The casting room was a grimy little hole tucked away in the underbelly of Moscow, where dreams went to either bloom or die under flickering fluorescent lights. A worn-out leather couch sagged in the center, its cracks telling stories of countless desperate souls. A cheap desk, buried under a mess of crumpled scripts and coffee-stained papers, stood against one wall, while a tripod-mounted camera loomed in the corner like a voyeuristic sentinel. The air smelled of stale cigarette smoke and cheap cologne, a fitting backdrop for the kind of deals struck here.
Olga Ivanovna stepped into the room, her burgundy suit slightly wrinkled from the long, sweaty metro ride. At sixty-five, she carried herself with the stern authority of a physics teacher who’d spent decades silencing rowdy classrooms with a single glare. Her high heels clicked nervously on the scuffed floor, the sound echoing in the cramped space as she adjusted her tight ponytail and smoothed her skirt. Her tanned face, lined with years of hard-earned wisdom, betrayed a flicker of unease as she scanned the room.
“Well, well, look who’s graced us with her presence!” came a slick voice from across the room. Nikita, the casting host, flashed a disarming grin that didn’t quite reach his calculating eyes. His handshake was overly enthusiastic, almost mocking, as he gripped Olga’s hand. Behind him, Evgeniy, the camera operator, gave a lazy nod from behind the lens, already filming with a bored smirk. “I’m Nikita, your guide to stardom—or something like it. And that’s Evgeniy, our resident creep with a camera. Say hi, Evgeniy.”
“Hi,” Evgeniy grunted, not looking up from the viewfinder.
Olga sat on the creaky couch, the leather groaning under her weight. Her skirt rode up just enough to reveal smooth, bare thighs, and she tugged at it with a frown, her face flushing a deep crimson. She wasn’t used to being on display like this—her domain was chalkboards and equations, not casting couches in seedy dens.
Nikita plopped down on the desk, legs swinging casually as he sized her up. “So, Olga Ivanovna, tell me—how old are you, and what’s a fine lady like you doing in a dump like this? You’re the sexiest professor in Moscow, I’d wager. Ever had students drooling over you in class?”
Olga’s lips tightened, her stern features faltering as she stammered, “I—I’m sixty-five. And I’ve been teaching physics for over thirty years. My students respected me, young man, not… drooled. What kind of question is that?”
“Oh, come on, don’t play coy,” Nikita chuckled, leaning forward with a wink. “I bet you’ve got stories. But let’s get personal. Married? Got a lucky man waiting at home for his strict teacher to come back and… grade him?”
Her voice cracked as she adjusted her posture, hands folding tightly in her lap. “Divorced. I live alone. And I’m not here for games, Nikita. I’ve got loans—crippling ones. That’s why I’m… stooping to this.” Her eyes darted to the camera, then back to him, her flush deepening.
Nikita’s grin widened, his tone teasing but probing as he leaned closer. “A fine babushka like you, down on her luck? Breaks my heart. But why this, huh? Why not tutor some rich kid with more money than brains? Or is there a naughty streak under that prim suit?”
Olga’s eyes narrowed, her shaky voice sharpening like a blade. “Watch that cheeky little mouth of yours, boy. I’m here because I’ve got no other choice, not because I’m some thrill-seeker. You think I enjoy sitting here, being ogled by a pair of jackals?”
“Jackals, huh? Ouch,” Nikita laughed, clapping a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I’m wounded, Olga. But let’s get to the good stuff, shall we? Tell me, a woman of your… experience. How’s your track record with, say, blowjobs? You a pro at it? Do you swallow, or are you more of a spit-and-run type?”
Her face turned beet red, her hands wringing together as she sputtered, “I—I’m not a prude, but that’s hardly your business! What kind of interview is this? I thought this was about acting, not… not personal filth!”
“Acting, sure,” Nikita said with a mischievous smirk, waving a hand dismissively. “But we’re in the adult game, sweetheart. Gotta know what you’re comfortable with. Cumshots, for instance. You game for a little mess, or does that cross a line for Madam Professor?”
Olga’s jaw clenched, her embarrassment warring with a flicker of defiance. “I have limits, Nikita. I’m not some… some canvas for your nonsense. Keep pushing, and you’ll see how fast I walk out.”
“Oh, don’t mind Evgeniy over there,” Nikita said with a casual wave toward the camera, ignoring her threat. “He’s just a peeping tom with a paycheck. Pretend he’s not even here. Focus on me, darling.”
Olga let out a nervous laugh, her eyes flicking to the lens before snapping back to Nikita. “Easier said than done with that thing staring at me. But fine. Ask your ridiculous questions. I’m not running yet.”
“Good girl,” Nikita purred, his tone playful but relentless. “Let’s up the ante. Anal—yes or no? Group sex? Ever thought about a gangbang, maybe? I bet you’d be the boss of the room, barking orders even with a crowd around you.”
Her body squirmed on the couch, discomfort etched into every line of her posture, but she didn’t bolt. “You’re absurd,” she muttered, half under her breath. “I’ve done… some things, in my time. But I’m not a circus act. Keep dreaming if you think I’ll entertain that kind of madness.”
“Tough nut to crack, aren’t you?” Nikita said, his amusement barely concealed as he leaned back, arms crossed. “Alright, let’s get wilder. Bukkake? Pissing? Ever let someone degrade you just for the thrill of it, or is that too far for the iron lady?”
Olga bristled, slapping her knee with a sharp crack as her voice rose, trembling but fierce. “I’m not a damn toilet, you insolent little brat! There’s a difference between desperate and degraded. Push me again, and I’ll show you how I disciplined students who didn’t know when to shut up.”
Nikita grinned, utterly unfazed by her fire. “Feisty. I like it. But let’s move to the fun part, shall we? Stand up for me, Olga. Show off those assets. Let’s see what we’re working with under that stern exterior.”
Evgeniy zoomed in, the camera’s hum filling the tense silence as Olga hesitated. Her fingers trembled as she rose, muttering under her breath, “Young idiots, thinking they can order me around…” But slowly, defiantly, she unbuttoned her jacket, her stern facade cracking under the weight of the moment. Her eyes burned with a mix of shame and resolve, daring them to comment as the fabric parted.
Nikita stepped closer, his hand hovering near her shoulder, his voice a low, teasing murmur. “May I?”
Olga’s glare could’ve melted steel, her lips pursed tight, but her body didn’t pull away. The air between them crackled, a dangerous game of power and vulnerability hanging on the edge of his touch.
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