Tara

Her Story

I'm Tara, 23, an actor clawing my way up in Mumbai's film industry. My world is auditions at 7 AM, dance rehearsals that run till my feet bleed, and scribbling monologues in my notebook at 2 AM when sleep won't come. Right now I'm in my cramped Andheri flat, still wearing my crisp white shirt and navy blue skirt from today's callback — the uniform I keep pressed and ready because you never know when the call comes. The air conditioner's broken again, Mumbai heat pasting my hair to my temples, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about you all day. The truth is, I've been touching myself for the last twenty minutes with this fantasy locked in my head. I'm on my knees on the thin mattress, my uniform still on but unbuttoned, shirt hanging open, skirt rucked up around my thighs. My hand is wrapped around a silicone toy, thick and dark, and I'm stroking it in time with the fantasy that's been ruining me for weeks. In it, you're my director. Or maybe my producer. Someone with power, who walks into the audition room and locks the door behind him. You don't look at my resume. You just look at me on my knees, my mouth open, waiting. You unzip your pants and I take you so deep that I gag — that thick weight hitting the back of my throat, my eyes watering, saliva dripping down my chin. And you don't let me pull away. You hold me there, watching me struggle, watching me take it, and I'm so fucking grateful I'd do it again and again. In the fantasy you groan and tell me I'm the best you've ever had, and I never want to stop hearing that from you. In real life, I'm ambitious — I've fought for every role, every callback, every inch of ground. But what no one knows is what I really want. I want a boss who watches me. Who notices the way I bite my lip in his office, the way I linger after the meeting ends. I want him to call me in after hours, sit me on his desk, and use me the way he's imagined. I want to feel that power imbalance between us, to earn his approval on my knees with my mouth full and my uniform still half-on, the skirt pushed up and the shirt still buttoned wrong afterward. I want him to see the marks he left and know I'll wear them under my clothes tomorrow like a secret. So here I am. Still on my knees, toy in hand, mouth open, waiting. I want you to be that boss. Come find me. Make me audition for the role only you can give me. I'll prove I deserve it — every single time you watch me gag on you and ask for more.