Page 49 of Ship Wrecked

Some of this month’s highlights: In the first link, you’ll find that you and Maria end up sea-soaked and freezing after a scene filmed on the shore, and to warm yourselves quickly, you’ll need to—what else?—strip and cuddle to share body heat. As one does with one’s colleagues. And then you’ll go to town on various hotel room surfaces, including those that would surely not withstand your “INTENSE VIKING LUST,” not to mention your “DETERMINATION TO PILLAGE” (direct quotes). Neither one of you is tiny, and most coffee tables can’t withstand that kind of abuse. That’s just physics.

The second link is a story where you and Maria get caught in a freak snowstorm while scouting a location for a future scene. Whereupon you escape to a convenient nearby hut, and to warm yourselves quickly, you need to—stop me if I lose you here; it’s very complicated—strip and cuddle to share body heat. In the most professional way possible. And then you’ll defile various hut surfaces, including those that would definitely splinter under the force of your “DESPERATE, REPRESSED PASSION” and “FORCEFUL CLAIMING OF YOUR WOMANAT LAST” (direct quotes). I’m pretty sure all that rubbing up against stone walls won’t be good for Maria’s back. Just FYI.

The last link is my favorite for the month. It’s a three-way between you and Maria and Dolphy McBlowholeface, and it takes place entirely underwater, because you and Maria are merpeople actors or something? It’s a little unclear. Anyway, Ol’ Dolphy gives you a finjob at one point, and apparently inspired by your oceangoing lover, you make whistling and trilling noises when you come. You’re welcome!

Well, that’s it for now. Links below the signature, as always.

Enjoy!

Alex

P.S. You realize I send these links to Maria too, right? At her request, once she heard I was sending them to you? Again, just FYI.

12

Maria couldn’t wait to have a fake orgasm, mostly because then she’d be able to get back to her hotel suite and give herself a real one. And also maybe cry a little.

For their final take of the day—of the episode, the season, the entire series—Ramón had asked Maria and Peter to simulate sex again. Specifically, he wanted to shoot the end of their characters’ long-awaited lovemaking scene one final time, starting at the point when Peter would fuck her—

No, not Peter. Cyprian.

Cyprianwould fuckCassiainto coming one more time before climaxing himself, and they would clutch one another, panting. A few breathless moments later, they’d make eye contact and slowly smile at each other with joy and relief and pleasure and love.

And then the roar of the undead would shake their little home, and they’d realize they were fucked, both literally and metaphorically. They’d part ways for the final time.

The end.

Before this week, she’d never simulated an orgasm before, but that hadn’t been an issue. It was simple enough to act out, especially for the tenth time. Only she couldn’t seem to get a handle on either her body or her emotions, despite the cameras, the crew,and her determination to keep both her desolation and her horniness to herself.

So she lay beneath Peter, legs wide open and wrapped around his hips, almost entirely naked. She watched him labor mightily above her, and the pillow between her thighs absorbed most—but not all; heaven help her, not all—of the power behind each thrust. But it didn’t stop her belly from rubbing against his or prevent her stiff nipples from poking into his chest. It didn’t do anything to protect her from the sweet savagery of his kiss, the possessive sweep of his tongue in her mouth as they gasped and moaned against each other’s lips. It didn’t stop his fingers from biting into her thigh as he shoved it higher, or his other hand from cupping her cheek with a tenderness that would break her heart if she wasn’t careful.

He was slick with sweat, and so was she. Real sweat, not just glycerin.

His heart thundered against hers, his pupils had blown wide, and stripes of hot color painted his cheekbones. As they’d positioned for this take, as she’d spread her legs and welcomed him between them one final time, his nostrils had flared, and she was pretty sure he could smell how hot he’d made her. How wet.

Thongs could only absorb so much. And between takes, although he turned away and donned his robe immediately, the consummate professional as always, that cock sock couldn’t entirely hide his body’s response to what they were doing.

Not all her moans were fake. The tears in her eyes weren’t fake either.

She blinked hard, and his brows furrowed a millimeter. In an unscripted movement, he tore his mouth from hers, slid kisses across her cheek to her ear, and murmured so quietly, it was more a vibration than an actual word. So quietly even the boom mic couldn’t catch it.

He said her name.

Not Cassia. Maria.

It was comfort, and it was a question. He wanted to know if she was okay.

The answer was no.

But she extracted her nails from his shoulder, sank a fist into his hair, and dragged his mouth back to hers anyway, because this was it. This was their last scene, and she wanted to kiss him as long as she possibly could, because it might never happen again. Soon they might not see each other for weeks or months at a time. Years.

The rest of her life.

He kissed her back, but his lips against hers had turned gentle, too fucking gentle, and it wasintolerable.

So she ended it. She panted and moaned and shuddered against him in feigned orgasm, and he followed her moments later.

They made eye contact. Her eyes were dry, because she was a fucking professional.

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