Uh Huh, Honey

Hook,Line and Sinker

(SMUT WARNING)

The email is inconspicuous enough.

Sanemi's brushing his teeth when he gets it, a blink on his phone screen that lights up the bathroom. He opens it once he catches a glimpse of the sender address, leaving the toothbrush stuck in his mouth.

Hi, Shina -

We are reaching out to you on behalf of Hashira Co., a major adult film studio operating in the city.

As per the subject of this email, we are contacting you to inquire about a possible collaboration with our studio. After viewing your recent work, one of our directors has expressed interest in signing you for his next shoot. It is a standard scene, wherein you will star with one of our experienced actors.

Our offer is attached below. Also included are details of the anticipated project. Let us know if you are agreeable.

We look forward to hearing back.

Yours,

Hashira Co.

Sanemi carefully sets down his toothbrush before tapping the file. He's glad he does, because the amount of money printed in bold at the bottom of the page nearly makes him choke.

For an offer like that, Sanemi thinks he might be willing to do anything. Especially now, right after he's finished paying off a mountain of bills and looking at his fifth day in a row of eating instant ramen for every meal.

Porn.

It's good money, once you get over the whole have-sex-with-a-stranger-for-more-strangers-on-the-internet-to-jack-off-to thing. Tuition's a bitch Sanemi can't get rid of, and even the sketchy underground jobs pay well.

So he films porn. Straight porn, gay porn, any porn—nothing he can't stomach once the paycheck comes through. Hell, he's been the teenage pool boy taken advantage of, the straight jock not as straight as he thought he was, the shady delivery boy with loose morals—all for much, much less. This is something he can't afford to turn down.

And to top it off, Hashira's a well-known studio, popular enough that even he's heard of them. As far as he knows, they treat their actors well (which, from the contract, Sanemi fully believes), and the films they pump out aren't bad at all.

After that, the decision doesn't require much thought. Sanemi types up a quick confirmation email, swallowing around the residual mint on his teeth, and sends it off.

It's for the cash, he tells himself. All for the cash.

And now he's here. Standing in front of a modest building just outside the city, ordinary enough to be overlooked. Staring up at it. Counting the bricks. Without moving.

Aware that he's stalling, Sanemi checks his phone one more time to make sure he's at the right place. Looks up and down the street, ignoring the strange looks he's getting from passerby as they walk around him.

Fuck it, he thinks, marching up to the glass door and pushing it open with a sense of finality. He's already here; it'd be a waste to back out now. And, thinking back to the dollar signs on his contract, he'd long decided to take this job.

One step past the threshold, Sanemi's hit with a full-body blast from the AC, excessive like all high-end places are. The floor is polished tile, marbly in appearance and so clean it seems to shimmer under the lights. Framed posters of stills from various movies and photoshoots line the walls, glossy magazines tossed in the center of a small table surrounded by three leather seats. It looks like a real corporation, a far cry from all the studios he's ever been to, and Sanemi would think he walked into the wrong place if not for the countless times he double-checked the address on his way over.