Miss Hendrics Needs an 18yo Boy

There is a document that is feared and dreaded throughout Hollywood.

It is called a

perquisites sheet

.

Supplied by an A-list celebrity's agent prior to a shoot, it details the star's requirements. Their transport wishes. Their dietary needs. Their (often grotesque) personal proclivities.

Mariah Carey demands Cristal Champagne with bendy straws, and kittens and doves for her dressing room. Justin Timberlake insists that all doorknobs in the vicinity be disinfected on a rolling two-hour schedule. Jennifer Lopez requires that everything in her dressing room be completely white--curtains, couches, candles, flowers, and wallpaper.

The perquisites sheet is non-negotiable. Its demands, however unreasonable, must be satisfied to the letter. This is the reality of working with a "name".

In 2025, one month before her fiftieth birthday,

Mad Men

alumnus Christina Hendricks signed on to appear in a TV ad for telecom giant TeraKnyfe. Her agency delivered her perquisites sheet three days prior to the shoot.

Its contents were as follows:

- Roja Haute Luxe floral-scented perfume

- A salon-grade makeup station with 360 degree ring lightning

- Artisanal vanilla-birch triple-wick candles

- A bottle of Dom Pérignon, 2008 vintage

- A set of hand-blown crystal flutes, for Ms C. Hendricks and her PA, Ms Z. Danieloupolis

- A Himalayan salt lamp

- An 18-year-old boy

* * *

Why am I here? Dad's never taken me to a film shoot before.

David Schneider stood at the center of the chaotic set, his palms sweating.

A blitzkrieg of noise hammered against his skull. His dazed eyes drank in pandemonium and nearly drowned: he saw carpenters assembling a stage, gaffers running lines for lights and electricity, rigging technicians assembling camera mounts and locking down dolly tracks. Everywhere, a swirling

Cirque du Soleil

of movement, flux, and noise.

The set held thirty people, all frantically preparing for Christina Hendricks' arrival...and one who was doing absolutely nothing.

A pair of production best-boys hustled past David. He heard their whispers.

"Why's that dumbshit kid just standing there?"

"Leave him alone, he's the director's son."

David's face burned with shame.

Dumbshit kid.

Then he saw his father in the crowd and lunged for him. "Um, dad! Is there anything I should be doing here?"

"Nope!" His father didn't even turn around. "Just have fun, kiddo!"

Ivan Schneider was a large, loud, obnoxiously hard-working ad director who spent all day juggling hundreds of plates and treated his son as just another piece of spinning crockery. A problem to be assessed, triaged, then handed off to someone else.

"But dad, this is really awkward. Everyone's staring at me..."

"No, don't thank me. I've been meaning to take you along to a shoot for years!" His dad absentmindedly waved the production schedule clutched inside a meaty fist. "Really show you how an ad gets made. Consider it another birthday present! Now, if you'll excuse me..."

His dad stomped away to yell at someone.

A birthday present.

David didn't

feel

like he was eighteen years old.

Take the first decimal off that number. Or maybe the second.

A vicious punch stung his arm.

"Ow!" He turned, and saw his friend Greg.

"Have a good birthday, Gayvid?"A smirk twisted puffy, debauched lips, gleaming wetly under sharp greyhound eyes.

Greg Torrance cut a tall and scrawny silhouette. He was David's age but had the swagger of a man ten years older. Ten years

meaner

. They'd been unlikely friends since grade-school: the heir of three generations of famous TV directors; and the heir of three generations of worthless alcoholic deadbeats. Yin and yang; two boys trying to fill their emptiness with the other's substance.

Greg wanted David's wealth and privilege. David would have gladly giftwrapped it to him in return for a glimmer of Greg's cool, streetwise toughness. He was honored that Greg wanted to be his friend, and took his endless teasing and mockery in stride.

It's how friends talk to each other, right?

David didn't know. He'd never really had any friends, aside from Greg.

He pretended to laugh at the

Gayvid

jibe, resentment tearing claws through his chest.

You're not doing any work either, but nobody's asking why you're on the set. Or calling you a dumbshit kid. Damn it, Greg, what do you have that I don't?

He watched Greg saunter away, pinching a D-girl's ass as he went. She slapped away his hand, squealing in shocked delight. David felt a bitter surge of envy as they started flirting.

Of course Greg gets away with that. If I pinched a woman's ass, it'd be the last day I saw sunlight.

Then Greg's gaze flicked over the D-girl's shoulder to the street. His eyes went wide.

A limo was pulling in to the curb.

"Fuck me! It's Christina! She's here already! C'mon, Dave, or we'll miss her!"

* * *

The limo door swung open. Christina Hendricks got out.

She stood; brushed a crease from her elegant equestrian riding jacket, and smiled at the thirty-plus men of the film crew who'd gathered to receive her.

David's jaw clenched--she

hurt

to look at.

She was tall. At least 5'9 in stockinged feet, and her black Louboutin Pigalles lifted her to a valkyrie-esque 6'0. Flame-red hair fell in pigtails around her refined chalcedony-hewed features.

She blew a kiss to the lovesick men, then crossed from the limo to the set. She walked with the slinky, ice-cold deportment of an international runway model.

Her body, however, was not engineered to runway spec.

Christina Hendricks was built like a schoolboy's fantasy. She was pornographic.

Obscene.

Erotically overfleshed in a violent, lust-maddeningly way that turned boys into men and men into pigs. Her hips were sybaritically wide. Her rump could have fit two normal butts inside it. A chic equestrian riding jacket caught and snatched her figure into a perilously overfilled hourglass. Her massively thick legs and ass were poured into backstitched silicone jodhpurs that gripped every debaucherous curve of hip, thigh, and calf.

Huge breasts wobbled ponderously inside her riding jacket--the tightly-cut navy-blue fit did nothing to hide the bowling-ball sized mountains of flesh violently jolting and rebounding with each step she took. David sprouted a honking erection at the sheer amount of

jiggling

inside Christina's packed-to-exploding jacket. He writhed painfully, trying to disguise the bulge stabbing his private academy slacks. Greg snickered at David's misery--but not very hard.

He

was covering his crotch with his hands too.

Christina sauntered and sashayed among the film crew; charming, smarming, disarming. She smiled, flirted, giggled, touched shoulders, asked for names, spoke saccharine nothings. She was in her late 40s, and radiated a comfortable MILFy energy. A mom you'd self-mutilate for, just so you'd have a booboo for her to kiss and make better, it took Christina less than a minute to wrap the entire film crew around her finger.

In the brief seconds David was able to stop eye-fucking her outrageous Neolithic fertility-goddess body, he saw a

second

person get out of Christina's limo.

A girl, with short blue hair, scissored and shaved in an androgynous pageboy cut. She was young, with a compact, curvy body that was covered in tattoos of snakes. Her breasts were half the size of Christina's--which meant a mere four times bigger than the average woman's. Struggling and straining, the girl hauled a half-dozen heavy bags from the limo to the street, then hurried to catch up with her mistress.

Christina's take-no-prisoners charm blitzkrieg ended in from of Ivan Schneider and his son.

"Ivan!" she trilled. "So good to see you again."

David's father beamed. "The pleasure's all mine."

Then the girl with the blue pageboy trotted up beside them, panting with exhaustion. Christina clapped a hand on her shoulder, and planted a kiss on her cheek. The girl blushed demurely. One stockinged ankle kicked against another.

"This is my new personal assistant, Zoe Danieloupolis."

At the word

personal

, Zoe brayed laughter, screwing up her adorably cute nose. David couldn't figure out what was so funny.

Then Christina's eyes slid across, settling on David. "And who might this be?"

"My son David!" Ivan slapped David's back, making him cringe. "He's here for work experience!"

Then he leaned in, whispering conspiratorially in Christina's ear.

"A birthday present. He just turned eighteen."

"I see." Christina chewed her lip thoughtfully, her face unreadable. "Perhaps you'd better leave me with him for a minute."

"Of course." Ivan walked away, clapping his hands, bawling at the others to get back to work.

...and then the three of them were alone. David, Christina, and Zoe.

Christina's lewd whorehouse madame eyes were all over David. Dissecting him. Taking him apart like a butcher's hacksaw. Her maternal warmth was now cut with something sinister: a predator's rapacious hunger. She had the eyes of a snake that swallows mice whole and shits out a bag of twisted skin.

A hand flicked out. A finger pushed his chin up.

"Stand up straight," Christina commanded. "I want a better look at you."

David stiffened his back, trying not to wilt before Christina's domineering gaze. She was four inches taller than him, and probably eighty pounds heavier.

Mommy.

He felt like a child before her, one that might deserve cossetting or punishment. He just wanted to crawl into her arms, nestle his head between those huge motorcycle-helmet-sized breasts, go to sleep, and probably never awaken...

"He's kinda cute!" Zoe giggled.

"He's

adorable

!" Christina squealed and patted him on the head as if he was a puppy. "Well, David, I don't have a birthday gift for you, so how about a kiss?"

Moving with stunning boldness, she pounced on him. She gripped his head, and pulled him into an aggressive, ravenous smooch.

SMACK!

David had no words. Even if he'd had them, he no longer had a

mouth

.

The kiss was lewd and hot and sexual. The sensuous pressure--her cheekbones, her skin, her lips--smashed through him like a hammerstroke cutting through marble. He shuddered. His cock squirted an involuntary jet of pre-cum down a shivering scrawny thigh. He'd expected to be kissed on the cheek--and that alone would have fueled his next six hundred cock-flogging sessions--but her crimson-maned head was latched onto his like a facehugger, smothering his mouth in a flamenco-red lipstick onslaught.

Her tongue--oh god--

her tongue

was inside his mouth!

Exploring!

As she violated him with her lips and mouth, Christina thrust her buxom body against his, pushing him back against a wall. He prayed she couldn't feel his erection throbbing against her jodhpurs as she straddled him with her thighs, practically humping him.

Squelch!

Her water-barrel sized-tits swelled massively against David's chest, pinning him to the wall. They were so huge and meaty and heavy that it was like being in the path of a steamroller. He glanced past her cheek, down her neck, and saw her thick body bulging out, almost bursting apart her outfit.

How is she so big? And so...fuckable?

Just when he thought he was about to die from crushing or asphyxiation between her boobs, she broke the lip-lock.

"God, barely-legal boys are fun to kiss," Christina panted lustfully, easing back a little so he could breathe. Her hands stayed on his shoulders.

"As much fun as barely-legal girls?" Zoe gave another far-too-clever fox-laugh, and David realized how extremely

young

she was. Maybe only a year older than him.

"Such a mouth on you!" Christina laughed, her face flushed. "Well, he's gotten me all hot and bothered, anyway!"

She unbuttoned her riding jacket. It gaped wide, matching David's mouth. Beneath the jacket, she wore an undershirt that was exploding with cleavage. Her industrial-sized bra pushed a sweaty mountain of breastflesh up her neck, threatening to bury her skull in her own cleavage. Christina's breasts were so big they barely registered as

breasts

--they looked more like a pair of butt-cheeks stuffed down the front of her shirt.

Christina pulled off the jacket, and held expectantly at arm's length. "A-hem!"

Zoe stepped forward to take the jacket.

Christina's hand flew out, striking her cheek.

WHAP!

The girl's head snapped sideways. David almost jumped out of his skin. The sharp note of skin on skin rang out in, startlingly loud, the echo hanging over the cold air like a scythe blade.

I'm dreaming

, David thought, trying to stop his racing heart.

She didn't just do that.

Zoe faced Christina, her eyes wide and shocked. A bloody red spot stood out like a jewel on her left cheekbone.

Christina wagged a remonstrative finger. "Bad, Zoe! Bad, bad,

bad

Zoe! Did I tell you to take my jacket? No. Obviously, I meant it for

David

."

"I'm sorry, Christina!" Zoe whimpered, hands clasped. "I made a mistake! I'll never do it again! Please forgive me!"

"Hmm..." Christina laid hands on her buxom hips, and chewed her lip thoughtfully.

Silence dragged out for twenty agonizing seconds. Then...

"Kneel," Christina whispered to her assistant, eyes smoldering like coals.

Zoe's voice diminished to a whisper. "But the gravel...my knees...this skirt's a rental!"

"

Kneel

, Miss Danieloupolis." Christina's tight smile became a single hard white line, like a chalk outline at a murder scene.

Tears filling her eyes, Zoe kneeled in humiliation before her mistress. A worshipper, supplicating a savage, brutal blood-hungry god. Christina towered imperiously over Zoe, dwarfing her beneath those wrecking ball tits.

Zoe probably can't even see Christina's face past those things,

David thought.

"Is...that enough?" Zoe asked timidly, her face pressed to the ground.

"No," Christina said with gleeful and horribly practiced cruelty. "I need you to prove that you understand just how badly you insulted my new friend."

David began stammering. "Um...It's okay! I wasn't insulted--"

"Shut up. Be quiet until I speak to you." Christina didn't turn to him; nor did her smile shrink.

David was drowning in sweat, totally under the spell of this huge, terrifying MILF. He'd

never

been so horny, not even when he'd attempted No Fap November (in his case, it had turned into No Fap November 2nd, 11:30am). His cock was nearly ripping a hole in his pants.

What happened next almost made him pass out.

Still kneeling on the ground, Zoe leaned forward, and kissed Christina's feet. She planted her lips on her mistress's raised-arch pumps. First the right. Then the left.

"Forgive me, Christina," Zoe said as she drew back. Venom-blue lipstick now stained the glossy black Christian Louboutins.

Christina nodded. "Stand, Miss Danieloupolis, and comport yourself more respectfully herewith," Christina bopped her on the nose like a bad dog. "Next time, I won't forgive so easily."

Chastened, Zoe stood, brushing dirt from her ruined skirt.

Christina swiftly spun back to David, who yanked his stare off her tit-wobbling undershirt.

"Well? Don't just stand there, boy. Hang up my jacket in the wardrobe room."

She tossed the equestrian jacket into David's arms. He scrabbled for it, and for a horrid moment almost let it fall into the dirt.

"Right away, Miss Hendricks!"

"What a gentleman!" Christina cooed, all sunshine and silk, patting him gently on the cheek with the hand she'd just beaten her assistant bloody with. "I love it when young men are...accommodating to my needs. We'll get to know each other more later, David."

Then she sauntered away.

David stared wide-eyed at Christina's monstrous backside. She rolled her enormous ass from side to side, her doorbusting hips and buttocks threatening to break every stitch in the jodhpurs. With every stride, her giant milkers wobbled massively, their huge slosh and bounce visible even past her body.

Zoe giggled softly at him, covering her mouth so the older woman wouldn't hear.

There was something about this girl that he didn't like.

"You're in luck," Zoe whispered nastily, her blue lips pursed like coiled snakes. "She loves boys who are

virgins

."

Then she left to follow the massive wake of Christina Hendricks' swinging ass.

David was quivering. About to explode. Like a can of soft drink that had rattled in a high-speed tumble dryer for an hour.

Where was the wardrobe in this place?

And far more urgently, where was the bathroom?

* * *

"Ugh! Ahh! Ahhhh!"

David jerked off in a toilet stall. Sweat slid down his face. The bathroom was full of the sound of his slippery, pumping fist.

He'd masturbated less than an hour ago, but the memory of Christina's elephantine boobs jiggling inside her shirt...they

haunted

him.

There was only one exorcism possible for such a haunting.

A dozen frantic jerks later, his prick erupted, firing out a gooey mess that splattered across the toilet seat. He copiously emptied his balls, his five-inch cock pumping out white strands, then ejaculating empty air, twitching painfully.

His heart racing and his brain flooded with orgasm-chemicals, David ripped a length of toilet paper off the roll, wiped up the sperm he'd Jackson Pollock'd across the toilet stall, flushed the evidence, unlatched the door, and...

...ran straight into Greg.

"Yo, Gayvid!" his friend grinned repugnantly.

"Stop calling me that," David said, trying to match his friend's banter. "Or I might start calling you...er...Dreg...or something..."

Greg pushed past him, and stared at the toilet he'd just flushed a generation of unborn children down.

"Did you just jack off, Gayvid?"

"What? Er, no!"

"Ha. I listened outside the stall. You were going to pound town on your chode, my guy. Bit of a quickshot, arentcha? That took all of forty seconds."

"I wasn't jerking off, I was taking a shit." David felt sweat-stains spreading out from his armpits.

What would Greg do in this situation? He'd laugh. Turn it into a joke.

"I was enjoying a nice hot crappucino!"

This sounded funny in his head but stupid as soon as it left his mouth. He immediately regretted saying it.

"A 'nice hot crappucino', huh?" Greg shook his head with a pitying smile. "Then why's there no shit in the bowl?"

"Er...well..."

Greg shrugged, and walked to the urinals.

"I don't blame you, Gayvid. That Christina Hendricks bitch is fucking

jugged

. Some women are built like a brick shithouse. She's built like a brick shitmansion. You're one lucky kid."

"Why am I lucky?"

Greg turned to look at him in confusion. "You seriously don't know the reason your dad brought you to this set today?"

"No."

"Then I won't spoil it." Greg tapped a finger to his lips conspiratorially. "Stories about that woman get around. That's all I'll say."

Then he unzipped his pants to take a piss. Or tried to. The zipper seemed to catch against a large bulge in his pants.

"You're lucky. Really lucky."

The zipper finally slipped past the blockage, and Greg's jeans fell around his ankles. David watched in horror as Greg reached into his stained, dirty boxers, hauled out an enormous soft white organ, and let it drop between his thighs.

Smack!

A huge stalk of flesh bounced against Greg's leg. It swung back and forth between his hairy thighs like a pendulum--so long it dangled more than halfway down to Greg's knees.

"But then," Greg said as he faced the urinal and began to piss. "Some of us are lucky in other ways."