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My name is Quinn Blackwood:

 

By day, I’m a billionaire CEO. Rich. Entitled.By night, I’m the exclusive porn star only known as Q.Why? Because I love women. If I believed in an almighty being, I’d thank him for creating them. They’re by far his most perfect creation… especially when I’m fucking one of them.

 

Oh, did I mention I’m an asshole? Fuck yeah. According to my shrink, I’m one twisted motherfucker. And that’s just the way I like it. Until she walks into my life…

 

My name is Elyse Gilbert, nicknamed ‘Lucky’ because according to my dad, I’m the unluckiest person alive, and I’ll die the same way I came into the world: naked, screaming, and dirt poor.

 

Yeah, my life is a twisted, seething mess. But that life changed the day I met HIM.He made me forget the cameras.He made me forget I was doing this for the money.He made me forget my shame.He made me forget everything. I was consumed by him. Only him.

 

But now my past has caught up with me.

 

 

 

 

I turn to the last screen.

Her eyes are downcast. Her lashes are long enough to make me wonder if I have another fake on my hands. I sigh, then take in the rest of her face. No makeup, or barely any if she made the effort. Her lips are plump, lightly glossed. I use the controls on the remote to zoom in. There’s a tiny mole on the left side of her face, right above her upper lip. Not fake.

I zoom out, examine the rest of her that I can see. Her grey T-shirt is worn to the point of threadbare, and her collarbones are a little too pronounced. Malnourishment wouldn’t be a crowd-pleaser, but that problem can be easily taken care of.

Beneath the T-shirt, her chest rises and falls in steady breathing, although the pulse hammering at her throat gives her away. I zoom in on the pulse. The skin overlaying it is smooth, almost silky, with the faintest wisps of caramel blonde hair feathering it.

Something about her draws me forward to the edge of my seat. I like her pretended composure. Most people fidget under the glare of a camera.

My gaze flicks to her skeleton bio. “Lucky.”

Slowly, she raises her head. Her eyelids flick up. Her eyes are a cross between green and hazel with a natural dark rim that pronounces its vividness. I can’t pinpoint it exactly, but something about that look in her eye sparks my interest.

Hell, if I had a heart, I’d swear it just missed a beat.

“Is that your real name?”

She shrugs. “It might as well be,” she murmurs.

Fuck, I have another liar on my hands. “Cryptic may be sexy if you’re auditioning to be the next Bond Girl. It’s not going to work here. Tell me your real name. Or leave.”

“No.” Her voice is a sexy husk, enough to distract me for a second before her answer sinks in.

“No?”

“With respect, you’re tucked away behind a camera issuing orders. I get that you hold the cards in this little shindig. But I’m not going to show you all of mine right from the start. My name, for the purposes of this interview, is Lucky. It may not officially be on my birth certificate, but I’ve responded to it since I was fifteen years old. That’s all you need to know.”

Well…fuck. I note with detached surprise that I’m almost within a whisker of cracking a smile.

I rub my gloved finger over my mouth, torn between letting her get away with mouthing off to me this way, and sending her packing.

Sure, she intrigues me. And whatever relevant truth I need would be dug out before she signs on the dotted line, should it come to that. But for this to work, she needs to obey my commands, no questions asked.

“Stand up. Move away from the camera until you reach the wall.”

She rises without question, restoring a little goodwill in her favor. Moving the chair out of her way, she backs up slowly. The hem of her loose T-shirt rests on top of faded jeans. Even before she’s fully exposed to the camera, I catch my first glimpse of the hourglass figure wrapped in the petite frame. She’s a fifties pinup girl dressed in cheap clothes. Her breasts are full but not quite double Ds, her thighs and calves shapely enough to stop traffic, with a naturally golden skin tone denoting a possible mid-west upbringing.

She’s knock-out potential—subject to several nourishing meals. But I’ve seen enough and done enough in this twisted life of mine to know her body isn’t what would draw attention. It’s the look in her eyes. The secrets and shadows she is trying hard to batten down. They’re almost eating her alive.

I don’t really give a shit what those secrets are. But the chance to fuck them…to fuck with them, expose them to my cameras, sparks a sinister flame inside me.

“Turn around, let your hair down.”

Her fingers twitch at her sides for a second before she faces the wall. One hand reaches up and pulls the band securing the loose knot on top of her head.

Caramel and gold tresses cascade down her back. Thick enough to swallow my hands, her wavy hair reaches past her waist, the tapered ends brushing the top of her perfectly rounded ass.

I watch her for a few minutes, then speak into the mic distorting my voice. “Do you have any distinguishing birth marks I should know about, Lucky?”

The question sinks in. Her back goes rigid for a second before she forces herself to relax. “Yes.”

“Where?”

“At the top of my thigh,” she responds.

“Show me,” I reply, although I don’t really need to see it. My carefully selected stylists can disguise any unseemly marks.

Slowly, she turns around. I expect her gaze to drop or a touch of embarrassment to show, but she stares straight into the camera as her fingers tackle the buttons of her jeans. The zipper comes down and she shimmies the denim over her hips. Her white cotton panties are plain and the last word in unsexy. All the same, my eyes are drawn to the snug material framing her pussy lips.

I also see the hint of bush pressed behind the cotton.

I shift in my seat, but don’t reach for the hardness springing to life behind my fly. Hand jobs are a waste of my time. I either fuck or I don’t. It’s that simple.

She lowers the jeans to knee-level and twists her right leg outward. The round red disk just on the inside of her thigh is distinctive enough to need covering up. I make a mental note.

“Thank you, Lucky. You may put your clothes back on.”

A hint of surprise crosses her face, but she quickly adjusts her clothing. When she’s done, her hands return to her sides.

“It’s time for your screen test. Sweep your hair to one side and come closer. Place your hands flat on the desk, bend forward, but don’t sit down.”

She follows my instructions to the letter. I adjust the camera so it’s angled up to capture her face.

“Are you ready?”

She gives a small nod.

“You’ve just walked into a bar. You don’t know me. But you see me, the guy in the corner, nursing a bourbon. And I see you. All of you. Every fantasy you’ve ever had. I want to give it to you. You’ve found me, Lucky, the guy who wants to fuck you more than he wants his next breath. Do you see me?”

Her nostrils quiver slightly. “Yes.”

“Good. Look into the camera. Don’t blink. Show me what I want to see. Convince me that you’re worth fucking. Convince me you’re worth dying for.”

Her lids lower, her face contemplative, but she doesn’t blink or lose focus. Slowly, her expression drifts from disinterested to captivated. Her lids lift and she’s a green-eyed siren. Her attention is rapt, unwavering. Her bruised-rose lips part, but she doesn’t swirl her tongue over her lips as I expect. She just…breathes. In. Out.

She swallows, a slow movement that draws attention to her neck, then lower to her breasts. Mesmerized against my will, I watch her nipples harden against the thin material of her top. Her fingers gradually curl into the hard wood and every inhalation and exhalation becomes a silent demand.

In…fuck…out…me…

In. Fuck.

Out. Me.

I remain still, even though my fingers itch to twitch and my muscles burn with a restlessness I haven’t felt in a long time.

I watch her command the camera, her body rigid with lustful tension. Her eyes widen with the need to blink, but she doesn’t.

She stays still, hands curl into fists and she just breathes sex. Her eyes water and a tear slips down one cheek. The sight of it is curiously cathartic, a tiny climax.

I subside into my seat. “That was convincing enough. You may sit down, Lucky.”

She blinks rapidly before she sinks into the chair. A quick swipe and the tear never existed. Neither does the promise of the fuck of a lifetime that was on her face a moment ago.

Her acting skills are remarkable. For a second, I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. I don’t want her to be too polished. I dismiss the notion and glance down at her notes.

“You list your address as a motel?”

The address in Queens is unfamiliar to me, but the motel chain is notorious for being exceptionally bad. I hide my distaste and wait for her answer.

“I arrived in town recently. I don’t have a permanent address yet.”

The secrets in her eyes, the threadbare clothes, the unkempt hair and unshaven pussy begin to tell their own story. She may be brave enough to sass me when she risks losing a job that promises a once in a lifetime payday, but she’s also desperate.

How desperate is the question.

“Are you currently working?”

She nods. “I work on and off for a catering service. But it’s nothing I can’t work around, if needed.”

“So you’ll be free to do this if I want you?”

The desperation escalates, then a hint of anger flashes through her eyes. “If? You mean I did all of this for nothing?”

I give a low laugh at her gumption. “You didn’t seriously think you’d waltz your way into a million dollars on a simple three-minute screen test, did you?”

The anger flees from her eyes, although her mouth tightens for a moment before she speaks. “So it’s true? It’s not a con? This job really pays a million dollars? For…sex?” she rasps.

“You think I’d admit it if it was a con?”

Her delicate jaw flexes for a second. “I guess not. So…assuming it’s not a con, how will this work, then?”

“If you pass the next few tests, and I decide you’re a good fit, you get the gig. You’ll receive one hundred thousand dollars with each performance.”

“So…ten performances…over how long a period?”

“Depending on how many takes are needed, anywhere between three weeks and a month. But I should warn you, it’s hard work, Lucky. If you think you’re just going to lie back and recite the Star Spangled Banner in your head, think again.”

Her fingers drum on the table, the first sign of nerves she’s exhibited. “I…I won’t be doing anything…skanky, will I?”

“Define skanky.”

“This is going to be straight up sex. No other…bodily stuff? Because that would a firm no for me.”

My mouth attempts another twitch. “No water works, waste matter or bestiality will be involved in the performances.”

Her fingers stop drumming. “Okay.” She waits a beat, stares straight into the camera. “So when will I know?”

I hear the barely disguised urgency and I rub my finger over my lip again. “Soon. I’ll be in touch within the week.” I’m not sure exactly why I want to toy with her. But I sense that having her on edge would add another layer of excitement I badly need.

When she opens her mouth, I interrupt. “Goodbye, Lucky.”

A passing thought about the origin of her name is crushed into oblivion. I press the remote to summon the bodyguard to escort her out, and I leave the room.

In my study a few minutes later, I bring up the screen on my desk and activate the encrypted service I need. I open the application and within minutes, the members of my exclusive gentlemen’s club are logging in.

My email is short and succinct.

The next Q Production is scheduled for release on 20 May 2015.

Limited to ten members.

Bidding starts in fifteen minutes.

 

 

 

 

Zara Cox has been writing for almost twenty-five years but it wasn’t until seven years ago that she decided to share her love of writing sexy, gritty stories with anyone but her close family (the over 18s anyway!). The Indigo Lounge Series is Zara’s next step in her erotic romance writing journey and she’d love to hear your thoughts.

 

Thank you for reading her stories!     

 

 

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