Screen Test

Scarfing down a sort of a dinner, she began scouring her wardrobe carefully. Angie had heard it said—indeed, had seen it before—that people in costume were less inhibited than they would otherwise be. That dressing the part, going in masquerade, was, somehow, freeing—that dress-up role playing allowed, perhaps even fostered risk-taking. And, she thought, she needed all the help she could get.

After due consideration, Angie chose a clingy, tight white blouse, a navy mini-skirt, her highest heels—strappy affairs, she'd only worn once before—and dark mesh thigh-high stockings. Underneath she wore her tiniest, shocking-pink bikini-panty, and a pastel-pink lace bra that emphasized her not insubstantial cleavage.

Staying within the confines of her own room, Angie managed to avoid Rosa. She didn't want to be subjected to her flatmate's curiosity—didn't want to have to share any of the details as to what she was doing. And, anyway, she wouldn't have wanted to say anything until it is a done deal—if that were to be the case. She was certainly not convinced it would be—not at all confident.

Her apprehension grew, gnawing at the pit of her stomach, but as it did, somewhat more steadily grew her resolve. Not knowing what else to do, Angie simply went to bed early. She slept surprisingly well—her slumber only interrupted the odd time by a warm, erotic dream that allowed her to drift back to sleep with a smile on her face.

Next morning, she got up early enough to take a long bath, before donning her chosen outfit. After applying a relatively conservative bit of makeup, she assessed her reflection in the mirror. Her shoulder-length hair was the colour of dark, liquid honey—more brown than gold, but with a deep lustre. She gave it a quick shake, allowing herself a moment's indecision, then gathered it up in a tight dancer's bun, thinking it's a lot easier to let your hair down than to put it up. She realized, wryly, that this was true figuratively as well as literally. With one final look in the mirror, she turned and left before her housemate even got up, relieved that she didn't need to explain anything. She was pleased and surprised with her 'new look', and while she wouldn't explicitly admit it to herself, what she achieved was a pretty good slut-look.

Angie arrived at the studio early—understandably apprehensive; nonetheless, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. The front door was unlocked. The receptionist barely glanced up. "Go right in," she intoned in about as bored a voice as possible. "they're waiting for you;" and they—the interview panel—didn't waste any time. By eight-thirty-five, Angie was positioned, standing by the pole where she had danced the day before. Today there was no music, neither up front nor in the background. With very little in the way of preliminaries, her audition began. "Undress as if you're trying to woo a lover—get him, or her, to jump your bones." In this regard, Angie really only knew what she had seen in movies and on the tube, or read in books; still she had an active imagination.

Removing her top and mini-skirt was like a replay of the day before. She played a soundtrack in her head as she disrobed and flung the outer garments aside. She continued to run her own personal soundtrack silently to herself, as she flipped her bra-cup down and back, off and on her smooth tit mounds. Her stiff little nipples were revealed in glimpses, and it became increasingly clear that they were standing proud on the tips of the most perfect, perky set of boobs. Which, still dancing to her own tune, Angie teasingly swept up, covered and flashed, bounced and swirled; until, raising her arms, driving her undulating body, she gracefully discarded her bra and left her breasts gloriously exposed.

She continued to twist and turn, sway and waver sylph-like, to the sound of music only she could hear. Catching her bikini briefs by their string sides, she slid them gracefully down over her hips and along her thighs. By degrees her little thatch came into view. Paula noted that "the curtains match the carpet;" not that that mattered much these days. She thought it a bit wild, but nothing a quick trim couldn't fix; in fact, she imagined a bit of creative shaping—heart, maybe; arrowhead; landing strip? As Angie stepped out of her panties, Paula directed her, in a low voice, to leave the hose—thigh-highs—and heels on for the moment.

Stepping onto the low platform of the set, Angie moved, under Paula's guidance, towards the foot of the bed. "Keep it up," she whispered, conspiratorially. "You're doing well." Then, Axel and Peter stepped up to join Paula, standing next to Angie.

Angie noticed that Paula did virtually all the talking, while the men watched intently and seemed to follow her unspoken instructions. "First off," she intoned, "you really have to get used to—completely comfortable with strangers fondling you." Calmly, as if to avoid scaring her, all three of the 'panel members' reached in. Gently, six hands began to maul her boobs and feel her pussy. Giving Angie a moment, they then, all three, leaned in and started kissing her—lips, face, chest, nipples; crouching before her, tummy, thighs, pussy. "On set," Paula went on, between licks, "people will be constantly touching you—the director, other actors, assistants, as well as crew: makeup, gaffers—lighting and sound guys. And in this digital age, everything is filmed—even this audition."

Angie felt herself slowly being wrapped in a miasma of novel sensation, as Paula whispered in her ear, "This could take all day." Angie just sighed and accepted it all. She didn't bother to consider that it was all testing, to see how far she'd go.

Peter stepped behind her, his hands cupping her breasts, fingers twiddling her nipples. Axel crouched in front and began diddling her cunt with his fingers, then pulling her ass so his tongue could poke and swipe. Meanwhile, Paula continued to kiss her lips and nibble her earlobes, whispering inarticulate encouragements.

Angie tried to remain focused on the barrage of stimuli she was experiencing, and, once again, attempted to ignore the odd nervous agitation that began to run through her. Abruptly everything stopped. The trio stepped back, leaving Angie suddenly, self-consciously alone. "Okay, Hon," Paula purred, "now we've got you warmed up, masturbate for us; and fake an orgasm—unless, of course, you can really get there." With that, she gave a chuckle, then waited silently—for a bit.

Seeing the lost and puzzled looks swirl over Angie's face, the penny dropped, and Paula laughed—loud and heartily. "Don't tell me. You've never had an orgasm, have you?" Angie, eyes wide, meekly shook her head. "In fact, I'll bet you've never actually masturbated. Right?"

Angie suddenly felt, not just mortified, but incredibly silly, standing there practically naked before these people—strangers, in fact. Maybe Rosa had been right; they really were out of her league. Still, Angie had already shown that she was an eager student and a fast learner.

"Let's not waste any more of our time," Peter grumped. "Let her go."

"No. Wait. I've got a good feeling about this girl." Paula flashed a smile at Angie before turning back to Peter. "I'm trusting my own intuition. It's usually been spot-on in the past, right?"

She gently pushed the virtually nude Angie to sitting on the bed, and plopped down next to her. With a glint in her eye, Paula leaned over and whispered, "This is gonna be fun!" She, then, started in, planting kisses all over Angie's body, while twiddling Angie's already stiff nipples, and stroking her already glistening pussy. Angie was as surprised by the onslaught as she was by her sudden rise in temperature. She recognized the sensation, like a growing electric shock, as something she'd felt before—when she'd been fucked anonymously at home that one time.

As Angie got conspicuously and increasingly worked up, Paula slid down onto her knees between Angie's feet, and, with a delighted laugh, started to expertly perform cunnilingus on her.

Angie was amazed. She couldn't believe the sudden discharge of energy that occurred at the first touch of Paula's tongue splitting her lips, running up her furrow to dance around her clitoris. It was like her whole body had been wrapped in a field of sensation—a field of erotic tension. And it filled her—pressing her limits—filling her to bursting. She had never known such arousal—had never imagined such possibilities. Inevitably her orgasm rumbled through her like a slow explosion. It ripped her awareness from its foundations and flung it into orbit.

She quivered and quaked as she lost all control. Her body flopped back onto the bed, twisting and writhing, as she begged for mercy, while, at the same time, willed the sensations not to stop. Gradually they dimmed and ever-so-slowly faded. Suffering through aftershocks and echoes, Angie, eventually, came out of orbit and reassembled into something resembling her former self.

Paula, at least, was rather impressed. She realized her intervention had been rather irregular, but, "So what?" She was the boss; it was her company. She wordlessly challenged her colleagues to comment; however, they remained silent.

"We can work with that," Paula beamed, wiping Angie's dew from her face. She liked that Angie exuded a simple, straight-forward, single-minded enthusiasm. She found that highly commendable. Angie, it seemed, wanted to get it right. She wanted to do her very best. And the truth was, for reasons Angie, herself, couldn't begin to explain, she felt more motivated in this than in anything she had ever taken on before.

"My, oh my! That was pretty bloody intense—especially for a first-time orgasm." Paula nodded to her colleagues, "Dontcha think?" And she gave a little laugh, before turning back to Angie and saying seriously, "When you need to fake it, need to pretend—and that's what this industry is about: pretend—just pull up that memory."

Peter growled under his breath, "Stop fucking around and get on with it, fer chrisakes!"

Ignoring him, Paula stood and stepped back. "Now, show us—fingers at your slit and clit. Make believe."

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Angie dropped her hands deliberately to her crotch, and began to fiddle—almost, she felt, histrionically. She had fully intended to act it out; at first dismissing the growing sensations as unwanted distractions. But the burgeoning arousal quickly overwhelmed her concentration. Before she knew it, her breath was gasping, her legs jolting and her body quivering, as she achieved another bona fide orgasm, riding on the echo of her climatic debut.

"Bravo!" said Paula, with a warm smile, and a little round of applause. "We'll have to work on faking it another time, eh?

"Okay. Now, stand up again." Paula assisted Angie up off the bed, stepping back to leave her upright, once again, at the foot of the bed. Angie didn't have time to feel very self-conscious before Paula's next directions. "Caress your body seductively—like you're trying to catch the eye of a real hunk—like you're trying to tempt someone who's been watching you all night." Despite her inexperience, Angie just knew what Paula meant. She began to sway her hips and twist her body while running her hands up and down her waist, emphasizing the flare of her hips. Subtly she brought her hands up to cup and swirl her breasts, spiraling in to pinch her nipples—all the while moving to the music in her head. It seemed so natural for Angie to dip her head, and bat her lids watching her audience through her flicking lashes. An electricity sparkled between her tits, and surged in a current up and down her spine. In no time at all her nipples were standing up firm beneath her twiddling fingertips—vibrating with excitement.

"Good girl," Paula smiled. "Now, gather some of the drippings from your snatch, and suck that pussy-juice off your fingers—as lewd and lascivious as you can."

Angie dropped her hand casually, and, with a studied slowness, drew her finger up through her still sodden bush, splitting her labia to collect the dew still puddled there. She gritted her teeth and tried not to jolt at the discharge of energy that, having built up in her boobs flooded her genitals the moment her fingers contacted her very own pussy. Focusing on the task at hand, she coyly raised her hand to her mouth and, rather dramatically, sucked, first her index finger, then her middle finger, clean of her feminine nectar.

"Now spin and turn—right around. Bend at the waist—keep your legs straight. Hands on your knees—now, slowly reach up and spread 'em. Show us your rosebud. Open wide. We want to see the back side of your tonsils!" There was a lull in directions as the stood bent over, displaying her butt and her privates, and her perception wandered momentarily, from the subjective to the objective. She had all but forgotten that her entire audition—performance—was all being filmed—videoed. Angie had been only vaguely aware of the three cameras fixed to posts at the front and corners of the set. (Indeed, completely unaware of the camera that was mounted directly above the bed— also recording continuously.) Through her new perspective she noted that Peter was now manning another camera—this one on rolling tripod; and Axel had begun spooking about the set with a handheld—for close-ups and angles.

Modern digital photography and solid-state storage made the use of multiple cameras simple and cheap. The beauty of that was the plethora of raw footage; however, that was, paradoxically, also the downside—the over-abundance that indiscriminate usage produced. Nevertheless, the consequent image-mining did produce the odd gem now and again.

"Now then, dear, we're going to get you to work with a few toys. Lie down there, on the bed." Paula opened a drawer on the bedside table and withdrew a rather large, black dildo and a silver, 'space-age' vibrator, the latter of which she laid aside. Handing the fake cock to the still slightly bemused Angie, she added, "There's lube on the night-stand, if you need it."

The direction was, it occurred to Angie, like choreography: "Take the dildo in both hands; knees apart; open wide; close your eyes and pretend to tease yourself. Act like you're enjoying yourself. That's right—slowly, now." Angie dragged it up and down, splitting her moistened labia, dipping deeper with every pass. She didn't need to be told to appreciate the arousal; in fact, she found it hard to play act her responses when, in the here and now, she had to deal with the real, actual, erotic-tension bubbling and growing within her fundament.

With encouragement from Paula, Angie began pushing the artificial penis more forcefully. "Come on, girl, slam that cock! Deeper! Harder! Thrust your hips! Lift your bottom! Make us believe you really, really want it. Meet every penetration."

But Angie didn't have to make-believe her growing arousal. An erotic charge buzzed and sparkled deep within her vagina at every stabbing push.

"Slow down a bit, here. Keep stroking while you grab the vibrator." Angie half-turned and reached for the silver appliance. Rolling back, supine on the bed, she held the gadget in front of her face and studied it like it was something alien—all the while lazily pumping her latex friend in and out of her pussy. "Here...," Paula fiddled with the 'rocket', setting it on 'pulse' before handing it back.

Without being told, Angie first buzzed the appliance across her nipples. A delighted sigh escaped her lips, and her whole body trembled with anticipation. "Leave your tits," Paula quietly directed. "Play it across and around your clitoris." The instant it contacted her clit, the sparkle became a crackling hiss, which became flashes of fireworks zapping along her spine. The tempo of the assault increased once more, as Angie, again, thrusted the black intruder deeper and harder. The combination of stimuli rapidly became overwhelming. It detonated an ignition of sensation that rapidly grew into an unstoppable explosion.

Before Paula could encourage her protégé to fake an orgasm Angie's arousal flared out of control, blasting her into a huge orgasm. Gasping and moaning, bouncing and flailing, gasping and whimpering, Angie wasn't sure she could survive. The vibrator flung aside, she used both hands to pound her cunt as if she were trying to consume the latex phallus, prolonging the heretofore unknown ecstasy—a feeling of true rapture.

"However badly you've been sexually repressed," Paula muttered under her breath, "you're certainly undergoing some sort of erotic awakening now." Smiling, she suggested, a little more audibly, "I believe we have successfully let the genie out of the bottle."

Angie was allowed but a short recovery, before attending to the next directions; and sensation—voluptuous stimuli and arousal rolled and crashed through her sex. Angie didn't know if she was experiencing multiple orgasms or the persistent aftershocks of the main event.

The intensive instruction continued unabated through that late morning: Angie being coached in appropriate vocal responses; the difference between vocalizing (Ooooooh! Aahh!) and verbalizing (Fuck meeee! Harder...!); and ad libbing inarticulate utterings (Omigodomigodomig...!). She practiced skim-reading script excerpts then ad libbing reasonable conversations—especially in the face of the often inane dialogue in the script.

Angie was told how to, or, at least, given coping strategies for controlling arousal: how to let it build inexorably but not quite to climax. "Okay, darling," Paula purred, "This time I want you to fake it." With nary a hesitation, Angie began to moan and gasp, to writhe and shake. "Play to the cameras, dearie," Paula coached. "Eyes on the lens—eyes in the lens."

Paula was especially pleased—more than pleased. She had read this girl right. Angie was a natural. She was already able to anticipate directions—and she complied with an apparent joy. She executed her stage movements with ease. Pleased whenever she got it right first time, her burgeoning talent for this was palpable

"Slink and spread and beckon," Paula advised, "as if you're welcoming your lover."

"Jesus she's good," Paula commented to herself, as she called an end to the session. "Take a break; sandwiches and coffee." Angie exuded an aura of flourishing confidence as she slipped into the proffered robe.

"Well, Angie. I think we..." Paula gestured to indicate all three of the interview panel, "will be offering you employment with Shine Productions—if that's all right. We'll use this afternoon's session to determine in what capacity."

Angie was elated. She hadn't realized how tense she had been—wrapped up in the stress of anticipation. She was almost embarrassingly effusive, as she let her relief flow over her like a warm, viscous fluid. Angie had no idea whom, if anybody, she was competing against, but she assumed there were other candidates. No matter. She shook the hands of each of the panel members, then stood still, looking flustered, until Axel said, with a chuckle, "Oaky doke, girl. Have a bite and a sip. We'll reconvene for further orientation after lunch."

Orientation, as it turned out, was just more instruction—basic training as it were. "This afternoon, we'll determine where you will fit into our organization," Paula, who, as well as being the director, was obviously the boss, explained. "We will decide which position you will be hired for, and at what level you will start. But I've got to say, I, at least," she glanced at her two colleagues, "see a lot of potential here."

Angela beamed at this—what she, correctly, took to be compliments. She had, long ago—was it only this morning?—dismissed any arguments regarding morality or propriety from her mind. This, she told herself, was a job—a plum job—but only a job. Still, as her mother used to say, "Any job worth doing is a job worth doing well." She was determined to live by that credo; hence, she didn't even flinch that afternoon of intensive training, when she was introduced to all manner of sexual activity and kink.