I was supposed to be studying. I had the books open, the highlighters uncapped, but my phone was face-up and glowing. One little red dot. Instagram.

The message was from someone I didn’t follow. A guy. Profile picture looked like it had been taken with a cigarette between his fingers.

~Michael
Hey… your look is really natural. We’re casting for an existing series, kind of first-time video vibe. Nothing crazy. If you’re curious, I can send more.

I sat back, blinked. I didn’t even post anything wild. A couple of bikini shots. Some mirror selfies. One black-and-white where I looked kind of moody. Not porn.

Still, I didn’t delete it. I just… stared.

The idea shouldn’t have thrilled me. But it did.

I was still staring at the screen when the vibration came.

~Dahlia
You up, petal?

~Madeline
Yeah.
Can I call?

She picked up with a slow inhale, exhale. I could almost hear the cigarette crackling at the other end. Or maybe that was her voice. She always sounded like she’d just woken up from something deep.

“Something wrong?” she asked.

I hesitated. “Not exactly.”

Her silence was heavy, interested. I told her what happened… the message, the way he phrased it. First-time. Natural. Nothing crazy.

“You’re thinking about it,” she said.

“I mean… yeah.”

She sighed. Not annoyed. More like she was getting comfortable before giving me the real answer. “You want to be seen, Madeline. That’s not the problem. But this? This is the kind of thing that follows you.”

“It’s anonymous,” I said.

“No, it’s not. Not really. Not here. Not the way they run it.”

I waited. She always did this… let the truth stretch a little before snapping it into place.

“You’re not wrong to be curious,” she said finally. “But if you want to do something like this, we can find the right stage. One where they don’t chew girls up and spit them into tube sites before the ink’s dry.”

I didn’t answer right away.

“I’ll make some calls,” she said, before I could.

“You don’t have to…”

“I said I’ll look into it. That’s not a yes.”

Outside, the wind moved through the palo verde leaves. Inside, my phone was still open on the message. I hadn’t typed anything back.

“You’re not stupid, Madeline,” she said softly. “But you are young. And sometimes you get brave in ways that make me nervous. Try sleeping on it, petal. Or at least reach for your toys.”

I laughed.

She hung up without saying goodbye. Dahlia never said goodbye.

--- 🐺 ---

We were sitting outside, sharing a late lunch. Somewhere overpriced, with tiny plates and cold rosé in wide glasses. Dahlia always picked places where the staff never rushed you, and the women at the next table wore sunglasses to judge each other without being seen.

I had just finished telling her about some guy from work who’d asked if I was “one of those VSCO girls.” I didn’t even know what that meant.

Dahlia was grinning, half-listening. She did that thing where she took in more than she let on. Fork in one hand, phone in the other, she tapped something, then slid the phone across the table toward me.

A message thread. Not Instagram. Email. The subject line just said: “re: AV Casting Interest – Tokyo Domestic Market Only”

I glanced up. She didn’t say anything. Just waited.

I read it twice.

They’d liked what they saw on my Instagram: my look, my vibe. Dahlia had sent it to them, with my okay in spirit if not in words. The studio specialized in AV, Adult Video. Full scenes. Nudity. Penetration. Several shoots over two or three days. The videos would stay in Japan, untranslated. No names published.

“Wait… you sent them my profile?”

She nodded. “I told you I’d look into something better.”

“This is better?”

“Compared to a guy DM’ing you off Insta to shoot amateur porn in Tampa? Yes.”

I kept reading. The producer’s tone was professional, not sleazy. They handled everything: flights, lodging, food. All I had to do was show up, sign, and perform.

“I thought you didn’t want me doing this,” I said.

“I don’t,” Dahlia said. “But I’d rather you fuck on camera with a safety net than go rogue and end up regretting it.”

I looked at her, hard. “This would be real. Like… full-on.”

“Yes,” she said. “But it’s not forever. You’ll be nobody to them.”

I took a sip of water, mostly to stop my hand from shaking.

“And you’re okay with it?” I asked.

“I’m okay with you knowing your own mind,” she said. “But this can’t be a maybe. You either want it or you don’t. I’m not babysitting you through it.”

The waiter came by, refilled the water, and hovered. Dahlia ignored him until he left. Then she looked back at me, cool and steady.

“You’re not my pet, Madeline,” she said. “This isn’t that. This is business. And if you say yes, I need you to walk into it with your chin up and your eyes open.”

I didn’t answer right away. She didn’t push.

“Take your time,” she said, reaching for her wine. “If you do decide to go, just make sure the girl who shows up knows why she’s there.”

--- 🐺 ---

Tokyo was loud in a way that didn’t make noise. It shimmered. Buzzed. Pressed in from all sides.

The airport alone felt like a small city. Clean, bright, endless. Even with signs in English, I kept losing track of where I was going: everyone moved with purpose, fast and silent, as if they all knew something I didn’t. I stood out before I even stepped off the jet bridge. And I felt it.

I don’t know what I expected. Neon? Anime characters? That was there, sure, but so was the smell of warm starch, distant perfume, the click of patent leather shoes on tiles. Nothing was where I thought it would be. Everything was too much and not enough all at once.

A man waited near the arrivals exit, holding a sign that said M. MILLER in neat black type. He didn’t smile. Just nodded when he saw me, then turned and led the way.

The van was parked in a row of identical ones: silver, black, spotless. Ours was low and sleek, with cream leather seats and a faint citrus scent inside. I half expected champagne.

We didn’t talk. He drove with both hands on the wheel, merging through impossible traffic like it was nothing. Outside, Tokyo pulsed: endless narrow streets, blinking lights, vending machines tucked into corners, women in suits, men in uniforms, kids in matching backpacks. I pressed my forehead to the cool glass and watched it blur by.

Somewhere between the airport and the city center, it hit me.

I'm really doing this.

I had packed my bag. Boarded the flight. Said yes to something I wasn’t even sure I could describe out loud. Not because it was easy. Not because I was desperate or naive.

Because not doing it would’ve eaten at me. Because I wanted to know. What would it feel like? What would I become?

The hotel was down a side street I wouldn’t have noticed on my own: quiet, narrow, half-hidden. No neon. No fanfare. Just a sliding glass door, a quiet lobby, and a woman behind the desk who bowed when I stepped in.

The room was… small. Not cute small... Efficient. There was barely space between the bed and the walls, and the bathroom looked like it had been built into a cruise ship.

But it was mine. Clean. Private. And for now, quiet.

I dropped my bag, peeled off my shoes, and lay down fully clothed, staring at the ceiling like it might shift and offer answers. It didn’t.

I closed my eyes, but I didn’t sleep.

--- 🐺 ---

They woke me before sunrise.

A soft knock, not loud enough to startle, just enough to make sure I heard it. I opened the door in a T-shirt and socks. A different man stood there this time, polite, bowing slightly. Outside, the same silver van idled at the curb.

It was already full. Four people, maybe five. One woman doing makeup with a little ring light clipped to the ceiling. Another brushing and spraying hair. Someone handed me a bottle of cold tea and a plastic-wrapped sandwich. My translator, Juri, introduced herself and sat beside me, smiling like we were on our way to summer camp.

"You are… Madarin-san?” she said.

I shook my head. “I’m Madeline.”

She tried to repeat it. “Ma-da-rin.”

“Mad-uh-len,” I corrected gently.

She frowned, tried again, didn’t quite get it.

“Yes. Madarin-san. Okay,” Juri said brightly, her accent curling the syllables as someone tilted my head to contour my cheekbone. “First shoot is… light rope, touch. No full scene until later, ne? Hai. You okay?”

I nodded, mouth full of egg salad. My hands were shaking a little, but no one seemed to notice. Or maybe they did and didn’t care. Everything happened in motion: lipstick, powder, fingers in my hair, a little black lace bra held up to my chest like they were testing a color swatch.

Juri leaned closer. “You very beautiful, Madarin-san. They like… contrast. Pale skin, wide eyes. You look perfect. Just relax, follow direction, ne? Hai.”

We turned down a different kind of street now: industrial, gray, cluttered with overhead wires and rusted shutters. Still quiet, though.

The van didn’t stop in front of a building, not really. Just a wide metal shutter that opened slowly as we approached. A soundstage, or something like one. Painted walls inside, lights already rigged up, a camera on a dolly. A man with a clipboard greeted me with a quick bow and led me to a small curtained room near the back.

“Change now, please,” Juri said, handing me a little bundle wrapped in gauze. “You’ll look like a doll. That’s the point, ne?”

And just like that, it began.

There wasn’t time to panic. No one gave me space to overthink. I changed. They adjusted. They lit me, placed me, positioned me like I was furniture they didn’t want to scuff.

Somewhere behind the lights, a voice called out in Japanese. Everyone moved.

And I… held still.

--- 🐺 ---

The morning slipped by in a blur.

Rope coiled around me: tight but careful, soft hands tracing my skin, fingers light and deliberate. The lights moved constantly, shifting angles, catching every curve and shadow. The camera circled like a silent observer, patient but unrelenting.

Juri stayed close, whispering translations, keeping me grounded with gentle words I barely registered. I focused on breathing, on not letting the tightness in my chest spiral. The studio smelled faintly of hairspray and plastic. My skin prickled beneath the ropes, warm and cold all at once.

People moved around me with quiet purpose, like parts of a well-oiled machine. Words flew past in Japanese, rapid and clipped. I didn’t understand them, but the tone was clear, efficient, no nonsense. Even when there was a disagreement, it ended before it could take root, settled with a glance or a quick nod.

The customs here were different: calm but intense. Everyone focused, no time wasted. It was dizzying, like being caught in a fast current, but also grounding. The quiet discipline of it seeped into me, steadying my nerves even as my heart raced beneath the ropes and lights.

Juri leaned close, her voice soft and steady in English. “We continue shooting this afternoon. You doing fine, yes? Very good.”

It was strange being still, exposed, and yet completely unseen in the crowd of lenses. Like I was a ghost, a doll, a secret.

Then, just as suddenly as it started, it was done.

The ropes came loose. The lights dimmed. The silence stretched.

I stood there for a moment, breathing hard, chest tight, feeling the weight of what I’d just done settle over me.

Fear, excitement, shame, and something fierce I couldn’t name.

I was here. I was really here.

And somehow, I wasn’t sorry.

--- 🐺 ---

In the evening, the city pressed in around us, but somehow, it was quiet.

We were parked on the side of a narrow street, tucked into a sliver of curb that barely counted as a space. The van's engine had gone silent, leaving only the hum of distant tires on asphalt and the occasional mechanical sigh from the traffic lights nearby. On the other side of a short chain-link fence, a mall squatted under flickering signage, and a few early evening commuters milled around the bus stop, oblivious to us. Or pretending to be.

Tokyo didn’t sleep, but it did have these strange pockets: calm, muted, holding their breath.

Inside the van, the air was warm and tight.

I sat on the bench seat in the back, my knees pressed together, skin tingling where the oversized white shirt brushed against my thighs. The fabric was crisp, starched, and the sleeves rolled halfway up my arms. It clung slightly to the heat of my body. Nothing underneath. Just the shirt and a pair of nude heels that felt too loud on the silent floor of the van. It was like I’d put on someone else’s fantasy and hadn’t fully figured out how to wear it yet.

My co-star: older, composed, unreadable, sat beside me. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel. He hadn’t spoken much beyond a polite nod. The cameraman crouched near the front, fiddling with lenses, ignoring us in the practiced way of someone who’d done this too many times to care.

Before she left, Juri had given me a last soft smile and said, “Just follow his lead, ne. Don’t worry about camera. Forget it is even there.”

Easy for her to say.

My pulse tapped against my throat, not fast exactly, but insistent. Every sound felt amplified: the rustle of the shirt, the faint shift of the actor’s weight beside me, the creak of the van’s suspension. From outside, a bus hissed and pulled away. Someone coughed. A neon sign buzzed somewhere overhead.

None of them knew what I was about to do. Or maybe they did and didn’t care. That thought was worse somehow.

I stared down at my bare legs, pale under the van’s dome light. The shirt had ridden up higher than I thought. I tugged it down reflexively, even though we all knew there was no point.

This was happening.

And part of me... wanted it to.

I glanced at my co-star. He looked at me finally, not with hunger, not even curiosity. Just calm assurance, like this was normal. Like I’d been here a hundred times before.

He reached out and touched my knee.

I didn’t flinch.

The camera light blinked red.

He didn’t speak. Just shifted closer, smooth and unhurried.

One hand reached for the buttons of my shirt, undoing the top one with ease, then the next. In his other hand, a small camcorder blinked to life: tiny, silent, aimed squarely at me. The red light glowed steadily.

I hesitated for a moment, then followed his cue. My fingers moved clumsily at first, then steadier. I opened the rest of the buttons down to my navel, exposing the soft line of my belly, the curve of my breasts. The shirt fell open like a curtain.

He tilted the camera slightly, getting the shot.

The air inside the van kissed my skin, cooler now against the flush rising in my chest. I leaned back into the seat and let my thighs part, wide and slow, the hem of the shirt pulling open like an invitation.

Outside the window, a stream of headlights passed: buses, taxis, a cyclist. I watched them as I breathed in deep, the buzz of the city mixing with the blood rushing through my ears.

The windows weren’t tinted.

Anyone could look in.

Anyone could see exactly what I was becoming.

He placed the camcorder on the seat, aimed to keep me framed, then turned back to me with his hands low, patient. He spread me with his fingers, gently, like he was opening a gift he already knew by heart. His palms were warm, his fingers playful: light at first, then with growing confidence, brushing over the folds, parting me further for the camera’s eye.

I gasped softly, more at the exposure than the touch.

No one stopped. No one turned. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone could.

That was the thrill.

And I didn’t look away.

His fingers moved with purpose now.

Slow at first, drawing soft moans from somewhere deep in my throat. The kind I didn’t plan, didn’t try to hold back. Just breath and sound and the soft slap of skin against skin in the quiet van.

The angle shifted, and he guided me gently, deliberately, until I was on my hands and knees across the bench seat. The shirt slipped off one shoulder, bunched around my elbows. My breasts swayed slightly with each movement. He knelt behind me, one hand steadying my hip, the other sliding between my legs again. Fingers slick now, pumping in a slow, steady rhythm that made my toes curl.

I gripped the back of the seat, my knees spread wide on the vinyl, and looked straight out the window.

The world was right there.

Across the fence, a girl in a school uniform tapped at her phone under a bus stop shelter. A couple walked past with shopping bags swinging. Neon lights blinked over shopfronts, and the glass of the van reflected it all faintly, ghosts of Tokyo drifting across my skin.

No one looked. Or maybe someone did. I couldn't tell anymore.

His fingers curled just right, and I gasped again, louder this time. The sound filled the van. I didn’t care. I arched my back for the camera without even thinking, my body moving on instinct now, drawn to the rhythm he gave me.

Warm palm on my lower back, holding me steady.

The windows steamed faintly around the edges.

And I stayed just like that: open, on display, watching the city as it kept on moving.

--- 🐺 ---

He pulled away just long enough to adjust the middle row of seats, flattening them out into something like a bed. The van creaked under the movement. Vinyl squeaked. He moved with quiet efficiency, practiced, like this was nothing new. Just another scene. Just another girl.

Then he undressed, piece by piece, folding his clothes neatly and setting them aside. His skin looked different under the van’s faint interior lights: cool shadows and sharp angles, the hard lines of his chest rising and falling with steady breath. He stretched out across the seat, flat on his back, one hand behind his head like he could’ve been waiting for a massage instead of a blowjob.

No instructions. None needed.

The cameraman leaned forward from the front seat, wordless as he set up two more small cameras on mounted arms, angling them with sharp precision. One near the rearview mirror. Another was clipped low to the side. I didn’t look at them.

I looked at him.

Then I crawled forward, slow and deliberate. Between his legs. The vinyl was warm beneath my knees. I felt the soft tremble in my thighs as I moved, the shift of the shirt sliding up my back. My hair brushed against his hip.

I wrapped one hand around the base of his cock, already thickening, and lowered my mouth to him.

The taste hit me first. Clean skin, faint sweat, the electric sharpness of salt. I closed my lips around him and let him fill me, deeper with each breath.

He groaned, low and tight. His thighs tensed under my hands.

I didn’t come up.

I let him swell against my tongue, grow harder with every slow pull. My jaw ached almost instantly, but I welcomed it, anchored myself in it. I breathed through my nose, steady and slow, and sank deeper, my throat relaxing as I let him press in.

The air in the van was thick with heat now: mine, his, the tension of a dozen unspoken things. The hum of a camera lens adjusting. The distant sound of brakes hissing outside. Somewhere, a street vendor was calling out in Japanese. All of it layered behind the wet sounds I was making as I worked my mouth around him.

He was hard now. Heavy on my tongue. I let him slide back almost to the tip, then down again, slow and steady, feeling the weight and shape of him fill my mouth.

Behind me, the camera whirred softly: mechanical, clinical, but in here, everything felt raw. My lips stretched around him, my jaw straining as I built a rhythm. Not fast. Not frantic. Just deep, focused, deliberate. Porn slow.

Every now and then, I felt the subtle shift of air as the cameraman leaned closer, adjusting angles. Light blinked off the windshield. A red light clicked on. I didn’t stop. I didn’t even look up.

I could feel the heat radiating off his thighs. My knees pressed into the seat, the fake leather sticking slightly where my skin had started to sweat. The hem of the shirt had ridden up to my hips, but I was too far gone to care. I just moved: mouth, hand, tongue, slowly working him with practiced inexperience. I wanted to impress. I wanted to last.

A low sound escaped his throat. He didn’t touch me, just watched. Letting me work.

I could feel the cameraman’s presence, even though he said nothing. The occasional click of a lens locking focus. A subtle readjustment of light. I kept my spine arched just so, knowing how it must look from behind, back bowed, ass up, the shirt draped open like an afterthought. Everything exposed.

Saliva pooled at the corners of my mouth. I swallowed around him, dragging the tip of my tongue along the underside of his shaft as I eased back. Then again. And again. A slick, steady rhythm, each pass a little deeper.

I wasn't sure how long we stayed like that. Time had flattened out, just the wet glide of my lips, the faint ache building in my neck and shoulders, the pulsing heat of his cock twitching in my mouth. A string of spit connected us when I pulled back to catch my breath, slick and shining in the dim light.

I glanced up, just a flick of the eyes, and saw him watching me. His expression was unreadable, but focused. Appreciative.

The camera caught that, too, I was sure.

I wrapped my lips around him again and pushed forward, letting him hit the back of my throat this time. I gagged slightly, but didn’t stop. Just blinked and settled in deeper. My eyes watered, tears smudging my mascara a little.

The cameraman said something in Japanese: short, clipped, almost bored.

A camera light clicked off, then on again at a different angle. I stayed where I was, catching my breath, my mouth slick and aching, my chest rising and falling against the open fold of the shirt.

Then he reached for me.

No words. Just a hand on my shoulder, guiding me up, then gently pushing me back until I was lying flat along the makeshift bench-bed. My legs still dangled off the edge. I adjusted without being asked, lifting my hips, shifting to the center. This part didn’t need discussion.

There was no foreplay. No checking if I was ready.

He positioned himself between my legs, one knee on the seat, one foot still braced on the floor for leverage. The camera hovered beside us, catching the angle.

I felt the thick pressure of him pressed against me. One smooth thrust, deep and steady.

I gasped, not in surprise exactly, but from the sheer fullness of it. I’d already been wet, already open from his fingers and the building heat of everything that had come before. Still, the stretch made me inhale sharply through my teeth.

He didn’t pause.

Just pulled back slightly and drove into me again.

His rhythm was purposeful. Measured. Like everything else he did, no hesitation, no tenderness. Just a steady, practiced pace meant to look good from every angle. I gripped the sides of the seat, letting myself be moved, rocked with each thrust. The shirt rode higher up my body, catching at my ribs, exposing everything.

The camera watched.

I watched, too.

Through the window, the city still pulsed with life, blinking lights, people walking past just meters away, unaware. Or pretending. I stared at the glowing signs across the street, at the silhouettes of strangers waiting for a bus. My mouth was slightly open, breathing shallow, eyes unfocused.

He fucked me like it was work.

His hands slid under my thighs, and without a word, he shifted again, leaning back onto the flattened seat, his back against the cool vinyl. He brought me with him, lifting me easily, settling me astride him like it had all been choreographed in advance.

It hadn’t.

But I knew what was expected.

I planted my knees on either side of his hips, adjusted my balance, then reached down to guide him back inside me. He was still hard, thick, ready, and I felt the slow drag of him as I lowered myself, taking him in inch by inch.

A soft sound escaped me. Not faked.

I started to move, small rocks of my hips at first, testing the rhythm. My hands braced against his chest. He stayed still beneath me, letting me set the pace, watching me with a kind of blank focus. Not unkind. Just... professional.

The camera clicked again.

Somewhere in the front seat, a red light blinked back on.

My breath caught as I found the motion that worked: back and forth, slow, then a little faster, the fullness of him catching just right inside me. The van rocked gently with our movement. My thighs burned from the position, but I didn’t stop. I performed. My hair stuck to the back of my neck. I let my head fall back, arching slightly to give the camera a better view.

The shirt slipped from one shoulder, then the other.

It clung for a moment at my elbows, caught in the sweat and tension, before I shrugged it off entirely. It fell soundlessly to the floor, a soft white heap in the dim light.

Now I was naked.

Fully.

Completely.

I didn’t even have the heels anymore, kicked off at some point without noticing. Just skin. Just the movement of my body over his, the soft slap of hips meeting hips, the growing heat curling low in my belly.

The van’s windows fogged around the edges, city light bleeding through in watery streaks. I could still see the sidewalk outside, people passing by, faces lit by their phones, heads bowed. No one saw. No one looked.

Or maybe they did.

I kept moving anyway.

Because this was what I came for.

And for the first time, I didn’t feel like I was faking a thing.

I closed my eyes.

The world narrowed: sound, touch, pressure. The low thrum of the city outside faded into the background, replaced by the rush of blood in my ears, the slap of skin against skin, the ache tightening inside me like a string drawn taut.

I moved faster, grinding down against him with small, hungry circles, chasing the heat that had been simmering just below the surface. A soft gasp slipped out. My skin flushed. Every nerve felt exposed, pulled to the edge.

I could smell sweat: his, mine, the faint bite of rubber from the van’s floor. The interior air had grown thick, the fog on the windows now bleeding into fat droplets that ran like tears down the glass. My thighs trembled with each push.

Then the click of a door latch snapped me back.

The side door slid open suddenly, flooding the van with bright light. It caught on my bare skin, my flushed chest, the slick shimmer between my thighs. Everything that had been safely dim was now blinding.

The cameraman stepped outside casually, a cigarette already between his lips. He didn't say anything. Just lit up and leaned against the van like we weren’t even there.

Beyond the chain-link fence, five boys in school uniform stood frozen, eyes wide. They’d been watching.

I stilled for a half second. Just long enough to meet their gaze.

Then they bolted, laughing too loudly as they disappeared into the night.

I didn’t care.

I didn’t stop.

I shifted forward again, deeper onto him, my fingers gripping his ribs. I brought one hand up, pressing it flat against my mouth, muffling the cry building in my throat. I couldn’t hold it back. The orgasm hit in waves, cresting through my core, low and hard and hot.

My body shuddered around him, my legs locking tight.

Everything inside me clamped down, pulsing.

And through it all, I kept riding. Small movements now, drawn out and trembling, like I was trying to hold the feeling in just a little longer.

The shirt lay long forgotten on the floor. The city blinked behind fogged windows. The air smelled like sweat and smoke.

I stayed right where I was.

His hands gripped my hips tightly. The pace shifted, less performative now, more urgent, like something had clicked over inside him. I could feel it in the way his body moved beneath me: tighter, harder, each thrust more deliberate.

He was close.

I braced myself, muscles clenched, still riding the aftershocks of my own climax as he drove up into me. His chest rose sharply under my palms. A low grunt escaped him, deep and rough and unfiltered.

Then he stilled.

I felt the first pulse inside me: thick, hot, undeniable.

Another.

Then another.

His cock twitched with each release, warm spurts of cum filling me in quick succession. I stayed seated, straddling him fully, thighs shaking, breath shallow. The van was quiet again except for the soft hum of the city just outside.

I didn’t move.

Let it all settle.

Let the moment stretch.

The light from outside still poured in through the open door, casting a pale glow over my bare skin, over the rise and fall of my chest. I could feel him softening inside me, the wetness beginning to seep down, pooling where our bodies still connected.

He didn’t say anything: just reached up, took my wrist gently, and gave the lightest tug.

I understood.

Carefully, I lifted myself off him, feeling the slow slide as he slipped free. A familiar warmth followed, already beginning to drip. My legs trembled a little as I stood in the cramped space, flushed and open.

Outside, the night was still. The street beyond the fence was quiet again, the buzz of traffic distant now.

The cameraman crouched nearby, already in position. One hand on the camcorder, angled low, his eye behind the viewfinder. Waiting.

I stepped out barefoot onto the pavement, cool asphalt under my soles, and squatted directly in front of him. Legs wide. Naked. Just me.

I let it happen.

Felt the wet spill of cum leaking out of me, slow at first, then in a thicker rush that slid down my inner thigh. The camera captured it all: the evidence, the aftermath, the bare fact of what we’d just done.

I didn’t look away. Didn’t hide.

And for the first time that day, I let myself smile.

--- 🐺 ---

I stayed there, squatted in silence, arms resting on my knees, my breath finally steadying.

The others moved around me, efficient as ever. No words. Just the soft zip of a case closing, the click of a tripod collapsing, the gentle rattle of gear being packed away. The van’s side door slid shut with a practiced push.

I didn’t rush to cover myself.

The night air felt good, cool against my bare skin, still damp with sweat. My nipples stiffened, but not from shame. The breeze slipped between my legs where I was still parted, the last of him still sticky on my thighs. I didn’t wipe it away.

The city glowed faintly around us: soft neon from a nearby mall, the occasional flicker of a passing car, distant and uninterested. No one paid us any mind.

And for the first time since arriving in Tokyo, I let myself just be in it.

No directions. No camera.

Just... the quiet.

I looked up and caught his eye. The cameraman had been hovering nearby, arms full of gear, a jacket draped over one shoulder. He paused when I motioned him over.

Still crouched, still naked in the night air, I didn’t say a word.

He approached carefully, jacket outstretched, maybe to cover me, maybe just to be kind. But I stopped him before he could drape it over my shoulders.

My fingers reached for his belt instead.

He hesitated, one breath caught in his throat. But he didn’t stop me.

Maybe he thought I was cold. Maybe I was. I hadn’t realized how cool it had gotten until my skin brushed against the warmth trapped beneath his clothes. The contrast made me shiver.

I undid his belt, slowly. Then the button, the zipper, the waistband of his briefs. He was already half-hard, and I hadn’t even touched him yet.

I loosened him from his clothes and leaned in, guiding him gently into my mouth.

No camera this time.

No directions. No angles. No lights.

This one was for me.

I wanted to give him what he’d watched me give someone else. I wanted to feel him twitch and grow in my mouth, to hear his breath catch, and see his control start to slip. I wanted to repay that look I’d seen in his eyes earlier: focused, yes, but something else behind it.

I took my time. Lips soft. Tongue slow.

His hand never touched me. He just stood there, frozen, breath fogging in the cool air.

And I closed my eyes, feeling his warmth bloom against my tongue, the weight of him, the steady build of tension in his thighs. The night faded again: the chill, the street, even the wetness still between my legs.

I kept him in my mouth, letting him swell fully against my tongue. His hips shifted once, barely, like he wasn’t sure whether to pull back or stay buried.

Then he started to shake.

A quiet groan escaped him, low and surprised, and his hand brushed the back of my head. Not pushing. Just there. A warning, maybe. A plea.

He began to pull out, slowly and carefully.

But I didn’t let him go far.

My hand followed him, firm and steady. I guided him with a gentle grip, pointed him where I wanted. My mouth open, tongue out, eyes on his.

He came with a stifled grunt, the release sudden and hot. A thick rope landed across my tongue and lips. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t close my eyes.

I held his gaze the whole time.

When it was done, I swallowed. No show. No flourish

Just a quiet, deliberate thank you..

He didn’t speak.

Just looked at me: soft, stunned maybe, and then stepped in close.

The jacket was still draped over his arm. He lifted it gently, and this time I let him.

Wool brushed against my bare shoulders, heavy and warm, still holding the heat of his body. The sleeves hung low, swallowing my hands. It smelled faintly of cigarettes.

It felt like being wrapped in silence.

I hadn’t realized how cold I’d gotten until that moment: until the warmth rolled over me like a tide, settling deep. My legs were sticky, sore. My mouth still tingled from the taste of him. But under the coat, I finally felt held. Not just covered.

He gave me a small nod: more like an acknowledgment than thanks.

I nodded back.

No words. None needed.

--- 🐺 ---

Back in the van, no one said much at first. The drive was short. A blur of city lights, endless signage, the rhythm of Tokyo still humming beneath the streets.

But by the time we stepped into the restaurant— low ceilings, wood-paneled booths, the air thick with charcoal and searing fat, the mood had shifted. Smiles all around. Laughter, backslaps. The kind of ease that only comes after a job well done.

Juri waved us to a private corner table. Someone else had already ordered. Plates of marbled beef sizzled at the center grill. Bowls of dipping sauces. Cold beers pressed into our hands.

I took a long sip.

The first real thing I’d tasted all day.

The grill popped and hissed in the center of the table, fat spitting as a fresh slice of beef curled into itself. Juri tonged it off the heat with practiced flair, dropping it onto my plate with a wink.

“Eat, hai!” she said in English, cheerfully. “You earned it.”

Around me, the crew had loosened. Coats shrugged off, sleeves rolled up, cheeks pink from beer and heat. The actor, still nameless to me, and maybe that was best, had taken to pouring drinks for everyone like it was his duty. He filled mine with a crooked smile and a quiet toast I didn’t understand.

I raised my glass anyway.

The cold beer hit my throat hard and clean.

And then the meat, so tender I barely had to chew, coated my mouth with salt, smoke, and something faintly sweet. It was grounding. Honest. Like the opposite of everything that had come before.

A hand reached across the table with more slices: grilled vegetables and some kind of sticky rice. I thanked whoever it was, and they just nodded, already mid-laugh at something else.

It was loud. Familiar, in a way that made me ache.

The kind of dinner that followed a good show. A good shift. A good fuck, if anyone dared say it out loud.

I leaned back against the wooden bench, legs stretched under the table.

And for the first time in hours, I watched them.

My translator, suddenly more animated now that she wasn’t translating. The makeup girl, her hair tied up, was chatting with the camera guy like they did this every week. Maybe they did.

They weren’t performers. Just people.

And I wasn’t some exotic thing in their eyes. Not tonight. I was just part of the crew. A body who’d done the job, same as the rest.

I’d never felt that before.

Not quite like this.

Another slice lands on my plate. Another drink was poured. Someone beside me asked if I liked the food, but before I could answer, they were already back to laughing with the others.

The chopsticks felt awkward in my hand, but I tried anyway.

I’d crossed some invisible line today. Not just on camera.

In myself. And it hadn’t broken me.

The heat from the grill clung to the air. Steam rose with the scent of charred soy and marinated meat. I was full now, but they kept feeding me. One of the crew tried showing me how to dip the beef into the raw egg yolk before eating it. I nodded, copied him, and was rewarded with an exaggerated cheer from across the table.

It made me laugh. Really laugh.

Not the polite kind.

The sound came from somewhere deeper, looser, carried on the beer and the fire and whatever spell the night had cast over all of us.

Someone pulled out a bottle of sake. Then another. It came with tiny ceramic cups and a new kind of warm buzz behind my eyes. Juri had gone quiet beside me, watching the smoke curl above the table, smiling like she’d seen this all before. She caught my eye and bumped her glass against mine.

“You did good, ne,” she said. Simple. Direct.

I smiled back, not knowing what to say. So I just nodded.

I wasn’t tired yet. Not exactly. But my limbs were heavy. My thighs ached. My jaw, too. My skin still held the memory… the weight of him, the rhythm, the way the van light had made everything feel more real than it should have.

I glanced around the table.

They were still talking, still laughing, but the volume had dipped just slightly. Shoulders were leaning closer together. Heads tipping toward the table. The warmth had shifted from celebration to afterglow.

It felt intimate. Not sexual. Just close.

I leaned back again, fingers wrapped around the half-full glass, letting the room blur a little. The beer was cheap, cold, and doing its job. The coat hung open now. My shirt from the shoot was long gone. I wore someone else’s hoodie beneath the coat, probably Juri. It smelled faintly of face powder and cigarettes.

The camera guy caught my gaze from the far end. He gave me a tired, contented smile. I returned it without hesitation.

The footage from earlier would be edited, cut, trimmed, translated… but this?

This was mine.

The quiet kind of satisfaction that didn’t need an audience.

I reached for another slice of beef, even though I wasn’t hungry. Dipped it slowly. Took my time chewing. Let the richness coat my mouth. Let the room buzz around me without needing to hold it up.

The drinks had made everything soft around the edges. My limbs were liquid now, my cheeks warm from laughter I didn’t always understand. I leaned back in the booth, half-draped in borrowed fabric, feeling full in every sense of the word.

My phone buzzed against my thigh.

I fished it out lazily, thumb smearing across the glass. One message lit up against the dimness of the restaurant.

~Dahlia
Good morning/evening, petal. How was your scene?

My chest tugged, gently. Like a tether pulling taut again.

I didn’t answer right away.

Instead, I looked around the table: at the plates licked clean, the crew’s contented slump, the smoke curling upward in ribbons from the still-hot grill.

Then I lifted my phone.

Snapped a photo. No posing. Just the truth of it.

A slice of meat halfway to someone’s mouth. A beer mid-toast. My hand is in the foreground, resting easily beside someone else's.

I typed one word and hit send.

~Madeline
Perfect