The celebrity

You had to try. What's the worse that can happen. She ignores you. That's it. You're used to being ignored by women anyway. You type out a message. Keep it simple, keep it cool.

"Hey. Big fan. Didn't expect to see you here. Hope your real."

You hit send before you can overthink it. The message disappears into the digital ether. And you wait. One minute. Five minutes. You're about to close the app, feeling like an idiot, when a new message notification pops up.

"Realer than the orgasm you're about to have for me. First test, send me a picture of your goon station. I want to see where you worship."

Your blood runs cold. She knows. Of course, she knows. She's a celebrity. Her DMs are probably flooded with dick pics. She's weeding out the weak.

Another message follows immediately. "Don't think. Just obey. Prove you're not just another timewaster."

You glance around your room. The cum stains on the carpet. The pile of lube bottles on your desk. The multiple screens still frozen on lewd images. It's a mess. It's shameful. And it's the hottest thing anyone has ever asked you to do.

Your hands shake as you fumble for your phone. You stand up, trying to find an angle that doesn't look like a total hovel. You snap a few pictures, your face thankfully out of frame, and send the least incriminating one. A shot of your chair, the desk, the three glowing monitors. Her on all three screens.

The three dots appear, indicating she's typing. Your heart hammers against your sternum.

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