Ebooka przeczytasz w aplikacjach Legimi na:
Odsłuch ebooka (TTS) dostępny w abonamencie „ebooki+audiobooki bez limitu” w aplikacji Legimi na:
(Exhibitionism, Public Humiliation, BDSM)
Copyright 2016 Daisy Rose
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental. All characters depicted in sexual acts in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older. No part in this book may be reproduced, transmitted, stored, or distributed without permission of the author or publisher.
People tell me that good people are honest. I don't believe that for a second.
Fear keeps people honest.
Fear of getting caught. The fear of being found out doing something you shouldn't be doing.
No. Good people are fearful and that keeps them honest.
I fear a lot of things, but fear of being caught was the least of my fears. I feared the dark. I feared pain. I feared going hungry at night.
Most of all, I feared amounting to nothing in my life. That's not the kind of fear that keeps me good. It's the kind of fear that lets me thrive.
As a kid, I knew what failure was. Failure was being the oldest kid in the orphanage with nobody willing to bring you home.
I was a beautiful child. Blonde hair and blue eyes with a vivacious attitude, if a little scrawny. Nothing a few good meals couldn't fix. What's not to love?
Shortly after I arrived, when I was just a little over three-years-old, I was adopted by a couple who had been wanting for their own since they were young. They were no longer young. By the time I turned eighteen, they were old and ill.
When I told them about my dream as an actress, they were supportive and helpful, calling friends and asking for favors so I could get my career started. Their only regret was not having enough money to put me through college. It didn't matter though. They needed the money for medicine and hospice care.
I did everything I could to make their last days pleasant and they were.
It must seem strange to people that I could accept their deaths so easily, but they had prepared me for it all my life. They knew they were going to die before I could blossom into the successful woman that they knew I was capable of being. The thought of me being successful in life was so perfectly cemented in their minds that there was little I could do to disappoint them.
I did not want to sadden them with the knowledge that without an acting degree, I couldn't really do much beyond background casts and prop set-up.
When I was nineteen, they passed away peacefully in their sleep. My mother first, then my father a few days later.
With my foster parents gone, there was no one for me to disappoint. I couldn't care less about getting caught. And I certainly didn't care who found out I was doing something I definitely shouldn't be doing.
I was not afraid of shame.
So there really shouldn't be a problem with what the director was asking me to do.
Yet, I stood transfixed on the stage. I couldn't bring myself to move.
"Strip please," he said, making it sound like the most reasonable demand in the world.
I stared at the older gentleman. My mind and my body were not on the same level just yet. My brain was telling me what my ears were hearing but my heart was beating too calmly for my body to react in any sort of way. Least of all in the way that he wanted me to.
Common sense told me that there was no way the famed director would ask something so... obscene, but my ears and my brain were defying common sense vehemently, both so sure that I had heard correctly and my brain had interpreted the sound waves exactly.
"Excuse me?" I breathed, absolutely certain that I had misheard him. Maybe he was saying, "Streep grieves"? Did he want me to pretend I was Meryl Streep and reenact a grieving Streep? Perhaps it was some acting jargon that I was unfamiliar with.
When in doubt, ask. I waited for him to answer my question.
I clenched my hands into tight fists and kept them behind my back so he wouldn't see how nervous I was. My palms were sweaty and my fingers were trembling noticeably.
The smile on my face was definitely faked but I had perfected it to the point where most people would not be able to tell unless they had known me for a long time. He had only known me for a few brief minutes.
He looked up from his notepad. "Theresa Lewis?" he asked. The corner of his lips curving downwards in an altogether unpleasant way. In one small facial movement, he managed to show me that he was displeased with my question. He was not an award-winning actor for his patience.
His temper was almost legendary in the acting community.
Magnus Ramses was a new actor-turned-director and had been introduced to me by a fellow budding actor after the last performance I had been working with shut down abruptly.
Magnus was a tall lean man in his late forties and had the physique of a man half his age. He was muscular, but not overly so, hiding his strength in lean muscles instead of bulking up like some of the newer actors in the game.
I had seen him carry a two-hundred-pound woman in a recent movie. It was his face that won him many of the awards. He could convey in one look what most people couldn't in a thousand-word essay.
He was tanned from sun exposure rather than facial products and his eyebrows, though currently rose over his eyes judgmentally, were capable of a variety of rather comical motions that I had been trying to mimic since forever.
Even thirty years older than myself, he was the most attractive man I had ever seen. I had talked to him prior to the audition and he was utterly charming and desirable. He carried himself with poise and assurance. There was a confidence in the way he walked, talked, and breathed.
It was, perhaps, the way he held his head and the way he talked that drew me in. Had we met in different circumstances, I would have reacted to the primal desire and asked him out, age difference be damned.
"Did you want me to repeat the instruction, Ms. Lewis?" he asked impatiently.
I nodded, "Please, call me Theresa. And yes. I believe I may have misheard you. Did you want me to take my clothes off?" Saying the words out loud made me blush, but there was no other way around it.
He was seated in the middle of the third row of the theater, close enough for me to see his reaction, but far enough that I would have to squint a little to do so.
The downward curvature of his lips took an upward turn and his facial expression turned irritation to amusement. For a moment, I was sure that I had misheard him. My mind went at a million miles an hour as I tried to save the misunderstanding. He continued before I had chance to say anything.
"How old are you, Theresa?" he asked, turning the notepad over and ignoring my resume, which carried all the information he needed.
"I'll be nineteen next month," I said.
"Do you understand what you're applying for, eighteen-year-old Theresa?" he asked mockingly, looking at me as if he was looking at a lost little lamb.
I huffed and turned my nose upwards. I was suddenly conscious of how his dark-brown eyes stared at me, gazing at me with such intensity that I could feel it. My fingers tightened around one another, so much so that I could feel my fingernails dig into my skin. It kept my face neutral instead of fearful.
His gaze drew me magnetically and I couldn't look away. "I certainly do," I said, wanting to sound older than I felt.
He continued to look amused. "What are you applying for, Theresa?" he urged, wanting to hear the words from my lips.