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Room Service	By : ravenwoman Category: Individual Celebrities > Johnny Depp Views: 3741 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know Johnny Depp. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Room Service
- 1
He entered his room already tossing aside his clothing, already relaxing into the privacy and promise of rest just opened before him. A long day on the set, yes, and he was ready to put it all behind him for awhile. As much as he was getting into this role, he found it drained him more than most. The camaraderie with the cast and crew was exceptional, though sometimes almost as draining, in the end, as the work itself, given their frequent after hours socializing, and he was grateful to be afforded the chance to work so relatively close to home, but still….

He made his way to the small kitchen and seized a bottle of wine from the counter. Corkscrewed it open and retrieved a glass from the cabinet. Poured a full measure and moved toward the bathroom.

He set his glass on the counter and ran a bath, a hot one, then began stripping off the remainder of his clothes as the steam enveloped the room, rendering the mirror no more reflective than the walls. Good. He didn’t want or need to see himself. He preferred his mind’s eye to his body’s. When he was naked and the tub was half full, he seized his glass and lowered himself slowly into the steaming tub, gasping and sighing with the shocking pleasure of it. Damn, it was hot, but as he settled in, his body gradually adjusted and accepted the radical change of temperature and began to relax. He reached up and pressed the button controlling the Jacuzzi function, and suddenly, several powerful jets of water were pulsating against his back and thighs. Nice.

He sipped his wine and slid a bit further down into the hot, moving water.

Jesus, he needed a fuck! Crude but true. It was one of the ways this role was testing him; the perpetual horniness which accompanied playing Wilmot. He’d flown Vanessa in a few times, partly because he missed her, oh absolutely, but yes, also partly because he simply couldn’t go another damned day without a good, nasty, all-out fuck. Here he was, playing a wantonly promiscuous scoundrel and his only outlets were the rare conjugal visitation or his own hand. Jesus!

He stroked himself, already rising, under the bubbling water and took another gulp of wine. The wine, that was the other thing. The other test. He had to be careful here, careful not to take his role too much to heart and go too far down that path. He’d wandered a ways down that path before, and it led nowhere good. Look where it got Wilmot. Look where it could have gotten him. He’d already gotten smashed a few times on this shoot and awakened to regret it. Convenient that he could pass his hangovers or drunkenness off as acting in this particular part, but perhaps a bit too convenient for comfort. Had he played this role ten or fifteen years ago…he shuddered to think of the probable repercussions. Method acting was too easy an excuse. He had a tendency to identify too much with the characters he played. So go easy on the vino, old boy. He finished the glass and set it on the floor. No more tonight, he thought. Well, maybe one or two more, but no more than that.

He returned his attention to his now fully engorged member, his strokes growing firmer and more intentional. He let his mind drift. Imagined himself as Wilmot, imagined his cock being serviced in another fashion.

Suddenly, the door to the bathroom opened, and he bolted upright, releasing his hold on his sex.

The young woman in the doorway, her arms loaded with towels, gasped and drew back, clutching the linens to her heaving bosom.

"Oh, my word, oh, my, I am SO sorry, Sir! I…I had no idea you was here!" She projected an aura of sincere and intense distress, and he felt compelled to comfort her, despite or perhaps due to their respective positions, which were, after all, rather confused at the moment. She was supposedly in the subservient role, and yet he was the one who felt completely vulnerable and at her mercy. Still….

"It’s ok, no problem, really. Just, just set them down over there. Thank you." Please go, he wanted to add, but didn’t. He felt that communication was self -evident. Apparently, he was mistaken, for she proceeded to engage him in further conversation.

"Aren’t you that actor bloke? The one what’s in that movie they’re filming?"

Well, honestly, he couldn’t deny it, though her verbiage left both his identity and the project in question very much up in the air and debatable.

"Yes, I am. Yes. Now, " he went on, slouching lower in the water, "you can just leave those there and go. That’s fine." He felt rather like a hostage negotiating with his captor.

"Oh, of course!" She set the towels down, but almost as an aside. She didn’t go.

"I really fancy you, you know," she said, and, amazingly, reached up and pulled her hair free of its restraints. She moved her head from side to side, and he watched, fascinated both by her boldness, her complete and utter inappropriateness, and by the beauty of her loosed hair. So long, so red, so wild….

"Uh, well, that’s …very sweet, thank you." He tried to make his tone friendly yet dismissive.

"Must be terribly hard," she said, and he actually glanced downward at himself, then looked back up hurriedly, feeling a blush rising to his cheeks. "Being away from your family for such a long time and all, I mean."

He coughed and slid a little lower into the churning water. "Ah, well, yes, yes it is. But I can’t complain, overall." He couldn’t believe he was actually engaging this woman in conversation, all things considered, but he found himself helpless not to. He was, at times, polite to a fault.

She moved closer to the tub and looked down into the water. He reflexively covered himself with his hands and said, "Look, I mean DON’T look, do you MIND?"

He watched, aghast, as she began to disrobe, removing first her shirt then her bra, then her skirt and panties, placing them neatly on the closed toilet lid before turning back to face him His mind was aghast, but his cock was displaying an interest altogether less puritanical. Her ample yet firm breasts with their small, pink nipples, large rosy areolas and scattering of freckles swayed hypnotically in front of his face. Her bush was a barely there swath of orange, concealing nothing. His eyes were drawn to her, and the rest of him instantly longed to follow, to wallow in her nakedness and let her wallow in his. Damn you, Wilmot!

"Don’t want to get all wet, you know," she said, with a giggle, and plunged her hands into the tub, groping for him. His body seemed to have a mind of its own, and he arched upward into her grasp, aiding and abetting her shamelessly. Oh, fuck, yes! Her hand, so soft yet firm, on him, oh god, so much better than his own! While he knew exactly how to manipulate his own flesh and pace it for the most intense release, there was simply no substitute for the touch of another, with its weight and heat and unanticipated actions.

He groaned deeply and she smiled and removed her hand, reaching for the soap, and made a thick lather of it. Then she returned her palm to him and began to run her slickened hand up and down his swollen cock slowly. He rose higher out of the water, and she pumped faster, harder.

This was insane. Dangerous even. Jesus, she was jerking him off so fucking, oh Christ, so fucking GOOD! His eyes closed and he thrust into the sensations, his entire being focusing on the slidings and slippings of her tight hand on his throbbing member.

"I hear the movie’s a bit…racy," she said, slowing her stroke and loosening her grip until it was feather-soft. Oh, god! He drew in deep, gasping breaths and strained towards her hand, but she drew it back, away. "I hope so."

He opened his eyes to see her rinsing her hand in the water beside him absently. "Please, I…why’d you stop?" His heart pounded in his chest, in his ears, in his cock, especially there.

"I haven’t stopped," she said, smiling down at him. "I’m just getting started.". She swung her legs over the side of the large tub and slid in, the heat reddening the pale skin of her chest and throat almost instantly. He reached for her, pulling her to him by the shoulders until she was laying on top of him, half floating there, his erection pressing into her belly.

He stared into her face for a moment, assessing, contemplating, then let the passion take him and kissed her deep and hard. There was a freedom here, a liberation he’d been craving, aching for. Matters of right and wrong, past and future, melted away under a purifying fire as his tongue probed her and she opened to him, licking and sucking, alternately asserting and surrendering, her mouth a promise of even greater pleasure to come. Oh, yes, he thought, like that, just like that, that’s how I want it. And his wanting had overcome him, overpowering ego with all its doubts and fears and guilt. He felt free and innocent and pure and honest. Essential, elemental. He broke the kiss and whispered huskily, "Fuck my cock with your cunt just like you’re fucking my mouth right now. Just like that." She stared at him, seeming uncomprehending for a second, as if put off by his odd words, by the imagery, then her face relaxed and she fell back into the kiss with a soft sigh. "Yes."

She reached down between their bodies and grasped his penis, just holding it, squeezing gently as they kissed. He felt himself beginning to peak, oh god, the stimulation, subtle as it was, on top of what their mouths were doing…he was going to shoot…he reached down and pushed, almost slapped, her hand away. Not yet, no. Not like this.

He seized her upper arms and flipped her over, assuming the dominant position above her. She spread her legs and moaned, her hair fanning out like red algae in the water. He watched her, moving his hand down to her cunt, inserting a finger deep, withdrawing it, then letting it slide up to stroke her clitoris. She moaned something, something which might have been a word, and he stroked again, moving his finger slowly alongside her hard button, not on it, not yet, but so close. She cried out, "yes, yes, there, there!" and shifted under his touch. The jets of warm water pulsed against his arm, and he suddenly took hold of her by the hips and slid her closer to the outlet, lifting her legs over the edge of the tub and positioning her directly in front of the outflow. She gasped loudly and began to move, slightly upwards and closer, her eyes glazing over, her mouth agape. "Oh," she said, "jesus god, oh, oh, yes, I’m coming, yes, I…" she trailed off, her body shaking and arcing in the water, making waves. It was almost more than he could bear, seeing her, hearing her, oh shit! He swept her around, tossing her legs over his shoulders, and plunged into her, fully, roughly, her tight, slick, moving tissues sucking and pushing against his prick both involuntarily and with full volition.

"Yes, oh Johnny, yes, is that it? Is this the way you want it?" She could barely gasp out the words, and he couldn’t even do that. He was speechless, breathless, dumb. He answered with a grunt and a deep, violent thrust which drove her backwards against the end of the tub and sent water splashing over the side and onto the floor. She hollered shrilly and thrust back, fucking him relentlessly, like an animal, forcing herself on him without inhibition and then yielding and accepting his aggressions meekly, eagerly, oh yes, oh god, yes, like that, oh fuck, and he came like an animal, hard, profoundly, his orgasm the very meaning of life, pounding and pumping and making loud, uncivilized sounds, unashamed.

"Oh fuck, oh Jesus CHRIST, oh, god, oh." He raised himself up on his arms, not wanting to drown her, his animal nature slowly receding, and then fell back beside her, sloshing more water out onto the floor. She was breathing heavily and holding onto the side, her skin flushed and glistening.

After a time, she pushed herself to her feet and exited the tub, drying herself with one of the fresh towels she’d brought, then dressing. He lay there watching her for a time, then sat up, pulled the plug, and shut off the jacuzzi. She handed him a clean towel as he got out, and he took it. "Thank you," he said. "You’re welcome," she said.

After she’d gone, he had another glass of wine, just one more, and then lay down and drifted towards sleep.

He felt clean, husked out, pure. Like Wilmot would? Perhaps. Or maybe that was just a convenient excuse, a rationalization, like allowing himself to become grossly drunk as part of his "research". Could it be that there was quite a bit more of him in Wilmot than he cared, or dared, to admit?

He sighed heavily and turned over, turning away from his thoughts, seeking oblivion. Like Wilmot? Or simply like himself? Perhaps. These were deliberations for another time. For now he slept, deeply, safely, like a child or an animal. Smiling.
- 1
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Room Service