Playthings

One week after being hired, she arrived on set. Carrie Fisher’s personality and charisma drew people to her, including me.

It was the same day I learned I was to do a stunt with her because her double was busy getting her knee looked at in the emergency room of Seaside Hospital. Not only was I to fall off a stationary “speeder,” I had to fall in such a way that Carrie would land atop me, face to face.

Timing and coordination are the keys to stunt work, and never having worked together, we took four or five takes before we got it right. We landed perfectly and froze in that position until someone yelled, “cut!”

We made eye contact and held it for that space, enough time to tell us we were sexually attracted to one another. She smiled and rolled off me.

“What are you doing after work today?” she asked.

“Nothing really,” I answered.

“Well, you do now,” she said. “Because you’re coming with me to my room, where you get to fuck my brains out and I get to fuck yours out.”

I must have blushed ruby red because Carrie followed her statement with, “That is if you want.”

“I do!” I said a little too quickly.

Nine hours can feel like a lifetime when one is anticipating something. But finally, Carrie’s limo arrived, and she pulled me into the back seat for the half-hour drive to the Ship-A-Shore resort.

She opened the door to her room and hustled me inside. It didn’t take long for us to get naked and find the still-made queen bed nearest the doorway.

She cum first with a violent shudder that left me surprised. I shot my load into her a few seconds later.

We lay on the bed, breathing heavily and trying not to laugh. What we found funny, I do not know — perhaps it was a release of nervous tension that comes with strangers fucking each other simply for the pleasure of the new sexual encounter.

“I need a cigarette,” she said. “You smoke?”

“No,” I answered.

“Do you mined?”

“Nope.”

“By the way, what’s your name?”

“Tom.”

We lay quiet while she finished her smoke.

“Let’s take a shower,” she said. “We can have sex again or go get dinner.”

“Can’t we do all three?” I asked.

She smiled and rolled from the bed. I followed.

Under the showerhead, I lost myself as I soaped up her tits. My dick came to attention, and I repositioned myself, picking her up and sliding my cock into her pussy.

I took my time as I thrust myself into her. She sighed lightly and pressed her hips forward, squeezing my cock as if it were in a warm, generous vice.

We kissed and nipped at one another’s lips, ear lobes, and neck. And as we frenched, Carrie released again.

Withholding my jism was hard, and it made the head of my dick even more sensitive, and it also hardened. She felt the change, pushed herself off me, moved to her knees, and mouthed at my hard-on, sliding her lips up and down my shaft before licking and sucking on my lollipop.

Looking down, I lost it. The feeling of getting sucked off, and at the realization it was Carrie Fisher sucking me, I felt my body rattle as I shot into her throat.

She never lost her rhythm and swallowed everything I gave her. Finally, too sensitive to let her continue, I pulled away, and she looked at me and smiled.

Next, Carrie had my ball sack in her mouth and a finger in my asshole. I relaxed, leaned back against the show wall, and let it happen.

Before I knew it, she had me hard again, working her mouth between my nuts and dick. She made me blow a wade of cum across the tub, causing my legs to buckle.

As I slid to the tub floor, Carrie gently laid against me, her head on my chest, letting the spray from the shower rinse us off. We remained there for another fifteen or twenty minutes before I finally climbed from the tub.

We toweled off and dressed, her in a floral dress, me in my old jeans and white tee from that day. She wore no makeup as we walked across the parking lot to the restaurant.

“You know I have a boyfriend,” she said.

“I was supposing you did,” I replied.

“It won’t bother you being my plaything for a while, will it?”

“Not if you don’t mind being my plaything, too.”

It was the first and last time we spoke of being a plaything because it wasn’t true. We both fell for each other and knew it on Carrie’s final day on the set.

My heart felt like a piece of clay as we returned to her room that night. There was no wild sex like the first day, but instead, we lay quiet, holding each other, allowing ourselves to feel the coming emptiness.

She softly felt my face, and I did the same, wanting to remember each line and curve. It was yet another facet of a relationship neither of us had experienced before.

The day Carrie left, I found it hard to focus on my job, as I couldn’t get the image of her face, tears in her eyes, and wet stains on her cheeks out of my head. A near-confrontation with her boyfriend knocked me out of being heartsick for too long.

“So you’re the asshole’s that been fucking my fiancee’,” this short dude yelled as he crossed the bar room floor.

As he walked towards me, I got up from my stool and went to meet him, ready to throw punches. It was Paul Simon, the musician.

Before I could reach him, his two bodyguards intervened, stopping whatever altercation there might have been. One of them picked Simon up and tucked him under his arm, carrying him out the door as Simon shouted names at me, demanding I meet him in the parking lot.

I never did, worried it would be his bodyguard who would render my beating. I’m dumb, but not stupid.

Carrie and I would never see each other again, and those 21 days were three weeks that I would never forget and never know again.