The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast Presents The New Decayed Episode 02

Episode Date: January 12, 2020

NoSleep Podcast Presents The New Decayed Episode 02It's episode 02 of The NoSleep Podcast presents: The New Decayed. On this week's show we undergo a macabre medical exam, and audition for a petrifying porno.Disclaimer: This is our first experimental miniseason. For this five-part series you’ll be joining Jessica McEvoy and Olivia White as they delve into the experimental, dark abyss of horror. Instead of taking an extended break during the European tour, we thought we’d try out something new. We’ll be taking this miniseason in directions outside of the usual mandate of The NoSleep Podcast. Some episodes of this miniseason are not for the faint of heart. Some are not for the squeamish. It’s not mandatory listening. If you choose to consider this a break and wait for Season 14, that’s fine. If you choose to join us, then brace yourselves. We’ll be taking you places."Breast Exam" written by Holly Dionis (Story starts around 0:05:03)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Jessica McEvoy, Loretta Carson – Erin Lillis, Real Loretta Carson – Sarah Thomas"The Casting Couch" written by Olivia White (Story starts around 0:20:55)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Jenna – Addison Peacock, Niah – Eden, Director – Graham RowatClick here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast Click here for tickets to our UK/EU Tour in January 2020 Click here to learn more about Hasani Walker's Kickstarter Click here to learn more about Olivia White Click here to learn more about Audrey McEvoy Executive Producer: David CummingsHost: Jessica McEvoyThe New Decayed showrunner: Olivia WhiteMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"The Casting Couch" illustration courtesy of Audrey McEvoyAudio program ©2018-2019 - Creative Reason Media Inc. - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

season. For this five-parts series, you'll be joining myself and Olivia White as we delve into the experimental dark abyss of horror. Instead of taking an extended break during the European tour, we thought we'd try out something new. We'll be taking this mini-season in directions outside of the usual mandate of the No Sleep podcast to see what lands and what doesn't. Some episodes of this mini-season are not for the faint of heart. Some are not for the squeamish. It's not mandatory listening. Each episode has a theme revealed in the title. If that theme isn't for you, then please don't feel obliged to sit through it as you would a regular episode. Not every episode will plumb the darkest depths of horror, but some will. We will, as usual, provide trigger warnings

for each of the stories. But again, we stress, this mini-season is experimental. There's no shame in changing the channel and adjusting your sets. If you'd prefer to wait for service to resume as normal, then our next full season, season 14, will begin in February, and we'll see you then. If you're still here and intend on joining us for this episode, then I'm Jessica McCavoy, and this is the new. New Decade.

Greetings, sleepless. Here we are at our second episode of The New Decade. Who knew that a mini-season put together by myself and Olivia would succeed at not destroying the entire podcast before episode two? This episode is called Inhuman Bodies. It features two extremely different stories that revolve around tales of the flesh, both human and not so human. There are some pretty major content warnings for this episode,

so be sure to check out our trigger warnings for this one. The second story in particular features some fairly graphic sexual content, and while it doesn't deal with sexual violence, certain aspects of the story could be especially upsetting to some. Meanwhile, the UK leg of the European tour should be well underway by the time you hear this, So we wish the tour team well and hope things are going amazingly. Miss you guys. As of writing this, Hassani's Kickstarter is around 50% funded and could still use some major help from us.

Hopefully by the time you hear this, it's been funded, but the link will once again be in the show notes. We'd also really like to thank everyone who joined us for episode one. The feedback has been extremely helpful and the research. The response has been overwhelming. So thank you to everyone who's shown their support for this miniseries. And now, with all that said, onto the stories. In our first tale, we meet a woman whose experiences with breast cancer have led her to help others who might be facing the same things she did.

Memography scans aren't the most pleasant thing to go through, but some empathy from the mammographer can go a long way. But in this tale shared with us by author Holly Deonis, our main character is faced with a patient who tests even her bedside manner. Performing this tale with me are Aaron Lillis and Sarah Thomas. So join us as we encounter a patient who'd test anyone's patients and find out what happens to her when she has her breast exam. As a teenager, I was always extremely proud of my patients. breasts. They weren't large or anything. I didn't have the kind of chest that turned heads when I entered a room. I was a B cup, sometimes a C. But they were pert and perky, and I had a nipple

to breast ratio that earned me more than a few compliments from boyfriends as I progressed through the last couple years of high school and then through college. I don't think any one type of breast is perfect, but mine were perfect for me, and I was proud of that. In my last year of college, my mom developed breast cancer. The disease was rapid and aggressive, and following her diagnosis, she didn't even have time to settle on a treatment plan before it took her life. And then, still reeling from the loss of my mom, I discovered that she had the BRCA gene, a gene that puts you at a much greater risk from breast cancer. I got tested and discovered I had it too. When it came to the options, I didn't even have to think about it.

I decided on a bilateral prophylactic mastectomy, in layman's terms, having both of my breasts removed. My boyfriend at the time, Bradley, was horrified. He tried to spin it as if he was supporting me, told me I was being crazy to have such perfect, boobs removed just because I might risk a painful death. I'm ashamed to say, he almost convinced me. Almost. And then when I was almost swayed, he slipped up by making a quip about how it'd be wrong of me to deprive the male gender of such wonderful tits. That night, Bradley was gone,

and in just over a month's time, so were my breasts. I'd always want to be. I'd always want to wanted to work in medicine, but my experiences showed me the direction I should pursue. And after plenty of training, I became a fully fledged mammographer. Every time the radiologist would declare it was just a cyst, my heart would swell. Every time a person received the bad news my own mother had, I gave them as much support as I could. Knowing I was simply doing my part to catch this horrible disease in some people, of all genders, despite misconceptions, made me feel like I was doing my mom proud. I've seen a lot of different types of patient and a lot of different types of body in my six years as a mammographer. Once you work in a hospital for a while, nothing shocks you.

But the patient who came in today, she left me taken aback from the moment she entered the screening room. There'd been a note attached to her file suggesting that she was a problem patient, not very amicable, and had unknown health issues, but she was coming in for a routine breast screening, nothing I had to worry about. It was early afternoon. I'd just gotten back for my lunch break. That's when the door to my screening room opened, and Miss Loretta Carson walked in. Well, to say she walked in would be downplaying it. One of her legs stomped, the other dragged and slithered across the linoleum floor. I had to stifle a gasp, force myself not to show any discomfort in front of the patient, be the usual, supportive person I'd earned a reputation for. But Loretta Carson

was something else. She was large, not fat as such, just wide. Not tall either, five foot if that. But she was built like a brick shit house. A brick shit house with huge bulging breasts and huge bulging eyes. Her skin was pallid and strange, waxy and yet almost slimy. As she walked over to me, I noticed she left a trail of discharge from the bare foot that dragged. She'd dressed in a hospital gown, and the fabric was already yellowing with damp patches all over it. When she got closer, I noticed the smell.

It wasn't like death, exactly, but it was as close to death as you could get with someone still alive. I've seen, and smelled, numerous infected wounds in my time as a medical professional, but Loretta Carson seemed to exude that smell. like her entire body was infected somehow. I ran through the usual greetings and reassurances, telling her that this was just a routine checkup, that it might be uncomfortable, but it was worth the discomfort to check for breast cancer.

Loretta responded to none of it. Instead, she got close, too close, and stared at the mammography machine. I'm meant to put my titt on that. Her voice was a nasal, flemy drawl. One of her eyes was much larger than the other, so it was like she was peering at me through an absent magnifying glass.

Her teeth, the few that remained anyway, were brown and decayed. And her tongue, Christ, it was dark gray, almost black, and far too big for her mouth. When she spoke, drool pooled at the corner of her lip, and her tongue protruded like a fat worm. I tried not to judge. I couldn't risk judging.

I'd seen plenty of people who struggled to take care of themselves. I prided myself on having empathy. But the way Loretta leered at me, the way she swayed, the way the dampness seemed to emanate from her skin and soak her hospital gown, you'd have to be a saint not to be a little put off. If you could just unfasten the top of your gown? Before I could continue, she'd undone the whole thing and let it drop to the floor. She was naked under the gown, completely, utterly naked.

Her skin hung in strange folds that flopped and contorted as she moved. Sores covered her body. Some healed over in scabs. Others clearly open and infected. The thick black patch of pubic hair looked as if it had been singed. Her skin continued to excrete the strange clear fluid as she walked even closer to me. But in all of this, what struck me the most were her breasts. They were creamy white, pert perfection.

Blard, sure, to match her frame, maybe an e-cup, but not a single sore touch them. No sweaty liquid coated them. It was like her breasts belonged to a woman in her early 20s and had been transplanted onto this strange woman. Loretta pushed past me and positioned her breasts on the X-ray device. I tried not to breathe through my nose. The stench coming off her was something else. This is going to squeeze them tight, right?

It might be a little painful, yeah. But we'll go slowly and make sure you're as comfortable as possible. Just get squeezing, you dumb slut. I bit my tongue. I'd read she was difficult. She was obviously mentally unwell. I'd do better just to get the job done quickly and get her out of here. I prepped her and got her into position, still disconcerted by her nudity.

I began to lower the plate, slowly compressing her breast. breasts. And then Loretta shoved me. She shoved me so hard that I stumbled backwards, crashing into the safety glass between the X-ray machine and the imaging computer. I felt the glass crack with the force of the blow. And I saw Loretta reaching for the button, holding it down, ensuring that the pressure plate came down harder and harder and harder. Her breasts bulged and spread along the imaging. surface, flattening and expanding so the tissue and her nipples were now bulging from the machine. I could only lean back against the glass, frozen in shock and from the force of the blow. As she kept going, it was her nipples that went first, two pops that I barely even registered.

Then I saw the fissures opening in her breasts for just a split second, red, green and yellow fluid. leaking from all the fault lines that opened in her flesh. And then, with a final hard press of the button, the X-ray machine compressed as far as it could. As a mammographer, I've often toyed with the idea of what it would be like if something went wrong, and someone's breasts got compressed too hard. But nothing could prepare me for the explosion of flesh,

fluid and I-Corps that burst forth from Loretta Carson. It burst into the room, covering the walls, the floor, the equipment. Loretta let out a deranged inhuman cackle and pulled herself free, tearing away what remained of her exploded breasts. The holes where they'd been began to droop, the skin slipping down to reveal a body that had no anatomy I'd ever seen. And then she began to liquefy. First, one of her eyes lit out of its socket,

then her jaw detached and dropped to the floor with a spludge. It felt like forever, but it must have been over in seconds. Loretta Carson's entire body had liquefied and melted into a quivering mound of flesh. And then this began to grow and balloon and expand, and I knew what was coming, could see it, but I could do nothing to hide or protect myself. The mound of flesh that had once been pretending to be a woman exploded, covering the entire screening room in foul-smelling liquid

and viscera. It covered everything. It covered me. I began to shake uncontrollably. The smell alone sending me into shock. The thing I'd just seen failing to even process in my mind. The door to the screening room burst open. An older, wealthy-looking woman in a navy-blue pantsuit stood there, a look of indignation on her face. I'm Loretta Carson, and I've been waiting far too long to be... ...called. She looked at me.

I looked at her. And if the real Loretta Carson said anything else, then I didn't hear it, because her voice was drowned. downed out, drowned out by that deranged inhuman cackle, coming from every single piece of the other, fake Loretta Carson. Many of you already know this, but if you don't, then my nickname among the podcast team is snacks. They call me snacks because I love snacks.

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Get those snacks in. You never know when you're going to need them. Unless you're me. In which case the answer is all the time. In our final tale, we meet a young woman who's made the decision to audition for porn to pay the bills. Her blunt worldview and extra effort required in learning social norms might have been a struggle for her in the past. but she's no fool. She knows exactly what to expect. However, in this tale shared with us by

Olivia White, nothing is what our main character expected, and what she thought would be a peek behind the curtain of a porn site she's familiar with turns out to be more of a trip beyond the veil. Performing this tale are Addison Peacock and Graham Rowett and Eden. So settle in for a story about sex that shows sex isn't always sexy. And let's all take a seat on, the casting couch. The waiting room smells faintly of bleach. I flick through the tattered, year-old copy of Playboy and glance at the time on my phone. 33 minutes I've been waiting. Outside, the main sun sets, casting an amber-purple glow over the single coffee table, empty bookcase, and two bags. battered chairs in the room.

It reminds me of the reception area at my dentist, only there's no bespectacled secretary sitting tapping at a keyboard. Just me. And the closed door leading into the next room. In the 33 minutes I've been waiting here, no sound has come from the next room, save for a gruff male voice telling me to just wait when I knocked upon initially arriving.

Another ten minutes, and I'll leave. Call it a bust and go home. Make that 20. I really, really need the money. On autopilot, I turn the glossy pages of buxom beauties. Their full breasts proudly on display. And I think about the rent check due next week.

It's been over a month since I lost my job at the coffee shop. Too shy, too withdrawn, customers don't feel at ease with you. I'm an introvert. I can't help it. I tried my best. The bleach smell is giving me a headache. There's something else there too. Something the disinfectant is trying to mask.

A salty, sweaty smell. Like sex has died in here. I give a wry smile. In the back of my mind, I vaguely wonder if I should be more nervous than I am. I'm smart. I've done my research. I've talked to others in the field. I know what to expect. None of it seems as daunting as it apparently should.

My roommate had gasped and shrieked when I'd told her my plan. She'd begged me not to. But it's all right for her. She's got a job at Walmart, just making enough to cover expenses. I know she'd bail me out if she could. I know my parents would too if they were still around. But they're not. and I've been presented with an opportunity here, and I have to take it. I start as the door to the other room opens and quickly swing shut before I can see inside.

Another girl stands there, short, dark-haired, about my age. She wears a strapped tank top under a lacy cardigan and a purple tartan skirt so short that I can catch a glimpse of her crotch as she steps towards the exit. I flush and look away as I notice she's not wearing panties. The girl pauses in line with me. She turns and I find myself staring into her groin. Her thighs are china pale. My eyes travel up her body over the thin white line of her exposed belly,

her small yet full breasts, her face. Our eyes meet. She smiles at me. Dark violet lipstick curled in a gesture that promises is mischief and mystery. I smile back, swallow, quickly look away, then stand up, suddenly not liking being towered over. She's standing close, too close, and I almost sway backwards as I rise our body's inches apart. She smells of vanilla and soap. Her neck-length hair is tussled. She smiles again, showing teeth. Good luck in there. Thank you. Thank you.

The girl makes to continue past me, then stops as if thinking better of it. Lose the pigtails. Jailbates out right now. I stammer, unsure of what to say, then reach up and pull the hairbands from my blonde hair. I deliberated over the pigtails, too. Wondered if it looked too desperate, cliched. Good girl. I don't feel patronized in the way I probably should.

Just like I don't feel. nervous about what's coming next. You should just go on in. I nod and walk resolutely towards the door. Irrationally, I find my body tensing, for some reason expecting the girl to slap my ass as I pass. I glance over my shoulder at her and see she's not even watching me. She's checking her phone, already walking towards the exit. Somehow, though, I know she's smiling, that same mischievous smile. Inside, the room is almost bare. Slap blinds cover the windows on two of the walls. A bookshelf, empty like the one in the waiting room,

sits adjacent to the back wall on the left-hand side. In the center is a cheap-looking wooden desk, upon which sits a handheld camcorder. To my left and beside me, along the wall which hosts the door I entered from, is the couch. That's exactly what you'd expect, and everything you've been led to believe it would be in a place like this.

It's so obtusely, unapologetically expected that I laugh, a high-pitched giggle that catches in my throat. The couch is black leather. Pleather, though, I wager. And after a cursory glance, I confirm it's clean enough for me to sit on. I wonder if it's been wiped down since the other girl was in here. I wonder if they were even doing that. I certainly didn't hear her moan.

Maybe she's just quiet. I remember the tantalizing glimpse I caught of her vulva, shaved and bone white. Idily, I wonder if she was wearing panties when she got here. She didn't have a bag with her, so if she was, are they still in this room? Maybe the director has them. I look at him now. I've been saving him till last. Perhaps I am nervous after all.

No, not nervous. intimidated. I've seen the director before, but I look at him now as a stranger. He stands in the center of the room in a white casual shirt and beige chinos. His light brown hair is closely cropped, spiky. His skin is smooth and tanned, but worry lines around his eyes betray his age. He looks more muscular in person, strong and dominant. His tattoo peaks out from the short sleeve of his shirt, emblazoned on one thick bicep. I can only see the jawbone, but I know from past experience that it's a tattoo of a skull with horns and an ace of spades on the forehead. I can't see them just now, but I know he has

two others as well, a heart above his own and a small dagger on his hip, to the right of his pubic area. It's strange to me, knowing I've seen this man naked for weeks. without him knowing I even exist. Soon, I think, that could be me. My nude body etched into the minds of men and women whose lives I will never know. The director isn't looking at me. He's staring at the wall. I follow his gaze looking for the bug or the crack that has him so wrapped, but I can see nothing. The fact he hasn't acknowledged me leaves me feeling a little insulted. Perhaps this is a psychological game. Establish right away that I'm nothing more than tits, an ass, a pussy, a mouth. But it doesn't feel like that. I can't explain why. I shiver.

It's freezing in the audition room, and I notice one of the windows is half open, letting in the chill fall air. Goose flesh prickles my bare arms. Idily, I wonder if the intention is to make me shiver. The cold can easily be mistaken for fear. I scold myself for being a fatalist and a cynic again. Thoughts that this isn't my world are quickly quashed. Any woman can find herself here. My roommate told me I'm not the kind of girl to do things like this, and I laughed scornfully at her,

and told her that even autistic Catholic introverts with class record GPAs can be the kind of girl to show their boobs for money if that's how things play out. She shut up after that. So I have to practice what I preached and stop feeling like a guppy in a shark tank. I am the shark and I will not be afraid. The nautical imagery makes me realize the smell of salt is stronger in here. At first I suspect the obvious, but no, it's not altogether unpleasant.

Reminds me of walking along the seafront with my parents and my brother. The director still hasn't moved. Um, hey? He turns to look at me and there's a wide-eyed, boyish innocence in his eyes, something I've never seen in any of his videos. Hello. Thank you. Come in. His voice is low, monotonous, disinterested. I bite back a sarcastic retort.

I am in. The door is closed behind me. I've got to hold back the sass. Lose the attitude. Meek and compliant. That's what they want, right? Sure. I can do that.

Name? So he hasn't even bothered to see who's auditioning next. Great. Or maybe it's another game. Jenna, Carpenter? But I'd like to perform as Alabama Knight. I pause, waiting for some kind of reaction to the name. I still haven't decided if I like the pseudonym.

If that's okay. He waves a hand as if who I am doesn't matter in the slightest, which is probably the truth. For the first time, he looks at me, his gaze traveling up and down my body. I'd been mentally prepared for him to undress me with his eyes, but this is altogether more clinical, dispassionate. I feel immediately disarmed. Age? He asks the question as if not caring about that either. Just turned 18?

It's a lie, but 19 doesn't have the allure. In today's porn terms, if you're not just turned 18, then you're practically a milf. The director nods distractedly. Are these all natural? Real. He reaches out and makes a cupping motion with one hand as if testing my breasts. But he's still a few feet away from me across the room, and the gesture looks comical, like one of those dirty old British comedians from the 70s you see on Lifetime. I scour his face for any sign of humor and see none.

Aside from the hand motion, the question wrong-foots me. For a moment, I wonder if he's trying to insult me. My breasts are small, barely a bee cup. For all the comments I've had on them over the years, I've never had someone suspect I've had a boob job. The director stares at me expectantly, and I don't think he's teasing me after all. He's genuinely asking.

No, sir. They're 100% what my mama gave me. I wince inwardly at the casual mention of my mom, both in a situation like this and in general. Unlike the places I'll be offering up today, parents are Jenna's no-go zone. I remind myself to be more careful with what I say. No point laying on the valley girl too thick.

This guy seems like the type who'd have any girl's number the moment they walked the door. No fooling him. He's nodding at my proclamation of naturality. I'm going to need you to take your clothes off now. I frown. I mean, sure, I can do that. But don't you normally have us sit on the couch first? Tell you our sordid sexual secrets? You're kind of famous for it? Oh, God, Jenna, don't tell the guy how to do his job. But it is. But it is. It is true. It happens in all the videos I've seen from this man. Momentarily, I feel a spike of panic that this isn't an audition. There will be no video I'll get paid for, and he's just got me here

to strip for him out of hours. I chastise myself. Ridiculous. This guy earns a lot of money from having sex with women on camera. His videos earn a lot of money. He can get laid whenever he wants, but he can't get paid unless he films me and releases it online for all to see. Director frowns now. Yes. Yes, of course. Sorry, I'm a bit. Sorry.

He's stammering for the words. Like, he's nervous. He can't be nervous. I'm supposed to be nervous. Have a seat, please. I back up to the famous couch and lower myself onto it. The faux leather squeaks as I sit. I'm reminded of a joke my dad once made when I was a kid.

I didn't understand it, and I know. nagged him all day to explain it, to his ever-increasing amusement. Pleather? I barely know her. I consider repeating the joke to the director, but think better of it. He probably hears it all the time. Plus, there's a chance it's real leather after all, and I don't want to lose my first job in porn by insulting his iconic casting couch. The director stares at a spot above my head, his expression blank.

I give him a winning smile, and what I hope, our come-to-bed eyes. I've been practicing them in the mirror for the last fortnight. Our eyes lock, and it seems to rejuvenate him somehow. Tell me a dirty secret. His lips curl up in a smile.

Just like my come-to-bed eyes, it seems rehearsed. When I'd been preparing for this, I'd considered lying for this section, but I'm not very good at elaborating on lies. Besides, if someone who knows me sees the video, they're going to realize it's me. No reason to hide some things. In my senior year of high school, I blew the English teacher.

The director is silent for a moment. Were you trying to improve your grades? I smile, Riley. I had the highest grades in class. I won a bunch of essay writing and creative writing contests back in high school. I try not to let smugness creep into my voice. The director looks thoughtful. Before he can even respond, I find the words pouring out.

I was a real goody-goody, you know. The kind of girl who doesn't party, doesn't go out on weekends, just studies and keeps her head down. I had a reputation as someone who didn't date. Not that many guys tried. I soon went from being the hot nerd chick to just the nerd chick, and then the weird nerd chick. High school's kind of rough.

if you're autistic, socially awkward, and won't spread your legs. So, yeah, that wasn't real popular. Wasn't even popular with the teachers. Apparently, I'm not very likable. I think about pausing for him to interject and disagree, but I can't read his expression, and I don't want to hear what I know is the uncomfortable truth, so instead I barrel on.

Apart from one, anyway, Pete, um, Mr. Grant. The aforeblown English teacher. I was his favorite student, and I knew it. I don't want to say I flirted with him. It wasn't that conscious, but he sure flirted with me. Took me most of the year to realize it, mind. We had a book club, just us too. Contemporary adult novels, not the stuffy, archaic things on the syllabus.

Looking back now, the books he got me to read grew increasingly suggest. suggestive and sexual. I found them revelatory, but still I had no interest in the boys my age. Anyway, one weekend, Mr. Grant, myself, and a few other students who excelled at the subject were away at a creative writing award show thing. I got third place in the state, and I was pretty buzzed. That night, Pete came to my hotel room to congratulate me and discuss the book we'd both in reading. I've no idea if his intention was to do anything sexual, but mine sure was. I excused myself to the bathroom, and when I came back out, I was stark naked. Pete gave me a grin like he'd won the damn lottery. I laugh, memories of that evening flooding back. I remember I'd shaved my

pussy for the first time ever that night before the trip. I guess subconsciously I intended him to see it. But I was clueless and didn't think it through, and I spent the whole bus ride up and the ceremony itself with the worst itchy groin. And when I stripped for Pete, it was all red from Razorburn and where I'd been scratching it. But I didn't care, and neither did he. I begged him to fuck me, but he wouldn't because I was a virgin. He wanted to put it in my ass instead, but I didn't like that idea. So I ended up giving him a blowjob, the first one I'd ever given. It was so long and sensual that by the time I'd finished, my lips felt like rubber and my throat was sore as heck. Pete kind of freaked out after that, accused me of seducing him and started crying.

He'd lose his job if they found out. His wife would leave him, and she was pregnant with their first kid, blah, blah, blah. I was hurt and insulted. It wasn't like I'd tell anyone. He knew that, and I wasn't stupid. I knew we had no future together. I knew he didn't love me. I didn't want him to leave his wife from here or anything. I just wanted it to last a bit longer. He stopped engaging with me from that night on, treated me like any other student,

gave me some pretty harsh grades, too. Looking back, I kind of wonder if he was trying to push me, get me to blackmail or expose him. I don't know. Or maybe he wanted me to chase him. Beg. But he'd said no, no more. So I took him out his word.

I've never found it easy to second-guess people. People should just say what they mean, you know? I let out a deep breath and feel the prickle of tears stinging my eyes. Suddenly I remember where I am, in a porn director's office being filmed for a sex video. A wave of self-consciousness washes over me, and I wish I'd taken the director's offer to get naked without the preamble. The director is staring at the space above my head again.

He says nothing for what feels like forever. Then finally, he speaks. Did he come in your mouth? I blink, momentarily taken aback. That was his takeaway from my story? But of course it was. He's a porn director. He's not interested in my heartbreak.

The blowjob was supposed to be the focus of the story. I reach up and wipe my eyes, a smile replacing my tears. Sorry, I'm sorry. Yes. He did come in my mouth. And thus began my love affair with swallowing semen. Not really a love affair. I don't mind doing it.

I don't care either way. But from my research into porn and this director in particular, I know it's seen as appealing if a girl presents herself as a cum-guzzling, slut. Don't worry, I'm not a virgin anymore either. This was a long time ago. I'm vaguely aware of the fact that the timeline of things I've told the director doesn't add up. Apparently, I've just turned 18, but the incident with Pete happened a long time ago in my last year of high school when I was 18. I don't figure he'll care. He knows I'm not really 18 anyway. He or one of his employees, I guess, saw my driver's ID when I applied for this job.

They know I'm 19. I wasn't lying about the incident with Pete being a long time ago, though. It just happened in my sophomore year, rather than my senior one. Pete taught me English for two more years after that. Two years of him being unable to look me in the eye. Say Lovie? So, uh, you want me to get naked now? Show off my hot bod.

I'm better at shaving these days. too, don't worry. I'm babbling and I know it, but I just want to get to the part where I don't have to think anymore and I can lose myself in carnal sensations. I'm aware, too, that the other girls usually share more than one sorted story,

but theirs are sexy and fun, and I realize that the story about Pete isn't an outlier. All the others make me look pathetic, too. Like the time I pretended to be super drunk at a kegger because I didn't want anyone to know I wanted sex, then promised the boy a blowjob. every day that week if he'd go along with my lie that I'd passed out instead of getting laid.

Or the time my roommate walked in on me 69ing with a girl from my classics class, and I didn't understand why she was shocked or why it presented any kind of new information about my sexuality. Or the time at 15, I heard some of the boys in my class talking about jacking off, and I joined in saying I'd made myself orgasm twice the night before, and everyone had freaked out and told me I shouldn't say things like that, despite the fact that they were. You know, neurodivergent things that make perfect sense to me

yet seem to send the general population and do a frenzy. Yeah, this porn performance isn't the place for any of that. Please, Mr. Director, just let me take my clothes off now and we can all get paid and go home where it's nice and safe and actually warm. Take off your clothes. Please. I realize he has no intention of shutting the window when he makes no attempt to move,

instead looking at me expectantly. In fact, I realize he hasn't moved from the spot he's standing in at all since I've been in the room, which is weird because it's a running joke amongst his girls that he barely stands still, always pacing and sitting and standing. There's one video where a girl chastises him for it and he spanks her as punishment. Maybe I should chastise him for something. Anything to elicit more of a reaction from him. I'm not that uninspiring.

am I? Whoever booked me for the job said I was a smoking hot piece of ass when I sent over my full body nudes. I know I'm not the most likable girl and more than one boy has accused me of having resting bitchface, but come on. I'm going to need you to shut the window, big boy. I say it with a purr and a quick bite of my lower lip as if extending me the courtesy of saving me from hypothermia is worth untold sexual rewards. The director looks confused for a moment. then turns toward the open window. I notice his eyes open, wide, and surprise for a split second. Then he turns back to me and nods.

Burr, it is rather chilly, isn't it? He has the tone of one who's humoring a small child. He rubs his bare arms in an exaggerated manner, and I see no goose flesh on his skin. For a moment, I wonder if it's just me. Maybe it's not cold at all, and I just think it is. Maybe I'm shivering because I'm in shock at seeing that accidental clit slip from that super hot girl earlier. Accidental, I chuckled to myself.

She let me see. The hussy. God, I wish she was here right now. I don't even know her, and somehow I'm adamant that she'd break the ice in this room. Figuratively and literally. And help ease me, and in turn, the director in. The window? And I see my breath misting slightly, so now I know it's not just me.

It really is freaking freezing. Right. Sorry. Yes. He continues to stand there. For a moment, I don't think he's going to move after all. But then he turns and heads to the window. Hallelujah. Only his stride is odd. His gait awkward as if he's been drinking or his legs are dead.

Hell, maybe he is drunk. If I had to spend all day making small talk with people and then fucking them, then I'd probably get drunk for it too. And I've never imbibed alcohol in my life. The director lifts the blinds and I see it's full dark outside now. A lone street light casts a dim glow over his tan skin. He slides the window shut and instantly the temperature of the room rises a few degrees. Thank the Lord for sparing my aching nipples.

The director goes to lower the blinds back down, but I stop it. Can you leave them up? I kind of like looking out at the night. Always have, ever since I... I shut up when I see the expression on his face. For the first time since I've been here, he's smiling. And not one of those ambiguous smiles that I have trouble interpreting. This is a wide, beaming, genuine grin that almost feels like it's brimming with love.

I'll open them all. He pulls the blinds up on the neighboring window, then on the two opposite me. Finally, he returns to the exact same spot he'd left moments before. It dawns on me then what I'm about to do, and the fact that raising the blinds means anyone could look in and see us. Worry is replaced by amusement as I realized. It doesn't matter. I'm doing this for the purpose of being watched.

If someone gets an early sneak preview, good on them. So, I feel momentarily shy and self-conscious, not because of the blinds, but because of the smile. It's gone from his face now, but it can't be taken back. It reminded me of the smile Pete gave me when I stepped naked out of that hotel bathroom. Only this was about me liking the nights and feels way more wholesome. Yes.

Take off your clothes. close, please. Slowly. I slip my t-shirt up over my head. Too quickly, I think, but he doesn't correct me. I'm wearing a deep purple, lacy bra that I bought for the occasion, even though I know it'll be discarded on the carpet any minute. I reach up and cut my left breast, teasing the hem of the bra low enough that little Ariel shows.

I let the fabric snap back into place and lower my hands to my jeans. The director is looking at me passively, and I can't tell if he's impressed, but I don't mind. I feel impressive. And as I unbuckle my jeans, nailing the usually awkward button, then slide them down my smooth legs and step out of them curtly, I feel even more impressive. I'm wearing a purple thong that matches the bra. It was part of a set, and it's just about the only set of matching underwear I own. My roommate laughed at me once in scandalized horror because I was wearing a see-through black bra and a pair of beige granny panties,

but I explained they were the underwear at the top of the drawer, so why wouldn't I? But she told me matching sets are sexy, and I've taken it on board, and I think this little purple thong looks very nice with the bra. Unprompted, I give a slow twirl so the director can see it's a thong. While my back is to him, I reach behind myself and give my right-ass cheek a slap. then gently tug it to show the thong against my butt. I hear a sound that could be the director whistling appreciatively, but could be my own breathing.

When I turn back to face the director, he's looking at me with a passive curiosity. You are still wearing clothes. It doesn't sound like he's chastising me or trying to be commanding. It sounds as if he genuinely thinks I don't know and is trying to be helpful. He's certainly very different from how he seems in his. his videos. He hasn't once called me a slut yet either, and I'll be honest, I was sort of looking

forward to that, because nobody's ever called me a slut as a term of endearment, and I'm curious to know how it feels. Indeed, I am. I jirate my body a little in a way that I really hope is seductive. Want me to be a dirty little slut and take my bra off. It doesn't feel like anything special when I use it on myself. Maybe a tiny bit sexy, but that could just be because I'm standing in front of a hot older guy wearing skimpy underwear. It's like being fingered, I figure. Fing yourself is all good fun, but it's pretty by the numbers. Being fingered by someone else is a thousand times sexier and makes you come much harder. Double if the person doing the fingering is another girl. I imagine the hot Vaj Flash girl from earlier calling me a little slut and suddenly I'm very wet and when I take my bra off,

it's not the cold that's made my nipples hard this time. I get my bra off easily too and I feel a well of pride. Girls are meant to excel at undoing bras, but I've always sucked at it, and the fact I did it first time in front of this director feels like a victory. I reach up and cut both breasts in my hands. Pleasurable sensations course through me as I tease my stiff nipples with my fingertips. My boobs, small but definitely natural, seemed to meet the director's approval because he nods. He opens his mouth to speak, but I preempt him, lowering my hands to my thong, with which elicits another nod of approval. I'm breathing hard and trembling slightly as I loosen the elastic of my panties,

ease the fabric from between my butt cheeks, and let them fall to the ground. But it's excitement, I realize, not nerves. I go to kick them away softly, and they tangle on my foot, and I shake my leg to free myself, laughing and not feeling at all self-conscious. You have a pretty pussy. His words startle me for a second. second. They're so solemn, so matter of fact. But I don't care. I do have a pretty pussy. It is pretty. I've always thought it was. A lot of girls laugh if a guy says that line, but I get it.

Mine is pretty, and right now it's wet, and I bring my hands down and stroke it gently, caressing my smooth pubic mound. I was telling the truth. It is shaved, as it has been ever since that first time when I did it for Pete. And it's not red or itchy anymore. Not for a long time. I've learned how to avoid that. And I've shaved it every four days since the first time, like clockwork. Even last year when I was in hospital for two weeks, I stuck to my schedule.

I make a note of the days in my lesson planner, and recently a lecturer saw my repeated notes of shave my pubic hair written in my flowery handwriting and highlighted in pink, and he made a comment I didn't quite catch and has paid a lot of attention to me since. My pretty pussy was freshly shaved that morning, and I can't stress how glad I was when I found out this job booking coincided with a shaving day, because I was worried I'd have to get naked for the director with a little stubble growing. But no, it's smooth, and as my fingers brush open my labia, I feel the warm, wet, slickness on my skin, and suddenly, I want the director to fuck me more than I've ever wanted anyone else to fuck me ever,

except maybe the girl I saw earlier who even now I can't stop thinking about. The director is still looking me up and down, nodding. I step over to him and silently begin to unbutton his shirt. As the shirt falls open around his chiseled abs, I lean up and kiss him passionately on the mouth. He seems taken aback by this. I guess they don't usually kiss in videos like these. Usually mouths are reserved for other things.

But I like kissing and I figure that could be my thing, the way I can stand out from other girls who get naked on camera. The director's lips have an unusual flavor like vanilla and salt, and I briefly wonder if I'm tasting the girl from before. The director smokes. I know this because he's mentioned it in a few videos I've seen, but there's no taste of tobacco in his mouth. None at all.

Not that I would mind if there was. There just isn't, and that's a fact. I kiss him again to be sure, this time massaging his tongue with mine, and I'm right. vanilla and salt. His teeth are extremely white, too. I remember in the videos that his teeth were a little yellow, another reason I know he's a smoker,

but now they're bright white and clean, and he must have gotten them polished. If I let myself get carried away, I could pretend he got them cleaned just for me, since he knew I was scheduled for a job today. It's silly, and I know it's unlikely to be the case, but it's a nice thing to believe. He probably got them clean for the girl who came before me.

She seemed like the type who guys, even porn directors would make an effort to impress. I know that if I knew her, I'd make an effort to impress her too. I wonder if she watches the director's videos, and wonder if she'll watch mine. The thought makes me blush fiercely. I know she's new to being one of the director's girls. I know because I've watched every one of the videos he's put out in preparation for today.

I didn't see that girl in any of them, and while I'm not terrific at remembering faces, I know I wouldn't have forgotten her. I'm not focusing on the task at hand. My mind is on something else when it should be on what's right in front of me. I know this is a trap I have a tendency to fall into, and I need to stop now because it's important that I impress the director. This first video is paying good money,

but the rents do every month and steady work will mean I don't have to worry. I run my hands over the director's chest, sliding his shirt open wider as I kiss above his nipple, gently biting his supple flesh. Something about his chest seems wrong, unexpected, but I can't put my finger on what. Instead, I slip his shirt off his shoulders and let it fall to the ground. My attention is caught by something on his arm, a tattoo of a skull with horns and an ace of spades on the forehead. At least that's what it should be.

But now it's just a jaw, exactly what was visible from beneath the arm of his shirt. Where that ends is just tan, untouched flesh. The tattoo just cuts off unceremoniously in a clean straight line, as if it were needleed on over his shirt and only a portion of the design made it onto his skin. That's when I realize what's wrong with his chest. The tattoo of a heart over his heart simply isn't there. Your tats are fake? For some irrational reason, this revelation makes me want to cry.

I picture him standing in front of a mirror, painstakingly applying all three fake tattoos every single day, painting them on with skin dye slowly and methodically, recreating all the minute details so the deception is never discovered by his audience. There's a tragedy in this to me. Somehow, it's just devastating. The director says nothing, so I kiss him again, this time trying to transmit my empathy along with my saliva.

I reach for his arm and brush my fingertips, still wet from my own lubricant along the unfinished tattoo. When I withdraw my hand, my fingers are glistening, but clean, and the tattoo hasn't so much as smudged. The director reaches back and, gripping my ass with both hands, pulls me towards him in a sudden jerk. My hand shifts from his tattoo as I brace myself against his chest. The rough fabric of his chinos rubs against me uncomfortably. Time to lose those pants, mister. I immediately feel silly for saying it like that. The director is still holding me tight against him by the ass,

but I pull back slightly and unbuckle his belt. Fuck me. For a moment, I feel dizzy, like I'm standing atop a high dais above a shark-infested ocean. You're the shark, Jenna, I remind myself. But still, I'm not used to taking control like this and certainly hadn't expected to do it with this man in this situation. I'm relieved when he reaches this.

down and unzips his pants. They fall to the floor with a jingle of belt buckle, and I'm surprised to see he wasn't wearing underwear. The chinos don't seem like they'd be at all comfortable for going Commando. Maybe he likes the discomfort in the same way I like wearing tight thongs, but still, a nagging voice in the back of my mind tells me it's not the same. I'm also surprised and somewhat disheartened to realize he's flaccid. I know I shouldn't be taking it personally, but I am. I'm naked and pressed up against him, and we've just been kissing with tongues, and I'm not the most self-confident person, but I'm fairly sure it's not narcissistic to say that my tight little naked body should have made him hard. That's what the person who hired me said, too, that my

tight little naked body made them hard. I guess I just expected it to be the same for the boss. No, I'm being silly. This guy fucks girls all the time. He almost certainly fucked Miss Purple Tartan skirt just earlier. It's totally understandable that he's a bit desensitized, and it's my job to get him going. I sink to my knees and take him in my mouth. His cock tastes of vanilla and salt, too, and now I'm absolutely sure I'm tasting the girl from earlier. But I don't have time to think about that because he's already growing hard between my lips and, God, the camera doesn't lie. He's big. It's as if his erection awakens him. Suddenly I feel his hand in my hair and he's tilting my head back so I'm looking up at him. You like the feel of my cock in your mouth, you little slut?

He gives a little nod. I glow with pride. I feel like I've beaten an end-of-level boss in a video game, only instead of a power-up, I've won a face-fucking. The director rocks his hips back and forth as I slide his cock over my writhing tongue, back and forth, occasionally hitting the back of my throat, and causing me to gag a little, but I don't mind.

Once again, I'm glad I took the initiative and got some practice in before the big day. My friend Ryan, who lives in my dorm, was only two heads. happy to volunteer the use of his penis to allow me to perfect my technique. This is the 33rd blowjob I've given in the three weeks since I got booked for this job, and I'm determined to make it my best yet. Baby, your lips are like silk. He has said this exact same thing to another girl in one of his videos, and I'm glad I've earned the right to be told it, too.

My hair is coiled in his hands, and he tugs on it every time he shivers with pleasure, and the pain in my scalp sends my clit throbbing. I can't help myself. I reach down and begin to play with it, darts of ecstasy coursing through me, causing me to suck harder, and without warning, a warm viscous liquid spills into my mouth,

almost filling it. I'm so taken back by this unexpected act that I almost choke and sputter on the cum. Instead, I managed to extricate my mouth from around his cock and hold the fluid inside. I opened my mouth to show him before he prompts me. I've learned from his videos that he likes that, and then I swallow it all down

with a big gulp. It's the strangest thing. His cement doesn't taste of anything. Nothing at all. Even water has some kind of taste. This is all texture. It's horrendously disconcerting. I've never experienced anything like it.

All the other guys I've given head to, all three of them anyway, have tasted of something. Ryan's tastes really soapy. The directors is just devoid of all taste. I want to say something, but how do you say your cum is tasteless without sounding tasteless? The confusion is followed by disappointment. It wasn't meant to be over so quickly.

Was this my fault? Have I gotten too good at blowjob so that even a guy who gets head every day can't hold back? It seems unlikely. But I've never seen a single video of his where a blowjob is all they do. Even in the videos where he finishes in a girl's mouth or on her face or breasts, they still have sex, too. Usually the videos feature oral, vaginal, and anal. Some of the girls won't do anal, so that's a whole bit, but I've never, ever seen one where it's just one of those things. I look at the director, about to say something, when I notice he's still incredibly erect. His dick is practically brushing

against my lips, and surely it should have gone a little soft by now. I don't even have time to think about this further. He reaches down and slides his hands under my armpits and gently lifts me to my feet. It feels effortless. Then he's cupping my ass and lifting me off the ground. I raise my legs and wrap them around him as he slides inside me. I let out a low moan as he begins to thrust and it's like his cox electric. The entire inside of my vagina tingles like static as he pounds away. We're spinning around and he's stumbling towards the couch, falling forward with me like I weigh no more than a feather. I'm pinned against the leather, plethora, whatever. And sure he barely knows me, but he's fucking me so hard, I'm screaming in pleasure. I've never felt anything like this before, and I can't

see. My eyes are stars, and that's what it feels like is inside me stars, tiny and white-hot, exploding like supernovas in my pussy, and I come. Oh, God, how I come, and it feels like my soul flies out of my mouth and does a lap around the room before returning home. I feel his seed spilling inside me, and somewhere in the back of my mind, a tiny voice tells me that this is wrong, because even though I'm on birth control, I've never let a guy come inside me before. for, and certainly not a guy who I'm being paid to fuck, but in that moment I don't care. As a second orgasm rips through my body so hard, I think my ribs will break. As the orgasm subsides, I relax my muscles, ready for him to pull out and the sensation

to dissipate, but he doesn't. It doesn't, and he's still thrusting, and that's all I am now, that single motion in the center of my being, in and out and in and out, and I do not exist beyond the rippling star between my legs. I am nothing, and the world is nothing, you are nothing. All is forgotten, and as I orgasm for the third time, I smell the ocean and vanilla, and I see her face. She, who has become death-destroarer of worlds, and the pleasure sheds my mind until I'm a collection of atoms, floating on a sea of ecstasy. I feel the exact moment. My heart stops, and my organs shut down because I no longer need them. I've transcended flesh and blood, and as another burst of the life-seed fills me, I give out a final shuddering cry and blink.

Out of existence. I awake, floating in void and nothingness. There is no pleasure, no pain, no sensation of any kind. I cannot hear, taste, feel. All is darkness, and I realize I am blind. I know I'm screaming because of course I'm screaming, but I can't hear it. Can't feel my mouth stretching open in formless terror

if indeed I even have a mouth anymore. I scream and tell you. I don't. For eons, I float there in the void, feeling neither fear nor pain, but knowing I am experiencing both. Then, in the distance, a light, a tiny, tiny light, no more than a pinprick, but enough for me to know that I'm not blind and simply enveloped by the blackest, most impenetrable darkness in the universe. No, not in the universe. Beyond it, I am elsewhere. I am removed. The light grows in size, slowly, infinitesimally slowly, growing in size over years, centuries, millennia, and all the while all I can do is wait and watch.

Finally, the light has grown so large that the only blackness which remains dances on the edge of my vision. Tens of thousands of years pass and a figure slowly forms in the light. light. I wait with the infinite patience which has been forced upon me. Finally, I see her. The girl from so many lifetimes ago in an office on earth in one of the universes that circle around me, a place where concerns of the flesh are great and a young woman once accepted a job that others would judge her for. Jenna! My voice, silent for a time so long that worlds have lived and died in its passing is a rusty croak. Jenna, it was my name once.

The girl before me, I know her name too now. She stands in front of me in a tank top under a lace black cardigan with a very short purple tartan skirt, barely covering her thighs. I let out a shrieking, cackling laugh at the normalcy of it all, and the girl smiles back. Blessed host, you must awake and return. That which I have awakened within you, be it savior or destroyer, shall live from you. Her voice is like disorder.

A thousand voices that somehow perfectly sound like one voice belonging to this one girl. Nothing and everything is unusual about it. She winks at me. And it's true. It's true, my dearest dream witch. do have a pretty pussy. The first thing I feel is a cold, sticky material under my naked back. My eyes shoot open and I sit up with a start choking back a yell.

Outside, the night peers in through the four windows in the porn director's office. Above me, halogen lights flicker their bright glare. The director stands in the center of the room. He's dressed again now and staring at the wall. It's as if nothing has happened. and since I entered the room. But I know it has. I'm naked, and there's a pleasant ache in my crotch that signals recent sexual activity.

We never even got to the anal. My throat is dry and painful. I'm immensely grateful to realize there's a bottle of water on the arm of the casting couch. I open it and take a swig. I would have said yes, by the way. You know, just so you know, in case you want to hire me again. Something tells me this will be my only foray into the world of porn. The director doesn't respond.

It's as if he's unaware of my presence. The dream is still fresh in my memory, but I can tell it's fading fast. Nevertheless, I feel enlightened somehow. Raised up, as if all my concerns were petty and needless. What did she call me? My dearest dream witch? Hey, I'm talking to you. I no longer care about making a good impression.

It was the best sex of my life, but I don't think I could ever handle it again. The director turns to look at me, and there's a blank vacancy on his face. I will be right back. With that, he turns on his heel and exits the room. The door swings shut silently behind him. I consider bailing, just getting dressed and leaving this place. but no matter how zen I feel, I still need to pay the rent. And if this guy will be uploading my extremely powerful orgasms to the internet,

then I at least deserve my check. I begin to wonder how good the footage is. From my perspective, it was wild and mind-blowing. I'm curious as to how well that's translated to the screen. I glance at the camera on the desk. It sits there silently, its big black eye regarding me with an unidentified. identifiable stare. I noticed the red recording light isn't flashing.

Wait, was there ever a red recording light? I genuinely can't recall. And try as I might, I can't recall the director ever setting the camera to record either. Of course, it may have already been recording when I entered, or I may have missed him turn it on with all my anxiety going on. I sure as hell was too preoccupied to think about whether it was recording at the time anyway. Please, please don't let me have been scammed. I hope that from somewhere unseen, the director will hear my pleas and make it not so.

Still, I'm not yet powerless. I can act. I can check the camera, or I can go chasing after the director to ensure he's not fleeing the scene. I opt for the choice that requires the least energy. Standing up from the couch, I let out a very different kind of moan than earlier. My legs and hips ache like a bitch. I can barely stand. Christ, I thought the old cliche of being fucked so hard you can't walk as hyperbole.

Whincing, I make my way over to the desk and pick up the camera. I let the wooden surface prop me up as I boot the device to life. Idly, I wonder if I should dress first and still bare-ass naked, but I just do not have the energy. Even holding the camera up is a strain. I work out the functions in seconds. There's one video file on the memory card. The video begins to play on the viewfinder.

There's a knock at the on-screen door. On the little screen, the door opens and the girl from earlier enters. This is okay. This is fine. She was right before me. We could be in the same video file. I skipped to the end without looking, then rewind backward 30 seconds.

If I'm on here, I'll be in this bit of footage. The screen shows the door, and the casting couch. Nobody can be seen in the picture. I watch as the director walks into view. He stands in the middle of the room, locking off part of the couch from sight. I can feel my breathing growing heavier.

My heartbeat speeds up. Miss Purple Tartan skirt walks into view from what must have been behind the desk. Giving one furtive glance at the camera, she walks to the door and opens it. For a split second, see myself, sitting in the waiting room chair and flicking through Playboy. My hair still tied up in bunches. Then, the door closes. Though muffled, I hear voices from the camera. That's Miss

Purple Tartan skirt. That's me. The recording ends. None of it. None of it was filmed. Not a single fucking second. And of course that means I'm not getting paid, doesn't it? The director, that weird, silent weasel is probably long gone by now. I let out an angry sob. Why? Why do that to a desperate girl? He could have sex with any number of willing, hot women, women far hotter than me. So why me?

Why dupe me, of all people? All the mental power and energy from just now floods out of me in a single sniffling cry. I'm so exhausted. Rett, I can barely stand. I need to sit down, but I'm not sitting on that couch, that fucking dirty, sleazy couch in which girls are made to sit to have the love and passion fucked out of them. Instead, my eye catches the chair behind the desk, and I make my way around, leaning on the wooden surface for support. I collapse into the chair with shaky, trembling breaths. It's comfortable. Very comfortable. It's not shitty, cold. It's not shitty, cold.

sticky pleather, for one. It feels good against my naked throbbing crotch. I want to cry. Instead, I feel my eyelids drooping. I feel like I could fall asleep here and never wake up. Maybe I should. It's not like director Dickhead will be coming back anytime soon. And it'd serve him right if he walks in tomorrow morning and I'm passed out in his chair. Maybe I'll get lucky and die here and he'll have to deal with that. I yawn, crack my spine, and settle into the comfy director's chair. I stretch out my weary, aching legs, and my foot presses into something under the desk.

Something slick and wet and squishy and so gross feeling that I instantly recoil the pain in my legs be damned. What the hell is that? I look down at my feet. They're smeared with something. Something red. Rolling the chair back, I peer down to look under the desk.

What I see makes me recoil in horror, sending the wheeled chair crashing backwards against the wall, my legs flying up to my waist so they're as far away from the oozing horror beneath the desk as possible. What I see is a pile of body parts, limbs and organs and blood and icker. I see a severed bicep, and on it smeared it, smeared it. in crimson is a horribly familiar tattoo. But I don't need the tattoos to identify him anyway, because on top of the pile sits ahead. It's severed at the neck and its sightless eyes stare up at me,

glazed and pleading. Its mouth is open in a silent scream. It's a face I recognize well, not just from the numerous videos of his I've watched, but from looking up at him as I knelt before him, from kissing him, from staring into his eyes as he made love to me, as he fucked me. And from him looking back at me over his shoulder, as he left through the door of the office just five minutes ago.

The director left, but he didn't re-enter, and yet somehow his mutilated body parts sit at my feet. With growing horror, I reach across the desk for the camera, taking care not to come into contact with the viscera beneath. I play the file back from the beginning. I see the girl enter. Listen to the director enthusiastically greet her. Listen as he makes a comment about her smoking hot tits.

Yeah, this is the guy I'm familiar with from the videos. They talk for a little, and I fast forward until I reach apart with the director is standing motionless in the middle of the room. The girl stands before him. He's staring at her. blank expression on his face. The girl begins to change. It's less that her body transforms and more that reality shifts

to accommodate a new being. A being not of this world, not of this reality even, and yet unmistakably female. It oozes with feminine power despite possessing a form comprised of shadow and tendrils and sharp, sharp teeth. It watches with a thousand eyes, within each of which burns a thousand stars.

Tendrils, whipping and flaying, embracing the director, cutting through his flesh and bone like butter. Parting him like a pussy, slipping through his flesh like a cock into a tight, waiting ass. She doesn't spill a drop of blood, Miss Purple Tartan skirt. That's what gets me the most. She doesn't spill a drop and not a single body part hits the ground. Instead, the dismembered pieces of the director are held in stasis by the girl's tendrils as other tendrils pass through them, severing and separating muscle and tissue. The whole thing plays out silently. If it wasn't for the fact that I'd already heard sound on this recording, I'd assume there was no audio.

The next thing I hear is a wet, bloody thump. The girls disappeared from view at this point. Although I didn't see her move. She just was. And then she wasn't. The thump, I assume, was the director's body parts being deposited under the desk for me to find later. Next thing I'm aware, the girl is back on screen. She, it, is bending over depositing something from her mouth, from one of four.

her mouths. Her limbs pull away and there's an oily black blob on the ground, maybe three feet tall. Even on the recording, it hurts to look at it. Like I'm seeing something I'm not meant to be able to comprehend. The pain in my eyes only gets worse as the object begins to ripple and split. I see limbs and flesh emerging from what I can only describe as a fracture in reality. Before I can discern more, I black out. Judging from the time stamp, only a minute has passed when I awake. The thing the girl has birthed stands in the center of the room on screen. It's his clothes.

grow out of its malleable flesh and its features sharpen. It's the director. Only not. But it's the one I encountered. The one I fucked. The one who filled me with his seed. Next, Miss Purple Tartan skirt is back on screen and she's herself again. Or at least her human form.

I have a sneaking suspicion that this one is the disguise. There's a knock on the on-screen door. The girl nods at the director who stares at her blankly. She makes a hand gesture. I realize, numbly, that the person knocking on the door was me. The footage shifts forward by another 30 minutes. I can't tell if it's stopping and starting until I glance away from the camera and notice the time

on the wall clock, and realize 30 minutes actually have passed. Part of me wants to know what my mind isn't allowing itself to comprehend. Then, knowing it must be worse than what I've already seen, a much larger part of me does not. The girl is holding the camera now. She smiles directly into it and winks. She places the camera down. moments later I see the footage I've already seen the girl walking out a glimpse of me

our exchange again the footage ends only this time it begins playing again by itself there's no picture just sound the timestamp displays garbled nonsense I don't even want to understand how but I know this is happening now. Or it already happened. Or will happen? Time has no meaning here. The voice crackles from the camera and sounds human. Almost. Check your pockets. For a moment, I have no idea what she means.

And then I remember my clothes, my jeans. Dragging myself up from the chair, I haul my aches. I haul my body around to the other side. Strangely, though, I don't seem to be aching anywhere near as much. In fact, I feel like I'll be fine in a few minutes. My clothes lie neatly folded on the couch. I know they weren't there before because I was lying there before. I also know that they weren't freshly laundered. They didn't smell of salt and vanilla before.

Now they do. I pull my jeans on, then my t-shirt. I can't be bothered with my sexy underwear, so I leave it behind. Just to be safe, I tuck it down the side of one of the casting couch cushions. I wonder how many other girls' panties are hidden in the gaps of that couch, discarded and forgotten. I walk to the door before I even remember to check my pockets. In the right-hand one is an envelope.

I take it out and open it with shaking fingers. Inside is a note and a check. I expect the check to be for the amount I'm owed. Just a cruel jive at my expense. A thousand dollars. It seemed so important once upon a time. It's not for a thousand dollars, though. It's for more than that.

Considerably more. Never have to worry about money again. more. I can't tell who the check is from. There's a name signed there, but again, my mind won't let me comprehend it. The words look like writhing, crawling chaos to me. Somehow, despite all this, I have every faith that the check will cash just fine. One hand on the doorknob, I read the note. Turn around. I do. She stands there. She's not Miss Purple Tartan skirt now.

She's Miss naked as the day she was born. Except, staring into those eyes, I know she wasn't born this way. I know she was born in many ways, in many forms, all across the aeons. And I know that despite the beauty and the fragility of the girl I look upon, what I'm seeing is a porcelain mask that hides a chaos, so complete, so all-consuming, that to peek behind it would destroy the reality of the one who saw it.

And I know, too, that I'm gazing at a darkness that extends beyond good or evil. It extends beyond any human comfort. And yet, I comprehend it because I see myself reflected in her eyes. And I see the same chaos reflected in myself. And I am so close, so close to remembering, to recalling who I really am, who I was born as. The closer Nya leans into kiss me, the closer the memories get, of what came before, of what is yet to come, why my Savior has hidden me as they have, and why I am to awaken now. And as our lips touch, I do awaken. The seed she spilled inside me was not for my womb. It was for my flesh, my blood. blood. I am reborn of myself. I am the dearest dream witch. Then my God is gone, and I am alone.

Energy flows through my body. I reach for the camera, erase the memory card, and hold it up to capture my head and shoulders. I hit record. I give a wink. I whisper some platitudes. I blow a kiss. I end the recording. It's enough for now. The footage will go viral within days. Who is this girl? Where can I find her? And I know what to do when they come looking. Because we're building an army and we're fighting a war, a war of gods and of monsters and of dreamers. As I leave the waiting room, I smell salt and vanilla, the crawling chaos and the dream witch. We are just the beginning, but we shall be outside no longer. The city will fall.

The ice will melt. The swamp will dry, and the ocean shall boil. Thank you for joining us for the second episode of The New Decade. If any of the topics dealt with in today's episode have affected you, then there are links in the show notes to find support and help. Don't be afraid of seeking help for embarrassing medical conditions. Also, don't be ashamed of having turned to sex work to pay the bills. And we at the podcast don't stigmatize those who do.

Bodies aren't always temples. Sometimes they're a mean. to an end, and sometimes there are our own worst enemies, and respecting body autonomy is always important. I've been Jessica McAvoy, and this has been the New Decade Episode 2, Inhuman Bodies. This audio production is copyrights 2020 by Creative Reason Media Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.