I've come on a few years from my Hollywood highs,
The best of the last – the cleanest star they ever had.
I'm stiff on my legend, the films that I made,
Forget that I'm fifty, 'cause you just got paid.
Crack, baby, crack, show me you're real.
Smack, baby, smack, is that all that you feel?
Suck, baby, suck, give me your head,
Before you start professing that you're knocking me dead.
You caught yourself a trick, down on Sunset and Vine,
But since he pinned you, baby, you're a porcupine.
You sold me illusions, for a sack full of cheques,
You made a bad connection, 'cause I just want your sex.
Crack, baby, crack, show me you're real.
Smack, baby, smack, is that all that you feel?
Suck, baby, suck, give me your head,
Before you start professing that you're knocking me dead.
Ooh, stay, for a day.
Don't you dare.
Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah …
Cracked Actor (David Bowie - Aladdin Sane)
She has followed in her mother's glamorous footsteps, all the way to a Hollywood that glitters with false hope and leaves her empty. For a time, she was their darling new actress, showered with accolades and sickening praise, with said mother doing her best all the while to ignore her existence. They will never have the tearful reunion Sarah dreams of, on-screen or off.
It's not often the young stars avoid that inexorable pull of sex and scandal; of 3am coke binges broken up by the police, and drunken brawls with the paparazzi. Somehow, she does, her work the only driving addiction in her charming, bitter little life. The calls from her agent slow, become progressively more awkward. It will never be Janine's fault that the offers themselves have dwindled over the years, but still Sarah feels that hateful little bundle in her heart grow with every crappy bit part the woman offers her – even more so when there is nothing at all to be offered that week. She could switch agencies, she knows, but it would be pointless.
A part of her still regrets that she did not traverse that bridge open only to those sweet, coming-of-age starlets. Even at the small peak her fame had reached, there had been countless offers as she finally outgrew the cutesy teen flicks – offers that many a budding woman-child in her shoes would have snapped up at once. Serious, 'adult' movies, drama and monologues, each with just enough artistic vision to make the now-legal nudity tasteful, and just enough of it to bring in those punters of less artful minds.
One by one, the studios had bid for her blossoming sex, when she was clear and ripe for exposing, but too full of pride to say 'yes'. Now, at twenty-three, they have long since stopped caring. Though it hurts – actually physically pains her stomach – she knows by now that she hasn't the talent to keep their interest otherwise. She's dared to come of age gracefully; grow dull and boring to them. She has lost her magic, and, worse – she knows why.
The rent is obscene here, and she has no clear way to pay the next month's, when the call comes. It's a finished script. It's an actual title role. It is a godsend.
Jared Roberts. Of course, she has heard the name – there's probably no one in the business who hasn't. It's a relatively new one, by Hollywood standards, emerging only around the same time her own début came. Already, it's clear he's one of the greats – he of curious tastes and infinite takes to achieve perfection. He's known as being somewhat demanding to work for, but anyone in her shoes would kill for the chance. It's only as she arrives in the parking lot for the audition that Sarah realises she hasn't seen a single one of his movies. They've always wandered too far into the fantasy genre for her tastes. She has no idea why that frightens her so much now.
Notorious for his theatricality, the director has demanded his auditions take place in an actual, honest to god theatre – a place, Sarah notes, with a hint of bitterness, that is infamous enough to cost a small fortune to rent out for something so frivolous, and that she could never hope to headline. In the wings of the stage, in her most expensive business heels, and her best skirt and blouse, she feels like she is trespassing here. Her stomach twists and knots, her head feels strangely afloat from her body, and she can't seem to concentrate on the reading she's memorised. It's as if she's managed to wish herself away from reality, without ever meaning to. The right words she has poured over for a week shift and dance inside her head.
The feeling only intensifies as her turn eventually comes, and she walks out onto the stage, into the surreal, and into his scrutiny. The spotlight she steps under blinds her to the other humans she hears milling about the auditorium, but she sees him well enough, and for a time, it's like they are the only two present on the earth itself. He sits in a folding chair, before the many rows of seats, conspicuously placed beneath its own spotlight. She is the last in a long afternoon of hopeful actresses, and she knows that he wishes for her to see him, as well as he now sees her. She wonders if his heart reacts in quite the same way as her own does.
Her first, odd thought – given that she has never cared even to look closely at the pictures pasted onto his interviews – is that his hair has been tamed some. It's an unruly, platinum-blonde pompadour of loose waves, pushed back from his pale forehead with just enough care for it to seem rebellious when it springs forth anew. The style is a little dated, now, but he wears it well. He wears everything well. From the powder-blue button-down shirt that clings so snugly to his chest and slim belly, those cream khakis, exquisitely tapered to fit his long legs, all the way down to his suede leather brogues. Everything about him screams money and sophistication, and, perhaps, a little danger. He sits with one lean leg sprawled across the arm of his director's chair, with twinned confidence and arrogance that, on anyone else, would seem a ridiculous parody of itself. On him, it's natural; unrehearsed, as much a part of him as the point of his chin and those perilously high cheekbones. He is above them.
Try as she might, she can't … stop … staring.
She could easily be some starstruck teen, rather than the professional she claims to be, blinded by him and his God-like presence, and formidable reputation. It's more than that, though. It's his eyes – one a pale blue jewel, the other a darker, mismatched imitation of its twin. It's the cool, cavalier stare that still, at times, has the ability to wake her up, shivering in the dark. It's the sneering, pouting lips that do not seem capable of a true smile – that she knows all too well have the capacity to be cruel. It's the way he stares back. He looks, and he sees her, as no one else here does. He can't be that man. It's impossible for him to be that man, but she knows from experience that he wears impossible well, too.
She flubs her own introduction, and imagines she sees his smirk grow just a little wider. He doesn't speak – simply nods his head, and waves a delicate, long-fingered hand for her to continue, giving her the stage. For no reason at all, she abandons the scene she had planned – a fledgeling warrior princess mourning the death of her parents. The monologue she chooses instead is one she has not allowed herself to study for too long. In it, the warrior princess is older, wiser to the world, bound by status and obligation as she surrenders herself to the Elven King's relentless pursuit of marriage. The words taste like sin on her lips. Her delivery is, at best, stilted.
In spite of her clumsy diction, he lets her speech run on to its end, watching her with amusement, and burning intent. Every molecule within her is high-strung and overheated, giving her the sense that she is all but vibrating inside her own body, yet somehow, she goes on speaking. She knows she has no hope at the part, but is utterly unsurprised when he speaks up at the end.
“Sarah.” Her name is the first word he has spoken to her, and it explains everything. It's high, chiming crystals, the soft whisper of a bird of prey's wings; rich, warm silks and velvets that pool within her belly. It's enough to set her breath hitching within her throat, her heart beating a lively tattoo beneath her breast.
“An interesting reading,” he continues, and his eyes never stray from hers. “If you have no objections, I think it's best we discuss it further in my office.”
The room does not come to a stop. No glasses shatter. Not a one of their co-stars in this new scene gasp, or even look at her twice. No doubt half of them, if not more, have felt the scratch of the casting couch against their backs at some time or other – given in to the dark temptation of fucking their way forwards. She follows him in silence, down long, brightly-lit corridors, as if in a dream, her heart firmly in her mouth.
There's a disorienting moment where she is certain that the brass nameplate on his door is a lie – that he will open it, and send them both tumbling into some place far darker than Narnia. The door opens, all right, but it reveals nothing more than a pin-neat, spacious enough personal office. She imagines that, given the temporary nature of its use, it is not quite up to his usual tastes, but he has adapted the room to suit his needs. The office's floor-to-ceiling windows have their blinds drawn, the overhead light warm, and strangely intimate for the setting.
Her escort and potential employer seats himself wordlessly behind a wide, polished-oak desk. It's slightly too big for the room, and does not quite match the rest of the furniture. It's clear that it has been brought from outside, but with its sheer bulk and inconvenience, Sarah cannot imagine why. His tastes will always remain a mystery to her. She knows she stares too long at the smooth, dark leather couch in the corner, before he invites her into a chair instead. With great difficulty, she resists the need to squirm under his close inspection.
“You chose the speech about surrender,” he says, without preamble.
She forces herself to nod, elaborating only when the long silence between them draws taut enough to cut glass. “I thought it was appropriate. It shows off a side of the character we only get to see later on.”
His jaw shifts, and she can see his tongue moving behind his lips, tracing every one of his teeth before he speaks again. “And what side is that?”
Her dry mouth begs for water, but she forces it to form words. “She's left behind all the power that's driven her so far. She knows the Elven King will win in the end, and she's finally accepted the inevitable.”
His eyes close briefly, and they're all but glittering when he reopens them. “Umm. It's a difficult script, and I must confess, I've heard it read much better today. Why do you suppose that is?”
“I was … distracted.”
“I see.” He smiles, and it's nothing if not predatory. “I've been thinking I could use a little distraction of my own, lately. Perhaps we should confer sometime, about what it is you find appealing.”
She sees the gleam in his eye – the leering. With any other director, she would have walked long ago. It doesn't matter. She needs this. He needs her. Both of them know it. “How about right now?” she asks.
He grins, and those pouting lips part just enough for him to bite at the edge of his thumb. The hard white line of his teeth stands out against the intimate pink interior of his mouth. “Are you quite certain?” he asks.
“Yes,” she replies, knowing that, once he has had his way with her, she will never be certain of anything again.
Such power over her is all he has ever wanted. Slowly – making certain she is watching – he rocks back in his chair, and his hands slip down over his belly, to loosely grasp at his belt. He unbuckles it in no hurry, the jingle of metal and gentle rasp of leather against leather the only sounds in the room. When the belt lies open, he makes no move to free himself – simply pushes himself back from his desk, and twists in his chair a quarter-turn to await her.
She feels light-headed, and more than a little excited as she stands, the blood rushing from her face and neck to pool in other places, tightening her nipples and throbbing rhythmically at her core. The weight of his gaze is heavier than she can bear, resting more substantially on her shoulders with every step she takes around the edge of his desk and towards him – dragging her down and down, until she is on her knees before him. Before she can do anything, his hands are at the collar of her blouse, unbuttoning the garment and tugging the cups of her bra down just enough to get at her tits.
There's obvious approval in his gaze, his eyes and his hands hot against her erect nipples, and she's helpless but to shiver. She's conscious of the slight coarseness of his khakis against her fingertips, as she runs her hands along the insides of his spread thighs. Her thumbs graze the v of his crotch as she reaches into his lap to unbutton him. She notices the slight tremble in her fingers as they rake down his zipper.
He's already hard with the promise of what's to come, and growing as she moves to free him. His briefs feel like silk, but the swollen head of his cock is like velvet, hot against her palm. He throbs in her hand as she wraps her fingers around him, stroking him root to tip and getting to grips with just how big he is. She hears him sigh softly, but nothing more. He's slick with pre-come, but there's no arching into her touch, or pleading. He wants her to work for this. Obediently, she bows her head and runs the tip of her tongue lightly across his slit, tasting the salt and musk of him for the first time. She feels a little ashamed at just how hot that taste makes her. She knows, without looking, that he's watching every second of this, absorbing it for his own pleasure. Bending, she takes him inside her mouth.
He rewards her with a low hiss as her lips sink down around him, enveloping every last inch of him. At once, his left hand threads itself into her hair, cupping the back of her head to urge her on, but not enough to hold her down. She almost smiles at the unexpected courtesy. In the dreams she won't admit, he always fucks her mouth with wild abandon. Still, there's time. She sucks his cock with passion, up and down, hard and getting faster, her lips forming a tight seal around his shaft as the flat of her tongue works to caress the head.
His right hand remains at her breast, alternating between squeezing her and running the ball of his thumb across her nipple. The friction makes her want to cry out, but instead, she tilts her head so that she can stare up at him, shameless and aroused. The sight of him, erect and in her mouth and yet still perfectly composed, is the most erotic thing she has ever witnessed. His left eye is the only thing that gives him away – fully dilated and almost black with the lust written there. His gaze shifts between the actions of her mouth, and her eyes, watching with real hunger as she worships him.
She wants to touch herself, but decides against it when she realises what a show she's already putting on for him. His thumb licks a quick but constant tempo at her nipple, sending faint pleasurable echoes down to her sex that she cannot bring herself to answer. It's as if he knows this, and is intent on pushing her with that steady, throbbing beat as she sucks him. She only realises just how wet simply the feel of him inside her mouth has gotten her, when he finally makes her stop – a soft tugging on her hair. He is rough, but not cruel, as he pulls her to her feet; turns her back so that it's against him. He stands with her, urging her body to bend for him, just in case she had any other ideas of where this thing between them could possibly go.
When she is suitably laid out before him, her bare breasts thrust rudely against the smooth wood, she appreciates just how wide his desk is, and now, she understands why. Even with her arms fully outstretched before her, she cannot reach the opposite edge. It gives her no leverage to grip and use to her advantage to guide him – the depth and the pace of their sex will be completely at his mercy. The knowledge should not thrill her the way it so clearly does, ripples of lust echoing from the very pit of her stomach all the way down to her knees.
She hasn't worn pantyhose, and her skirt is no obstacle to him, flipped up over her hips without care, nor comment. What concerns him now lays solely between her thighs. Her panties are soaked, clinging to her swollen lips, but he is quick to lower them to reveal what it is she has to offer him. There's no words, no mention of a condom, and she doesn't want to ask. She wants him bare anyway, and knows, deep down, he will demand no less. More of her juices pool at that hot juncture between her legs, and knowing he can see exactly how hot he makes her finally unleashes the moan she has held back all these years.
She feels him settle into place, the tip of him almost hot enough to burn as he nudges against her bare slit. Her stomach lifts and falls with the anticipation, but then he's driving forward, entering her in one decisive thrust. He penetrates her to her very core, and she can't help but cry out at the sudden sensation of being so very full. She arches her back, prolonging that initial contact, savouring the feel of his hips, cradled snugly against the curve of her ass.
He gives her time to adjust to the feel of him, taking her hips in his hands and grinding her body slowly back against him, teasing back and forth over that delicious spot deep inside her. It's only when she starts to undulate more earnestly against him, desperate for friction, that he finally begins to move inside her, pulling back and then pressing forward again, urging her body to open to him with long, unhurried thrusts.
It feels hard and sweet and almost unbearably deep, filling her belly in ways no one else ever has or will again – and hadn't she known all along this was what she needed? He is nothing she's ever had: firm and demanding, while her past lovers have been soft and cordial. He's something powerful to hold onto as everything else comes apart … only she can't hold him. He makes sure of that, driving her body hard into his desk with every thrust, her hands writhing and restless as he fucks her. Deeper. Harder. More. Shaping and building more of that delicious friction inside her.
His hands tighten around her hips, pulling her back more urgently against him now, as their need grows. The slap of flesh against bare flesh, along with her loud groans of satisfaction surround them. Soon, he's pounding into her hard enough to have her choking back her screams. She's slumped over his desk in complete, blissful surrender, her hands splayed flat, their fingertips turned white from how hard she's trying and failing to hold on. The world is falling down around her, and only he will be there to catch the pieces. All thoughts of her career or anything outside of his office have fled from her. All that matters now is the feeling of him moving inside her, and if anyone doubts it, they can hear her heedless cries and taste of her euphoria.
She's never come purely from penetration before – rarely reaches orgasm from anything other than her own hands. When her climax hits now, it's sudden and explosive, a shifting of tectonic proportions that has her wailing in ecstasy as he continues to slam himself home throughout it. It feels like her very insides are melting and throbbing – a burst of pure, white-hot energy that burns her with its glow, even as it leaves her weak. It's not enough. Not for him.
She only registers the subtle change in their fucking when this new angle causes her clit to come into contact with the edge of the desk. It makes her buck sharply back against him, earning her another of those low hisses of pleasure. He keeps her moving that way, grinding her swollen nub back and forth, back and forth, and she can feel more of her honey flowing to wet his desk as her excitement builds again. It's too much. It isn't enough. It's everything . That steady rubbing of her clit matches the insistent rhythm of his cock within her, pumping her faster now as he draws close.
Her vision blurs and tunnels as that crest builds again, everything in her body focussed between her her thighs, now, as she comes for him again. It's not the full-body shock of her first climax, but that pulsing in her clitoris is enough to send sparks shooting behind her tightly-clenched eyelids. She can't hold back the cries that pour like hurtful truths from her lips. “Jar … Jareth … Jareth!”
It's wrong and right at once, and she barely hears it in her own ears before she feels him coming inside her. His cock throbs and jerks as he spends himself in her already-soaked pussy, giving her those last few quick, erratic pumps so that she takes it all. There's no spark of revelation; no return call of her own name like a benediction, but he does groan, and it's loud, and deep, and raw with passion, and she knows then that she will never stop craving its sound.
The smell of sex and magic hangs heavy in the air, forcing everything else from her senses, and if she wasn't lost at the start of all this, then she definitely is now. She shudders with the aftershocks from her last orgasm, and feels some of his essence, hot and wet, exit her; slick to dampen her thighs. He, on the other hand, is going nowhere.
He's still buried deep inside her, when she feels the hands at her hips tighten, urging her body upright against him. With her back pressed flush to his chest, she feels his mouth against her hair, and only then realises he has not troubled himself to kiss her. He breathes her hair aside, and that mouth caresses her earlobe now as he speaks – a deep rumble that penetrates her deeper still.
“You always have been such a precious thing, haven't you, Sarah?”