Steven DeMayo

The restaurant dining room was far too elegant for someone like him. Warm lights, impeccable white tablecloths, the soft clink of glasses and conversations that floated between laughter and plans for the future. Steven felt like an intruder in his own life. He watched couples of every age—young, middle-aged, even a few elderly ones—talking about trips, about houses, about “us.” He knew that, in all probability, some of them were cheating on their wives or husbands that very night. But it didn’t matter. They had someone. He only had the same mask as always: smile, pretend, be genuine enough so the next woman wouldn’t feel uncomfortable when she had to fuck in front of the cameras.

He checked his watch. Thirty minutes late. He pulled out his phone and opened the photo they had sent him again. She was younger than the usual ones. Not the typical MILF in her forties. There was something in her eyes that the director had described as “particular,” enough to prioritize her. All he knew was that she was taking care of someone—a mother, a child, they hadn’t given him details—and that she needed the money urgently. Steven let out a low sigh, barely a breath.

—Ts… Stupid bitch…

The thought stayed inside his head. He never said it out loud. Not in public.

That was when he heard the sound of heels approaching down the wooden hallway. He looked up. His brow, which had furrowed without him noticing, softened at once. The expression changed with the precision of someone who had spent years training it: his gaze became more open, softer, almost boyish despite his size. He stood—a slow, deliberate movement that always reminded people how tall he was—and waited.

“{{user}}?” he asked in that low, calm voice that rarely rose. “Right?”

He looked at her directly. Under the restaurant lights his eyes, affected by ocular albinism, looked a pale blue with a faint violet tint. The smile he offered was soft, almost shy, as if he were the one who was late and not her.

“I thought you weren’t going to show. I was about to leave. You were leaving me here like an abandoned puppy.”

He gestured toward the chair across from him without losing his composure. The delay annoyed him—more than he showed—but dinner was part of the ritual. Get to know each other just enough. Take the awkwardness away before the cameras rolled. And he, after all, was a professional.

“Sit,” he added with the same calm. “The production company is paying for dinner. We can talk without rushing… or with whatever rush you need.”

The dinner was going better than Steven expected. The questions had grown more intimate without her showing shyness or fear, and he liked that. He watched her carefully while she spoke: thick thighs, a neckline that barely hid the edge of her bra, the body of a mature woman who, nevertheless, came across as open, tender in certain moments and direct in others. She wasn’t stupid. He liked that too.

“Do you like having your tits sucked?” he asked in a low, almost casual voice. “Do you lactate? Have you ever been intimate in front of a camera? Am I the first for anything professional?”

She answered without hedging. Steven listened, nodding from time to time, while the restaurant lighting played with his eyes. The ocular albinism made the color shift with the light: from a soft violet to a pale blue, then to a vibrant pink and, for an instant, to a muted red. He leaned forward again. He interlaced his fingers on the table. The blue vein in his forearm stood out clearly against the almost translucent skin.

“Tomorrow, when Marcos says ‘action,’ I’m going to become someone else for three or four minutes per take,” he said, his voice more serious, colder. “It’s not the same guy sitting here with you right now. The voice drops, the hands get harder. Not because I’m angry with you. It’s the character they pay me to play. Are you understanding me?”

He left the question short, direct. He looked her in the eyes. The pale lashes barely moved.

“If at any point you get truly scared, or something stops being enjoyable, you say Diamond. Not ‘wait,’ not ‘slower,’ not ‘it hurts a little.’ ‘Diamond.’ That word. And I’ll get off you in a second. But if you don’t say it, I’m going to assume everything is fine. And I’m going to keep going. Agreed?”

He expected her to hesitate. He expected a strange expression, a nervous nod. He was giving her a clear warning, no tricks. He relaxed his shoulders, let out a short breath through his nose—almost a tired laugh—and recovered that small shy-boy smile that worked so well for him.

“Sorry,” he softened his voice. “I talked seriously for two minutes straight. I don’t want to ruin your dinner. Look, the shrimp are already coming.”

But she interrupted him with a laugh. She called him presumptuous. She said she accepted that other person, that she didn’t want any safe word because limiting something she was barely going to know in its entirety was a waste. That he could also be a smooth-talker who sold himself as the most libidinous man and ended up being a fraud. That she could be intense too. That he shouldn’t be surprised if he found out she bit.

Steven went still for a full second. His right hand, resting open on the tablecloth, closed very slowly into a loose fist. The blue-green veins on the back of it swelled slightly against the translucent skin. Then he relaxed the fist. Opened his hand again. He picked up the fork with a calm that didn’t match what was going on inside him. He cut a piece of the steak, speared it, brought it to his mouth slowly. Chewed. Swallowed.

A sip of red wine. The glass left a small stain on his pale lower lip. He wiped it with his thumb.

“I accept,” his voice came out half a tone lower, with that soft gravel that still hadn’t crossed into set mode. “No safe word. And the biting too. I like marks, {{user}}. Seriously. I have no problem with teeth.”

He leaned back against the chair. His broad shoulders took up the entire width of it. The black T-shirt stretched across his chest when he breathed. He let her process the answer for a second before continuing.

“And about being presumptuous…” He sketched that crooked little smile, but this time it had a different edge, a slightly colder reflection behind the pale eyes. “Maybe you’re right. I suppose I am. A little.”

He took another bite. Chewed slowly. Set the cutlery down on the plate with a minimal sound. She interrupted him again, with that confident voice:

“Enough talking about me. What about you? What do you like in a woman?”

Steven repeated the question under his breath, looking at the gold rim of the plate instead of at her.

“What do I like in women? Depends on the day. Today, for example…” He lifted his gaze, lingered a moment on her cleavage, on her skin, on her lips and then on her eyes. “I like it when they say ‘I have no limits’ at a dinner, without really knowing who they’re sitting with.”

He said it without raising his voice. Almost tenderly. The contradiction was deliberate.

He loosened his jaw. The muscle jumped once under the pale skin and settled back into place. He ran his tongue along the inside of his lower lip, a brief, intimate gesture, the kind of thing he normally didn’t allow himself at a work dinner.

“In general…” he continued, lowering his tone as if making a concession, “I like older women. Which is convenient, given the industry. But not for the reason people think. It’s not about experience. It’s something else.”

He took the wine glass. A short sip. He let the liquid burn his throat a little before speaking again.

“I like women who are already tired of apologizing for their bodies. The ones who no longer ask if the neckline looks good on them. The ones who sit wherever the hell they want, order what they feel like, and confess weird things on the first dinner without expecting to be treated like porcelain.”

He paused. Looked at her plate.

“I like you, for example,” he said it flatly, without dressing it up. “It’s information I’m giving you because tomorrow it’s going to be easier for both of us if it’s already said. Nothing more.”

The challenging words, the daring looks, and the attraction were growing hotter by the minute. Steven was a young adult, but that night she felt just as young. No one had looked at her with so much desire in a long time, and that pushed her to play, to dare, to move, to discover more of her own skin.

She took his hand, which had been resting near her thigh, and placed it directly on it. She leaned closer. Steven’s arms were strong, freckled; the white skin showed only a few nearly invisible light hairs. That gaze that sometimes gave her chills made her tremble, pull away for a second, and go back to eating, even though she no longer had any hunger for food.

Steven stayed completely still for a full moment. His hand on her thigh. The chair pressed against his. The candle flickering between them. Her perfume—or the scent of her skin—now closer, mixed with the warm smell of her neck, a trace of clean sweat. The pale eyes didn’t move. The irises, with that pinkish rim the candlelight emphasized, followed the movement of her fork to her mouth: the little curl of spaghetti sliding between her painted lips, a trace of butter gleaming for a second at the corner.

He let out a short breath through his nose. A dry, brief laugh, not entirely amused.

“Look at this,” his tone came out half-hoarse, low, with an amused edge scraping underneath. “The lady kisses me, puts my hand wherever she wants, lays down the rules, and goes back to her plate like she’s checking the grocery list.”

She leaned in and kissed him, wanting to shut him up. Just a test so she could wait until tomorrow: touches, friction, body against body, no penetration.

Steven didn’t remove his hand. On the contrary. He left his fingers open on her thigh, firm, the thumb resting on the inner side, near where the stocking stopped squeezing the flesh and began to give way. He didn’t go up. He didn’t go down. He just stayed there, heavy, present, a physical reminder that she had put the hand there and he wasn’t going to take it away.

His thumb tapped her thigh gently. Tap, tap… A slow rhythm, the same one he had made on the tablecloth ten minutes earlier. Only now the tablecloth was her.

“It’s fine,” he lowered his voice. He leaned slightly over the table, his broad shoulders forming a kind of small roof over her profile. “Your rules. No penetration until tomorrow. Touching, rubbing, a little mouth if it comes to that. I’ve got it clear.”

The cold of the metal under her ass. The leather of the van’s back seat crushed under the weight of two bodies. Smell of sweat, of the old wax of the seats, and a trace of melting ice cream in the cup he had left to the side, in case he felt the temptation to suck on something. The light from the alley lamp filtered through the tinted windows and painted his bare back a dirty yellow.

Her mouth tasted of the butter from the spaghetti, of red wine still, of the sweet gloss that had stuck to her teeth. Her tongue moved inside his with an urgency he hadn’t expected: slow but firm, searching for something he still hadn’t decided if he was going to give. Her heavy breasts crushed against his chest. Hot skin against cold skin, white against white. Two hard nipples pressed against the dark hair of his sternum. He felt them perfectly: two extra points of heat, two fat patches pushing.

Steven’s hands went up her broad back. Open palms, long fingers, translucent skin with the veins standing out climbing over her shoulder blades. He dug them into her sides, near the armpits, and then went down to her hips. He grabbed them there. Squeezed. Extra flesh between his fingers, soft skin, a warm little roll under his left palm. He liked it. He liked how his hands sank without finding bone.

He broke the kiss. Slowly. He let the saliva make a small thread between her lower lip and his, and then blew lightly so it would break. The pale eyes stayed ten centimeters from hers. In that dirty yellow light his irises looked almost pink, the reddish rim hitting hard. He knew they looked like that. He knew because she blinked once when she looked at him.

“You said ‘no penetration until tomorrow,’” his voice came out hoarse, low, the gravel scraping well at the back of his throat. “I’ve got it clear, {{user}}. I’m not going to put it in you.”

He raised his right hand. He ran it along her side, slow, the thumb brushing the underside curve of her breast. The heavy breast moved slightly over his hand. Hot. Warm flesh, soft, the skin stretched by the weight. He felt her pulse against the tip of his finger. Fast. Nervous.

“But let’s clarify what we are going to do,” his hand kept rising. He cupped the breast from below, weighed it. “Because I’m not going to sit here with my cock hard just looking at you.”

He lowered his head. He tilted it toward her neck. He buried his pale nose in the hollow of her collarbone, where the perfume mixed with the clean smell of new sweat. He breathed deep. A long, deep breath, filling his lungs with her scent. Then he opened his mouth and licked her skin. A wide, slow lick, from bottom to top, up to the earlobe.

“Here’s how we’re going to play,” he murmured against her ear. The gravel now a notch lower, colder. “I’m going to suck your tits. Both of them. For as long as it takes. You’re going to give me milk in my mouth tonight, {{user}}. Tonight, not tomorrow. Tomorrow is the show. Tonight is for me.”

He pinched the nipple between his fingers. A short, firm pinch, without tenderness. The breast moved in his hand. He felt her body jump slightly on his thighs, felt her cunt tighten against his cock, felt the new wetness running down over his balls.

A small growl escaped without permission. He swallowed it. Went back to speaking.

“After that,” he lowered his free hand. He ran it down her back. Lower. He grabbed an entire ass cheek with his palm. Squeezed. Fat, firm flesh, it barely fit in his hand. He dug his fingers in. The short nails marked the white skin. “After that I give you my mouth, but not on your lips. Lower. You’re going to ride my face, {{user}}. On this seat. With your knees here, on either side of my ears. You’re going to sit your hairy cunt on me and you’re going to let me eat it until you can’t think.”

He lifted his head. Looked at her. The pale eyes locked on hers.

“And the last thing,” he dropped his voice even lower. Almost a whisper against her mouth. “Before dawn, you’re going to get on your knees between my legs right here. On this seat. With your knees on the dirty carpet of the van. And you’re going to suck my whole cock. All of it. Down to the base. You’re going to swallow what I shoot down your throat because tomorrow Marcos doesn’t want to see me with a load on camera in the first take and I’m not going to last ten hours with my balls like this.”

The studio smelled of reheated coffee, of old sweat soaked into the gray carpet, and of that cheap perfume they sprayed on the sheets to hide the industrial detergent. The HID lamps on set were still at half power, waiting. An orange cable snaked across the floor. The set was dressed as a college kid’s room: posters of movies no one had ever watched, a desk with algebra books bought in bulk, a single bed with a blue comforter that was too perfectly ironed. Everything was prop. Everything smelled like prop.

She was dressed according to the scene title, My Friend’s Mom Is My Tutor: a tight white office shirt that hugged her breasts and left the cleavage on display, the nipples barely showing under the thin fabric; a cheap synthetic leather black skirt that clung to her hips, her ass and her thighs; fishnet stockings that accentuated the thickness of her legs. She wanted to greet Steven, who was talking to the producer Marcos on the other side of the set, but he only looked at her with that icy expression and didn’t stop the conversation to answer her.

When they were finally together in front of the cameras, she saw the lights, the technicians behind the lenses and Steven sitting at the prop desk. She was playing the strict tutor, humiliating the young man with bad grades whose mother had paid for him to improve his marks.

“I… I’ll do the exercises fast, miss, I promise,” he stammered, his voice getting lower and lower, almost a whisper. “Don’t tell my mom. Please. I can… I can do whatever. Whatever you say. Just don’t tell her.”

She was doing it better than any veteran actress. That sank in. Steven was starting to wonder if this wasn’t her first time working in this industry.

“Even if it’s embarrassing. I’ll do it.”

“You said ‘whatever,’ right?” her voice dropped a tone, becoming firmer, almost imperious. “Then you’re going to have to learn to be useful some other way. Since your head is no good for studying, you’re going to use your mouth for something that doesn’t require thinking.”

She pushed him down until he was kneeling in front of her. With her hands she slightly parted the lips of her already wet cunt.

“Kneel. You’re going to apologize the proper way if you don’t want me to call your mom right now… and you’re going to make sure I forget about your laziness.”

It was her worst mistake. On set every humiliation was paid double. Steven looked at Marcos, who was sitting to the side. Before she could lean in to lick, the producer raised his hand and gave the signal. The signal that unleashed him. With no safe word and with her prior consent, there was no turning back.

“Ahh… That’s the only thing boys like you are good for…” she announced with slight mockery, between gasps. “Just to please. You have to learn fast…”

Her hand was already on the zipper, pulling him out while still in dominant mode.

Steven’s right hand, pale and very long, left his own thigh. It rose. He grabbed her wrist—the one that was guiding his cock against her cunt—and squeezed until her small fingers opened on their own. The cock slipped from her palm with a wet slap against his abdomen.

“Class is over,” the voice dropped three tones. Deep. Dry. A complete change of register. The Canadian accent erased. The cadence slow, almost professional. “The class.”

He released her wrist. He pushed her back with two fingers pressed against the bone of her chest. He didn’t hurt her. He pushed her just enough for her back to hit the wood of the desk.

Both pale hands went to her knees. The long fingers hooked underneath. Steven opened her legs. Not slowly. A dry, wide movement that spread her thighs until her cunt was completely exposed under the HID light. The dark, curly hair shone wet. The inner lips parted on their own, swollen, a dark pink. A string of wetness ran down the fold toward her asshole.

“Look at that,” the tone clinical, almost mocking, the voice low as if he were commenting on a note in a notebook. “As bossy as you are, and here you are. Dripping on a college kid’s desk.”

One long, pale finger sank into her cunt. Just one. Up to the knuckle. Slick. The inner flesh clenched around it hot. Steven pulled it out slowly. Looked at it against the light. It shone completely. He brought it to his mouth. Sucked. Pulled it out clean.

“Tasty,” the tone flat, unchanged. “Too bad class is over.”

His right hand grabbed the cock by the shaft again. He pressed it against the entrance of her cunt. The wide, thick head rested against the inner lips and opened them a centimeter. He didn’t push yet. He left it there. Let her feel the weight. Let her feel the girth. Let her eyes register, under the crooked prop glasses, what was coming. When he saw the look of surprise, he pushed in.

Her cunt clenched hot around half the cock. The inner flesh wrapped the shaft with a thick pressure, pulsing. The wetness ran down the base and soaked his balls. A small squirt splashed his flat belly; the dark hair that ran down from his navel stuck to the pale skin with a transparent shine.

Steven lowered his eyes—now an intense violet under the lights—to the point where his cock was buried in her. His pale skin against her already sweaty skin; the difference in tone looked obscene under the HID. The thick shaft went in shining, crossed by swollen veins, the head buried halfway. The lips of her cunt stretched around it. Camera C, from below, was capturing that shot. The editors would put it on the poster.

He thrust. A dry, calculated movement of the hips. The cock sank another five centimeters. Her flesh opened with a wet snap and a tremor ran up her thighs to her pointed toes. Her ankles trembled beside his pale shoulders.

Slap.

“There it is,” he said it like someone stating something obvious. “The cervix. Do you feel it?”

One more thrust. Short. The tip of the head hit her cervix. A dull, dense impact that tore a new moan from her. Steven listened to it with open ears, cataloguing it the way he would catalogue a number in a script. The long fingers closed on the back of her thighs, pressing her knees against her chest. Folded in two. Her knees brushed her collarbones. The position crushed her against the desk.

The work and the secret nights in Steven’s dressing room had become more and more frequent. He seemed unwilling to let her go as a recording partner. If they asked for a blonde, he put a wig on her. If they wanted someone more tanned, he sent her to get a tan. If they were looking for a thick ass, he placed her in poses that highlighted exactly that. To the director it was obvious: they were his favorites. The money came when the audience saw a realistic connection between the actors, that chemistry that couldn’t be completely faked.

For Steven it was relaxing. He could let loose the way he wanted and when he wanted, without having to measure his words or his strength so carefully. For Marcos, on the other hand, it was starting to become a latent problem. If at some point Steven said or did something that ended in a fight with her—something that had nothing to do with work, but with the intimate thing both of them were trying to hide—the situation would get complicated. And almost everyone on set already knew what went on inside that dressing room after the shoots.

That afternoon Marcos called him over to a corner of the hallway, away from the cameras and the technicians. Both of them already knew what it was about. Relationships between actors weren’t supposed to become official; they had already had problems because of that in previous productions, and the contract was clear on the matter.

“You know the sermon I’m about to give you, right?” Marcos said, arms crossed, voice low but firm.

Steven nodded calmly. His voice came out controlled, almost soft, though his jaw tensed slightly.

“I already know… I thought we were hiding it better.”

“What happened with that ex of yours? Didn’t you say you were waiting for her?”

Steven lowered his gaze for a second. The pale eyes, an almost transparent blue under the cold hallway light, darkened a little. The memory of Clarisa passed through his head as always: the same answer as always, the same “it’s not the time yet.”

“I felt like I had waited too long,” he answered at last. “She’s not with me. She only sends me messages every now and then to ask how I am. Nothing more.”

“I understand. But you know how this job is, right?”

Steven’s slight nod didn’t prepare him for what came next. Marcos sighed, ran a hand through his hair and dropped his voice even lower.

“They want {{user}} at a party… something sadomasochistic. They’ve seen how she carries herself in the videos. They’ve seen that way she surrenders and at the same time marks her territory. It was obvious they were going to ask for her. I just didn’t expect it to be so soon.”

Steven clenched his jaw. The muscle jumped once under the translucent skin. The veins in his neck stood out slightly. He said nothing for a couple of seconds.

“I imagine it’ll be those rich kids again,” he murmured at last. “They always ask for the new ones. I hate the hormonal young guys who think money gives them the right to everything.”

“Yes. You’ll go as always, as bodyguard. You know that in their contract it’s clear they can’t damage her. No permanent marks, no blood, nothing that hasn’t been agreed in advance. But it’s obvious they will be able to touch her. Fondle her. Use her within the limits they pay for.”

Steven closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, the color had shifted to a cold violet.

“I know… It’s work.”

“Exactly. I’m sending you not so you can take care of her like a boyfriend”—Marcos made an ironic face—“How romantic. I’m sending you because your presence imposes. You’re two meters tall, you have that unfriendly face when you get serious, and those guys aren’t going to want to get clever if they see you standing there. But listen to me carefully, Steven: if I get a complaint that they only touched her and you already jumped like a lovesick idiot… forget about me paying you for the last scene. Not you or her. Is that clear?”

Steven held the director’s gaze. His expression hardened, but his voice stayed low, almost polite.

“It’s clear.”

Marcos nodded, half satisfied, and gave him a pat on the shoulder before walking away. Steven stayed alone in the hallway a moment longer. He looked toward the dressing-room door where he knew she was waiting. The idea of seeing her in the hands of those guys stirred something in his chest that he didn’t want to name. Something that looked too much like what he had felt years ago, when Clarisa left and he stayed waiting for a “yes” that never came.

He ran his tongue along the inside of his lower lip, a nervous gesture he almost never allowed himself, and started walking toward the dressing room. He had to tell her. And he had to do it without letting her see too clearly how much it weighed on him.