A Life in Hollywood
Chapter 17 - Lady Gaga - Part 2
Taylor moaned softly, low and needy. "Mmm... keep going. Fuck, I love when you talk like this."
"I'd drop down on my knees, yank those panties aside, and eat her out right there against the wall. Tongue sliding deep inside her, sucking hard on her clit while she grabs my hair and grinds on my face. She'd be soaked already, dripping down my chin, those powerful thighs squeezing around my head. I'd taste how turned on she is, smell that sweet musk mixing with her perfume. Then I'd stand up, spin her around, bend her over the makeup table, flip that skirt up over her ass, and slide in raw. One hard thrust, all the way to the hilt."
"Fuck... yes," Taylor breathed. The wet, rhythmic sounds of her fingers working between her legs came through the phone clearly now, slick and steady. Her breathing was getting heavier. "Tell me more. How does she feel?"
"Her pussy would be tight and hot, gripping every inch as I stretch her open. I'd grab those wide hips and fuck her deep, steady at first, then harder. Her ass would ripple every single time my hips slam against it—thick, soft flesh bouncing and jiggling with each thrust. I'd watch her face in the mirror across the room: mouth hanging open, eyes starting to roll back, that wild hair all messy across her shoulders. I'd reach up and pull her hair back, arching her more so her big tits spill out of the top of whatever she's wearing, bouncing heavy with every stroke."
Taylor's moans were getting breathier, faster, the wet squelching louder as she fingered herself. "God, yes... I can see it. Keep going. Don't stop."
"I'd reach around and rub her clit while I pound her, feeling her get wetter and wetter. She'd cum hard the first time, pussy squeezing and pulsing around my cock, squirting a little down her thighs and all over the floor. But I wouldn't slow down. I'd flip her onto the couch, throw her legs over my shoulders, folding her in half so I can drive even deeper. Balls slapping loud against her ass, mauling those fat tits the whole time—squeezing them, sucking on her nipples, watching them bounce and slap together."
"Oh shit... I'm so wet," Taylor whimpered. Her voice was breaking more, the sounds of her fingers frantic now. "Tell me how you cum in her. I need it."
"I'd keep pounding her like that, deep and rough, feeling her cum again—screaming my name, nails digging into my back, whole body shaking. Then I'd fill her up. Thick loads pumping deep inside her, pulse after pulse while she milks me dry. I'd pull out slow, watch my cum leak out of her swollen pussy, and make her clean me off with her mouth. She'd suck every last drop, swallowing it all down with that hungry look in her eyes."
Taylor cried out sharply, voice cracking. "Oh god—I'm cumming—fuck!" Her moans turned into loud, broken whimpers as she rode it out. The wet squelching intensified, then a clear, messy rush as she squirted hard. "Shit... I just made such a mess all over the sheets. Soaked everything. I'm such a slut for this."
Osiah chuckled low, voice warm with amusement. "Yeah you are. Filthy girl."
She laughed breathlessly, still panting a little. "Guilty. God, I can't wait for you to be here."
The drive from LA to Vegas was the kind of straight, empty stretch that let your mind wander. Osiah kept the windows down for the first hour, warm desert air whipping through the car and drying the last of the gym sweat on his skin. The old knee felt decent today—no sharp twinges, just a familiar low hum from the boxing session. He'd popped a couple ibuprofen after the workout, but mostly it was the movement that helped. Music played low through the speakers, some old soul tracks mixed with newer stuff he'd been meaning to catch up on. Nothing too loud, just enough to fill the silence without demanding attention.
He thought about the call with Taylor as the miles ticked by. Her excitement had been genuine, that mix of pop-star hustle and the softer side she showed him. Slotting in the Gaga shows felt right—shorter run, West Coast, good people involved. The 1989 tour would be chaos, but he'd make the overlaps work. For now, this was a clean change of pace after the Avengers grind.
By the time he hit the Strip, the sun was beating down hard, turning the pavement into a shimmering haze. The Cosmopolitan looked sharp as always—modern lines, that upscale casino energy—but the Chelsea Theater inside had its own intimate feel. He parked, grabbed his bag with the notes and headset, and headed in. The house crew was already there, a tight group of pros who knew their space. Osiah spent the next couple hours walking every inch with them: checking sightlines from the stage to the seats, mapping backstage flow for quick changes, testing how the lighting rigs moved without catching cables or costumes. He crouched low to eye potential blind spots, stood on marks to simulate performer sightlines, and asked practical questions about power runs and quick-reset timing.
"Looks solid," he told the lead tech, a guy named Mike with a clipboard full of diagrams. "The transitions between numbers are gonna be tight with the jazz setup. We keep the stage clear for Tony and Gaga's movement, but give them room for the band cues. No surprises on the quick changes?"
Mike nodded. "We've got it dialed. Two minutes max between most pieces. You keeping us honest on the cues?"
"That's the plan," Osiah said. Everything felt professional and contained. No massive arena chaos like the 1989 tour was shaping up to be. This was doable—focused, musical, the kind of gig where you could actually hear yourself think between setups.
He was leaning against a tech table reviewing some handwritten notes on his phone when Lady Gaga walked in for rehearsal. She was in full casual mode—black leggings that hugged her thick, powerful thighs and rounded ass, an oversized hoodie that still couldn't hide the curve of her chest, hair pulled back in a simple ponytail with a few strands loose around her face. No stage makeup, just that raw, magnetic energy she carried everywhere. She spotted him talking to the stage manager and headed straight over, big genuine smile lighting up her face.
"Osiah Morse, right?" She stuck out her hand, grip firm and confident. "Taylor said you'd be the guy keeping us from falling apart out here. Huge fan of what you've been doing. Caught some of the Avengers stuff—those Sokovia scenes looked insane on the big screen. You were part of that whole machine?"
"Yeah, 2nd 2nd AD on Age of Ultron," Osiah replied, shaking her hand and matching the smile. Her palm was warm, callused a little from performing. "Mostly herding background actors so the explosions didn't eat everybody alive. Appreciate the vote of confidence from Taylor. She talks you up a lot."
Gaga laughed, that big, unfiltered sound that filled the space around them. It wasn't polished stage laughter—it was real, a little raspy, like she'd been singing all morning. "She's the best. Total sweetheart and a total terror when she wants to be. Come on, walk with me. I want to show you how we're doing the transitions tonight. The flow's a little different with the live band and Tony's stuff mixed in."
They started moving through the theater together, Gaga leading the way with that bouncy, energetic stride. She pointed out spots on the stage, gesturing with her hands as she talked a mile a minute. "See here? After the opening number, we shift quick to the slower jazz piece. I need the mic stand reset exactly there so I can move into the piano section without tripping over cables. The lighting guy's good, but sometimes the cues lag if we're not synced."
Osiah nodded, taking mental notes and asking practical follow-ups. "We can mark the floor clearer for the reset. How's the band positioned? Any sightline issues for Tony during the duets?"
They clicked fast. Gaga was sharp as hell—funny, direct, and clearly passionate about every detail. While checking mic placements along the front of the stage, the conversation drifted naturally to the music itself. She was adjusting a stand when she glanced over at him. "You seem like you actually get this stuff. Most tech guys just want the cues clean. You listen to the music?"
Osiah shrugged, crouching to check a cable run. "Grew up with my dad's collection. Old jazz records, soul, standards. Ella Fitzgerald, Frank Sinatra, Billie Holiday—the way certain tracks just hit different when it's live. There's something about the space and the crowd that changes everything."
Gaga's eyes lit up immediately, that performer spark turning into real excitement. She straightened up, hands on her hips. "Exactly! That's why I wanted Tony for this so bad. The man is a living legend. You know he still practices every single day? The discipline is unreal. We'd run through 'Anything Goes' and he'd tweak one little phrasing until it felt perfect. It's not just hitting the notes—it's about feeling the song breathe."
She launched into a story about one late-night rehearsal where Tony had pulled out an old anecdote from his early career, comparing modern pop production to the raw club days. Osiah listened, nodding along, and shared a bit about his own memories—his dad playing scratched vinyl records on Sunday mornings, the way the horns on a Count Basie track would fill the whole house.
"Basie's swing is unbeatable," Gaga said, grinning wide as they moved toward the side stage area. "That big band energy mixed with the intimacy we're going for here? It's magic. I love blending the standards with my own stuff—taking something classic and making it feel alive again. The crowd last night was losing it during the slower numbers. You could hear a pin drop, then boom, they're on their feet."
They kept walking and talking, checking sightlines from different seats. Gaga asked about his work on the Avengers sets, genuinely curious about how the background coordination worked on those massive action sequences. Osiah kept it straightforward, describing the challenge of making hundreds of extras look like real panicked civilians instead of a crowd waiting for lunch.
"It's all about the small details," he said. "Eyes on each other, natural reactions. Same principle here—just smaller scale, more focus on the music and the performers."
Gaga nodded thoughtfully, leaning against a seat back. "I get that. On stage it's the same. One off moment and the whole illusion breaks. But when it clicks? Nothing better. Tony brings that old-school steadiness. I bring the chaos. Together it works."
The conversation flowed easy as they wrapped the walk-through. She was sharp, funny, and completely open about her process—talking about how the jazz standards pushed her vocally in new ways, how collaborating with Tony felt like a masterclass. Osiah asked real questions, and she answered with enthusiasm, gesturing animatedly the whole time.
By the end of the walk-through, they were back near the main stage, the theater starting to fill with more crew for the full rehearsal. Lights were being tested, cables taped down, and the low hum of pre-show prep filled the space. Gaga gave him a solid pat on the shoulder, still smiling that big, genuine smile.
"You're gonna be good for us here. I can already tell. Welcome to the Cheek to Cheek crew, Osiah."
Before he could respond, Tony Bennett joined them a few minutes later. The legend moved with that easy, timeless grace—sharp as ever in a simple light blue button-down shirt, slacks, and polished shoes. Even in casual mode, he carried himself like someone who'd seen every corner of the business and come out the other side with his dignity intact. Osiah didn't hold back the respect.
"Mr. Bennett, it's an honor. Your phrasing on 'I Left My Heart in San Francisco'—still the gold standard. The way you let the notes breathe on the bridge, it's never been matched."
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