Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus

We require only 45 additional Power Stone donors, only 5 more reviews, and 600 more collections and newly added Discord 40 more members to unlock the next bonus Chapters.

Get those stones going boys and tomboys, we need to get those numbers up!

Join my Patreon

GodofPleasure

(dot)com/GodofPleasure

****

Lindsay looked up from her Discman, her face flushed a deep, rosy pink that had nothing to do with the heat. She was staring at her Nokia phone, the tiny monochrome screen displaying the photo that had been texted to her by Amy. ”I watched it,” she whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of awe and possessive pride. ”Daddy Marvin is really... he’s just so great.”

In her excitement, the ”Daddy” slipped out—a name she usually reserved for her private moments with him, for the fantasies she indulged in beneath her Laura Ashley sheets at night. She froze for a second, her eyes widening, but the room was a cacophony of teenage hormones and adoration.

Groups of girls were huddled over desks, their voices overlapping in a high-pitched frantic blur that sounded like a flock of exotic birds.

”Oh my god, Marvin is amazing!” one girl shrieked from across the room, her voice cracking.

”Marvin is literally my classmate,” another bragged, tossing her highlighted hair while her friends hovered over her shoulder like disciples. ”When I told my cousin we sat in the same English lit circle, she actually started crying. She’s obsessed with his Patreon. She prints out his novel quotes and keeps them in a binder.”

”Look at his stance,” Dorothy said, dropping onto the velvet-upholstered chair next to Lindsay, her finger tracing the line of Marvin’s jaw in the photo. Her voice dropped to a reverent whisper. ”In the Middle Ages, he would have been the bravest knight. No, a King. He looks like he’s conquered the world and he’s not even twenty.”

Lindsay leaned in, her shoulder brushing Dorothy’s, her heart hammering against her ribs. ”It’s the eyes,” she murmured, her thumb stroking the screen of her phone where Marvin stood over the fallen predators. ”He doesn’t even look scared. He looks... bored. Like killing monsters is just something he does between Chapters.”

She paused, biting her lower lip, her mind wandering to places she didn’t dare speak aloud. She thought about how Marvin always held doors for her, how he helped her with her calculus homework after lacrosse practice, how he smelled like sandalwood and old books. But this image—this warrior standing over dead predators with a bow in his hands—awakened something ancient inside her, something that wanted to be claimed by that strength, to be protected and possessed by it.

”I’ve loved him since so long,” Lindsay admitted softly, her voice barely audible over the din. ”But this... this is different. He was always perfect, you know? Always kind and gentle and... safe. But now?” She looked at the photo again, her breath catching. ”Now I see what he could do if he stopped being safe. If he let himself be... wild.”

Dorothy nodded, understanding completely.

They were young, suspended in that liminal space between girlhood and womanhood, and Marvin had just crossed some invisible threshold from ”boy you love” to ”man you would follow anywhere and let him dominate.”

...

But the reaction in a school lounge was a mere spark compared to the wildfire burning through the older, more sophisticated circles of women who understood exactly what they were looking at.

In a sun-drenched bedroom in Malibu, where the Pacific crashed against the cliffs below in rhythmic abandon, Scarlett sat on the edge of her four-poster bed, the newspaper spread across her lap like treasure. The room smelled of jasmine and sea salt, candles burning on the dresser, *I Need Your Happiness* playing softly from her stereo.

Her breath hitched sharply as she stared at the raw, muscular tension in Marvin’s arms as he drew the bow. The photo captured every straining muscle, the way his shirt clung to his broad shoulders and tapered waist, the intense focus in his eyes that made her stomach flutter wildly with something far more dangerous than admiration.

A sudden, sharp heat coiled low in her abdomen—a deep, throbbing ache that made her lightheaded and restless. She shifted on the cotton sheets, her silk slip riding higher up her smooth thighs. Without thinking, her hand slid down, fingers brushing over the hem before slipping underneath.

She bit her lip hard as she pressed two fingers against her already damp panties, rubbing slow circles over her swollen clit while staring at the photo, her hips lifting slightly off the bed.

”Fuck... Marvin,” she whispered breathlessly, her free hand trailing up to squeeze one of her breasts through the thin silk. Her nipples were rock hard, aching against the fabric. She imagined those strong arms pinning her down against these very sheets, that intense gaze locked on her as he took what he wanted with the same ruthless efficiency he’d shown those leopards.

Her fingers moved faster, slipping beneath the lace as soft, needy whimpers filled the sunlit room. She long enough in this industry to know better, long enough to see everything, but nothing had ever made her feel like this—like prey that desperately wanted to be caught.

...

In a recording studio in New York, where the walls were padded and the air smelled of stale coffee and ozone, Beyoncé stared at the television monitor during a break, the image frozen on screen. She stayed completely silent, but her pupils were blown wide, her full lips parted, her hand frozen halfway to her bottle.

There was something primal about the photo—the hunter, the raw power, the way his body moved with such dangerous grace. It completely bypassed the polished ”Wonder Boy” image the media had constructed and tapped straight into something much darker and more magnetic inside her.

She crossed her legs tightly in her jeans, but it only made the throbbing between her thighs worse. Her breasts rose and fell faster as she imagined him behind her in the studio booth, bending her over the mixing console, that same focused intensity directed entirely at claiming her. A soft, barely audible moan escaped her as she subtly rocked her hips against the seam of her jeans, trying to get any kind of relief, her face flushing as Michelle asked if she was feeling alright.

”Fine,” she managed, her voice husky. ”Just... fine.”

...

Meanwhile, in a penthouse overlooking Central Park, Paris and Jessica were already on a frantic three-way call with their cordless phones, their voices hushed and dripping with hunger.

”Did you see the horse?” Paris whispered, her voice thick with lust. She was lying on her stomach on her canopy bed, the *Post* spread open before her. ”He’s riding bareback in one of the shots. God, the way his thighs gripped that horse... I’m literally soaked just looking at it. He looks like a fucking god. Like something out of a romance novel.”

”I can’t even look at the photo without feeling... weird,” Jessica admitted, her voice shaky. She was lying on her bed with the newspaper beside her, one hand already slipped inside her pajama pants. ”Every time I see his arms like that, I get this ache. I just want him to pin me down and—”

”—and destroy us?” Paris finished with a breathy laugh, her own hand busy beneath her silk camisole. ”Same. I’m touching myself right now just talking about it. Fuck, Jess... imagine what he could do with those hands. He’s not so soft after all. He’s a killer. A protector.”

The call quickly devolved into heavy breathing and soft moans as both girls gave in to their fantasies, describing in filthy detail exactly what they wanted Marvin to do to them, their voices getting breathier and more desperate as they chased their pleasure together across the phone lines.

...

The wildfire was only just beginning, spreading across continents like a fever.

The air in the Sydney photography studio was suffocating, thick with the scent of expensive setting sprays and the frantic energy of a high-fashion deadline. But for Miranda, the world had shrunk down to the size of the newspaper resting on her lap.

She stared at the image of Marvin. It wasn’t the ”prodigy” the media loved or the ”pop star” the teens screamed for. It was a predator. The way his shirt billowed in the wind, the tension in his forearms as he drew that bow—it was raw, ancient, and undeniable.

Unlike the public, Miranda didn’t need a video to believe the story. She knew the magnetic weight of his presence. She knew the strength in those hands—had felt them on her waist at that night, had seen what they were capable of. As she looked at the image of him standing over the fallen leopards, a familiar warmth spread through her core, making her toes curl against the footrest of the makeup chair.

”Miranda? Honey, we need to finish the eyeliner,” the makeup artist prompted, leaning in with a brush.

Miranda didn’t move. Her blue eyes remained locked on the paper. She could almost smell the ozone that always seemed to follow him, could almost feel the heat of his body standing close to hers.

”He’s incredible, isn’t he?” a stylist whispered, leaning over Miranda’s shoulder, her breath hot with envy. ”The American boy. They’re calling him the ’Waikato Ranger.’ Every girl in this building has been staring at that photo all morning. I think the lead photographer actually forgot how to use his light meter when he saw it.”

Miranda forced a calm smile, though her pulse was thundering against her ribs like a trapped bird. ”He’s more than incredible,” she murmured, her voice dropping into a low, husky register that made the stylist blink in surprise. ”He’s a force of nature.”

She thought back to the last time she was in his presence. The memory hit her like a physical blow—the way he looked at her, like she was the only woman in the room, like she mattered.

Seeing him in this ”warrior” light triggered a possessive, territorial streak she hadn’t realized she possessed. She wanted to be the one to soothe that wildness, to bring the hunter home and make him hers.

The shoot ended an hour later. Miranda didn’t linger for the wrap drinks or the obligatory networking. She moved with a purpose that bordered on frantic, shedding her designer gown and slipping into her own clothes—a simple sundress that felt like freedom—before bolting for the exit.

The moment she reached her hotel suite at the Park Hyatt, Miranda slammed the door behind her and turned the deadbolt with a sharp click that echoed through the quiet room like a starting pistol.

The suite was dim and cool, the afternoon sun filtering through the sheer curtains in long, golden needles of light. She didn’t bother turning on any lamps. The half-darkness felt safer, more intimate, more like the secret world she was about to enter. Her skin felt too tight, buzzing with a restless, phantom heat that only one person seemed capable of soothing.

She kicked off her heels, letting them clatter across the marble floor, and dropped her bag carelessly. Her fingers were already trembling as she reached for the zipper at the back of her dress. The silk whispered down her body, sliding over her shoulders, the curve of her breasts, and the flare of her hips before pooling at her feet like liquid moonlight. She stepped out of it wearing nothing but a delicate lace thong and bra—ivory, chosen with care even though no one would see them—and the lingering scent of her perfume, something French and mysterious.

Miranda walked slowly toward the large floor-length mirror, her reflection staring back at her with flushed cheeks and darkened eyes, her blonde hair falling in waves around her shoulders.

But she wasn’t really seeing herself.

All she could see was that photograph—Marvin drawing the bow, muscles straining, raw power and graceful danger captured in a single frozen moment. She could see the way his jaw was set, the concentration in his eyes, the absolute confidence of a man who knew he could protect what was his.

A sharp, needy heat coiled low in her belly, making her gasp. She pressed her thighs together, but it only made the ache worse, more insistent. Her hand moved almost on its own, sliding up her flat stomach until it cupped one full breast, squeezing gently. A soft moan slipped from her lips as her thumb brushed over her already hardened nipple, sending sparks of pleasure down her spine.

She closed her eyes and imagined him standing right behind her in the mirror’s reflection—tall, intense, those nebula-blue eyes watching her with that calm focus. She could almost feel the heat of his body against her back, the strength of his hands as they replaced hers on her breasts, squeezing harder, pinching her nipples until she gasped his name.

”Fuck...” she whispered, her voice husky with need.

****

Join my Discord...

(Discord dot gg slash 2MfM9J7dBj)

Join my Patreon

GodofPleasure

(dot)com slash GodofPleasure