Number One Fan by Gabriella Wise

The sign said, “NO ADMITTANCE” but I pushed through it anyway. I’d been waiting for weeks, watching the employees of Athena Records enter and exit, and I knew that the door wasn’t guarded. I’d never done anything like this before, but I was desperate for a glimpse of my idol. I’d done my research. She was going to be recording in the studio for one day only. This was my chance.

I had on black satin pants, a long-sleeved black T-shirt, a bright yellow mail sack, and a black baseball cap emblazoned with the Athena logo. I looked like all of the workers at Athena, young, hip, attractive. I slouched into the offices and nodded at the lovely woman seated at the reception desk, heading past her to the mail room. She didn’t stop me.

I knew the layout of the building, information I’d bribed from a friend who’d done temp work for the label. I made my way through the mail room to the back corridor, ducked into the first elevator, and cruised to the fifth floor, where the recording studios were.

Another receptionist guarded this area, but I slid by her with a priority envelope I pulled from my sack. “I need a signature from Ms. X,” I told her. She looked me over, then waved me through. I took one step beyond the chrome doors and nearly bumped into my idol. I stopped, mumbled an apology, and lowered my head, waiting for her tirade. I’d heard about her awesome temper.

She surprised me. She lifted my chin with two fingers and stared into my eyes. I blushed, but held steady. “Excuse me,” I said again. “I wasn’t looking.”

“I’ve seen you,” she said. “But you don’t work here.”

I shook my head. There were others around us, and I sensed the largeness of the security guards, already nearby, waiting to drag me away.

“No, ma’am,” I said softly. “But you might have seen me outside. I’ve been watching you.”

She grinned, her exquisite smile lighting the severe features of her face. “That’s right. And you’ve been at my concerts, too, haven’t you?”

“Front row, center,” I said, feeling those guards squeeze tighter to me, their muscles bulging.

My idol brushed them away and herded me into one of the offices, alone. Alone with her. She said, “You caught my eye. You’re striking,” and then moved back a step to stare at me before surprising me again. This time, she picked up a pair of scissors from the desk and quickly cut me out of my clothes. She remained dressed, in something soft and black. I liked the feel of her clothes against my naked skin. She seemed to like it, too. She caressed my back, the nape of my neck, kissed my eyebrows, my eyelashes, my cheekbones. She said, “It takes a lot to catch my attention. You’ve gone to some trouble.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I responded to her kisses, opening my lips on hers, sliding my mouth to her neck, kissing her there, kissing her breasts through the gauzy dress, going on my knees to pleasure her, but she pushed me away. Now, I was on the floor, on my back. She straddled me, with her back to my face, and then went down into a sixty-nine, pressing her million dollar lips to my naked pussy lips, diving inside my cunt with her warm tongue. She used her fingers as well as her mouth, running her hands on the insides of my thighs, tickling me, pinching my skin, pressing my thighs apart until I ached at the split of my body.

I couldn’t totally believe what was happening to me. I’d woken often from this same dream before, from this fantasy, and I reached out and touched her with both hands to make sure she really was there.

“Is this real?” I asked, praying she wouldn’t dissolve into air, into a mirage.

She lifted her mouth off me when she felt me touching her. She said, “Yes, it’s real. I’m right here… can’t you feel this?”

And then she put her mouth back where it had been, running her tongue firmly along the opening of my pussylips, coaxing my clit until it stood out from its hood, huge and demanding, desperate to come. She was cruel to it, biting it, kissing it a little too hard, or, maybe just hard enough. And then, when I thought I really would die if this were a dream, she began murmuring to me as she worked, singing something soft and low into my pussy. Her song brought me to climax. I came to the rumbling vibrations of a voice I had come to over a stereo-headset countless times before.

I shuddered and grabbed her to me, wanting to reciprocate, but she easily freed herself from my embrace and stood, looking down at me. “It takes a lot to catch my attention,” she said again, as if confused by her own actions.

I shrugged and sat up, wrapping my arms around myself, hiding, lowering my lashes, as always. Humble. But then, because it had to be said, I spoke. “Of course,” I said, “I’m your number one fan.”