Tanner’s filming behind us, and there are a couple of other crew guys here today to help, and so Ginger is on, tilting her head so that the camera can’t miss her seductive smile as she replies, “I know. I can’t wait for you to fuck me.”
This is the part where I should respond in kind, maybe growl something harsh and kinky, but I’m still in this bubble of goodwill and happiness, and my mind is full of Devi and stars, so instead I say, “I’m going to make you feel as beautiful as Cassiopeia today.”
Ginger gives me a look that isn’t just blank. It’s blankness with shock and ignorance and the slightest whiff of humiliation. She has no idea what I’ve just said, I think. So I add, “Cassiopeia was an ancient Greek queen.”
She looks a little taken aback by this, like she still doesn’t know how to respond, like Greek mythology has no place in a BDSM porn scene, and after a couple of beats, she arches her back and purrs, “But you can’t make me feel like a queen, because I’ve been such a bad girl.”
And then she wriggles in her restraints, her mouth in a little moue of disappointment. “Stop talking, and punish me, Sir.”
And my happy bubble starts to collapse in on itself.
Because of course Greek mythology has no place on a porn set. Of course Ginger doesn’t want to make small talk or flirt or listen to my stupid thoughts. She’s here to be flogged and fucked, and as friendly as we might be, we’re not friends in the normal sense of the word. We’re co-workers, colleagues, and Ginger is like the girl in the next cubicle at an office. As chatty as we might be in a meeting, we’ll never be anything more.
And it’s not just Ginger. Can I honestly claim that any of the other girls I work with are anything more than friendly co-workers? That they wouldn’t get impatient with me if I wanted to talk about constellations instead of simply get on with the scene so we can all get paid and back to our real lives?
Devi wouldn’t be like that, though.
Or would she? a worried voice in my mind wonders.
Tanner shifts behind me, and I snap out of my bubble-collapsing reverie. Focus, Logan. Now isn’t the time for existential fussing.
I return all of my attention to Ginger and run a practiced hand down her bare stomach. She shivers, and I walk over to the wall and come back with a flogger.
“So you’ve been a bad girl?” I say with rehearsed menace.
She nods, biting her lip. One of the light guys follows Tanner as he moves around the table, and I see the shadow of the flogger outlined on her stomach. And despite all of my internal complaining, my dick is responding precisely the way it should, still a hard rod in my jeans.
“Then let’s get started.”
Ginger squirms as I begin flogging her—lightly. Since this is one of the first real bondage scenes she’s done, I try to make it less about the pain and more about the subtle humiliation, more about the power dynamics between her and me. She doesn’t have very many limits, but she brought up extreme pain as one, and I’m doing my best to keep her feeling safe and comfortable, just like I told Devi to do this morning.
So I keep the riding crop light, with small, flat-sounding slaps against her skin, just enough to redden her freckled skin the tiniest bit. Then I reach down to pluck at her nipples and slide my fingers into her mouth, and after ten or fifteen minutes of this, I reach between her legs and find her swollen and wet.
“Look at me,” I tell her, and she does, her eyes glazed with lust and her hips moving on the table. She makes a small noise of frustration when I lift my hand from her *, and I know we’ve crossed the boundary between pretend and real, where the cameras and the contracts are starting to blur into the background as the needy hum in her core becomes all-consuming.
Which is perfect, because I’m hard as a fucking rock and aching to sink into her—into any woman, if I’m being honest—to get some relief.