“Do you like it when I spank you?”
“Yeah, helps me focus.”
“Dumb sluts like you need that sort of thing.” He tugs on my nipples, pinching, twisting, flicking... it hurts but I don’t mind it. “It’s hard for you to keep deep thoughts in your pretty head, isn’t it, gorgeous?”
“Yeah,” I say, craning my neck now, wanting more. The throbbing intensifies—my groin, my hole, my temple. All over my skin, desire rages like a fever.
“With a body like this, you don’t have to be smart or clever or even all that interesting. You just have to be attractive, Adam. And fuckable, which you are. So ridiculously sexy. You would make any production better just by being there in the background.”
“I wanna be more than an extra.”
“Sweet Adam, you could never bejustan extra. Your looks are way too distracting. No, you’d be the handsome waiter that lures the main character’s attention away for a sexy romp in the walk-in freezer. The hot jock with his dick in his hand who’s the resident fuck boy. Or, if it’s indie, maybe you’d be a drugged-out hitchhiker, some runaway with a tragic backstory. The cameras would show you being crowded into a rest stop stall by a big, burly trucker. Having your filthy pants ripped down just far enough to get at your hole. Being fucked within an inch of your life. The fat, greasy fucker doesn’t give a shit if you enjoy it, he only cares about using you to get himself off. The camera can’t show you getting ass-raped, so it zooms in on your tear-stained face while you cry from the pain and degradation.”
I moan from the visual. It’s so wrong but also so hot.
“Or maybe it’s a prison cell on your first night in lockdown,” he says. “Your cellmate hears you crying for your mama and decides to make you his bitch. Better he has a turn with you before the others ruin you completely. You like the idea of being raped by a stranger?” he rasps, his lips just inches from my ear. “Some anonymous man taking you by the hair…” His fingers crawl up the back of my neck and over my scalp to lodge themselves deep in my roots, “slamming your face against the door to disorient you a little, just to shut you up, maybe shoving something inside your mouth, so you can’t say no.”
“Fuck,” I murmur, my hand rubbing so hard and so fast over my dick that I worry it might burst into flames.
“Forcing your legs apart and prying open those tight cheeks like a clam shell, using a whole tub of butter because they’re not going to get inside you otherwise. Fucking you so hard that you bleed.” A shiver rolls through me and my skin breaks out in a cold sweat. “You’re the type that needs to be broken down every now and again,” he says in a soothing voice while yanking my hair so that it stings my scalp. “With your looks and your vanity, your ego has to be constantly put in check. Rough sex will do that. Your body can take a little abuse too. A big, sturdy boy like you needs to be brought to his knees regularly.”
“Cassius.” His name is a plea, begging for more. I don’t want to be prison-raped, but the fantasy gets me off like nothing else.
He stuffs something into my mouth—something soft—and thrusts my head forward so I’m forced to confront what he’s done to me. “Look at this beautiful slut,” he says, and I do—my face and chest are flushed red, my skin glistens with sweat, and my muscles bulge from the strain. I can ignore my big nose and under-developed shoulders and my abs that turn to sludge unless I starve myself. For the first time, maybe ever, I see what he sees.
“Iama beautiful slut,” I say but the gag makes it sound like a moan.
“Shut up and come,” Cassius snaps impatiently. He pinches both my nipples savagely, and my cock erupts, spraying my chin and lip, my chest too. Cum drips down between my pecs and settles just above my navel. My dick feels like a beaten piñata. I slowly extract my finger from my asshole, then lean back in the chair to take a breath.
“From now on, you must ask my permission to come,” Cassius says, tugging the cloth from my mouth and shaking it out. “It’s part of our new protocol.”
“Protocol?” I didn’t realize we’d had one.
“Abstinence will help with your concentration, and I think we can both agree, you could use a little more of that.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, still in a daze, but I don’t think Cassius was waiting for my response.
* * *
Cassius buysme an expensive digital scale that’s way better than any I’ve ever had before because it displays the ounces as well as the pounds, so I know exactly how far away I am from my target weight. Since moving out of Elliot’s apartment, I’ve gained four pounds and nine ounces (practically five pounds!), which is so overwhelming that when the scale doesn’t budge for three days, I crawl back into bed and stay there. Cassius finds me later that afternoon and barks at me to get my ass up and go for a run with him, which I do, and then I follow it up with pistol squats and burpees until my muscles are shaking and on fire, and my body is functioning on adrenaline alone. I step back on the scale to see that I’ve lost a few ounces. Probably just water weight, but my mood improves a little.
“New rule, Adam,” Cassius says while I’m standing naked on the scale for probably the tenth time that day. He put it in his own bathroom so that I must ask permission to use it. He says it’s because I have OCD tendencies. “You’re only allowed to weigh yourself once a day. In the morning when you wake up, after you take your morning piss.”
“But how will I know if my workouts are strenuous enough?” The panic of not knowing makes my skin tingle.
“It could be water weight that’s making you heavier, and you can’t dehydrate yourself for the sake of reaching your target weight. The only way to accurately measure your progress is to weigh yourself once at the same time every day.”
I glare at him because I don’t like this new rule, and he pinches my side viciously. “Ow!” I exclaim.
“If I catch you cheating, I’m going to make you eat an entire cheesecake by yourself.”
He probably would too. Cassius doesn’t make idle threats. The thought of it terrifies me. It would take me months to work it off. “Not fair. You’re supposed to be helping me.”
“Iamhelping you. You can’t be obsessing about your weight all day long. There are far more important things for an aspiring actor to be focused on.”
That’s the other thing Cassius has done for me, hired an acting coach that I meet with three times a week. His name is Jean-Pierre Renault, and he played the infamous Jacques Toussaint inSunset Covealongside Cassius’s mother. His methods are very different from Cassius but still effective. After our initial consultation, he says we’ll have to start with the basics of relearning diction and inflection. For our first few classes I just sound out words and phrases until my lips and tongue are numb. After one of my lessons with Jean-Pierre, I’m so wired and pent up from not being able to masturbate that I’m practically bouncing in Cassius’s passenger seat.
“Do you need to use the restroom?” Cassius asks, noticing my restlessness.
