Backstage with Mya Diamond

We had a cameraman, lights hot, and makeup chairs empty. The other girl bailed. Mya Diamond stepped in, saving the morning. Blonde hair, fresh face, she looked around the backstage like she owned it, then turned to the dark-haired boy waiting by the racks. She slipped to her knees, took him out, and fed herself. Slow, wet pulls, her tongue sliding underneath, then faster, cheeks hollowing. She kept her eyes up when he started to breathe harder. He gripped her ponytail, held her still, and painted her lips and tongue white. Mya swallowed once, licked the rest, then smiled—same girl, older eyes, still hungry.