Chapter 5: On Set Masturbation
The clinical white light of the studio felt like it was searing the back of her retinas. Alice sat, rigid, in the padded director’s chair, her fingers digging into the armrests. On the raised platform, under lights so bright they leached the color from everything, Jake moved with a brutal, practiced grace.
The woman beneath him—stage name “Scarlet,” Serena had supplied with a wink—was a riot of fake tan and fiery red curls spread across a black leather couch. Her painted nails clawed at Jake’s flexing shoulders as he drove into her, his hips a piston of relentless rhythm. The sound was obscenely loud in the hushed set: the wet, meaty slap of flesh on flesh, Scarlet’s high, theatrical moans, Jake’s low, guttural grunts.
“Yeah, take that fucking pussy, Kade,” Scarlet panted, her head thrashing side to side. “You like this tight pussy? Huh? You like it?”
Jake’s response was physical, not verbal. He shifted his angle, grabbed her thighs, and hammered harder. His face was a mask of concentrated exertion, his green eyes fixed on some point beyond the woman, beyond the cameras. He was here, but he wasn’t. Alice had seen that look before, in her bed, just before he’d shattered. This was a different kind of absence.
A rolling camera dolly whispered past her, operated by a bored-looking guy in headphones. Alice flinched.
“Easy, tiger,” Serena murmured from the chair beside her, not taking her eyes off the monitor. A live feed showed a close-up of where their bodies joined, glistening and stretched. “They’re not gonna bite. Well, not unless it’s in the script.” She chuckled, lighting a thin cigarette despite the ‘NO SMOKING’ sign directly above her.
Alice couldn’t speak. Her throat was dust. She watched Jake’s powerful back muscles ripple under a sheen of glycerin-simulated sweat. She watched Scarlet’s perfectly arched back as she took every thrust. This was his job. This was the machinery. It was so much more violent and cold than the edited videos she’d seen.
“Action for the money shot, Kade!” the director’s voice crackled through a speaker. “On my mark. Get ready, Scarlet, facial incoming.”
Jake’s rhythm didn’t falter. He kept pounding, his breath coming in sharp hisses. Scarlet’s moans crescendoed into screams of “Yes! Yes! Breed me, you fucking stud! Give it to me!”
“And… mark!”
With a final, deep thrust and a roar that sounded torn from his chest, Jake pulled out. His hand flew to his own cock, stroking it rapidly as he stood over Scarlet. He erupted over her face and chest in thick, white ropes, his body jerking with the force of it. He kept his eyes open, staring down at her with a vacant, professional intensity as he finished.
“Cut! Beautiful! Good work, everyone. Take five, reset for the girl-girl-guy scene.”
The lights dimmed slightly. The hum of equipment returned. Jake instantly stepped back, his expression going flat as he accepted a small towel from a production assistant. He wiped himself perfunctorily, not looking at Scarlet as she was helped up and ushered away for cleanup. He turned, his eyes scanning the dim edges of the set until they found Alice.
For a second, the mask slipped. She saw a flash of something raw—shame, apology, fear—before his agent’s walls slid back into place. He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of his head, then walked off toward his dressing room without a word.
Alice realized she was trembling. A cold, nauseating wave rolled through her. Under her skirt, her thighs were pressed together so tightly they ached.
“See? It’s just plumbing,” Serena said, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. “Hydraulics and good lighting.” She glanced sideways at Alice, her sharp eyes missing nothing. She leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper that smelled of tobacco and mint. “Your fingers are shaking, sweetheart. Under the skirt. I can see it.” A slow, knowing smirk spread across her face. “Go ahead. Touch yourself. Everyone does it the first time they see him live. The body’s a fucking traitor. It doesn’t understand context.”
Horrified, Alice slapped a hand over her thigh, as if caught in a crime. She hadn’t even realized her own hand had drifted. The heat between her legs was a throbbing, insistent pulse, a stark counterpoint to the cold disgust churning in her stomach.
“I… I need air,” Alice stammered, lurching to her feet.
She fled the set, weaving past cables and equipment cases, pushing through a heavy fire door into a gray concrete corridor. She leaned against the cold wall, sucking in deep breaths that tasted of dust and industrial cleaner. Her mind replayed the image of him finishing, the sheer clinical detachment of it. Yet her body hummed, remembering the weight of him, the feel of him inside her, the possessive fury in his voice when he’d said “This cock… it’s yours.”
The dressing room door was a few feet away, marked with a handwritten ‘KADE’ on a sticky note. Before she could talk herself out of it, she turned the handle and went in.
He was shirtless, wiping the glycerin from his chest with a larger towel. The room was small, lit by a single bulb, smelling of stale coffee, cheap aftershave, and sex. He looked up as she entered, his face guarded.
“Alice, you shouldn’t be in here,” he said, his voice low.
“Why? Does it break the illusion?” The words came out harsher than she intended.
He threw the towel down. “No. Because it’s a fucking depressing room. And you look like you’re about to be sick.”
“I feel like I’m about to be sick,” she admitted, hugging herself. “And I also feel… God, Jake, I feel so turned on I can barely stand up. What’s wrong with me?”
A profound relief softened his features. He crossed the room in two strides, cupping her face. “Nothing. Nothing is wrong with you. That’s the whole fucking point. It’s two different things. What you saw out there… that’s not us.”
“She was screaming your name,” Alice whispered.
“She was screaming a name that isn’t mine,” he corrected, his thumb stroking her cheek. “You’re the only one who gets to scream mine.”
His mouth found hers, not with the performed passion of the set, but with a desperate, seeking hunger. It was a kiss of reclamation. She tasted the faint, bitter tang of fake sweat and a deeper, more familiar taste that was just him. She kissed him back, her hands gripping his bare shoulders, nails biting into the hard muscle there.
He backed her against the door, the click of the lock echoing in the tiny room. His hands went under her skirt, bunching the fabric at her waist. His fingers, blunt and sure, slid inside her panties, finding her soaking wet.
“See?” he breathed against her lips, his fingers circling her clit, then dipping inside her. “This is yours. This wet, this heat. This is for me. Not for a camera. Not for a paycheck. For me.”
She whimpered, her head falling back against the door with a thud. His fingers worked her with an intimate knowledge that felt like both a sin and a salvation. It was filthy and profound. He dropped to his knees, pushing her skirt up around her waist, yanking her panties down her thighs.
“Jake, someone could–”
“Let them hear,” he growled, and pressed his mouth to her.
His tongue was a rough, demanding invasion, licking and sucking with a focus that shattered all coherent thought. This was nothing like the performative ecstasy she’d just witnessed. This was greedy, selfish, all-consuming. He ate her like a starving man, his hands gripping her ass, pulling her onto his face. She cried out, her hands flying to his hair, fisting the dark strands as she ground against his mouth. The vibration of his groan against her sensitive flesh sent her hurtling toward the edge.
“Come on my tongue,” he commanded, his voice muffled against her. “I want to taste it. I want to swallow every drop of what I do to you.”
It was the raw, filthy command that broke her. Her orgasm ripped through her, a silent, screaming wave that shook her to her core. She spasmed around his thrusting tongue, her knees buckling. He held her up, drinking from her until she was oversensitive, until her pleading moans turned to weak pushes against his shoulders.
He rose, his own need evident in the fierce erection straining against his zipper. His eyes were wild, dark with a possession she’d never seen on the set.
“I need to be inside you,” he said, his voice ragged. “Right here. Right now. Not like out there. Like it’s real.”
He unzipped his jeans, freeing himself. He was thick, flushed, and achingly hard. He lifted her, her back against the door, her legs wrapping around his waist. There was no finesse, no preamble. He guided himself to her entrance and pushed in, filling her in one relentless stroke.
The breath left her lungs in a shocked gasp. It was too much, too soon after her climax, an exquisite, full ache. He didn’t move, just buried himself to the hilt, his forehead pressed to hers, his eyes screwed shut.
“This,” he panted. “This is me.”
Then he began to move. Short, deep, punishing thrusts that shook the door against its frame. Each one was a declaration. The set, the director, Scarlet, the cameras—all of it was obliterated by the sound of their skin slapping together, their ragged breaths, his whispered curses in her ear.
“Fuck, Alice. You own me. You fucking ruin me.”
His pace quickened, turning frantic. She clung to him, her face buried in his neck, biting the skin there to muffle her own cries. The room was hot, close, reeking of them. This was the antithesis of the sterile set. This was sweat and truth and a chaotic, messy need.
He came with a choked, broken sound, pulsing deep inside her, his entire body shuddering. He held her there, pinned between his body and the door, for a long time, both of them breathing heavily in the aftermath.
Finally, slowly, he let her slide down until her feet touched the floor. They were a mess.