A Life in Hollywood
Chapter 10 - Taylor Swift, Emillia Clarke, Scarlett Johansson, Jennifer Aniston & Emma Roberts (2014 People's Choice Awards)
The red carpet of the 2014 People's Choice Awards was a glittering, chaotic beast, a sea of flashing cameras and screaming fans. But for Osiah Morse, the real event was happening in the quiet, tinted sanctuary of the limousine cruising towards it. He was Emma Roberts's plus one, a strategic choice on her part to have a friendly, grounding presence in the sea of Hollywood sharks. *We're the Millers* was up for several awards, and the excitement in the air was palpable.
His phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with a name that made him smile. Jennifer Aniston.
"Hey, you," he answered, his voice a low, warm rumble, a stark contrast to the sterile, digital connection.
"Hey, yourself," Jennifer Aniston's voice came through the line, a mix of warmth and genuine excitement that felt like a hug. "Are you two almost there? I'm so excited to see you both. I'm literally sitting in my hotel room, fully dressed, and tapping my foot like an idiot. I'm rooting for our little dysfunctional family tonight."
"We're crawling through traffic, but we're close," Osiah said, leaning his head back against the plush leather of the limousine seat. "Emma's a nervous wreck. She's been staring out the window for the last ten minutes, convinced her dress is going to spontaneously combust."
"I am not!" Emma's muffled voice protested from his lap, a playful indignation that was entirely unconvincing.
As if to prove her point—and to distract herself from the impending red-carpet onslaught—she made herself comfortable, her expert hands working with practiced ease to undo his belt and zipper. Osiah stifled a groan as she freed his already hardening cock, her fingers cool and confident against his heated skin. He shifted, spreading his legs slightly to give her better access as she leaned over, her red hair a soft cascade over his thighs.
"That's my girl," Jennifer laughed on the other end of the line. "Tell her to have a drink and relax. The champagne in here is surprisingly decent. She's going to be brilliant. You both are. It's wild, isn't it? All this time has passed, and we're still talking about that movie. I was just telling my agent the other day how much fun we had shooting it. Remember that day in the desert? I thought I was going to melt into a puddle of sunscreen and desperation."
"I remember you being a total pro," Osiah said, his voice straining slightly as Emma took him into her mouth, her tongue swirling around the head with a practiced, teasing flick. "While the rest of us were complaining, you were just nailing every take."
"Oh, please," Jennifer scoffed, though he could hear the pleasure in her voice. "I was just as whiny. I just had a better trailer. Speaking of which, how's the world of production treating you, Mr. Morse? Still climbing the ladder, making sure all the trains run on time? I heard you were on the Scorsese film. That's insane. Leo and Marty… I can't even imagine."
"It's a different kind of circus," Osiah managed, his focus beginning to fracture as Emma began to suck in earnest, her movements slow and deliberate, her lips a perfect, tight seal around his shaft. "The hours are just as long, but the coffee is better. And there's less chance of being bitten by a scorpion."
Jennifer laughed, a rich, genuine sound. "Well, you're the one who wanted to be in the thick of it. You've got that weird calm about you, you know. You're not an actor, so you don't have that crazy, neurotic energy, but you're not just a suit, either. You see things. It's why you're so good at what you do. You see the whole machine."
"I just try to keep my head down and do my job," he said, his breath hitching as Emma took him deeper, her tongue doing something wicked that made his vision blur for a second.
"Oh, she's relaxing right now," Osiah managed, his voice a little too tight, a little too breathless. "She's found her own way to take the edge off." He was trying to keep his voice steady, to maintain the illusion of a normal conversation, but Emma was making it incredibly difficult. The wet, rhythmic sounds of her efforts were soft at first, a delicate, private melody, but they grew louder, more insistent, a steady, obscene counterpoint to his and Jennifer's casual chat.
"Good," Jennifer said, her voice cheerful, oblivious for a moment longer. "The last thing she needs is to be all tense when they call our names. You know how she gets. She'll be fine once she's out there and in the zone. The camera loves her." There was a brief pause on the line, a beat of silence filled only by the faint sound of city traffic and the much closer, much wetter sounds from Osiah's lap. Then, her voice shifted, a subtle change in tone that was both curious and knowing. "Although, Osiah… you do know that I can very much hear the loud slurping and… what is that? The *gluck, gluck, gluck* sounds. Are you getting a very, very thorough blowjob in the back of a limo on the way to the People's Choice Awards?"
Osiah let out a choked, embarrassed laugh, the sound catching in his throat as Emma swirled her tongue just so. "Busted," he admitted, his face flushing a shade of crimson that had nothing to do with the limo's ambient lighting.
Emma froze, her mouth still full of him, a wave of hot shame washing over her at being so casually, so expertly called out. It was one thing to be caught in the act, but to be called out by Jennifer Aniston, with that amused, knowing tone, was a different level of humiliation entirely. She could feel the vibrations of Jennifer's laughter through the phone, a sound that was both terrifying and strangely exhilarating.
"You little minx," Jennifer teased, her voice dropping from cheerful to a conspiratorial, husky purr that was thick with intrigue. "Emma, you never cease to amaze me. But now you've made me… incredibly curious. I don't want to just hear it. I want to see. FaceTime me. Right now. Don't you dare hang up. Show me exactly how deep you're taking Osiah's cock."
{R-18 Osiah x Emma Roberts, Jennifer Aniston 2494 word count [aFireFist on p.a.t.r.e.o.n]}
"Let's all freshen up," Osiah said, his voice a low, calming murmur, a gentle command to rejoin the world of the living.
Emma just made a soft, agreeable noise, a muffled hum of assent as she burrowed her face into his chest, unwilling to move just yet. On the phone screen, Jennifer's chest was still rising and falling, her breathing slowly returning to normal. A lazy, utterly sated smile graced her lips.
"I will," she confirmed, her voice a husky, contented rasp. "God, I will. And Osiah? That was… that was my second-biggest orgasm, second only to the one I had with you in your trailer. I didn't think anything could get near that, but with you involved, it came damn close." She let out a soft, breathy laugh. "My phone is absolutely soaked, by the way. I think I short-circuited it. I'll probably have to get a new one. Worth it."
The image of Jennifer Aniston casually discussing destroying her own phone with her squirt got a genuine, hearty laugh from both Osiah and a muffled giggle from Emma. It was the perfect, absurd note to end on.
They arrived at the venue, a dazzling cavern of light and sound. As they stepped out of the limo, Osiah immediately saw familiar faces, a constellation of past encounters and shared secrets. There was Scarlett Johansson, a vision in crimson, her cool, intelligent gaze finding his across the crowd. A few feet away, Emilia Clarke was laughing with a group of people, her radiant smile a stark contrast to the weary woman he'd massaged in her trailer. And then, there she was. Taylor Swift, looking like a goddess in a shimmering gold gown, her eyes locking onto him with an intensity that made the air crackle.
She gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod, then a sharp, impatient motion with her head towards a secluded corridor. It was a clear, unambiguous command. He excused himself from a bewildered Emma, who was still trying to compose herself, and followed Taylor down the hallway and into a small, darkened storage room filled with extra chairs and tablecloths.
The moment the door clicked shut, she was on him. Her hands were in his hair, her body pressing against his, her lips crashing against his in a furious, desperate kiss that was all teeth and tongue and raw, pent-up need. It was a kiss of possession, of frustration, of a hunger that had been simmering for weeks.
"Fuck," he growl against her lips, his hands gripping her ass, pulling her tighter against him. "I've been thinking about this."
"Me too," she gasped, her hands frantically working at the buckle of his belt. "Every single night."
He let her pull down his pants, his cock springing free, hard and ready. She didn't hesitate, sinking to her knees on the dusty floor and filling her mouth with him, her lips a perfect, tight seal around his shaft.
{R-18 Osiah x Taylor Swift 2046 word count [aFireFist on p.a.t.r.e.o.n]}
"Yes," she whispered, her voice a breathy, submissive sigh that was filled with a dark, thrilling anticipation. "I will."
"Good girl," he said, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his face. He watched her for a moment, saw the way she shivered, the way her pupils dilated with a mixture of fear and pure, unadulterated lust. "Now let's go back to the party. Let's see if you win your award."
They emerged from the closet, stepping back into the sprawling, cavernous hallway of the awards venue. The world rushed back in—the distant thump of a bass line from the main hall, the murmur of a hundred conversations, the glint of cameras flashing in a far-off corridor. It was like breaking the surface after a deep dive, the sudden, shocking return to air and light. Osiah straightened his tie, his expression returning to its usual calm, unreadable state, the mask of the professional settling back into place as if it had never been removed.
Taylor, with practiced, effortless grace, smoothed down the front of her shimmering gold gown. She was a goddess re-composing herself after a divine tryst, her public persona clicking back into gear with the speed of a seasoned pro. She ran a hand through her hair, checked her reflection in a nearby wall sconce, and then turned to him. She shot him one last, burning look, a look that held all the filthy, desperate promises of their encounter, a silent acknowledgment of the secret they now shared. Then she was gone, gliding away towards her designated section, leaving him to find his own way back.
He navigated the maze of tables and well-wishers, his eyes scanning for the familiar faces of the *We're the Millers* contingent. He found them near the front, a small island of camaraderie in a sea of industry. Jason Sudeikis was mid-story, his hands gesticulating wildly, while Jennifer Aniston listened with a polite, slightly detached smile. Emma, however, looked a little lost, her gaze drifting over the crowd, a flicker of anxiety in her eyes that she was trying valiantly to hide.
Osiah slid into the empty chair beside her, his presence an immediate, calming force. "Hey," he murmured, his voice low and meant only for her. "You okay?"
Emma, who had been looking a little lost, brightened considerably, her whole demeanor softening as she turned to him. "Yeah. Just... a lot," she admitted, her voice a small, vulnerable whisper. Under the table, her hand found his, her fingers intertwining with his, a silent gesture of gratitude that spoke volumes. She squeezed his hand, a small, desperate plea for reassurance.
A few moments later, Taylor returned to her own table, her walk a study in poise and confidence. She was a vision of elegance, a superstar in her element, waving to a few fans and exchanging air kisses with an executive. But as she sat, she felt a warm, subtle trickle between her thighs. His cum, a secret, intimate reminder of their encounter, was leaking from her cunt, a slow, steady drip that was both thrilling and terrifying. It was a forbidden, decadent secret, a mark of his possession that she was carrying out into the open. She crossed her legs, a subtle, almost unconscious gesture to hold onto her secret, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips as she listened to the presenters on stage.
The awards ceremony droned on, a parade of carefully scripted speeches and manufactured emotion. Awards for movies and television were handed out, each met with polite, perfunctory applause. The lights were bright, the music was loud, and the air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and desperation. Then came the moment they had all been waiting for. The category for Favorite Comedy Movie was announced. The camera zoomed in on their table, capturing a moment of shared, hopeful anticipation. Jason leaned forward, his hands clasped together, a look of intense concentration on his face. Jennifer's smile tightened, her eyes fixed on the stage. Emma squeezed Osiah's hand, her knuckles white.
But when the envelope was opened, another name was called. A wave of disappointment, palpable and heavy, washed over their table. It was a sudden, deflating blow, a collective sigh of resignation that was almost audible.
Osiah was the first to react. He placed a comforting hand on Emma's shoulder, his touch a grounding, steady presence. "Hey," he said softly, his voice a low, reassuring murmur. "It was an honor just to be nominated. You were all brilliant. The movie was a hit."
Jason forced a tight smile, nodding in agreement. "He's right. We killed it. We'll get 'em next time." But his voice was a little too loud, a little too cheerful, a transparent attempt to mask his own disappointment.
Jennifer, ever the professional, put on a brave face, but Osiah could see the flicker of disappointment in her eyes. "Well," she said with a sigh, "there's always next time. Now, who's up for a drink?"
But the night wasn't over. The disappointment at their table was a fleeting cloud, soon to be dispersed by a force of nature. Later in the ceremony, as the lights dimmed for a commercial break, the room buzzed with a renewed energy. Then, the house lights came back up, and a familiar, upbeat intro video began to play, highlighting the year's biggest moments in country music. The category for Favorite Country Artist was announced. The camera panned across the nominees—Blake Shelton, Luke Bryan, Carrie Underwood, and then, Taylor Swift. The room held its collective breath.
"And the People's Choice Award for Favorite Country Artist goes to..." The presenter paused for dramatic effect, a beat of silence that stretched for an eternity. "Taylor Swift!"
The room erupted in a deafening roar of applause and cheers. It was a tidal wave of sound, a validation of her global dominance, a final, triumphant farewell to the genre that had launched her into the stratosphere. As she stood, her face a mask of perfect, practiced shock and gratitude, and made her way to the stage, a vision of grace and humility in her shimmering gold gown, Osiah watched her, a knowing, predatory smirk on his face. He knew the secret she was carrying, the warm, sticky proof of their encounter that was leaking from her cunt with every step she took. He watched her walk, her hips swaying with a newfound confidence, a secret, triumphant smile playing on her lips. She was his, and she was winning.
She took the award, her hands trembling slightly, either from emotion or from the sheer, overwhelming thrill of her secret. She began her speech, her voice a perfect blend of humility and genuine surprise. "Wow," she began, her voice clear and strong, a masterclass in public speaking. "I... I don't know what to say. This is... this is incredible. I'm so... I'm so honored." She paused, a thoughtful look on her face, and as she did, she felt another warm trickle between her legs, a slow, steady reminder of his possession. "This is a dream come true. And I... I couldn't have done it without my fans, my family, and... and all the people who believed in me." She was giving the performance of a lifetime, a superstar accepting her award with his cum leaking from her cunt, a secret, triumphant smile playing on her lips as she thanked the world.
After the ceremony, they all moved on to the normal after-party, a sprawling, chaotic affair held in a grand ballroom, filled with music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the sweet, cloying smell of success. Osiah found himself talking to Scarlett Johansson, her cool, intelligent gaze a stark contrast to the frenetic energy of the party.
"Quite a night," she said, a sly, knowing smile on her lips, her eyes flicking towards the stage where Taylor had just accepted her award.
"It always is," he replied, his voice a low, calm rumble, his eyes never leaving hers.
"It's been a while," she said, her tone shifting from playful to genuinely curious. "How have you been? Last I heard, you were conquering the indie film world. Now you're in the big leagues with Marty Scorsese. You're not just a PA with magic hands anymore, are you?"
He chuckled, a low, deep sound. "Still got the magic hands, just using them to untangle production budgets instead of sore muscles now. It's a different kind of knot."
"I'll bet," she purred, her eyes glinting with amusement. "Some things never change, though. I got a message from Taylor," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, her words a soft, intimate caress. "About a little... after-party. I'm looking forward to it."
Later, as he was navigating through a particularly dense crowd, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to find Emilia Clarke, her radiant smile a beacon in the crowded room.
"Osiah!" she exclaimed, her voice a cheerful, melodic sound that cut through the din of the party. "I'm so glad I ran into you."
"Me too, Emilia," he said, his smile genuine, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You're looking incredible tonight."
"Oh, this old thing?" she said, with a playful, dismissive wave of her hand. "I also a message from Taylor," she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief, a playful, impish glint that was both innocent and incredibly seductive. "About her 'party'. I'm very much looking forward to it. It sounds... fun."
Osiah continued to socialize, making connections, his mind a whirlwind of possibilities. He was a man in his element, a master of the game, playing the long game, building his empire one connection at a time. He was a king in his court, and his court was growing. But as he was about to move on to another conversation, he felt a small, determined hand wrap around his wrist.
Emilia leaned in close, her lips brushing against his ear, her voice a low, urgent whisper. "I can't wait until later," she breathed, her warm breath sending a shiver down his spine. "I need something right now. Right this moment. Come with me."
She didn't wait for an answer. She started dragging him through the crowd, her grip surprisingly strong, her movements purposeful and determined. He followed, a bemused smile on his face, as she led him down a series of hallways and corridors, away from the noise and the chaos of the party. They found themselves in a secluded, private bathroom, the door clicking shut behind them, the sudden silence a stark contrast to the din of the party.
"I should have known," he teased, his voice a low, rumbling chuckle. "That sweet-and-innocent act doesn't last long when you're with me, does it?"
She let out a soft, breathy laugh, her eyes sparkling with defiant amusement. "You're right," she admitted, her voice a low, conspiratorial whisper that seemed to absorb the sound of the distant party. "It never does. And right now, I don't want it to." She sank to her knees, her movements fluid and graceful, the rustle of her expensive gown a soft whisper against the marble floor. She looked up at him, her eyes dark and burning with a hunger that was both raw and refined. Her hands, with their perfectly manicured nails, were surprisingly deft as they went to work, expertly undoing his belt and zipper with a practiced ease that spoke of experience.
{R-18 Osiah x Emilia Clarke 1643 word count [aFireFist on p.a.t.r.e.o.n]}
He gently helped her to her feet, his touch surprisingly soft, a stark contrast to the brutal assault he had just unleashed on her. "Recover," he ordered, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Get yourself cleaned up. Go back out there and smile for the cameras. And then, get ready for later. Because tonight, you're going to need all the strength you can get."
With a final, possessive squeeze of her arm, he left her there, a trembling, spent mess in the opulent bathroom. He straightened his tie, ran a hand through his hair, and took a deep, steadying breath. When he stepped back into the hallway, he was once again the calm, collected professional, the master of his own domain. The debauchery of the last few minutes was a secret, a thrilling, decadent memory that was already being filed away.
He re-entered the party, the wall of sound and light washing over him like a physical wave. No one would have guessed. He moved through the crowd with an easy grace, his smile disarming, his conversation charming. He stopped to congratulate a director he'd worked with on a commercial, shared a laugh with a studio executive about a recent box office bomb, and accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. He was a chameleon, a master of the social game, his mind a whirlwind of possibilities even as his body hummed with the residual energy of his encounter with Emilia.
He made his way back to the table where his original party sat. Emma was looking much better, the earlier anxiety replaced by a bright, genuine smile as she chatted with Jason. She looked up as he approached, her eyes softening.
"Hey," she said, her voice warm. "I was wondering where you disappeared to."
"Just making the rounds," he said smoothly, leaning down to kiss her cheek. He caught Jennifer's eye, and she gave him a subtle, knowing look, a faint smirk playing on her lips. She knew. Of course, she knew.
Jason, oblivious, clapped him on the shoulder. "Good man! Gotta work the room. Though I think we're about ready to call it a night. Tough loss, but hey, we'll get 'em next time, right?"
"Absolutely," Osiah agreed, his tone easy. He caught Jennifer's gaze again, and this time, she gave a tiny, almost imperceptible tilt of her head towards the exit, a silent question. He responded with an equally subtle nod. The plan was in motion.
He caught sight of Emilia a little while later, back in the fray. She was laughing with a group of actors, her complexion glowing, her eyes sparkling with a newfound light. She met his gaze from across the room, and for a fleeting moment, her professional mask slipped. A slow, secret smile touched her lips, a silent acknowledgment of their shared transgression. She gave him an almost imperceptible nod, a promise of what was to come. He simply raised his glass to her in a silent toast before turning his attention back to the conversation at hand, the unspoken understanding passing between them like an electric current.
An hour or so later, as the party began to thin out and the goodbyes became more frequent, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He discreetly pulled it out. It was a text from Taylor, a single, cryptic message: "It's time."
He made his excuses, slipping away from the dwindling crowd with the same quiet efficiency he had entered it. The ride up in the elevator was a study in anticipation, the soft music a stark contrast to the thundering of his own heart. This was it. The culmination of the night's promises, the next stage of the game.
He made his way to Taylor's suite, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet of the hallway. He knocked on the door, his knuckles rapping against the polished wood. The door swung open, revealing not Taylor, but an empty, dimly lit living room. He frowned, confused, stepping inside. Then he heard a chorus of soft, conspiratorial giggles from the bedroom.
He followed the sound, his curiosity piqued, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. He pushed open the bedroom door, and his breath caught in his throat.
There they were. Taylor, Emma, Jennifer, Scarlett, and Emilia. All five of them, naked on the king-sized bed, a constellation of perfect, female flesh. They were arranged in a deliberate, inviting tableau, their bodies a feast for the eyes. They were his harem, his personal collection of fuck toys, all dedicated to his pleasure. And they were waiting for him.
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