Cammie was sitting on the edge of the bed, slumped over, staring at nothing,— not even in trance, just very stoned and very sweaty and fucked-out feeling. They must have been going pretty hard. A girl passing by put a bottled water in her hand. “Thank you Daddy,” she said automatically.

Everyone on set was Daddy. Everyone who wasn’t another slave whore. “Daddy” was so much easier for Cammie to remember than all the people’s different names, besides that literally everybody on set was someone for her to obey.

The director came over to her. She was a stone-faced middle-aged woman, Czech or Russian or something Cammie thought, with big hard-looking fake tits. Cammie was in love with her. She smiled up at her and licked her dry lips with her dry tongue, hoping the director might want to use her for a quick face fuck before whatever came next.

She wouldn’t though, Cammie knew. She never did. The director had zero tolerance for shenanigans on set.

“Did we do the scene good, Daddy?” Cammie asked.

The director levered Cammie’s head up by the chin and gave her a once-over. She was tall, taller in those severe boots she liked to wear, and her processed hair, backlit, made a golden frizzy nimbus around her head, like she was floating in the clouds. It always got Cammie wet when someone with Authority forced her to physically look up to them. Some people would have squatted down to her, brought their heads to a level, but the director knew better. She never treated Cammie like anything but an inferior and a cheap whore, which was one of the things Cammie loved about her.

The director put the business end of a vape pen in Cammie’s mouth and pressed the button. Cammie inhaled till she couldn’t anymore, and in the cloud of fumes surrounding her, and through the wild rush in her head, the director looked as luminous as an actual goddess.

“There we go,” she said, inspecting Cammie’s eyes. She winked. “Get those spirals going again.”

Cammie’s pussy was on fire. She wanted so bad just to sink off the bed onto her knees and start begging.

The director reached down and cracked open the top of her bottled water. Cammie felt the weight of it in her closed hand. She’d forgotten it was there. It wasn’t cold. She couldn’t think whether it was cold when she got it, it seemed like ages ago.

“Go on, hydrate,” the director said, walking away again. “Gonna need your spit.”

Cammie watched her go, fumbling the top the rest of the way off, and as she tracked herself bringing the bottle to her mouth her eyes crossed, and the movement of them crossing became a gravity:— she got that slidey passenger-in-yourself feeling of a trigger taking her, and the next thing her tongue was flopped out and all she could see was her nose and the water was pouring down her tongue and down her front and she was a statue in a fountain, and time stood still.

“Fuck,” she heard someone say. Somebody else was snickering. The water girl ran up with a couple of towels in her hand and started blotting the floor with them. “Wait wait wait,” the director said irritably. She walked over and took the empty bottle, still raised, out of Cammie’s hand and with that the statue’s eyes uncrossed and the trigger relaxed.

“Tell me you were up on that,” the director said to one of the cameras. “Hang on,” camera said out of the dark. And then, “Got it from the vape. We’re good.”

The director looked down at Cammie with something like interest on her face. She shook her head. “Bosses really ought to let us know when they’ve programmed something new into one of you like that.”

Cammie grinned. “I forgot how to swallow, Daddy,” she said proudly.

Some of the crew laughed, and Cammie was elated to think she’d made a joke, even if she didn’t know what exactly it was. The director hissed everybody quiet. She touched Cammie’s cheek with her fingers. “You are one brainfucked little tart, aren’t you,” she murmured.

Cammie’s heart leapt at the compliment. “Alright,” the director said briskly, turning away, “good work, good outtake material. Let’s move on now, we got a schedule.”

The girl with the towels was still dabbing around at Cammie’s feet. Cute little dyke-haircut blonde. “Get her cleaned up,” the director told her. “And she still needs water, don’t forget.” She walked off a couple steps and then stopped. “Feed it to her this time,” the director called back to the girl, “so we don’t have another goddamn mess.”

The girl brought a towel to dry Cammie’s front and then positioned herself on the bed behind her. “Did we do the scene good, Daddy?” Cammie asked the girl.

“Did great doll,” she said softly. “Tip your head back for me now.”

Cammie closed her eyes and rested her head on the girl’s shoulder. That was all it took to get the girl hot, Cammie could feel the change in her breathing, and on cue her pussy got wet. The girl poured with deliberate slowness and Cammie let the stream trickle into her open mouth, thinking how sexy it would be if she were to dribble some of it out. Make the girl think about kissing her. But the director wouldn’t like that. The girl had her other hand resting lightly over Cammie’s throat, as if to keep her steady. When Cammie swallowed she moved up and into the touch, trying to wish it heavier, stiffer, to feel it tightening into a grip.

She squirmed her throat against the girl’s hand a little hoping to encourage her to clamp down. Control your slut, she thought, and moaned and spread her legs wider. Cammie knew she was on the edge of misbehaving, but it was so frustrating when they wouldn’t take a hint.