Chapter 22

The studio smelled like a cheap motel after a night of sweat and bleach. Ammonia cleaner fighting the sour tang of old lube, a hint of stale popcorn from the craft‑service table, and the ever‑present musk of bodies that had been fucked raw all day. Fluorescent tubes buzzed overhead, casting a harsh, clinical light that made every pore on my skin look like a crater. In the corner, a rack of LED panels glowed soft‑blue, ready to be dialed up for the “moody” shots the director was famous for. A backdrop of black velvet swallowed the room, broken only by a few strategically placed softboxes that threw halos over the set like cheap halos in a cheap church.

I stood on the marked X‑spot on the floor, my bare feet sticking to the slightly tacky vinyl. The air conditioner rattled, trying to fight the heat generated by the lights and the bodies packed in the room. My skin was already slick with a thin sheen of sweat; the ecstasy I’d popped earlier was still humming in my veins, making my nipples - now pierced with tiny barbells - stand hard and sensitive, each pulse of the bass from the speakers making them throb like little drums.

“Ready, mei mei?” Uncle Eight’s voice cut through the haze, thick with his Cantonese‑tinged English. He stood beside the camera rig, a beefy guy in a black T‑shirt that read “PRODUCTION CREW” in faded white letters. His eyes flicked to the monitor where a live feed showed my face, already glazed from the ketamine I’d snorted in the green room. He gave me a thumbs‑up, then turned to the crew.

“First take—wide shot. Lights at 5600K, softbox left at 45°, fill at 20%. Roll when I say ‘action.’”

The gaffer, a lanky Chinese guy with a tattoo of a dragon curling around his forearm, adjusted the barn doors on the key light, letting a thin blade of light slice across my chest. The sound guy slipped a lav mic onto my collar, the tiny bump catching on my skin as he whispered, “Check, one‑two.” I could hear the faint hiss of the mic picking up my ragged breath.

The director, a balding expat with a gold chain that caught the light, stepped forward. He held a slate in his hand, the clack of it echoing like a gunshot. “Scene one, take one. Mark it.”

He snapped the slate shut. The clack reverberated through the room, and the red tally light on the camera blinked to life.

“Action.”

The first guy stepped into frame—a tall Black man in his late thirties, his shaved head glistening with a light sheen of oil. His thick, uncut cock swung heavy between his thighs. His skin was a deep mahogany, and a thick scar ran from his left pec down to his ribs—a souvenir, he’d told me earlier, from a bar fight in Johannesburg. He smiled, revealing a gap between his front teeth that made him look both dangerous and boyish.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said in a thick Jamaican‑tinged English, his voice low and rough. “You ready to take this?”

I swallowed, my throat dry despite the ecstasy. My mouth felt like it was full of cotton, but the drug made the sensation float, detached. I nodded, my eyes locked on his cock as it swayed, the foreskin pulled back to reveal a glistening, purplish head slick with precum.

He stepped closer, the heat of his body radiating onto my skin. He grabbed my chin with a calloused hand, forcing my mouth open. I felt the first touch of his cock against my lips—salty, slightly bitter, the taste of sweat and precum mixing. He pushed in, slow at first, letting me feel the girth stretch my lips, the ridge of his corona catching on my teeth. My jaw ached almost immediately, but the ecstasy turned the pain into a warm, throbbing pleasure that seemed to vibrate up into my skull.

“Good girl,” he groaned, his voice dropping to a whisper as he began to pump. His hips moved with a steady, almost mechanical rhythm, each thrust sending a shockwave through my body. I could feel the base of his cock slap against my chin, the sound wet and slick, like a plunger working a clogged drain. My own breath came in ragged gasps, each inhale pulling in the scent of his skin—earthy, spicy, a hint of coconut oil he’d used earlier to keep his skin supple.

The cameraman, a short Thai guy with a buzz cut and a tattoo of a lotus on his neck, adjusted the focus ring on his lens, whispering, “Keep it tight on the face, yeah?” He swiveled the camera slightly to capture the way my eyes fluttered, the way my lips stretched around his girth, the way a thin line of saliva escaped the corner of my mouth and ran down my chin.

Uncle Eight stood just off‑camera, his arms crossed, watching the monitor. He tapped his finger against the side of the screen each time the guy hit a particularly deep thrust, as if marking a beat. When the guy’s balls slapped against my chin for the third time, Uncle Eight let out a low chuckle and said, in Cantonese, “Good, good, go harder.”

The guy obliged, his grip on my hips tightening. He pulled me forward, forcing me to take him deeper until I could feel the head of his cock pressing against the back of my throat. My gag reflex kicked in, a sudden, violent spasm that made my eyes water. I tried to relax, to let the ecstasy dull the sensation, but the sheer size of him made it impossible not to choke. Tears streamed down my cheeks, mixing with the sweat and the precum that dripped from his shaft.

“Take a breath,” he muttered, pulling back just enough for me to gulp air. The sound of my inhale was loud in the quiet studio, a ragged, desperate noise that seemed to echo off the walls. I could hear the faint whir of the cooling fans on the lights, the occasional click of the camera’s shutter as it captured stills between takes.

After about two minutes of relentless throat‑fucking, he slowed, his movements becoming more deliberate. He pulled out completely, leaving a glistening trail of saliva and precum on my chin. He stepped back, his chest heaving, a sheen of sweat covering his torso. He looked at me, his eyes half‑lidded, and said, “You good?”

I managed a hoarse whisper, “Yeah ... just ... need a sec.”

He nodded, then turned to the director. “We good for a break?”

The director checked his slate. “We’ll do a quick reset—change angle, add a fill light. Give her two minutes.”

The crew sprang into action. The gaffer swung a second softbox into place, this one fitted with a orange gel to warm the tone. The grip adjusted a C‑stand, moving a flag to block spill from the key light onto the backdrop. The sound guy re‑checked my lav mic, making sure the windscreen wasn’t rattling. The makeup artist—a petite Filipina with a bob cut—dabbed a bit of translucent powder on my forehead to kill the shine, then applied a thin layer of gloss to my lips to make them look “wet and inviting” for the next shot.

I sat on a folding chair, the metal cold against my thighs. My legs were spread wide, the chill of the air making my skin prickle. I could feel the lingering ache in my jaw, a dull throb that pulsed each time I swallowed. My mind, still floating on the ecstasy, drifted to the first time Vanessa had forced me to suck a cock in Hong Kong, how terrified I’d been, how the taste of salt and fear had made me want to vomit. Now, though, the fear was muted, replaced by a strange, almost clinical curiosity about how my body reacted, how the drugs turned pain into a kind of pleasure I could almost enjoy.

The director called, “Back to set. We’re going for a tight over‑the‑shoulder now, I wanna see the depth of the thrust.”

The cameraman swung his rig around, positioning the lens just behind the Black guy’s shoulder, so the audience would see the curve of his back, the flex of his glutes, and the way my face was swallowed by his pelvis. The focus puller, a young woman with a pixie cut, whispered, “Ready to pull focus on the face when he thrusts.”

The guy stepped back in, his cock already slick with my saliva and his own precum. He grabbed my hair, my newly dyed platinum blonde strands, still damp from the sweat, and pulled my head back, forcing my throat to open wider. I felt the stretch of my jaw muscles, the way my tongue was pushed down, the sensation of his cock filling my mouth like a thick, hot sausage.

He began to fuck my mouth with a steady, almost metronomic pace. Each thrust was accompanied by a soft, wet slap as his balls hit my chin, a sound that the mic picked up and amplified slightly, giving the scene a raw, visceral texture. I could hear my own gagging breaths, the occasional choked whimper that escaped despite my best efforts to stay quiet.