"I can't believe I'm actually doing this," I mutter, staring at the leather mask positioned on the mannequin head in front of me. The craftsmanship is impressive, sleek black leather with intricate stitching along the edges, covering everything except for the mouth and nose openings. The eye section is completely sealed, rendering the wearer blind.
"I didn't really expect the shoot to be so soon," I say to Lana, who's hovering nervously beside me in the dressing room.
She runs her fingers through her blonde hair, a habit I've noticed she does when she's anxious. "Morgan pulled some strings to fast-track everything. She said something about the crew only being available today."
I glance around the studio dressing room, taking in the professional-grade makeup station, the rack of costumes hanging against the wall, and the plush seating area where industry veterans probably lounge between takes. Everything is immaculate, high-end, nothing like the sleazy backdrop I'd imagined when I reluctantly agreed to this insanity three days ago.
"This place is... nicer than I expected," I admit, running my finger along the polished surface of the makeup counter.
Lana's hand comes to rest on my shoulder, her touch light but reassuring. "They only use the best facilities for Morgan's productions. She has a lot of friends in high places."
I shift uncomfortably, the reality of what I'm about to do finally sinking in. "So what happens now? Do I just put on the mask and walk out there?"
"Not quite yet," Lana says, reaching into her purse. She pulls out a small bottle of water and a tiny blue pill, holding them out to me. "You'll need to take this. The studio won't let you film without it since it's your first time."
"Boner pill?" I ask, eyeing the familiar shape of what's clearly Viagra or something similar.
Lana nods her expression a mix of professional detachment and personal concern. "It's standard procedure. Performance anxiety happens to everyone their first time on camera."
I take the pill from her palm, swallowing it with a gulp of water, oddly thankful to have it. The idea of failing to perform in front of a professional crew and causing them to waste a day in the studio fills me with a dread I hadn't anticipated.
"Come here," Lana says softly, guiding me to sit on the small couch in the corner. Her fingers work at my belt, unbuckling it with practiced ease. "Let's get you ready."
Before I can process what's happening, she's pulled my pants down to my ankles, leaving me exposed in my boxers. With gentle movements, she slides those down, too, freeing my completely flaccid dick.
"I'll be your fluffer if you want?" she offers, her voice taking on a tenderness that contrasts sharply with the clinical setting. Her fingers wrap around my shaft, stroking with gentle, familiar movements.
The sensation of her touch, combined with the surreal circumstances, leaves me speechless and half chubbed up. I watch in stunned silence as she leans down, pressing a cute kiss to the tip of my cock.
"Is this weird?" I finally manage to ask, my voice cracking slightly. "That you're getting me ready to have sex with someone else?"
Lana looks up at me, her blue eyes filled with an emotion I can't quite identify. "A little," she admits, continuing her gentle strokes. "But I want you to be comfortable. I want this to be good for you."
There's something in her voice, a hint of resignation that makes my chest tighten. Is she doing this because she genuinely wants to or because she feels obligated after the podcast?
The door swings open with a soft click, interrupting my thoughts. Morgan stands in the threshold, her presence immediately dominating the room.
She's dressed in a black leather dominatrix outfit that hugs every curve of her body like a second skin. Thigh-high boots with stiletto heels add several inches to her already impressive height, making her tower over both of us. Her fiery red hair cascades freely down her shoulders, framing her face in waves of auburn.
Her piercing green eyes take in the scene before her, Lana kneeling between my legs, her hand still wrapped around my softening cock, and her crimson lips curl into a knowing smile.
"Oh, don't worry about that," Morgan purrs. "I actually prefer he starts a little soft. I want him to get hard on camera."
Lana pulls away from me, quickly wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She stands up, smoothing her shirt as if trying to regain some professional composure.
A wave of guilt washes over me, sudden and overwhelming. What the hell am I doing? This isn't just some fantasy anymore, it's real, with real consequences for our relationship.
"Lana," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "Are you sure this is what you want?"
She meets my gaze, and I search her blue eyes for any sign of what she's truly feeling. There's something there, flickering behind her practiced smile, but I can't tell if it's hesitation or determination.
"I think this is what we need to do to go forward," she says finally, her voice steady despite the slight tremble in her hands.
Morgan steps fully into the room, the leather of her outfit creaking softly as she moves.
"Are you ready, Adam?" she asks, those green eyes boring into mine with hypnotic intensity.
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. "I guess so."
Morgan's lips curve into a predatory smile. "Stand up," she commands, her tone leaving no room for argument.
I rise mechanically, my boxers still around my ankles. I reach down, intending to hike my pants back up when Morgan's voice cuts through the air with laser precision.
"Don't bother with those," she says, gesturing dismissively at my pants. "You're going to be completely naked on the chair anyway."
I freeze mid-motion, heat rushing to my face. The clinical environment of the dressing room suddenly feels impossibly intimate as I stand exposed before both women.
"I..." My voice catches in my throat as I take a deep breath, trying to quell the rising tide of embarrassment. The thought of walking through the studio like this makes me feel anxious.
Morgan seems to sense my discomfort. She strides toward the mannequin's head, plucking the leather mask from it with elegant fingers.
"Here," she says, her voice softening slightly as she approaches me. "Put this on first, then remove everything else. It's easier that way." She turns the mask in her hands, the leather catching the light. "Something about being anonymous. It might even make you feel invincible."
Before I can respond, she's sliding the mask over my face, her movements gentle but firm. The leather is cool against my skin, molding to the contours of my features as she secures it at the back of my head. The world goes dark as the eyeless mask covers my vision completely.
"How does that feel?" Morgan asks, her voice now closer to my ear than I expected.
"Strange," I admit. "I can't see anything."
"That's the point," she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "Now, let's get these clothes off you."
I feel hands at my shirt, Morgan's, I think, from the confident, almost clinical efficiency of the movements.
"Arms up," she commands, and I comply without thinking, raising my hands above my head.
My t-shirt follows, pulled smoothly over the mask and off my body. The cool air of the dressing room raises goosebumps across my newly exposed skin.
"Step out of your pants," Morgan directs, her hand on my shoulder providing stability as I awkwardly lift one foot, then the other, freeing myself from the tangle of denim and cotton around my ankles.
Now, I'm completely naked, blind, and intensely vulnerable. My heart hammers against my ribs, blood rushing in my ears. The Viagra must be starting to work because, despite my anxiety, I feel myself beginning to harden again.
"Lana, can you take him and tie him up to the chair on set?" Morgan's voice carries that commanding edge that seems to leave no room for refusal.
"Sure," Lana responds, her voice sounding slightly strained. Her hand finds mine, warm and familiar, giving it a reassuring squeeze before guiding me forward.
I take tentative steps, completely reliant on her direction, my bare feet padding against what feels like polished concrete.
Morgan's hand suddenly grips my shoulder from behind, stopping me in my tracks. She leans in close to my ear.
"The safe word will be Michelle Obama," she whispers, her voice low enough that only I can hear it. Her fingers dig slightly into my skin, a possessive pressure that sends an involuntary shiver down my spine.
I nod, to nervous to form words as Lana continues leading me forward.
The air changes as we move from the dressing room into what must be the main studio space, cooler, more open, with the subtle hum of equipment and murmured voices.
Without sight, my other senses heighten, the smell of industrial cleaning products mixed with perfume, the distant sound of someone adjusting lighting equipment, the cool air raising goosebumps across my naked skin.
"Here we are," Lana says softly, guiding me backward until the backs of my legs hit something solid.
I reach behind me, my hands finding the smooth surface of what feels like a wooden chair. I lower myself onto it, surprised by how comfortable it is despite its sturdy construction.
"Put your hands behind you," Lana instructs gently.
I comply, crossing my wrists behind the chair's back. The vulnerability of the position hits me full force, blind, naked, and now about to be restrained. My heart hammers against my ribs as I feel Lana's fingers wrapping something soft but strong around my wrists.
"Not too tight?" she asks, her voice close to my ear.
"It's fine," I manage.
Her hands work methodically, securing the bonds with what feels like practiced ease. The realization that she's done this before, probably countless times, sends a complicated mix of emotions through me.
"I'll be on set the whole time watching since I'm in the scene, too," Lana says, her hand coming to rest reassuringly on my shoulder. "So if you get worried, know I'm here for you, okay?"
A knot forms in my stomach, heavy and insistent. What the hell am I doing? This isn't me. The darkness of the mask suddenly feels suffocating rather than liberating.
"Lana, I think I…" I start to say.
"It's going to be perfect," Lana interrupts, her fingers squeezing my shoulder. "Just remember to breathe. The first time is always scary, but Morgan will guide you through everything."
Before I can protest further, I hear the distinctive click of heels against the hard floor, approaching with measured, confident steps.
"We're ready to begin," Morgan announces. "Places, everyone."
"Yes, we are ready to go," a deep male voice responds from somewhere in front of me.
The atmosphere shifts immediately. I can feel the energy in the room change, becoming charged, focused. Someone adjusts a light nearby, the heat of it warming my exposed skin.
"Lana, go take a seat on the cuck chair," Morgan demands, her leather outfit creaking slightly as she gestures toward what must be another piece of furniture nearby.
Lana sighs audibly. "Got it," she mutters, her footsteps retreating as she moves away from me.
"Everyone quiet on set," the male voice calls out. "And... action!"