Chapter 1: The Audition That Wasn't
The door to the office was a dull, scuffed brown, with a tarnished brass number 4B nailed crookedly to it. Mildred Mae Johnson smoothed the front of her sunflower-print sundress, the fabric straining just a bit across her chest. She took a deep breath, the air in the hallway already tasting of dust and something sour underneath. She pushed the door open.
The room was a box, choked with shadows. A single, weak lamp on a cluttered desk did little to push back the gloom, instead painting everything in a sickly yellow light. The smell hit her first—a thick cocktail of stale cigarette smoke, cheap cologne, and something else, something musky and human. It was the kind of heat that clung to the back of the throat.
A man looked up from behind the desk, his bald head gleaming under the lamp. He was short, and his suit was a loud, puke-green plaid that seemed to swallow his shoulders. “Can I help you, sweetheart?”
“I’m here for the modeling audition?” Mildred’s voice came out too high, too bright. “For the… the commercial? I’m Mildred Mae Johnson.”
The man—Vic, according to the smudged nameplate—leaned back in his creaky chair. His eyes, small and dark, traveled over her with a slow, appraising thoroughness that felt like being physically touched. He didn’t blink. “Mildred Mae,” he repeated, the name sounding clunky and absurd in his mouth. “That’s a name for a schoolteacher. Or a librarian. You ain’t either of those, are you?”
She shook her head, her blonde hair swaying. “No, sir. I’m from Nebraska. I just got to San Jose.”
“I can tell.” A smile stretched across his face, not quite reaching his eyes. “Have a seat, why don’t you?” He gestured to a worn couch positioned opposite the desk. It was upholstered in a nubby brown fabric, mottled with several dark, indeterminable stains.
Mildred perched on the very edge of it, her knees pressed tightly together. She set her purse primly on her lap.
“So, you wanna be a model,” Vic said, stubbing out a cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. He immediately lit another. “You got the look. That’s for sure. Fresh. Wholesome. That sells, you know? But it’s a crowded market. Every girl with a pretty smile thinks she can be in front of a camera.”
“I’m a hard worker,” she said, her big blue eyes wide and earnest. “I learn fast. And my mom always said I photograph well.”
“I bet she did.” Vic took a long drag, blowing the smoke out in a thin, thoughtful stream. “The thing is, honey, the business has changed. Television is one thing. But the real growth, the real money, is in a different kind of film. More… adult entertainment.”
Mildred’s smile didn’t falter, but it became fixed. “Entertainment?”
“Movies. For adults.” He watched her closely. “You understand what I’m saying?”
She nodded slowly, a flutter of uncertainty in her stomach. She’d heard things, of course. But this was a real office. He was a real producer. “Like… art films?”
Vic let out a short, sharp laugh. “Yeah, kid. Let’s call them art films. The audition process is a little more… hands-on. We need to see how you perform. How comfortable you are with… intimacy.” He stood up, moving around the desk with a surprising grace. He stopped in front of her, so close she could smell the nicotine on his breath and the cloying sweetness of his cologne. “The script for this part is very physical.”
He reached into his pants pocket. Mildred’s heart hammered against her ribs. This was it. He was going to give her sides, pages of dialogue to read.
But his hand came out empty. Instead, it went to his fly. The rasp of the zipper was deafening in the small, quiet room.
He looked down at her, his expression flat and businesslike. “The real job,” he said, his voice low and utterly devoid of its earlier false charm, “starts on your knees.”
Mildred stared. The sound of the zipper seemed to echo, a metallic snake hissing in the stale air. She looked from his face, a mask of casual expectation, down to his hands. Her own hands were frozen, clutching the cheap wicker of her purse like it was a lifeline. Nebraska felt a million miles away. The dreams of glamour and lights shriveled, replaced by the stark reality of the stained couch and the unzipped fly.
Her breath hitched. She didn’t move.
Vic sighed, as if she were a slow student. “The camera loves innocence, sweetheart. But it’s gotta be willing to get dirty.” He waited. The moment stretched, taut and terrible.
Slowly, as if her joints were rusted shut, Mildred began to lower herself from the edge of the couch. The rough fabric of the cushion scraped against the backs of her thighs. Her eyes were locked on the grimy pattern of the carpet, her mind a screaming blank. She felt the floor, hard and unforgiving, beneath her knees.
She looked up. Vic Fontana looked down, his shadow falling over her completely.
Vic Fontana looked down, his shadow falling over her completely. The rough industrial carpet dug into her knees, a sharp, real pain that anchored her to the moment. "Under the desk," he said, his voice a low command that brooked no argument. "Go on."
She moved on all fours, the position feeling both absurd and terrifyingly submissive. The space under the desk was a dark cave, smelling of old wood dust and the tang of his leather shoes. Her blonde hair brushed against the underside of the desk as she positioned herself.
He didn't guide her head. He just watched, his breathing already slightly heavier. The first touch of her lips was tentative, a dry, closed-mouth press against his flesh. He was already hard. "None of that," he grunted. "Open up."
A tremor ran through her. She parted her lips, taking him into the warmth of her mouth. The taste was salty, musky, overwhelmingly male. It was nothing like the kisses she'd known back home. This was a transaction, a performance. She could feel him pulse against her tongue.
She found a rhythm, a mechanical bobbing of her head, trying to disengage her mind from what her body was doing. She focused on the grain of the wood an inch from her eyes, on the sound of his ragged breaths above her. Her jaw began to ache.
He let out a soft, guttural sound of approval. One of his hands came down, not to caress her hair, but to rest heavily on the crown of her head, a possessive weight. "Yeah, just like that," he muttered. "You're a natural, kid."
Tears welled in her eyes, but she forced them back, blinking rapidly in the darkness. This was the price. This was the door. She pushed further, taking him deeper, until she felt him hit the back of her throat. A gag reflex threatened, but she swallowed it down, her body convulsing slightly.
His grip on her head tightened, fingers tangling in her golden hair to guide the pace she’d failed to set.
Her body was a study in debased utility. She was folded under the cheap particleboard desk, a tangle of limbs on the grimy, industrial carpet. Her knees were splayed wide apart, bearing her weight, the skin already reddening from the abrasive contact. The sunflower-print sundress, that symbol of naive optimism, was rucked up high around her waist, exposing the pale, taut skin of her thighs and the plain white cotton of her panties. The dress’s bodice, already strained, gaped forward, offering a shadowed view of her heavy breasts hanging loose, confined only by thin fabric.
Her back was arched in an unnatural curve, a painful-looking bow that thrust her rear into the air behind her. Her face was buried in his groin. One of her hands, the nails painted a chipped, innocent pink, braced against the floor for balance. The other hand was wrapped around the base of his shaft, her knuckles white with the strain of the unfamiliar grip.
Saliva slicked her chin, a wet, glistening trail that connected her lips to him. Mascara, smudged by stress and the physical violation, left sooty shadows beneath her wide, blue eyes, which were fixed in a blank stare at the wood grain an inch from her nose. Every detail was obscene: the audible, wet sounds of her mouth working, the visible tension in her jaw muscles, the way her entire body shuddered each time he pushed deeper, hitting the back of her throat. The scene was a raw, unfiltered image of explicit submission, a first degradation captured in the dusty gloom of a casting office.He used her. His hips began a shallow, relentless piston motion, fucking her mouth with a detached, rhythmic efficiency. A low groan built in his chest. “There you go,” he grunted, his voice thick. “Just a warm, wet hole. That’s all you are right now.”
The words carved through the numbness. A hot tear finally broke free, tracing a path through the sweat on her temple and dripping onto the carpet. She choked, gurgled, but didn’t pull away.
With a final, sharp thrust and a hoarse shout, he finished. The bitter, metallic taste flooded her mouth. She tried to recoil, but his hand clamped on the back of her head, holding her there until he was spent. He finally released her with a soft, satisfied sigh.
He finally released her with a soft, satisfied sigh.
Mildred collapsed back onto her haunches, gasping. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, the taste of him thick and bitter on her tongue. Her lips felt swollen, abused. She stared at the dark, wet patch on the carpet between her knees.
Vic tucked himself away, zipped up with a crisp, final sound. He walked back around the desk as if he’d just checked the weather. He sat, pulled a ledger from a drawer, and flipped it open.
“Not bad,” he said, not looking at her. “A little mechanical. The camera needs to see you enjoying it. But the fundamentals are there. You’ve got a pretty mouth.”
She stayed on the floor, trembling. The reality of what had just happened seeped into her bones, cold and heavy. This wasn’t an audition.It was an invasion.
“Get up,” he said, his voice losing its brief, false warmth. “Sit.”
She pushed herself up, her legs unsteady. The stained couch seemed like a throne compared to the space under the desk. She sat, pulling her dress down, trying to reassemble herself.
Vic lit a fresh cigarette. The smoke curled between them. “Here’s how it works.I make films. Skin flicks. The kind they show in theaters where the seats stick to your legs. You want in, that’s the door.” He pointed a nicotine-stained finger at her. “What you just did? That’s the key.”
“I… I thought it was for modeling,” she whispered, her voice raw.
“It is. You’re modeling a cock in your mouth. Different product, same principle.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. “Look, sweetheart. You got the look. Fresh corn-fed Midwest. The guys who buy tickets eat that shit up. They wanna see you corrupted. They wanna watch the innocence drip off you. I can pay you two hundred dollars for a day’s work. More if you’re a quick study.”
Two hundred dollars. It was more money than she’d ever held at once. It echoed in the hollow space he’d carved inside her.
“What would I have to do?” The question was barely audible.
“Whatever the script says.Whatever the director says. Mostly, you’ll be fucking. Sometimes with a guy, sometimes with a couple guys. Sometimes with a girl. The plot isn’t exactly Shakespeare.” He watched her face pale. “The first one’s always the hardest. After that, it’s just a job. You disconnect. You think about the grocery list. You get yours, eventually.”
He slid a standard contract across the desk, followed by a cheap ballpoint pen. “Stage name. You need one. Mildred Mae is a fucking tragedy.”
She stared at the dotted line. Her mind was white noise. All her dreams of Hollywood premieres had shrunk, in five minutes, to this: a sticky taste in her mouth and a form on a stained desk. The fantasy was gone, replaced by a terrible, clear-eyed practicality. She had seventeen dollars in her purse. A weekly rental at a motel on the outskirts she had to pay tomorrow. The bus ticket had taken everything else.
“Candy,” she heard herself say. The word tasted sweet and stupid. “Candy Cane.”
Vic grinned, a flash of yellow teeth. “Christ.Perfect. They’ll love it.” He tapped the contract. “Sign, Candy. Your new life is waiting.”
Her hand was shaking. She picked up the pen. It felt like surrendering a part of her soul, that weightless thing called Mildred Mae from Nebraska. She scrawled a signature at the bottom, a messy, childish thing.
Vic snatched the paper, blew on the ink, and filed it away. “Welcome to the family. Be here tomorrow. Nine AM. We’re shooting ‘The New Secretary.’ You’re the secretary. Bring two changes of cute outfits. Nothing too fancy.” He stood up, the meeting clearly over. “And Candy?” he said as she numbly rose to her feet. “Wear your hair down. The innocent thing. It’s your brand now.”
She walked out of the office, into the blinding, ordinary hallway. The door clicked shut behind her, a sound as final as a coffin lid. She leaned against the wall, the floral wallpaper cool against her cheek. She could still smell him on her skin, in her hair. She could still feel the phantom pressure on the back of her head.
Two hundred dollars. A name that wasn’t hers. A door that had just closed, locking her into a different, darker room.
She walked toward the stairwell, each step echoing. She didn’t feel like Candy. She didn’t feel like Mildred. She felt like an empty, well-used vessel, sailing into a deepening, black sea.
IMAGE PROMPT: A hyper-realistic, dimly lit photograph. A young blonde woman in a strained sunflower-print sundress is on her knees under a cluttered wooden office desk. The focus is on her face, visible in the shadows, pressed into a man's groin; her eyes are open, blank, and glistening with unshed tears. Mascara smudges below them. Her lips are stretched wide. One of the man's hands is tangled tightly in her hair, guiding her head. The lighting is a single, harsh source from a desk lamp, highlighting the sweat on her temple, the saliva slick on her chin, and the dusty, grimy texture of the industrial carpet digging into her bare knees. The atmosphere is one of stark, transactional depravity.