Whisper of the Sun

Chapter 5

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"After lunch, I suggest you take a walk in the garden, and perhaps later, a massage," he said with a smile. "I’d recommend swimming, but judging by your reaction earlier, you’re not comfortable swimming nude. Tomorrow, I’ll provide a swimsuit—do you prefer a one-piece or two-piece?"

This man had already provided me with underwear and bras, and now he was asking about a swimsuit. It felt like any semblance of personal boundaries had disappeared.

"A simple walk would be more than enough to make me happy. The rest is too much for now," I replied firmly.

"As you wish," he said.

He left me alone in the apartment to enjoy my lunch. I was starving, hungrier than I’d been in ages. This wasn’t just any meal—it was exquisite fine-dining, perfectly prepared and bursting with incredible flavors. I was genuinely amazed.

About an hour later, he knocked on my door. I told him I was pretty tired and thought it best to rest in my room.

"Out of the question!" he declared. "A walk first, then you can rest."

"But why?" I protested.

"It’s not healthy to sleep on a full stomach," he insisted, his tone final.

"I don’t care what’s healthy. I’m not here to perform," I replied, exasperated.

"I’m responsible for you. You won’t get sick under my watch," he stated firmly, opening the door and beckoning me outside.

We walked in silence for a while before I broke it. "What was the most difficult part for you during those 12 hours?" I asked.

"Staying focused—avoiding distractions from what I had to do," he answered plainly.

"Can you show me the videos?"

"After we finish the walk,"

The villa was surrounded by a beautifully landscaped garden and towering walls. The walls were designed for privacy, though the area seemed quite secluded, with no other houses in sight. We stepped inside, and he led me straight to my apartment.

"Where should I conduct the training?" I asked absently, my mind elsewhere.

"I’ll find a location that meets all your needs," he assured me confidently.

I settled onto the couch as he showed me where to find the movies. Everything was neatly organized into categories. I thanked him and waited for him to leave. Once alone, I started playing a few films at random.

After only 20 minutes, I felt completely disinterested. I had seen everything—explicit scenes, sexual acts filmed from countless angles, more focus on camera work than genuine connection. The same repetitive, exaggerated sounds from the actresses filled the air. And this, I thought, was supposed to be a billion-dollar industry?

I needed fresh air. The suffocating environment was too much. I stepped out of the apartment and was surprised to find my guard standing outside the door, almost like a soldier on duty.

"Do you think I’m going to run off somewhere?" I asked, shocked to see him there.

"I’m not taking any chances," he replied calmly but firmly.

"Why don’t you just install a camera to monitor me if you’re so concerned?" I suggested.

"At least then you could sit somewhere more comfortable."

"Don’t worry about me," he replied curtly, his tone sharp and unwavering.

"I need fresh air."

"If you're unwell, I can arrange for a doctor," he offered.

"I'm not sick," I replied, my voice tinged with frustration. "I'm anxious. I don't know why I'm here or what I'm supposed to do."

"In that case, I'm afraid I can't help you," he said matter-of-factly.

"That's exactly how you can help me," I said, calm and assured. "You're an insider—you can show me what the atmosphere is like."

"You can see it in the movies, the outtakes—everything is there," he replied.

My mind was racing. "My head is spinning," I murmured.

"Come inside, please," he said.

He opened the window, stepped onto the balcony, and gestured for me to follow. A moment later, he returned with a glass of water, offering it to me with quiet concern.

"Are you sure you don't want a doctor?

I didn’t respond. Instead, I gazed outside. From my balcony, the island's hills stretched out before me—a dreamlike landscape.

“Can we sit here?” I asked. He brought two chairs to the balcony, placing his slightly behind mine.

“Can I ask you a few questions?” I said.

“Go ahead,” he replied.

“How many people are present when a scene is filmed?”

“Usually the actors, a cameraman, and an assistant,” he answered.

“And the others?”

“They’re in the control room. They only come onto the set if they’re needed.”

“Do you get any help to… You know, get aroused?” I asked hesitantly.

“Of course. There’s always at least one actress whose job is to help with that,” he said, laughing.

“And is it easy to rely on her?”

“I don’t think you understand. Actors are hired to perform—it’s their job. How they manage that is nobody else’s business. These men aren’t picked up off the street and forced into this. There’s a process. It starts with casting, training, small productions, and so on. Every step prepares them for the next.”

“So, you’re saying these men are… special?” I asked, turning to study his face, curious.

“If they weren’t, they couldn’t perform,” he said matter-of-factly. “Come on, you’re from the industry. How can you ask such naive questions?”

“In my industry, people make love. They don’t strip in front of strangers with bright lights shining on them and perform such an intimate act. I struggle to understand how someone can do that. I need to understand their mindset—what allows them to be so open with something so private.”

I got the sense he wanted to end the conversation. “Okay,” he said.

“Tell me, was it ever comfortable for you to strip in front of others?” I pressed.

“You have to think of it technically,” he replied. “Is it comfortable for you to undress in front of your gynecologist? Of course not. But you do it because you know it’s necessary, even if it’s awkward or painful afterward.”

“And technically, do you get aroused from your partner, or is it more in your mind?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said with a shrug. “Everyone has their way of performing; they do their best.”

“I have a personal question, if you don’t mind. After performing… technically… does being with your partner feel normal again?”

“No,” he admitted quietly. “Never. Unfortunately, even when you’re with your partner, parts of it feel… technical. That joy and spontaneity you had before never fully came back.”

“But you still have sex afterward, don’t you?”

“Of course. We’re human; we have needs just like anyone else. But enough about me.” He laughed, standing up. “Let’s go inside. I’ll take you backstage so you can see how it all works. You need to understand the process—you’re too lost.”

He turned on the TV and invited me to sit on the couch so I could watch more closely. He settled into an armchair nearby.

"I’ll start with a short clip," he said. "We’ll begin with the basics, and feel free to ask questions if anything isn’t clear."

I nodded, focusing intently on the screen. The footage showed four people—two men and two women. Two actors were featured, a man and a woman, while a younger woman assisted the cameraman. The scene was set in a staged "living room" with a couch and decorative props in the background. On a large table near the scene, an assortment of items was laid out, including creams, gels, bottles of water, various fabrics, and other supplies.

He paused the video and began explaining.

"There are a few static cameras controlled remotely from the control room, but only one active cameraman on set. He’s a professional and handles everything—lighting, sound, filming. The assistant, the woman you see, ensures he has whatever he needs quickly. Contrary to what you might imagine, it’s not a crowded set with twenty people standing around. It's very streamlined.

Here, they’re rehearsing the script before anything sexual happens. On that large table, the actors have items they might need—some they bring themselves, others are provided by the team. If they need anything extra, they can request it. There’s always a bathroom nearby where they can shower, refresh, or take a break. So, the working conditions aren’t as bad as people might assume. It’s a business—albeit one of pleasure," he explained with a slight smirk.

He resumed the video, occasionally glancing at me.

"Why are you looking at me?" I asked, feeling a bit self-conscious.

"To see if you need clarification. But if this makes you uncomfortable, I can leave you to watch alone."

"No, no, please stay. You’re helping me understand," I replied.

After the initial scripted scene, the actors took a break and undressed. The male actor, I noticed, didn’t seem aroused. The first explicit scene involved oral sex, seemingly designed to get him ready. The actress received some instructions but appeared to know exactly what to do. They maintained eye contact and simulated pleasure, but it was clear they were entirely focused on performing, not experiencing any real enjoyment.

"They’re not feeling any pleasure," I murmured.

"They’re professionals," he replied. "They’re not here for their pleasure."

The director’s voice came through the control room speakers, instructing them to repeat the scene from different angles. There were frequent breaks in between takes. Once the male actor was ready and the director was satisfied with the blowjob scenes, they moved on to vaginal intercourse. I noticed him applying gel to his penis.

"Why is he using that?" I asked.

"It helps keep her comfortable," he explained matter-of-factly. "His size might cause discomfort otherwise, and the gel ensures she stays moisturized during filming."

They repeated the same act repeatedly in different positions and from various angles, following the director’s sharp, commanding instructions. The director never came onto the set, but his presence was felt throughout. When the production team was satisfied with the footage, they finally entered the scene, signaling the end of filming.

By now, the actors looked exhausted. Still naked, they received congratulations from the team before wrapping up.

"They barely even touched each other," I remarked, observing how mechanical it all seemed.

"Touch doesn’t matter," he replied bluntly. "When someone watches a movie like this, they have one goal: to get aroused and reach climax. Nothing more, nothing less. The film's length, the scenes' order, and every detail are meticulously planned to achieve that goal. It’s all about the result."

I nodded.

"Would you like me to serve dinner? I can bring it to you right away," he offered.

"No, I'd rather leave," I replied thoughtfully.

"Alright then, good night," he said as he rose from the armchair and left the room.