Author's note: After many months spent on a project of futa novel, I decided to clear my head with a short story. The self-imposed rule was to write as fast as possible, without the painfully long rewriting and overthinking I usually indulge in, and then to see what happens. I hope the result is readable. Feel free to tell otherwise in the comments.
Given the setting, I tried to make use of the British lingo as best as I could. I ain't no specialist though, so I apologize in advance to my Albionic readers and to the Queen.
Also DISCLAIMER: Obviously this is a work of fiction. If some elements are based on real events, none of the scenes described happened, because we live in the worst timeline.
None of the situations and dialogues were intended to be calumnious toward the celebrities named therein, or to convey rumors. They only served the story and are for entertainment purposes.
*****
The wrap party had reached its climax. The 2,500 people (more or less) in Waterfront Hall were raising the final glass to the most successful show in the world, shedding the last tear, wetting the shoulder of the final hug for a cast and crew about to be officially dissolved after eight seasons.
Most of them had showed up to the giant get-together, actors, writers, tech people, money people, famous, non-famous, infamous, with a usual court of freeloaders, and were wholeheartedly hitting the peak of celebration through booze and uproar. But most of them had enough experience of the industry to know how things would go from there.
All the throwback videos played, all the speeches made, the theme from
Game of Thrones
would resound in the auditorium, met by an unsurprised but overly emotional rumble of dragonish chants, then the exhilarated sense of kinship and all the short-lived promises would crumble under their own weight. Despite the DJ turning the music up, going into a seamless stream of catchy songs and strobing lights, supposed to get everybody on the dance-floor till dawn, the ballroom would start to empty, slowly and then inexorably.
The more people had been involved in the show, the less likely they were to hang around. No one wants to get stuck for eternity in a black & white group photograph where it's painfully obvious you're drunk and already wallowing in the question of the big thereafter, the hardest one in show business.
After these few hours and drinks, after the ultimate ruckus, the true ending of a farewell party, they would leave the place to the +1s, who never have to sober up.
For some the small afterwards would be a good night sleep, a red eye out of Belfast for others, and to all a phone call to an agent first thing tomorrow.
For Emilia Clarke, it was an after-party.
Like everyone else at this moment she was crying her little heart out in the mess of castmates and co-workers surrounding her like an earthquake, sad to say goodbye, good luck, good memories, but her emotions had been somewhat hollowed out three minutes ago by a text message.
First by the
*ding*
of her phone she had managed to hear in the deafening crowd—after all she had been waiting for it all evening—and then reading it did the rest. The frantic excitement around her became a blur, its noise a drone, and only her internal voice appeared steady and full, repeating the four-word text over and over:
Room 68, 15min
, counting down
Room 68, 14min... Room 68, 13min... Room 68, 12min...
as her mind was slipping towards more intimate excitements.
To make things more nerve-wracking, the text wasn't asking for an RSVP. The first text a month before had made it clear. As clear as its implication: no bargaining, you were either in or out.
Emilia was in. She had been from the beginning, her brain and the circumstances never gave her a chance.
She was in her hotel room when it all began, after a day of shooting, fresh out of the shower and ready for a night of testing out the brand new dildo from Bad Dragon, which they had gracefully sent her.
There was a knock on her door. Her pussy, damp with anticipation, became as tingly as her mind's eye already visualizing the kind of sapphic delights this night knocker had planned for her and she ran for the door.
But it was only
a package for you Ms. Clarke
and she'd better put on a dressing gown.
She tipped the bellboy unenthusiastically and then dropped the cardboard box on a coffee table among the pile of other gifts and letters and flowers without any more enthusiasm, leaving its content for tomorrow. She had already forgotten about it striding off to the other box, the one on her bed, full of sextoys and cumlube, but that's when she received a text, the first text.
The perfect timing gave her a hint that she should read it immediately.
Just seeing the first line made her run back to the coffee table and snatch up the box without any mercy for the expensive gift bags standing in her way.
And now she had two boxes of sextoys on her bed, side by side, one from a manufacturer, the other from Sophie Turner, slut extraordinaire and master strategist, Emilia's regular night knocker and the only person in this world who could rock her knickers off without even being in the room.
The message consisted of short, clear instructions. No reply. And Emilia, still horny, still using her mind's eye, gave in, struck by an additional shiver down her loins when she saw the text was a group text.
She followed what it said, waiting for further orders, hoping it wasn't all a dream the rest of the month of shooting.
The second, final text had woken her up from the dream. Harshly.
The reality of its last instructions
Room 68, 9min...
was blazing like ice and fire over the frivolous confusion of the wrap party. It made it hard to see who had left and who was still here among the female cast; who was in and who was out. There would be no support, no certainties, she was to be alone with her instructions until she would enter Room 68,
8min...
There went a certain bassline of cello. Emilia gulped down her last round of whiskey, chewed on the ice cubes almost cartoonishly and after a last—almost feigned—look at her watch, escaped the forest of drunk arms and lips, strolling as casually as possible, like a respectable celebrity, to the underground passage connecting the auditorium to the Hilton hotel nearby.
The next day, a paparazzi photograph would simply read
EMILIA CLARKE LEAVING THE PARTY BEHIND FOR OTHER IRON THRONES.
*****
In other circumstances, the muzak version of the
GoT
theme playing in the lift would have made Emilia laugh to tears, but all the humidity of her body was hogged by one central point. She was wet, counting the floors as they passed by on the panel.
4
th
floor... 5
th
floor...
waiting for the
