Hi everyone!! I know it's been a minute since I've posted a story, but adulting is starting to creep up on me a little more these days. In any case, I do hope that you enjoy this one, and know that the 2nd part isn't too far off because I basically split the story down the middle since I felt it was way too long for one sitting. Thank you in advance for your feedback, negative comments are greatly appreciated, as criticism is what helps me grow.
A Carbon Copy of What Could Have Been
“The fact is people aren’t exactly lining up around the block to buy records anymore.”
“But, I’m like under contract.”
“We’ve expended our options here.”
“No. I’m under contract which means ya’ll can’t just x me out!”
“You have been getting my emails yes?”
“Em… what? Like, nobody checks emails anymore.”
“That’s not my problem.”
“The hell it’s not!”
“Look it, here at Mint Wax contracts are for singers who produce.”
“Wait up, I totally produce.”
“In the last three years, you’ve managed to place on the billboard once, once. Any other record label would have dropped you by now.
Considering the accident, we didn’t want the negative press, but it’s been a minute since then, and you simply aren’t at the caliber you need to be.”
John raised his hand far above his head as she mulled over the word.
“Caliber? I am the second most followed on Instagram, I get hordes of Tweets…”
“Older men, perverts who ogle your adolescent features, not our demographic.”
“Oh yeah? So like, what’s your demographic?”
“Money.”
“Money?”
“Nobody pays a red cent when candid beach photos of you in a bikini end up on some Youtuber’s fap tribute. You know, if that offer is still on the table, maybe you should consider it, that is if that scar on your belly doesn’t devalue your marketability.”
“Wow, just, wow.”
“Kid, it’s not that we don’t like you. Everyone here agrees, you’ve got personality. But personality doesn’t sell records.”
“Amara.”
“We’re running on fumes kid. It came down to you two and she’s well...”
“But you said I was special.”
“That was seven years ago, when a girl from Nowhere, Texas stood before me; promise in her big brown eyes. Her vocals cracked, and not every note was on point, but with every word you told a story.”
“And now?”
“Now? You’re a carbon copy of what could have been.”
He rubbed his temple as if a migraine was about to rupture a vein.
“I don’t know, maybe in some messed up way we were just as responsible; hyping you up as the next Selena Quintanilla, manufacturing you and your brand, creating an illusion.”
“Carbon copy? Illusion? I put assess in seats.”
With a subtle scoff he dismissed her flagrant finger, tapping against his desk.
“Parents.”
“What?”
“They were the ones lining ticket booths. All so that their kids could maybe, just maybe, catch you fleeting glance and they could say, “Claire looked right at me!” And for a time that was enough, you were enough. But times change…”
“Don’t you give me that times change bullshit, I like totally changed!”
“Your image sure, what with the risqué cleavage and booty shorts, but your music didn’t. Lackluster lyrics, dry vocals, don’t even get me started on your stage presence.”
“Stage presence? I’ve like, never missed a show.”
“Yes, yes. But your routines…”
“So I gained a little weight.”
“Breathless before the second act? Whispering lyrics? Reduced to being carted around by back up dancers for support?”
“We all have our coping mechanisms.”
“It seems yours calls for pulling up to the second window.”
“Of all the things you’ve said.”
The wrinkles on his forehead came to a scrunch as he leaned intimately into her personal space.
“Look, I’m done dancing in circles with you. We’ll give you to the end of the month, then we are officially cutting ties.”
“Isn’t their anything I can do?”
“That question is about two years too late. Amara’s coming by next week for an obligatory audition, just a formality. Perhaps you should,” he muddled some words under his breath and then cleared his throat, “I don’t know, maybe it would help you find that edge you’ve been missing.”
“The hell? I don’t need inspiration from some stupid little upstart! I’m out. I’m out.”
A faint vibration coursed through his pant pocket as he watched the last of Claire’s dark brown hair waft away into the hall where a voluptuous set of 34c’s sat patiently awaiting admittance.
“Oh no. Just finishing up a meeting… Oh of course… No, the audition is simply a formality. We know you can sing… Nervous? Oh no. As long as you bring the pipes like you’ve been doing there’s no need to worry… Absolutely. See you then.”
And though Claire had traversed those narrow hallways before, there was something about this moment in particular that made them feel infinite. A picture came into focus from the corner of her eye as she briskly made her way past the restrooms. It seemed a fitting placement, this image inside a dusty frame, her image. Trails of hair flaring off the left shoulder, belly bulging as exhausted efforts to carry a note faltered, soft cheeks flush red, a bead of sweat trickling down her brow. The sheer-black bodysuit snug against the soft delicacies of her body, fit like a second skin. Her backside, an entrapment of sweat and strawberry blossom, lights permeating the stage and engulfing her very essence like a fever. Mandalay Bay, Las Vegas Nevada, it read on the gold placard.
Blowing some dust off the edge of the frame she zeroed in on her protruding belly in the shot, “Fuckin’ Starbucks.”
A condensation dripping caramel Frappuccino rode shotgun as Claire, amidst a doldrum of Thursday afternoon traffic, contemplated her next move. A relentless California sun gave even the most efficient air conditions a run for their money and today was no exception as trickles of sweat formulated deep into the hollows of her armpits and along her backside. Then a noise erupted from her speakers.
She’d never changed the dial faster.
“Bitch.”
The Last 24
Clothing had never courted a hanger within the confines of their dormitory, more adept to laying low, being ironed by naked feet, pinched by toes, and flailed upwards and onto hot young flesh.
Shrieks of happiness cut through the candy scented atmosphere as she turned up the volume on her phone.
“They’re playing it again! They’re playing it again!”
An equally enthusiastic voice came blasting from the bedroom in a ruffled blue blouse and skin tight black leggings.
“That’s twice in the last hour!”
“I know, isn’t this exciting?”
While not as filled out as her counterpart, Amara still managed to make her fabrics work wonders as a loosely fitted tee over thigh high denim gave off a flirtatious vibe.
“Well…”
“Oh don’t worry, I’ll still visit.”
“You are a shoe-in aren’t you?”
“Well from what I understood, it was between me and Claire, as if she stood a chance.”
A cocked head was subtlety enough for the words that followed.
“Now, now, there’s no need to be haughty. The Bible says…”
“I know, I know. I’m just excited that’s all.”
“The professor isn’t going to be too happy you’re cutting early.”
Puckered lips against her reflection didn’t tame Amara’s tongue as she smoothed out a light application of lipstick.
“Oh my God! Am I crazy, or did she like sorta have a thing for me?”
A sultry “smack” off pursed lips followed as Amara’s friend Sandy fiddled with her top.
“Um, that’s none of my business, but the Bible says…”
“Okay like, you have got to stop with the Bible thumping.”
“Oh I’m sorry I thought this was TCU, you know Texas Christian University? Not all of us are born pop stars.”
“Born? Oh please.”
They reached for their cell phones to momentarily immerse themselves in social media, or at least pretend to. Sandy was the first to break the silence.
“Remember this?”
With an outstretched hand she shoved past the tension. An image of two bikini clad freshmen doused in green goop lit up the screen.
“Wow, like, is this throwback Thursday or what?” Amara remarked.
Sandy swiped right and to another photo of the freshmen in a lovingly warm embrace, and banana wide smiles across their cheeks.
“I’m still kinda mad at them for that.”
Amara gave off a puzzled look as she zoomed in on the photo.
“For what?”
“Um, that was a Lane Bryant.”
“Ah, as soon as this deal comes through, I’ll hook you up.”
“Awesomesauce! You ready?”
“I’ve got an extra Sharpie in my back pocket.”
“My turn or yours?”
“Totally yours, but let me pay. I’ve got so much cheddar coming you can get the big fries.”
“No, no! We’re on a rotation, if it’s my turn it’s my turn.”
“Whatever.”
Amara had become accustomed to the swoons and outlandish eye rolls off jealous faces as she navigated the halls and foregrounds of the campus; to the scoffs off professors shaking their collective heads, some in disbelief, most in disgust over the choice she was making. But it was, as she told herself just about every morning, her life, and far be it from anyone to dictate how she was going to live it.
The student union was abuzz even before she’d walked through the doors; from murmurs about having the huevos to approach the Mexican starlet for a photograph, to the kitchen staff setting aside a plate of enchiladas with extra cheese, the way she liked.
“Mind if I get an autograph?”
A young man with shaggy black hair and an unkept beard sidled the pair, discombobulated.
“Um sure, you have a… oh.”
From out of his backpack, sealed in an envelope, was a blown-up photo of a young brunette, hair slicked back into a pony tail. An acoustic guitar sat in her lap. Her jaw laid wide open under the strain of belting out a high note.
“Yeah, I hope it’s not too weird.”
There was a gleam in her eye as she took in every detail of the photo.
“I remember that night. Where did you…”
“I bar tend there on the weekends. As soon as I heard you sing, I knew.” He lightly tapped on the corner of the picture, “This was the only one that came out clean.”
“Oh wow. So should I make this out to…”
“Oh, just your name is fine. Actually, I have two. Could you maybe…”
“eBay?”
“Tuition ain’t cheap.”
“I got you."
Suddenly
Her choice of footwear, better suited for a day at the beach, wasn’t what was slowing her down. Nor was it the luggage, suited more for a family of three than an outbound college junior. Something else was tugging at her. An unseen presence, stuck in the purgatory of mid-term exams, plucked persistently at the strings of her heart. Sandy’s last text was on repeat as her reddened eyes glossed over it, again and again. Suddenly, Friday’s sucked. Suddenly the terminal was too cold. Suddenly algebra wasn’t an incoherent subject worth skipping for an extra hour of sleep, suddenly.
A husky young gentleman in a navy-blue vest was met with a screech off the receiver as his muffled vocals mumbled some instructions over the PA. As per requested her bags were checked and she was slowly passed through inspection where a more than through pat down generated a giggle as her sides were gently squeezed. She would have been within her rights to flare some nostril and fume, but he was five-nine with shaggy blonde hair and dimples across a pale complexion.
An aisle seat next to a man spilling over beyond the confines of his own chair proved to be more than humbling accommodations for someone who’d recently started toting the phrases, “extra cheddar” and, “heavy sauce”. A rusted seat hinge shrieked to life as she settled in and exchanged glances with the girl across the aisle. The last of the moon’s pale enchantment retracted into the nothing as the sun’s orange hue brimmed along the horizon as she looked towards the window.
“California, here I come.”
The Call
Noon was fast approaching before an attempt was even made to shake off the cobwebs of a good night’s sleep. Her aid, a half-depleted pack of Smirnoff, lined her night stand. And though the covers seemed to tangle themselves more intricately around her body, she eventually abandoned them in favor of a silken night robe, a pooled pile of shimmery black fabric forgotten on the floor. She stared at her phone and the black void that was its screen. Slowly, his words crawled from beyond the recesses of her drunken brain.
She had the number saved.
She pulled back the robe, softly pressing her fingers against the ridged remanence of stitches, to the crumpled Mercedes, to the hospital where her name was financed to the top of the donor’s list, to the bill sitting atop her granite countertops where an untouched kitchen sat uselessly bleeding money. She drew back the robe and delicately reached for her iPhone.
Two failed thumb recognitions later she stumbled through her pass-code, a momentarily lost set of numbers seemingly scrambled amidst a haze of forgetfulness and remorse.
The long drone of a ringtone echoed through her, pulsating, almost in unison with her beating heart. Within five ‘rings’ a fudge rich voice came through.
“Yes, um, hi.”
She bit her lip and causally traced the intricacies of a Swarovski encrusted ball gown she’d gravitated to.
“This is, um, Cl-Claire, Claire… oh, HA!... you have? I was wondering if… oh it is?”
The hairs on her neck stood up as she knelt to the floor and ran her bare feet along the course stones of its flared flounce.
“Well like, I can’t commit to anything right, right now, but yeah I’m interested.”
A pair of widened eyes and a hard gulp followed as she processed the next couple of words.
“New York? Um, yeah of course. But can’t we like, do this over the phone?”
She cocked her head back and submitted.
“Makes sense. I guess I’m going to New York then.”
Showers rarely extended beyond the fifteen-minute mark. Today was an exception. But even as hot streams of frothy water careened down her curves, trickling down her backside and between her thighs, cleanliness was a word far off and distant. And though a steaming washcloth gripped tightly in her clutches, the feel of her phone, its curved outline, could not be undone. She rubbed her ear vigorously.
More than a Foot Massage
It was one thing to fly Swiss Air, one of the finest names in aviation, it was another thing to buy out the entirety of first class for comfort’s sake. But that’s just what she did. With two personal body guards assigned to maintain order, least a flock of fans stampede, she cozied up to a book and her favorite Thomas Newman movie compositions.
Having quickly grown tired of the book, she abandoned it to a gap between the seat cushions of a white leather sofa and whipped from her clutch a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill. Waving it around on an outstretched arm was enough to garner the attention of a quiet and reserved flight attendant sunken amidst a bevy of alcoholic beverages and soda pop.
“How may I be of assistance Miss Espinoza?”
Claire’s gaze remained towards the floor, earbuds in.
“I’m like, in dire need of um, a foot massage?”
The attendant tucked in her chin and adjusted the pin on her lapel.
“Oh, I’m sorry Miss Espinoza, I’m hardly qualified…”
An accompanying fifty-dollar bill emerged from her clutch that buckled the attendant’s knees.
“Then again, if you insist.”
Claire’s black leather boots were quickly unzipped and abandoned with a resounding ‘thud’ against the carpet. A moan escaped under her breath as she submitted herself to the plush confines of the sofa and let hard thumbs etch deep into her arches in slow gyrating motions beyond the skin.
“O-M-G you’re a natural.”
The attendant, maintaining focus on Claire’s meaty soles, chuckled lightly.
“Well it’s not every day Claire Espinoza comes through, and for a hundred and fifty bucks…”
Claire popped out an earbud and straightened herself out.
“Yeah, I guess money talks,” she eyed the badge, “Marcy?”
“That’s me!”
“So, how’s life as a flight attendant?”
“Tiring, but it’s not so bad, I mean, this is not my life. Like it is, but I’m going to school to become a writer.”
Marcy hit a spot on Claire’s left foot that made her flinch.
“You are good with your hands.”
“Ha! Yeah, this job is temporary. It doesn’t define me. And yeah, it’s not the most glamorous or whatever, but it’s helped me money wise,” she rolled her eyes, “Tuition’s a bitch.”
It doesn’t define me. The words set in as slowly as Marcy’s thumbs honing in on her heels.
“So you like, I mean, where do you go to school?”
“I take online classes at Colorado State.”
Marcy finished on Claire’s feet by giving each toe individualized attention, squeezing them and popping them till the endorphins enveloped her soles.
Claire flexed her feet and smiled.
“Thanks for rubbing out those kinks.”
Marcy, pocketing the change, returned the gratitude with a smile of her own.
“No, thank you.”
She turned to leave, to return to her confines, to the booze and the soda pop, to her laptop where a paused episode of the Office had Elie Kemper’s character planking on a parking barrier.
“How about my autograph?”
Marcy spun on her heel excitedly, extending her hand to accept some scrap piece of paper, or napkin, or maybe a page out of the book Claire had abandoned. But what she got, was none of those things. Claire folded it down the center and casually extended her hand out.
“Hope this helps.”
The booming voice of their pilot indicated that they’d just about arrived and would be landing in minutes. Anticipating a colder October than the weathers of California, Claire suited up in a charcoal black hoodie and drawstring joggers, deboarding the plane only after every other passenger was far off and away. A pair of polarized sun glasses completed the ensemble, keeping her a distant shadow from the limelight that traditionally followed.
An inconspicuous Chrysler 300 pulled up on the tarmac with her luggage and chauffeur already in tow. It would be another four hours till the event; time enough to settle into the St. Regis and grab a slice of Rosella’s.
Descending the Pedestal
The Playstation Theater in Midtown was already buzzing before any official festivities had gotten underway, a testament to the powers that be, and their overwhelming influence in society, negative or otherwise.cYellow and black banners were strewed about amidst a dizzying array of pink streamers. Balloon bouquets lined tables where distinguished guests inked their names in support of the cause. Lapels sported pink ribbons. Variable shades of pink draped women of all shapes and sizes in the form of dresses, blouses, or commemorative t-shirts. Women telling their stories of persistence and survival lit up television screens throughout the hallways. Justin Timberlake’s, The 20/20 Experience harmoniously hovered above indistinct conversations. But behind the scenes, in the confidentiality of a boardroom, a much more sophisticated conversation was being had.
“I wouldn’t be so hasty.”
“No? Why shouldn’t we go all in?”
“Don’t be blinded by your greed. We both know she’s a viable asset. Her star power, not to mention her adolescent features, could be worth a lot in the long run, but that’s just it.”
“What’s it?”
“If longevity is the goal, we’ll have to ease her into this, delicately.”
“You act as if she’s never been in front of a camera before. We’ve all seen the sultry videos and racy Instagram posts.”
“An act. Those videos are fabricated realities. There’s no commitment. This, what we’ve built, is not. And once she realizes that, if she hasn’t already...”
“She’s committed.”
“A phone call does not constitute commitment.”
“She’s desperate.”
“Oh?”
“It’s no secret she’s been in a bit of a slum. And I have it on good authority that her label is cleaning house. Maybe she’s on the chopping block.”
“Well her presumed, misfortune does slightly shift the balance of power. Still, these are uncharted waters. Throw her into the deep end now, and you will watch her drown. Let her wade in the shallows, and she just might learn to swim.”
A strong vibration rattled the table and they both looked to the screen excitedly. It was her, and in their excitement Jackson and Jordan both reached for the phone even though it was his.
“Claire! I take it you’ve arrived… Oh, no, no, no. We wouldn’t want that. Please, make your way around the back… Oh of course. I’ll see to it personally.”
He hung up delightedly and looked to his counterpart.
“Not committed aye?”
Jordan snickered and resorted to staring down at her open toed pumps.
“Now if you would be so kind as to go out there, find Sasha, and bring her here?”
She nodded accordingly and excused herself to the hustle and bustle of the show room to where, among other things, a few cleavage baring women were sizing up potential pockets with dusty rockets.
A five-foot five little Cuban number with colorful floral patterns across a canvas of light brown shoulders was leant against the chest of a paunchy grey beard who seemed too enthralled by her long black lashes and seductive smile to notice that his soft serve had started to trickle down his cone and along his hand. She, of course being no stranger to lapping up creamy white substances, was well on her way to doing so when an unsuspected whisper tickled her ear. She scrunched her face, apologized for the inconvenience, and bid adieu to the man with whom she was conversing. She blew him a kiss, but they both knew better. Seconds removed, another younger and more jovial pair of breasts had already sidled him.
Behind closed doors her smile faded, replaced only by a bitter scowl aimed right at her untimely obstruction.
“Hi Jordan.”
Jordan, unable to contain her enthusiasm, spilled the beans and in turn watched as Sasha’s hands went straight for her gaping mouth. Overwhelmed, the lost bid beyond the confines of the boardroom seemed a meaningless and distant endeavor. But before either of them could compose a sentence, or catch their collective breaths for that matter, a pair of jet black Nikes entered the room right on the heels of porn industry mogul, Mr. Jackson Summit. Skin tight camo print leggings under a snug sleeveless tunic made up the rest of her ensemble as she hesitantly took a seat at the head of the table. Jordan stepped up and extended her hand. There was a slight quiver about her, a testament to Claire’s very essence encompassing the room.
“Welcome Miss Espinoza. We’re so honored you could join us today. If you require a beverage, or perhaps a snack…”
“I’m good actually. Rosella’s like, hit the spot, you know?”
“Oh of course. You know, it shows a certain level of commitment on your behalf, you being here.”
Jackson rolled his eyes and slid into Claire’s line of sight.
“Funny, that’s just what I was saying only moments before your arrival. But we didn’t ask you here to settle our little war of attrition, I’m sure you’re interested in crunching numbers, expectations, that sort of thing.”
Between elongated hands, Claire sandwiched her face and let her chin droop with exhaustion.
“Um, yeah. I mean, I’m not really sure, about any of this. I have like, a ton of questions.”
Jackson maintained his smile and with a deep breath of resilience took a seat besides Claire.
“I assure you, there’s absolutely no pressure, and we’d be more than delighted to answer any and all questions you have at this time, or in the future.”
“Well like, I’ve never done anything like this before, obviously, so…”
“I’m sure you’re familiar with our mainstream demographic, but we also have many different fetishes you could potentially dabble in if you’re still apprehensive.”
“Fetishes?”
At the flick of his wrist she came forward.
“Meet Sasha. She’s one of our more popular models and my good authority. She dabbles in what our mainstream demographic deems as kinky or weird; foot play, bondage, ASMR. The moto is, if it exists, someone has a fetish for it.”
Sasha was about as contained as her 34C’s inside the sausage casing she called a dress as, with boisterous vocals and livid hands, she slinked on tip toes towards the super star.
“This is so hype, I wish I could snap all my followers right now.”
“I’ll bet,” Claire said shaking her hand, “So, what exactly do you do?”
A Quick One Night Stand
Amara wasn’t averse to strapping up and going bar hopping to see who would offer her a quick one-night stand. Given the less than generous shopping Visa that had maxed out the minute she’d checked into her hotel, a little pocket change would alleviate her thirst for that genuine L.A shopping experience she’d only ever dreamed about.
It didn’t take long.
She’d have likened the idea that it was her vocal range that saw her admitted to a dimly lit corner of a rustic restaurant; that maybe the manager wasn’t mesmerized by the moonlight dancing off her sequence adorned miniskirt, that he wasn’t lost in her smoky eye shadow or intoxicated by the brisk waft of her citrus infused body lotion.
She wasn’t taken by the hand and helped up onto the creaky platform that only moments ago was home to a leafy green shrub. She wasn’t introduced. She simply existed. As much a part of the structural integrity as the forgotten cobwebs dangling off the ceiling, or the trampled bar nuts crushed beyond recognition at the foot of every patron. But once she began pouring her soul into the mic, strumming chords above the chatter, there wasn’t an ear that could hear that wasn’t giving her recognition. Over a wobbly barstool, amidst whistles and clanking pint glasses, Ocean Avenue became Fort Worth. She was home.
He was captivated, almost too captivated, but then a notification on his phone re-centered his focus and he shiftily slithered through the little crowd that had started to form around the platform. He was front and center as her final strums hung in the air, notes met with a hardy round of applause.
A pair of withered hands toting red roses crossed his path. Her prices were outrageous, but he paid the fare and plucked from the bouquet the plumpest of all the blossoms.
Somehow his voice cut through the noise.
“A flower for the lady?”
She wicked away a rouge lock of sweaty hair, gracefully put the rose to her nostrils, and mouthed the words, “thank you.”
And though there may have been as close to half a dozen drinks coming her way, it was his debonair mannerisms that garnered him an audience with the girl who owned the night.
“So, I’ve been coming here for years, why have I not seen you before?”
She tore into a pretzel stick and gnawed down its chewy texture.
“It’s a long story,” she swallowed hard, “I was just kinda looking for some spare change.”
He shook his head and cleared his throat of the whiskey burning it.
“If that was a spare change performance,” he pointed to the vacant stage, “I’m signing you up for American Idol.”
“You’re too kind.”
A steady flow of drinks slowly liberated their tongues as little by little, restrained answers turned to light banter and hysterical giggles. As a buxom waitress squeezed between tables, his upright hand summoned her attention.
“Two more, please.”
Amara, who was glancing down at her cell phone, noticed that a few texts and a missed phone call from Sandy had lit up her screen.
“Actually, I really should get going.”
He didn’t object and pulled out his Visa to cover the tab.
“Care to split a cab?”
“I’m good actually,” she bit her lip in contemplation, “I’m only a few blocks down.”
“You’re staying at The Ocean?”
She nodded and picked up her guitar.
“Hey,” he said sharply, “thanks for the company.”
With a momentarily stifled breath she gave a stiff nod.
“You’re welcome.”
“Good luck at your audition Amara. I’m sure you’re gonna kick ass.”
“It was nice to have met you Trent.”
“Oh I’ll be around.”
Testing the Waters
There wasn’t much left to the imagination as a tight pair of jean shorts accentuated her curves. Paired with a fuchsia print bikini top, Claire looked more like someone headed for a stroll along the shoreline rather than a trip from the bathroom to the bedroom. Pinning her hair up into a tight pony tail she sat at the foot of the bed where a slightly protruding belly encouraged her to unfasten her bottoms.
“I’m like super nervous you guys.”
Sasha, who was having a word with Tommy, the camera man, quickly broke away from him to sidle her co-star.
“That’s totally normal,” she said with a smile, “remember that music video where you spend like, most of it on the bed, same difference.”
A pounding in Claire’s chest made her reach for her phone. On the lock screen was a picture of her preforming before a sellout crowd outside Rockefeller Plaza, but it wasn’t her red and black jumpsuit, or the washboard abs of her backup dancers flexing to the beat that had kept the picture her backdrop for so long. Off to the side, barely within focus of the shot, was a young girl atop her mother’s shoulders ecstatically clapping along.
“There’s no coming back from this.”
With a nonchalant tap on Claire’s shoulder, Sasha kneeled before her and they locked eyes.
“Trust me, it only gets easier. Now be a big girl, lie down, and let’s do this.”
Claire reached for one of the black leather anklets dangling off the foot of the bed and gave the adornment a tight squeeze betwixt her fingers.
“I forget. How are these, um…”
Sasha was wrestling with the buckles of an air constricting corset and used that as an excuse to be curt.
“I’m not a huge fan of getting kicked in the face so, um, yeah.”
A reassuring text of thumbs up and fire emojis from Jackson Summit popped up right before Claire’s phone left her grasp. She forced a smile and surrendered her body to the cold crisp comforts of the hotel’s king-sized comforter.
“I guess this is as legit as it gets?”
Sasha huffed, and motioned Claire to spread her legs wider.
“In my line of business, all you need is a camera, a room, and consenting adults.”
The anklets were cold against her skin, fastened with precision it wasn’t long before her legs were locked in a V formation.
“Alright Miss Espinoza hands up.”
After a deep breath she surrendered her arms where two equally cold bracelets awaited her wrists. From an overhead view she looked like a high-spirited cheerleader being tossed in the air during a pep rally.
A stiff chuckle escaped her lips as she felt for herself the helplessness of having the one thing she’d always been allotted, instantly taken away with a resounding, ‘clank’ of metal links against an iron bedframe. This is it, she thought to herself.
With a prolonged eye roll Sasha leaned into Tommy and whispered something that made him shrug.
“Don’t forget the magic word.”
Claire nodded in compliance and pushed the color red to the tip of her tongue.
Candid still shots, highlighting her chunky size sevens were taken by the dozen. A few, highlighting the rest of her body, were also taken and she stretched an obligatory smile from cheek to cheek. Sasha had taken this time to apply one last layer of blush and a fine glossy coat of pomegranate red lipstick.
“Remember, three strikes.”
Claire nodded in compliance and bit her lip as she watched Tommy lift and point the camera in her direction. His elevated thumb was her green light to begin struggling against the restraints. For a girl of her limited physicality, she gave, what was by her estimation, a valiant effort. They’d joked prior about the prospect of her, “hulking out” an idea Sasha quickly laid to rest by showing Claire a short clip of a female body builder struggling against similar confinements. Even with biceps the size of shotputs, her efforts were vain, at times laughable as she swore on her life escape was imminent. The image played in her head now as Sasha’s sultry outfit glimmered with each stride in her approach from the kitchenette and into frame at the foot of the bed.
Sasha was bubbly again, flirtatiously gushing in admiration of her newfound captive.
“My, my, my, what have we here,” she said making her way around the bed, “scrumptious little body for my pleasure.”
Claire, keeping a constant vigil on her captor, shuddered as Sasha’s hands playfully flexed and wiggled about, inches above her belly.
“Oooh be nice, it’s my first time!”
Retracting her hands, Sasha smirked. Even off the lips of a world-renowned celebrity, the line had become a stale plea among industry virgins and held very little weight in her eyes.
“You’d like that wouldn’t you?”
It would have been customary to allow for a brief exchange of words, but Claire’s persistent pestering leading up to the session had worn her thin, and so with no heed or air of caution Sasha touched down on her silken skin. A graze off her tendril like fingers was enough to send her captive’s back into a heightened arch.
“Oh come on, I’m barely touching you.”
Claire’s response came quick and squeakily as her mind grappled with the ignition of a hundred nerve endings suddenly responsive to her captor’s vivacious hands.
“I know.”
Sasha shook her head.
“I’m just warming up.”
An array of patternless fingertip touches traversed her midsection forcing pursed lips to wrinkle, and eyebrows to unify in a contorted spectacle of discomfort. She likened the expression to that of someone popping a handful of sour Skittles into their mouth for the first time.
“Oh wow… oh my… th-this is… interesting.”
“Fun isn’t it?”
With a sudden charge of unrelenting force, Sasha fanned her fingers wider and dug a little harder met with malleable flesh that jiggled with every clawing thrust.
“OH JEEEZZUS-SA-HA-HA… NOT COOL-LA-HA-HA!”
And while the honor was all hers, she shook her head and bit her lip. Status aside, there wasn’t much else to discern her current captive with that of any other that had braved to grace such submissive postures.
“Not cool? Bitch puh-leeze!”
Claire’s response was a crude flux of warbles off her gaping mouth as each finite touch displaced cognition, abandoning reason for madness. She’d only ever been at such a loss during a game show outing were a slew of mathematical questions saw her grasping at straws to formulate a response. She’d since sworn off putting herself in compromising positions, yet here we are.
“WHAA-HA-HEE-HEE-HEE… OH-OH-OH-HO-HO… OH JEEEZZUS NOT THERE!”
A sudden pinch down her side sent her hips skyward to the limits of her confinement.
“WHOAH-AH-HA-HA-HA!”
The word escaped her, having been trampled by an unbridled cavalry of laughter, but then there was Sasha’s soft pouty lips.
“RED, RED!”
Immediately, Sasha’s hands were reduced to resting on her own waist where a pair of lumpy love handles were trying to break free of their own constrictions.
“Well that was fast.”
Up until this point she hadn’t given the word much thought. But upon its use, its significance became ever evident. She glanced at her wrists and realized she wasn’t the only one in bondage. That so long as the word was respected, the delicate balance of control, though misleading to the naked eye, would keep her safe.
“Oh my God this is harder than it looks.”
“You’re a squirmy little thing, aren’t you?”
“I can’t help it.”
Sasha began mouthing down from ten and took to the foot of the bed where a pair of sun kissed size sevens sat comfortably, unsuspectingly aloof to the cruel intentions circulating above them.
Claire would have been more attuned had her cell phone not buzzed to life on the nightstand beside her. But as she strained to read the text, a sharp set of nails were quick to remind her that there was a more pertinent task at hand, or foot in this case.
“OH SH-SH-SHIT-TEE-HEE-HEE!”
A single finger stroke was hardly an effort inducing endeavor, and with the camera behind her, Sasha gave her jaw a break and retracted her smile. On bended knee, lazily hunched forward, she forced forth laughter and restless bouts of swinging hips.
“OH JEEZUS… NEE-HEE-HEE… OH THAT’S BAAAD-DA-HA-HA!”
Possessed by the flick of a single finger, Claire’s leg fell into a fit of spastic trembles, innate mannerisms that did little else besides expel energy and reassure that her hapless state of being was an indefinite purgatory for so long as her captor deemed it so.
“OH SH-SHEET-TA-HA-HA… WHEE-HEE-HEE… WHOOO-HOO-HOO!”
Another day another foot scrunch as Sasha made quick work of Claire’s wasted efforts.
“Nuh-uh girl!”
Peeling her toes back as effortlessly as she’d peeled her breakfast banana Sasha continued her assault, stiff fingertips dripping steadily along the very definition of tenderness.
“WHAA-HA-HA… OH LORD JEEZUS… TEE-HEE-HEE-HEE… SOMEONE CALL THE COPS-SAA-HA-HA!”
A squinted glance along at the wall served as a solemn reminder that soundproof foam had been haphazardly installed along its crown molding. With upmost efficiency it absorbed every scream, snicker, and rattling of chains. When Sasha’s efforts momentarily subsided, Claire considered how many other strained voices existed betwixt their fibers and how hers was beginning to take its place among them, entrapped in an invisible exhibition.
A Bigger Play
There was a bitter taste in John’s mouth, but it wasn’t from the Vodka lingering in the back of his throat. Sure, that burned, but he was accustomed to tasting victory. The tiny print over blinding white cardstock was anything but. The dotted line, faded from the lack of ink in his printer, bothered him so much he couldn’t even reach for a pen. His gaze instead shifted to the wall, where a dozen or so platinum memories made him suck his teeth.
“You stare at that paper as if it’s your last hope,” said a fudge rich voice.
The words echoed off the walls of John’s office and pinged in his ears as he wearily rubbed his eyes.
“I don’t know how you know what you know.”
Jackson Summit grinned, interlocking his fingers as he adjusted his glasses.
“My good authority.”
John seethed through grit teeth and pressed his hand against his head.
“You keep saying that, but what the hell does that mean?”
“Let’s just say a resourceful little associate of mine was in the right place at the right time; a victim of circumstance, as it were.”
“Claire was a victim of circumstance.”
“And what a wonderful job she’s doing. Already Miss Espinoza’s inked a contract with us for three films, and one of them is underway as we speak.”
“But Amara? She’s certified platinum.”
“Funny, you said the same thing about Claire and look how that’s played out.”
“You can’t have her.”
“She’s not officially with you. You should consider yourself fortunate I’m consulting you at all.”
The truth clogged John’s throat and thinned his air supply. In an effort to breathe he loosened his tie and knocked back another shot of Vodka.
“One video won’t keep us from sinking.”
“Maybe not, but it will make us both money, and money buys time, which is something you need now more than ever.”
“She won’t bite Jack.”
“One of my associates has already made contact with her.”
“Wait, what? How?”
“How do you think?”
“Claire.”
“She was quite the songbird in our little meeting today.”
Within a few swipes of his iPhone, Jackson pulled up a short video of Amara sitting on a wobbly barstool amidst a small crowd, pouring her soul into a mic. As the video played, he lit a cigarette.
“That right there, that’s a bad bitch.”
“I never told Claire…”
“No, but she had a hunch, said you had a predictable pattern with new arrivals.”
“Amara won’t do it.”
“Under the right circumstances, anything is possible.”
“Circumstances?”
“Does she know she’s about to board the Titanic?”
John gave the document one last glance before sinking another shot down his throat.
“No.”
“Then that my friend, will be our play.”
“Forgive me for being,” John sniffled, “suspicious, but what’s in this for you, long term?”
Jackson took a long drag off his cigarette and polluted John’s office with his smoke.
“I’m glad you asked."
Testing the Waters cont.
He’d told Claire to mind her line of sight and keep from being pulled into the camera, but even with her exceptional experience, her gaze continued to gravitate towards the camera. Given what Sasha had whispered to him earlier about the starlet’s outrageous salary, he’d grown more than a little annoyed by her inability to adapt. Between cuts he issued a stern warning. Given her emotional state it came as no surprise that she snapped at him. What was a little more unnerving was that she suggested he take a turn and that she could film the proceedings; an offer he gracefully declined.
Just as she was about to carry out more tickles, a loud beep, coming from the foot of the bed, made Sasha sprawl off Claire’s hips and towards where Tommy was fiddling with his equipment. An exasperated Claire cooed and whispered thanks to the maker from up under her breath.
“Oh my God dude, like when are you going to get rid of that trash?”
“What? It still works.”
“Whatever.”
“Calm down Sash, I’ve got an extra battery, just give me a minute.”
His wife had never been too keen of his off-duty exploits. She feared every sultry vixen that crossed his path, and often concerned herself to sleep with thoughts of infidelity; that one day he’d fall victim to an alluring set of, “cakes” as he called them. He’d proved her wrong so far, and in the face of danger, as Sasha readjusted her panty line.
“Alright we’re good to go.”
Sasha rolled her eyes and approached the bed where her captive lied motionless, with but the function to breathe an unrelenting necessity under the circumstances of an impermissible, “fuck you”. The outburst, while not uncommon in her line of business, never failed to fan Sasha’s flame. In this case, it had inspired a prolonged stint of knuckles to the ribcage that resulted in inane babble and humbled expressions through fits of spirited, but useless reflexive reactions.
“I apologized… I apologized… I apologized.”
Fear allowed for little else to spew out of her mouth and you’d be hard pressed to fault her for it. Her ribs had proven to be particularly responsive to Sasha’s touch and the thought of such an act repeating itself was a harrowing thought.
Never one to be discouraged, even amidst drooping lips and teary eyes, Sasha mounted the bed yet again; spreading herself alongside the helpless starlet who’d taken to the hopelessly mistaken endeavor of tugging on the chains once again.
An uprising of uncanny tingles scoured about on her arms as Sasha’s hands lightly invaded her hollows, bit by bit till they were conquered territory. Defeat came with spirited spurts of bicep flexing and hip thrusts that looked strong enough to make even the hardest of woods fall flaccid in one thrust.
“OH JEEZUS-SA-HA-HA… YOUR NAILS-SEE-HEE-HEE… SA-SASHA PLEE-HEE-HEEASE!”
“Please what?”
“ST-STOOOP-PA-HA-HA!”
“Ha! After what you said?”
“I’M SOOO-HOO-HOO SORRY-YEE-HEE-HEE!”
With an array of fingertip traces Sasha scurried her hands up and down Claire’s arms, but this wasn’t an algorithm. There was no order, or procedure, no pattern of behavior, or predictability. Sasha’s hands did as they pleased, how they pleased, and as hard as they pleased.
“You’re a squirmy one aren’t you… Oh damn’!”
A titty came into play as an involuntary shoulder thrust threw Claire’s cleavage from its protective casing. It was an exaggerated mannerism, but under the circumstances, completely justified. Embarrassed, Claire turned her face as far from the camera as her restraints allowed.
The moment was short lived as Sasha plopped the breast back in place and used a stiff chuckle to try and lighten the mood.
“That’s one for the outtakes.”
Claire was far from amused and made a mental note to pick a much more supportive undergarment for her next video.
“Are we… done?”
Sasha nodded in compliance.
“Just about.”
A firm grip along her waist made Claire grit her teeth and ball her fists, pretentious reactions squandered against the rattling clanks of inevitability. It was tantamount to fighting an anesthetic, tensing up as she did. But hope had already been displaced, feeble desperation its substitute; and having to embrace that, was as daunting to accept as the gyrating thumb thrusts starting to excavate into her hipbones.
“OH JEEZUSS-SA-HA-HA… OH-HO-HO… WHA-HA-HEE-HEE-HEE!”
Determined to have a strong finish, Sasha reverted to a more domineering demeanor, amplifying her already aggressive nature with even more fervor. It was a customary proceeding, to leave the victim a breathless blubbering heap of ravaged flesh, and Sasha took care to do so, bashing Claire’s shapely curves with quick finger jabs along her sides.
“SH-SHEEET-TEE-HEE-HEE… OH NOT THERE-REE-HEE-HEE… PLEEE-HEE-HEEASE!”
In what was a vicious cycle of inbred evasive maneuvers to untimely finger thrusts, Claire’s liveliness began its decline. Exerted energies in each wasted motion saw her once amplified disdain for the proceedings, a shell of its former self as submission settled into her muscles.
What were more teasingly playful pokes along the ribcage prompted preemptive pelvic thrusts and flailing hands as Sasha put the finishing touches on a night’s work. She descended slowly, slithering off the bed as steadily as she’d mounted it.
Claire was little more than a wasted morsel of violated flesh as she laid motionless in solitude; thoughts as disheveled as the sheets beneath her body. It was a minute before she could formulate a sentence.
“That was intense.”
Sasha let off a light chuckle and reached for Claire’s feet.
“I almost don’t want to let you go.”
Claire’s toes scrunched almost instantly.
“Sasha come on!”
Relief flooded every ounce of her being as one by one her limbs were freed. With the restraints undone she was free to reach for her scar, which had proved to be of little relevance throughout the proceedings.
“So like how are you feeling?”
Keeping to the fetal position, Claire glanced up at Sasha.
“Like I just did like a thousand sit ups.”
Sasha could breathe normally again as she unfastened her corset and let it flop about on the floor; on her frame a reddened outline of her constriction, etched like a fresh burn off a branding iron.
“You’ll be fine. After a while you barely notice it.”
Claire flattened out on her belly and reached down for a shirt she’d left lying on the ground. The fridge called.
“I still have a few slices of Rosella’s left.”
Tommy pointed to his pot belly, but Sasha hastily accepted, and whipped out an iPod with accompanying earbuds.
“You said you would have a listen,” Sasha said, tossing the device towards Claire.
Claire took to the kitchen and let the music play inside her head however inconsequential. There was no mistaking its potential as she found herself tapping along to its whimsical electric beat, however inconsequential.
“It’s a shame really,” Sasha said, taking back the iPod, “pure coincidence that I happened to be there.”
The thought of Amara signing made Claire frown, a frown not even a slice of piping hot pizza could erase.
“So like, when do I get paid again?”
Sasha contained her desire to scoff by sinking her teeth into a piece of crisp pepperoni.
“Give us time to edit and market it. There’s always a little more to be made on the back end.”
“Oh, like record sales?”
“Exactly.”
END PART 1
Use Me
A story about The Machine, and the Sum of its Parts
Part 1
A story about The Machine, and the Sum of its Parts
Part 1
A Carbon Copy of What Could Have Been
“The fact is people aren’t exactly lining up around the block to buy records anymore.”
“But, I’m like under contract.”
“We’ve expended our options here.”
“No. I’m under contract which means ya’ll can’t just x me out!”
“You have been getting my emails yes?”
“Em… what? Like, nobody checks emails anymore.”
“That’s not my problem.”
“The hell it’s not!”
“Look it, here at Mint Wax contracts are for singers who produce.”
“Wait up, I totally produce.”
“In the last three years, you’ve managed to place on the billboard once, once. Any other record label would have dropped you by now.
Considering the accident, we didn’t want the negative press, but it’s been a minute since then, and you simply aren’t at the caliber you need to be.”
John raised his hand far above his head as she mulled over the word.
“Caliber? I am the second most followed on Instagram, I get hordes of Tweets…”
“Older men, perverts who ogle your adolescent features, not our demographic.”
“Oh yeah? So like, what’s your demographic?”
“Money.”
“Money?”
“Nobody pays a red cent when candid beach photos of you in a bikini end up on some Youtuber’s fap tribute. You know, if that offer is still on the table, maybe you should consider it, that is if that scar on your belly doesn’t devalue your marketability.”
“Wow, just, wow.”
“Kid, it’s not that we don’t like you. Everyone here agrees, you’ve got personality. But personality doesn’t sell records.”
“Amara.”
“We’re running on fumes kid. It came down to you two and she’s well...”
“But you said I was special.”
“That was seven years ago, when a girl from Nowhere, Texas stood before me; promise in her big brown eyes. Her vocals cracked, and not every note was on point, but with every word you told a story.”
“And now?”
“Now? You’re a carbon copy of what could have been.”
He rubbed his temple as if a migraine was about to rupture a vein.
“I don’t know, maybe in some messed up way we were just as responsible; hyping you up as the next Selena Quintanilla, manufacturing you and your brand, creating an illusion.”
“Carbon copy? Illusion? I put assess in seats.”
With a subtle scoff he dismissed her flagrant finger, tapping against his desk.
“Parents.”
“What?”
“They were the ones lining ticket booths. All so that their kids could maybe, just maybe, catch you fleeting glance and they could say, “Claire looked right at me!” And for a time that was enough, you were enough. But times change…”
“Don’t you give me that times change bullshit, I like totally changed!”
“Your image sure, what with the risqué cleavage and booty shorts, but your music didn’t. Lackluster lyrics, dry vocals, don’t even get me started on your stage presence.”
“Stage presence? I’ve like, never missed a show.”
“Yes, yes. But your routines…”
“So I gained a little weight.”
“Breathless before the second act? Whispering lyrics? Reduced to being carted around by back up dancers for support?”
“We all have our coping mechanisms.”
“It seems yours calls for pulling up to the second window.”
“Of all the things you’ve said.”
The wrinkles on his forehead came to a scrunch as he leaned intimately into her personal space.
“Look, I’m done dancing in circles with you. We’ll give you to the end of the month, then we are officially cutting ties.”
“Isn’t their anything I can do?”
“That question is about two years too late. Amara’s coming by next week for an obligatory audition, just a formality. Perhaps you should,” he muddled some words under his breath and then cleared his throat, “I don’t know, maybe it would help you find that edge you’ve been missing.”
“The hell? I don’t need inspiration from some stupid little upstart! I’m out. I’m out.”
A faint vibration coursed through his pant pocket as he watched the last of Claire’s dark brown hair waft away into the hall where a voluptuous set of 34c’s sat patiently awaiting admittance.
“Oh no. Just finishing up a meeting… Oh of course… No, the audition is simply a formality. We know you can sing… Nervous? Oh no. As long as you bring the pipes like you’ve been doing there’s no need to worry… Absolutely. See you then.”
And though Claire had traversed those narrow hallways before, there was something about this moment in particular that made them feel infinite. A picture came into focus from the corner of her eye as she briskly made her way past the restrooms. It seemed a fitting placement, this image inside a dusty frame, her image. Trails of hair flaring off the left shoulder, belly bulging as exhausted efforts to carry a note faltered, soft cheeks flush red, a bead of sweat trickling down her brow. The sheer-black bodysuit snug against the soft delicacies of her body, fit like a second skin. Her backside, an entrapment of sweat and strawberry blossom, lights permeating the stage and engulfing her very essence like a fever. Mandalay Bay, Las Vegas Nevada, it read on the gold placard.
Blowing some dust off the edge of the frame she zeroed in on her protruding belly in the shot, “Fuckin’ Starbucks.”
A condensation dripping caramel Frappuccino rode shotgun as Claire, amidst a doldrum of Thursday afternoon traffic, contemplated her next move. A relentless California sun gave even the most efficient air conditions a run for their money and today was no exception as trickles of sweat formulated deep into the hollows of her armpits and along her backside. Then a noise erupted from her speakers.
She’d never changed the dial faster.
“Bitch.”
The Last 24
Clothing had never courted a hanger within the confines of their dormitory, more adept to laying low, being ironed by naked feet, pinched by toes, and flailed upwards and onto hot young flesh.
Shrieks of happiness cut through the candy scented atmosphere as she turned up the volume on her phone.
“They’re playing it again! They’re playing it again!”
An equally enthusiastic voice came blasting from the bedroom in a ruffled blue blouse and skin tight black leggings.
“That’s twice in the last hour!”
“I know, isn’t this exciting?”
While not as filled out as her counterpart, Amara still managed to make her fabrics work wonders as a loosely fitted tee over thigh high denim gave off a flirtatious vibe.
“Well…”
“Oh don’t worry, I’ll still visit.”
“You are a shoe-in aren’t you?”
“Well from what I understood, it was between me and Claire, as if she stood a chance.”
A cocked head was subtlety enough for the words that followed.
“Now, now, there’s no need to be haughty. The Bible says…”
“I know, I know. I’m just excited that’s all.”
“The professor isn’t going to be too happy you’re cutting early.”
Puckered lips against her reflection didn’t tame Amara’s tongue as she smoothed out a light application of lipstick.
“Oh my God! Am I crazy, or did she like sorta have a thing for me?”
A sultry “smack” off pursed lips followed as Amara’s friend Sandy fiddled with her top.
“Um, that’s none of my business, but the Bible says…”
“Okay like, you have got to stop with the Bible thumping.”
“Oh I’m sorry I thought this was TCU, you know Texas Christian University? Not all of us are born pop stars.”
“Born? Oh please.”
They reached for their cell phones to momentarily immerse themselves in social media, or at least pretend to. Sandy was the first to break the silence.
“Remember this?”
With an outstretched hand she shoved past the tension. An image of two bikini clad freshmen doused in green goop lit up the screen.
“Wow, like, is this throwback Thursday or what?” Amara remarked.
Sandy swiped right and to another photo of the freshmen in a lovingly warm embrace, and banana wide smiles across their cheeks.
“I’m still kinda mad at them for that.”
Amara gave off a puzzled look as she zoomed in on the photo.
“For what?”
“Um, that was a Lane Bryant.”
“Ah, as soon as this deal comes through, I’ll hook you up.”
“Awesomesauce! You ready?”
“I’ve got an extra Sharpie in my back pocket.”
“My turn or yours?”
“Totally yours, but let me pay. I’ve got so much cheddar coming you can get the big fries.”
“No, no! We’re on a rotation, if it’s my turn it’s my turn.”
“Whatever.”
Amara had become accustomed to the swoons and outlandish eye rolls off jealous faces as she navigated the halls and foregrounds of the campus; to the scoffs off professors shaking their collective heads, some in disbelief, most in disgust over the choice she was making. But it was, as she told herself just about every morning, her life, and far be it from anyone to dictate how she was going to live it.
The student union was abuzz even before she’d walked through the doors; from murmurs about having the huevos to approach the Mexican starlet for a photograph, to the kitchen staff setting aside a plate of enchiladas with extra cheese, the way she liked.
“Mind if I get an autograph?”
A young man with shaggy black hair and an unkept beard sidled the pair, discombobulated.
“Um sure, you have a… oh.”
From out of his backpack, sealed in an envelope, was a blown-up photo of a young brunette, hair slicked back into a pony tail. An acoustic guitar sat in her lap. Her jaw laid wide open under the strain of belting out a high note.
“Yeah, I hope it’s not too weird.”
There was a gleam in her eye as she took in every detail of the photo.
“I remember that night. Where did you…”
“I bar tend there on the weekends. As soon as I heard you sing, I knew.” He lightly tapped on the corner of the picture, “This was the only one that came out clean.”
“Oh wow. So should I make this out to…”
“Oh, just your name is fine. Actually, I have two. Could you maybe…”
“eBay?”
“Tuition ain’t cheap.”
“I got you."
Suddenly
Her choice of footwear, better suited for a day at the beach, wasn’t what was slowing her down. Nor was it the luggage, suited more for a family of three than an outbound college junior. Something else was tugging at her. An unseen presence, stuck in the purgatory of mid-term exams, plucked persistently at the strings of her heart. Sandy’s last text was on repeat as her reddened eyes glossed over it, again and again. Suddenly, Friday’s sucked. Suddenly the terminal was too cold. Suddenly algebra wasn’t an incoherent subject worth skipping for an extra hour of sleep, suddenly.
A husky young gentleman in a navy-blue vest was met with a screech off the receiver as his muffled vocals mumbled some instructions over the PA. As per requested her bags were checked and she was slowly passed through inspection where a more than through pat down generated a giggle as her sides were gently squeezed. She would have been within her rights to flare some nostril and fume, but he was five-nine with shaggy blonde hair and dimples across a pale complexion.
An aisle seat next to a man spilling over beyond the confines of his own chair proved to be more than humbling accommodations for someone who’d recently started toting the phrases, “extra cheddar” and, “heavy sauce”. A rusted seat hinge shrieked to life as she settled in and exchanged glances with the girl across the aisle. The last of the moon’s pale enchantment retracted into the nothing as the sun’s orange hue brimmed along the horizon as she looked towards the window.
“California, here I come.”
The Call
Noon was fast approaching before an attempt was even made to shake off the cobwebs of a good night’s sleep. Her aid, a half-depleted pack of Smirnoff, lined her night stand. And though the covers seemed to tangle themselves more intricately around her body, she eventually abandoned them in favor of a silken night robe, a pooled pile of shimmery black fabric forgotten on the floor. She stared at her phone and the black void that was its screen. Slowly, his words crawled from beyond the recesses of her drunken brain.
She had the number saved.
She pulled back the robe, softly pressing her fingers against the ridged remanence of stitches, to the crumpled Mercedes, to the hospital where her name was financed to the top of the donor’s list, to the bill sitting atop her granite countertops where an untouched kitchen sat uselessly bleeding money. She drew back the robe and delicately reached for her iPhone.
Two failed thumb recognitions later she stumbled through her pass-code, a momentarily lost set of numbers seemingly scrambled amidst a haze of forgetfulness and remorse.
The long drone of a ringtone echoed through her, pulsating, almost in unison with her beating heart. Within five ‘rings’ a fudge rich voice came through.
“Yes, um, hi.”
She bit her lip and causally traced the intricacies of a Swarovski encrusted ball gown she’d gravitated to.
“This is, um, Cl-Claire, Claire… oh, HA!... you have? I was wondering if… oh it is?”
The hairs on her neck stood up as she knelt to the floor and ran her bare feet along the course stones of its flared flounce.
“Well like, I can’t commit to anything right, right now, but yeah I’m interested.”
A pair of widened eyes and a hard gulp followed as she processed the next couple of words.
“New York? Um, yeah of course. But can’t we like, do this over the phone?”
She cocked her head back and submitted.
“Makes sense. I guess I’m going to New York then.”
Showers rarely extended beyond the fifteen-minute mark. Today was an exception. But even as hot streams of frothy water careened down her curves, trickling down her backside and between her thighs, cleanliness was a word far off and distant. And though a steaming washcloth gripped tightly in her clutches, the feel of her phone, its curved outline, could not be undone. She rubbed her ear vigorously.
More than a Foot Massage
It was one thing to fly Swiss Air, one of the finest names in aviation, it was another thing to buy out the entirety of first class for comfort’s sake. But that’s just what she did. With two personal body guards assigned to maintain order, least a flock of fans stampede, she cozied up to a book and her favorite Thomas Newman movie compositions.
Having quickly grown tired of the book, she abandoned it to a gap between the seat cushions of a white leather sofa and whipped from her clutch a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill. Waving it around on an outstretched arm was enough to garner the attention of a quiet and reserved flight attendant sunken amidst a bevy of alcoholic beverages and soda pop.
“How may I be of assistance Miss Espinoza?”
Claire’s gaze remained towards the floor, earbuds in.
“I’m like, in dire need of um, a foot massage?”
The attendant tucked in her chin and adjusted the pin on her lapel.
“Oh, I’m sorry Miss Espinoza, I’m hardly qualified…”
An accompanying fifty-dollar bill emerged from her clutch that buckled the attendant’s knees.
“Then again, if you insist.”
Claire’s black leather boots were quickly unzipped and abandoned with a resounding ‘thud’ against the carpet. A moan escaped under her breath as she submitted herself to the plush confines of the sofa and let hard thumbs etch deep into her arches in slow gyrating motions beyond the skin.
“O-M-G you’re a natural.”
The attendant, maintaining focus on Claire’s meaty soles, chuckled lightly.
“Well it’s not every day Claire Espinoza comes through, and for a hundred and fifty bucks…”
Claire popped out an earbud and straightened herself out.
“Yeah, I guess money talks,” she eyed the badge, “Marcy?”
“That’s me!”
“So, how’s life as a flight attendant?”
“Tiring, but it’s not so bad, I mean, this is not my life. Like it is, but I’m going to school to become a writer.”
Marcy hit a spot on Claire’s left foot that made her flinch.
“You are good with your hands.”
“Ha! Yeah, this job is temporary. It doesn’t define me. And yeah, it’s not the most glamorous or whatever, but it’s helped me money wise,” she rolled her eyes, “Tuition’s a bitch.”
It doesn’t define me. The words set in as slowly as Marcy’s thumbs honing in on her heels.
“So you like, I mean, where do you go to school?”
“I take online classes at Colorado State.”
Marcy finished on Claire’s feet by giving each toe individualized attention, squeezing them and popping them till the endorphins enveloped her soles.
Claire flexed her feet and smiled.
“Thanks for rubbing out those kinks.”
Marcy, pocketing the change, returned the gratitude with a smile of her own.
“No, thank you.”
She turned to leave, to return to her confines, to the booze and the soda pop, to her laptop where a paused episode of the Office had Elie Kemper’s character planking on a parking barrier.
“How about my autograph?”
Marcy spun on her heel excitedly, extending her hand to accept some scrap piece of paper, or napkin, or maybe a page out of the book Claire had abandoned. But what she got, was none of those things. Claire folded it down the center and casually extended her hand out.
“Hope this helps.”
The booming voice of their pilot indicated that they’d just about arrived and would be landing in minutes. Anticipating a colder October than the weathers of California, Claire suited up in a charcoal black hoodie and drawstring joggers, deboarding the plane only after every other passenger was far off and away. A pair of polarized sun glasses completed the ensemble, keeping her a distant shadow from the limelight that traditionally followed.
An inconspicuous Chrysler 300 pulled up on the tarmac with her luggage and chauffeur already in tow. It would be another four hours till the event; time enough to settle into the St. Regis and grab a slice of Rosella’s.
Descending the Pedestal
The Playstation Theater in Midtown was already buzzing before any official festivities had gotten underway, a testament to the powers that be, and their overwhelming influence in society, negative or otherwise.cYellow and black banners were strewed about amidst a dizzying array of pink streamers. Balloon bouquets lined tables where distinguished guests inked their names in support of the cause. Lapels sported pink ribbons. Variable shades of pink draped women of all shapes and sizes in the form of dresses, blouses, or commemorative t-shirts. Women telling their stories of persistence and survival lit up television screens throughout the hallways. Justin Timberlake’s, The 20/20 Experience harmoniously hovered above indistinct conversations. But behind the scenes, in the confidentiality of a boardroom, a much more sophisticated conversation was being had.
“I wouldn’t be so hasty.”
“No? Why shouldn’t we go all in?”
“Don’t be blinded by your greed. We both know she’s a viable asset. Her star power, not to mention her adolescent features, could be worth a lot in the long run, but that’s just it.”
“What’s it?”
“If longevity is the goal, we’ll have to ease her into this, delicately.”
“You act as if she’s never been in front of a camera before. We’ve all seen the sultry videos and racy Instagram posts.”
“An act. Those videos are fabricated realities. There’s no commitment. This, what we’ve built, is not. And once she realizes that, if she hasn’t already...”
“She’s committed.”
“A phone call does not constitute commitment.”
“She’s desperate.”
“Oh?”
“It’s no secret she’s been in a bit of a slum. And I have it on good authority that her label is cleaning house. Maybe she’s on the chopping block.”
“Well her presumed, misfortune does slightly shift the balance of power. Still, these are uncharted waters. Throw her into the deep end now, and you will watch her drown. Let her wade in the shallows, and she just might learn to swim.”
A strong vibration rattled the table and they both looked to the screen excitedly. It was her, and in their excitement Jackson and Jordan both reached for the phone even though it was his.
“Claire! I take it you’ve arrived… Oh, no, no, no. We wouldn’t want that. Please, make your way around the back… Oh of course. I’ll see to it personally.”
He hung up delightedly and looked to his counterpart.
“Not committed aye?”
Jordan snickered and resorted to staring down at her open toed pumps.
“Now if you would be so kind as to go out there, find Sasha, and bring her here?”
She nodded accordingly and excused herself to the hustle and bustle of the show room to where, among other things, a few cleavage baring women were sizing up potential pockets with dusty rockets.
A five-foot five little Cuban number with colorful floral patterns across a canvas of light brown shoulders was leant against the chest of a paunchy grey beard who seemed too enthralled by her long black lashes and seductive smile to notice that his soft serve had started to trickle down his cone and along his hand. She, of course being no stranger to lapping up creamy white substances, was well on her way to doing so when an unsuspected whisper tickled her ear. She scrunched her face, apologized for the inconvenience, and bid adieu to the man with whom she was conversing. She blew him a kiss, but they both knew better. Seconds removed, another younger and more jovial pair of breasts had already sidled him.
Behind closed doors her smile faded, replaced only by a bitter scowl aimed right at her untimely obstruction.
“Hi Jordan.”
Jordan, unable to contain her enthusiasm, spilled the beans and in turn watched as Sasha’s hands went straight for her gaping mouth. Overwhelmed, the lost bid beyond the confines of the boardroom seemed a meaningless and distant endeavor. But before either of them could compose a sentence, or catch their collective breaths for that matter, a pair of jet black Nikes entered the room right on the heels of porn industry mogul, Mr. Jackson Summit. Skin tight camo print leggings under a snug sleeveless tunic made up the rest of her ensemble as she hesitantly took a seat at the head of the table. Jordan stepped up and extended her hand. There was a slight quiver about her, a testament to Claire’s very essence encompassing the room.
“Welcome Miss Espinoza. We’re so honored you could join us today. If you require a beverage, or perhaps a snack…”
“I’m good actually. Rosella’s like, hit the spot, you know?”
“Oh of course. You know, it shows a certain level of commitment on your behalf, you being here.”
Jackson rolled his eyes and slid into Claire’s line of sight.
“Funny, that’s just what I was saying only moments before your arrival. But we didn’t ask you here to settle our little war of attrition, I’m sure you’re interested in crunching numbers, expectations, that sort of thing.”
Between elongated hands, Claire sandwiched her face and let her chin droop with exhaustion.
“Um, yeah. I mean, I’m not really sure, about any of this. I have like, a ton of questions.”
Jackson maintained his smile and with a deep breath of resilience took a seat besides Claire.
“I assure you, there’s absolutely no pressure, and we’d be more than delighted to answer any and all questions you have at this time, or in the future.”
“Well like, I’ve never done anything like this before, obviously, so…”
“I’m sure you’re familiar with our mainstream demographic, but we also have many different fetishes you could potentially dabble in if you’re still apprehensive.”
“Fetishes?”
At the flick of his wrist she came forward.
“Meet Sasha. She’s one of our more popular models and my good authority. She dabbles in what our mainstream demographic deems as kinky or weird; foot play, bondage, ASMR. The moto is, if it exists, someone has a fetish for it.”
Sasha was about as contained as her 34C’s inside the sausage casing she called a dress as, with boisterous vocals and livid hands, she slinked on tip toes towards the super star.
“This is so hype, I wish I could snap all my followers right now.”
“I’ll bet,” Claire said shaking her hand, “So, what exactly do you do?”
A Quick One Night Stand
Amara wasn’t averse to strapping up and going bar hopping to see who would offer her a quick one-night stand. Given the less than generous shopping Visa that had maxed out the minute she’d checked into her hotel, a little pocket change would alleviate her thirst for that genuine L.A shopping experience she’d only ever dreamed about.
It didn’t take long.
She’d have likened the idea that it was her vocal range that saw her admitted to a dimly lit corner of a rustic restaurant; that maybe the manager wasn’t mesmerized by the moonlight dancing off her sequence adorned miniskirt, that he wasn’t lost in her smoky eye shadow or intoxicated by the brisk waft of her citrus infused body lotion.
She wasn’t taken by the hand and helped up onto the creaky platform that only moments ago was home to a leafy green shrub. She wasn’t introduced. She simply existed. As much a part of the structural integrity as the forgotten cobwebs dangling off the ceiling, or the trampled bar nuts crushed beyond recognition at the foot of every patron. But once she began pouring her soul into the mic, strumming chords above the chatter, there wasn’t an ear that could hear that wasn’t giving her recognition. Over a wobbly barstool, amidst whistles and clanking pint glasses, Ocean Avenue became Fort Worth. She was home.
He was captivated, almost too captivated, but then a notification on his phone re-centered his focus and he shiftily slithered through the little crowd that had started to form around the platform. He was front and center as her final strums hung in the air, notes met with a hardy round of applause.
A pair of withered hands toting red roses crossed his path. Her prices were outrageous, but he paid the fare and plucked from the bouquet the plumpest of all the blossoms.
Somehow his voice cut through the noise.
“A flower for the lady?”
She wicked away a rouge lock of sweaty hair, gracefully put the rose to her nostrils, and mouthed the words, “thank you.”
And though there may have been as close to half a dozen drinks coming her way, it was his debonair mannerisms that garnered him an audience with the girl who owned the night.
“So, I’ve been coming here for years, why have I not seen you before?”
She tore into a pretzel stick and gnawed down its chewy texture.
“It’s a long story,” she swallowed hard, “I was just kinda looking for some spare change.”
He shook his head and cleared his throat of the whiskey burning it.
“If that was a spare change performance,” he pointed to the vacant stage, “I’m signing you up for American Idol.”
“You’re too kind.”
A steady flow of drinks slowly liberated their tongues as little by little, restrained answers turned to light banter and hysterical giggles. As a buxom waitress squeezed between tables, his upright hand summoned her attention.
“Two more, please.”
Amara, who was glancing down at her cell phone, noticed that a few texts and a missed phone call from Sandy had lit up her screen.
“Actually, I really should get going.”
He didn’t object and pulled out his Visa to cover the tab.
“Care to split a cab?”
“I’m good actually,” she bit her lip in contemplation, “I’m only a few blocks down.”
“You’re staying at The Ocean?”
She nodded and picked up her guitar.
“Hey,” he said sharply, “thanks for the company.”
With a momentarily stifled breath she gave a stiff nod.
“You’re welcome.”
“Good luck at your audition Amara. I’m sure you’re gonna kick ass.”
“It was nice to have met you Trent.”
“Oh I’ll be around.”
Testing the Waters
There wasn’t much left to the imagination as a tight pair of jean shorts accentuated her curves. Paired with a fuchsia print bikini top, Claire looked more like someone headed for a stroll along the shoreline rather than a trip from the bathroom to the bedroom. Pinning her hair up into a tight pony tail she sat at the foot of the bed where a slightly protruding belly encouraged her to unfasten her bottoms.
“I’m like super nervous you guys.”
Sasha, who was having a word with Tommy, the camera man, quickly broke away from him to sidle her co-star.
“That’s totally normal,” she said with a smile, “remember that music video where you spend like, most of it on the bed, same difference.”
A pounding in Claire’s chest made her reach for her phone. On the lock screen was a picture of her preforming before a sellout crowd outside Rockefeller Plaza, but it wasn’t her red and black jumpsuit, or the washboard abs of her backup dancers flexing to the beat that had kept the picture her backdrop for so long. Off to the side, barely within focus of the shot, was a young girl atop her mother’s shoulders ecstatically clapping along.
“There’s no coming back from this.”
With a nonchalant tap on Claire’s shoulder, Sasha kneeled before her and they locked eyes.
“Trust me, it only gets easier. Now be a big girl, lie down, and let’s do this.”
Claire reached for one of the black leather anklets dangling off the foot of the bed and gave the adornment a tight squeeze betwixt her fingers.
“I forget. How are these, um…”
Sasha was wrestling with the buckles of an air constricting corset and used that as an excuse to be curt.
“I’m not a huge fan of getting kicked in the face so, um, yeah.”
A reassuring text of thumbs up and fire emojis from Jackson Summit popped up right before Claire’s phone left her grasp. She forced a smile and surrendered her body to the cold crisp comforts of the hotel’s king-sized comforter.
“I guess this is as legit as it gets?”
Sasha huffed, and motioned Claire to spread her legs wider.
“In my line of business, all you need is a camera, a room, and consenting adults.”
The anklets were cold against her skin, fastened with precision it wasn’t long before her legs were locked in a V formation.
“Alright Miss Espinoza hands up.”
After a deep breath she surrendered her arms where two equally cold bracelets awaited her wrists. From an overhead view she looked like a high-spirited cheerleader being tossed in the air during a pep rally.
A stiff chuckle escaped her lips as she felt for herself the helplessness of having the one thing she’d always been allotted, instantly taken away with a resounding, ‘clank’ of metal links against an iron bedframe. This is it, she thought to herself.
With a prolonged eye roll Sasha leaned into Tommy and whispered something that made him shrug.
“Don’t forget the magic word.”
Claire nodded in compliance and pushed the color red to the tip of her tongue.
Candid still shots, highlighting her chunky size sevens were taken by the dozen. A few, highlighting the rest of her body, were also taken and she stretched an obligatory smile from cheek to cheek. Sasha had taken this time to apply one last layer of blush and a fine glossy coat of pomegranate red lipstick.
“Remember, three strikes.”
Claire nodded in compliance and bit her lip as she watched Tommy lift and point the camera in her direction. His elevated thumb was her green light to begin struggling against the restraints. For a girl of her limited physicality, she gave, what was by her estimation, a valiant effort. They’d joked prior about the prospect of her, “hulking out” an idea Sasha quickly laid to rest by showing Claire a short clip of a female body builder struggling against similar confinements. Even with biceps the size of shotputs, her efforts were vain, at times laughable as she swore on her life escape was imminent. The image played in her head now as Sasha’s sultry outfit glimmered with each stride in her approach from the kitchenette and into frame at the foot of the bed.
Sasha was bubbly again, flirtatiously gushing in admiration of her newfound captive.
“My, my, my, what have we here,” she said making her way around the bed, “scrumptious little body for my pleasure.”
Claire, keeping a constant vigil on her captor, shuddered as Sasha’s hands playfully flexed and wiggled about, inches above her belly.
“Oooh be nice, it’s my first time!”
Retracting her hands, Sasha smirked. Even off the lips of a world-renowned celebrity, the line had become a stale plea among industry virgins and held very little weight in her eyes.
“You’d like that wouldn’t you?”
It would have been customary to allow for a brief exchange of words, but Claire’s persistent pestering leading up to the session had worn her thin, and so with no heed or air of caution Sasha touched down on her silken skin. A graze off her tendril like fingers was enough to send her captive’s back into a heightened arch.
“Oh come on, I’m barely touching you.”
Claire’s response came quick and squeakily as her mind grappled with the ignition of a hundred nerve endings suddenly responsive to her captor’s vivacious hands.
“I know.”
Sasha shook her head.
“I’m just warming up.”
An array of patternless fingertip touches traversed her midsection forcing pursed lips to wrinkle, and eyebrows to unify in a contorted spectacle of discomfort. She likened the expression to that of someone popping a handful of sour Skittles into their mouth for the first time.
“Oh wow… oh my… th-this is… interesting.”
“Fun isn’t it?”
With a sudden charge of unrelenting force, Sasha fanned her fingers wider and dug a little harder met with malleable flesh that jiggled with every clawing thrust.
“OH JEEEZZUS-SA-HA-HA… NOT COOL-LA-HA-HA!”
And while the honor was all hers, she shook her head and bit her lip. Status aside, there wasn’t much else to discern her current captive with that of any other that had braved to grace such submissive postures.
“Not cool? Bitch puh-leeze!”
Claire’s response was a crude flux of warbles off her gaping mouth as each finite touch displaced cognition, abandoning reason for madness. She’d only ever been at such a loss during a game show outing were a slew of mathematical questions saw her grasping at straws to formulate a response. She’d since sworn off putting herself in compromising positions, yet here we are.
“WHAA-HA-HEE-HEE-HEE… OH-OH-OH-HO-HO… OH JEEEZZUS NOT THERE!”
A sudden pinch down her side sent her hips skyward to the limits of her confinement.
“WHOAH-AH-HA-HA-HA!”
The word escaped her, having been trampled by an unbridled cavalry of laughter, but then there was Sasha’s soft pouty lips.
“RED, RED!”
Immediately, Sasha’s hands were reduced to resting on her own waist where a pair of lumpy love handles were trying to break free of their own constrictions.
“Well that was fast.”
Up until this point she hadn’t given the word much thought. But upon its use, its significance became ever evident. She glanced at her wrists and realized she wasn’t the only one in bondage. That so long as the word was respected, the delicate balance of control, though misleading to the naked eye, would keep her safe.
“Oh my God this is harder than it looks.”
“You’re a squirmy little thing, aren’t you?”
“I can’t help it.”
Sasha began mouthing down from ten and took to the foot of the bed where a pair of sun kissed size sevens sat comfortably, unsuspectingly aloof to the cruel intentions circulating above them.
Claire would have been more attuned had her cell phone not buzzed to life on the nightstand beside her. But as she strained to read the text, a sharp set of nails were quick to remind her that there was a more pertinent task at hand, or foot in this case.
“OH SH-SH-SHIT-TEE-HEE-HEE!”
A single finger stroke was hardly an effort inducing endeavor, and with the camera behind her, Sasha gave her jaw a break and retracted her smile. On bended knee, lazily hunched forward, she forced forth laughter and restless bouts of swinging hips.
“OH JEEZUS… NEE-HEE-HEE… OH THAT’S BAAAD-DA-HA-HA!”
Possessed by the flick of a single finger, Claire’s leg fell into a fit of spastic trembles, innate mannerisms that did little else besides expel energy and reassure that her hapless state of being was an indefinite purgatory for so long as her captor deemed it so.
“OH SH-SHEET-TA-HA-HA… WHEE-HEE-HEE… WHOOO-HOO-HOO!”
Another day another foot scrunch as Sasha made quick work of Claire’s wasted efforts.
“Nuh-uh girl!”
Peeling her toes back as effortlessly as she’d peeled her breakfast banana Sasha continued her assault, stiff fingertips dripping steadily along the very definition of tenderness.
“WHAA-HA-HA… OH LORD JEEZUS… TEE-HEE-HEE-HEE… SOMEONE CALL THE COPS-SAA-HA-HA!”
A squinted glance along at the wall served as a solemn reminder that soundproof foam had been haphazardly installed along its crown molding. With upmost efficiency it absorbed every scream, snicker, and rattling of chains. When Sasha’s efforts momentarily subsided, Claire considered how many other strained voices existed betwixt their fibers and how hers was beginning to take its place among them, entrapped in an invisible exhibition.
A Bigger Play
There was a bitter taste in John’s mouth, but it wasn’t from the Vodka lingering in the back of his throat. Sure, that burned, but he was accustomed to tasting victory. The tiny print over blinding white cardstock was anything but. The dotted line, faded from the lack of ink in his printer, bothered him so much he couldn’t even reach for a pen. His gaze instead shifted to the wall, where a dozen or so platinum memories made him suck his teeth.
“You stare at that paper as if it’s your last hope,” said a fudge rich voice.
The words echoed off the walls of John’s office and pinged in his ears as he wearily rubbed his eyes.
“I don’t know how you know what you know.”
Jackson Summit grinned, interlocking his fingers as he adjusted his glasses.
“My good authority.”
John seethed through grit teeth and pressed his hand against his head.
“You keep saying that, but what the hell does that mean?”
“Let’s just say a resourceful little associate of mine was in the right place at the right time; a victim of circumstance, as it were.”
“Claire was a victim of circumstance.”
“And what a wonderful job she’s doing. Already Miss Espinoza’s inked a contract with us for three films, and one of them is underway as we speak.”
“But Amara? She’s certified platinum.”
“Funny, you said the same thing about Claire and look how that’s played out.”
“You can’t have her.”
“She’s not officially with you. You should consider yourself fortunate I’m consulting you at all.”
The truth clogged John’s throat and thinned his air supply. In an effort to breathe he loosened his tie and knocked back another shot of Vodka.
“One video won’t keep us from sinking.”
“Maybe not, but it will make us both money, and money buys time, which is something you need now more than ever.”
“She won’t bite Jack.”
“One of my associates has already made contact with her.”
“Wait, what? How?”
“How do you think?”
“Claire.”
“She was quite the songbird in our little meeting today.”
Within a few swipes of his iPhone, Jackson pulled up a short video of Amara sitting on a wobbly barstool amidst a small crowd, pouring her soul into a mic. As the video played, he lit a cigarette.
“That right there, that’s a bad bitch.”
“I never told Claire…”
“No, but she had a hunch, said you had a predictable pattern with new arrivals.”
“Amara won’t do it.”
“Under the right circumstances, anything is possible.”
“Circumstances?”
“Does she know she’s about to board the Titanic?”
John gave the document one last glance before sinking another shot down his throat.
“No.”
“Then that my friend, will be our play.”
“Forgive me for being,” John sniffled, “suspicious, but what’s in this for you, long term?”
Jackson took a long drag off his cigarette and polluted John’s office with his smoke.
“I’m glad you asked."
Testing the Waters cont.
He’d told Claire to mind her line of sight and keep from being pulled into the camera, but even with her exceptional experience, her gaze continued to gravitate towards the camera. Given what Sasha had whispered to him earlier about the starlet’s outrageous salary, he’d grown more than a little annoyed by her inability to adapt. Between cuts he issued a stern warning. Given her emotional state it came as no surprise that she snapped at him. What was a little more unnerving was that she suggested he take a turn and that she could film the proceedings; an offer he gracefully declined.
Just as she was about to carry out more tickles, a loud beep, coming from the foot of the bed, made Sasha sprawl off Claire’s hips and towards where Tommy was fiddling with his equipment. An exasperated Claire cooed and whispered thanks to the maker from up under her breath.
“Oh my God dude, like when are you going to get rid of that trash?”
“What? It still works.”
“Whatever.”
“Calm down Sash, I’ve got an extra battery, just give me a minute.”
His wife had never been too keen of his off-duty exploits. She feared every sultry vixen that crossed his path, and often concerned herself to sleep with thoughts of infidelity; that one day he’d fall victim to an alluring set of, “cakes” as he called them. He’d proved her wrong so far, and in the face of danger, as Sasha readjusted her panty line.
“Alright we’re good to go.”
Sasha rolled her eyes and approached the bed where her captive lied motionless, with but the function to breathe an unrelenting necessity under the circumstances of an impermissible, “fuck you”. The outburst, while not uncommon in her line of business, never failed to fan Sasha’s flame. In this case, it had inspired a prolonged stint of knuckles to the ribcage that resulted in inane babble and humbled expressions through fits of spirited, but useless reflexive reactions.
“I apologized… I apologized… I apologized.”
Fear allowed for little else to spew out of her mouth and you’d be hard pressed to fault her for it. Her ribs had proven to be particularly responsive to Sasha’s touch and the thought of such an act repeating itself was a harrowing thought.
Never one to be discouraged, even amidst drooping lips and teary eyes, Sasha mounted the bed yet again; spreading herself alongside the helpless starlet who’d taken to the hopelessly mistaken endeavor of tugging on the chains once again.
An uprising of uncanny tingles scoured about on her arms as Sasha’s hands lightly invaded her hollows, bit by bit till they were conquered territory. Defeat came with spirited spurts of bicep flexing and hip thrusts that looked strong enough to make even the hardest of woods fall flaccid in one thrust.
“OH JEEZUS-SA-HA-HA… YOUR NAILS-SEE-HEE-HEE… SA-SASHA PLEE-HEE-HEEASE!”
“Please what?”
“ST-STOOOP-PA-HA-HA!”
“Ha! After what you said?”
“I’M SOOO-HOO-HOO SORRY-YEE-HEE-HEE!”
With an array of fingertip traces Sasha scurried her hands up and down Claire’s arms, but this wasn’t an algorithm. There was no order, or procedure, no pattern of behavior, or predictability. Sasha’s hands did as they pleased, how they pleased, and as hard as they pleased.
“You’re a squirmy one aren’t you… Oh damn’!”
A titty came into play as an involuntary shoulder thrust threw Claire’s cleavage from its protective casing. It was an exaggerated mannerism, but under the circumstances, completely justified. Embarrassed, Claire turned her face as far from the camera as her restraints allowed.
The moment was short lived as Sasha plopped the breast back in place and used a stiff chuckle to try and lighten the mood.
“That’s one for the outtakes.”
Claire was far from amused and made a mental note to pick a much more supportive undergarment for her next video.
“Are we… done?”
Sasha nodded in compliance.
“Just about.”
A firm grip along her waist made Claire grit her teeth and ball her fists, pretentious reactions squandered against the rattling clanks of inevitability. It was tantamount to fighting an anesthetic, tensing up as she did. But hope had already been displaced, feeble desperation its substitute; and having to embrace that, was as daunting to accept as the gyrating thumb thrusts starting to excavate into her hipbones.
“OH JEEZUSS-SA-HA-HA… OH-HO-HO… WHA-HA-HEE-HEE-HEE!”
Determined to have a strong finish, Sasha reverted to a more domineering demeanor, amplifying her already aggressive nature with even more fervor. It was a customary proceeding, to leave the victim a breathless blubbering heap of ravaged flesh, and Sasha took care to do so, bashing Claire’s shapely curves with quick finger jabs along her sides.
“SH-SHEEET-TEE-HEE-HEE… OH NOT THERE-REE-HEE-HEE… PLEEE-HEE-HEEASE!”
In what was a vicious cycle of inbred evasive maneuvers to untimely finger thrusts, Claire’s liveliness began its decline. Exerted energies in each wasted motion saw her once amplified disdain for the proceedings, a shell of its former self as submission settled into her muscles.
What were more teasingly playful pokes along the ribcage prompted preemptive pelvic thrusts and flailing hands as Sasha put the finishing touches on a night’s work. She descended slowly, slithering off the bed as steadily as she’d mounted it.
Claire was little more than a wasted morsel of violated flesh as she laid motionless in solitude; thoughts as disheveled as the sheets beneath her body. It was a minute before she could formulate a sentence.
“That was intense.”
Sasha let off a light chuckle and reached for Claire’s feet.
“I almost don’t want to let you go.”
Claire’s toes scrunched almost instantly.
“Sasha come on!”
Relief flooded every ounce of her being as one by one her limbs were freed. With the restraints undone she was free to reach for her scar, which had proved to be of little relevance throughout the proceedings.
“So like how are you feeling?”
Keeping to the fetal position, Claire glanced up at Sasha.
“Like I just did like a thousand sit ups.”
Sasha could breathe normally again as she unfastened her corset and let it flop about on the floor; on her frame a reddened outline of her constriction, etched like a fresh burn off a branding iron.
“You’ll be fine. After a while you barely notice it.”
Claire flattened out on her belly and reached down for a shirt she’d left lying on the ground. The fridge called.
“I still have a few slices of Rosella’s left.”
Tommy pointed to his pot belly, but Sasha hastily accepted, and whipped out an iPod with accompanying earbuds.
“You said you would have a listen,” Sasha said, tossing the device towards Claire.
Claire took to the kitchen and let the music play inside her head however inconsequential. There was no mistaking its potential as she found herself tapping along to its whimsical electric beat, however inconsequential.
“It’s a shame really,” Sasha said, taking back the iPod, “pure coincidence that I happened to be there.”
The thought of Amara signing made Claire frown, a frown not even a slice of piping hot pizza could erase.
“So like, when do I get paid again?”
Sasha contained her desire to scoff by sinking her teeth into a piece of crisp pepperoni.
“Give us time to edit and market it. There’s always a little more to be made on the back end.”
“Oh, like record sales?”
“Exactly.”
END PART 1
