Notes

A lot of people would think the director is in control of everything, or at least most everything, on the set. Nothing could be more wrong in J. J. Abrams's case.

It was a very emotional scene, full of dramatic declarations and heartfelt confessions. Abrams would have leapt at the chance to actually direct it, and indeed, he would have if not the fact that he was preoccupied with coming his brains out.
He was almost completely naked, writhing on his director's chair as a vibrator railed against his prostate and a cocksleeve vibrated against his cock. His lean, muscular body was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and his legs twitched involuntarily as another orgasm surged through him. His cock, purple and strained, shot out a stream of come that lasted for several seconds. Behind him, his assistant stared at his writhing body lecherously while one of his arms teased his dusty nipples.
Daisy, dressed in Rey's typical scavenging costume and currently in the midst of beating down a poor stormtrooper, looked up and gave Abrams a withering look. "Could someone please shut the slut up? God, every time someone shoves a vibrator up his ass he acts like it's the second coming of Christ."
Abrams retained just enough control over his body to lean up and glare at Daisy. It was her idea, after all, to put the vibrator in during this particular scene. She had claimed it would help her "focus," or some nonsense like that, and it was obvious to anyone with half a brain cell that that wasn't the real reason, but of course his entire cast and crew had heartily agreed. Two of the technical assistants had held him down while Daisy and Mark had pressed the vibrator up into his ass, and despite all of his many protests none of them looked the slightest bit guilty or ashamed. Abram was pretty sure what they were doing was tantamount to rape - but they had already recorded so much footage of him, naked and insensible with pleasure while they played with his body however they wanted. He couldn't let that footage get out to the public - he just couldn't. It wouldn't only ruin his career and his reputation, it would ruin his sanity as well. He couldn't bear to think of all those strangers out there, knowing how he looked in the throes of an orgasm, how he fought against his binding while someone played with his sensitive nipples, how he cried out pitifully whenever he came. He was trapped, completely and utterly.
Daisy approached him, one hand on her hip and one eyebrow cocked upward. "How many times have you come already? Five? Ten? Just how greedy can one man be?"
Abrams sobbed helplessly as the young woman leaned down and forced the vibrator against his prostate. It was too much, too much, gods, it felt like every single atom of his being was vibrating with pleasure - but he didn't want it, of course. As much as he felt five seconds away from passing out in pleasure, his cheeks still burned with shame and embarrassment. Once, he had been a prestigious, respected director with big prospects and bigger ambitions. It had only taken this particularly sadistic set of actors and crew members a few days to break him down and turn him into a moaning slut regardless of how he felt about it.
"Take it," she hissed angrily. "Take it, you fucking slut. It's all you're good for, anyway." She began rolling the vibrator around in his ass, and somehow the sensation intensified.
Abrams began to genuinely cry. The tears mixed with the sweat on his cheeks, and he desperately wiped them away before someone could catch him. They seemed to have a rather massive problem with him moving of his own volition - it was as if they expected him to be nothing more than a speaking fucktoy,
a sculpted doll to which they could do anything they wanted.
"Daisy, come on," John called out. "You can fuck him all you want later, we have a scene to do now." But his eyes still glided over Abram's naked from with pure lust, and Abrams couldn't help but shiver. He had never felt so exposed, so open and vulnerable.
"He's right," the assistant added, his finger still twisting at Abram's right nipple. "We'll even give you alone time with him if you finish this scene now."
Abrams shook his head furiously and tried to yell that he couldn't, he had dinner with his wife and he couldn't afford to miss it again, but his protests were ruthlessly caught off as the assistant bit his nipple and twisted the vibrator at the same time.
"Now, now, Mr. Abrams," the young man whispered maliciously. "You know the punishment for talking out of turn, don't you? The only sounds we want to hear from you are the screams you make when we're fucking out your brains."
Abrams cringed at the memory. He had noticed an error in continuity in one of the scenes and pointed it out. They had, to his gratification, actually corrected the error, but as soon as they had done that they had held him down, torn off his clothes, and made him come 20 times in a row.
Daisy shrugged. "Alright, but I'll need at least an hour with him."
"Done," the assistant said easily.
Abrams's protests again dissolved into incomprehensible grunts as the assistant turned up the vibration in his cocksleeve. Every member of the cast had a different way of fucking him, but Daisy's was especially merciless. She had some obsession with stimulating every part of his body at once, and she had proved quite crafty with the collection of sex toys bought specifically for Abrams. He could still remember the first time she had fucked him alone - he had been standing outside her trailer, naked and shivering, come leaking down his well-defined abs from a few minutes ago when Adam had pressed him down and fucked him on the set. Two guards stood on either side of him to make sure he didn't run. Daisy had stepped out, eyeing Abrams like he was a luxurious cut of steak, and had quickly ushered him in. He had barely had enough time to reorient himself before Daisy was shoving a vibrating buttplug into his ass. Within four minutes, his cock had been leaking pre-come like a faucet as he arched his back, his sweaty body shaking with pleasure as she fondled his nipples and chest. When he had finally come out, nearly his entire body was dripping with come, and he viewed his two guards with half-lidded eyes. The guards had then escorted him back to his little trailer for a moment of recuperation, but not before pulling him to the side for a quickie.
"Compensation," one of them snarled at Abram's sweaty face as the other rocked into his gaping ass, "for all those times we had to escort you around without getting a piece."
The scene passed without another hitch. It was masterfully done, to be quite honest, but Abrams didn't even have the chance to compliment the actors' performances in between his involuntary sobs and squeals.
After several minutes of desperate begging, he finally convinced his assistant to give him two minutes to call his wife and explain about dinner. He absolutely dreaded it, but he knew he owed her, at the least, a brief call to explain why he couldn't come.
"Again?" she said. "Honey, I don't know what's the point of making all of these reservations if you're just going to cancel every time-"
"I'm sorry," Abrams whispered brokenly. "I really, really am, but I just can't make it."
His wife sighed. "Whatever, Jeffery."
She had hung up. Abrams had stared helplessly at his phone for several more seconds before his assistant had come with those same two damned guards and dragged him to Daisy's trailer for another session.