The Falling Star (Ruby)

Ruby looked up at the camera and let loose the grin with both barrels. It was everything she was, that grin. Everything they wanted her to be. Absolutely overflowing with Pure. Unadulterated. Sordid. Joy. It was a grin that knew exactly how dirty it was. How it made every cock-in-hand held over it, through screen or photo or in person: twitch a little in twisted appreciation. It was a grin that said: 'I know you're about to cum all over me… and I know you've got a whole host of other things you'd like to do to me as well… hurry up so we can get started on them!'

It was the face of Pandora's Box™. It was the face of Pink-Pop's genre-defining artist. It was the face she had turned toward every small town boyfriend, prospective modelling agent, manager or record producer she'd ever had… Not to mention her millions upon millions of fans and a whole lot of other cameras… And it was therefore the face she was stuck with… Whether she could particularly feel the edges of that grin anymore… or not…

The cum rained down on her. Or rather, the 'cum' rained down on her… Since industry regulations were now to use a fake, manufactured substitute instead. Something to do with religious nutjobs complaining about 'wasting God's precious seed'. Not that she minded really… It tasted a bit nicer actually, less of a blast of pure salt to the back of the throat… and they still used the real thing when the shot required. In fact it had become rather her guilty habit to add a dash or two of scotch to a glass of the fake stuff and sip away of an evening. A 'Ruby's wet dream' they had called it… her own named cocktail. Very good for late night televised interviews or red carpet parties. Of course, her legions of fans swore blind the proper version could only be made with genuine man-juice. It made Ruby chuckle a little thinking of them all trying to harvest enough of their male friends to fill a whole glass to imitate her, when hers just came from a pump by her home bar. She would never give the game away of course… it would damage the allure.

The sticky sludge drenched her, dribbling down every contour of her thin but shapely form. Slopping in and out of her open mouth. Sliding down a throat trained to gulp such substances by the bucket load. It rivuletted between expertly sculpted breasts, capturing their shape in waxy white for a moment… Just as they might have looked in prototype form on the surgeon's desk. Ruby was an artwork made by many hands these days, after all. All built out upon that winning grin. She was the cutting edge of cosmetic science. The poster girl for eternal youth, still looking 18 at 29. She had been nipped, tucked, sliced and diced. Yet by such expensively expert hands that all the while she only seemed to grow more naturally, seamlessly... perfect.

She even had additions that edged on superhuman… in a manner of speaking. Adjustments to her nerve sensitivities that made even a light caress against a nipple send shivers up and down her spine. People just loved to catch her out on that and admire the tremble. As if unaware that it was she herself who had put in place and advertised such a weakness. All part of the allure. Every orifice she owned was reinforced and tightened regularly. Combined with a very particular and personal workout regime to ensure she could clench a man inside of her and not let him go until he had nothing left to give… if she so wanted. Ruby just WAS sex nowadays. The bought and sold commercialised ideal of everything a whore could be. She was the uber-slut. The legs-akimbo barbie doll that every teen girl was told they should dream of being.

She was also near incurably bored…