First Audition: How I Lost My Shame

I spent weeks turning it over in my mind before pressing the send button.

The form didn't ask for much: name, email, four photos in underwear, and a brief answer to the question, “Why do you want to work in this industry?” I wrote that I was looking to free myself, that I had spent too many years being the most discreet person in any room, and that I felt it was time to change that once and for all. It wasn't the most literary answer in the world, but it was honest.

Halfway honest, at least.

The full truth was more complicated and less poetic: I was twenty-six, worked as an administrator at an import company I found completely uninteresting, and had been recovering for nine months from a breakup that had ended not because of any dramatic crisis, but from sheer mutual exhaustion. My ex wasn't a bad person. We'd simply reached a point where I felt that my own body was foreign to me. Something I carried around with me but never quite inhabited. No one had fucked me in months, and the few times I'd put two fingers in my pussy in bed, it had been more out of obligation than desire.

I'd spent years shrinking myself. Speaking quietly so I wouldn't bother anyone. Asking the world for permission to take up space. And at some point, without being able to pinpoint the exact day, that version of me had begun to feel unbearable.

I found the form on a specialized forum after a sleepless night with my phone in my hand. I read it three times, closed it, opened it again the next day, and closed it once more. I opened it again a week later. And in the end, I filled it out.

Three weeks later, the email with the appointment arrived.

The address was an office building on a quiet street downtown. Nothing outside indicated what the people working inside did. I stood on the sidewalk for a few minutes before going in, clutching my bag against my side and with the irrational feeling that anyone passing by knew exactly why I was there. No one looked at me. People went by with their own concerns. I took a deep breath and went inside.

I was greeted by a man who looked to be around forty. Dark suit, shirt without a tie, calm expression. He introduced himself as Carlos and held out his hand.

“Sofía?” he said.

“Yes, hi.”

He shook it firmly and indicated that I should follow him down a short hallway to a small, pleasant waiting room: two gray upholstered chairs, a plant in the corner, a little table with an architecture magazine on it. Nothing that suggested what kind of work I had come there to do. Strangely, that detail calmed me.

“Would you like some water?”

“Yes, thank you.”

While I waited alone, I tried to concentrate on breathing normally. I told myself that if I wanted to leave at any point, I would leave. No one was forcing me to do anything. What had brought me there was my own decision, made with a cool head at several different moments, and that made me feel safer than I had expected.

Carlos came back with the water and indicated that I should follow him to the end of the hallway.

***

The room was larger than I'd expected. Warm lighting, beige carpeting, a white sofa in the center of the room. There were no visible cameras or anything resembling a set. Carlos settled into a chair across from me with a laptop on his knees and began asking questions.

The first ones were almost administrative: whether I had a partner, whether there were people in my life who might cause a problem, whether I knew the industry's basic conditions. I answered everything without difficulty.

Then the questions became more direct.

“Do you have any specific limits? Anything you know beforehand that you wouldn't do?”

“Yes,” I said, and listed them. He wrote them down silently, without expression, as if he were noting a food allergy.

“What kind of scenes interest you most?”

I took longer to answer that one. Not because of modesty, but because I wanted to be precise. I told him I was attracted to long oral sex, to being eaten until I lost count, to being fucked slowly and hungrily, to being told filthy things in my ear while he fucked me. Carlos nodded without changing expression, as if I'd asked him for a black coffee.

“Are you comfortable with your body?”

I took a few seconds.

“It depends on the day,” I said at last. “I know I have a beautiful body. What I don't always have is the conviction that it is.”

“That's an honest answer,” he said. “And useful to know.”

He closed the laptop and left it on the chair.

“The next part is more practical,” he explained. “I need to see you without your clothes. It isn't strictly an aesthetic matter. It's to see how you move, how you behave when you're exposed, whether there's naturalness in you or whether your nerves block everything. Are you all right with that?”

My heart sped up a little. But I said yes.

***

I stood up.

I started with the buttons on my blouse, from top to bottom, slowly but without hesitation. Carlos watched me from his chair without speaking or moving, his arms crossed and his expression neutral. There was no urgency or obvious lust in his gaze. It was the gaze of someone paying attention, nothing more.

I left the blouse folded on the sofa. I undid my bra and placed it on top. When I was left bare from the waist up, I had the automatic urge to cross my arms, that old defensive gesture. I let it pass. I lowered my arms and stood still, shoulders back and spine straight. My nipples had hardened from the air-conditioning, two dark points aimed toward him, and I noticed Carlos's gaze lingered there a second too long.

“Good,” he said quietly.

I took off my pants. I folded them too. I stood there for a moment in my panties, barefoot on the carpet, my skin slightly prickled by the air-conditioning. I realized I didn't feel humiliated. I felt very present in my own body, more so than I had in a long time.

“Can you take off the rest?”

I pulled my panties down slowly and left them on top of everything else. I stood completely naked in the center of that quiet room, my arms at my sides, feeling the silence. My shaved pussy, my thighs pressed slightly together on instinct, everything on display for a stranger who had been asking me questions for ten minutes.

Carlos stood up and slowly walked around me. He didn't touch me. He only looked, taking his time. When he had finished going around me, he stopped in front of me.

“You have presence,” he said. “You can tell when someone isn't comfortable in their own body, and you are, even if you don't entirely believe it yet.”

I didn't know what to say. I held his gaze.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Nervous,” I admitted. “But good.”

He nodded.

“I need you to sit on the sofa and put your legs up on the backrest.”

I did it slowly. It was a completely open position, with no way to cover or hide myself. My pussy opened fully, exposed a handspan from his face, and I felt heat rising up my neck and traveling down my belly at the same time. Not exactly from shame, but from something more like anticipation. I knew I was already wet, and I knew he would see it as soon as he came closer.

Carlos crouched in front of me and began examining me with his hands. He was careful and methodical. He separated my pussy lips with his fingers, opening them without hurry, traced the folds with his fingertips, and watched attentively as my clitoris swelled beneath his gaze. He slid a finger along the slit, from top to bottom, without putting it in yet, just testing how I responded. My wetness was already running all the way to my asshole, slippery and thick. I tried to keep my breathing even. I didn't entirely succeed. There was something about the way he did it, without haste or apology, as though he had every right to be there with his face a handspan from my pussy, that made it difficult to keep my composure.

“You're soaked,” he said, without looking away.

It wasn't a question.

“Yes,” I said.

“Do you want me to continue?”

I nodded.

He put in one finger. All the way, slowly, feeling my pussy close around it and wet it up to the knuckle. Then another. He curled them inward and began moving them with a slow rhythm, searching for that spot on the upper wall that made a moan escape me the moment he found it. With his thumb he drew circles on my clitoris, first gently and then more firmly, following what my hips asked of him without my having to say it. I was already dripping wetness down to my asshole. My head rested against the cushion and my eyes were closed, and I allowed myself not to manage what I was feeling. I simply let it grow. His fingers went in and out with a wet, obscene sound that filled the entire room. There's something strange about it, about trusting that your own body knows where it's going without you having to direct it.

“Keep doing that,” I murmured. “There, don't stop.”

He inserted a third finger and opened me wider. My pussy made noise with every thrust, squelching around that stranger's hand, and I began squeezing his fingers with my inner walls without being able to stop myself. I came with his fingers buried inside me, squeezing my thighs involuntarily around his arm, with a long moan that came out on its own and that I wasn't ashamed of. I felt my pussy contracting in waves around his hand, wetting his wrist. When I opened my eyes, Carlos was looking at me with his fingers still inside, not taking them out, waiting for the final tremor to pass.

“Good?” he asked, slowly sliding them out. They emerged glistening and dripping.

“Yes,” I said, and sat up slowly.

***

I hadn't planned what happened next. Or maybe I had, but I hadn't put it into words so clearly until that exact moment.

I stood up and, instead of picking up my clothes, walked toward him. I put one hand on his chest. I lowered the other directly to his crotch and felt how hard he was beneath his pants. He didn't step back.

“Can I?” I asked.

“This is no longer part of the interview,” he said. “This would be something else.”

“I know.”

He kissed me first. Without lunging at me, without hurrying. I was barefoot on the carpet with my hands on his shirt, and I realized that no one had kissed me like that in months, with tongue and hunger, taking the time to be there. The kiss was complete, with no rush to get anywhere else, but I already knew where we were headed.

I undid his belt. I lowered his zipper. I put my hand inside and pulled out his cock, hard and thick, with a shiny drop already appearing at the tip. I knelt on the carpet without breaking eye contact and took it all into my mouth in one go, until I felt the tip hit the back of my throat and my eyes watered. He let out a low growl and put one hand on the back of my neck, without pushing, simply resting it there.

I sucked him eagerly. I ran my tongue along the underside, from his balls to the tip, salivating it until spit dripped down the shaft. I sucked the tip, squeezing his glans with my lips, while moving my hand at the base with a rhythm that made him close his eyes. Then I swallowed him whole again, letting him hit the back of my throat, and he let out a gasp. I liked that sound. I liked making him lose some of the professional calm he'd maintained until then.

“Come here,” he said at last, his voice raspier.

We moved toward the sofa. He took off his jacket, shirt, and pants. I lay on my back. He got on top of me, and we spent some time exploring without urgency: his hands squeezing my tits, his fingers pinching my nipples until I moaned, his lips moving down my neck and chest, sucking and barely biting, while I pulled him downward. I liked that he didn't try to hurry anything. I liked that he asked me what I wanted. Most of all, I liked that when I took the initiative and pressed his head against my pussy, he wasn't surprised.

I guided him downward with my hands and showed him what I wanted without words. He understood. He spread my legs as wide as they would go and buried his face there, without ceremony. His tongue traveled over my entire pussy, from bottom to top, and stopped on my clitoris with steady pressure that drew a gasp from me. He sucked, licked, traced circles, alternating flat licks with the rigid tip of his tongue against my swollen bud. He ate me slowly, taking his time, following what I told him with my hips and the sounds I made. When he inserted two fingers again while continuing to suck my clitoris, my entire back arched.

“Like that, fuck, like that,” I said, gripping his hair. “Don't stop, don't stop.”

I closed my eyes and focused only on that sensation, on the exact pressure of his tongue, on the rhythm he was finding with his fingers inside me. It was deliberate and long and exactly what I needed. I felt the second orgasm forming in my belly, tightening in my pussy, and when it exploded I came in his mouth with a long moan, squeezing his face between my thighs, soaking his lips and chin.

“Fuck me,” I begged before catching my breath. “Put it in me now.”

He stood up, put on a condom he pulled from his wallet with quick hands, and climbed back on top of me. He grabbed one of my legs, opened it, and guided his cock with his other hand to my pussy. He pushed it in slowly, watching my face, seeing my mouth open as it went in. I was so wet that it slid all the way in with a single thrust, and I felt it reach the end.

“Fuck,” I murmured. “You've got such a big cock.”

He began slowly, with long thrusts that pulled almost all the way out before driving back in to the hilt. Then he picked up the rhythm, following what I told him with my body. I gripped the backrest of the sofa and let myself go completely. The sofa creaked beneath us. I could hear the squelch of my soaked pussy and the slap of his pelvis against my ass every time he drove all the way in.

“Turn around,” he whispered in my ear.

I got on all fours on the sofa, my hands braced against the backrest and my ass sticking up. He positioned himself behind me and pushed his cock back in with a single thrust, this time harder and deeper. He grabbed my hips and started fucking me for real, with rhythmic thrusts that made me collide with him again and again. One hand moved up my back, grabbed my hair, and pulled a little, just enough to make my neck arch.

“You like it this way, don't you?” he said in a hoarse voice. “Having a good fucking.”

“Yes,” I panted. “Harder, give it to me harder.”

He gave it to me harder. His cock went in and out at a rhythm that made me lose track of everything. I felt one of his hands reach around to my clitoris and rub it while he kept thrusting into me from behind, and then I knew I wouldn't last much longer. My pussy tightened on its own around his cock, contracting with every thrust.

I came for the second time with his cock inside me, before he finished. It was more intense than the ones before, a discharge that tore through me from top to bottom and left me speechless for a few seconds. I screamed something I don't remember. My thighs trembled. I felt my pussy contracting in spasms around him, and that pushed him over the edge too: a few seconds later he dug his hands into my hips, thrust all the way in three more times, and grunted as he came inside the condom, his cock pulsing inside me.

We stayed like that for a moment, him leaning over my back, me with my face against the backrest of the sofa, both of us breathing hard. He pulled out slowly. I felt the immediate emptiness, my pussy still open and throbbing, a thread of wetness running down my thigh. I let myself fall onto my side on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, my breathing still ragged.

“That was an unusual interview,” I said at last.

He barely smiled as he carefully removed and knotted the condom.

“They all are, one way or another.”

***

I dressed slowly. I could still feel his cock inside me whenever I moved, that sensation of having been thoroughly fucked that lingers in the body for hours afterward. Carlos told me the interview had gone well, that I would receive a formal response in the next few days, and that my attitude was exactly what they were looking for in the industry. I nodded, slung my bag over my shoulder, and went out into the hallway.

Outside, the midmorning sun was bright and dry. I stopped on the sidewalk and took out my phone for no particular reason, just to have something in my hand while I got my normal rhythm back.

I don't know whether, deep down, I really wanted that job. I still haven't fully answered that question, and I don't feel any urgency to do so. What I do know is that I entered that building as the person who had spent years asking the world for permission to exist, and I came out feeling different, my pussy still throbbing and my thighs trembling. Not transformed or redeemed, none of those grand things. Just more present. As if, after a long time looking through glass, I had finally stepped into the room.

I pushed my sunglasses up and started walking.