Asking For It Page 2

  I entered my dressing room, which was roughly the size of a high school locker, and used the sink to splash some cold water on my face. After rubbing myself down with a washcloth and brushing my teeth, I felt a bit better, but not much. And I still had the aches to look forward to. Those would come later. Eager to be free of the heat and the smell of what we had done here, which hung like a fog in every inch of the building now, I shrugged on a robe, some heels, and quickly went to Ken's office.

  When I walked in, he was reclined in a leather chair, smoking a cigar, his eyes narrowed. Naomi's head bobbed up and down in his lap, her small mouth clamped around his stubby, porcine dick. He had a handful of her hair and was forcing her down on him. I could hear her choking.

  "I can come back," I said from the doorway.

  "No need, almost done," he said, clearly delighted. A moment later, he gave a curiously high-pitched whine and his face contorted into a look of pain. A shudder, a muted gag from Naomi, and he was done. He jerked her head off his already flagging member and brought his attention back to me.

  Naomi, looking humiliated and disgusted with herself, hurried out of the room. I grabbed her elbow. She looked at me, pain in her eyes.

  "Wait outside my dressing room for me," I said. "We need to talk."

  She didn't nod, didn't seem to acknowledge me at all, and I had no idea if she'd be there or not when I returned to the dressing room. Because, yes, to you and me it seems like she was being victimized by an ogre who relished in the "perks" of his job and his dubious fame. But I have learned the hard way that sometimes girls like Naomi, for all their apparent humiliation and tears, deliberately put themselves in such situations because a part of them thinks they deserve it. Some part of them likes it. And sometimes, they are indeed victims. Victims who will never have the courage to make the abuse stop, to report it, or to just get the hell out of Dodge. Victims who somehow come to believe what happened to them happened because in some way they were asking for it. Intervention in these cases is, more often than not, a wasted exercise, and to a degree I understand that. We're all victims, every one of us. The choices we make define us. And when the bad things come as a result of those choices, we might cry, and protest, and try to run, but there will always be a part of us deep down inside that whispers: You asked for it.

  And sometimes we listen.

  "Saving another one?" Ken asked as I leaned against the door and folded my arms.

  "Does being this much of a prick come naturally to you or do you have to work on it?" I asked him, the anger and disgust lapping at the corners of my throat. I feared I might be sick. That's another thing about this business. Just when you think you've seen it all, you see more.

  "Had to let your boy Mike go," he said. "He wasn't performing to my standards."

  "You mean he wasn't taking advantage of innocent girls?"

  He laughed, humorlessly. "I spoke to your manager."

  "And?"

  "And I'm bumping up your pay for today's work."

  "Mighty white of you."

  "Well, I felt bad about the change. You didn't disagree to the double anal scene, but we never mentioned it either, so…"

  "Hard to mention it when it was something you thought up just to fuck with me."

  "…so I felt it only fair to compensate you for the work. You know how this game works, Lana. It's all about the money."

  "Ah yes, the money," I said, my body shaking with the need to rip his fucking face from his skull. "The money you use to ensure you get everything your way. Well, I've got news for you, you fat tub of shit. Sooner or later that money will run out. You won't be able to throat-fuck naïve young girls who only do what you want because they have some half-bred notion that someday they'll be pornstars. Things are changing, pigboy, and you're going to be one of the first to fall."

  His eyes widened, even as his lips spread to reveal a mouth full of smoke-stained teeth. He was delighted. He stood up so suddenly, I flinched, then cursed myself for doing so.

  "Josh!" he yelled. "Josh, get your camera in here! We need to get Ms. Laye's outburst on YouTube! It'll be like that Lily Tomlin thing!" He sat back down and chuckled to himself. "You're priceless! Maybe we should get you together with Chasey Lain."

  I stared at him for a moment, trying to deny the ugly reality of who and what he was:

  A cog in a machine that grinds people up and spits them out every single day.

  A machine of which I was also a part. A machine that would grind me up too and eventually spit me out.

  Because I'd asked for it.

  Repulsed, with both him and myself, I exited the office, and noticed two things at once.

  Josh wasn't running with his camera. He hadn't moved at all. I gave him a nod, which he returned.

  And there was nobody waiting for me outside my dressing room.

  # # #

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Lana Laye is the pseudonym of a former adult film actress, and model. She was born in the Midwest, but has traveled globally, and currently makes her home in New York. She runs a successful sales business and writes and models in her spare time.

  ASKING FOR IT is the first in a series of stories partially based on real-life experiences.

  ALSO BY LANA LAYE

  Take Me

  The Student