I've been trying to write something more pretentious, snobbish, and you know what? This headache is going to be the end of me. I'm not really in the mood for complex structures or symbolism. But I need to practice. So, screw it. Let's just write whatever comes to mind. Hope you like... whatever the hell this experiment turns out to be.
P.S: Thank to the editors for clarifying some issues when I got back the discarted manuscript. Althought I tried to recreate something akin to an adult web video, I can understand why it may lock odd in a vacuum. I shall avoid anythig like that on the future.
***
Anything for the Green Card
--Hey, gorgeous! --the man exclaimed, running from the other side of the airport terminal.
--What? Mister, careful. Floor slippery. --The tall dark haired woman answered with a thick eastern European accent.
The man caught up with her, running out of air. Panting, the woman's enormous breasts were before his eyes; but as much as he liked the view, he focused on his task.
--Hi! Oscar Stone. At your service.
--Hello, Oscar. Listen. Friends looking for me. I have to go.
--No, no, no. Wait. Don't you wanna make a lot of money? Earn a wage in dollars?
--American dollars? How did you know?
--Eh, call it instinct. I have a good job offer.
--Sorry, but can't work here without permit. Great card.
--A Green Card, yes. But we can sort it out.
--... What is "sort it out"?
--We can take care of that. Anyway, haven't they told you what an amazing body you have?
There was no need to tell her that. Out of all the ghetto's residents, she was the ever blooming flower among the filth. Even among her countrymen, her height of six feet five towered over everyone else. Her well-defined face was adorned with topaz eyes, plump lips, and abundant black hair. Even though she was covered by loose clothing, one could appreciate the essential curves of her body, surpassing those of those operated-on models. Oscar knew he had a rough diamond on his hands.
--What is job about? --asked the woman.
--Well it's, uhm... I'm gonna be straight with you, have you ever heard of Desire Dungeon dot com?
--Goodbye --the woman walked towards the exit, and the man tried to catch up with her.
--Wait! It's not that bad.
--Maybe I talk funny, but I not dumb. Read the news. Watched Tah-ken. Women end in street, or worse.
--Yes, we know. That's why we are working legitimately. The girls even have a union.
--Whore union? America is weird. But still no.
--Come on, one session equals a month in minimum wage.
--Not interested.
--We can make them approve your Green Card.
--No. Is. No.
--... We can get your entire family's documents approved.
The woman stopped dead in her tracks. With all the noise in the airport, those words boomed like drill hammers. The solution to an old worry, finally at her reach. She turned around and said:
--Can keep name secret?
Oscar couldn't hold his grin any longer.
--In this industry, who doesn't? So what should we call you?
***
The set lights dazzled her, along with a more detailed impression of the place: just like she expected, a rustic scenery riddled with plywood reinforcements and riddled with drill holes, surely for the "special" furniture she had behind her. Above her head, the set's walls did not reach the ceiling, which was filled with pulleys and hooks. The mere tiptoeing of the crew behind the camera was enough to fill the room with echoes.
The cameraman captured her in the shot, but Oscar wanted her to move her head a little more. "Don't look at the camera", he said. Then, after everybody went silent, a voice behind the camera took her by surprise:
--Three. Two. One. We're rolling.
Ready and in position. Sitting on the chair, check. Legs crossed, check. Hands on her lap, check. A brilliant smile, check. If she could change anything, it would be her wardrobe: the blue dress, the belt and high heels were a nice touch, it let her flaunt her well defined body and show some cleavage; but the cloth of both the dress and her panties somehow was cheaper than what she wore back home, all itchy and fragile. On top of that they asked her to go without a bra. On one hand, she understood why considering the performance she was going to give. On the other, the dress was scrapping her nipples so much that they hardened in response.
--Please introduce yourself --the man she knew as "The Count" said.
--I am Nadia Naught --she responded.
--How long have you been in the industry?
--This is my first time.
--Nice. How old are you?
--Twenty two --actually, she was twenty five, but the cue cards said otherwise.
--What are your measurements?
Pointing to her chest, waist and hips, Nadia replied:
--Thirty four. Twenty five. Thirty three.
--When was the first time you had sex?
--At nineteen. My boyfriend took me in his car, we drank some beers and did it on the back seat --she was grateful to have practiced before.
Between the cameraman and The Count, Oscar, holding the cards, gestured to her not to exaggerate so much the smile. She complied and closed her lips in relief, her checks were already hurting.
--Since when have you been interested in bondage, submission, and masochism?
--Uhm... I took interest at... Eighteen?... Yeah, eighteen. Rubbing myself was not enough... --Nadia squinted her eyes, trying to make up what the cards said--. So I tried, er, binding my arms and legs, with a ball on my mouth, fingering to no end... It was great.
--Cool. Anything you expect us to do tonight?
--I, ahh, would like some teasing. Some good ol' rough sex wouldn't hurt. And I am super excited for expe- experimenting some fol- flog- flogging- FUCK. Sorry.
--Don't worry. We will cut it on the editing floor. Try it again.
Nadia began to review the pronunciation of those strange words in her mind, but gave up halfway through.
--Alright. Yadda yadda yadda, anything you expect?
This time, much to Oscar's displeasure, Nadia let her mind run wild and say:
--Truly, I like mask. The less I see better. Think I can take beating. If you want have sex with me, be hard and long. I expect to try every toy you have here.
While Oscar looked like he was about to foam at the mouth, The Count took Nadia's words more like a challenge, and continued in a rather charming voice.
--Well, we hope to live up to your expectations. So are you ready to go?
Nadia remembered what was at stake and, while keeping her attractive posture, she replied firmly.
--I am.
An awkward silence filled the room until a bell ringed alongside the cameraman's chant:
--And, CUT! Alright get ready for the action!
The set became crowded when, out of nowhere, different teams holding recording equipment distributed themselves all over the room, trying to prepare to catch every conceivable angle. Then came the cart filled with sex toys and bondage gear to The Count. At that moment, Nadia's resolve fluttered. But when she thought of the prize at the end of the road, the best she thought she could do was let herself go along.
***
Gazed by four cameras, Nadia Naught stood firm at the center of the stage, with her hands behind her back, "like a good girl should". The heels were digging into the soles of her feet, and she wasn't allowed to move much."Don't worry, she thought, it's going to get worse". The Count came closer for a further inspection before shooting. His prominent beard itches when he leaned close to her ear and whispered:
--Don't be afraid to speak up. If it is too much for you, just say the words and we terminate the session right away. Don't worry, I'll pay you a day's worth of salary out of my pocket.
Nadia simply nodded. A few dollars just to bail out at that moment was tempting, but those weren't going to get her family out of the slums at the other side of the pond. They had already broken their backs just to give her the chance to know something other than misery, it was time to pay them back. And if this had to be the price she had to pay, her punishment for carrying her family so close to the sun, then she would take it as best she could.
--And... ACTION!
When the artist works on his piece, the audience falls silent, not only out of respect, but they are mesmerized by the technique they witness before them. To the film crew, despite having witnessed The Count countless times perform, the spark never stopped shining like the first time. The echo of his heavy footsteps shook Nadia's entire body. Her feet already struggled to keep their balance in such small shoes. He carried a bundle of coiled rope in his hand, loops hanging from his fingers. Upon reaching her, The Count slowed his pace, giving himself the time to take a walk around her. His stance was that of a tiger, examining his target, focusing on the weak points. The rope shook from side to side like a tail, the only indications for his excitement on the game.
The Count disappeared from her sight. She felt a strong hand behind her.
--Keep your arms behind your back.
--Yes, Sir --she replied, partly because of the script, partly because of the imposingness of that voice.
Nadia felt the rope slide over her wrists, twisting until it ended in a knot; not so tight as to cut off circulation, not so loose as to separate her hands. When she thought he had finished, she beared witness at the strand slithering all over her body, her shoulders, her chest, her neck, reinforcing in a blink of an eye. She could see The Count's hands moving at a speed she deemed impossible, tying every knot with a mechanical precision. She was astonished when he binded each of her breasts individually, bulging out looking bigger than they were. Shibari, they called it in the script. The Count held back when he reached the waist, he almost forgot they were filming. Nadia, on her side, seemed to blush slightly.
--Never been tied up?
--No, Sir --even though she tried to maintain her composure, her voice took on a fragile tone.
--Try to break out.
