Hollywood at My Heels

André is a high-powered Hollywood producer, with a reputation for having many of his films' leading ladies go the extra mile, on his casting couch, before being hired—or so it was rumored. The idea that talented, sexy women would spread their legs or even suck cock for a job seemed a bit illogical to me. I had spent a lifetime garnering everything I wanted simply by asking for it. Not even Hollywood's most rich and powerful could ever get me to submit to performing sexual favors for money.

I had begun my editing career in Los Angeles only two years prior to meeting André. In that short time I gained a reputation for being superb at my job. But most of my work till then had been on small-budget productions. So when André's assistant, Brandy, told me I was being considered for André's next film, I was really excited. I agreed to come into his office first thing the next morning for what should have been a routine interview.

I arrived fifteen minutes late. Brandy opened the door to André's office and ushered me in. André was a rather good-looking middle-aged man. He was seated at his desk, head down, intently examining some contracts. It seemed like an eternity went by as I soaked up the beauty of the room. It was massive, maybe 1300 square feet. André had a handsome, L-shaped glass-and-stainless-steel desk. On the floor was a plush off-white shag carpet. There was a fully stocked wet bar on the right of the room. And on the left was a large black leather sofa and a glass coffee table covered with industry magazines. A few feet behind the couch was a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. The wall on the back end of the room was covered with head shots, including those of some very well-known actresses and models.

Brandy finally spoke. "Excuse me, sir, your nine o'clock is here."

André didn't look up. "She's late. I'm busy. Tell her she'll have to reschedule." He was completely dismissive.

I spoke, my voice both flirtatious and sincere. "I'm terribly sorry for being so late. Attention to time is not one of my strong points."

André looked up, and as he would later describe it, I took his breath away. My petite, physically fit, well-proportioned body was of the type normally reserved for adorning the cover of fashion magazines or pornography centerfolds. I wore a brilliant yellow, almost sheer, rayon Calvin Klein summer dress that tied behind my neck, left my back open, and ended three inches above my knees. On my feet I wore powder-blue satin Jimmy Choo sandals: open toe, sling-back, with four-inch heels. My silky, straight strawberry-blond hair was down and reached almost to the top of my nipples, which always seem to remain hard at times like this, when I'm not wearing a bra. My lips were garnished with a pink lip gloss, leaving them sweet and kissable. My long nails were perfectly manicured pale pink, as were my toes.

André recovered quickly and managed to utter, "Thank you, Brandy. Please close the door behind you and . . . hold all my calls."

André was legendary for being a womanizer, so it never occurred to me that his true nature was submissive. Although that morning he gave himself away almost immediately. As soon as Brandy shut the door, I made my way over to the window behind the couch. The Hollywood sign looming in the distance seemed to call me.

"It's an impressive view, isn't it?" André asked. It was, but I had stopped noticing, because I was now focused on a reflection of him in the window—one I don't think he was aware he was casting. It was then I caught him staring at my feet. That pleased me. I relished the control that could so quickly be gained just by wearing the right outfit, or specifically in this case, the right pair of $800 shoes. "Have a seat and make yourself comfortable."

I sat down on Hollywood's most infamous sofa and crossed my legs. I could almost feel the heat from his stare. I found myself musing: I bet if I gave him permission to touch himself, he would pull out his cock right now and drip precum onto his alligator shoes . . .

His words interrupted my train of thought. "The project I have coming up is very ambitious. It's a lot larger than any you have worked on to date. Do you think you could handle it?" he asked.

"I could if the price was right and my schedule permitted. At the moment I have quite a few other obligations," I explained with a seductive smile. I was bluffing. I had been rather underemployed lately due to extreme competitiveness in my field and a bad economy.

He looked at my left shoe. It was dangling, my soft, supple heel exposed for his pleasure. The bulge in his pants was hard to miss, even from this distance. He was excited, and he couldn't hide the quiver in his voice when he spoke. "You'd be very lucky to get this job, Susan. The last three editors to work for me have gone on to win Academy Awards, and any one of them would be happy to land this gig," he replied petulantly.

"I'm just as good as they. Besides, why even mention those men when . . . you want me." I pronounced the last part of the sentence slowly, emphasizing every word. Mister Hollywood, hotshot producer, was not used to a person being this confident and in control around him. He didn't know what to do.

After a second, he conceded breathlessly, "You're right. I do want you. What can I say to make you say yes?"

I licked my lips seductively, tilted my head just a bit and smiled before answering. "Tell me how much you admire me."

"I do admire you. Even more now that I've laid eyes upon you."

"You'd be lucky to have me."

"Yes, Susan. I would be very lucky."

"Tell me you would do anything to get me to take this job."

"I'll do anything."

"You're so very far away. I want you near me when you say it. Come over here." It was a command, but I didn't raise my voice. I never do. I never need to.

He hesitated at first. I think he was embarrassed by how excited he was. Once he stood up, he'd be guaranteed that I would notice his bulging cock, barely hidden behind a thin pair of navy-blue Armani pants. But he did come over and started toward a seat next to me on the couch.

"No, no, not on the couch. You're not worthy to sit on this couch. This couch is for my pleasure and the pleasure of any other woman who turns to you for employment. I forbid you to ever use this couch for your own pleasure."

"Yes, Susan. I'm sorry, Susan. Please don't punish me."

"I want you on your knees in front of me. I want you to beg me to take this job."

And he did. He got on his knees, inches away from my pretty little feet, and begged me to edit the film for him. He reminded me of a puppy, those big eyes pleading with me for my approval. I had to resist petting him on the head. I told him I'd consider him a very good boy if he paid me more money than he had ever paid an editor before. "You do want to be a good boy, don't you, André?" I teased.

"Yes, Susan. I'll pay you any amount you want."

"Very good," I purred, and this time I didn't resist reaching out and running my hand through his hair, wrapping it around my fingers and pushing him down toward my toes. "I'll need a room at the Beverly Hills Hotel, starting immediately, for the duration of the project. And tonight I expect you to pay me a visit at nine o'clock. Understand?"

"Of course, Susan. I'll have my assistant arrange it right away. But please, I beg you to tell me why you want me there tonight?"

I laughed a wicked laugh. "Oh, André, you are a curious boy. Be a dear and massage my feet."

"Yes, Susan." He immediately went for my foot. I kicked him, hard, the heel of my shoe hitting him squarely in the chest. The force knocked him off balance, and he fell on his back. I took the opportunity to stand up. I put my foot on his chest and looked down at him.

"Not now, silly. Tonight, when you come over to the hotel, I want you to massage my feet. Why else would I invite you?"

"Yes, Susan."

Those were the last words spoken before I sashayed out the door.

Once in the waiting area, on the way to the elevator, I paused for just a moment to take notice of André's assistant, Brandy. The poor girl looked exhausted from being so overworked. Yet it was still obvious that she had real potential for killer beauty. With her jet-black hair, baby-blue eyes, sexy figure including slightly large-for-her-size breasts, I thought she was pretty enough to model.

It's a truism that behind every successful man, there is a great woman. For André, that woman was Brandy. She had started working for him when she was still a teenager. She was 19 at the time, and for the last five years she had been there to help him produce every successful film he ever made. With a single shopping spree down Rodeo Drive (on the company credit card) and with a little bit of training (from me, of course), I imagined she could run this company better than André.

I made a mental note of both her beauty and her brains. She and I would eventually be part of a team of woman who would take their rightful place as heads of this industry. But one thing at a time. Today, I just needed to make my way over to the hotel spa and spend the day relaxing before André's arrival. By the end of the night he'd be licking his own cum off the bottom of my feet.


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