Audition

When Eleanor Martin took a last look in the mirror, a small yelp of amusement escaped her. The transformation was extraordinary. She looked younger than her 23 years. Eighteen at most. It was partly the hair – cut short by a gay Columbian with a shaven head at a cost that had made her gasp. But what the hell. The magazine had paid. They'd helped with the make-up too, Sarah quietly steering her towards a plum-coloured lipstick and the sort of glittery silver eyeshadow she might have worn at Christmas but probably wouldn't. She experimented with a smile. Yes - young, brazen, but still vulnerable - the face looking back at her was perfect.

Against Mandy's advice she'd rejected the offer of a wire. It would be just one more thing to worry about and hard to conceal under the t-shirt and stretch jeans. Mandy had wanted her to hand the story over to someone with more experience, but Eleanor resisted. She might have come straight from university but she was never going to be able to prove her worth as a journalist unless they gave her the chance. In the end Mandy had shrugged and given in, peering at her over the top of her glasses like a disapproving headmistress.

Eleanor turned and considered her profile. The budget had provided the underwear too. It was the only thing she was really pleased with. Light and understated. You'd have to look closely to see she was wearing a bra at all. Her nipples were still defined under the thin cotton of her t-shirt. For a moment she wondered if this might be asking for trouble? But she pushed the thought to the back of her mind. She looked good. And besides, despite what Mandy and the others thought, she could take care of herself.

When she'd first heard the girl's story, sitting over a mug of coffee in Starbucks, she thought it might make a couple of paragraphs. Young girl with a head stuffed full of ideas by television. It was only when she'd gone to the web to find the pictures that the scale of the operation hit her. Some of the girls didn't look old enough to be out on their own.

In the taxi she dialled the office and killed the call before anyone answered. Checked the number was on the redial button. Then asked the driver to drop her round the corner from the hotel. It wasn't what she'd expected. She made a mental sketch of the foyer. Club chairs, glass topped tables, a carpet deep enough to muffle a stampede. There was nothing low-rent about this place. She wondered what he was paying for the room. A hundred? A hundred and fifty? She could easily phone up later and check.

The man behind the desk didn't bat an eyelid when she gave the name.

"Is Mr Solomon expecting you?"

"Yes."

"316. Third floor. Turn left out of the lifts."

He offered a distant professional smile. The sort you paid for at a place like this, she thought. Eleanor was pleased with the observation and filed it away for later.

It was quiet upstairs. The anonymity was unsettling. She passed a young girl pushing a laundry trolly. She waited until she had disappeared before she found the room.

There was a Do Not Disturb sign on the door of 316. For a moment she hesitated. She was surprised to find how nervous she was. But that was no bad thing. The last thing she needed was to seem self-assured. She was perfectly safe. The magazine knew she was coming. How much worse it must be for the girls who really thought that this door – or one very like it – was going to open onto a future under the bright lights of a film studio. When she knocked her knuckles seemed to make no impression on the heavy door. She tried again. This time someone turned the handle from the other side and the door swung open. Solomon was talking on a mobile. He waved her into the room and stood looking out of the window as he finished his call.

"Four o'clock" he was saying, "if she can't do that, forget it."

Eleanor looked round the room. The usual anonymous décor. Some flowers on the night table. Black metal tripod. A surprisingly small camera lying on the big bed among a litter of video boxes. The only chair had a leather coat with a torn lining draped over it.

"I've got 24 hours, that's all. So no more fucking about, ok?" The call was evidently over. Soloman threw the mobile down onto the bed. "Prick."

He wasn't a big man. Round shouldered. About 45. She could see the hair curling on his neck and imagined the pelt that must cover his back under the tee shirt. But there was an energy about him. Something animal-like. A heavy gold bracelet bumped at his wrist.

He turned to look at her for the first time.

"Hi", she said, more confident than she felt. "I phoned this morning..."

But Solomon held up his hand to stop her. And continued to stare. He was openly measuring her. No man had looked at her like this before. He studied her face. Her breasts and legs. His appraisal was disconcerting. She knew this man cared nothing about her. He wasn't interested in her intelligence, her personality – in any of the things that made her who she was. This man was interested only in one thing. Her potential for sexual arousal.

Solomon walked slowly round her, inspecting her from every angle. Under this scrutiny she felt a moment's panic. Worrying what she would say if he just shook his head. Said, no, she wasn't up to it. She was wasting her time. When he'd come full circle he looked at her again. And then he smiled. She felt absurdly grateful.

"What's your name?"

"Jenny."

"Real name?"

Before she could answer he waved his question aside.

"Doesn't matter. Who gives a shit, eh?"

He pointed to the bed.

"Sit down. Make yourself comfortable."

Eleanor did as she was told while Solomon recovered the camera and began slotting cassettes into the video machine. She felt the bed give under her as she sank into the expensive mattress, perching on the edge and crossing her long legs. Released from his gaze she found her professional persona reasserting itself. Yes, she thought, I can see how it happens. A young girl with no experience of the world and perhaps just a few fumbling encounters with boys who knew less than they did. What chance would she have against this kind of certainty? Solomon was still talking. She forced herself to concentrate.

"It's a tough business. Most people have no idea what's involved. But what can you do?"

He looked at her and smiled. She found herself returning the smile, grateful to be sharing the conspiracy.

"You've got a good body, you know that? Sure you do. Look at you."

He lifted the camera. Her image appeared on the television screen and surged towards her as he worked the zoom.

"It's a difficult business. A lot of frauds. But I don't have to tell you that. And so many girls. Jesus, you wouldn't believe how many. They think it's just a question of looking good. If only it was that easy. But this is the real world. If they're going to make it, they have to want it. I have to say the legal shit about you being here. Just to keep us clean. You're here under your own will aren't you? "

"Yes – I'm – Yes, of course."

"That's fine. I like your smile, you know? It's got something."

What had she just done? Given him the green light. On camera. Was that a mistake? Her mind was racing.

"Ok, I'm coming in closer. Just smile at the camera. You've got to treat it as your friend. That's good."

He was so close she had to lean back. A knee sank into the mattress beside her. His presence was disturbing. She tried to concentrate on the dark surface of the lens and failed to notice when his hand reached out and cupped her jaw. She flinched instinctively. Soloman lowered the camera. He looked at her with disappointment. She felt absurdly that she'd failed him.

"Sorry", she blurted. "You made me jump."

He looked at her for a long moment. It seemed as if he was judging her.

"Just relax, ok?

She nodded. Then he lifted the camera again. Once more the lens was staring at her. Sucking her in. She smiled.

"That's better".

This time she was ready for him. His touch was surprisingly gentle as he moved her head a little to one side, then the other.

"Good. I like that. I like that a lot."

She was breathing more heavily now, trying desperately to keep her head clear. She could feel the heat off him, the heavy animal presence invading her, seeming to empty her of herself. For a moment the possibility she might have miscalculated flickered across her mind. But she pushed it aside. That was ridiculous. She was still in control. She could stop this at any point. It was a job, that's all, like any other. And she would expose this man, the ugly man with the camera whose lens was holding her, whose hand was sliding over her cheek, pushing the hair back from one eye, fingertips tracing the outline of her eyebrow, down the line of her nose. Now he was brushing her lips, tracing the line of the lip gloss. She felt the weight of the finger pull at her bottom lip and then, before she realised what was happening, slip forward. She opened instinctively and took him in.

"That's good –"

His finger was in her mouth. Her mind was racing. How had she let him do that? Part of her was struggling to weigh the consequences. If she pulled away now, it would be over. He'd turn her out for sure. Wouldn't he? But there was another part of her that made all these calculations irrelevant. The finger was sliding – very slowly - backwards and forwards. But even in her panic something had taken over. She found her tongue reaching for him. He began to withdraw very slowly. She tried to blank her mind, tried not to think. Felt, as the wet finger slipped out between her lips, a sudden twinge of regret. And then – yes - as the finger returned to slide it's full length back into the warm interior, a surge of gratitude. Jesus, he had to stop this. She felt the warmth rising between her legs, and squeezed her thighs tightly together. Again the finger withdrew slowly. She felt it leave her lips. And then without thinking felt herself reach forward and take it again.

"Well, well, well. We like that, don't we?"

What was happening to her? She felt her grip on the situation begin to slide as the certainties that had brought her here began to slip out of reach. And then two words from Solomon undid her.

"Good girl", said Solomon.

Without warning she was ambushed by a memory that had lain hidden for years. In a moment everything had changed. At the sound of his voice, she was a child again. The anonymous hotel room disappeared and she was back in the cluttered parlour with the glass-fronted cupboard that smelled of almonds. Her aunt was holding her hand tightly while the man they said was her father told her she had to be a good girl and be brave and not cry and not to forget him. And he'd hugged her and she felt the coarse cloth of his coat against her cheek – and then the sudden absence, the emptiness in the room, an emptiness that invaded her and lasted a lifetime. She felt a sob rise in her throat. Something had opened inside her. Solomon felt the change.

"Lie down."

There was no question of disobeying. Her will had dissolved in the heat that emanated between her legs. All she wanted was to please this man and for him to show his pleasure. Eleanora subsided onto the bed and without lowering the camera Solomon straddled her and turned the lens down on her from directly above. His stubby finger was at her lips again and she opened gratefully and took him in.

"Good girl - good girl - good girl...."

She was powerless against the words. All the years of absence crowded in on her, all the ringing emptiness that had been the soundtrack to her young life was suddenly confounded by the undeniable presence of the finger solid and real and in her mouth. Her father might have gone. But Solomon was here.

"Lift your top"

She did as she was asked, she wanted to please him, how could she not? When he was going to make everything all right again. She took the tight cloth of the new tee shirt and slid it up over her breasts. Solomon looked down on her, letting the lens linger over her bra where the nipples strained at the thin fabric. His fingertips brushed the swollen flesh.

"Take it off".

Eleanora peeled the tee shirt over her head and lay back. Now the stubby finger – still moist from her mouth – was burrowing in at the top of her bra working it's way below her nipple. She wanted to help him now – she slipped the strap from her shoulder and reached behind her for the clasp. As soon as it was done he tossed it aside. She was pleased her breasts were free. She was proud of them, happy she could offer them to him, desperate for his gratitude. She wasn't disappointed.

"Nice. Very nice, Jenny."

Solomon took her nipple and rolled it between his finger and thumb. Then squeezed so hard that a bolt of pain shot through her – an electric current that began at her breast and seemed to dart between her legs where she could feel the moisture leaking from her.

"I think we're going to get on just fine, don't you?"

And then his hand had left her breast and was pulling at the belt round his waist. Her hands flew to help him, opening the trousers that were drawn tight against his ample belly, unzipping him and reaching inside to where the purple stubby cock strained against his pants. And then it was free and rising to meet her.

All this time, Solomon's grip in the camera had not relaxed.

Now she was sitting on the edge of the bed again, he was standing close, still holding her in the camera lens.

"Hold it in your tits", he said, "I want you to squeeze it."

His cock was not long, but it's girth was alarming. She wondered how it would feel in her mouth. How she would strain to take it in. She did as she was asked, taking a breast in each hand and using them to hold him. Solomon began to move his hips, driving the purple head between the soft mounds of her breasts. She could feel the veins on him, the massive solidity of the cock sliding backwards and forwards.

Matthew loved her breasts. He would uncover them as if they were something rare and precious and stroke them with infinite care. He had nothing of Solomon's brutality and strength. Eleanor wondered how many other breasts this cock had plundered. How many mouths. And the thought made her dizzy. She wanted more of it. Wanted it inside her. Not just bruising her like this, taking her, taking everything she had. She released her breasts and reached for him, then going down on her knees opened her lips to him and took his girth into her mouth.

But this was wrong. Solomon pushed her away. "Not yet", he said. "Open your jeans."

Eleanora sat back and undid the button on her jeans. Solomon had pulled away. The camera continued to stare. Beyond him she could see an image of herself undoing the zip fly.

"Put your hand inside. Touch yourself."

She did as she was asked. Dipping her finger into the moisture that had seeped from her swollen lips. She pushed inside and a groan escaped her. She watched the girl on the. Saw her back arch.

"That's it. Good girl."

She came out again, scraping the tip of her nail against her clit. It was almost more than she could bear. She looked at the man in front of her holding the camera. He stood with his feet planted firmly in the thick pile of the carpet, the eye of the lens staring at her dispassionately, his cock still straining forwards from his open fly.

"Take them off."

She pulled of her jeans, and the lacy thong. Solomon's rough hand reached for her. His blunt fingers found what he was looking for and buried themselves in her moist interior. Two fingers were inside her. His thumb worked her clitoris. She could feel the brutality of the man taking from her what he wanted.

"Lift your legs higher."

She did as he asked. He pulled out his fingers and smeared her juices over the tight button of her anus. Then probed with his middle finger. She tensed against him. He slapped her hard without lowering the camera. Then returned his finger and forced an entry. She cried out in pain as Solomon filled her and just as suddenly pulled out.

He began to work with greater urgency. He dragged her upright. Grasped the back of her neck and guided her mouth to his cock. She stretched to take him in. He let her move her lips along his length and then began to thrust at her with a steady rhythm. He was breathing more heavily now. Driving into her throat so that she almost gagged. But she held him, straining her lips as she struggled to take him down. He still had the camera. She could feel he was close, felt a wave of gratitude that she could do this for him, yearned to feel the hot spurt of come in her throat. Solomon wound his free hand in her hair – and then brutally yanked himself free.

"No –" he said. " Get on the bed"

Eleanora was confused. But did as she was asked. Once more Solomon straddled for her and she reached for him.

"Leave it" he said. "Just lie back.."

And he began to work his cock with his free hand, the muscular fingers driving along it's length, the heavy gold bracelet bouncing at his wrist. Eleanora stared at the purple head each time it emerged from his fist, at the narrow slit that would any moment spit it's creamy load at her face.

She turned aside and watched the girl on the screen, saw her flinch and caught the briefest glimpse of the trail of come snaking into her eyes and hair before she slipped into the stinging dark.

Back in the flat she dissolved into tears the moment the door closed behind her. She couldn't sit still. She roamed from room to room in search of the young woman who had begun the day so sure of her place in the world. She came to a halt in front of the bathroom mirror. The face looking back at her was a stranger.

Eleanor stripped off the new tee shirt and the underwear and jeans and stood naked facing the full-length mirror. There was a bruise starting to show on her right breast. She traced the outline with her fingers. And then as if she could wash the mark from her skin, turned on the shower and scrubbed herself. But then slowly - anger - began to replace the sense of helplessness.

By the time Matthew arrived she felt numb. He asked about her interview but barely listened to her mumbled replies. All through supper she suffered with growing impatience the monologue of his day, his difficult clients, the stupidity of the girls in the office. None of it meant anything to her. She found herself watching his hands. They were thin and pale, like a girls. The nails stood out pink and wholesome. By the time he'd finished eating, she could wait no longer.

"Matthew, I want you to fuck me."

She registered the moment's shock at the word. Saw him adjust, take it in his stride.

"Great idea." He smiled at her indulgently. "Let me just clear these things away –"

"No. Now. I want you to fuck me now. Here"

The smile was still there, but the life had gone out of it. She had her blouse over her head before she reached him. Matthew tried to kiss her but she pulled away.

"Eleanor – wait -"

And then she was on her knees tugging at his belt.

"Eleanor – we don't have to do this here –"

But she took no notice. In another moment she had him free and hardening in her hands. Eleanor dipped her head and took him into her mouth. She began to work him with her tongue.

"Wait – no –"

She wanted him to wrap his fingers in her hair and drive himself into her throat, wanted him to fuck her mouth as if she was a £10 whore in a King's Cross doorway. She wanted to feel him come in her throat, on her face, on her breasts -

"Just wait, can't you!"

Matthew pulled away and took a step back. Eleanor stared at him from the floor. She was breathing hard. A strand of saliva trailed from her lips. For a moment he stared back, a look of disbelief on his face.

"Just – just wait," he said again.