Screen Test of Bettie Crocer Page

As I sat in my car in the parking lot of the non-descript warehouse building, I thought for the hundredth time, What in the hell am I doing? Ever since I had encountered the stranger in the grocery store two nights before, I had not slept well, nor had I been able to concentrate on anything else.

The grocery store was not the one I normally shopped at. I had been at a meeting downtown for work and stopped at a fancy organic grocer to buy the ingredients for a meringue peach pie for a birthday at work. I had been scratch baking a lot since the divorce, and my coworkers had been the lucky recipients of my newfound passion. My penchant for making sweet treats had not, however, had an effect on my figure, which remained unchanged--possibly because I ate sparsely at night when I did not have anyone to cook for. I still had the narrow waist and curvy bottom that had attracted men and women alike in my younger years, and my short, dark hair seemed to still be able to turn heads, as well.

As I reapplied my lipstick in the rear view mirror, I thought back to the chance rendezvous in the store.

I had lost myself in the unfamiliar aisles looking for cream of tartar, and was more zoned in on the classical music piped in as muszak than on what was going on around me. I had found the spices and was scanning the labels on the small, glass jars when I heard a male voice.

"Hey, how are you?" he said in a friendly, familiar way, placing his right hand on the handle of my shopping cart, effectively stopping me in my tracks. I looked over the top of my glasses from the rack of baking ingredients, first at his hand, and then his face, expecting recognition there, but drawing a blank.

"Do...do I know you?" I said, stammering, wondering how to place him. I pushed my glasses up and smoothed my hands over my starched, black and white color blocked dress, realizing I was now fidgeting slightly. The nervousness came from the fact that I was blocked in one way by the cart and the other way by his body.

"No, you don't, but you should. Stop and talk to me for a minute." I was taken off guard by his forward nature, but intrigued by his point-blank dominance of my attention and the situation. While I kept looking at his face and his body, he assessed the contents of my cart, which held a basket of ripe peaches, lemon juice, and the highest quality (and most expensive) flour and butter that the fancy store had to offer. I had most of the other materials for the pie at home. "Baking something?" he said, looking up and then holding my eye contact steady.

"Uh, yes, I'm making a peach pie," I said, adding quickly, "for my coworker. It's her birthday." I wondered if it was patently obvious that I was trying to make sure he knew it was not for a boyfriend or husband.

As he began to quiz me on little details about the pie, I felt more comfortable. He was in his late 30s or early 40s, wearing a shiny dark coat over a button up shirt. He had clearly taken his tie off earlier in the afternoon. His hair was close cropped and his smile had a shark-like quality to it--nice teeth, a defined jaw covered in close stubble, and a nose that was not straight, but did not detract from his good looks. He clearly lifted weights, but he was not chiseled or fake tanned. It was very appealing. The overall effect was that of a charismatic former boxer who had suddenly found himself working in a 9-5 job. The most striking thing about him was his blue eyes, which continued to flash to mine, teasing, coaxing a continued response.

"What?" I had to say, realizing that I had lost track of the conversation while looking him over. His hand had come to rest lightly on my hip and I felt a jolt of energy pass through me. He leaned between me and the shopping cart, brushing his chest against my breasts, and grabbed the cream of tartar and handed it to me. His gaze, sparkling with interest and humor, went back to my eyes.

"Like I said, my company is filming a baking show, a bit like one of those reality contests. It's a new market that we are trying to get into. Do you want to come for a screen test?"

I realized I had been holding my breath since he touched me and I forced myself to let it out, wracking my brain for a moment to think of the right way to say no. When I did not respond right away, he said conspiratorially, "Come on, what can it hurt? You would be perfect for this. Look at you--that conservative dress but the short, punk rock haircut? And your skin, it really glows--like these peaches. Are you even wearing makeup? Girl, you would look great on screen. We are looking for your kind of Betty Crocker meets Bettie Page look."

I flushed, thinking of the photos that I had seen of the pinup girl. I felt lightheaded at the insinuation of her fleshy photos, my body still pulsing with the surprise of being touched unexpectedly. I was flattered at the comparison, since I had always found her bondage photos to be really sexy. Maybe I should go, just try out, I thought, but continued to hesitate. I grimaced slightly, but my eyes crinkled with a smile.

He pulled a business card out of his pocket and pressed it into my hand. "Saturday, 3:00 PM. Be there," he flustered close to my ear, then started to walk away. He continued to talk over his shoulder. "I'll have the stuff ready for you to make another peach pie, so just bring yourself." He paused. "Oh, and Bettie," he said, turning back, "wear something like what you've got on. We'll do two shots. One in your clothes and the other in something I will have for you there."

He looked me up and down again, smiling widely, and my mind again went to the comparison of a shark looking at a tasty fish. Clutching the cart handle with one hand and still unsure if I had just dreamed that, I looked down at the card in my other hand, which was printed on heavy card stock and had raised letters printed on it.

Johnny B., Director Buxum Entertainment 1400 Conference Drive

Now here I was, deciding whether I could go through with this. It was 2:50 PM on Saturday and I was sitting in my car in front of 1400 Conference Drive. Two things surprised me. Buxum Entertainment did not have a sign out front, and there were only two to three other cars in the expansive parking lot wrapping around the warehouse. I noticed one that was a red Tesla model S and I wondered briefly if it was Johnny's car. The lack of cars made me leery. I had expected a kind of casting call with other people in attendance. Despite noticing this difference in my expectations for the screen test, I turned the car off, making up my mind.

I thought to myself, I am going to do it. This will be fun. Even if I do not make it onto this show, I will enjoy the attention of an interesting, attractive man for another few hours. When was the last time I did that? If it is a total bust, I can head home to watch others do the reality baking on the Great British Bake-Off on Netflix in my PJs.

I got out of the car and straightened my outfit. I had decided to wear a knee-length floral dress, belted at the waist, with a tailored white cardigan and pearls. It was pretty conservative, but when we parted, Johnny had told me to play the part and to dress a bit like Betty Crocker. I walked into the front door, pausing to let my eyes adjust. A busty bottle-blonde girl in a revealing tank top and short shorts sat behind a desk in the reception area.

"Hello!" she said, cheerily. "Are you here for a screen test?" I nodded, approaching the desk as she passed across a clip board. "Fill out this form and sign and date it here," she said in a businesslike, but distinctly valley girl tone. I went to one of the seats in the lobby and filled out the paperwork, reading only the top of the first page to confirm it was a video release. I walked back to return it.

"I thought there would be more people here for the screen test," I said when she looked up at me.

"Oh! Yes, well, we found that it makes the new girls...I mean, contestants...nervous when we have too many people around for these kinds of shoots," she said, scrunching up her perky little nose in a kind of fake laugh that showed her whitened teeth. It was not lost on me that she had said "contestants" in an almost a teasing way, but I could not put the meaning together from the comment or the corresponding face she made. Just as I opened my mouth to ask a clarifying follow-up question, Johnny blew into the lobby, coming out of a back hallway.

"Bettie Crocker Page! You came. I wasn't quite sure if you would." He grabbed me by the hand, holding me back as if to inspect me. "Wow, great outfit, Bettie. Perfect. You look really good. Come with me."

My stomach did a pleased little flip at the compliment and praised myself for the time I had spent picking out the perfect ensemble and putting on makeup. I wondered if I should correct him and give him my real name, but I was still secretly thrilled by the comparison to Bettie Page. His hand moved to the small of my back and he began to guide me down the hall. We turned down another hallway and I realized that he had not stopped talking since I arrived.

Due to the fact that I could not fully focus on what he was saying or cut in, I had not said a word. Frankly, I was nervous, so the inane chatter with little expectation of a response was a welcome distraction. We passed a conference room with a small trophy case that held plaques and awards in it. I longed to stop to take a look, but Johnny did not pause or slow his pace. On the way by, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that one looked a bit like the gold statues from the Academy Awards, but instead of the single male Oscar, it appeared to be two people embracing.

Johnny, still gently leading me, ushered me into a posh, carpeted dressing room done up in creams and whites. The soft lighting came from a number of crystal chandeliers hanging at different heights from the ceiling. One entire wall was covered in a mirror that spanned floor to ceiling. There was a round table of shoes in different sizes placed on one side of the room, and storage along one wall made to look like French bureaus with glass doors and scroll work--a homage to romantic times long past. Each of the bureaus seemed to be filled with women's clothing, but at least two of them had only lingerie. A pair of white upholstered chairs and a settee in the same antique style were set off in one corner. The overall effect was rich and sensual, and I felt my skin flush with anticipation.

He led me to the settee and, moving his hand from my back, unnecessarily took my hand, holding it high to help me sit. In one fluid motion, he sat across from me into one of the white chairs, leaned forward, elbows on his knees with his hands templed and perched under his chin, and fixed those blue eyes onto mine.

"Are you ready, Bettie?" he asked softly. "Any questions?"

Questions about the screen test rushed to my head, but the one that I blurted out was, "Are you a pornography director?"

He sat back, laughing, but not unkindly. "Can't get anything by you, Bettie, can I? Yes, Buxum Entertainment is primarily focused on the adult video industry. We also have been recently dipping our toes into some more...well, should I say, wholesome...commercial video ventures, like the baking show. Streaming is killing the DVD market." He paused, as if waiting for me to respond. Well, that confirms my hunch, I thought.

I smiled at him sweetly, narrowing my eyes with a hint of flirtation, "So which am I here for today?" He laughed heartily and sat back in the chair, but did not stop sizing me up.

"Well that depends on you, Bettie. I would sure like it if you would agree to both. But if all I get today is to taste your peach pie, I would be a happy man." My body flushed even hotter at the innuendo and I felt a tingling in between my legs. My bra and panties felt two sizes too tight.

He rose and started walking toward the second doorway in the room. "I am going out to check that the cameras are set up. We'll film the baking segment now, and while the pie is getting warmed up in the oven, we can chat a little more about what we're going to do next."

He walked out of the room, leaving me with my racing thoughts, all of them focused on the decision I would be making. Could I really do this? Would it be with him or with someone else? What would I be expected to do? What have I gotten myself into?

The door propped open and Johnny's voice, disembodied, called out to me. "All ready, Bettie," he said in a sing-song tone, calling me into the studio.

I walked out into a well-lit room that was set up as a test kitchen. There were four cameras on tripods near each of the corners, and from the little red lights on top, I could see that all of them were already rolling.

On the wall facing me, there was a stainless steel double oven already preheating to 350 degrees. There was an aluminum work table facing toward the front of the room, where a one-way mirrored glass panel was set into the wall.

Johnny pointed. "That's the control room. No one is in there--I will stay with you in the room while we film this segment and help direct you on what to do. If you mess up, just start over from the last thing you remember. We'll cut any parts later that do not make sense or where you repeat yourself. Take a look around and get the rest of what you need."

I nodded, trying to get my head back into the cooking game, and taking stock of what I would need to make the pie. On the table, I saw the exact ingredients I had purchased at the store, as well as a number of other sundry items that I would need. The other wall to my left had a professional Viking stove, hood, fridge, and a shelf with some other small appliances on it. It was a dream kitchen for an amateur like me.

I walked over and cooled the oven to 275, venting it by opening the door. I took a rolling pin, a fancy tart mold, and a large, wooden cutting board out of a cabinet to the right of the stove. The peaches were in a glass bowl and I took one out, rotating it in my hand, testing it for ripeness and firmness.

I looked up to meet Johnny's gaze. He was studying me carefully, no longer smiling, but eyes glinting. We both paused a full skip of my heartbeat, holding each other's gaze.

"Let me know when you're ready and we can begin. Remember to talk directly to me, and to explain every step in detail. Try to keep talking but talk slowly. I may give you some directions. No need to respond to me when I do, just do as I say." My throat went dry at this, thinking of him commanding me on camera.

I started with the crust, explaining the steps as I cut the expensive Irish butter in with the flour and ice water. I added a tablespoon of apple cider vinegar, which I explained was a secret ingredient from a family recipe.

"Keep looking at me, Bettie," I heard from near the mirrored glass window. My eyes shot up to meet his across the room.

"Sorry..." I muttered. I felt a bit of the heat from the oven reach me and sweat started to glisten on my face, so I moved to shut the oven door again, not making eye contact. Along with the warm feeling of desire burning in my abdomen and the concern that I felt that I had somehow done wrong, the heat was causing me to feel a bit funny.

Without moving from his post near the wall, he said, "No need to apologize, just keep going and do as I say." There was no hint of frustration, a simple command.

I started again, making sure to make eye contact. I took flour out of the bag, spreading it on the cutting board and rolling out the crust. I peeled the peaches, smiling up at him as I touched each one in turn. He had purchased quite a few and I only used about half of them. I cooked the pie filling up on the range, and he moved to stand at the back of the room out of the camera's view, offering directions to keep my body turned toward the cameras on this side of the room. After getting over the idea that his direction was a criticism of me doing something wrong, I was thrilled by it. It was firm but helpful, and I again realized that his dominance of the situation was intriguing to me.

I whipped the egg whites, cream of tartar and sugar into pretty peaks with an eggbeater, creating a meringue topping for the top of the pie. I curled the meringue around on the spoon with flicks of my wrist, smiling at the director off-camera, my head lowered but eyes up in an almost shy way. The pie was assembled. In a flash of inspiration, I took my finger and wiped it along the side of the bowl, licking my finger. I held Johnny's gaze. For the first time since meeting him, he looked thrown off guard, but quickly recovered.

"Mmmm, that's good," I said sultrily, and turned to put the pie in the oven. "Now we'll cook this until the meringue is golden brown, about 20-25 minutes."

When I closed the oven door, I heard, "Cut! That was great, Bettie. Good girl. Let me go take a look at some of the tape and I'll be right with you."

I was glowing from the positive outcome of the screen test when I flopped down on the settee in the dressing room and pushed off my Kate Spade slingbacks. For the first time, I noticed that he had left a glass of champagne on a little table next to the couch and I grabbed it and emptied half of it. I leaned forward and massaged the arch of my foot for a moment.

Johnny came back into the dressing room, talking as he walked in. "We've got some good footage, Bettie. I think you'll really resonate with our target audience. You're a natural. You did a great job."

I stood as he came near, realizing as he approached the difference in height brought on by my lack of heels. He came into my personal space, putting his arm around my back and pulling my hips into his, like we were dancing. My hand with the champagne was raised to the side of me. He took the glass and put it back on the table, then grasped my hand in his. I looked at our reflection in the mirror and marveled at how we really did look like a stylish Hollywood couple dancing in our nice clothes. Turning my head back toward him, I felt my head swim at the proximity, his sweet-smelling breath hot on my face. His voice lowered, "So have you thought any more about the second shot, lovely?"

My heart raced and I hoped he kept a hold of me so that I would not fall. "I want to know more about it before I decide," I said, not committing.

He put his lips up to my ear, swaying our bodies slightly like a slow dance, and said, "I watched you out there. You're a born sub. You just have to follow my lead. I will tell you what to do and I know you will do it." I was practically vibrating in his arms. We were quiet a moment, feeling the energy pass between us. "I can tell you want to. Tell me what is holding you back."

I cleared my throat. "Would the scene be with you?" I asked into his ear, breathlessly.

"You have to know I've been wanting to taste that peach pie, Bettie. Yes, it would be with me. We're still basically alone here. If you agree to this, I would dress you. We could play around in here a little, get used to each other. But then I'm going to take you into the other room. I'm going to make you my little Bettie Page. And I'm going to film the entire thing."

I felt my pussy get wet at the thought, my heartbeat roaring in my ears. "You said I am a sub. Would you...hurt me?" I asked, my voice squeaking a bit like a little girl's.

I felt Johnny's cock rise in his pants against me. "I wouldn't do anything you didn't want me to, but no, it would not hurt and you won't leave here bruised up, my little peach. You would have to trust me. But if you wanted to stop at any point you would just say the word."

I pressed the rest of my body against his chest more firmly, closing the distance between our upper bodies, holding my arm around his back. "What word do I use?" I asked, feeling emboldened by the champagne and the slow dancing.