The following is a sequel to my piece
A Party Like No Other, but is a stand alone story and can be enjoyed without reading that one first. Hope you like it!
Taylor's Southern Soirée
Chapter 1Starring: Taylor Swift, Selena Gomez, Hailee Steinfeld, Miley Cyrus, Elle Fanning and Chloe Moretz
Nearly three months had passed since the fated all-star orgy in the backyard of Taylor Swift’s luxury Hollywood home; the famous celebrity sex party that had caused such a buzz across the globe. Over the following seven days, a diligent band of Internet censors had been working around the clock to take down the hundreds upon hundreds of X-rated images being uploaded to various blogs and social media platforms by the hour. Highly pixelated snaps were shown on TV news shows the world over, while smartly dressed anchors reported on the story in every native language known to mankind.
Put simply, Taylor Swift’s A-list orgy was the biggest news story since 9/11 and people from all four corners of the globe waited with bated breath to see if a similar carnal fuckfest was to take place the following week. And sure enough, it did. From noon ‘til night, the blogs and Internet forums were awash with high-res images and live streaming video of the second celebrity sexfest as it took place in Taylor’s infamous yard.
Before long, Taylor’s weekly orgies had become a part of everyday life and people would be glued to their computer screens every Saturday afternoon as though tuning in for their favourite TV show. Such were the worldwide notoriety of her all-star sex parties, that Taylor’s successful music career soon became little more than a footnote in her new-found legacy as an amateur porn starlet and it wasn’t long before the blonde-haired singer was inundated with all kinds of offers and invites off the back of her illustrious orgies.
Most were from hopeful studs offering up their services for her future shindigs, but Taylor’s catalogue of invitations stemmed from all manner of different sources. There were approaches for movie roles, invites to pose nude for Playboy and seven figure offers from Brazzers for her first professional shoot, not to mention invitations from famous people across the United States, offering up the vast space of their plush green backyards for her next A-list orgy. While trawling through her emails one day, Taylor happened upon one such offer that stood out from the rest. It was from her old friend Carrie Underwood. The country music star stated that she was a longtime follower of Taylor’s online shenanigans and asked if she’d considered flying out to Nashville for her next sexy soiree.
Taylor was intrigued. Since moving to Los Angeles, Taylor had returned to Nashville for little more than the occasional awards show or the southern leg of a nationwide tour, and the fair-haired popstar declared that it would be great to see (and perhaps sit on) some of the old Tennessee faces once again. As such, the two singers exchanged emails for a number of weeks and when the date was finally decided upon, Taylor booked the penthouse suite at the swankiest, most expensive Nashville hotel she could find and texted her girls; seeing who fancied a trip to the Deep South.
A shiny stretch limo pulled into the large hangar at a private Los Angeles airstrip. A door opened and a succession of designer stiletto heels and expensive high-top sneakers planted themselves one by one on the smooth tarmac as Taylor Swift and her A-list chums exited the long black vehicle. Miss Swift’s luxurious private jet sat juiced up and ready to go on the vast open runway.
The pilot and co-pilot were stood atop the pristine white stairwell as they prepared to greet their morning passengers. The pilot was in his early 40’s, his co-pilot about five years younger. They wore neatly pressed navy blue suits with matching peaked hats, and were incredibly handsome; both men sporting the piercing eyes, pearly white teeth, immaculately trimmed stubble and chiseled jawlines of a pair of Calvin Klein models.
Taylor Swift and her friends crossed the lengthy runway toward the private plane, wheeling behind them large Louis Vuitton and Dolce and Gabbana suit cases as they went. Taylor marched out in front; the popstar dressed to kill in a set of denim short shorts, a cropped white vest top and a spindly set of Gucci stilettos. The outfit was nearly indecently skimpy; the frayed hems of her jean shorts struggling to cover the beach bronzed spheres of her peachy round butt, while her stiff pink nipples threatened to burst clean through the thin white fabric of her tight-fitting vest top.
Her golden hair bounced majestically as she walked; the thick, shiny locks washed and re-washed with all kinds of expensive shampoos and conditioners before being styled meticulously with the singers impressive arsenal of hairdryers, flatirons and curling tongs. What’s more, the fair-haired songstress was dolled to the nines; her pretty face heavily made up with nothing but the finest beauty products on the market. All manner of costly powders, foundations and eye shadows had been dabbed across her freshly cleansed skin. Shiny pink gloss gave her full, puckered lips an alluring shine, while dark mascara teased out her carefully curled eyelashes to a length that Jessica Rabbit would be proud of.
Following behind Taylor were her gang of celebrity pals; Selena Gomez, Hailee Steinfeld, Miley Cyrus, Elle Fanning and Chloe Moretz- each more heavily dolled up and scantily clad than the last. In fact, the girls seemed to be in direct competition as to who could showcase the most skin; the private airstrip a rolling plain of snug-fitting tops, belt-thin micro mini-skirts, sunkissed flesh, toned arms and ab-lined midsections. Not to mention bright blue eyes, shiny white teeth, bee-swollen lips, bleach blonde hair dye, jet black mascara, glistening pink lip gloss, designer sunglasses and expensive jewelry.
“Good morning, ladies,” said the pilot, smiling warmly at Taylor and her friends as they neared the luxury jet.
“Hi, boys,” Taylor grinned back coquettishly as she started up the gleaming white stairwell. “Lovely day for a fly, wouldn’t you say?” she added, slurping suggestively from her iced Irish coffee.
“Absolutely, Miss Swift,” replied the co-pilot, gulping loudly as Taylor brushed his handsome face with a neatly manicured hand, flashing him a cheeky wink as she passed.
Taylor’s friends followed up behind her, each greeting the two lucky men in a similarly flirtatious manner; stroking their faces or running a hand down their muscular torsos. Some even turned around and rubbed their barely-covered ass cheeks teasingly against the crotches of their skinny-fit suit pants; the resulting rush of blood to the loins leaving neither man fit to pilot a tandem bicycle, much less an aircraft. Nevertheless, the flight went ahead as scheduled and the girls funnelled into the private jet, taking to their seats as the pilot prepared for take off.
The plane gave new meaning to the word luxury. The interior decor was so opulent and grand it would’ve put most American homes to shame and there wasn’t a cheap plastic or coarse fabric anywhere to be seen. The tables were crafted from exquisite English oak and glazed with the finest lacquers known to man. The chairs were made from plush cream leather, adorned with scatter cushions hand sewn from the smoothest Chinese silk, and had enough leg room to seat an NBA center.
As the jet took to the air, the ladies finished the last of their alcoholic coffees and waited patiently for the next course. Next on the liquid menu, it turned out, were Bloody Marys and no sooner had the private plane levelled out in the cloudy sky, were the strong red drinks served up by a pair of pretty air hostesses; both dressed in precious little, at Taylor’s behest.
But alcohol and scantily clad stewardesses weren’t the only benefits of travelling on a private jet. As a matter of fact, the advantages of flying private over commercial (even the first class to which the ladies were accustomed) were inumerable. No waiting in line to check in, no irritating kids pestering them for autographs and, most importantly, no airport security. As the girls knew all too well, LAX was stocked to the brim with overweight security guards; each one more than willing to risk a sacking and sexual assault charge in order to give the A-list beauties a thorough and vastly inappropriate pat down at the gates. And by flying privately, they were bypassing the lot of them.
But, most of all, it meant drugs. Lots and lots of drugs, and the girls had barely left California airspace before they were handing big blue bongs and tightly-rolled joints back and forth like Christmas gifts; hotboxing the plane’s interior like a high school senior’s Ford Focus. And it didn’t stop there. In fact, that was just the beginning. Before long, the ladies were popping Molly, Oxy, and a host of other colourful pills like they were Skittles; swallowing them down with mouthfuls of JD and Coke and swigs from tall mojitos. Not to mention passing around a Matterhorn of cocaine and hoovering up lines like state of the art vacuum cleaners.
After 30 solid minutes of large scale narcotics consumption, the girls had worked up considerable appetites and, as the jet soared over New Mexico, lunch was served. However, the in-flight meal bore little resemblance to the average airline fare, and there wasn’t a dry ham sandwich, tiny bag of peanuts of vodka miniature in sight. No- the ladies were dining on nothing but the best. Freshly caught lobster, sauteed portobello mushrooms, roasted eggplant and goat cheese stuffed tomatoes were just some of the highlights of their luxurious gourmet meal. Followed by a freshly baked Tiramisu worthy of a Michelin-starred Roman eatery and all washed down with bottles of vintage champagne.
And still the liquor continued to flow. Next up was the wine course and the air hostesses brought out six glass tumblers accompanied by a selection of the finest Chiantis and Pinot Grigios west of Tuscany. The ladies sipped the fine wine, passing around joints as they chatted amongst themselves. They discussed a wide range of different topics; music, movies, hair, grooming, makeup, clothes, dieting, working out, food, drink, drugs, friends, sex. Mostly sex, and after numerous bottles and countless marijuana cigarettes, somebody suggested a game of Truth or Dare. The girls nursed glasses filled near to the brim with expensive Italian wine, passing around a mountain of cocaine atop a small mirror as the game got underway.
“Right, Selena,” began Taylor Swift, taking a swig of her vintage Chianti, “truth or dare?”
“Hmm,” pondered Selena Gomez, racking up portions of coke with her platinum credit card, “truth.”
“OK,” said the blonde. “What’s the most cocks you’ve sucked in one day?”
“Ermmm,” thought the Latina, pausing to snort a line through a rolled up $50, “not sure. How many guys were at your last party?” she asked.
“15,” Taylor replied.
“OK, then that many,” Selena declared, rubbing her cute little nose as several lines of Ecuador’s finest shot to her brain.
“Wow, 15!” exclaimed Hailee Steinfeld. “Selena, you little slut!”
The girls laughed.
“Oh, come on, bitch,” Selena replied, handing the mound of coke onto her brunette friend, “it’s not like you didn’t suck them too!”
More laughter.
“Your turn to ask someone, Selena,” Taylor prompted.
“OK, Hailee,” Selena began. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
Selena grineed. “How far can you squirt?”
Hailee blushed, taking a sip of her wine. “My record is ten feet.”
The ladies whooped and applauded.
“Damn, girl!” Taylor declared. “You should be in The Guiness Book of Records with a trajectory like that!”
The girls laughed raucously, cooing and awwing at their friend’s impressive revelation. Then it was Hailee’s turn to ask.
“Chloe,” she said, “Truth or dare?”
“Truth,” replied Chloe Moretz.
“What’s the most cocks you’ve handled at once?” Hailee asked.
“Five,” smirked the blonde. “One in my mouth, one in my pussy, one in my ass,” she recalled, pointing helpfully at each of her orifices as she explained, “and one in each hand,” she added, mimicking the vigorous jerking of two imaginary penises. More cheers and applause.
“Yeah, I saw that,” Taylor chimed in. “It was pretty hot!”
And so the game continued. A stewardess brought out a bottle of ouzo and the girls took shots between glasses of wine, passing around weed and cocaine like Miami drug barons as they asked one another a whole host of sex-related questions. How many times a day do you masturbate? What’s the longest cock you’ve deepthroated? How many dildos do you own? How many times can you squirt in ten minutes?
Before long, Miley Cyrus grew tired of the X-rated mass interview and when Elle Fanning posed her the question ‘truth or dare’, the blonde singer replied ‘dare’. The ladies cheered. They’d been waiting the better part of half an hour for someone to take on a dare, and Elle thought long and hard about what that challenge was going to be.
“I dare you,” she began, pausing to down a shot of ouzo, “to suck the co-pilot’s dick!”
End of Chapter 1
Topic: Taylor's Southern Soirée (Taylor Swift, Carrie Underwood and co.) (Read 29797 times)