The next day,Chris heard that a movie named the rascal boy will conduct auditions tomorrow,he got excited for it and get ready for auditions.
On The morning of the audition for The Rascal Boy, the air in the penthouse was thick and stagnant, heavy with the scent of Rose's expensive jasmine perfume. Chris stood before the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the hallway, his fingers fumbling with the buttons of a black shirt. He looked at his reflection—the sharp jawline, the messy dark hair, the eyes that looked older than eighteen. He was vibrating with a nervous, electric energy.
The soft click of heels on the hardwood floor signaled her arrival. Rose stepped into the hallway, her 33-year-old body draped in a translucent silk robe that did nothing to hide the nude curves beneath. She leaned against the wall, watching him with a predatory, half-lidded gaze.
"You're leaving?" she whispered, her voice a low, mature rasp that vibrated in the small space. She walked toward him, her hand sliding up his chest, her manicured nails catching on the fabric. "I think you need to relax first, Chris. A quick session in the bedroom would do wonders for that tension. Let me take care of you before you go."
Chris felt the heat rising in his gut, but he pushed her hand away, his jaw tightening.
"No, Rose. Not today. This is my shot. I need to keep my head straight."
A flicker of annoyance crossed her perfect features, replaced quickly by a smug, "Dirty" smirk. "Fine. Go and be a star. But don't expect me to be this patient when you get back."
The casting office was a high-pressure vacuum. When Chris stepped into the room, he didn't see the directors; he only saw the character. He tapped into the raw, jagged edges of his life—the silence of his mother's death, the weight of his father's empty chair, and the suffocating, illicit hunger he felt every time he looked at Rose. He began to laugh, a hollow, manic sound that echoed off the sterile walls. He paced the room like a caged animal, his eyes wide and unhinged, his voice cracking as he delivered the lines of the "Crazy Boy." He threw a chair, his breathing coming in ragged, desperate gasps. When he finished, the room was deathly silent.
Three agonizing days passed before the letter arrived. SELECTED. Chris felt a surge of triumph that nearly blinded him. He was going to be the lead.
But the triumph turned to ash the moment he stepped into the studio. He was standing near the set when he heard the lead actress—a woman whose face was on every billboard in the city—screaming at the director.
"I am not filming with him!" she shrieked, pointing a polished finger at Chris. "He's a complete amateur. He's unprofessional, and look at him—he's not even handsome. He looks like a street thug. If he stays, I walk."
The director didn't even look Chris in the eye. He just sighed and waved a hand dismissively. "You heard her, kid. We can't lose our lead. You're out. Go home."
The walk back to the penthouse was a blur of gray pavement and crushing Grief. Chris let himself in, the silence of the apartment feeling like a physical weight. He slumped onto the leather sofa, his head in his hands, hot tears of frustration stinging his eyes.
"Chris?"
Rose appeared from the kitchen, holding a glass of wine. She saw the devastation in his posture and set the glass down. She sat beside him, the scent of her skin filling his lungs. "What happened?"
He told her everything—the insult, the rejection, the way they had discarded him like trash. Rose listened, her expression hardening into something cold and protective.
"This is just the beginning, Chris," she said, her hand cupping the back of his neck, pulling his head toward her. "The world is full of blind fools. But I know what you are."
She slid off the sofa and knelt between his legs on the plush rug. "Let's start," she whispered.
She reached for his belt, her movements "Forceful" and efficient. As she opened his zip, Chris felt a jolt of raw electricity. She pulled his heavy duck, her eyes locked onto his with a "Dirty" intensity. She leaned in, her warm breath hitting him before her lips did.
She began to suck his dick, her tongue swirling with a rhythmic expertise. The sound of the wet, rhythmic friction filled the room—slurp, squelch, moan. Chris gripped the edge of the sofa, his knuckles white, as she worked him with a desperate, hungry heat.
"Rose... fuck," he groaned, his head falling back.
She pulled away, her lips glistening, and stood up, letting her robe fall to the floor. She was completely nude, her mature, 33-year-old body a masterpiece of curves and pale skin.
She pushed him back against the cushions and straddled him, guiding him inside her with a sharp, guttural gasp.
The fucking was "Savage." Rose moved with a "Raw" dominance, her hips and ass slamming against his thighs with a rhythmic slap-slap-slap that echoed through the penthouse. Thud. Squelch. Slap. Chris flipped her over, pinning her face-down against the arm of the sofa in a Doggy Style position. He lunged into her with a forceful, rhythmic thrust, his hands digging into her butt as he claimed every "hole" with a primal, "Dirty" aggression.
"Yes! Chris! Harder!" Rose screamed, her "Darker, uninhibited moans" filling the air. The wet friction was loud, a visceral, messy sound of two bodies colliding in a desperate attempt to drown out the world outside.
"CHRIS? I HAVE BIG NEWS!"
The front door slammed open. Sara marched into the living room, her face bright with excitement, holding a folder. She stopped dead three feet from the sofa.
The scene was a nightmare of "Nude" limbs and sweat. Chris froze, his body still locked inside Rose, his face turning a deep,
humiliated crimson. He scrambled backward, grabbing his discarded shirt to cover his lower half, his heart hammering in his chest.
"What the fuck... Chris?" Sara whispered, her voice trembling with shock and disgust. "What are you doing? With her?"
Rose didn't move with shame. She stood up slowly, her movements feline and arrogant, as she pulled her silk robe back over her shoulders. She looked at Sara with a chilling smile.
"It's not what you think, dear," Rose said, her voice smooth and manipulative. "This is just the love of a mother for her grieved son. He was hurting, and I was... comforting him. You wouldn't understand the bond we share."
Sara looked like she wanted to vomit. She stared at Chris, who couldn't meet her eyes. The silence was suffocating, broken only by the sound of Chris's heavy, post-coital breathing.
"Get dressed, Chris," Sara snapped, her voice hard.
A few minutes later, the three of them sat in the kitchen, the atmosphere thick with unspoken "Dirty" secrets. Sara refused to look at Rose, keeping her eyes fixed on the folder.
"Listen to me," Sara said, her voice tight. "Forget that 'Rascal' movie. I just got word from my contact at the agency. There's a massive audition next month. A total reboot. Spiderman: Begins. They aren't looking for 'handsome' models; they want someone young, raw, and intense. Someone who can play the struggle. It's the lead, Chris. This is the one that changes everything."
Chris looked at the folder, his ambition sparking through the shame.
"Next month," Sara repeated, finally meeting his eyes. "Don't waste any more time 'comforting' yourself. You need to be ready for this."
As Sara walked out, Rose leaned over the kitchen island, her robe slipping to reveal the swell of her boobs. "Spiderman," she whispered, her eyes burning with a "Predatory" heat. "I think we need to increase your 'training' sessions, Chris. You have a long way to go before you're a hero."