Author's Note:
The following story is fictional and takes place in a fictional world. None of these events happened to Miley Cyrus. All characters are 18 years of age or older.
*****
Nowadays, when people think about Miley Cyrus, they probably envision a 21-year-old temptress whose life is one big swirl of sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll. And it's true...that's basically what she has become. When I think of her, though, I think back to an incredible few weeks in summer 2011 when our paths crossed. She was much purer back then...just eight months past her 18
th
birthday and still, at that point, the uncorrupted ingénue from Nashville, Tennessee, who came out to the West Coast with a pretty face and a dream of music superstardom. She was already an incredible success, of course, but she hadn't yet gotten into the party lifestyle and she was still, more or less, a wide-eyed innocent.
At the time, I was in my late 20s, independently wealthy and living in Beverly Hills. I didn't have a woman in my life—well, at least, not
one woman—
and I spent most of my days balancing work with a fitness regimen that kept my body toned and sculpted. Years earlier, I had had my own phase of partying, drinking and getting high 'til dawn, but I had basically outgrown that stuff and, for the most part, my life was on the quiet side...kind of boring. And, even though I lived in one of the ritziest, most celebrity-infested areas of the country, I wasn't the kind of guy who was looking to cling to some Kim Kardashian or Lindsay Lohan type. Shit, I barely knew who they were.
But, one day, while I was on my morning run, I couldn't help but notice the vixen in front of me with the long legs and the firm, round butt. I had no idea who she was—I'd never seen her before—but I found myself transfixed by her bouncing form. Although I tried to stay a respectable distance behind her so she wouldn't notice me, I kept right on her shapely tail for a quarter-mile...a half-mile...a mile or more. When she stopped to catch her breath and take a swig from her water bottle, I sidled up to her and flashed a smile while running my hands through my dampened black hair. She smiled back shyly and batted her eyes with an almost cartoonish innocence.
"God, I love running in the morning," I said, lifting up the bottom of my shirt both to wipe the sweat from my brow and to reveal my cut abs. "I can't even get into the day unless I've run three or four miles."
"You must be in great shape," she said, eyeing me up and down.
For my part, I tried to be more subtle in checking her out, although I don't know how successful I was. She had her wavy but sweat-matted mane of brown hair pulled over her right shoulder, the ends resting against her light purple sports bra. Her fair skin was clear and smooth, speckled with just a dusting of freckles. The sports bra hugged her modest breasts, whose hard nipples peeked out through the material.
"I try to keep fit," I said, stretching my back and trying to be nonchalant. "Jeff, by the way. My name's Jeff."
"I'm Miley," she replied.
You're probably not reading this because you have any great interest in the time Miley and I spent together prior to reaching the intimate stage, so I'll fast-forward through most of the next few weeks. Suffice it to say, we became the highlight of each other's morning. Within a couple days of our first meeting, we decided to do our runs together, keeping each other company and pushing each other to go harder and harder.
By that point, I knew who she was and that she was a rich and famous pop star, but, honestly, it was beside the point. We didn't talk about her money, her fame or her music. Honestly, we didn't really talk about much of
anything
...it wasn't that kind of relationship. I think we were both just looking for companionship and, for whatever reason, we both felt incredibly at ease with one another. There was just this super-relaxed vibe. At the same time, though, the sexual tension was undeniable. It was the summertime and, when a heat wave descended on SoCal, I started running bare-chested. I couldn't help but notice that Miley seemed to like that, her eyes gazing in particular at the thick coating of black chest hair covering my torso. By the same token, every time I looked at her body, a yearning radiated palpably through my loins.
One morning, after a long run, I invited her into my place to cool down and escape the hot sun. I expected that she might turn me down—I mean, remember, I was in my late 20s and she was a pop princess who was four months shy of turning 19—but she smiled, thanked me and followed me inside. I had the central air-conditioning blasting and it might have been a little too cold for her in the house, because I almost immediately saw goose pimples form on her delicate, nearly hairless alabaster skin. She crossed her arms in front of her and rubbed them up and down.
"Hey, let me turn that down," I said. She responded with a girlish giggle.
After a few minutes of casual conversation in my living room, I said, "Can you excuse me for a minute? I always shower after a run and I feel all sticky. Do you mind?"
"Go on," she said, smiling. "I'll stay here and wait. Then maybe I can take one, too?"
I walked up the curved staircase to the second floor and, upon reaching the top, stripped down. I walked into the bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar, and took a hot, steamy shower, thinking the whole time about what to do next...or, more specifically, what
might happen
next. Miley really had me turned on, and I hoped she might be interested.
After my shower, I wrapped a towel around my waist and walked toward my bedroom. For some reason, I always liked to towel off in front of my full-length mirror in there. I sauntered into the bedroom, lost in my thoughts. It was only after a couple seconds that, to my surprise, I noticed Miley had sprawled out on my bed in her sports bra and spandex running shorts.
"Squeaky clean?" she asked with a smile and a giggle.
I chuckled and lay down on the bed beside her, effortlessly slipping my right arm beneath her body and curling it around her shoulder.
"Is it OK that I'm in here?" she asked flirtatiously, even while betraying a sense of being insecure...just a little unsure of herself.
I responded wordlessly with a nod and then slowly leaned in for a long, sensual kiss. Miley responded immediately, her probing tongue caressing my lips and her fingers entangling in my chest hair. I cupped her face with both hands and kissed her deeply, my tongue invading her mouth and tasting the flavor of cinnamon...perhaps something she'd had for breakfast earlier. She moaned and grunted as I rained kisses on her lips, her cheeks and her neck. When I ran my tongue along her collarbone, she squeezed her pert breasts through the sports bra. Her body tickled and tingled with sensual heat, her toes curling in pleasure.
After a few moments, I pulled back and sat up. As if reading my mind, Miley lifted her arms in the air, letting me remove the sports bra and free her perky B-cup breasts, whose brownish areolas were topped with thick, fully erect nipples. She lay back down as I crawled to the foot of the bed, taking her spandex running shorts in my hands and peeling them from her lean, slender, nubile body.
I expected that she would be fully shaved, but I found a dense thatch of brown pubic hair covering her womanhood. She crossed her legs nervously, keeping me from seeing her slit. I ran my hand over her groin ever so lightly and then crawled back up. Finally, I loosened the towel from my waist, letting it drop to the floor beside the bed.
