Chapter 4: Livvy gets a taste of bbc
The memory of Johnny’s hands, rough yet guided, was a faded photograph compared to the stark reality of the new set. This room was darker, the lights focused in punishing pools, leaving corners shrouded in deep shadow. The air smelled of ozone from the hot lights and the sharp, astringent scent of industrial cleaner. Livvy’s skin prickled under a thin silk robe.
Her co-star this time was Jason. He stood across the room, a silhouette of coiled muscle, stretching his shoulders. He was taller than Johnny, broader, his presence not reassuring but occupying space like a storm cloud. The director, a man named Carl with a perpetual headset, had given her the paperwork only an hour before.
“Jason, this is Livvy. Livvy, Jason. You’re doing the ‘Office Perks’ scene. Wardrobe in ten.”
Now, alone with him as the sound guy adjusted their lavaliers, Livvy felt a cold knot of anxiety tighten in her stomach. She chewed her lip.
“So,” she started, her voice too bright. “First time working together.”
Jason glanced at her, his expression neutral, assessing. “Yeah.”
“I, uh… I saw the brief.” She tugged at the belt of her robe. “It’s… a lot.”
He shrugged, rolling his neck until it cracked. “It’s work.”
The casual dismissal unnerved her. Johnny had talked, had connected. Jason was just… here. The silence stretched, filled only by the techs’ muttered jargon. The knot in her stomach twisted. She needed to say it, to voice the stupid, swirling fear before the cameras rolled.
“Jason?” Her voice was smaller now.
“Hmm?”
“I just… I need to say something. It’s stupid, probably.” She took a breath. “I’ve never… been with a black guy before. I saw your… I mean, in the profile pictures.” She waved a hand vaguely, her face heating. “I’m just worried I can’t… handle it. That I’ll fuck up the scene.”
She laughed, a brittle, hollow sound. She expected a smirk, maybe a boastful reassurance. She didn’t expect the flat, dead-eyed stare he gave her.
The warmth left his eyes completely, replaced by something detached and icy. He took a step closer, and she instinctively stepped back, her calf bumping against the edge of the faux-office desk.
“You think I give a single, solitary fuck about your comfort level?” His voice was low, a quiet rumble that carried more threat than a shout. “They’re not paying me to be your therapist, sweetheart. They’re paying me to fuck you on camera. That’s it. Your job is to take it and make it look good. My job is to give it.”
Before she could process the cold finality of his words, Carl’s voice barked from the darkness. “Okay, places! Robes off. Let’s go. Livvy, on the desk. Jason, you enter on mark.”
The lights burned hotter. The cameras whirred to life, their red eyes glowing. Livvy shucked her robe, the cool air hitting her skin. She lay back on the cold laminate of the desk, a prop computer monitor digging into her shoulder blade. This wasn’t the passionate, guided rhythm Johnny had established. This was a transaction.
Jason didn’t wait for a cue. He was on her, his body a heavy, hot weight. His mouth found her neck, but it wasn’t a kiss; it was a wet, possessive bite that made her gasp. His hands were everywhere, rough, groping her breasts, pinching a nipple hard enough to make her yelp.
“That’s it,” Carl’s voice came from the void. “Good aggression, Jason. Livvy, look more stunned, then into it.”
Jason’s hand slid between her legs, his fingers pushing into her without preamble. She was dry, tight with fear, and she flinched, a sharp pain making her eyes water.
“Fuck,” Jason muttered, pulling his fingers back. He spat into his own palm, a crude, deliberate act for the camera, and smeared the saliva between her legs. “Guess we’ll have to lube you the old-fashioned way.”
He undid his pants. Livvy saw it, thick and dark and already fully erect, and her breath hitched. The earlier fear crystallized into pure, animal dread. It looked… punishing.
He didn’t guide himself. He just positioned the blunt, broad head against her and pushed.
Livvy cried out, a sharp, genuine sound of pain as he breached her. It was a burning, stretching invasion, a relentless pressure that felt like it was splitting her in two. She clawed at the desk, her knuckles white.
“Jesus,” she gasped, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.
“Keep going,” Carl directed, his voice clinical. “Jason, dominate that pussy. Livvy, your face is perfect, ride that pain.”
Jason grunted, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal, deep thrust. Her body convulsed, trying to reject the overwhelming fullness. He began to move, a harsh, pistoning rhythm that had nothing to do with her pleasure. Each thrust was a deep, jarring impact that shook her whole body, sliding the desk a few inches across the floor with their combined force.
The sounds were obscene—the wet, slapping noise of their bodies, his ragged breaths, her choked sobs that she tried to turn into moans for the microphone. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging bruises into her pale skin, using her for leverage to drive himself deeper.
“You wanted a black cock, you stupid cunt?” he growled, his face close to hers, the words for her alone, a private cruelty within the public act. “Now you’ve got it. All of it. Take it.”
He flipped her over onto her stomach with terrifying ease, bending her over the desk. The new angle was deeper, more invasive. He plunged back into her, one hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back. The other hand smacked her ass, a sharp, stinging crack that echoed.
“Tell the camera how much you love it,” he commanded, his voice thick.
Through gritted teeth, saliva stringing from her lips, she managed to rasp, “I love it… fuck me… so deep…”
It was a performance. A layer of performance over a reality of searing, brutal fullness and a humiliating, grinding powerlessness. He used her body with a cold, efficient intensity. He came with a final, deep shudder, a guttural groan, pulling out and finishing across her lower back in hot, sticky stripes.
The “cut” was called.
Silence, except for the hum of the lights and Livvy’s ragged, shaky breathing. Jason stepped back, wiping himself off with a towel a PA offered, his expression already shifting back to neutral, as if a switch had been flipped.
Livvy didn’t move. She stayed bent over the desk, trembling, feeling the throbbing ache deep inside her, the sting on her ass, the cool air on the wet trails on her skin. Her legs felt like water, unstable and weak. She tried to straighten up, and a wave of dizziness and raw pain made her gasp, her knees buckling.
She caught herself on the edge of the desk, her arms shaking. She couldn’t stand up straight. A deep, pervasive ache had locked her muscles. She could only hobble, a bruised and used thing, toward the robe a crew member held out with an indifferent face.
As she limped off the set, each step a reminder, she heard Jason talking to Carl, his voice casual, amiable.
“Yeah, she was tight. We got some good shots though.”
The door to the green room closed behind her, muffling the world. She sank onto a cheap couch, the coarse fabric scraping her tender skin, and stared at the floor. The ghost of Johnny’s reassurance was ashes. This was the work. And it had just begun.
The coarse green room couch fabric scraped against the fresh, stinging welts on Livvy’s backside. Every shallow breath she took echoed in the silent, windowless room, a stark contrast to the violent noise of the set just moments before. The sticky, cooling streaks of Jason’s come on her skin felt like a brand.
She stared at the water-stained ceiling tiles, her mind a perfect, humming blank. The sharp, splitting pain had subsided into a deep, resonant ache that seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat. It lived in the strained muscles of her inner thighs and the raw, tender flesh between them. Moving seemed impossible, a concept for a different body.
A cleaner entered, a middle-aged woman with tired eyes who didn’t glance at Livvy’s naked, soiled form. The swish of a mop and the chemical tang of ammonia cut through the musk still clinging to Livvy’s skin. The woman left a fresh towel on a chair by the door with a soft, indifferent thud.
The door clicked shut, sealing Livvy back into silence.
She forced herself to sit up, a slow, agonizing process that made her gasp. Her body felt fundamentally rearranged, used in a way Johnny’s experienced, almost pedagogical domination had not prepared her for. That had been a performance of passion, however constructed. This had been a demolition.
She reached for the towel, her movements stiff. The simple act of bending to wipe the drying fluid from her lower back sent a fresh spike of pain through her core. She just sat there then, the rough terrycloth bunched in her fists, waiting for the trembling in her hands to subside.
The door swung open without a knock.
Livvy jerked, clutching the towel to her chest. Jason stood in the doorway, still shirtless, his jeans zipped but not buttoned. He looked at her, his earlier detached neutrality now replaced by a look of calm, predatory assessment. He let the door swing shut behind him.
“Forgot my watch,” he said, his voice flat. His eyes, however, weren’t searching the room. They were fixed on her.
He walked past the cheap coffee table, not toward the dressing area, but directly toward the couch. The space, which had felt barren and safe a second ago, now shrank, compressed by his presence. He stopped in front of her, looking down.
“You okay?” he asked. The question wasn’t kind. It was a challenge, devoid of empathy.
Livvy nodded, unable to find her voice. She pulled the towel tighter.
Jason grunted, a low sound in his throat. He didn’t move to leave. Instead, he reached out, his fingers hooking under the edge of the towel she held against her breasts. He gave a slight, insistent tug.
“Let me see,” he said, not asking.
A cold fist clenched in Livvy’s stomach. This was off-script. This wasn’t the set. The cameras were gone. The silence was different now, intimate and charged. She held on, her knuckles white. His gaze hardened, the warmthless curiosity solidifying into impatience.
He pulled harder, the fabric slipping from her numb fingers. It pooled in her lap, leaving her exposed. The studio’s cold air puckered her nipples. She instinctively tried to cover herself, but he caught her wrist, his grip firm and unyielding.
“Stop that,” he murmured, his eyes roaming over the red marks his hands had left on her hips, the faint beginnings of bruises on her inner thighs. “I just wanted to see the work.”
He released her wrist and trailed the backs of his knuckles down the side of her breast, over the curve of her waist, following the trail of a faint, smeared streak on her abdomen. His touch was clinical, proprietary. Livvy sat frozen, a statue of shame and dread, the ache inside her throbbing anew.
“You are tight,” he mused, almost to himself. His hand settled high on her thigh, his thumb pressing into the soft, vulnerable flesh near her sex. “Carl was right. The audience’ll eat that pain-face up. Really sells the ‘corrupted innocence’ thing.”
His thumb moved, a slow, deliberate circle that wasn’t a caress. It was an inspection. Livvy flinched, a hot tear finally escaping and tracing a path through the sweat on her cheek. She hated the tear, hated the weakness it betrayed.
“Please,” she whispered, the word a broken thing.
“Please what?” Jason asked, his thumb still moving, applying a subtle, increasing pressure. He leaned in closer, the scent of his sweat and her sex filling the space between them. His other hand came up to cup her jaw, forcing her to look at him. His eyes were dark, absorbing all the light. “You said you couldn’t handle it. You were right. But you took it anyway. That’s the job.”
His hand left her face and slid behind her neck, gripping the base of her skull. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lower, to where his thumb was now parting her, finding her swollen and sensitive.
“Fuck,” he breathed, a note of genuine surprise in his voice. His earlier clinical detachment fractured, replaced by something hotter, more immediate. “You’re still so wet. All that crying and you’re fucking soaked. Is that for me?”
It wasn’t. It was a raw, traitorous physiological response, a confused slickness of pain and shock and the brutal memory of violation. But he took it as an invitation. His fingers pushed inside her, two of them, curling cruelly. Livvy cried out, her body arching not in pleasure but in a sharp reflex, trying to escape the invasion.
“God, you’re a clenching little mess,” he groaned, his own breath quickening. He worked his fingers in and out, the wet, obscene sound loud in the quiet room. “Think you can come from this? Huh? After all that?”
He shifted, his free hand fumbling with his jeans. The button popped open, the zipper hissed down. He wasn’t gentle. He pulled her forward by the back of her neck, tumbling her off the couch and onto her knees on the thin industrial carpet. The rough fibers bit into her skin.
“Open your mouth,” he commanded, his voice thick.
She looked up, her vision blurred. He was already hard, thick and dark, jutting out from the open fly. The memory of that fullness, that splitting pressure, sent a wave of nausea through her. She shook her head, a feeble, desperate movement.
Jason’s hand tightened in her hair, a sharp, corrective pull that brought sparks to her eyes. “Don’t be stupid. We’re done filming. This is just you and me now. Open. Your. Mouth.”
He tapped the swollen head against her lips. She kept them sealed, trembling. He sighed, a sound of profound annoyance, and used his grip on her hair to tilt her head back. With his other hand, he pinched her nose shut.
Panic, bright and white, exploded behind her eyes. Her lungs burned. After a desperate, airless moment, her lips parted on a gasp. He pushed himself in immediately, the blunt head pressing against the roof of her mouth, his length sliding deep over her tongue. She gagged, her throat convulsing.
“Relax your throat,” he muttered, his hips shifting, beginning a shallow, relentless rhythm. “Take it. You wanted to know if you could handle it. So handle it.”
He fucked her mouth with the same impersonal efficiency he’d used on the set. Tears and saliva streaked down Livvy’s chin. The ache in her jaw bloomed alongside the deeper, throbbing pain between her legs. She could taste salt, the faint bitter tang of herself, and him—a musky, overwhelmingly male flavor that coated her tongue.
He set a brutal pace, his thighs bumping against her cheeks, his grip on her hair unyielding. His low grunts filled the room. She could feel him swelling, the tension coiling in the muscles of his abdomen.
“Gonna come down your throat,” he panted, the words slurred. “Swallow every fucking drop. That’s your bonus.”
The violation was complete, a private annex to the public performance. It was happening, and all she could do was endure it, the sounds of his pleasure and her choking the only narrative in the empty green room. His hips stuttered, his thrusts losing rhythm, becoming jerky and urgent. He shoved himself deep one final time, a guttural groan tearing from his chest as he emptied himself in hot, bitter pulses.
He held himself there until she swallowed convulsively, choking, her body acting on a primal instinct to clear the obstruction. Only then did he pull out, slick and spent, with a soft, wet pop.
He tucked himself back into his jeans, zipped up. He looked down at her, kneeling on the floor, a strand of saliva and come connecting her lip to him for a second before it broke. He patted her cheek, twice, the gesture chilling in its casual contempt.
“See?” he said, his voice returning to that flat, neutral tone. “You handled it just fine.”
He turned and walked to the door, not looking back. He opened it, the hallway light cutting a bright rectangle into the dim room. He paused on the threshold, as if remembering something.
“My watch,” he said, and walked to the counter by the sink, picking up a bulky silver timepiece. He fastened it on his wrist, the click of the clasp final and sharp.
Then he was gone. The door sighed shut, leaving Livvy alone on the floor, the taste of him and the echo of his words filling the empty, chemical-scented air.
The door sighed shut, leaving Livvy alone on the floor, the taste of him and the echo of his words filling the empty, chemical-scented air.
Time stretched, a formless gelatin. She stared at a scuff mark on the baseboard, her mind a blank, static screen. The throbbing between her legs was a metronome counting out the seconds of this new, shattered normal. You handled it just fine. The words echoed, merging with the memory of Johnny’s gentle, rehearsed reassurance in that other, brighter studio. That had been a performance. This, the green room floor, was the truth behind the curtain.
A violent shiver finally broke the paralysis. It started in her core and rattled her teeth. She pushed herself up, her muscles protesting, a sharp pain flowering in her knee where it had pressed into the rough carpet. She stumbled to the small sink, running the water until it was scalding. She scrubbed at her face, at her mouth, using a rough paper towel until her skin was raw and pink. The taste persisted, a phantom stain.
Her clothes, folded on a chair, felt like a costume from another lifetime. She dressed slowly, each movement precise and painful. The soft cotton of her underwear was an agony against her tender flesh. Denim jeans felt like a prison. As she zipped them, she caught her reflection in the mirror—a pale girl with hollow eyes, a stranger wearing Livvy’s face.
The hallway outside was deserted, silent under the fluorescent hum. She could hear the faint murmur from the main stage where another scene was already underway, a rhythmic thumping of bass through the walls. Her own set was dark, cameras shrouded like sleeping beasts. She walked past it, her steps uneven, toward the heavy fire door that led to the back parking lot.
The evening air was a shock, cool and smog-tinged. It was the golden hour, the sun casting long, distorted shadows from the dumpsters. And there he was, leaning against a black SUV, lighting a cigarette. Jason. He took a deep drag, exhaling a plume of smoke that curled into the dusky light. He looked relaxed, sated, a man on a coffee break.
Livvy stopped. Her heart, which had been a numb, sluggish thing, began a frantic, hammering rhythm against her ribs. She hadn’t planned to speak. But the sight of him, so utterly at ease, ignited something cold and hard in her gut. It wasn’t courage. It was a fracture.
“Hey.”
Her voice was a rusty scrape, barely audible. He turned his head, eyes narrowing against the smoke. A slow, infuriating smile spread across his face.
“Livvy. What’s up? Forget something?” His tone was lazy, condescending.
She took a step closer, the asphalt gritty under her shoes. “That wasn’t part of the scene.” The words came out flat, dead.
“What wasn’t?” He played dumb, taking another drag.
“In the green room. After. That wasn’t in the contract.” She could feel a dangerous tremor starting in her hands, and she clenched them into fists.
Jason shrugged, a slow roll of his shoulders. He flicked ash onto the ground. “So? You liked it. You were dripping.” He said it like he was commenting on the weather.
The cold thing in her gut boiled over. “I didn’t like it.” The statement hung in the air, brittle and absolute.
He pushed off the car, dropping the cigarette and grinding it under his heel. The casual motion felt like a threat. He took two steps, closing the distance between them. The setting sun glinted off the silver watch on his wrist, the one he’d gone back for. Up close, she could smell the smoke, his sweat, a hint of her own scent on him.
“Let me explain something to you,” he said, his voice dropping, losing its lazy edge. “You are a hole. A warm, wet hole they rent. My job is to fill it. On camera, off camera, in the green room, in the fucking parking lot. It doesn’t matter. The scene never really ends for you. Not now.”
He reached out and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. The gesture was intimate, possessive, and it froze her blood. “You signed up to be a thing. So be a thing. It’s easier.”
Livvy slapped his hand away. It was a reflexive, weak motion, but it shocked them both. His eyes went dark, the placid menace evaporating into something immediate and hot. He moved fast, grabbing the front of her shirt and shoving her back against the cold metal side of the SUV. The impact knocked the air from her lungs.
“You don’t get to slap me, you stupid cunt,” he hissed, his face inches from hers. His free hand slid between her legs, cupping her roughly over her jeans, fingers pressing hard against the ache he’d created. She cried out, a short, choked sound. “This is what you are. This is all you are. A set of holes that guys like me use. You think Johnny was any different? He was just prettier about it. I’m honest.”
He pressed his whole weight against her, pinning her. She could feel his renewed interest, hard against her hip. The panic was pure, blinding. This was the confrontation. This was the result. Not justice, not an apology. Just more of the same, accelerated.
“Please,” she whispered, the word ash in her mouth.
“Please what?” he mimicked, squeezing her cruelly through the denim. “You started this. You came out here with your little speech.” He leaned in, his breath hot on her ear. “You want to confront me? This is the confrontation. This is you learning your place.”
He held her there for a long moment, a human vise. Then, with a snort of disgust, he let her go. She sagged against the SUV, gasping.
“Go home, Livvy,” he said, his voice returning to that flat, bored tone. He straightened his jacket. “Take an aspirin. You’ve got more scenes to shoot tomorrow. Bigger ones.”
He got into the SUV without looking back. The engine roared to life, the headlights slicing the gathering dusk as he pulled away, leaving her in the sudden, profound silence of the empty lot.
She slid down the side of the vehicle until she was sitting on the cold ground, knees drawn to her chest. The confrontation was over. She had learned. The lesson was carved into her bones, a sour truth deeper than any script. Johnny’s gentle guidance was the fantasy. Jason’s brutal, indifferent truth was the job. She had wanted to be a pornstar. Now she understood what the word really meant. It wasn't about performance. It was about being a permissible space, a geography for other people's use. The scene never ended. The door to the green room was always, always open.
She didn't cry. The tears had been used up. She just sat there as the sky darkened, feeling the deep, announcing throb between her legs, the phantom weight on the back of her tongue. A checklist of damages. When she finally moved, every part of her felt secondhand.