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Falling Apart
Chapter 13
It’s been two weeks since Brice and I have spoken. Fourteen days during which I’ve spent more time at the studio than at my apartment. 336 hours of which the majority I have either been nude or semi-nude. I’ve spent so much time in front of cameras the past two weeks that I’m even looking for the lens when I’m back in my bedroom. And when I finally hit the pillow, I’m so exhausted that I’m unconscious before I’m even asleep, if such a thing is possible.
Greg didn’t complain when I threw myself into the filming. Finishing quickly only means saved cash on his end. On mine, it means less time for my mind to run idle and wonder what Brice might be up to. It also means completing my end of the bargain a week ahead of schedule, even I have to film sixteen-hour days and work through pain I’ve never known to be possible.
Now there’s only one video left. It's nine on a Friday night. The studio guys are not hiding the fact that they just want to go home. But Greg has promised them a three-day weekend if we can just wrap up tonight. The only problem is that I’m supposed to be getting myself off in this scene, but I can hardly bring myself to touch myself, much less work myself into a frenzy that would pass as an orgasm on camera.
I’m on the floor of a false bedroom set, my back leaned against the bed, knees up and thighs spread. I’ve been relying on baby oil since I’ve been doing about half a dozen scenes like this every day for the past three days. Now is no different. Off camera, I get my fingers nice and slick before motioning to let the camera guys know I’m ready. Greg isn’t here to direct, which is usual for him. He’s always going back and forth between the different studios; he doesn’t have time to supervise me all day.
Since this is one of a series of videos that would be the last scene viewers may watch in my Choose-You-Own-Sex-venture site, I really have to make this spectacular. Blow them out of the water so they can blow their own load, so to speak. So as soon as the cameras start rolling, I look straight into the camera, lick my lips, and insert a finger into myself.
I hide the grimace by throwing my head back and moaning. The truth is that everything is so sore. I’ve been abusing myself too much recently, and not resting long enough to properly heal. It feels like my skin is too thin, my nerves frayed, my hormones flat. In my imagination, I insert Brice into this scene. If I close my eyes, I can almost make myself believe that he’s wrapped around me, his cock pulsing to get inside me, his fingers rubbing at my clit.
I lean back now, hiking my ass up a bit as I press into my hand. Hopefully, this looks sexy to the viewers, because it’s absolutely killing me. The artificial lubricant has all but worn away. My irritated skin screams for me to stop even as I feel an orgasm building up. I decide to push through the pain, screaming as I cum, the pleasure entwined with the pain.
I pull my fingers away so the camera can get a close-up of my pulsating pussy. Then someone in the back calls out, “Cut!”
It’s Greg, shaking his head.
“We’re going to have to go for that again,” he says.
“What? Why?” I hate sounding like a petulant child, but I absolutely can’t do that again. It would be a simpler task to carry Greg around on my shoulders.
“It’s just no good. If you need a break, take a break, but when you come back you’d better have your head in the game.”
I don’t know what’s crawled up his ass and died, but I throw on my robe and march straight past Greg without another word. He isn’t so stoic in his dissatisfaction.
“You think you’re the only one working her ass off? Have a look around you. We’re all suffering here. And we have to make this perfect. I’m not going into this half-assed, which means you can’t half ass your scenes.”
I head up to the roof, because I fell back into my old nicotine habit soon after Brice’s accident. I’ve been careful to scrub my mouth and change my clothes before seeing him at the hospital each day, but even though he hasn’t said anything, I’m sure he’s figured it out. It’s not hard for anyone to see that getting through each day is breaking me down so that I feel like a worn-out t-shirt, so thin that the slightest tug will rip straight through it. It should be doubly easy for the person closest to me to see, but Brice and I aren’t what we were before the accident.
Two weeks of not talking. It’s like while we weren’t looking, someone slid a huge pane of glass between us. So as long as we don’t
try talking to each other, we can pretend that everything’s the same. But the longer we go on acting like nothing has changed, the dirtier that glass gets. And one day, we’re not going to be able to see each other clearly anymore.
I give myself time for two cigarettes. The studio guys are no doubt tapping their feet and watching the clock, but I’ll be no good if I get back down there right away. Truthfully, I need a day or two to recover, but Greg and I both want to publish this video series as soon as possible. The quicker it’s up garnering views, the faster we’ve got money in our pockets.
After flicking the last cigarette to roof floor, I take the stairs down. Before heading back to my studio, I take a quick walk down the halls, aiming for the bathroom. Where I end up first is the other studio where the red light tells me that there’s active filming happening on the other side of the door.
My feet may have led me here, but my brain still hasn’t caught up with my racing heart. It’s a wriggling thought that causes me to slip in the door without a sound. I can’t be sure who’s filming in here, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it’s Jack, because he was walking out of the changing room when I was walking in before this last scene that I just can’t seem to get a hold of.
Jack and I don’t see much of each other. He and his crew prefer to film late, and I’m usually finishing up before he’s even changed. Tonight is different, and for the first time, I give into temptation, and soon I’m up against the wall, hidden by shadows, watching Jack and Jade hard at work.
I’ve managed to walk in during the middle of their scene. Jack has Jade up on the arm of a white leather couch. Her thick, strong legs are wrapped around his waist as he pumps in and out of her. I only catch glimpses of Jade as the cameras swarm her, moving in for close-ups of her bouncing breasts. But Jack is always in view.
His hands grip at Jade’s ass, keeping her in his control. Her head is back, lolling as she moans. Either she’s an amazing actress or the waves of ecstasy rolling over her are authentic. I’m betting on the latter, because it’s not hard to slip myself into her position in my mind. At first I’m forcing myself to imagine Brice’s face as he hovers over me, his body slapping against mine as we writhe in pure delight. But I can’t keep my eyes off Jack and his body, and without even acknowledging it, I’m letting him take control of my fantasy.
I’m biting my lips as their rhythm picks up, thighs slapping together with more fervor now. Jade’s fingers dig into Jack’s shoulders as she stares up at him, cresting the wave that will soon roll over her, pulling her down so that—even if just for ten seconds—she loses control of her body.
I don’t know when it happened, but my fingers are working away at my clit, naturally lubricated from the fantasy that has saturated my mind. There’s nothing that I want more in this precise moment than to just allow myself to give in. To just have a single desire that is all my own. But this is not a guilty pleasure I can afford. So, just as Jack and Jade press up against each other in the throes of orgasm, and Jack pulls out to splatter his seed across her chest, I slip out of their studio and back into my own, my hand never leaving my crotch.
The cameramen are listless, absorbed in their phones. They don’t make to move back into position when I first enter, no doubt expecting that I’ll need time to set up once more. But I make straight for the fake bathtub, sit down, and spread my legs. One by one the red lights of cameras flicker on. When I close my eyes, I can imagine that I’m somewhere else. That other place should be with Brice, but Jack Hammersmith’s body is obscuring any view of my best-friend-turned-lover.
I tell myself that it’s no different than porn, and if I’m fine with filming it, I should have no qualms consuming the stuff. So I allow myself to fall into the fantasy. Place myself in Jade’s place. Imagine that I’m the one gripping Jack’s cock between my hands, working his shaft and licking the tip before he bends me over and has his way with me.
The fantasy’s details come into sharper view as the rest of me fades away. It’s me—not Jade—digging fingernails into Jack’s shoulders. Those moans are mine. The quivers running through my thighs and gripping relentlessly at my abs are my body’s reaction to unfiltered pleasure.
