Starting a Media Empire Chapter one: Getting Legitimacy Featuring Anne Hathaway

[TheRefinedFicComposer]

Starting a Media Empire Chapter one: Getting Legitimacy

Story by: TheRefinedFicComposer
Celebs in story: Anne Hathaway
Story codes: MF, oral, feet
Story summary: Finance bro with a passion for film acquires production company in asset seizure, tries to revive company with cash infusion
This story is entirely fictional and is in no way connected with the subject. This story contains adult material and is only suitable for people over the age of 18. If you are under 18 please stop reading now. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living, dead, or undead, is purely coincidental. All characters portrayed in this story are over 18.



Stepping onto the airstairs, a cool gust of French wind slaps me hard across the face. Leaving LA in a rush, I’m woefully underdressed for Paris in the dead of winter. A white dress shirt tucked into navy suit pants, no tie and brown shoes, I descend the steps onto the runway and clutch my portfolio tight.

Making eye contact with the pre-arranged driver, I point at a black SUV and gesture a thumbs up seeking confirmation if that was the vehicle for my journey. The mustachioed man nodded and flashed a sarcastic smile as if to say “no shit dude.”

Climbing into the back, I open the black leather portfolio and pull out the compensation package and contract to thumb over one last time. Sure, there are official channels to go through, but the guerilla approach requires a certain type of gumption to pull off. If I’m gonna seriously use firm funds to run this production company, it has to turn a profit.

The agreement is pretty simple: Leading actress agrees to a three picture studio deal, because we’re starting in the red, her upfront compensation is far less than market value. But, there’s stock attached, a paper vice president title with an annual salary in perpetuity unless the firm, not the studio, becomes insolvent and creative control over the second two films.

Thumbing along the document, I take a heavy sigh and impulsively check my e-mail again. The QR code for entrance to the afterparty is still there, even after checking 100 times during the 12 hour flight. I hear the brakes of the SUV squeal to a halt at a curb down the block with flashing spotlights off in the horizon, that’s the one, I think to myself.

Getting out of the driver side, I take a step up to the driver’s window, knock the glass and fish $200 American in cash from my beat up black leather wallet I’ve had since college and pass it over.

“I’ll either be a while or five minutes,” I say with a chuckle, unsure if the driver even spoke english. Pulling my phone out, I ask Siri for a quick translation and again throw the thumbs up to the driver seeking confirmation.

Walking up to the host stand before the red carpet, I pull out the E-mail and my ID. Unsure how someone obviously running on no sleep and no food got an invitation, the black cocktail dress adorned host turns to a supervisor wearing a headset and cupped her hand over his ear to hide her message.

After a moment, she nodded and gestured to her left towards the red carpet.

“Par ici monsieur,”

“Je vous remercie,”

I replied, remembering the basics of high school french and flashing a devilish grin from under my thick professor style mustache.

Moment of truth time, I think to myself. Hearing all of the commotion off to my left inside the dimly lit and scarcely populated club, I head off to the bar on the right.
“Whiskey, on the rocks please,” I order, fishing a $20 from my wallet and sliding over the bar so the bartender didn’t get in trouble for taking a tip. For whatever reason, these hosts make a big deal of not letting the staff get their bread buttered for doing normal work.

The first sip on an empty stomach hits a little harder than expected but I shake my head to come back into coherence from the kick. Then I see the subject of my journey, from behind the glass, I spot Anne Hathaway and her friends on the dance floor. With the portfolio under my arm and drink in the other hand, I manuever along the perimeter of the room to one of the empty tables. I need a lull in the action, no married woman wants to be approached on the dance floor by a complete stranger, especially not about business.

After a mindless 20 minutes of french house music, her glance turns my direction and I waive the portfolio up to fully catch her attention. In the darkness of the room, Anne probably assumed she knew me. As her figure came more into focus against the haze of the room I polished off the last sip of whiskey and called out.

“Anne, Hi, hey, your people said I could find you here and it’s important.”

A confused look formed on her face as if to say “what the fuck are you doing here?” but not in a maliscious way.

“Five minutes, go,”

She replied, sitting across from me and pouring a glass of wine from the table bottle. As I went into my purest upselling day trader pitch mode, I couldn’t get a read on her reception. Nods, frowns and then finally, a chuckle. Sliding the portfolio across the table, I finish at exactly 4 minutes and 57 seconds.

Anne takes a beat and nods with a smile.

“Okay, I think I’m interested, can we iron out details now?”

Absolutely dumbfounded my cold pitch worked, I text the driver that I’m not gonna need his services.

“I’ve got a suite upstairs, balcony and everything, I can call in my legal guys and we can have this ready to go within the hour,”

I offer, pointing towards the door to the hotel attatched to the club which Anne meets with a nod.
After a quick check in process, I’ve got a room key and I’m standing about three feet away from Anne outside of the elevator. The ding sends my heart into a break neck pace.

Her dress tightly clinging to her form, those shapely legs draped in sequenced leggings and gorgeous heels clicking on the floor of the elevator, I offer a weak smile and say “I’ve never been to Fashion week before, you ever get work offered this fast?”

She meets my question with a laugh and says “I can tell you’re a money and not art guy.”
Taking that slightly as an insult I retort back

“I promise I am a film guy, it’s just that I can’t write to save my life. I know how to make money and I know how to pitch, I mean I did get you agreeing to an international  conference call at 1 am local time, no credit for that?”

She nods and says

“You know what Shaw, fine, partial credit,”

While feigning a golf clap.

DING

The elevator has us on the 12th floor after the longest 39 seconds of my life and I’m opening the door. The suite has more than enough room to last the night and I’m plugging my phone into a pocket sized bluetooth converter for calls. After ten minutes of troubleshooting the call and running through all of the details, the cracks of scattered applause come through speaker phone and it’s settled. Anne Hathaway, production company savior, executive vice president of talent morale and my childhood celebrity crush.

The last of the call wraps up and suddenly it’s just Anne, I and my thoughts.

After exploring off to find the bathroom, Anne returns and points towards the door.

“That’s about it for me, I think I’m ready to head back and call it a night Jack.”

Before Anne could finish her sentence I interject

“You don’t wanna celebrate with your new boss?”

Raising her fist up to her mouth to stifle her laugh she shoots back

“Damn, the lawyer hasn’t even filed the contract yet and I’m already getting sexually harassed, top flight organization you’re running here,”

But in a sarcastic tone, taking the elephant in the room head on.

“Jack you’re what, 27, living on whiskey, instagram models and abusing the late stage capitalistic hell like a 16-year-old that discovered the internet. You younger guys don’t even know how to have fun,”

I break the eye contact that had me ready to self immolate, looking at the floor to compose myself.

“Is that a challenge? A threat? An offer?” I pose back with a smirk and panic that I may have already fucked this deal up. “Look, I’m not a boring person, I get it, I know I look good in this.”

She says, running her manicured hands down her sides, in a sultry tease. Egging me on to break the rules. The click of Anne’s heels is the most dangerous rhtyhm since the theme in “Jaws.”
Sliding the cheetah print heels off of her shapley feet, Anne sits square in the center of the wood table where the deal was finalized.

“They hurt,” She says in a dramatized upset voice.

With the invitation, I casually bring my hands to the base of her right foot. Lining my thumbs up along the base of her big toe, I gently rub, clockwise, wiggling gently in each rotation, trying to relieve the tension from the expensive footwear. Instinctually, Anne’s facial expression loosens, her eyes close and she not so subtly bites her lip.

Inching my face closer to her toes, I’m rubbing rhythmically in a 1-2-3 count to myself, taking an inahliation of her sweaty feet and I’m transfixed. Looking up from the base of Anne’s perfect legs, I give her my best doe eye’d look as if to say “I’d die happy if I could.” She nods back at me and I take the toes through the legging into my mouth and I feel my shaft ready to burst through the zipper. With the pattern of good head, I’m working up to her arch into my mouth.

“Maybe I was wrong about you younger guys,” Anne says between coos.

She continues…“You’ve been good to me, sit back Jack,”
Not having to be told twice, I sit back in the chair, angling my obvious erection in the direction of the angelic feet I just deepthroated.

Then, as if it were second nature, Anne glided her right foot up from my knee to my dick. I took a sharp gasp, seeking oxygen to meet the need of my heart rate. Against the antique chair, I can feel my heart beating out of my chest as she formed a crease with both feet. “So I can really do whatever I want because my boss is a foot fucker huh?” She teases, to which all I can do is nod back with a lip bite.

“Take it out,”

With surgical precision, I ripped my throbbing six inch member through the fly of my briefs and pants nodded back at Anne waiting for further instructions.

“Drool spit onto that cock for me like a good boy,”

The magic words force a “FUCK,”
From my parched lips and I throw my head back as the lube meets the arches. The friction from the leggings has me in a euphoric bliss. My eyes are flickering, desperately trying to bring the room back into focus, but the sensation is just too much. I can’t find means to grab it back. “Potty mouth, sexual harassment, I’m gonna own your firm by breakfast Jack,”

Anne antagonizes back at me.

“Let me take you to bed and I’ll sign it over eggs,” I answer back, trying to find control of the room.

“Good boy”

She says, realizing my reaction to the first time she said it. Jumping out of my seat, dick still hard through my fly, I scoop Anne off of the table and over my shoulder and bee-line for the bedroom. Tossing her onto the bed, stomach first, I crane my neck up between her legs at the hemline of the dress and catch the best scent of my entire life. Anne’s dripping wet cunt begging to be licked. Before I could get her leggings off, I’m shoving in face first. Nose to asshole, tongue along her folds through the material. I’m licking to the center of the best lollipop I’ve ever tasted. Her guttural moans echoing back off the high ceilings at us on the bed.

“Fuck this,”

I blurt out, ripping at the inseam on her leggings, I’m nose to black panties before sliding them aside and going tongue first into the pinkest pussy I’ve ever seen. This is a pride thing, Anne is gonna know how much I’ve thought about this, I mange to think between slurps of her wetness. “Good boy, good boy,” She cries out, reaching back for my head to pull me in deeper. By a clump of my flowing brown hair, she’s pulling my nose deeper into her asshole and my tongue past her folds. With the base of my face doused in Anne’s wetness, I’m effectively fucking her with my tongue.

Craning my neck back and forth, I wiggle my right ring finger in past my mouth, marrying the pace of my neck to the finger and focusing my mouth on licking instead of penetration. “Are you gonna fuck me or not sweetie?” I can’t help but internally laugh to myself. Is the older woman thing that written across my face that this woman can sense it while I devour her?

Instead of answering, I pul my face away which is met with a heavy sigh.
Getting up onto my knees behind Anne, I line my leaking tip along her pussy lips and grind the tip along the wetness. The teasing is met with a groan and Anne slams her hand on the mattress in frustration.

With her hand on the white linen, she firmly grabs a fistfull to hang on at the sensation of my penetration. Gently wiggling my length past to about halfway in, I start gyrating my hips, trying to find that exact spot Anne specifically responds to.

After several thrusts, Anne sinks her face into the topsheet, firmly surrendering into the face down ass up position. The new angle invites me deeper inside her soaking wet pussy. The wetness is overwhelming at this point and has me sliding in and out with ease. Feeling emboldened at the body language, I firmly spank Anne’s ass which elicits a gleeful squeal.

Trying to compose herself, Anne says

“Let’s not push it, let’s talk raises before you start getting handsy,”

With a joke before putting her head back down into the bed. Grabbing onto Anne’s hips for leverage to pull into, every fiber of my existence is going into pro-longing this moment. I’m contemplating the meaning of Derek Lee’s legacy as a Chicago Cub in the context of the Steroid era, Markus Naslund’s tenure as a Canuck and the lasting impacts of the Vietnam War on a post-imperalisitic world but it’s all for naught. Instinctively, I pull out of Anne’s pussy and shoot my load onto the right side of the bed. One, two, three, four, five, six ropes.

“Christ,”

I sigh out at the release before collapsing onto the bed on Anne’s left.

“One second and I promise the first bonus kicks in, let me just catch my breath,”

Condescendingly, Anne pats me on the head and says

“Okay sweetie, if you say so”

“Is it that obvious?”

I ask between elongated breaths

“Boys only act like this if they didn’t have strong female figures in their life, they just wanna be reigned in a little bit”

Anne replies while adjusting her position and gently reaching between her legs to keep playing with her pussy. “Sit on my face, if I suffocate, you can liquidate all of my assets and the firm is yours, best death ever”

I say, to which Anne nods with a faint moan of excitement. With a pert ass back in my face, the muscle memory takes over. I’m nose first with the asshole I probably won’t ever get to taste and tasting the best cunt of my entire life.

Grinding her body on my face, using the friction as stimulation, Anne’s breathing speeds up, and she cries out

“FUCK, FUCK, FUCK”

And I’m surprisingly met with a facefull of clear liquid and the sound of Anne laughing  “I haven’t done that in years, fucking hell." She says, collapsing her tired, fatigued frame on top of me, asshole still winking back at me.

“So, can you get us both a change of clothes and room service?" Anne asks, pussy still soaking wet, leggings torn, makeup ran, dress half-off her torso before climbing off of me to lay across the bed. “I’m pretty hungry." “Yeah, me too,”

With several text messages and an e-mail the triage supplies are on their way and someone finally lays their head on a pillow in bed for the first time all night. “So, who’s the other female lead you’re thinking opposite me?” “Anne, let my dick go soft before you starting talking business,”

I respond with a laugh to myself. What the fuck even was tonight…

[DanielO]

Very nice! Anne Hathaway is one of my favorites.

[Money]

Nice to see some foot fetish stuff around very few writers of that sub genre anywhere brings a fresh look to a niche audience

[Cadeauxxx]

Great story. I love the setting and the build up. I also want to echo the praise of foot play. It is so rarely done in stories, I'm glad to see someone else brave enough to write it for the foot lovers.