Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus

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The high-resolution images from New Zealand were spread across her antique desk like sacred relics—or perhaps like evidence at a trial where she was simultaneously judge, jury, and condemned. She stared at them with parted lips, her elegant fingers trembling slightly as they hovered over the paper. The platinum ring Marvin had given her for New Year’s caught the afternoon light, its polished surface flashing whenever her hand shook.

A slow, treacherous flush crept up from her chest, spreading across her collarbones and up her neck, betraying the cool aristocratic composure she had cultivated over thirty-eight years of being watched, judged, and found wanting. Her skin felt feverishly hot, overly sensitive to the soft brush of her silk blouse, the whisper of her own breath, the memory that refused to be exorcised.

She traced the powerful line of Marvin’s shoulders against the dramatic New Zealand sky, and the moment her fingertip touched the newsprint, she was lost—plunged back into the darkness of that town car, the scent of leather and him and her own arousal flooding her senses.

It had been a month.

Thirty-one days of silence that had begun as self-preservation and curdled into self-flagellation. Thirty-one days of letting his calls ring unanswered, of watching her mobile flash with his number and feeling her heart lurch painfully against her ribs before she forced herself to look away. Thirty-one days of intercepting the palace phones when she knew he might call the main line, of inventing excuses to the staff about why ”that American boy’s” messages must be filtered, deleted, ignored.

She was hurting him. She knew she was. She could hear it in the increasingly quiet tone of his voicemails—the ones she listened to at 3 AM while curled in the dark, clutching her phone like a rosary, tears streaming down her face as his voice broke asking what he had done wrong, why she had disappeared, if she was safe, if she hated him.

And God, she didn’t hate him. That was the cruelest joke of all.

She loved him. Or something terrifyingly close to it. Something that felt like standing at the edge of a cliff in a storm, wanting to jump and fearing the fall in equal measure.

Diana leaned back in her chair, her breath already shallow, her hand moving almost without permission, sliding down her body with the familiarity of self-betrayal until it reached the hem of her skirt. She hiked the fabric higher up her thighs, parting her legs as the memory consumed her—the weight of him between her legs in that confined space, the way he had looked at her like she was the only woman in existence, the way his fingers had known her better than any man ever had, including the one who had been her husband.

Two fingers slipped beneath the lace of her panties and found her already slick, swollen folds.

She was soaked. Always soaked. Shamefully, endlessly wet for a boy who was barely older than her own son.

”Oh God,” she whispered, the prayer dissolving into a moan as she began to move her hand in slow, torturous circles. ”Oh God, forgive me.”

But there was no forgiveness coming. There was only the memory—the way he had shoved her gown up around her waist with desperate reverence, the way those long, pianist’s fingers had pushed deep inside her, curling relentlessly while lust turned every stroke into liquid fire.

The way he had whispered her name like it was holy, like she was young and beautiful and free instead of a damaged princess pushing forty, mother to the future king, icon to billions who would never understand this particular sin.

A quiet, desperate sound escaped her throat—a sound that was half sob, half moan.

Diana closed her eyes and pushed two fingers inside herself with a soft, needy gasp, imagining it was Marvin’s hand again—thicker, stronger, more commanding than her own timid touch. Her other hand moved to her breast, squeezing hard through her blouse as she remembered how he had sucked marks into her neck while fingering her senseless, how he had growled against her skin that she was perfect, that he had wanted her forever, that he would wait for her until the end of time.

She could still feel the ghost of his lips, the sting of those hickeys she’d had to carefully conceal with makeup and high collars for days afterward, terrified that William would notice, that Harry would ask questions, that the world would see what she had become.

”Marvin...” she whispered hoarsely, pumping her fingers faster, curling them the way he had, chasing the phantom sensation of being filled, being claimed, being known. Her hips rolled shamelessly into her hand as she remembered the overwhelming pleasure mixed with the crushing guilt of how young he was— to her thirty-eight, an age gap that felt like both an eternity and nothing at all.

The forbidden nature of it only made her wetter. The wrongness, the danger, the sheer impossibility of ever being together in the light of day—it all coiled inside her like a snake made of desire, squeezing until she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could only feel.

She added a third finger, stretching herself with a gasp that was half pain, half ecstasy, biting her lip to stifle the growing moans as she remembered the wet, filthy sounds his fingers had made while buried deep inside her, the way he had kissed her through her orgasm like he was drowning and she was air, the way he had held her afterward with a tenderness that had shattered what remained of her defenses.

The study was silent except for the slick, rhythmic sound of her fingers working frantically beneath her soaked panties, the ragged hitch of her breathing, the occasional whispered curse that sounded obscene coming from the mouth of the People’s Princess.

She was supposed to be having tea with the boys in an hour. William was home from Eton for the weekend, Harry was excited to show her his new football skills, and here she was, debasing herself to the memory of a boy who made her feel alive for the first time in decades, even as she destroyed them both with her silence.

The guilt was a physical weight, pressing down on her chest even as her body climbed toward release. She was a mother. A royal. A symbol of grace and dignity. And she was fingering herself raw in the middle of a Sunday afternoon to the thought of a teenager’s hands inside her, his mouth on her breast, his voice whispering filthy promises that she knew he meant with every fiber of his being.

”Please,” she whimpered, not knowing what she was begging for—forgiveness, oblivion, or simply to feel him one more time, even if only in the dark theater of her own mind.

The orgasm crashed over her like a wave of shame, her body arching off the leather chair, her free hand clamping over her mouth to muffle the scream that threatened to tear itself from her throat. She convulsed around her own fingers, her vision whiting out, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks as pleasure and pain became indistinguishable, as the memory of his touch and the reality of her solitude merged into a single, devastating truth.

She was alone. She had made herself alone. And she didn’t know how to find her way back.

Diana collapsed back into the chair, her hand still buried between her legs, her chest heaving with silent sobs. The photographs on her desk seemed to mock her now—the heroic boy who had saved lives, who had written her poetry, who had looked at her like she hung the moon, and whom she was systematically destroying because she was too afraid, too broken, too goddamn royal to allow herself happiness.

She pulled her fingers free with a wet sound that made her flinch, wiping them on a handkerchief—embroidered with her crest, because even in her degradation she couldn’t escape who she was—and straightened her skirt with trembling hands. She checked her reflection in the antique mirror across the room, smoothing her hair, dabbing at her smeared mascara, practicing the smile that had fooled the world for twenty years.

”Tea with the boys,” she whispered to her reflection. ”Be normal. Be Mummy. Be Diana.”

But as she stood on shaking legs and walked toward the door, unlocking it with hands that still smelled of her own arousal, she knew she was none of those things anymore. She was a woman haunted by a ghost she had created, in love with a boy she couldn’t have, and destroying the only thing that had ever made her feel whole.

The guilt was her constant companion now, worse than any tabloid headline, worse than any royal scandal. Because this time, the pain wasn’t being inflicted on her by others. She was doing it to herself. And in doing so, she was hurting the one person who had ever looked at her and seen something worthy of love rather than duty, something beautiful rather than broken.

She paused at the door, her hand on the knob, and allowed herself one final moment of weakness—pressing her forehead against the cool wood and whispering into the empty room:

”I’m sorry, my love. I’m so sorry. I don’t know how to stop.”

Then she straightened her spine, wiped the tears from her cheeks, and walked out to be Lady Diana for her sons, even as her heart remained locked in that study with the photographs of a boy who hunted leopards and had somehow, impossibly, captured her.

...

They aren’t alone in this, and this wasn’t a mere celebrity worship.

It was a collective, feminine fever dream sweeping through women of all ages.

Britney called it sick and canceled her plans just to lie on her bed and frantically touch herself while staring at the photos on her tablet. Charlize locked herself in her bedroom during lunch, skirt shoved up around her waist, desperately riding her own fingers with muffled moans. Kate dropped to her knees in front of her full-length mirror, frantically rubbing her clit while moaning his name like a prayer. Liv, Keira, Bryce, Emily, and Drew all gave in as well — each of them alone, flushed, and soaked, desperately fingering themselves while obsessing over the same images of Marvin.

Even women who had never met him, shallow fans and non-fans alike, felt it.

A quiet, inexplicable tightening low in their bellies. A sudden rush of warmth between their thighs. At the moment each image was captured, the Incubus’s magic was woven into combined with Marvin using his charms and aura at full power. Somehow, the enchantment propagated through cameras, photographic film, and printed ink, allowing the supernatural influence to reach the ladies directly and awaken ancient, primal instincts buried deep within the psyche—the innate desire for strength, safety, and dominance.

Women who hadn’t spoken in months suddenly called each other just to whisper about the photos. Group friends that had gone silent for weeks exploded with calls. ”Have you seen the new pictures?” became code for ’I’m wet and I don’t know why.’

The discussion about Marvin among these women became a perfect microcosm of the cultural earthquake happening across the United States.

After the news broke, it caused a national sensation.

Swept up in the romanticism of the story, some argued that Marvin’s heroism deserved a civilian medal. Older conservatives thought that an American boy saving foreigners had brought pride back to the country’s youth.

Not everyone accepted the story.

As the tale spread across television screens and newspaper front pages, skepticism followed close behind. To many, it simply sounded too unbelievable.

A fourteen-year-old boy.

Two fully grown African leopards.

A compound bow.

It read less like a police report and more like the plot of an adventure film.

Talkback radio filled with callers insisting there had to be more to the story. Internet message boards, still primitive by modern standards, buzzed with theories. Some dismissed the entire incident as clever publicity timed to keep Marvin’s name in the headlines while he prepared new music and books.

The British tabloid News of the World went further than anyone else.

Its weekend edition splashed the story across the front page beneath a bold headline:

”*LEOPARD FAIRY TALE?*”

Inside, the paper questioned nearly every detail of the official account.

*”Are we really expected to believe that a fourteen-year-old celebrity calmly killed two charging leopards with a bow and arrow? Or has Hollywood’s publicity machine struck again?”*

The article suggested—without offering evidence—that professional security personnel may have been responsible for killing the animals before ”a more marketable version of events” found its way to the press.

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