The water cascaded over her lean form, sliding in snakelike patterns down and over her and between the perfect swell of her breasts. It caressed her arms and legs, gently tracing the perfect line of thigh and calf. It slithered down her back and ran between the fine roundness of her ass. Water pulsed and steamed curled, slowly misting over the glass walls of the shower, obscuring the white and black marble of the bathroom's floor and walls. It wetted the base of her mane of blonde hair, tucked as it was into a loose Edwardian bun. She ran the scented soap in and out of her fingers, foaming it. She applied the soap suds to her neck with langour. She slicked her legs, her arms, her belly. The suds left a gentle tingle as she cupped her breasts and her tight, pinky-brown nipples. She slid her hands over her hips, hips so recently grabbed by the handsome actor in her recent and shocking 'art' film. Last she ran a soap-slicked finger over and between her hairless pussy lips and below to the rosebud of her ass, the ass that had so recently held the impressive cock of the actor. Her soapy finger caused the nerve ends of her anus to tingle. She squinted through the steam to the largely obscured door, closed for privacy, which now seemed odd given that she had acted a sex scene -- or more accurately had sex -- before a small and arty film crew of strangers.
She was sober now and her lawyer's mind was racing.
Turning off the shower she stepped out and reached for a robe. She paused, gazing at herself in the mirror. She was middlingly tall, Nordic-framed, athletic and had a body that could have belonged to a woman twenty years her junior. Long legs, blonde hair, high cheekbones, piercing and lovely eyes. She had a swimmer's grace. The face was beautifully angular, prominent cheekbones setting off a determined look. It was a very youthful face, but serious. 'Resting bitch face" they joked about at the office, but one needed such a thing in her line of work. She smiled and her look was transported. She stood and the C-cups (just) of her breasts settled into soft perfection.
She towelled herself off and began to dress in the clothes she had piled onto the white terry-covered stool. She pulled up a legal resource on her iPhone, read it and soon after emerged, dressed and armed.
She found the director in a small huddle with the actor and the camerawomen. The director turned. Raising a cautionary finger to his team he turned and walked to her, feet padding softly on the plush carpet. The din and lights of the city floated up six stories.
He was intuitive enough to sense the change in her from drugged participant to sober negotiator. He grinned, albeit uncertainly. "That was fantastic -- you were fantastic..."
She used silence to unnerve him. When she spoke the negotiation was brief and to the point. "Article 130 of the New York Penal Law. Look up the definition of 'Mentally Incapacitated' and 'Lack of Consent'."
Succinctly, clearly she laid out that drugging and having someone participate in a filmed sexual act was, under New York law, something that would lead to a long and burdensome time in an upstate penitentiary. His entire crew could also be liable. Whether the inmates were going to understand his value and status as an artist was beyond her ability to tell. "You do not have the stomach for this" she told him. Her message had a profound impact. She continued. The photos on the actor's camera were to be deleted. The film on the left camera to be deleted and she would keep the camera on the right. That could be downloaded onto one of the computer's with editing software, which she would also keep.
The downsides for her - release of the film or challenging him - were tinged with scandal, but his downside - worrying about picking soap up for a decade and more - was much, much greater. "Though a stiff cock in your ass really can be rather nice" she reassured him. He was fully compliant now.
"And, as an insurance policy in case any files are somehow found, I shall photograph you. Our little secret. My little security blanket"
The stunned look on his face lasted only a short while. He moved pretty efficiently to deal with the actor's phone. He had the sequence from one camera transferred to a Mac and then one of the cameras memory wiped. The room was cleared.
She sat in an armchair. There was so much fabric in the generously-sized suite that it seemed to absorb and retain the squeaks and honks of traffic on Madison Avenue and, slightly more distantly Fifth Avenue. Oddly the ventilation system managed to strike a distinct note; she had noticed it before and now understood that its insistent hum created a sense of the room somehow being apart from the city surrounding it.
She picked up the camera. Canon XF200. Meekly he said "That a $2000 camera."
"Which you can amply afford. Just the way you can afford to give me the Mac that has the editing software on it" she noted. "Your paintings sell for hundreds of thousands and your video installations fetch a pirate's ransom." She paused as she found the record button. "Now undress."
She locked eyes with him. "If you are nice I will let you see my film again."
She propped the Mac open and said. "I want to watch you stroke yourself watching me."
He undressed with surprising speed. He was not unfit for his age and he had a large cock he clearly had been hoping to show her under different circumstances. Straight, uncircumcised and at least seven inches partially tumescent. "Tell the camera you consent" she said. He did. She pressed play and watched him stroke his cock into an even larger girth and length. It filled the viewfinder of the camera. He soon ignored her and focused on the screen, his hand stroking. His small moans mixed with her louder, recorded moans. She was a little turned on, but disciplined enough to see this through. His cockhead pulsed , half emerged from his foreskin. He came with a deeper grunt, much of it aimed into his hand.
"Be seeing you." she said. "Perhaps we can do a project together... one we both consent to." She smiled and left with camera and computer. She passed the camerawoman in the lobby and smiled at her.
---------
She had not seen eyes that wide in years. He was practically bug-eyed. Her husband's mouth was also slightly agape.
"I am sorry, but would you mind repeating that?"
She had ensured that he was on a second martini ("this Monkey gin is rather good stuff"). They had an uncomplicated and entirely unprudish approach to sex, but this was decidedly new territory. She had raised it gently and nervously. She had his attention from the outset.
He was calm and rational. "Let me follow the logic here. He slipped you ecstasy in champagne, which you failed to notice. He then convinced you to act in a film. Before you knew it you were undressing for this actor fellow, pirouetting for the camera and then he went down on you, you let him fuck you and you ended by having his cock in your ass. All on camera."
"Yes. And then I turned the tables on him and scared him into performing for me. At the minimum I have some leverage on the conniving bastard." She held his eye "But I did keep a copy of the tape to show you... How do you feel?" she asked "at the thought of me in that position?"
"How do you feel, fucked like a slut on camera?" he retorted. Her initial recoil was at the bite in his voice; her second reaction was to sense him masking... excitement?
"Diminished responsibility". He nodded, accepting that "though it was a slightly, weirdly exciting thing for a girl to do. I terrified him with the penal code, but the drug clearly loosened my girdle of inhibitions more than I would have thought possible." She was testing the ground under their feet. "I have no intention of proposing we become swingers..."
It was his turn to hold silence for a time.
"I'll know how I feel when I see it." A long pause followed. "Show me the movie" he demanded. It was a rhetorical device, as the bulge in his trousers demonstrated.
She extracted the computer, slim and silver and emanating a slightly weighty sense of power things held within, and placed it on the dark shine of the coffee table. She popped the screen open, nudging the vase of orange gladioli to the side.
Her finger dragged the arrow and left it hovering over the play symbol. Her eyes looked into his and asked if he was certain. The tension in the room - some combination of nerves and fear and erotic anticipation - had climbed another notch. He nodded, involuntarily brushing strands of slightly greying hair into place. She gulped. Her finger tapped the pad.
The lie of his trousers suggested that he was three quarter erect already. As the film began she edged closer. Her shoulder touched his. He leaned into her, though his eyes remained riveted to the screen. As she fully undressed on screen (this camera angle was a view of her ass) she tentatively began to trace her fingers over his groin. His rod stiffened. She gently kissed his cheek and then his neck.
As her screen persona began to moan she unbuttoned his fly and extracted his cock. She bent, blonde hair trailing over him until she tucked it behind her ear.
He was fully stiff now. She swirled her tongue around and around the head before sliding down to engorge the first three inches. She removed her mouth and then traced the hard length up and down with the tip of her tongue.
She undid his trousers and slid them off. He kicked his shoes to either side and used one foot to position the computer screen so the view was not obscured by her head. Kneeling between his thighs she began to lap at his balls, the slight slurping noise complementing her on-screen moans.
She dawdled there for some minutes, gently stroking his cock before returning to suck his length down. He was hard, softly pulsing. Determined to draw this out she sucked him slowly, tongue tracing and wrapping his outline.
