The sound of her phone going off screeches through the apartment, and Talia jumps. Her head whips over to where it's placed on the nightstand, flashing LCD screen almost painfully bright against the darkness of the room. Her stomach feels like it's tying itself in knots as she reaches over and snatches it with trembling hands.
The screen reads e-royal, and she swallows heavily. Her eyes close and she squeezes the cheap piece of plastic in her hands so hard the edges dig into her skin.
I was the ship who was too proud to ever sink, her phone sings at her.
She thinks this moment will be imprinted in her memory for the rest of her life.
Talia opens her eyes. She fumbles with the phone and snaps it open, gaze fixated on the caller I.D.
She presses the green button, brings it to her ear, and with a shuddering breath asks, "Hello?"
***
You hear about people being kicked out of their homes all the time, for a number of reasons. Sometimes it's a result of abuse, sometimes it's to break free from controlling family members, sometimes it's because of sheer differences of opinion.
Talia falls under the last category.
She knows her parents aren't keen on homosexuality—you'd have to be an idiot not to notice how twitchy they become whenever the topic's brought up within hearing distance—but she always figured it was something they could talk about. Discuss. Compromise on.
In her head she imagined telling them, "Mom, Dad, I'm bisexual and it isn't going to change and I hope you can learn to be okay with it because I'm still me," and what would follow would be countless nights of awkward phone conversations and miserable weekend dinners, sometimes with or without her female partner. She would be so frustrated, and they'd argue all the time, but they'd get over it eventually until one day it wouldn't even be a thing anymore.
She doesn't expect the look of fury that comes over her parent's faces. Doesn't expect the yelling, the vitriol. Doesn't expect to be thrown out on her ass, the clothes on her back and whatever she can fit into her knapsack the only belongings to her name, with absolutely nowhere to go.
She regrets not accepting her friend's offer to share a room off-campus so that she could save money by living at home.
She regrets a lot of things right now.
When her girlfriend, Amy, breaks up with her a week later because this wasn't what I signed up for, Talia, I'm sorry, she feels like this is it for her. She's going to die hungry, homeless, penniless, and single.
She hopes her parents suffer with her student debt loans for a long, long time.
When she bumps into one of her friend's friends and the girl slips a phone number on a scrap of paper into her hands with a sickening smile of reassurance, Talia fights the urge to throw it in the girl's face and pockets it, instead.
She makes the call.
***
The interview lasts all of three minutes before they're whisking her away to an office to go over paperwork.
She's beautiful, they say.
She has a look about her, they say.
She's going to be a hit, they say.
They say a lot of things, but Talia can barely hear most of it over the sound of her pounding heartbeat and the scratch of the pen as she signs away her soul.
***
The night before her first shoot she's so nervous she can't sleep. She lays in bed for hours, staring up at the bumps on the ceiling and forcing herself not to think.
When the morning light spills past her parted curtains and illuminates her bedroom she forces herself to sit up and get out of bed. The moment her feet touch the cold tiles she bends over and retches onto the floor. She sits down on the edge of the bed and doesn't move.
***
She expects something a little different from the "room" they bring her to. A revolving bed, animal print sheets, a disco ball. Perhaps even an assortment of toys and condoms and lube.
Not this. The room/set is girly, with hints of pink and purple and delicate furniture pickings strewn about, but that's all that can be said for it. It's what she expects any teenage girl's room to look like, minus the celebrity posters and magazines. There's even a teddy bear lying against the pillows. It's mortifying.
This is today's role, possibly one of many. They're obviously using how young she looks to their advantage.
You look sixteen , the manager had told her during the interview, eyes roaming over near-naked body. He said it like it's a compliment, like it's something to be proud of. He didn't how know much she loathes looking like a child when she's twenty-three, didn't know that her adolescent appearance made things unbearably hard for her.
He probably couldn't see anything past the dollar signs flashing in his eyes.
She'd left the interview feeling like her skin was crawling, and she'd only been naked for all of one minute in front of three people. She doesn't know how she's going to handle being objectified in such a way by an entire crew of people. By the hundreds more who'll be watching this video at home.
Don't think about it, she tells herself. It's a mantra she's adopted, and while it only half works, it's almost enough.
"Sasha!"
It takes her a moment to realize that they're calling for her.
Because Sasha will be her name while she works here. Her porn name. She bites down a hysterical laugh, not all that confident that it won't taper off into tears, and looks around.
The director of the movie, a man named Cole Johnson, is waving her over. She stumbles towards him, stopping a few feet away.
"Relax, Miss Moore—," her new last name, "—you don't need to worry so much. Believe me, it's not as terrible as you think it's going to be."
There's a bark of laughter behind him, and Talia finally notices the guy standing there. He's tall, definitely well over six feet, and he's tanned, like her. His eyes are a shade of green so rarely seen outside of television and his smile is bright and wide. He has wrinkles at the corner of his eyes and mouth indicating that, for all his boyish charm, he's not nearly as young as he appears. He must be in his mid-to-late thirties, she reckons.
"Quite right," he tells Mr. Johnson with an English lilt, "however, nothing but first-hand experience is going to teach her that."
He looks at Talia and, almost impossibly, smiles wider.
"You must be Sasha Moore. I'm Jackson Hughes. It's a pleasure, dear."
Jackson Hughes. It takes her a moment to recognize the name, and when she does she flinches.
Jackson Hughes. Her partner.
"I now understand the term "deer in headlights" rather well," he says offhandedly. His smile has dimmed a little, but he still looks amused.
Talia thinks she might hate him.
"You all ready, Jackson?" Mr. Johnson asks him.
"Of course," he says. "Just wanted to see what the new bird looks like in person."
Talia definitely hates him.
Mr. Johnson rolls his eyes and, thankfully, pushes him away. "Remember Anna Morgan? Find her, she'll help you get ready," he tells her before turning around and steering Jackson away.
He follows easily, and Talia is just about to start searching for the blond woman when Jackson looks back and winks at her.
Talia gives him the finger, and a huge smile breaks across his face before Mr. Johnson slaps his arm to regain his attention.
Somehow, she manages to breathe easier.
Mrs. Morgan is waiting for her in a small antechamber attached to the bedroom/set.
"Mrs. Morgan?" Talia asks. She hates how nervous she sounds.
The woman eventually looks up from the box she's going through and smiles at her. "Hey, Talia. Call me Anna. Now, come here, will you? You've got to start get getting dressed."
Right. Because she's playing the role of an innocent high school student and her baggy, low-key clothes clearly don't cut it.
The anxiety that seemed to have diminished in the wake of her conversation—if she can even call it that—with Mr. Johnson and Jackson springs back, and she bites her lip and crosses her arms over her chest. Doesn't move.
Anna walks over to her and gently grabs her arm. She pulls her into the room, closes the door behind them, and brings her over to the table.
"We call them "newbie nerves". Everyone gets them. This probably doesn't help to know, but you'll get used to this. Your contracted for, what? A year?" She waits for Talia to nod before continuing, "Then try to relax. You'll be with us for a while. It'll take you a while to notice, probably, but we're very professional here, and your comfort is our first priority."
Talia barely holds back a derisive snort.
Something must have shown on her face, though, because Anna pats her on the shoulder once before returning to the box. She pulls out a bundle of clothing—Talia can see a hint of plaid and figures it's the skirt—and hands it over to her.
"That's your costume. Socks and shoes are in the chair behind you. There are a few bottles of water in the fridge right over there—some fruits, too, if you're feeling hungry—and the bathroom's right behind that door. You can leave your belongings on this table, no one's going to be entering this room besides the two of us and the director, so your things are safe. Hm. Pick your hair up into a ponytail—preferably a high one—and then go to room 34B, it's two doors down from this one, for make-up. After, meet everyone in the main bedroom, alright?"
Talia nods.
"You're going to be fine, don't even worry about it." Anna tells her warmly before slipping out of the room and shutting the door.
Talia looks at the bundle of clothing in her hands, walks over to the stool by the table, and sinks down. She hunches her shoulders and buries her face in the material.
It smells freshly washed.
***
She expects the make-up to take longer. Expects it to be something like on television where the artists take their time to carefully apply each necessary layer of paint and cream and powder.
They brush some blush onto her cheeks—for color, they say, not that she really needs it—and apply some gloss to her lips and that's it. The artist cups her chin and moves her head this way and that for a few seconds before nodding and waving her away.
She decides to take it as a compliment.
When she walks into the room they're going to be shooting in there's a noticeable difference in the number of people occupying it. Mr. Johnson, Jackson, and someone Talia doesn't recognize are having a conversation in one corner. A group of three are at another corner, playing with the cameras—
(Talia quickly looks away. Don't think about it, don't think about it.)
— and there are a few other people scattered around.
Someone claps, loudly, and then everyone's moving, some leaving the room and others finding places to sit or stand or play with something.
The lights on the ceiling turn on and Talia feels like she's been blinded.
The gravity of the situation, of what she's about to do, hits her. Her chest suddenly feels painfully tight and she can't breathe, oh god, she can't breathe, and what the hell did she think she was doing by accepting this job, oh god she can't, she can't do this, she can't, she needs to leave, she can't, she can't breathe—
"Breathe, Talia."
Large hands grip her shoulders and she shudders and lets out a gasping breath.
"Good girl. Now again. And again. One more time, love."
Talia obeys until she no longer feels like her breath is being held hostage in her throat.
When she looks up Jackson is staring at her intently.
"The lights are always disconcerting in the beginning," he tells her. "Do you need some water?"
She nods shakily.
"Water!" he calls. In an instant someone is handing a bottle of water over to her and Talia snatches it—doesn't even bother trying to apologize for her rudeness—twists off the cap and chugs it down. More than half of the bottle is empty when she finally tears her mouth away. She caps it and wipes at her chin.
"Thanks," she rasps, grudgingly.
"Your very welcome," Jackson says. "Are you alright now?"
Talia nods. It feels like that's all she's been doing today.
"Good. We're on in about ten minutes. Can you still do this?"
No , Talia thinks.
"Yes," is what she says.
***
They go over the scene one more time.
It's her first shoot, so it's going to be simple. Jackson is her teacher, and they've been in an illegal, albeit committed relationship for a few weeks now. Talia—no, Sasha's parents are away for the weekend, and she invites Jackson over hoping that, come morning, she won't be a virgin anymore.
There's very little acting to be had. Just a few lines, and then sex. Shouldn't take longer than twenty, thirty minutes. The video is going to be a part of a larger series following a theme of illicit relationships and if everything goes well their video will be the main feature.
"Just have fun with it," Jackson tells her right before he exits the room. "That's the point. Well, no, money's the point, but the fun aspects shouldn't be forgotten about. You're not Talia here, you're Sasha Moore, a sixteen year old student who fancies her teacher more than anyone else in the world. You're nervous, but you're excited, too. Don't forget that."
When he leaves Talia has to clench her hands into fists to keep from reaching out and demanding he stay by her side.
She's twenty-three years old, but at this moment she feels closer to the age she's expected to portray than anything else.
***
Don't think about it , she tells herself when the clapperboard snaps and the call for action is made.
Don't think about it, she thinks when the doorbell sounds and she moves off-screen.
Don't think about it, she reiterates as she takes Jackson's hand and pulls him into the bedroom.
You're not Talia Richards. You're Sasha Moore. You're sixteen years old, completely oblivious to the world around you, ignorant to the hardships you'll have to face when you get older.
They sit on the bed and Jackson leans forward and presses a kiss against her lips.
You're young, and blissfully unaware. You're happy.
His tongue slips into her mouth and she opens up for him, eager for his taste.
Your parents still love you. You have an amazing man in front of you, one you can't believe is paying you—gawky, awkward, inexperienced you—the slightest bit of attention.
He licks into Talia's mouth, suckles on her tongue, nips and bites at her lips. A dribble of spit leaks out of the corner of her mouth but she ignores it. The fact that she doesn't know whose spit it is arouses her.
Your life is fantastic, and by the end of the night you're no longer going to be a virgin. You'll be a woman, and the thought excites you more than you can say.
Jackson—Mr. Hughes—pushes Talia down onto the bed and moves over her.
"Are you sure, Sasha?"
Talia nods. "Please, Mr. Hughes. I—I want you."
Mr. Hughes smiles at her.
You're too young, too stupid to realize that childhood will be the best time of your life. That growing up is overrated. That adults are far crueler than children can ever be.
"What is it you want, exactly? I need to know, Miss Moore."
" Everything."
The rose-colored glasses you wear blind you to the fact that this isn't real. When you're older you'll see his soft demeanor for what it is—a disguise. His smile will seem more predatory, his actions more manipulative, his words more slick. You'll be able to look into his eyes and see him for what he is—a pervert, a control freak, a collector, an abuser. The kind who likes to catch butterflies and pin them while they're still alive, then put them on display for the world to see.
Mr. Hughes' hand presses into Talia's skin, just beneath her breast. His fingers skim over her ribs, then move lower down her stomach, past her navel, stopping just centimeters away from her panty line.
"Even here?"
But for now… for now you're young.
The screen reads e-royal, and she swallows heavily. Her eyes close and she squeezes the cheap piece of plastic in her hands so hard the edges dig into her skin.
I was the ship who was too proud to ever sink, her phone sings at her.
She thinks this moment will be imprinted in her memory for the rest of her life.
Talia opens her eyes. She fumbles with the phone and snaps it open, gaze fixated on the caller I.D.
She presses the green button, brings it to her ear, and with a shuddering breath asks, "Hello?"
***
You hear about people being kicked out of their homes all the time, for a number of reasons. Sometimes it's a result of abuse, sometimes it's to break free from controlling family members, sometimes it's because of sheer differences of opinion.
Talia falls under the last category.
She knows her parents aren't keen on homosexuality—you'd have to be an idiot not to notice how twitchy they become whenever the topic's brought up within hearing distance—but she always figured it was something they could talk about. Discuss. Compromise on.
In her head she imagined telling them, "Mom, Dad, I'm bisexual and it isn't going to change and I hope you can learn to be okay with it because I'm still me," and what would follow would be countless nights of awkward phone conversations and miserable weekend dinners, sometimes with or without her female partner. She would be so frustrated, and they'd argue all the time, but they'd get over it eventually until one day it wouldn't even be a thing anymore.
She doesn't expect the look of fury that comes over her parent's faces. Doesn't expect the yelling, the vitriol. Doesn't expect to be thrown out on her ass, the clothes on her back and whatever she can fit into her knapsack the only belongings to her name, with absolutely nowhere to go.
She regrets not accepting her friend's offer to share a room off-campus so that she could save money by living at home.
She regrets a lot of things right now.
When her girlfriend, Amy, breaks up with her a week later because this wasn't what I signed up for, Talia, I'm sorry, she feels like this is it for her. She's going to die hungry, homeless, penniless, and single.
She hopes her parents suffer with her student debt loans for a long, long time.
When she bumps into one of her friend's friends and the girl slips a phone number on a scrap of paper into her hands with a sickening smile of reassurance, Talia fights the urge to throw it in the girl's face and pockets it, instead.
She makes the call.
***
The interview lasts all of three minutes before they're whisking her away to an office to go over paperwork.
She's beautiful, they say.
She has a look about her, they say.
She's going to be a hit, they say.
They say a lot of things, but Talia can barely hear most of it over the sound of her pounding heartbeat and the scratch of the pen as she signs away her soul.
***
The night before her first shoot she's so nervous she can't sleep. She lays in bed for hours, staring up at the bumps on the ceiling and forcing herself not to think.
When the morning light spills past her parted curtains and illuminates her bedroom she forces herself to sit up and get out of bed. The moment her feet touch the cold tiles she bends over and retches onto the floor. She sits down on the edge of the bed and doesn't move.
***
She expects something a little different from the "room" they bring her to. A revolving bed, animal print sheets, a disco ball. Perhaps even an assortment of toys and condoms and lube.
Not this. The room/set is girly, with hints of pink and purple and delicate furniture pickings strewn about, but that's all that can be said for it. It's what she expects any teenage girl's room to look like, minus the celebrity posters and magazines. There's even a teddy bear lying against the pillows. It's mortifying.
This is today's role, possibly one of many. They're obviously using how young she looks to their advantage.
You look sixteen , the manager had told her during the interview, eyes roaming over near-naked body. He said it like it's a compliment, like it's something to be proud of. He didn't how know much she loathes looking like a child when she's twenty-three, didn't know that her adolescent appearance made things unbearably hard for her.
He probably couldn't see anything past the dollar signs flashing in his eyes.
She'd left the interview feeling like her skin was crawling, and she'd only been naked for all of one minute in front of three people. She doesn't know how she's going to handle being objectified in such a way by an entire crew of people. By the hundreds more who'll be watching this video at home.
Don't think about it, she tells herself. It's a mantra she's adopted, and while it only half works, it's almost enough.
"Sasha!"
It takes her a moment to realize that they're calling for her.
Because Sasha will be her name while she works here. Her porn name. She bites down a hysterical laugh, not all that confident that it won't taper off into tears, and looks around.
The director of the movie, a man named Cole Johnson, is waving her over. She stumbles towards him, stopping a few feet away.
"Relax, Miss Moore—," her new last name, "—you don't need to worry so much. Believe me, it's not as terrible as you think it's going to be."
There's a bark of laughter behind him, and Talia finally notices the guy standing there. He's tall, definitely well over six feet, and he's tanned, like her. His eyes are a shade of green so rarely seen outside of television and his smile is bright and wide. He has wrinkles at the corner of his eyes and mouth indicating that, for all his boyish charm, he's not nearly as young as he appears. He must be in his mid-to-late thirties, she reckons.
"Quite right," he tells Mr. Johnson with an English lilt, "however, nothing but first-hand experience is going to teach her that."
He looks at Talia and, almost impossibly, smiles wider.
"You must be Sasha Moore. I'm Jackson Hughes. It's a pleasure, dear."
Jackson Hughes. It takes her a moment to recognize the name, and when she does she flinches.
Jackson Hughes. Her partner.
"I now understand the term "deer in headlights" rather well," he says offhandedly. His smile has dimmed a little, but he still looks amused.
Talia thinks she might hate him.
"You all ready, Jackson?" Mr. Johnson asks him.
"Of course," he says. "Just wanted to see what the new bird looks like in person."
Talia definitely hates him.
Mr. Johnson rolls his eyes and, thankfully, pushes him away. "Remember Anna Morgan? Find her, she'll help you get ready," he tells her before turning around and steering Jackson away.
He follows easily, and Talia is just about to start searching for the blond woman when Jackson looks back and winks at her.
Talia gives him the finger, and a huge smile breaks across his face before Mr. Johnson slaps his arm to regain his attention.
Somehow, she manages to breathe easier.
Mrs. Morgan is waiting for her in a small antechamber attached to the bedroom/set.
"Mrs. Morgan?" Talia asks. She hates how nervous she sounds.
The woman eventually looks up from the box she's going through and smiles at her. "Hey, Talia. Call me Anna. Now, come here, will you? You've got to start get getting dressed."
Right. Because she's playing the role of an innocent high school student and her baggy, low-key clothes clearly don't cut it.
The anxiety that seemed to have diminished in the wake of her conversation—if she can even call it that—with Mr. Johnson and Jackson springs back, and she bites her lip and crosses her arms over her chest. Doesn't move.
Anna walks over to her and gently grabs her arm. She pulls her into the room, closes the door behind them, and brings her over to the table.
"We call them "newbie nerves". Everyone gets them. This probably doesn't help to know, but you'll get used to this. Your contracted for, what? A year?" She waits for Talia to nod before continuing, "Then try to relax. You'll be with us for a while. It'll take you a while to notice, probably, but we're very professional here, and your comfort is our first priority."
Talia barely holds back a derisive snort.
Something must have shown on her face, though, because Anna pats her on the shoulder once before returning to the box. She pulls out a bundle of clothing—Talia can see a hint of plaid and figures it's the skirt—and hands it over to her.
"That's your costume. Socks and shoes are in the chair behind you. There are a few bottles of water in the fridge right over there—some fruits, too, if you're feeling hungry—and the bathroom's right behind that door. You can leave your belongings on this table, no one's going to be entering this room besides the two of us and the director, so your things are safe. Hm. Pick your hair up into a ponytail—preferably a high one—and then go to room 34B, it's two doors down from this one, for make-up. After, meet everyone in the main bedroom, alright?"
Talia nods.
"You're going to be fine, don't even worry about it." Anna tells her warmly before slipping out of the room and shutting the door.
Talia looks at the bundle of clothing in her hands, walks over to the stool by the table, and sinks down. She hunches her shoulders and buries her face in the material.
It smells freshly washed.
***
She expects the make-up to take longer. Expects it to be something like on television where the artists take their time to carefully apply each necessary layer of paint and cream and powder.
They brush some blush onto her cheeks—for color, they say, not that she really needs it—and apply some gloss to her lips and that's it. The artist cups her chin and moves her head this way and that for a few seconds before nodding and waving her away.
She decides to take it as a compliment.
When she walks into the room they're going to be shooting in there's a noticeable difference in the number of people occupying it. Mr. Johnson, Jackson, and someone Talia doesn't recognize are having a conversation in one corner. A group of three are at another corner, playing with the cameras—
(Talia quickly looks away. Don't think about it, don't think about it.)
— and there are a few other people scattered around.
Someone claps, loudly, and then everyone's moving, some leaving the room and others finding places to sit or stand or play with something.
The lights on the ceiling turn on and Talia feels like she's been blinded.
The gravity of the situation, of what she's about to do, hits her. Her chest suddenly feels painfully tight and she can't breathe, oh god, she can't breathe, and what the hell did she think she was doing by accepting this job, oh god she can't, she can't do this, she can't, she needs to leave, she can't, she can't breathe—
"Breathe, Talia."
Large hands grip her shoulders and she shudders and lets out a gasping breath.
"Good girl. Now again. And again. One more time, love."
Talia obeys until she no longer feels like her breath is being held hostage in her throat.
When she looks up Jackson is staring at her intently.
"The lights are always disconcerting in the beginning," he tells her. "Do you need some water?"
She nods shakily.
"Water!" he calls. In an instant someone is handing a bottle of water over to her and Talia snatches it—doesn't even bother trying to apologize for her rudeness—twists off the cap and chugs it down. More than half of the bottle is empty when she finally tears her mouth away. She caps it and wipes at her chin.
"Thanks," she rasps, grudgingly.
"Your very welcome," Jackson says. "Are you alright now?"
Talia nods. It feels like that's all she's been doing today.
"Good. We're on in about ten minutes. Can you still do this?"
No , Talia thinks.
"Yes," is what she says.
***
They go over the scene one more time.
It's her first shoot, so it's going to be simple. Jackson is her teacher, and they've been in an illegal, albeit committed relationship for a few weeks now. Talia—no, Sasha's parents are away for the weekend, and she invites Jackson over hoping that, come morning, she won't be a virgin anymore.
There's very little acting to be had. Just a few lines, and then sex. Shouldn't take longer than twenty, thirty minutes. The video is going to be a part of a larger series following a theme of illicit relationships and if everything goes well their video will be the main feature.
"Just have fun with it," Jackson tells her right before he exits the room. "That's the point. Well, no, money's the point, but the fun aspects shouldn't be forgotten about. You're not Talia here, you're Sasha Moore, a sixteen year old student who fancies her teacher more than anyone else in the world. You're nervous, but you're excited, too. Don't forget that."
When he leaves Talia has to clench her hands into fists to keep from reaching out and demanding he stay by her side.
She's twenty-three years old, but at this moment she feels closer to the age she's expected to portray than anything else.
***
Don't think about it , she tells herself when the clapperboard snaps and the call for action is made.
Don't think about it, she thinks when the doorbell sounds and she moves off-screen.
Don't think about it, she reiterates as she takes Jackson's hand and pulls him into the bedroom.
You're not Talia Richards. You're Sasha Moore. You're sixteen years old, completely oblivious to the world around you, ignorant to the hardships you'll have to face when you get older.
They sit on the bed and Jackson leans forward and presses a kiss against her lips.
You're young, and blissfully unaware. You're happy.
His tongue slips into her mouth and she opens up for him, eager for his taste.
Your parents still love you. You have an amazing man in front of you, one you can't believe is paying you—gawky, awkward, inexperienced you—the slightest bit of attention.
He licks into Talia's mouth, suckles on her tongue, nips and bites at her lips. A dribble of spit leaks out of the corner of her mouth but she ignores it. The fact that she doesn't know whose spit it is arouses her.
Your life is fantastic, and by the end of the night you're no longer going to be a virgin. You'll be a woman, and the thought excites you more than you can say.
Jackson—Mr. Hughes—pushes Talia down onto the bed and moves over her.
"Are you sure, Sasha?"
Talia nods. "Please, Mr. Hughes. I—I want you."
Mr. Hughes smiles at her.
You're too young, too stupid to realize that childhood will be the best time of your life. That growing up is overrated. That adults are far crueler than children can ever be.
"What is it you want, exactly? I need to know, Miss Moore."
" Everything."
The rose-colored glasses you wear blind you to the fact that this isn't real. When you're older you'll see his soft demeanor for what it is—a disguise. His smile will seem more predatory, his actions more manipulative, his words more slick. You'll be able to look into his eyes and see him for what he is—a pervert, a control freak, a collector, an abuser. The kind who likes to catch butterflies and pin them while they're still alive, then put them on display for the world to see.
Mr. Hughes' hand presses into Talia's skin, just beneath her breast. His fingers skim over her ribs, then move lower down her stomach, past her navel, stopping just centimeters away from her panty line.
"Even here?"
But for now… for now you're young.
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For now his smile is warm, and his words are like honey, and his eyes are an endless abyss to be lost in. His touch is reverent, his kiss sickle-sweet, and he loves you. Because people don't have sex with each other if they're not in love.
Because people don't hurt the ones they love.
Sasha Moore opens her eyes and breathes, "Yes."
***
He takes his time in removing her clothing, like she's a gift he slowly wants to unwrap. She feels treasured.
The kisses he places on her skin—in the arch of her neck, in the swell of skin above her breast, above her belly button—makes heat flare across her skin.
Sasha lies on the bed, clad only in her panties and bra, and stares up at Mr. Hughes—Jackson, now—with wide eyes.
"Are you okay?" He asks her, one hand splayed over her thigh and the other massaging her arm.
"Yes," Sasha says....
Because people don't hurt the ones they love.
Sasha Moore opens her eyes and breathes, "Yes."
***
He takes his time in removing her clothing, like she's a gift he slowly wants to unwrap. She feels treasured.
The kisses he places on her skin—in the arch of her neck, in the swell of skin above her breast, above her belly button—makes heat flare across her skin.
Sasha lies on the bed, clad only in her panties and bra, and stares up at Mr. Hughes—Jackson, now—with wide eyes.
"Are you okay?" He asks her, one hand splayed over her thigh and the other massaging her arm.
"Yes," Sasha says....
