Chapter 1: The Email and the Prize
Derek’s phone buzzed against the cheap particleboard of his desk. He glanced down, expecting another spam alert or a work email. The subject line glowed on the screen: CONGRATULATIONS, YOU’VE WON. He almost deleted it. Then he saw the sender: Misty Malone’s official newsletter.
His breath hitched. He’d entered that contest on a drunken, lonely night two months ago, a fantasy so absurd he’d forgotten it entirely. He opened the email.
Hey Derek,
You’re one of the three lucky winners of my Fan Fantasy Fuck Fest! Here’s the deal. You get me, all to yourself, for a full filmed scene at a location I choose. We’ll talk first, get comfortable. Then we’ll fuck. Your choice, how you want me and how many times you can keep going. At a later date (probably a few days later, depending on travel schedule), you’ll join me and the other two winners for a final group scene at a designated place. A real party.
No condoms. I’m on strict birth control and get tested weekly. You’ll need to provide clean test results from within the last 48 hours before we meet. My crew will handle everything else.
A car will pick you up this Friday at 8 PM. Be ready. Pack an overnight bag.
This is real. Don’t fuck it up.
- Misty
He read it three times. The words no condoms seemed to pulse. A flush of heat spread from his chest to his groin. He was hard in an instant, right there in his cubicle. He looked around, paranoid, then minimized his browser. His heart was a jackhammer. This wasn’t just winning a contest. It was being handed a key to a world he’d only ever watched, pixelated and distant, on a screen.
Across town, Kyle was lying on his sofa, scrolling through his phone while a video game idled on his TV. The notification popped up. He sat up so fast he almost threw his phone.
“No fucking way,” he whispered to the empty apartment. He read the email aloud, his voice rising with each sentence. “Oh my god. Oh my god.” He started pacing, one hand raking through his hair. A filmed scene. With Misty Malone. The logistical part of his brain short-circuited at no condoms. The sheer, raw fact of it. He’d never gone without a condom before. The idea was terrifying and so deeply, profoundly erotic he felt dizzy. He needed to find a clinic. He needed to shave. He needed to work out. Friday. That was barely any time.
Simon was in his home office, finishing a spreadsheet, when the email arrived in his personal inbox. He was a planner, a realist. His first reaction was skepticism. A scam. It had to be. But the email address checked out. The branding was perfect. He followed a link to a secure portal, requiring a unique winner’s code from the email. It opened to a professional-looking contract, twelve pages of legalese covering liability, testing, media release, and behavioral expectations.
This made it real. The contract made it real. He skimmed the clauses, his professional eye noting the thoroughness. It was airtight. He felt a strange calm settle over him, a focus. This was a transaction, an experience. He would prepare for it like a project. Clean test results. An overnight bag. Appropriate attire. He noted the clause about the final group scene. A four-way orgy. The clinical term in the contract did nothing to dampen the sudden, low thrum of anticipation in his blood. He signed the digital document with a steady hand.
The light in Misty’s home office was soft, the lone desk lamp painting the room in warm gold and deep shadow. Framed photos covered the walls—Misty laughing on a set, Misty holding an award, Misty hiking in the mountains with no makeup. The computer screen cast a neon halo from her website.
Eddie slurped his coffee from a chipped mug. “So, we got our three.”
Misty leaned back in her chair, her platinum hair falling over one shoulder. She wore a simple tank top and soft shorts. “Derek, Kyle, Simon. Emails are sent. Portal is live. Derek and Kyle signed their contracts within ten minutes. Simon took forty-five, probably read every word.”
“The careful one,” Eddie said, nodding. He’d been her camera operator and closest friend for seven years. He knew her rhythms better than anyone.
“The careful ones are usually the wildest once they let go,” she said, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. “They just need permission.”
Misty pulled a road atlas from a shelf, the pages worn at the corners. She spread it open on the desk, the lamplight illuminating a spiderweb of highways. “Derek is in Chicago. Kyle is in Atlanta. Simon is in Phoenix.” She tapped each city with a fingernail. “We fly to Chicago first. We’ll have Derek meet us there. Then we work our way south and west.”
Eddie leaned over the map, tracing the route with a calloused finger. “We need spots to shoot. Hotels are too risky for noise complaints. We need something private, controlled. Airbnb’s with the right vibe. Big windows, clean lines, neutral walls.” He pulled out his own laptop, his fingers flying over the keys. “I’ll start scouting. Focus on neighborhoods that are discreet. We’ll need to book them under the LLC.”
“Three days in each city,” Misty said, thinking aloud. She grabbed a notepad and started jotting. “Day one: Arrival, location scout, settle in. Day two: The fan session. We do the interview first, get the nerves out. Give him a drink. Make it feel like a conversation, not a transaction. Then we get to work.” Her tone was focused, operational. “We’ll need to be adaptable. Kyle might be a jackhammer. Simon might need more direction. Derek might freeze up. We coax them through it.”
“And we end in L.A.,” Eddie said, looking up from his screen.“The final scene. The house in Topanga Canyon.”
A slow smile spread across Misty’s face.“The Glass House. Perfect.” It was a property they’d used before, owned by a producer friend—all sharp angles, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a secluded canyon, a sunken living room with deep, white couches that could fit a small army. It photographed like a dream. “We’ll fly the guys in, put them up nearby. It’ll be two nights. The first night is a meet-and-greet, a dinner.No pressure. Let them get used to each other, to us, to the idea. The second day, we film.”
Eddie whistled low. “A four-way. You ready for that? Three amateur guys, all their hang-ups and adrenaline…”
“That’s the point,” she said, her green eyes glinting. “It’s raw. It’s messy. It’s real. They won’t be performers. They’ll be… themselves. Maybe clumsy.Maybe too eager. That’s the fantasy. The authenticity.” She paused, tapping her pen against the notepad. “But we control the environment. We set the tempo. You’ll be on the main camera. I’ll have my wireless lav on the whole time. We get their sounds, their voices. The good, the bad, the fucking delicious.”
“Logistics,” Eddie brought them back. “We need a local nurse in each city for the rapid testing. Can’t have them showing up with paperwork from some shady clinic. We draw the blood right there, wait for the results. If anything’s positive, we walk. Contractually, they eat the travel costs.”
“Included in section four, clause B,” Misty confirmed. “And we need a list of boundaries from them beforehand. A questionnaire. Hard limits, soft limits. No surprises.”
Eddie nodded, typing. “I’ll draft it. Medical history, allergies, any physical limitations.”
Misty stood up, stretching her arms over her head. The tank top rode up, revealing the smooth, tan skin of her waist. She walked to a window, looking out at the quiet suburban street. “The expectation is… a fantasy. But my fantasy too, Eddie. I’m not a blow-up doll. They get a real woman who gets off. Who craves it. We make sure they understand that. This isn’t just them. I’m looking forward to this, Eddie. I mean, really looking forward to it.” She turned from the window, a new intensity in her eyes. She crossed her arms under her chest, leaning back against the wall. “You know the routine. The co-stars, the same moves, the same… professional groan. It’s good. It’s work. But this?” She shook her head, a genuine smile breaking through. “This is unpredictable. It’s raw energy. They’re not thinking about camera angles or their next gig. They’re just gonna be… hungry. For me.”
She shifted her weight, a slight, unconscious roll of her hips against the wall. “The thought of it actually makes me horny. Just sitting here, planning it. Thinking about some regular guy, some accountant or whatever, getting to just… use me. However he wants. And then, after he’s had his turn, getting to have two more.” Her voice dropped, lower, a private confidence shared with her oldest friend.“Teaching them. Feeling them get bolder. Watching them realize they can do anything. I get wet just thinking about the nervous excitement in the room. The smell of it.”
Eddie watched her, a knowing tilt to his head. He didn’t leer; his appreciation was for her as a person, for her craft, for the fierce joy she took in it. He’d filmed her in every conceivable scenario, but this passion—this anticipatory buzz—was its own thing. “I get it,” he said simply, closing his laptop. “That’s what makes the good footage. When you’re into it for real.”
“It’s the truth of it,” she agreed, pushing off the wall. She walked over and plucked her coffee mug from the desk. “The little gasp they make when they first get inside. The way their hands shake. The absolute, fucking bewildered look."
Eddie got up and stretched. "Listen, Let's call it for tonight. I'll call you with travel arrangements and we'll get on the road."
Misty kissed his cheek. "What would I do without you, Eddie."
"Perish, most likely."