The Director’s Cut
The director was known for pushing boundaries. I’d agreed to a private audition—just us, in his loft apartment.
“Strip,” he said, not as a command, but as an invitation.
I let my dress fall. He circled me, eyes drinking in every inch. “You’re a natural,” he murmured. “But I need to see how far you’ll go.”
He blindfolded me. Then his hands were on me—slow, deliberate, building a rhythm that made me gasp. He didn’t speak, just touched, teased, until I was trembling.
“Now,” he whispered, “perform for me.”
But there was no camera. There was only him, and the things he made me feel. When he finally took me, the blindfold slipped, and I saw the hunger in his eyes—mirroring my own.
Afterward, he said, “That’s a wrap.” But we both knew this wasn’t the end. It was only the first take.
