Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Grumbling about the lack of elevators in every building he went into, he climbed. He followed the light into a big open space painted bright white. In the far corner special movie lights were set up facing a staged set that was basically just a really big bed.
“So, Castor wants you for scene seventeen, huh?” The voice belonged to a heavyset guy with a beard and teeny brown eyes set too close together. He wore too-tight jeans and a shirt with the top three buttons opened. He scanned Z from head to broken foot and raised a brow. “I guess that works, vulnerability sells. Here, sign the forms.”
He waved a stack of papers at Z before crossing to a table with a computer setup. Z followed and gratefully sat when the guy pushed a chair in his direction.
“What’s your name?” the guy asked.
“Z.”
“Nah, too confusing. How ’bout we call you Black? Yeah, Bentley Black.”
“Whatever.” Bentley Black sounded exactly like a porn name. Z rolled his eyes. What did it matter? It wasn’t like he’d ever do this again.
He didn’t bother reading the legal documents, just signed his name on the bottom of each page.
“This your first time?” the guy asked.
“What gave it away?”
“I haven’t seen you before.” Guy went to the set to adjust one of the lights.
“Yeah, well. This is just a onetime thing. Need funds, you know?”
The guy nodded like he’d heard that before, about a million times.
“You done? Okay, so we’re gonna start with an introductory masturbation.” He looked at his watch. “Marc will arrive in about forty. He’ll be your partner for scene seventeen.”
“Okay.”
“There’s a bathroom over there. Go shower. Come out dressed but no underwear. People love the talent going commando.”
“If you say so. What about the bandage?”
The guy, who still hadn’t offered a name, studied the brace around Z’s ankle. “Can you take it off?”
“Well, yeah, but I can’t walk without it, and my foot looks like a moldy eggplant.”
The guy made a face. “I’ll frame each shot so we only show you above the knee when possible.”
The shower was big enough for five fully grown men. The water was soothing. Of course, as soon as it was over his muscles tensed right back up into little balls of iron, but at least he was clean again. He pulled on his jeans as careful as he could over his ankle. It wasn’t quite as swollen and purple as it had been, but it still looked wrong. He tried putting weight on it.
Still hurt, but it was now a bearable pain.
When he was dressed, he made his way onto the set and waited for instructions. The lights were glaring, but the room was kept cool enough that the heat was a comfort.
“Ready?” Nameless Guy asked from behind the camera.
“As I’ll ever be.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The regret didn’t come until it was too late.
By the time Z realized he’d made a terrible decision he was already pinned beneath a scary-looking dude named Marc, ball gag in his mouth and tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. He’d struggled at first because he’d still had the stupid belief that he could get out of it. Marc simply tightened his hold, twisted Z’s long hair around his huge forearm and pulled until Z’s head was snapped backward at an impossible angle. The most painful kind of restraint, as if his hair had become his prison.
No way could he get loose now.
He screamed, but the ball gag muffled the noise and turned it into a moan that the camera would love. Anyone who watched this scene would fool themselves into believing Z was enjoying it. Every cruel and terrible thing Marc did would become someone’s wicked fantasy.
A drop of the man’s sweat fell onto Z’s face and slid into his eye, stinging as if it were a shard of glass. Z closed his eyes and sobbed. What if that droplet slithered inside? What if he could never get rid of it?
A little drop of poison that would forever corrupt him.
And never let him forget.
Behind his back, his fingers clawed only air. Both his hands were caught in one of the man’s massive hands and held tightly down against Z’s own spine.
Hog-tied, without the rope.
He couldn’t believe he’d gotten himself into this. He should have told Castor to fuck off. He should have insisted Lirim go to the police. He’d been a fucking idiot and now he was paying the price.
Behind the camera, the still-nameless guy gave him two thumbs-up.
As if Z was doing a good job.
As if this was normal. The crying, bleeding, sweating, screaming—how could he think Z wouldn’t be traumatized?
He bit hard on the plastic in his mouth and shouted at the top of his lungs.
Marc didn’t stop. Z hadn’t expected him to.
They’d been at it for what felt like hours, but in reality was probably only ten minutes. His entire body ached, not so much from the act itself—Marc had done a good job of prepping him—but from keeping so tense the entire time. He’d wrestled with a mountain and he had the bruises to prove it.