The Hidden Romance of misstar

misstar begins at 3:17 a.m. in a hotel suite. City glow through half-open blinds stripes her restless body. She can’t sleep, so misstar becomes her lullaby. Slow, almost lazy circles over silk panties gradually soak the fabric dark. In misstar, she pushes them aside instead of removing them—impatient, perfect. Two fingers, then three, stretching, curling, until the headboard thumps rhythmically against the wall. When she finally comes in misstar, it’s with a muffled scream into the pillow, whole body shaking so hard the mattress springs sing. Dawn finds her asleep in tangled sheets, panties still twisted to the side—proof that misstar worked better than any sleeping pill.