange energy on an orgasmic level. My musicians, dancers, and I whip everyone into a frenzy, teasing them with stories and songs. By the time I play my most popular tracks, the stuff everyone wants to hear, they go insane and I'm dripping, giving them everything I've got.

Music is my life. My obsession. I don't do it for the fame. Not for the money. Not for the clothing (well, maybe a little for the clothes you haven't lived until you've felt the crush of a Valentino Red).

Have u worn valentino??

Valentino makes you feel like the most powerful femme fatale alive!

I looooove the clothing. My wardrobe, makeup and hair is like protective armor. It shields the inner me, the part I don't share with my fans.

Right now, my hair is a shiny, purply, black, cut razor sharp at my shoulders. Underneath, it's plain old brown.

I'd sing for free even if no one paid me. Music consumes me. It literally reverberates under my skin and pumps my blood. Singing is the only way to exorcise it. Then I find peace.

It's like I'm a tea kettle or pressure cooker. A constant stream of music plays in my head. It's trapped in the part of the brain where you think. You know, where you talk to yourself? It's there all the time. I've learned to live with it.

Singing is the only way to exorcise it. If I couldn't write or perform, they'd have to lock me back up. They'd have to throw away the key this time. For good.

The so-called experts said the perpetual music in my head was a stress reaction due to "acute childhood trauma."

I never think about my past.

The world is my home and I adore traveling on the road. I don't know why anyone would want to be tied to one place.

Worked like a maniac to become successful. Now, I work like a maniac to stay successful. And you're only as good as your last album or concert numbers.

My lawyer, Mort, says I'm lucky to be young and have loads of energy. He has no idea that I usually feel like the oldest person in the room. I pay hundreds of salaries, from stylists, to managers, lawyers, agents, my dancers. It's a mountain of responsibility. I know these people, their families, depend on me for their livelihood.

From the beginning, I surrounded myself with employees I could trust.

Fame, money and success completely changes the way people act toward you. They aren't authentic. It's weird. They either want something from you or have a preconceived notion of who you are, which is totally false.

My personal assistant's name is Kim. I knew Kim before I was famous. I love her so much, she's like a sister! And she care of me like a mom.

Believe it or not, my lifestyle doesn't leave much room for a romantic life.

I give to my fans first (always fans first, I love you guys), then my employees. What's left over? Not much. Or so I thought...

Do you want to hear about my new flame?

We'll call him Ian.

He would freak out if I used his real name.

He's a well-known director. You've heard of him. Or at least you know his movies. His films are sexy, dangerous and inspired. Just like him.

He's a visionary and broke the mold on what an independent feature could be. Movie studios and marketing departments never dictate his work. He's original and compelling.

Our schedules keep us apart.

We are rarely in the same city. Do you think we would let this stop us from having the same kind of relationship and intimacy others have? No way.

In fact, it just might be more fun...

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Story tagged with:
Ma/Fa / Consensual / Heterosexual / Fiction /