A Life in Hollywood
Chapter 2 - Charlize Theron
The whisper network in Hollywood was more efficient and more discreet than any official channel. It traveled in first-class lounges and on closed sets, passed between personal assistants and hair stylists, from one leading lady to the next. The name Osiah Morse was no longer just a remedy for a key grip's back pain; it was a secret weapon. He was the quiet cure, the man who could unknot a body and, if the rumors were true, unravel a mind. He was a ghost in the machine, invisible to the public, but known to those who inhabited the highest echelons of the film industry.
His latest assignment was a world away from the high-tech sheen of the *Avengers* set. He was in the middle of a damp, ancient forest in England, on the production of *Snow White and the Huntsman*. The air was thick with the smell of wet earth and decaying leaves, and the mud was a constant, clingy adversary. The aesthetic was gritty and visceral, a dark fairy tale brought to life with brutalist architecture and a palpable sense of dread.
The queen of this particular kingdom was Charlize Theron. Unlike Scarlett Johansson, who wore her physical exhaustion like a badge of honor, Charlize's struggle was less visible. She wasn't throwing herself into stunt fights, but the role of Ravenna, the evil queen, was a different kind of marathon. It was a performance of pure, malevolent energy, held taut for twelve hours a day under pounds of elaborate, suffocating costume and makeup. The corset alone was a form of torture, and the emotional toll of channeling such venomous rage left her feeling drained, hollowed out. She didn't need a sports therapist; she needed an exorcist. She wanted to feel better in her own skin, to reclaim the body that was currently just a vessel for a monster.
The request came via a text message from an unknown number. *This is Charlize Theron. I've heard you're the best. I need you at my trailer at 7 p.m. Don't be late.*
There was no please, no pretense. It was a royal summons. Osiah smiled to himself. He was beginning to enjoy the confidence of the powerful.
Charlize's trailer was a palace compared to the rest of the set. It was a double-wide, a mobile sanctuary of pristine white surfaces, modern art, and the faint, expensive scent of lilies and ozone. She was standing in the center of the living area, still in full queenly regalia. The black velvet gown, the intricate armor plates, the towering crown—it was all there. She looked like a dark goddess, terrifying and beautiful.
"You're Morse," she stated. It wasn't a question. Her eyes, the color of pale ice, swept over him, assessing, judging.
"I am," he replied, his posture relaxed.
"Good. I've been told you're discreet. I expect that to be true." She gestured to a door. "The bedroom is through there. I'll be in in a moment. Set up."
Osiah entered the bedroom. It was immaculate, dominated by a large, king-sized bed with a dark grey silk duvet. He laid out his towels and oil, his movements methodical and calm. He was a technician entering his laboratory.
When Charlize entered, she had changed. The armor and gown were gone, replaced by a simple black silk robe that skimmed her tall, slender frame. Her makeup had been washed away, leaving her face pale and striking. She looked less like a queen now, more like a very beautiful woman worn thin by the day.
"The bed," she said, gesturing briefly. "Face down."
Osiah didn't react at once. "On your stomach," he said after a moment, calm rather than corrective. "You'll need to remove the robe."
A hint of irritation crossed her face—habit, more than anger. She was accustomed to being obeyed. Still, she slipped the robe from her shoulders and let it fall where it landed. Lean muscle and sharp lines, a dancer's body honed by discipline rather than display. She lay down, stretching out along the dark silk, elegant even in stillness.
He began the massage, his hands starting at her neck and shoulders. He could feel the tension immediately. It wasn't the bunched-up, muscular tension of an athlete; it was a tight, anxious energy, a body held in a state of constant, high-alert readiness. He worked his thumbs into her trapezius muscles, and she let out a sharp hiss.
"Too rough?" he asked, his voice neutral.
"No," she bit out. "Don't you dare go easy on me."
He didn't. He applied firm, deep pressure, his elbows finding the knots along her spine. He was methodical, breaking down the layer of tension, muscle by muscle. And then, the teasing began.
It started subtly. A soft sigh that was a little too breathy. A slight arch of her back as his hands swept down over her buttocks. He was working on her glutes, his thumbs digging deep into the powerful muscles, when she let out a low, throaty moan. "Mmm, right there. That's the spot."
He continued his work, his expression unchanged. He had heard it all before.
Her signals became more overt. As he moved to her hamstrings, stretching her long legs, she began to move with him, her body undulating in a rhythm that had nothing to do with therapeutic stretching. She shifted her hips, a subtle invitation, parting her legs slightly wider than necessary.
"Your hands are incredible," she murmured, her voice thick with honey. "So strong. You must work out."
"It's part of the job," he replied, his focus entirely on the muscle he was working.
He moved back up to her shoulders, his hands gliding over her slick skin. She pushed back against him, her ass pressing against his crotch. It was a deliberate, provocative move. He stopped for a fraction of a second, then simply shifted his stance to continue his work, his demeanor completely professional. He was a wall, and she was throwing herself against it.
The dismissal scraped at her pride. And, to her surprise, it thrilled her. Charlize Theron was accustomed to attention bending toward her—directors, producers, co-stars, all softening under a glance or a smile. This man—this assistant—treated her as nothing more than a body under strain. No awe. No hunger. Just work. The audacity of it sent a sharper pulse through her than any easy admiration ever had.
"Turn over," he said, his voice calm.
She did, a smirk playing on her lips. Let's see how professional you are now, she thought. She lay on her back, making no attempt to cover herself. She was a masterpiece of pale skin and toned muscle, her breasts small and perfect, her stomach flat and taut. She watched his face, looking for any crack in his composure, any flicker of desire.
There was nothing. His gaze was clinical as he assessed her. "Your hip flexors are incredibly tight," he noted. "From the corset."
He began to work on her hips, his thumbs pressing deep into the crease where her thigh met her torso. It was an intensely sensitive area, and she couldn't stop the gasp that escaped her lips. He was so close, so maddeningly close to where she was beginning to burn with need. She arched her back, offering herself to him, her legs falling open.
"Osiah," she whispered, her voice a silken thread. "I think… there's another knot you should take care of."
He finally looked up, his eyes meeting hers. They were dark, unreadable. "I'm aware of it," he said, his voice a low rumble. "But I'm not done with the massage yet."
And so, the edging began.
He continued to work on her body, his touch a masterful symphony of pleasure and denial. He would bring her to the brink with his proximity, with the accidental brush of a thumb against her nipple, with the way his hand would linger on her inner thigh, and then he would pull back, redirecting his attention to a neutral area like her calf or her forearm.
It was exquisite torture. Her breathing became ragged, her skin flushed a deep pink. She was getting hornier by the second, her body aching for a touch he refused to give. The control she had wanted to exert over him had been completely inverted. He was the one in control, and she was the one begging, silently at first, and then not so silently.
"Please," she whimpered, her hips rising off the bed, searching for his touch. "Osiah, please."
"Please what?" he asked, his voice maddeningly calm as he massaged her foot.
"Touch me," she gasped. "For fuck's sake, touch me."
"I am touching you," he said, his thumb pressing into her arch.
"You know what I mean!" she cried out, her voice thick with frustration and desperation. She was a mess. The cool, collected queen was gone, replaced by a writhing, desperate woman.
He finally stopped, setting her foot down. He looked at her, at her flushed face and her pleading eyes. He had systematically dismantled her composure, stripping away the layers of star and queen until only raw, unvarnished need remained.
He moved over her, his body a shadow that eclipsed the soft light of the trailer. There was no kiss, no word of warning. He simply hooked his arms under her knees, pushing them up and back, folding her in half. The position folded her completely, opening her to him in a way that was both vulnerable and absolute. He lined himself up, the thick head of his cock nudging against her dripping, swollen entrance. He held himself there, a silent, teasing promise, forcing her to wait, to anticipate.
"Osiah," she breathed, her voice a ragged, desperate plea. It was no longer a command; it was a prayer.
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