Let Me Watch_A Dark Romance

by Sansa Rayne

  “No, you don’t,” I said, approaching slowly.

  Wrapped in my memory, I’ve lost track of whatever Steph’s saying.

  “You there?” she asks.

  “Sorry. Go on.”

  I force my past down with the rest of my pizza as we talk about Steph’s annoyingly intrusive neighbors.

  “They just don’t get the hint that I really don’t want to come over to watch soccer. Like, I’ve never shown any interest in that whatsoever. Why don’t they get it?”

  “Oh, they don’t care if you like soccer. It’s an excuse to have you over,” I say.

  Steph crunches her crust as she nods. “They could just say that.”

  “Yeah, well, having people be direct isn’t always that great,” I point out. “You should see some of the messages I got last night.”

  Her face falls. She can certainly imagine.

  “Can we talk about work stuff on Monday?” she asks.

  “Please? I want to start planning what’s next.” Steph’s been supportive of my art and modeling since I started, but she doesn’t always understand the inherent uncertainty of the business. I need to book shoots, or in a few weeks, I might not know how I’ll pay my rent. My savings are scant, and Manhattan’s not cheap.

  “Fine,” Steph sighs, taking out her phone and loading up the mail account. While she pages through the newest messages, I update her on the appointments I scheduled earlier today, and soon my calendar is starting to look pretty solid for the next month.

  “Oh geez,” she says as we’re wrapping up.

  “What is it?”

  “An e-mail from Pierce Williams. He sends his compliments on last night’s show and wants to apologize for ‘starting things off on the wrong foot.’ Says he’ll make an incredibly generous offer.”

  Wow. Persistent, much?

  “Fuck that,” I growl. Annoyed and getting uncomfortably warm, I slip off my hoodie. How many times do I have to tell these people I’m an artist, that I’m not looking to make spank videos?

  “Want me to ignore it?” asks Steph. “Or politely decline?”

  “No…”

  What I don’t understand is why Williams wants me in particular. Yeah, I’d drive some fresh traffic to his site — it’d be a nice coup for him — but does he really need me? I don’t think so. He’s already the top East Coast producer of kidnapping fantasy porn, and he’s plenty notorious. So what’s his game? Does he want to change gears and develop something artistic? Or maybe he just really, really wants to fuck me? Perhaps I’m his type.

  “You want me to rudely decline?”

  “Actually, set up the meet,” I say.

  Steph blinks a few times. “What? Why?”

  “I want to tell him no and make sure he really gets it this time.”

  She sneers like she just stubbed a toe while smelling something infected. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. Wait a few days before replying, and don’t make the meet too soon. Give him a while to prepare his best pitch.”

  “Alright,” Steph sighs. “Where? A park? Coffee shop? Restaurant?”

  I grin, getting up to throw out our trash. “Restaurant. A good one. He’s taking my time, he can pay for a meal,” I say, trying to be heard over an obnoxiously loud laugh from the table behind me.

  Steph barely nods, looking down at the crumbs on the table.

  “What is it?”

  Without looking up, she replies, “They know it’s you.” Holding her fist against the table, she points a finger in my direction. “Don’t look. They’ve all got their phones out.”

  Shit. Without my hoodie, I’ve not got on much in the way of a disguise.

  It’s fine. You’ve dealt with this before.

  “Ready to go?” I ask, pulling my sweater back on.

  We get up at the same time and march out the door. I have to face the table — two guys and girls the same age as me — to get past, giving them a pretty good look. Stifled laughs follow me out onto Avenue D.

  “I’m sorry,” I say as we head for Houston Street. Dusk casts bright orange beams between the buildings, making me feel dumb for keeping on the shades, but there are people everywhere. I feel like they are all watching me, and not in a way I like.

  Steph picks up speed. “It’s fine.”

  “Hey, let’s go see a movie,” I suggest. “It’ll be dark in there.”

  “Sorry,” says Steph. “I’ve got to get back to studying. It’ll be July before you know it.”

  “Sure thing,” I reply, disappointed, though I understand. “Rain check?”

  She nods. “Definitely.”

  I give her a quick hug, then turn to catch a ride uptown.

  I keep my head down and draw my hood tight around my face. I’d rather not be recognized again tonight. There are some dangerous people out there.

  I haven’t seen too much of Chase the past few days, and every other time he sees me, he asks if I’ve heard back from Sibel.

  “Not yet,” I tell him.

  When I wander past his room, the door is shut and locked. From inside I hear familiar gasps and cries: Sibel’s show from the gallery. He’s found the videos online and has been watching them repeatedly.

  It’s hard to blame him, really. I’ve watched the video more than a couple times myself. The effect she has is captivating — hypnotic, even. I’ve read some of the write-ups from the art critics, something I’d never imagined myself doing before meeting Sibel.

  “They say she gets bigger audiences with every show,” I relate to Chase, scanning the articles on my phone. “Especially online.”

  “Really?” he replies, scrambling us a half-dozen eggs.

  I nod. “According to her site, the live feeds get tens of thousands of unique viewers.”

  “Sounds like you should get her for the site,” he mumbles.

  “Yeah, no shit.”

  All right, maybe I’m a little fixated too. At least I’ve spent the last few days trying to distract myself, taking videos we’ve shot and prepping them to go live. There’s plenty of footage in the can in need of work, even if our shoots are presented largely unedited and uncut. Shit still goes wrong; sometimes we have to start a scene over, especially with new models who haven’t gotten the hang of our style.

  It’s nearly noon when my private cell rings, flashing an unfamiliar number.

  “Pierce Williams Productions.”

  “Hi,” says a woman with a deep voice and a mild Russian accent. “Is this Pierce?”

  “It is. What can I do for you?”

  “This is Vanessa. From the bar. The other night.”

  Jackpot.

  “Vanessa, good to hear from you. What’s up?”

  “Two grand for one day?” She sounds distant, as if she’s holding the phone far from her lips.

  It’s okay, doll. I get it. This isn’t an easy decision.

  “That’s correct. Not even the whole day, if we get the footage we need without a lot of extra takes.”

  “And you pay cash?”

  I can’t help a short laugh. “No, of course not. You’ll get one hundred up front, no matter what. The rest you get after the shoot by check. This is a real business. We keep all the records required by law. You will receive a W-2 from us in time for your taxes. If that doesn’t work for you, I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

  Based on Olga’s recommendation, I assumed the legalities wouldn’t be an issue for Vanessa. The question, I guess, is whether she sees this as a quick cash grab or a real opportunity to go pro.

  “Fine,” she says after a minute. “When do you want to shoot?”

  “Free tonight?” I ask, mostly to be polite. She doesn’t strike me as the type to take clients by appointment.

  “Yeah, I am.”

  Perfect. It’ll be good to get Chase’s mind off Sibel, if only for a night.

  “Great.” While speaking, I load up a spreadsheet with a list of our recent videos and sort it to show our shooting locales by date, appearance
and experience. For Vanessa, I’d like to go somewhere we haven’t filmed any inexperienced blondes in the last few months. “Go to our website, look at the ‘For Models’ section and read all the instructions. Get everything you’re gonna need. I’ll text you the time and the address to meet us, all right?”

  “Okay.” Her voice trembles, and is followed by a sniff.

  “If you’re not sure about this, you can back out at any time. You’re not gonna do anything you don’t choose, you have my word.”

  “Okay,” she repeats, more confidently this time.

  I could give her a few more promises about the proper treatment of my models, about the safety procedures I employ at all times, but I don’t want to oversell the point. You keep trying to convince a person who’s already convinced, they might wonder if maybe they shouldn’t be.

  “Have you visited our site?” I ask. “Have you watched some of the freebie videos all the way through?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you should know what to expect, and how to dress.” I don’t have to spell it out: Slutty. The way you already dress for work.

  “Wear something you don’t mind seeing ruined; we’ll have some spare clothes to give you when we’re done.”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  According to my records, there’s one place we haven’t filmed a blonde newcomer this year: Plexatil. It’ll do.

  “Good. I want to fill you in one more thing, all right? It’s all in the instructions on the site, but this is important.”

  She sighs impatiently. “I’m listening.”

  I take a deep breath. “Our unique shooting technique is vital to producing a distinctive, high-quality product. Once we start filming, we don't stop to do different takes or give directions, not unless we have to,” I explain. “That's what makes our work feel so real. We will stop if you need to use your safeword, or if there’s a technical difficulty, but that's it. Otherwise, scenes continue until they're done.”

  “And when is that?”

  I smile to myself. “This is a movie. I’ll say, ‘Cut.’ Any other questions?”

  “A movie,” she snorts. “No, no more questions.”

  Let her be condescending; she’s the one about to get fucked on camera.

  “Lovely. See you tonight.”

  She doesn’t say anything before hanging up. Rude, but whatever. Hopefully she’ll warm up to us after cashing that check and getting to take a few nights off from sucking strangers’ cocks.

  Pocketing my phone, I head down to the basement level of my building and knock on the door to Chase’s room.

  He opens up in just his boxers, face red and sweaty. “What is it?”

  “You think you’re gonna be able to work tonight?” I ask, trying to ignore the smell escaping his room.

  He tugs at the waistband of his boxers, smiling sheepishly. “Fuck yes.”

  —

  The problem with filming in abandoned buildings, empty lots and other condemned properties is, they don’t usually stay that way forever. Places get sold, demolished and redeveloped. I’ve bought a few myself, the ones I could afford, but that’s a small number. Staying on top of the sites and keeping them usable means paying them a visit from time to time, ideally not the night before a shoot. Professionals don’t cancel on their models because somebody went and built a mall on their set.

  Fortunately, the site for tonight looks just as we left it. We can even see our old footprints in the dust from the last time we swung by, just to give the place a look. Preparing the site usually means a floor-to-ceiling sweep for vagrants, followed by a thorough pass with the vacuum: nobody likes seeing someone sneeze during sex. Once that’s done, we set up some lighting and stationary cameras, test them all out, and that’s it. Then we just have to wait for our actress to arrive.

  Vanessa shows up ten minutes late, which isn’t unexpected. Pre-show jitters are normal for our performers, even those with prior experience. What she’s about to do, there’s no good way to prepare. It’s going to feel real and painful and wrong. But it can’t be worse than her real job, can it?

  She approaches the alley of the Plexatil plant stiffly, like it’s the edge of a cliff. I catch sight of her long before she’s in position. A tight, leopard print mini dress clings to her slender figure, emphasizing her mild curves. Disgust and trepidation pale her bloodless cheeks; she looks like a small animal wary of a trapper’s snare, vulnerable but not yet resigned to fate. At the corner of our building, she stops to lean against the facade. She takes out a cigarette and rests it, unlit, between her lips.

  Here we go.

  Chase pulls a balaclava over his face with a grin. He’s got on an over-sized, black leather jacket, unzipped so we can see the broad chest beneath his bright, white wife beater. His blue jeans have small rips at the knees, and grease stains at the thighs. He looks like the wrong person to meet outside a vacant lot.

  I point my camcorder at him and say, “Action.” I focus on him as we emerge from my truck, parked a building away. Once we get close to Vanessa, I shift my shot on her, just a couple seconds before Chase comes into frame.

  “You’re trespassing,” he growls, stealing the cigarette and flicking it away.

  “Fuck you,” she snaps before Chase grabs her arm and twists it up behind her back. “Hey, what the fuck-” she begins as Chase forces her to march into the alley, toward the factory door. “You can’t do this!” she says as he swings the door wide and wrangles her inside.

  I stay on Chase’s heels, not wanting to cut. Sometimes I do, depending on the locale and the model, but I see no reason to now. Vanessa’s acting like a natural, showing just the right amount of fear to feel real, but not so raw it loses its appeal.

  Hopefully it’s genuine enough to satisfy the intended audience.

  Vanessa punches at Chase’s arm, and it looks like she’s really trying to break his grip, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he fishes a black Beretta from his jacket pocket. Her eyes grow wide seeing it, even though it was in the briefing. It’s a real gun — old, but real. It’s not loaded — hasn’t been in two decades — but it might still work after a good cleaning.

  Staring into the weapon’s barrel, Vanessa shrinks down to her knees. Chase takes a pair of standard issue police handcuffs out of his other pocket and tosses them to the ground in front of her. “Behind your back,” he orders. “Now.”

  Eyes on the gun the whole time, she obeys, tightening the cuffs as far as they can go. The second she’s done, Chase stashes the gun, hooks his hand under her arm and lifts her to her feet.

  “You son of a bitch, what are you doing?”

  “Shut up.”

  He pushes her against the green and beige wall, face against the concrete. Hiking up her dress reveals her milky white cheeks and a dark thong.

  “Nice,” Chase mumbles, slapping her ass a few times. She shrieks, maybe a little too much for just a spanking, but Chase doesn’t care. He’s already unzipping his jeans and pulling free his long, stiff cock. Looking at it, his eyebrows rise, and I can tell he’s grinning under his mask.

  Look who’s back in action.

  I guess Sibel’s show really did the trick.

  It’s not that Chase’s been incapable of performing the last few months, but results have varied. Now he looks back to form.

  “You’ve been really bad,” he whispers in Vanessa’s ear, nice and soft, as I move in for a close-up. Ripping open the wrapper on a condom, he adds, “Don’t you think you ought to be punished?”

  As he speaks, I pull a bottle of lube from the pocket of my cargo pants and squirt a generous pool into his cupped palm.

  “Please, I didn’t do anything,” Vanessa begs.

  Chase rubs the lube over his cock. I squirt more into his hand, and then back away. He runs his hand against Vanessa’s crotch and smiles.

  “You’re all wet. Is this turning you on?”

  “No,” she murmurs, shaking her head.

  “Liar. You’re practically drenc
hed.” Chase holds his cock to her glistening pussy, then slides in. Vanessa moans, closing her eyes.

  “Fuck, you’re tight,” he says, clutching Vanessa’s breast through her dress. She gasps as he thrusts harder, stifling a groan.

  I can’t tell if she’s pretending not to like it for our cameras or for herself, but I’m certain she’s not hating it either. Her safeword is an easy one to remember: stop. Under most circumstances, it’s a bad choice for a safeword — performers have to remember not to say it unless they mean it. It’s not so easy, especially for a first-timer. It may still happen. We’ve got several more scenes to shoot.

  “You about to come?” Chase asks, driving into her like a machine.

  “Oh, god yes,” she whines, voice rising with each short breath.

  Groaning, Chase pumps hard a couple last times, then pulls out and walks away in one motion. I keep the camera on Vanessa as she slumps to the ground, mouth hanging open somewhere between pleasure and shock. After a mental count to ten, I call, “Cut.”

  —

  We film three more scenes with Vanessa, giving both her and Chase time to recover in between each setup. I use the break to check the footage and show it to both of them. Vanessa doesn’t say much, but there’s a hint of a smile on her face when I point the camera and ask how she’s doing. She flashes a thumbs up, her head likely swimming at how much she’s about to get paid. Later, I’ll use the footage for a behind-the-scenes clip.

  In our next setup, Chase uses his bare hands to rip apart Vanessa’s dress after roping her wrists to a steel beam that runs overhead in the basement machine shop. My nostrils flare at the sight of dark bruises on her body. The only ones I want to see are the ones we make; our subscribers won’t mind, but I can’t help wanting to shake some names out of her, if she even knows them.

  During the remaining scenes, we only have to shoot two retakes: a tickle in Chase’s throat causes a short coughing fit while Vanessa is strapped on her back to a workbench, and a sharp pebble nicks her toe when she’s chained against a support pillar, necessitating a bandage. Not bad, all things considered.

  “You were great,” I tell Vanessa as I toss her a shopping bag filled with a fresh bra and panties, leggings and a t-shirt. “Subscribers are going to be stunned this was your first shoot with us.”