Jenna’s Casting
The air in the office was thick with the scent of polished leather and old ambition. Jenna sat on the edge of the large, burgundy leather couch, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She was eighteen, a fresh face from the Midwest, armed with a degree from a respectable high school and a fierce, burning desire to be a serious erotic actress.
Marcus Thorne, the man behind the desk, was a legend—a director known for launching careers and crushing spirits with equal efficiency. He was impeccably dressed, mid-fifties, with eyes that assessed her like a piece of valuable, mutable clay.
“You have the look, Jenna,” Marcus said, leaning back, eyeing up her young body.. “Pretty. Fresh. But everyone in this city is pretty and fresh. What I need to know is, how dedicated are you? How much do you want this role?”
Jenna swallowed, ignoring the dryness in her throat. “More than anything, Mr. Thorne. I’ve been preparing for this my whole life.” She had just performed the monologue. She’d cried convincingly, she’d raged, she’d been vulnerable. Now, the acting portion was clearly over.
Marcus stood and moved around the desk, stopping right in front of her. He reached out and gently traced the line of her trembling jaw. “The role of Clara is deeply physical. She’s raw. Uninhibited. I need someone who can truly commit to the scene. Not just the lines, Jenna, but the essence of surrender.”
He paused, his thumb brushing the corner of her lips. “Tell me, can you give me total, unreserved commitment to the unrated sex scenes?” Jenna’s heart hammered against her ribs. She knew the reputation of the ‘casting couch.’ She had rehearsed the refusal, the polite exit.
But as she looked into his dominating eyes, the desire for the role, the chance to finally be someone, overwhelmed her. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I can commit to the unrated sex scenes.” Marcus smiled, a predatory, satisfied expression. “Good girl. Let’s start with a few simple stretches. Show me your physical limits.
Take off your jacket.” Jenna moved more slowly than he wanted, but she complied. The tailored blazer came off, followed by the thin silk blouse. She was left in a simple black pencil skirt and a push-up bra. She felt acutely vulnerable under his gaze, but the sense of performance, the need to impress, kept the heat of shame at bay.