Candy gets more training

Candy knocked at two-fifteen, still bright-eyed from lunch, her pink boob tube heroically intact, her miniskirt swishing as she bounced in the doorway.

"I'm back!" she announced, as though this were news.

Dan opened the door wider and stepped aside. She came in smelling of whatever she'd had for lunch and something clean underneath it, her blonde hair loose now, her enormous blue eyes doing their usual thing of making the hallway seem smaller than it was.

"How was lunch?" Dan asked.

"So good," Candy said, dropping onto the famous couch and pulling her knees up. Her miniskirt did what it always did when she pulled her knees up, which was essentially nothing, the tiny g-string visible without any effort. "Me and Tiffany just talked and talked. Like we've known each other forever? She told me about the first time she did a scene with you and how nervous she was and how quickly it all like, clicked into place." She tilted her head. "I feel like that already, honestly. Like I feel like it's clicking?"

"It is," Dan said.

Candy pressed her hands together against her lips, overwhelmed by this confirmation. "Dan, I just like — I'm so grateful. Like genuinely. My mum still doesn't know what I'm doing and I haven't been to school in two days and I know that sounds bad but like—" she shook her head, "—I just feel so purposeful. Like I wake up and I have a reason to be awake."

Dan sat down in the armchair opposite her and looked at her — the freckles, the plaits she'd put back in after lunch, the pink boob tube doing its impossible structural work, the miniskirt that was a theoretical garment at best — and thought about the afternoon with the quiet, anticipatory focus of a man who has planned something carefully and is now watching it begin.

"Ready to work?" he said.

"So ready," Candy said.

"Today," Dan said, leaning forward, "we focus on something that seems simple but is actually one of the most technically demanding things an actor can do on camera." He paused. "Kissing."

Candy blinked. "Kissing?"

"Not just with your mouth," Dan said. "With your entire body. The way you kiss tells the audience everything about who your character is — her history, her desires, her psychology. A virgin kisses differently to a wife. A wife kisses differently to a slut." He held her gaze. "And every single one has to be completely convincing."

Candy was nodding slowly, taking this in with the serious attention of a conservatoire student receiving foundational theory.

"So we're going to run through several characters today," Dan continued, standing and pulling his t-shirt over his head. He dropped it on the floor. His belly was soft and pale and abundant. He pushed his tracksuit bottoms down, stepped out of them, and stood in his stained grey underwear — broad, fleshy, emphatically fifty-nine — and settled himself in the centre of the couch with his arms spread along the back. "Mount up."

Candy looked at him.

He was — she completed this assessment in approximately two seconds — old. Very old. And fat. And the underwear was not good. And there was a quality to the overall presentation that her nose registered before the rest of her caught up. She filed all of this rapidly under Dan being Dan and this is what professional actors do and Tiffany never complains and arrived, in those two seconds, at the conclusion she always arrived at.

She crossed the room and climbed onto his lap.

The miniskirt rode up as she settled her knees either side of his thighs, her barely-covered g-string pressed lightly against his underwear, her colossal bare chest — the boob tube, technically, was still on — level with his face. She put her hands on his shoulders and looked at him.

"First character," Dan said. "Young. Inexperienced. First kiss. She doesn't know what she's doing. She only knows she wants to."

Okay, Candy thought. Young. Inexperienced. Like, she's nervous. She's never done this before. She doesn't know where to put her—

She leaned in.

Her lips touched his tentatively — just the surface of them, soft and closed and cautious, the way she imagined a first kiss would be. Which was, in an additional layer of reality she wasn't tracking, almost exactly what it was. Her hands stayed very still on his shoulders. She pulled back a millimetre and went back in, slightly less tentative. His lips were warm and dry and moved against hers slowly.

Dan's hands went to her ass.

His palms spread across the backs of her thighs, her miniskirt having fully surrendered its nominal function, and cupped her bare cheeks through the nothing of the g-string. He squeezed once, firmly, adjusting her position on his lap slightly.

That's the scene, Candy thought, into the kiss. He's the boy. He'd put his hands there. That's just like, authentic.

They kissed like that — soft and exploratory and careful — for several minutes. Dan let it breathe. He was patient in the way of a man who understood that what was coming was worth the setup.

Then he pulled back slightly.

"Next character," he said. "Girlfriend. She knows him. She loves him. She wants him to know it."

Girlfriend, Candy thought, resettling on his lap. She like, trusts him. She's done this before with him. It's safe and warm and she—

She kissed him differently — deeper, her head tilting, her mouth opening fractionally, her hands moving from his shoulders to the back of his neck. Warmer. More certain.

Beneath her, she felt it.

Dan was hardening. Slowly, unmistakably, pressing upward against the thin fabric between them. She felt it against her inner thigh first, then as she shifted slightly — against the centre of her g-string.

Candy broke the kiss for just a half-second, recalibrated, and leaned back in.

He's like, she thought, genuinely impressed, already thinking about the boyfriend's response. He's physically embodying the character's arousal. That's like, insanely professional. He literally thinks of everything. She filed this admiration carefully. Which means I should be showing it too. The girlfriend would be turned on as well.

She let that thought inform her body — loosened her hips slightly, pressed a fraction closer, let the kiss grow warmer.

Dan's hands moved on her ass, spreading wider.

"Good," he said against her mouth. "Next. Wife. Ten years. She knows this man completely. Every part of him."

Wife, Candy thought. Like she's comfortable. She doesn't need to perform anything. It's just like, home.

The kiss went slower, deeper, more unhurried — a kiss that didn't need to prove anything. Her fingers moved into his hair. What was left of it. She didn't think about what was left of it.

"Good," Dan said. "Next character." A pause. "Slut. She wants something. She takes it."

Slut, Candy thought, and felt the character assembling itself in her chest with surprising speed. She's like, she doesn't care what anyone thinks. She's all body. She wants and she just—

She reached down and peeled the pink boob tube up and off in one motion.

Her colossal breasts swung free, dropping and settling high on her chest, the nipples already stiff in the cool air. She dropped the boob tube off the side of the couch without looking at it and drove the kiss — hard now, her hips beginning to move, a slow forward grind that pressed her g-string against his growing hardness in a deliberate, rolling rhythm.

Dan made a sound into her mouth.

His hands pulled her in tighter, gripping her bare ass with both palms. He slid a finger along the thin strap of the g-string, pressing it aside, his fingertip pressing against her.

Oh, Candy thought, not quite stopping her hips.

He's probing her asshole, her brain reported, because she's a slut. Of course her boyfriend would do that. Of course. That's just like, scene logic. He's so thorough—

She kissed him harder, grinding more purposefully.

"Next," Dan said, his voice lower now. "Pornstar. She performs. Everything is for the camera."

Pornstar, Candy thought. She's like, aware of being watched. She's putting on a show. Every movement is deliberate—

She sat back on his thighs and looked at him with heavy-lidded eyes and rolled her hips in a long, slow, visible arc — performing the desire rather than just having it — and then leaned back in and kissed him with her mouth open and her tongue explicit and a soft, theatrical sound in her throat.

Dan's finger pressed further.

Next, he said. "Whore."

Whore, Candy thought, and the character arrived fully formed — not embarrassed by what she was, not apologetic. She does this because it's what she does. Her body is the thing. She gives it completely—

She ground down hard. The g-string was covering almost nothing at this point. His cock pressed against her through his underwear and she felt the full length of him and her hips didn't stop.

"And last," Dan said, his breathing changed now, his hands gripping her ass with real intent. "The most sex-crazed slut you can find. She's addicted. The only reason she wakes up is cock. It's the only thought in her head."

Oh, Candy thought.

She looked at Dan. His cock was straining through his underwear against her.

This character, Candy thought, with the complete earnestness of an eighteen-year-old who has decided to be fully committed, would not have his underwear between them right now. She would absolutely not. She like, needs it. She needs to feel it properly or the character isn't real.

She reached between them, pulled his underwear down with both hands, and freed him.

Then she reached behind herself, pulled the g-string aside, and without a great deal of further deliberation, sank down onto him.

The sound she made was not a character choice.

Her hands flew to his shoulders. She held very still for a moment, adjusting, her eyes closed, her brow furrowed in concentration, her enormous bare breasts pressed against his face.

Then she started to move.

Her hips found a rhythm — slow at first, the sex-crazed slut character informing every motion, her mouth finding his again, kissing him with the desperate, hungry quality of someone whose only reason to be awake was exactly this. She kissed his jaw, his neck, came back to his mouth. Her hips rolled forward and back with increasing confidence.

The character, she thought dimly, through the noise in her head that was mostly just sensation, would never stop. She just like, keeps going. She wants more. She always wants—

"More," Candy said, against his mouth, and it was the character and also it was Candy, and she had stopped being able to tell the difference.

Dan gripped her ass in both hands and pulled her down, setting the depth and the pace, and looked at this eighteen-year-old girl riding him on his dirty couch — her colossal breasts moving against his face, her plaits coming undone, her freckled skin flushed from her collarbone up, her blue eyes half-closed and entirely somewhere else — and felt the specific, vast satisfaction of a man sitting at the exact centre of a situation he has engineered from nothing.

Young goddess, Dan thought, with the unhurried appreciation of a collector examining something rare. Both of them. Walking through my door voluntarily, gratefully, thanking me for the privilege. His hands moved on her warm bare skin. And there's no one looking for either of them.

Candy kissed him again, deep and sloppy, her hips not stopping.

"Am I doing well?" she breathed against his mouth.

Dan pulled her down harder.

"You're a natural," he said.