My Big Break (New 4/02)

[KnightMan]

I'm really enjoying the slow buildup. I can't wait to see what happens next. Maybe a boy will see her naked next?

[Bucket]

This is such a great start.

As others have mentioned, the slow burn approach to focus on character building is spectacular, and Hadley herself is a very likable, girl next door character. All three girls are in fact.

I can definitely see Madison being the one in charge, and if this is going where I think this is going, I very much look forward to it.

Im really enjoying how shy Hadley is in contrast to Madison's unapologetic confidence, and Lauren is somewhat in-between. I have no doubt that Hadley will have some very embarrassing adventures ahead of her!

[Emily]

Chapter 4

Madison and Lauren’s parents picked them up just before sunset—Madison’s dad in his silent Lexus, Lauren’s mom chattering through the rolled-down window about traffic on the 405. I stood on the porch waving until their taillights disappeared around the corner, my fingers digging into my own elbows where they crossed my stomach. The door clicked shut behind me with terrible finality.

Mom was already in the kitchen, her back turned as she poured herself a glass of wine with surgical precision. The bottle’s neck didn’t clink against the rim—she’d done this too many times for mistakes. “So,” she said to the refrigerator door, her reflection warped in its stainless steel surface. “Did you do it?”

My confirmation came out as a cracked whisper, my toes curling against the kitchen tiles where the grout lines suddenly seemed fascinating. "I... did." The words tasted like pennies in my mouth—like I'd bitten my tongue mid-confession. Mom's wine glass paused halfway to her lips, the Merlot catching the overhead light in a way that turned it nearly black.

Mom's fingers tightened around the wine glass stem—white-knuckled—before she abruptly set it down. “Good.” She wiped her palms on her thighs, leaving faint damp streaks on the silk. “Then we move forward.” The fridge hummed as she pulled out her phone, scrolling with exaggerated precision. The screen’s blue glow hollowed her cheekbones, making her look skeletal under the kitchen’s recessed lighting.

My protest died half-formed when she held up a finger—not pausing, just silencing me mid-breath. I watched her thumb hover over Sal’s contact, the pad slightly smudged with lipstick. She tapped it with the finality of a judge’s gavel. “Hey, it’s me.” Her voice pitched higher, performatively cheerful. “Yeah, she’s ready.” A pause. My stomach dropped.

Sal’s answering chuckle crackled through the phone speaker—tinny and too loud, the sound of a man already counting commission. Mom’s fingers tightened around her wine glass, her knuckles blanching white as she forced a laugh that didn’t reach her eyes. “Monday at four,” she confirmed, her gaze sliding over my shoulder like I was furniture. The call ended with a tap of her manicured thumbnail.

I opened my mouth—dry as cotton—but Mom had already turned her back, the phone pressed to her ear like a weapon. Her silk blouse whispered against itself as she paced, each step precise as a metronome counting down my doom. "Yes, Monday at four," she repeated to Sal, her voice polished smooth as marble. No hesitation. No room for negotiation. Just the crisp click of her manicured nails against the countertop marking time until my next surrender.

The next few days passed in a series of small, suspended moments—each shower an exercise in self-torture. I stood under scalding water with my eyes squeezed shut, hyperaware of every dip and plane of my body that hadn’t existed before that sleepover. My fingers traced the jut of my hipbones like a blind person reading braille, cataloging imperfections Madison and Lauren had seen with clinical detachment. The bathroom mirror fogged over deliberately—I couldn’t bear to see my reflection without clothes distorting the truth.

Finally, Monday arrived with the quiet inevitability of a guillotine blade descending. The digital clock on my nightstand blinked 6:03 AM when I woke—too early, yet somehow too late. Sunlight sliced through the blinds in razor-thin lines, striping my bedspread like a prison uniform. Downstairs, Mom was already clattering pans with unnecessary force, the metallic bangs telegraphing her mood louder than words.

I got out of bed with the same mechanical precision I used before auditions—legs swinging over the edge in one fluid motion, feet hitting the floor at the exact moment my alarm would've sounded if I'd set one. The shower knob turned with the same quarter-inch rotation I always used, just enough to achieve lukewarm. My shampoo routine was methodical—twenty-seven circular motions at the crown, fifteen along each temple—the kind of meaningless counting that kept panic at bay.

I wore the audition outfit like armor—black tights, navy sweater, the kind of ensemble that said "serious professional" in a language casting directors understood. The fabric clung uncomfortably where I'd outgrown it since last season's pilot calls, the waistband digging into my hips with each breath. Mom had laid it out the night before on my desk chair, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles with quick, efficient strokes while I pretended to sleep.

The car ride was silent except for the rhythmic click of Mom’s turn signal—too loud, like a metronome counting down to execution. She drove with both hands at ten and two, her knuckles pale where they gripped the wheel. I stared out the window at the blur of strip malls and palm trees, counting the seconds between streetlights. Twenty-seven. Fifteen. The numbers didn’t help this time.

The studio lot loomed like an industrial fortress, its stucco walls bleached bone-white by the relentless sun. Mom's heels clicked a staccato rhythm against the asphalt as we approached Building 4—an unmarked structure with blacked-out windows that seemed to absorb the morning light rather than reflect it. My fingers found the hem of my sweater, twisting the fabric into nervous spirals as we reached the unmarked door.

We were greeted by an assistant whose smile didn't reach her eyes—too practiced, too symmetrical. Her name tag read "Jasmine" in crisp white letters, but the plastic was slightly cracked along the bottom edge. "Right this way," she chirped, gesturing down a corridor that smelled faintly of disinfectant and stale coffee. When Mom moved to follow, Jasmine's manicured hand shot out with surprising firmness. "Parents wait in the lobby."

Mom's fingers dug into my shoulder—just for a moment—before she forced them to relax. The look she gave me wasn't encouragement; it was a warning written in the tight line of her jaw, the flared nostrils that meant she'd already spent my hypothetical paycheck. "Remember why we're here," she murmured, her breath warm against my temple. Then she was gone, swallowed by the industrial gray lobby chairs that matched her blazer exactly.

Jasmine led me down the hallway with practiced efficiency, her ballet flats making no sound on the linoleum. The audition room door was unremarkable—beige, slightly scuffed at knee-height—but my pulse spiked when she turned the knob without knocking. Inside, the air tasted like stale air conditioning and the metallic tang of nerves.

Lena sat at the far end of a folding table, her dark bob freshly trimmed into geometric perfection. The two male directors from the initial meeting flanked her—one picking at the label on his mineral water bottle, the other scrolling through his phone with deliberate disinterest. Between them sat a woman I’d never seen before, her posture so rigid it seemed to warp the air around her. A clipboard rested on the table in front of her, its metal clasp glinting under the fluorescent lights like a surgical instrument.

The door clicked shut behind me with a sound like a bone snapping. Lena smiled—not with her eyes, but with her teeth—as she gestured to the unfamiliar woman. "This is Dr. Voss," she said, her manicured nails tapping the tabletop like a countdown. "Our consulting sexologist."

Dr. Voss didn't extend a hand. Her gaze traveled down my body with clinical precision—not leering, but measuring, as if I were a specimen pinned to a dissection tray. A silver pen flashed in her fingers as she made a notation on her clipboard, the nib scratching across paper like insect legs.

The pen stopped scratching. Lena leaned forward, elbows on the table. "So," she said, her voice like a scalpel sliding out of its sterilized packaging. "Did you manage to disrobe in front of somebody?" The words hung in the air, each syllable a branding iron against my skin.

My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their hum syncing with the tremor in my knees. Dr. Voss's pen hovered over her clipboard, poised like a stinger. I nodded—once—the motion jerky as a marionette's twitch.

Lena's smile widened fractionally. "And?" She tapped her temple with one polished fingernail. "Use your words." The directors had stopped pretending disinterest now; both were watching me with the detached curiosity of biologists observing lab rats.

The words came out in staccato bursts, sticking to my teeth like overcooked pasta. "It was… my two best friends. Madison and Lauren." My fingers found each other behind my back, twisting into knots that hurt. "We—had a sleepover and I got undressed with them." The fluorescent lights buzzed louder, spotlighting every hesitation in my voice.

Dr. Voss's pen scratched across her clipboard—short, clinical strokes that sounded like skin being flayed. Lena leaned forward, her elbows denting the manila folder in front of her. "Tell us about their reactions," she said, her voice deceptively soft. The male director to her left finally looked up from his phone, his pupils dilating slightly.

Madison's analytical gaze burned against my memory, sharper than the studio lights. "M-Madison was… matter-of-fact." My throat clicked. "Like I was a—a diagram in her biology textbook." Dr. Voss's pen skittered across her clipboard, transcribing my humiliation into neat bullet points. The male director licked his lips subtly, his wedding band glinting as he adjusted his position. “And Lauren was…” My sweater suddenly felt three sizes too small. “She kept looking away. Like she wanted to give me privacy but couldn’t.”

Lena’s fingers twitched toward the manila folder, her nails leaving faint crescent marks on the paper. "Interesting," she murmured, exchanging a glance with Dr. Voss that made my stomach twist. The sexologist’s pen resumed its methodical scratching, her eyes never leaving my face as she circled something on her clipboard twice. The male director to her right shifted in his chair, his knee bouncing under the table with restless energy.

Lena's fingers drummed a slow, deliberate rhythm against the manila folder. "Dr. Voss has some personal questions for you now." Her smile was a scalpel—sharp and sterile. "Answer honestly. There's no need for embarrassment." The lie hung between us like a spiderweb, glinting in the harsh fluorescent light.

Dr. Voss adjusted her glasses with one finger, the steel frames catching the light like surgical tools. "Let's start with the basics," she said, her voice devoid of inflection. The pen tapped against her clipboard—once, twice—before she began. "Have you gotten your first period yet?"

The question hung in the air like a guillotine blade. My fingers curled into fists behind my back, nails biting into my palms. The male director to Lena's right exhaled sharply through his nose, his wedding band glinting as he adjusted his grip on his phone. "No," I whispered. The word tasted like chalk in my mouth.

Dr. Voss made a notation with swift, efficient strokes. "Breast development?" Her gaze dropped to my sweater for half a second—clinical, assessing. The fluorescent lights buzzed louder, pressing down on my shoulders.

“Not really.” I swallowed against the dryness in my throat, my sweater suddenly feeling like a too-tight costume under their collective gaze. Dr. Voss’s pen scratched another note—short, precise strokes that sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard. The male director to her left uncrossed his legs abruptly, his shoe squeaking against the linoleum.

"Pubic hair?" Dr. Voss continued without missing a beat, her voice flat as a ruler against skin. Lena leaned forward fractionally, her bobbed hair swinging like a curtain revealing too much. The second male director's knee stopped bouncing—frozen mid-air—as if the question had physically pinned him in place.

I shook my head, my ponytail brushing against my neck like spider legs. The pen paused. Dr. Voss adjusted her glasses with one finger, the gesture eerily reminiscent of a pathologist adjusting a scalpel. "Ever been kissed?" Her voice didn't waver, but Lena's fingers twitched against the manila folder.

The fluorescent lights flickered overhead—once, twice—casting brief shadows that made the directors' faces look hollowed out. "No," I whispered, watching Dr. Voss underline something three times with surgical precision. The air conditioner kicked on with a shudder, blasting frigid air against the back of my knees.

“Have you ever touched yourself?” Dr. Voss’s pen hovered, its nib poised like a needle above the clipboard. The fluorescent light caught the silver band of her watch—too tight around her wrist, leaving a pale indentation in her skin. My throat closed up, the air suddenly thick with the scent of stale coffee and something metallic—maybe the blood from where my nails were digging into my own palms behind my back.

Lena leaned forward, her blouse gaping slightly to reveal a collarbone so sharp it could’ve cut paper. “Be honest,” she murmured, tapping her temple again. “This is crucial for the project’s authenticity.” The male director to her right exhaled sharply through his nose, his wedding band glinting as he adjusted his position.

A bead of sweat traced my spine beneath my sweater. “No.” The word came out cracked, like a dried-out creek bed. Dr. Voss’s pen scratched across the paper—a short, jagged line that veered off the margin. The second director licked his lips absently, his knee bouncing again under the table with restless energy.

“So you’ve never had an orgasm?” Dr. Voss’s pen hovered, its nib casting a tiny dagger-shaped shadow across her clipboard. The fluorescent lights flickered again—once, twice—as if the building itself was reacting to the question. Lena’s fingers twitched toward her water glass, her manicured nails clicking against the condensation. The male director to her right leaned forward slightly, his chair creaking under the shift in weight.

“I don’t think so,” I mumbled, my toes curling inside my ballet flats. The linoleum floor felt suddenly unstable beneath me, tilting like the deck of a ship in a storm. Dr. Voss’s pen didn’t pause this time—it carved into the paper with a sound like tearing fabric, her wrist moving with the precision of an engraver etching glass.

The silence after Dr. Voss's last question stretched like a wire about to snap. Then Lena cleared her throat—a sound like a scalpel being slid from its tray—and stood abruptly, her chair legs scraping the linoleum. "Excellent baseline," she announced, gathering the manila folder with both hands as if it contained radioactive material. "Now we proceed to the practical assessment."

The words took three full heartbeats to register. Practical assessment. My sweater's neckline suddenly felt like a noose. Dr. Voss's pen clattered onto the clipboard as she stood with military precision, her orthopedic shoes squeaking against the floor. The male directors remained seated but exchanged glances—one adjusting his tie, the other flexing his fingers like a pianist preparing for a concerto.

Lena's fingers tapped the manila folder against her thigh—three times, deliberate as a countdown. "We need to document your current developmental stage," she said, her voice polished smooth as a scalpel. “Please remove your clothes.” The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their hum syncing with the sudden tremor in my hands.

My fingers locked around the hem of my sweater like it was the edge of a cliff. The air conditioning vents hummed louder, pushing frigid air against the back of my neck—tiny needles pricking where sweat had begun to gather. Lena's gaze didn't waver; she watched with the detached patience of a lab technician waiting for a specimen to stop thrashing.

“If this is too difficult,” Lena said, tapping her pen against the manila folder, “we can always find another girl.” Her voice was smooth as poured mercury, sliding into the cracks of my hesitation. “Someone more… committed to the project’s vision.” The male director to her right shifted, his chair creaking under his weight as if in agreement.

“No… I can do it.” The words tasted like ash, but I forced them out before my brain could catch up. Lena’s smile was a scalpel’s edge—thin and gleaming—as she gestured toward the center of the room where the overhead lights pooled brightest. “Excellent. Stand there, please.”

My sweater caught on my chin as I pulled it over my head, the static-charged fabric clinging to my face for a suspended second before I wrenched it free. The air hit my exposed skin like a slap—cold and sharp, carrying the antiseptic tang of the studio’s industrial-strength cleaner. My fingers moved to my waistband mechanically, the practiced motion of someone undressing backstage, except there was no costume waiting in the wings. Just the relentless glare of fluorescent lights and four pairs of eyes dissecting every tremor in my hands.


My ballet flats slipped off with a soft thud—first the right, then the left—landing on the linoleum like fallen petals. The floor was colder than I expected, its chill leaching up through my soles as if the building itself were drawing warmth from me. I curled my toes instinctively, the arches of my feet lifting slightly as if to minimize contact with that clinical, unforgiving surface.

The socks came next—white ankle socks with tiny pink bows at the cuffs, a childish detail Mom hadn't noticed when she bought them. I hooked my thumbs under the elastic, peeling them down in slow motion. The left one caught on my little toe, stretching grotesquely before snapping free with a quiet pop that sounded obscenely loud in the silent room. I let them drop, watching as they puddled around my feet like shed skin.

The tights peeled away from my legs reluctantly. My fingers scrabbled at the elastic waistband, tugging harder when the fabric refused to surrender its grip. One foot came free with a sudden jerk that sent me staggering sideways, the abandoned nylon leg flopping grotesquely against my ankle like a shed snakeskin.

My toes curled against the linoleum, cold seeping up through the soles of my feet. The studio air prickled against every inch of exposed skin—not just temperature, but the weight of their gazes mapping each new patch of vulnerability. Dr. Voss's pen scratched a fresh page, her wrist moving with the jerky precision of an animatronic. The taller male director—the one with the wedding band—adjusted his glasses with two fingers, his breath audible through his nose.

My hands moved to the back clasp of my training bra—white cotton with faint yellowing at the edges from too many bleach cycles. The plastic hooks resisted at first, my fingers slipping against them with a faint click-click-click of failed attempts. It wasn't until I inhaled sharply—the cold studio air stinging my lungs—that the mechanism finally gave way, the fabric slackening like a defeated sail.

The bra straps slid down my arms with excruciating slowness, catching momentarily on the sharp jut of my elbows before slithering to the floor. The air against my newly exposed skin was an assault—simultaneously icy and prickling with the phantom weight of their stares. I could feel Dr. Voss's pen moving in sync with my shallow breaths, her notations tracking each incremental exposure like coordinates on a map.

My thumbs hooked into the waistband of my cotton panties—plain white, the elastic slightly frayed from too many washes—and froze. The air conditioner kicked on with a shudder, sending a blast of cold air across my exposed thighs. I could feel Lena’s gaze like a scalpel tracing the hesitation in my fingers.

"You’re doing wonderfully," Dr. Voss said without looking up from her clipboard. Her pen hovered, poised like a wasp over ripe fruit.

I exhaled sharply through my nose and pushed the fabric down. The panties caught on my hips for one suspended second—just long enough for my brain to scream abort—before gravity took over. They pooled around my ankles, a pathetic little puddle of cotton on the industrial linoleum.

The moment my underwear hit the floor, time fractured into jagged pieces. Lena’s fingers twitched toward the manila folder again, but it was the male director’s sharp intake of breath that made my skin prickle—a sound like steam escaping a pressure valve. Dr. Voss’s pen didn’t pause; it skittered across her clipboard with renewed fervor, etching symbols I couldn’t decipher from this distance.

Dr. Voss’s pen finally stopped scratching. She raised her chin, her glasses catching the light and turning her eyes into opaque discs—two silver coins pressed into doughy flesh. “Stand straight,” she commanded, her voice devoid of inflection. The pen twitched toward my chest like a divining rod. “Arms at your sides.”

I forced my arms to unclench from where they’d been hovering near my ribs, my palms slick with sweat despite the chill. Lena shifted slightly in my peripheral vision, her manicured fingers now interlaced on top of the manila folder like a judge about to deliver sentencing.

“Notice the lack of breast bud development,” Dr. Voss announced, her pen tapping the clipboard three times—each tap syncing with my pulse. “Typical Tanner Stage 1 presentation.” The male director with the wedding band leaned forward slightly, his chair creaking. My nipples puckered involuntarily under the assault of cold air and scrutiny, and Dr. Voss’s pen darted forward again. “Areolar diameter approximately two-point-five centimeters.”

The pen moved downward in short, precise jerks as if connected to an invisible ruler. “Pubic mound completely prepubescent,” she continued, her clinical tone making the words somehow worse. “No visible hair follicles. Mons appears underdeveloped relative to chronological age.” The taller director cleared his throat—a wet, phlegmy sound that made my stomach turn.

Dr. Voss circled me slowly, her orthopedic shoes squeaking against the linoleum. When she paused behind me, the nape of my neck prickled as if sensing the trajectory of her pen. “Posterior examination confirms anterior findings,” she dictated. “Gluteal cleft shows no signs of secondary sexual characteristic development.” A drop of sweat traced my spine, but I didn’t dare move to wipe it.

Dr. Voss’s pen made one final, decisive stroke—a period at the end of my humiliation. She stepped back, the clipboard pressed against her chest like a shield. “Documentation complete,” she announced, her voice bouncing off the sterile walls. The overhead lights buzzed as if in approval, their fluorescent glow etching my shadow onto the linoleum—a stark, trembling silhouette that looked nothing like the poised actress my mother advertised.

Lena's polished fingernail tapped the manila folder twice—a sound like bone against glass. "Congratulations," she said, her smile stretching thin as surgical wire. "We're confirming you for the lead role." The words should have felt like a victory, but they settled in my gut like swallowed stones.

Dr. Voss's clipboard angled toward the male directors, her notations visible now—columns of numbers and checkboxes that reduced my body to a series of metrics. The taller one wet his lips unconsciously, his wedding band catching the light as he adjusted his grip on his phone.

"There's just one condition," Lena continued, extracting a single sheet from the folder. The paper trembled slightly in her grip, betraying the first crack in her clinical demeanor. "We need you fully acclimated before principal photography begins in three weeks." Her gaze dropped pointedly to where my discarded clothes lay in a heap on the linoleum. "No more hesitation when the cameras roll."

The silence pooled around me like spilled mercury, heavy and impossible to wade through. Lena extended the document toward me, her fingers steady—unnervingly so. The paper was crisp, freshly printed, with dotted lines waiting for signatures at the bottom. My name was already typed in neat black letters beneath the clause about "full cooperation with developmental documentation."

The paper hovered between us, its edges trembling—but whether from the air conditioning or my own shaking hands, I couldn’t tell. Lena’s fingernail tapped against the dotted line where my signature belonged, the sound echoing like a metronome counting down. Behind her, the male director adjusted his phone’s angle subtly, its screen reflecting the overhead lights in a way that made my skin crawl.

I stood there naked, staring at the dotted line beneath my name, the ink from Lena’s pen pooling like a drop of blood at the tip. My fingers trembled as I reached for it—not a conscious decision, more like muscle memory, the way my body moved onstage when my mind had gone blank. I knew once I signed, there was no going back. No pretending this wasn’t happening. Millions of eyes would see me exactly like this: exposed, measured, dissected.

But mom’s voice slithered through my hesitation—“You want to be a star, don’t you?”—and I pressed the pen to paper before I could think. The signature came out shaky, the tail of the Y smearing where my sweat had dampened the page. Lena plucked it away before the ink could dry, her manicured thumb brushing the edge like she was handling currency.

“Congratulations, we are excited to work with you,” Lena said, folding the signed contract with crisp efficiency. The paper made a sharp sound as it disappeared into her folder—like the snip of surgical scissors. My signature stared up at me for a split second before being sealed away, the ink still glistening wetly where I’d pressed too hard. “Why don’t you get dressed and go see your mother? She’ll be thrilled.”

[Bucket]

Holy hell, Emily, you're on a roll! Back to back to back chapters in such a short period of time? Phenomenal. Its great to see your creative juices (there's a naughty joke in there somewhere) flowing.

[Somebody]

Running out of ways of saying incredible. This is just perfect. I do want to make some tiny corrections: you said 'public' hair once when you meant pubic hair, and you mention the cold floor chilling her feet before the shoes come off. Getting tights off without taking off the ballet slippers would be pretty hard anyway, right? And that floor must be pretty cold if she actually had socks but could still feel it .
Anyway, really really nice. I was almost wondering if this documentary was going to involve her reluctance and embarrassment, but it would seem that they would like to leave that part out and get her acclimated quickly. I wonder how she's going to pull that off. Any naturist groups around?

[Rosey]

Good use of AI which one are you using?

[bare]

Loving this!

I thought when her friends were whispering, they were going to hide her clothes and make her stay naked. When mom grabbed her phone I thought she was going to take pictures, not call Sal. The first time she stripped for her friends and when she stripped in the studio, I thought both times she would be asked to spread. I thought her friends might ask because that's going to be required in her "acting" and I thought the studio would want to see that she looked virgin. It would have made her more embarrassed, but I guessed wrong on it all.

[PhillyPhan321]

Really loving this. Hoping her class watches some of her scenes in class with her there!

Can't wait for more!

[Emily]

New parts should be ready this week I’m excited to dive back into writing this!

[PhillyPhan321]

New parts should be ready this week I’m excited to dive back into writing this!

Awesome can't wait! Was thinking about posting last week saying I hoped this story wasn't dead. Was really looking forward to hearing more of it!