Chapter 6: Bathroom Stall Fuck
The pier scene took seventeen takes. Seventeen iterations of heartbreak, of shouted accusations that dissolved into weeping, of Yang’s character, Song Yan, standing frozen as Churan’s character, Li Li, ran away down the fog-slicked boards. By the eighteenth “cut,” Churan’s nerves felt scraped raw, her eyes genuinely swollen. The director, finally satisfied, bellowed for a ninety-minute break for lighting resetup.
Yang caught her elbow as she walked off the pier, his grip firm through the wool of her costume coat. “You okay?” he asked, his public smile fixed, but his voice low.
“I just need a minute where I’m not crying,” she said, forcing a laugh that sounded brittle even to her.
“Bathroom,” he said, not a question. He dropped her elbow, but his gaze held hers, a clear instruction. “Top of the hour.”
She went to her own trailer first, splashed water on her face, and changed out of Li Li’s elegant coat and dress into her own soft jeans and a simple black sweater. The emotional residue of the scene clung to her like a film. She needed it gone. Ten minutes later, she pushed into the rarely-used bathroom near the old soundstage, the one with the flickering fluorescent light and the always-damp floor.
He was already there, leaning against the sink, scrolling on his phone. He looked up as the door shut behind her, the automatic lock clicking with finality. He didn’t smile.
“Seventeen takes,” she said, leaning back against the door. “I think my soul is hollow.”
“You were incredible,” he said, putting his phone down. His eyes traveled over her, not with his usual playful leer, but with a focused intensity that felt new. “That last take, when your voice broke on ‘I never want to see you again’… fuck. I almost forgot my line.”
The praise, so specific and professional, did something to her. It unspooled the last of her restraint. She crossed the small space until she was directly in front of him. The air smelled of industrial lemon cleaner and mildew.
“I don’t want to talk about the scene,” she said, her voice quiet.
“What do you want?” he asked, though his hands were already coming up to grip her hips.
“I want to not feel anything for a minute.”
A dark understanding passed over his features. He turned her abruptly, spinning her to face the cold, tiled wall. His body pressed against her back, hard and unyielding. “Then let’s be quiet.”
His hands slid under her sweater, pushing it up, and then shoved her jeans and underwear down her thighs in one rough motion. The cool air kissed her skin. She heard the rasp of his own zipper, the rustle of clothing. Then the broad, blunt head of his cock was pressing against her, finding her already slick, her body responding to the harshness, to the sheer relief of this physical demand.
He didn’t ease in. He drove forward, a single, deep, claiming stroke that filled her completely, forcing a choked gasp from her throat that echoed off the tiles. His palm clamped over her mouth, smothering the sound.
“Shhh,” he hissed in her ear, his own breath hot and ragged. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, not moving. She could feel every inch of him, the stretch, the delicious, burning fullness. Her own tears, no longer Li Li’s, pricked at her eyes.
Then he moved.
He fucked her with a brutal, piston-like rhythm, each thrust slamming her hips against the wall. The metal stall divider rattled with their impact. His other hand snaked around her front, under her sweater, finding her breast. He pinched her nipple, twisting sharply, and the pain-pleasure lightning bolt made her clamp down around him, a tight, involuntary spasm.
“Fuck, yes,” he grunted, his voice guttural against her ear. “Just like that. Take it. Take all of it.” His hand left her mouth, instead fisting in her hair, pulling her head back to expose her throat. He bit down on the tendon there, not hard enough to mark, but enough to make her cry out.
The sounds were obscene: the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin, their ragged breathing, the creak of their shoes on the dirty floor. He was pounding into her, a relentless machine chasing his own release, using her body to scour away the same emotional fatigue she felt.
“You’re so fucking tight,” he rasped, his words coming in time with his thrusts. “Even after all this. Like you’re made for me. Gonna come. Gonna fill this perfect cunt up.”
His filthy talk, usually playful, was raw and desperate now. It ignited her. The coil of tension from seventeen takes of heartbreak snapped, transforming into a different, sharper kind of climax. It ripped through her without warning, a silent, seismic convulsion that locked her muscles and stole her breath. She saw white behind her eyelids, her mouth open in a soundless scream.
Feeling her pulse around him, Yang lost his rhythm. With a final, deep snarl, he buried himself as deep as he could go. She felt the hot, sudden rush of his release inside her, jet after jet, and the shudder that wracked his entire frame.
For a long moment, they stayed like that, locked together, breathing in ragged unison. The hum of the light fixture seemed deafening. Slowly, he softened, slipping out of her. A trickle of warmth traced down her inner thigh.
He gently turned her around. Her legs were unsteady. He held her up, his hands on her arms, and looked at her face. Her makeup was indeed ruined, mascara smudged in dark shadows under her eyes, but from this, not from acting. He didn’t smile. He looked almost serious.
He wet a paper towel with cold water and, with a surprising tenderness, wiped carefully at the smudges beneath her eyes. Then he handed her a wad of towels to clean herself between her legs. They dressed in silence, the rustle of clothing loud in the small space.
When they were presentable, he leaned close, his lips brushing her ear. His voice was back to its normal, easy cadence, but his eyes were still dark. “Better?”
She took a deep, clearing breath. The hollow feeling was gone, replaced by a buzzing, spent awareness. “Better.”
He unlocked the door and opened it a crack, checking the hallway. “You go first. I’ll follow in five.”
She stepped out into the bright, impersonal hallway, the world of work and people and cameras. The ghost of him was still inside her, a fading, sticky ache. As she walked back toward the set, her steps were steady, her face a calm, prepared mask. She was ready for take eighteen.