The director barely has time to call “reset” before Destiny’s already dragging me by the hand toward the oversized velvet throne they’ve dressed as Santa’s chair. The coat is gone now, just red satin straps and white fur trimming framing her body like the world’s filthiest present. Her nipples are hard, dark, begging. She shoves me down into the seat and climbs into my lap, thighs spreading wide over mine.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart,” she whispers, cupping my wet face. “Only ...