Prologue
The first rule of filming her was nudity.
Not hers—hers was already given, like a mandate written in stretch marks and maybe some scars. The curve of her spine as she bent over a sound stage couch, the way her thighs dimpled when she spread them for the lens, the heavy sway of her breasts as she arched her back and purred, "Harder, baby! make it hurt." No, the rule was his nudity.
Joshua Levin, nineteen and trembling, had to be bare behind the camera. “How else will I know you’re paying attention?” she’d asked the first time, her voice a smoker’s rasp, her manicured nails tracing the waistband of his boxers. He'd stripped without hesitation, his considerably average but perfectly circumcised dick already half-hard from the scent of her—perfume and sweat and the copper tang of her arousal, the musk of her flower of womanhood clinging to the air like a promise.
The second rule was silence. His silence, of course.
She didn’t want him to gasp when the other men touched her, didn't want his whimpers when they filled her in ways he never could. So he bit his lip until it bled a little, his huge testicles drawn up tight as he adjusted the lighting, his free hand white-knuckling the tripod. "Good boy," she’d murmured once, mid-take, her voice a dark honey as some faceless performer spanked her ass red, the crack of flesh on flesh echoing through the empty studio. Josh had come untouched, a thin rope of semen splattering the call sheet, his breath hitching as he watched her take it—all of it—her moans filling the room, her body a temple he was only allowed to worship from the shadows.
The third rule was the hardest: He was never allowed to love her during that time.
Not when she rode a stranger’s cock on a motel bed, her 106 kg, or 233.7 lbs, of flesh jiggling with every thrust, her dark nipples hard as pebbles, her mouth open in a scream that wasn’t quite pleasure, wasn’t quite pain. Not when she wept in the shower afterward, scrubbing herself raw, her sobs muffled against the tile while he knelt outside the glass, his forehead pressed to the steam-fogged door. Not even when she pressed his face between her thighs and ordered him to eat her, her voice breaking on, "You’re the only one who gets to see me like this."
He broke that rule first.
And that was the problem with rules—once you broke one, the rest two were already shattered.
