She helps tug the long-johns up and wrangles my (admittedly large) biceps into the stretchy sleeves, furrows creating deep lines between her manicured eyebrows. The zip goes up, and I feel super exposed in this slutty (there's no other word for it) outfit.
Stepping back, she takes me in and the frown melts away, replaced by a satisfied smile. "Perfect."
"Excellent," Jake huffs, giving me a brief once over. He waves towards a table behind him. "Contracts are back there. Standard stuff. Make sure your stage name is clear and written in the right spot, unless you want your legal name credited."
"Stage name?" I ask, but he's already turned around to bark orders at the camera guy.
I head over to the table with the paperwork and pick up a blank copy. My jaw drops as I read some of the information about sex scenes and...why are they asking about my hard limits? Do they mean for stunts and shit? On a low budget Christmas romance?
This almost looks like one of the contracts I'd fill out at The Grove when I'm negotiating a scene with a Dom, but maybe I'm just so sex starved that I'm seeing things that aren't there. Maybe this is just a generic contract they use for everything.
I fill in my details, leaving the hard limits page blank to come back to, and flag down one of the two assistants in the room, handing it to them for them to check it.
They brush back bright blue bangs from their eyes and scan the document, snorting at my name in the Stage Name box. "This is your legal name, dude," they mutter. "Bit vanilla, isn't it? And you're brave for inviting the weirdos who watch this shit to find you so easily."
"Weirdos?" I mean, okay, tacky Christmas romances do tend to invite a certain kind of audience, but I think it's a bit cruel to call the people who enjoy them names.
"This is your first time, right?" The assistant asks, ignoring my question. I nod and they reach for the pen, leaning over the table as they cross out my name and replace it with—
"Miles Deep?" I gape at the page. That sounds kind of...porny. Like a bad pun about how good I am at bottoming, or something. And, okay, Iama good bottom, but...what the fuck is happening right now?
"Soundswaycooler than" —they check the paperwork and scrunch up their nose— "Miles Jeffries."
Excuse you, what's wrong with my name?
Despite having the protest on the tip of my tongue, I keep quiet. It's only a bit part. I can use my real name later, right? For bigger, better projects.
"You like it?" They prod, smiling hopefully. The piercing in their nose glints under the bright lighting above us. "I've always wanted to name a porn star." I can feel my eyes widening as realization begins to dawn, but they are already flipping through the contract again. "Hey, you've left your hard limits out. Seriously, you need to put them down or these guys might make you do things you're not comfortable with."
Like porn?!
I open my mouth to say those exact words, to explain that there's been a mix up and I have somehow found myself in the wrong place. That I was supposed to be auditioning for a low-budget, tacky Christmas romance movie, not a mid-budget tacky Christmas porn shoot. But then the assistant says, "I know that a grand for a scene might make some people want to stretch their limits, but you've already got this in the bag, so stick to your guns and don't do anything you don't want to do."
A grand? Onethousanddollars? For one scene?AndI get to orgasm?
I think of the repairs I need to make on my car. Of the phone bill I'm overdue to pay. A grand would cover both and leave me with enough money to cover half of a week's rent, too.
"Miles Deep is a great name," I agree, reaching for the pen and paper. Really, how different could this be to doing a scene in a club, except for the audience...and the camera...and the costumes? I scribble my limits —no heavy pain play or impact play, no CNC, no scat play (watersports okay)— and tick the box that says I have tested negative within the last month and that I am comfortable working without condoms. Satisfied with that, I hand the paperwork back, pulling out my phone to show proof of my last test results, which I only received a week ago. The assistant scribbles a note to say they've sighted them, then stashes the documents in a manilla envelope.
A thrill of anxious excitement travels up my spine, and I clap my hands together, bouncing on my heels. "So…when does Santa come?”
The assistant smirks. “Oh, just before Jake yells ‘cut’, I suppose.”
I definitely walked right into that one.
Chapter Two
"It's beginning to look a lot likefuck this," I sing to myself as I drive towards today's shoot. It's still October, but I'm all signed up to play Santa in a Christmas-themed scene with some newbie.
It'll be just my luck that he's got no stamina or freaks out about the cameras and bails like the last one did.
Or, my inner voice grumbles,says he only does scenes with buff guys.
I still haven't gotten over the sting of that particular interaction.
I'm a cuddly bear and proud of it, but sometimes I do consider whether I might get more work if I hit the gym and turn the keg I'm carrying into a six-pack.
Butugh, who wants to work out that much? Besides, my arms and ass get me plenty of work...and plenty of attention at The Grove, besides.
