DiddyUp: An Erotic Fantasy for Upton and Combs

Photo: Pascal Le Segretain,Gareth Catermole/Getty Images, iStockphoto.

The air around Kate and Diddy crackled with electricity, the raw potential of their union more intoxicating than their Cîroc cocktails. Enthroned at the most centrally discreet table at Gemma, they basked in the adulation of the watching, whispering diners. One Instagram picture, the right hashtag, and the world would know their secret; but the world was not yet ready. The ritual was an old one with ancient magics at play, heralding the birth of a new supercouple. All that was promised to Kate Upton was coming to pass.

When Kate Upton made her deal with the devil, she was assured both worldwide saturation and a partner to match her in ebullience and naked ambition. A singular sort of man would join her at the height of her power, said Beelzebub, and together they would hold the planet in thrall and have a combined Twitter harvest of 10 million souls. Now, after years in the dark lord’s service, driving countless men and women to lust, covet, and make a false (yet real, and spectacular) idol of her, Kate’s golden power swelled and grew larger. There were rumors that even House Wintour could not resist her influence much longer, and would be forced to pay fealty.

One by one the other Glossy Fiefdoms had fallen — British Vogue, Vogue Italia, French ELLE, German GQ. High Priests of Photography like Steven Meisel, Terry Richardson, and Gilles Bensimon paid her court. Soon enough the Kingdom of Couture would be conquered. Triumphant, transformed forever from bikini babe to household name, Kate knew her time had come, and reminded the King of Lies of his promise. Lucifer had his hands full with the ongoing Justin Bieber situation but granted the boon, since like most men, he could refuse Kate nothing, stammering helplessly whenever she was around.

In a puff of brimsmoke, the first meeting was arranged via Mephistopheles’s most cunning servant. Backstage at Ellen, Kate and Diddy came together in council. Both were amenable to the alliance. But neither had expected the instant attraction. They saw themselves in each other, saw the future, saw how as a pair, as an idea — DiddyUp — they would play cat and mouse with the Tower of Media and its supplicants. Soon, they swore, and waited for their stars to align (and for the Sports Illustrated 2013 swimsuit issue to hit newsstands in February).

The stage had been set. Dinner at Gemma was a carefully coordinated affair, the second step in their nascent ascension. (The first step had been sucking face at a Miami nightclub in March in full view of the hidden Media spies, to give them a taste of the coming new order.) For the New York foray, Kate wore flame-red, with a demure V at the bosom that afforded her some disguise, and Diddy wore dark sunglasses and a suit he had designed in the shower that morning.

All eyes were on them, but they lingered over their small plates of Italian delicacies. Kate sighed, growing bored of toying with the people, longing to do more than just tease. “Our hour is at hand, my love,” she whispered, dipping her third truffle scented mushroom crostini in sauce, then licking it free, while the watching waitstaff fall to their knees. “Even now the servants of Media are reporting to their Masters, and the speculation will begin. Our names will be on every mouth.”

“Patience. We need only wait a news cycle longer, my love,” Diddy agreed, teeth gleaming bright in a shark’s grin. “Then we will burn Twitter to the ground, and send Instagram spinning off its axis.”

They toasted their success, clinking crystal goblets. “Tell me how it will go,” Kate purred. “I like to hear it said.” Their knees touched underneath the table, and nearby a lurking gossip merchant squealed and lost hold of his phone.

“After the initial denials, when the feeding frenzy is at its peak, we will reveal ourselves,” said Diddy. “The people clamor for us already, though they know it not; we have a sense of the inevitable about us. We will break international news; we will make the headlines scream. Keep in mind, sweet Katherine, that our asking price for a sponsored retweet or Instagrammed product placement will be unprecedented. Every Fashion House must yield; even the mightiest will be breached, and our co-brand writ in blood and fire.”

She shuddered with pleasure. “Let us to the roof,” Kate suggested, “that we might gaze upon the city that so soon shall be ours.” The sparkling city spread out infinite in every direction around them, as infinite as the profit margins they would command.

“I must have you,” declared Diddy, starting to put words to action. The nights of gravity-defying Snapchat while they waited for public launch were never enough. High above the city they let their passion run unbridled. They spun into the oldest dance, even more alluring than the Cat Daddy. Diddy hitched Kate to the wall, pinning her there with the awesome strength of his personality. As they moaned and moved together, lighting forked across the sky and winds arose to howl an unholy hymn at the bidding of Mammon. After so much time spent apart, denying what they were, now they could not get enough of each other, and coupled with wild abandon amidst the ominous boom of thunder.

Kate’s body was the eighth wonder of the world, but Diddy proved to have much to teach her when it came to sins of the flesh. In the 23 years he had walked the earth before she was born, he had hardly been idle. Now he was a master manipulator of men and opinion, and with his hands full of Kate’s trademarked thighs, he pressed into her and whispered the secrets of how to become a living legend valued at half a billion dollars. Buoyant and writhing her bliss, Kate drank him in, alternating cries of his name with praise of the Fiend who had brought them together.

Their ardor could not be quenched, not even when Kate urged Diddy down onto a rooftop lounge chair and showed how she had been a champion equestrian in youth, unmatched in riding ability. They were so dazzling with their powers and assets combined that a spying servant of the New York Post self-combusted to see them, and so lost out on the story to his fellow from the Daily News, who barely escaped with her life. High above New York, Kate and Diddy made the beast with two backs while the earth trembled and the Great Beast smiled upon his most important creation. All was advancing according to plan.