"Thass right, I'm a huge fucko slutbag. Who're you?"
Annabel pounded back her sixth Heineken and tossed the bottle in with the rest of her pile. Moving into this shithole apartment with its ratty couch and mold stains had to be the lowest point in her life after Lucas left her and she lost all visitation rights to Victoria. But even she had to admit she deserved this. Drinking, smoking, snorting and shooting up became her new way of life, half her daily grind.
The other half being actual grinding. Because she fucked for money.
The wadded up Washingtons landed on her chest, and she didn't bother counting. She simply unzipped her fly, rolled her pants down and spread her legs. "Guess it doesn't matter who you are. I'm gonna let ya fuck me anyway. S'all I'm good for."
Her guitar sat in the corner. She would have sold it long ago, but some johns who remembered her as the bass player in her old rock band liked to cum on it instead of in her. A few of her haters took it a step further, and today's john was one of them. He grabbed her guitar and unceremoniously threw it to the reclining slut.
Annabel knew what he wanted. Grunting through her soreness, she sat up and settled the strap over her shoulders. Her fingers rubbed her guitar's rusty, cum-coated strings to get a feel before she wailed on it with the finesse of a drunk jackass.
"My pussy's weeeeet, my tits are coooold, I suck dick for a living and I'm gettin oooold."
She sounded horrible, with a scratchy moany whine while she made a lot of useless noise down below. The hater loved it. So much in fact, that he jacked off in her face. His cockhead hovered inches from her nose while she belted out lyrics to make an alley cat envy. Right as she reached her loudest and most annoying, the man blew his load. It exploded right between her eyes, painting her from forehead to cleft chin. Eagerly, she licked the mess around her lips.
"Was it good for you too? Maybe you can hook me up with some of the good shit."
"Aaaaand cut!"
"Oh fuck, these drugs are really fuckin with me." Jessica Chastain dropped her guitar and collapsed.
"Maybe if you could act you wouldn't need them."
The insult galled her. With two Academy Awards to her name, there was no way in hell she needed to be wasted for this part. Yet he said she did. And thanks to Blake, his word was law.
An assistant rushed to her side with a spoon of coke. She snorted it right up. It whirled up her elegant nostril and instantly, her brain turned into tingly mush. She moaned. Laid back. Rubbed her cheeks and chest. Squeezed a boob. Random jitters to occupy her body with her body, as she rode through the next stage in her constant high. This served as only one piece in a delicate cocktail the director had ready for her reshoots that day.
"How's it feel to be a crack whore," was the eloquent question of her costar on the couch behind her. Jessica had an equally eloquent answer.
"Fuckin... fuckin great. Livin the dream."
"You like to say fuck a lot."
"Say it if ya want it." She giggled, rolled her head. Her druggie bliss mingled with the smell and feel of semen oozing down her face. Sober, she would've sneered in disgust. Instead, her lips contorted in rapturous delight.
Looking about her new apartment gave her all the more reason to sink into this state. Blake made her sell her mansion, her clothes, her furniture, give the money over to his company while she lived in this rat-infested trash heap with utilities that hardly worked. Most of the stuff in this room was now all she had. Including her grungy outfit. She reached for her pants when words from the director made her pause.
"Wait. Keep 'em down. We need more angles of you whoring yourself for promos and stock footage."
With a weary sigh, she raised her hips in offer and stared at the first in a line of ten men hired for her next five hours of nonstop dicking.
Reblogged
Sent!
This blog contains adult content. In order to view it freely, please log in or register
and confirm you are 18 years or older
Jessica Chastain Reshoots: Mama
"Thass right, I'm a huge fucko slutbag. Who're you?"
Annabel pounded back her sixth Heineken and tossed the bottle in with the rest of her pile. Moving into this shithole apartment with its ratty couch and mold stains had to be the lowest point in her life after Lucas left her and she lost all visitation rights to Victoria. But even she had to admit she deserved this. Drinking, smoking, snorting and shooting up became her new way of life, half her daily grind.
The other half being actual grinding. Because she fucked for money.
The wadded up Washingtons landed on her chest, and she didn't bother counting. She simply unzipped her fly, rolled her pants down and spread her legs. "Guess it doesn't matter who you are. I'm gonna let ya fuck me anyway. S'all I'm good for."
Her guitar sat in the corner. She would have sold it long ago, but some johns who remembered her as the bass player in her old rock band liked to cum on it instead of in her. A few of her haters took it a step further, and today's john was one of them. He grabbed her guitar and unceremoniously threw it to the reclining slut.
Annabel knew what he wanted. Grunting through her soreness, she sat up and settled the strap over her shoulders. Her fingers rubbed her guitar's rusty, cum-coated strings to get a feel before she wailed on it with the finesse of a drunk jackass.
"My pussy's weeeeet, my tits are coooold, I suck dick for a living and I'm gettin oooold."
She sounded horrible, with a scratchy moany whine while she made a lot of useless noise down below. The hater loved it. So much in fact, that he jacked off in her face. His cockhead hovered inches from her nose while she belted out lyrics to make an alley cat envy. Right as she reached her loudest and most annoying, the man blew his load. It exploded right between her eyes, painting her from forehead to cleft chin. Eagerly, she licked the mess around her lips.
"Was it good for you too? Maybe you can hook me up with some of the good shit."
"Aaaaand cut!"
"Oh fuck, these drugs are really fuckin with me." Jessica Chastain dropped her guitar and collapsed.
"Maybe if you could act you wouldn't need them."
The insult galled her. With two Academy Awards to her name, there was no way in hell she needed to be wasted for this part. Yet he said she did. And thanks to Blake, his word was law.
An assistant rushed to her side with a spoon of coke. She snorted it right up. It whirled up her elegant nostril and instantly, her brain turned into tingly mush. She moaned. Laid back. Rubbed her cheeks and chest. Squeezed a boob. Random jitters to occupy her body with her body, as she rode through the next stage in her constant high. This served as only one piece in a delicate cocktail the director had ready for her reshoots that day.
"How's it feel to be a crack whore," was the eloquent question of her costar on the couch behind her. Jessica had an equally eloquent answer.
"Fuckin... fuckin great. Livin the dream."
"You like to say fuck a lot."
"Say it if ya want it." She giggled, rolled her head. Her druggie bliss mingled with the smell and feel of semen oozing down her face. Sober, she would've sneered in disgust. Instead, her lips contorted in rapturous delight.
Looking about her new apartment gave her all the more reason to sink into this state. Blake made her sell her mansion, her clothes, her furniture, give the money over to his company while she lived in this rat-infested trash heap with utilities that hardly worked. Most of the stuff in this room was now all she had. Including her grungy outfit. She reached for her pants when words from the director made her pause.
"Wait. Keep 'em down. We need more angles of you whoring yourself for promos and stock footage."
With a weary sigh, she raised her hips in offer and stared at the first in a line of ten men hired for her next five hours of nonstop dicking.