The studio was colder than I expected. Not from a temperature perspective, more the atmosphere. The white light leaving no shadow to hide in, a camera already pointed at the couch and a monitor turned slightly toward where I would sit. The man at the door didn’t greet me, just closed the door behind me once I had passed and let the click of the latch settle. He was shorter than I’d imagined, a lived-in face and a faint smell of body odour.
“Sit.”
I sat as he stayed standing for a moment and just watched me. Not my face, all of me, as if he was taking an inventory.
“You know what this place is,” he said.
“Yes.”
He walked to the camera, adjusted it a fraction, and a red light blinked on. I saw myself on the monitor, but it wasn’t me. She looked small, her skin almost bleached by the studio light, her eyes showing something other than arousal.
“We get two kinds of women here. The ones who think this is a stepping stone.” He paused.
“And the ones who have been thinking about this longer than they admit.”
I found myself swallowing. He looked at me directly, unblinking.
“Which are you?”
I could feel the lie forming. Career. Curiosity. Opportunity. But the lie felt thin; I hadn’t stumbled into this.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” I said.
His expression didn’t shift.
“Thinking about what?” he asked.
I wanted to move, but the cheap vinyl couch stuck to my thighs.
“Being watched,” I replied.
He took a step toward me.
“Why?”
Because it makes me feel exposed, it scares me.
“I like knowing someone is looking,” I said.
He looked at me as if he didn’t believe me.
“You understand,” he said quietly, “that being watched isn’t flattering.”
I didn’t answer as the camera light blinked steadily.
“If you’re here for validation,” he said, “you won’t find it.”
I held his gaze.
“I’m not.”
The silence stretched as he stepped closer, not touching, but claiming space that previously felt mine.
“You don’t look nervous,” he said.
“I am.”
“Good.”
He walked behind the camera and adjusted the height slightly.
“No pretending,” he said, walking back to me. “Stand up.”
I stood.
His eyes locked onto mine, an uncomfortable silence.
“Get on your knees, Katya.”
This was the moment my mind had gone over hundreds of times, on my knees, exposed, but it never felt like this. This was sterile, surgical even. His hand appeared in my periphery, broad, nails bitten. It hovered near my jaw before his fingers closed on my chin, tilting my face toward the light. I kept my eyes on his belt buckle as he stepped closer, close enough that I inhaled the faint scent of his skin, and that tang.
He didn’t speak, just removed himself from his jeans. The cock was average, unremarkable, and already semi-erect as he pressed the head against my lips. I opened my mouth and took him in.
There was no urgency in him, and, like the studio itself, no heat. Just a steady push forward until he met the back of my throat. I adjusted automatically, my tongue flattened, lips sealed around him as he began to move. His hips set a moderate rhythm, one hand rested lightly on the back of my head, the other stayed at his side. I could hear his breathing, even and controlled, and the faint wet sounds of my mouth working.
On the monitor to my left, I caught glimpses of the scene, my head bobbing in frame, his leg across the screen. My face looked blank, my eyes not focused on anything. No praise. No cursing. The only variation was a slight increase in pace near the end, his fingers tightening in my hair. Then he pulled out abruptly, his hand moving to his cock quickly.
“Stick out your tongue.”
I stayed on my knees, mouth open, my tongue now extended, gaze fixed somewhere around his waist.
Warm spurts landed across my tongue and over my forehead and nose. Some dripped down my chin. I didn’t flinch or close my eyes.
He tucked himself back in, zipped up. The click of the belt buckle almost like a clapper board ending a scene. I remained kneeling, his salty taste spreading across my tongue and the inside of my mouth, his cum cooling rapidly across my face. I felt nothing. No shame, no thrill, no disgust. There had been no suggestive interview, no stripping, appreciation of underwear, appreciation of me.
The red light switched off.
He moved behind the desk. There was no glance back, no instruction to clean up or leave, just the faint scratch of pen on paper. The monitor had gone dark. The version of me that had been watched was gone.
My stomach tightened at the realisation I was replaceable. One of hundreds, probably thousands, who had knelt on this same patch of thin carpet, taken the same mechanical strokes, worn the same streaks on their faces. Tomorrow there would be another. He wouldn’t remember my name by then. I wiped at the now cold cum on my face as I looked over at him. Still no look back. My stomach tightened further. What was this?
I felt like a prop. My throat pulsed. The knowledge that I was disposable, that none of this mattered, that I could be erased the moment the light went out. I couldn’t shake it. I also couldn’t deny it. Something was stirring in me, something I expected far earlier into this encounter.
He finally met my gaze and rose from his desk and walked back toward me.
“Why are you still here, Katya?”
I knew why, I just wasn’t ready to say it. But he wasn’t going to say anything else.
“I want more.”
He said nothing, just walked back toward the camera, and the red light came back on.