Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 80699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
“The best thing is probably for you to do an internship at Moonshot,” she told me. “They’ve got like a zillion movies and shows at different stages of development.”
I nodded, eyes wide. Moonshot Studios had made Moonglider. Rumors about the sequel had swirled for months already.
“Can you start Monday? I realize you’re pretty new to LA, but the sooner we can get you into a writers’ room and starting to watch how Hollywood sausage gets made, the better, right?”
“Sure,” I said, so overwhelmed that I couldn’t manage the exclamation point. “Thanks so much.”
“Thank Christian,” Rebecca told me. “He clearly thinks very highly of you.”
I bit my lip, looking around the sumptuous office of my sponsor’s assistant and wondering how much more sumptuous Christian’s own must be.
“Can I ask you…” I blurted out, feeling my face go crimson to the roots of my hair. “Is he… you know… a good boss?”
Rebecca smiled. For a dizzying, heart-pounding moment, I thought I could see in her brown eyes that, actually, she knew everything: the apartment that responded to Christian’s commands over my own, the bed with the webbing restraints that held me open for his discipline and use… the display her boss had instructed me to make that night with my thighs spread and my finger in my anus.
It passed, and I told myself I had imagined the knowingness of the smile. Rebecca’s lips only seemed to express friendliness.
“He’s the best,” she said. “A little arrogant, maybe… but some people just earn their arrogance, right? He does like to have his own way…”
I swallowed hard. I couldn’t help it. Rebecca didn’t show any sign of noticing, which made me think, to my distress, that she probably did know everything and had earned her position of power through her ability to keep it all to herself.
“…But, you know, again…” Her smile got even bigger. She shrugged in a way that seemed somehow elegant to me, though the gesture belied the simple, though immaculate and probably very expensive, outfit of t-shirt and jeans. “Some guys make you happy to follow their orders.”
At 8:45, while I was watching Moonglider for the eighth or ninth time and trying to get my head around the idea that on Monday I would start working for the company that had made it, my apartment said, “Alert. Event in fifteen minutes. Do you want to hear details?”
Truthfully, I had paid something less than half my attention to Moonglider, as incredible a film as Christian Guzman had made. The rest of my headspace had gone, of course, to the thought of what I would have to do at 9:00. No, I had known even before my apartment had spoken up, before 9:00. Since 8:37 or so I hadn’t stopped checking the time on my phone three times a minute—at least.
“No,” I told the apartment, hearing shakiness even in the monosyllable.
I looked around at the living room, then over the breakfast bar into the kitchen: everything seemed tidy. I felt my mouth twist to the side as ambiguous emotions and sensations rose in various parts of my body. The notion that housework could take on such a dismayingly erotic dimension hadn’t occurred to me before I had guiltily begun to clean my apartment, the ghostly imprint of Christian’s firm hand haunting my backside and, worse, the place he had closed up between my legs.
I had laid my new bra and panty set out on my bed. I looked down at the two tiny pieces of clothing, feeling the blood mount into my cheeks just at their sheer… smallness. So much of Christian’s money for two little pieces of, yes, extremely pretty, minutely decorated pink fabric.
The heat in my cheeks grew a little. Pink, not white. I hadn’t even really thought about that decision until this moment. I had chosen pink, in my trip to the lingerie store after my meeting with Rebecca, because for a redhead, obviously. And because I liked pink. I remembered looking down at the see-through bra and the slightly less see-through thong that I had even told myself I was buying them in pink to please myself, rather than Christian.
Pink, not white. Because my sponsor had taken my virginity. The terribly warm pussy sealed behind my private lips belonged to Christian, now: he had claimed it one week ago tonight, with his rigid, thrusting penis.
I cast my eyes up to the corners of the room, searching in vain once again for the cameras. Had my keeper already started watching? Did he enjoy seeing his bed girl look down in embarrassment at her naughty new underwear?
I found I had taken my lower lip between my teeth. I became much too conscious of my breasts, inside the old t-shirt I had put on so that I could watch the movie without thinking about the clothes my sponsor had bought me—both the outfit I had worn to meet Rebecca and the things I had laid out on the bed as soon as I got back.