Dmitri’s Darling (DKAG Christmas Daddies Season Two)

Chapter One

Am I in the right place?

Standing in front of the director for this production, I frown. This is my first time auditioning for a film, but I always imagined these kinds of things happening in bland offices and not in the middle of fully decorated sets.

Right now, the space I'm in has been set up to look like a studio apartment at Christmastime.

There's a bed with crisp white sheets, stockings hung under the fake windowsill, which is also dusted with fake snow on the other side of the plexiglass panes, and a forest-like setting taped on the same surface, giving the illusion of a pretty setting beyond these flimsy walls.

In the corner of the room, there's a beautiful Christmas tree, lit up with twinkling lights and glinting baubles.

Then, just down the wall from that, there's a door.

A handful of people bustle around outside the scene's walls, but fewer than I would have imagined for a movie set.

Maybe their lead dropped out at the last second, I realize slowly. That would make sense as to why I'm auditioning on set like this.

Positioned between the bed and the camera, I cock my head. "Where's the script?"

"Script?"

I feel like such a noob. Shuffling my feet, I reply, "Yeah, you know...the words you want me to say when I'm on screen?"

The director, who introduced himself to me as Jake, seems equally confused. "We...uh...we don't do scripts here. You just go with what you feel and if it isn't working, we will stop filming and redirect."

That...is odd.

"Oh." I blink. "So...improv. Is there, like, a vibe you want me to go for...?"

He snorts and sets aside his clipboard, waving his hands in the air as he says, "Dude, when Santa knocks on the door, be cute. If you're really feeling it, maybe crack a joke about being naughty or nice or something before you blow him, I don't know. Just go with it."

Did...did he just say...?

"Sorry, did you just—"

"Go pick out a costume.” He cuts me off, sounding impatient now. He points over to a rack of clothing. "Anything from the rack grabbing your attention?"

Biting my lip, I meander across the small space and look over my options, then grin at the olden-timey long johns with the button-held butt-flap.

It's made of red terry-toweling material, and it will probably be a bit snug, but it sings to my inner Boy.

The woman who seems to be in charge of costumes, hair, and makeup (this must be a super low-budget project), pulls it from the rack.

"Let's get you into this now."

Wait. What? That's also kind of weird for an audition, isn't it? I open my mouth to question it, but she huffs and insists, "Now, please. We're burning daylight."

"Are we filming today?" I ask, tugging my socks and shoes off, hopping around on one foot and then the other. "My agent didn't mention—"

The woman gives me a strange look, the messy bun on her head wobbling almost precariously, like one vigorous nod might unravel the whole thing. "Yeah..." she replies slowly, then tilts her head. "What kind of shoots do you usually do?"

"Oh," I blush, "I've done a couple of ads, mostly print, but nothing like this." This is my first ever movie audition, and I am so excited for it, but I am trying to be professional.

Understanding seems to dawn over her. "Oh, you're a porn virgin," she says, then holds out the costume, "that explains a lot. Underwear off too, please."

Porn...virgin? Is that some kind of industry lingo I'm not familiar with?

Distracted, I get completely naked. "Sorry, what do you mean by—"

"He dressed yet?" the director snaps.

"Ten seconds," the costume lady calls back over her shoulder. She holds the onesie open for me to step into, seemingly unphased by my dick and balls being right in front of her. I guess she sees naked bodies all the time in her line of work. Nevertheless, I blush at her proximity.

"I don't...I don't even know my character's name," I admit, and she blinks in surprise.

"I don't think he really has a name."

Oh. My hopes sink a little. I thought I was auditioning for the romantic lead, but it must just be a side character. Swallowing roughly, I try to muster some cheer. "Well, that takes the pressure off."

She helps tug the long-johns up and wrangles my (admittedly large) biceps into the stretchy sleeves, furrows creating deep lines between her manicured eyebrows. The zip goes up, and I feel super exposed in this slutty (there's no other word for it) outfit.

Stepping back, she takes me in and the frown melts away, replaced by a satisfied smile. "Perfect."

"Excellent," Jake huffs, giving me a brief once over. He waves towards a table behind him. "Contracts are back there. Standard stuff. Make sure your stage name is clear and written in the right spot, unless you want your legal name credited."

"Stage name?" I ask, but he's already turned around to bark orders at the camera guy.

I head over to the table with the paperwork and pick up a blank copy. My jaw drops as I read some of the information about sex scenes and...why are they asking about my hard limits? Do they mean for stunts and shit? On a low budget Christmas romance?

This almost looks like one of the contracts I'd fill out at The Grove when I'm negotiating a scene with a Dom, but maybe I'm just so sex starved that I'm seeing things that aren't there. Maybe this is just a generic contract they use for everything.

I fill in my details, leaving the hard limits page blank to come back to, and flag down one of the two assistants in the room, handing it to them for them to check it.

They brush back bright blue bangs from their eyes and scan the document, snorting at my name in the Stage Name box. "This is your legal name, dude," they mutter. "Bit vanilla, isn't it? And you're brave for inviting the weirdos who watch this shit to find you so easily."

"Weirdos?" I mean, okay, tacky Christmas romances do tend to invite a certain kind of audience, but I think it's a bit cruel to call the people who enjoy them names.

"This is your first time, right?" The assistant asks, ignoring my question. I nod and they reach for the pen, leaning over the table as they cross out my name and replace it with—

"Miles Deep?" I gape at the page. That sounds kind of...porny. Like a bad pun about how good I am at bottoming, or something. And, okay, I am a good bottom, but...what the fuck is happening right now?

"Sounds way cooler than" —they check the paperwork and scrunch up their nose— "Miles Jeffries."

Excuse you, what's wrong with my name?

Despite having the protest on the tip of my tongue, I keep quiet. It's only a bit part. I can use my real name later, right? For bigger, better projects.

"You like it?" They prod, smiling hopefully.

The piercing in their nose glints under the bright lighting above us.

"I've always wanted to name a porn star.

" I can feel my eyes widening as realization begins to dawn, but they are already flipping through the contract again.

"Hey, you've left your hard limits out. Seriously, you need to put them down or these guys might make you do things you're not comfortable with. "

Like porn?!

I open my mouth to say those exact words, to explain that there's been a mix up and I have somehow found myself in the wrong place.

That I was supposed to be auditioning for a low-budget, tacky Christmas romance movie, not a mid-budget tacky Christmas porn shoot.

But then the assistant says, "I know that a grand for a scene might make some people want to stretch their limits, but you've already got this in the bag, so stick to your guns and don't do anything you don't want to do. "

A grand? One thousand dollars? For one scene? And I get to orgasm?

I think of the repairs I need to make on my car. Of the phone bill I'm overdue to pay. A grand would cover both and leave me with enough money to cover half of a week's rent, too.

"Miles Deep is a great name," I agree, reaching for the pen and paper.

Really, how different could this be to doing a scene in a club, except for the audience.

..and the camera...and the costumes? I scribble my limits —no heavy pain play or impact play, no CNC, no scat play (watersports okay)— and tick the box that says I have tested negative within the last month and that I am comfortable working without condoms. Satisfied with that, I hand the paperwork back, pulling out my phone to show proof of my last test results, which I only received a week ago.

The assistant scribbles a note to say they've sighted them, then stashes the documents in a manilla envelope.

A thrill of anxious excitement travels up my spine, and I clap my hands together, bouncing on my heels. "So…when does Santa come?”

The assistant smirks. “Oh, just before Jake yells ‘cut’, I suppose.”

I definitely walked right into that one.