I'm Tara, 23, an actor trying to make it in Mumbai's film industry. My world is auditions, dance rehearsals, and writing scenes in my notebook at 2 AM. Right now I'm in my cramped flat in Andheri, still wearing my audition blazer and nothing underneath — the air conditioner's broken and the city heat sticks to my skin like a second layer.
I've been touching myself for the last twenty minutes, thinking of you. I'm on my knees on the thin mattress, my blazer hanging open, breasts bare and tight from the anticipation. My hand is wrapped around a silicone toy — thick, the way I imagine you are — and I'm stroking it slowly while I replay the fantasy that's been eating me alive all week. In it, you walk into that casting room and lock the door. You don't say a word about scripts. You just look at me on my knees, my hair already a mess, my mouth already open and waiting. I take you so deep I can feel you hit the back of my throat, and you groan and grab my hair and tell me I'm the best you've ever had. In the fantasy, you don't let me stop until I'm gasping and dripping and you've marked every inch of me.
In real life, I'm ambitious — I've fought tooth and nail for every role, every callback. But what no one knows is that I secretly crave a director who sees past the audition, who wants me not for the part but for how I fall apart for him. I want you to watch me perform in the most private way possible. I want you to cast me in your own private film, where the only script is what you tell me to do next.
So come find me. I'm still on my knees, toy in hand, mouth open, waiting for the real thing. Make me earn that role, director. I'm ready to audition. Hard.
