She's a Star (a Hollywood Hotwife story) by Max Sebastian

down to kiss her beautiful rounded rear, sweeping his hands over her soft skin, leaning down to press his face to her most personal area. The prison guard was tasting the wife of one of his inmates, kissing her sex before he pulled off his pants and lined up behind her.
    Before he slid his cock inside Hayley from behind.
    In real life, in the darkened theater, Hayley’s hand was all but crushing mine as though she was trying to distract me from the shocking infidelity I was watching in giant size before me.
    As the prison guard turned her over, fucking her missionary style on that couch, the camera work exquisitely sophisticated and artful. I recognized the familiar moles on her upper chest, that little scar that was almost imperceptible on her knee—this was no body double.
    There might not have been any actual penetration, though if there was it was perfectly hidden, but Aaron Simpson was naked on top of my lovely young wife, and whether or not it was acting, she was responding in blissful rapture, her face strained with sexual gratification, her moans so lifelike, her heaving chest and rock-hard nipples hard to put on so realistically.
    I could see no flesh-colored underwear on either of them, though I conceded that computer graphics guys were very clever these days at digitally altering things on film.
    And Jesus, it just never seemed to end. Soon she was on top of him, riding him, her thighs and her butt squeezing as she stirred with his hardness deep inside her.
    She was kissing him, and then he was rolling her over, quite unmistakably powering to an orgasm—to apparently come deep inside her, with no hint of protection.
    And as it all came to a powerful conclusion, she was crying gently: “How do you make me feel that way?”
    And: “I’ve never felt like that before.”
    And: “No one’s ever made me feel so good….”
    I was shocked, stunned, breathless, but my cock strained in my pants, harder than it had ever been before at the wicked and glorious sight of my wife making love to another man, gaining her sexual freedom, indulging in the kind of physical exploration that wasn’t available to her as a married woman.
    Taking real pleasure in this illicit encounter.
    I wanted more, wanted to watch her adored by this Hollywood idol, wanted to see her pleasured by him, wanted to know she was being sexy and wicked, and experiencing something incredible as the result of my consent.
    “You still love me?” she whispered as the sex scene came to an end. I turned my head to look at her, and there was no hint in her expression that she’d asked me that in jest, or irony, or anything other than straight concern.
    She looked downright terrified.
    Something about her obvious concern reassured me, seeing that I still meant something important to her.
    “Of course,” I whispered in return.
    Her expression turned to puzzled hope, that I wasn’t lying, that I wasn’t angry with her, even that I fully understood it was only acting.
    The rest of the movie was something of a blur—the plot was, at least. I only saw Hayley and Aaron Simpson, how they looked at each other, the fiery chemistry they had with each other—chemistry that could not be faked, could not be acted. There were more sex scenes, of the detective calming the witness after an attempt had been made on her life, his quiet affection turning quickly to burning passion.
    I was recognizing Hayley’s naked body while this other man—this famous man, this handsome, rich actor—kissed and licked her all over. It was no body double, she was no Julia Roberts, she really had another man lying between her thighs, pressing his cock against her, whatever state it was in.
    And the way she acted in those sex scenes—it wasn’t the Hayley I knew so well from our own love-making. Here on the silver screen she seemed so brazen, so wicked, so alive. She might have started out in the movie as a demure innocent, but by the end of it, she was kneeling before him to take