A Life in Hollywood
Chapter 3 - Kristen Stewart
The memory of those sounds, the raw, primal symphony from Charlize's trailer, had become an obsession for Kristen Stewart. It was a constant, low-grade hum in the back of her mind, a secret heat that would flare up at the most inconvenient moments. She'd find herself zoning out during takes, the director's voice fading away as the phantom thump of a headboard echoed in her ears. She'd watch Charlize on set, regal and composed, and see flashes of the desperate, pleading woman she'd imagined. It was maddening. It was intoxicating.
The whispers on set were like scattered embers, and Kristen's mind was a tinderbox. She heard a grip mention "the miracle worker" to a lighting tech. She overheard a makeup artist complaining about a sore neck and another saying, "You should get Morse to fix it. He worked magic on Charlize." Morse. The name clicked into place like the final piece of a puzzle. Osiah Morse. The quiet, unassuming production assistant she'd seen hovering at the edge of the set, always watching, always with a calm, focused expression. It was him. The faceless man from her fantasy had a face.
Knowing who he was only made the obsession worse. She found herself seeking him out, her eyes scanning the chaos of the set until they landed on him. He was always moving with a quiet efficiency, a man who knew his place in the machine but seemed utterly unconcerned with the machine's glamour. He was a blank slate, and her mind was only too happy to paint vivid, depraved pictures on it.
After a particularly grueling day of running through a muddy forest in a soaking wet dress, Kristen decided she couldn't take it anymore. The cold, the damp, the frustration—it had all coalesced into a single, burning need. She had to know. She had to feel.
She found him near the equipment trucks, meticulously coiling a thick length of cable. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, a frantic, nervous rhythm.
"Osiah?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
He looked up, his eyes clear and direct. There was no flicker of recognition, no hint that he knew who she was, or that he was the star of her most private fantasies. "Yeah?"
"Kristen Stewart," she said, a little lamely.
"I know," he replied, a small, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. "What can I do for you?"
This was it. The moment of truth. "I, uh… I heard some things. From the crew. They said you… you do massages."
"I do," he confirmed, his tone even, non-committal.
"Oh. Good." She felt like an idiot. Her palms were sweating. "I've been… really sore. From the running. And the… the dress. It's heavy."
"It would be," he said, his gaze dropping to her shoulder for a moment before returning to her face. "I can see the tension in your neck."
The simple, direct observation sent a jolt of arousal through her. He wasn't just looking at her; he was *seeing* her. "So… you'd be available? For a session?"
"I'm free after the main unit wraps for the day. Eight o'clock work for you?"
Kristen practically had to stop herself from sighing in relief. "Yeah. Yeah, eight o'clock is perfect. My trailer."
"I'll be there," he said, and then he turned back to his cable, the conversation over as far as he was concerned.
Kristen walked away, her legs trembling, a triumphant, giddy feeling bubbling up inside her. She had done it. She had taken the first step. And tonight, she was going to find out if the reality was even half as potent as the fantasy.
The hours until eight o'clock crawled by. Kristen rushed through her post-wrap routine, her mind racing. She showered, the hot water steaming up the small bathroom of her trailer. She washed away the mud and the grime of the set, but she couldn't wash away the anticipation. It was a living thing, a coiling serpent of desire in her stomach. She dried herself and stood in front of the mirror, looking at her reflection. She was thin and pale, with a smattering of tattoos that were a stark contrast to her Snow White costume. She wondered what he would see. Would he see the movie star? Or would he see the nervous, desperate woman who had been fantasizing about him for days?
She decided not to overthink it. She pulled on a soft, oversized t-shirt and a pair of simple cotton shorts. It was casual, almost nonchalant, but it was also a choice. It was an invitation.
At exactly eight o'clock, there was a soft knock on her door. Kristen's heart leaped into her throat. She took a deep, steadying breath and opened it.
Osiah stood there, dressed in a simple black t-shirt and jeans, his canvas bag in his hand. He looked exactly the same as he had on set, but here, in the confined space of her doorway, he seemed larger, more imposing. His presence filled the small trailer.
"Come in," she said, her voice a little shaky.
He stepped inside, his eyes scanning the room before landing on her. "Where do you want to set up?"
"The bed is fine," she said, gesturing toward the small, unmade bed in the corner.
He moved with the same quiet efficiency she'd observed before, laying out his towels and oil. "Lie on your stomach," he said, his voice calm and professional. "On top of the covers."
Kristen complied, her heart pounding. She lay down, her face turned to the side, her hands clasped together under the pillow. She could feel the cool air on the back of her legs, and she shivered, a mix of cold and anticipation.
He started the massage, his hands warm and strong as they began to work on her shoulders. The touch was firm, confident, and immediately, Kristen felt the tension begin to melt away. He was good. Incredibly good. His hands found knots she didn't even know she had, his thumbs digging deep into the muscle, releasing the tightness with a skill that was almost unnerving.
They were silent for a long time, the only sounds the soft music playing from a small speaker and the gentle rustle of the sheets. It was Kristen who broke the silence.
"This is… amazing," she murmured, her voice muffled by the pillow.
"It's a tough shoot," he replied, his voice low and steady. "The physical toll is often underestimated."
"Yeah," she agreed. "Everyone thinks it's all just… standing around and looking pretty. They don't see the running in the mud, the cold, the weight of the costumes."
"It's a different kind of performance," he said, his hands moving down to her lower back. "You're not just acting; you're enduring."
"I guess so," she said. "I've been doing this since I was a kid. I'm used to it, but… it doesn't get easier, you know? You just get better at hiding how much it hurts."
His hands paused for a moment. "You don't have to hide with me," he said, his voice soft.
The simple statement, so unexpected and so sincere, made something in Kristen's chest tighten. She felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to be honest, to let him see the vulnerability she worked so hard to conceal.
"I always feel like I have to be 'on'," she confessed, her voice barely a whisper. "Like there's always a camera on me, even when there isn't. It's exhausting."
"I can imagine," he said, his hands resuming their work, his touch gentle now, more soothing. "You've been playing a part for a long time."
"Yeah. Snow White is… different, though. She's so pure, so good. Sometimes it feels like a lie."
"Is it?" he asked, his fingers tracing the line of her spine. "Or is it just a different part of you?"
Kristen didn't have an answer for that. She closed her eyes, focusing on the sensation of his hands on her skin. The conversation had strayed into dangerous, intimate territory, and it was making her feel things she hadn't expected. This wasn't just about a massage anymore. It was about connection. It was about being seen.
His hands moved lower, sweeping over the curve of her ass. The touch was still professional, but it sent a jolt of electricity through her. She held her breath, waiting to see what he would do.
His hands lingered for a moment longer than was strictly necessary before moving down to her thighs. He worked his way down her legs, his touch firm and therapeutic, but the air between them had changed. It was charged with a new, unspoken tension.
"Turn over," he said.
Kristen's heart was hammering. She rolled over onto her back, her t-shirt riding up to expose her stomach. She didn't pull it down. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and questioning.
He started on her shoulders again, his hands working their way down her arms. His touch was slow, deliberate. As he worked on her forearm, his fingers brushed against the side of her breast. It was an accident, a byproduct of the broad, flowing strokes, but it was a deliberate-seeming accident. Kristen shivered, her breath catching in her throat.
He moved down to her stomach, his hands flat on her skin. He was so close to where she wanted him to be, so close to the heat that was building between her legs. She felt a surge of boldness, a desperate need to bridge the gap between them.
"Lower," she whispered, the word barely audible. "Please."
Osiah's hands stilled. He looked at her, his gaze intense, searching. He saw the plea in her eyes, the raw, unguarded need that stripped away all pretense. He didn't ask if she was sure. He didn't hesitate. He simply moved his hands, his fingers sliding under the waistband of her shorts, his knuckles brushing against the soft skin of her stomach.
He hooked his thumbs into the fabric and slowly, deliberately, pulled them down. Kristen lifted her hips to help him, her body acting on pure instinct. The cotton shorts slid down her legs, and she kicked them away, leaving her naked from the waist down, exposed to him in the soft light of her trailer. She should have felt embarrassed, ashamed, but all she felt was a dizzying sense of relief. The secret was out. The desire was no longer hers alone.
His hands returned to her body, his touch now bolder, more exploratory. He caressed her inner thighs, his fingers tracing a path of fire toward her core. She was slick, wet, and aching for his touch. When his fingers finally brushed against her folds, she let out a soft, desperate moan.
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She turned her head to look at him. He was staring at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling, his expression unreadable. He wasn't panting or glowing with post-coital bliss. He was just… calm. As if he'd just completed a particularly strenuous but satisfying workout.
Kristen didn't know what to say. Thank you seemed inadequate. That was amazing felt like an understatement. She settled for silence, watching him, trying to piece together what had just happened. It wasn't just sex. It was a demolition. He had taken her apart, piece by piece, with his hands and his words, and then put her back together in a completely new configuration.
After a few minutes, he spoke, his voice quiet and even. "You should drink some water. You're dehydrated."
It was such a practical, mundane thing to say that it caught her completely off guard. She let out a small, breathy laugh. "Okay."
He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He stood up, completely unconcerned with his nakedness, and walked over to the small mini-fridge in the corner of the trailer. He pulled out a bottle of water, twisted the cap off, and handed it to her.
She sat up, pulling the sheet around her body, suddenly feeling shy. She took the bottle, her fingers brushing against his. "Thanks."
She drank deeply, the cool water a balm to her dry throat. He watched her, his gaze analytical, not lustful. He was observing, assessing.
"You're tighter than I would have thought," he said, his tone conversational, as if he were commenting on the weather.
Kristen nearly choked on her water. She stared at him, her eyes wide. Was he serious?
He met her gaze, a faint, almost imperceptible smile on his lips. "Your muscles," he clarified, his voice deadpan. "Your hamstrings and glutes. They're incredibly tight. The running in the mud, combined with the emotional tension of the role… it's a bad combination. We'll need to work on that."
For a moment, she was speechless. He was seamlessly transitioning back to his role as the therapist, discussing her muscle groups as if he hadn't just fucked her into a state of blissful oblivion. The sheer audacity of it was astonishing. And, she realized with a start, incredibly hot.
"Work on it?" she asked, her voice a little shaky.
"If you want," he said, his gaze unwavering. "My schedule is flexible for the leads. But I should warn you, my methods are… intensive."
A slow smile spread across Kristen's face. The exhaustion was still there, a pleasant, heavy blanket over her limbs, but a new energy was beginning to stir, a familiar, hungry heat. She looked at the man standing before her, a quiet, unassuming figure who held more power in his little finger than any director she had ever worked with.
She had come to him seeking relief from a physical ache. He had given her that, and so much more. He had seen the real her, the desperate, needy, hungry woman beneath the movie star facade, and he hadn't run away. He had claimed her.
"I think," she said, her voice regaining its strength, "I can handle intensive."
He nodded, a look of satisfaction in his eyes. "Good. I'll see you tomorrow, then. Same time."
He didn't wait for an answer. He simply gathered his clothes, dressed with the same quiet efficiency he had undressed, and picked up his bag. He walked to the door, his hand on the knob.
"Osiah," she said, just as he was about to leave.
He turned, his questioning gaze on her.
"Thank you," she said, and this time, she meant it with every fiber of her being.
He gave her a small, almost formal nod. "You're welcome, Kristen."
And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving her alone in the quiet of her trailer. Kristen lay back down on the bed, the sheet tangled around her legs. She could still smell him on her skin, still feel the ghost of his touch. She closed her eyes, a slow, contented smile spreading across her face. She had a feeling tomorrow was going to be a very good day.
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