Chapter 2: The Audition Tape
The taste of her was still in my mouth, sharp and salty, when she stepped away. The cool air hit the wet patches on my face, making me shiver. Melissa looked down at me, her expression unreadable for a second before it settled back into its familiar, chilling amusement.
“Up,” she said, snapping her fingers. “We’re not done. Bedroom. Now.”
My legs were numb from kneeling, the bones aching as I pushed myself up. She didn’t wait, turning and walking out of the living room. I followed, a sick thrum of anticipation mixing with the dread in my gut. The hallway was dark, but light spilled from her half-open bedroom door.
I’d only been in here a few times near the end, when our interactions were just tense, silent transactions. It looked different now. Sterile, purposeful. The king-sized bed was neatly made, but it felt like a stage. And in the corner, facing the center of the room, was a tripod. A sleek, black camera was mounted on top, a tiny red light glowing like a malevolent eye.
“Close the door,” Melissa said. She was standing by the window, arms crossed.
The click of the latch was deafening. I stood there, my back against the wood, feeling trapped in the worst and best possible way.
“You see that?” She nodded toward the camera. “I think it’s time for a new project. A documentary, of sorts. A real one.” She walked over to the tripod, her finger hovering over a button. “All those AI videos you made… they were good. Convincing. But they lacked something. Authenticity.”
She pressed the button. The red light grew brighter.
“Take off your clothes. All of them. Fold them. Put them on the chair.” Her voice had no inflection. It was just instruction.
My hands trembled as I pulled my shirt over my head. The air in the room was cool, raising goosebumps on my skin. I fumbled with my belt, my jeans, my underwear, each article feeling like a surrender. I folded them clumsily, the mundane act absurd amidst the humming camera. I placed the pile on a velvet armchair in the corner.
“Kneel. There.” She pointed to a spot on the hardwood floor, directly in front of the camera’s lens.
I knelt. The floor was unforgiving. I was completely exposed, naked and shivering under the unblinking red eye. Melissa circled me, just out of frame, a predator assessing its prey.
“Look at the camera,” she said. I lifted my head. The lens was a black void. “Now say it. Say, ‘My name is Derek Vance, and I am Melissa Huda’s property.’”
My throat closed. The words were ash. I opened my mouth but only a croak came out.
I heard her move, a swift shift of weight, and then her open palm connected with the side of my face. The crack was shocking, a bright white pain that exploded in my cheek and watered my eyes. My head snapped to the side.
“Look at the camera and say it,” she repeated, her voice still calm. She moved back into my peripheral vision, letting the camera see my stunned, reddening face.
I turned my head back, my vision swimming. The red light pulsed. “My name… is Derek Vance,” I whispered, my tongue thick. “And I am Melissa Huda’s property.”
“Louder. For the mic.”
“I am Melissa Huda’s property!” The words echoed in the quiet room, ringing with a terrible, final truth.
“Good.” She stepped into the frame. She was still wearing the tank top, her legs bare. She stopped beside me, looking down. “Now. You’re going to kiss my feet. You’re going to worship them. And you’re going to tell the camera why you’re doing it.”
She lifted her right foot, holding it just above my lap. I leaned forward, pressing my lips to her arch. Her skin was clean now but carried the faint, phantom scent of her run, of the sweat I’d licked from her floor.
“Talk,” she commanded.
“I… I kiss your feet because I’m worthless,” I stammered, my lips moving against her skin. “Because I don’t deserve anything better.”
“Because you’re obsessed,” she supplied, curling her toes so they brushed my chin.
“Because I’m obsessed,” I parroted, the admission fueling a dark heat in my core.
“Now the other one. And tell them what you did in my living room.”
I switched to her left foot, kissing the ball, the toes. My voice grew steadier, hypnotized by the ritual and the camera’s gaze. “I licked your dirty sneakers clean. I let you shove your foot in my mouth until I choked. I kissed your… your sweaty ass after your run and told you I loved how gross you were.”
Melissa made a sound of approval, a soft hum. She let her foot rest on my shoulder, a demeaning prize. “Now. Turn around. On your hands and knees. Face away from the camera.”
I complied, the hardwood digging into my palms and knees. I heard her move behind me. The weight of her gaze on my exposed back was heavier than any touch.
“Arch your back. Lower your head. Present yourself.”
I did. The position was one of utter submission. I stared at the baseboard, my heart hammering against my ribs.
She didn’t touch me at first. I could feel her just behind me, sense her leaning down. The camera was capturing everything—the curve of my spine, the vulnerability.
“Smell it,” her voice came, low and direct, right near my ear but projected for the mic. “Turn your head and bury your face in my ass and inhale. Tell the camera what it smells like.”
I turned my head. The dark cotton of her shorts filled my vision. I pushed my face into the fabric, into the heat and the potent, musky scent that lingered there. It was humiliatingly intimate. “It smells… strong,” I choked out. “Sweaty. It smells like you.”
“Like my disgusting ass,” she corrected, grinding back slightly against my face.
“Like your disgusting ass,” I moaned, the words muffled by her.
“Now kiss it. Like you mean it. Like the pathetic worm you are.”
I kissed the fabric, then, spurred by some deep, shameful need, I used my teeth to tug the hem of her shorts aside, just enough to press my mouth to her bare skin. The taste was a familiar, devastating salt. I kissed her with a desperation that horrified me, my lips and tongue moving against her while the camera recorded every second.
She let me for a minute, a silent, mocking patron of my degradation. Then she stepped away. “Enough. Stay there.”
I heard the rustle of fabric. A soft thud. I dared a glance back. She had taken off her shorts. She stood now in just the tank top, completely bare from the waist down. She saw me looking and smirked.
“This is the part your AI could never get right,” she said, her voice slick with contempt. “The reality. The pathetic, trembling reality of a man who threw himself away for a taste of his own humiliation.”
She came back, standing beside me, in full view of the camera. She placed a hand on the back of my head. “Now. Say thank you. Thank you, Melissa, for letting me be your thing.”
A hot tear finally broke loose, tracing a path through the sweat on my cheek and dripping onto the floor. “Thank you, Melissa,” I whispered, the sob cracking my voice, “for letting me be your thing.”
“Louder.”
“THANK YOU, MELISSA, FOR LETTING ME BE YOUR THING!” I shouted, the words tearing from my throat, raw and true.
She patted my head, a patronizing gesture. “Good.” She walked to the camera, her movements casual, as if she hadn’t just orchestrated the demolition of a person. She pressed the button. The red light went out.
The silence that followed was worse than her commands. It was hollow, ringing with what I’d just done. I stayed on my hands and knees, unable to move.
Melissa picked up her phone from the nightstand. She tapped the screen, connected it to the camera with a small cable. She scrolled, her eyes scanning the footage. A slow, genuine smile spread across her face—not her usual smirk, but something colder, more satisfied.
“You wanted this,” she said, not looking at me. She zoomed in on the screen, on a close-up of my tear-streaked face as I shouted my thanks. “You begged for it with every stupid message, every AI video. You funded it. You directed it. You starred in it.”
She finally looked at me, holding up the phone so I could see the frozen image of my own broken expression. “Now the world gets to see what you really are. Or… at least, one person does.”
My blood turned to ice. “Wh… what?”
She pulled up a contact, her thumb hovering over the screen. “Your buddy Mark. The one who always gave me those gross, ‘you can do better’ looks when we were together. The one who told you to have some self-respect when we broke up.” Her smile was pure venom. “I think he deserves to know the truth. Don’t you?”
“Melissa, no. Please.” The plea was automatic, weaker than a whisper.
“Please what?” she asked, tilting her head. “You don’t get to make the rules here, property. You lost that right. You gave it away.”
She tapped the screen. A progress bar appeared. Sending…
“There,” she said, tossing the phone onto the bed. “It’s done. A little digestible highlight reel. The money shots, so to speak.”
I collapsed onto my side, curling into a fetal position on the cold floor. The sobs came then, wracking and silent, my shoulders shaking. This was the end of everything. Mark was my oldest friend. He’d know. Everyone would know.
Melissa walked over to the chair, picked up my clothes, and dropped them in a heap on top of me. “Get dressed. Get out. I’m bored now.”
The fabric smelled like me, like normal life, a life that was now irrevocably over. I dressed with mechanical, numb movements, not looking at her. When I finally stood, buckling my belt, she was staring out the window again, her reflection a pale, powerful ghost in the dark glass.
I walked to the bedroom door, my hand on the knob.
“Oh, and Derek?” she said, without turning around.
I stopped.
“If you block my number, or change yours, or try to hide… I have the full, unedited file. I’ll send it to your sister next. Then your boss. Understand?”
I understood. The camera hadn’t stopped recording when the red light went out. It had never stopped.
“Yes,” I mumbled.
“Good. I’ll text you. Don’t be late.”
I opened the door and stumbled into the hallway. As I walked through the dark living room, past the spot where I’d licked her shoe, my phone buzzed in my pocket. A cold jolt shot through me.
It wasn’t Melissa. It was a text from Mark.
The preview showed three words: “What the fuck…”
I didn’t open it. I just kept walking, out into the night, the weight of the unseen video—and the promise of the one yet to come—pushing me down into the pavement with every step.