The buff, handsome man with perfect teeth sat at a tiny desk in a narrow space, hunched over and holding a pair of thick black headphones to his ear. His head was cocked and a look of concentration was stamped on his heartthrob's face. Several other men stood around him, crammed into the tiny, tin-can space like sardines. They all wore brown Navy uniforms: Pants, short sleeved shirts, and caps. The headphones crackled to life and a voice sounded, tinny and weak with distance. "...all dead. Communications broken down. We haven't received orders from Washington in days. This will probably be our last transmission."

All of the men exchanged a worried look, the man sitting - the most handsome of them all even though each one of them looked like a model - visibly swallowing. "What should we do, sir?" he asked the commander, an older man with gray stubble.

"We keep going," the commander said. "Once we reach Antarctica, we won't have to worry about the flu anymore. We can regroup and go from there. Thank God no one onboard is sick." The commander stood up straight, looked like he wanted to say something more, then walked away, ducking his head as he stepped through a hatch. The other men looked nervous, and eventually broke up, each going their own way. The radio operator sat the headset aside, reached for a small spiral notepad, and flipped it open. A voiceover sounded as he began to write.

"June 28. We have lost contact with the base at Honolulu. There are reports of riots and looting in New York City and of millions dead worldwide. It has been one month since the Italian Flu first appeared and our orders are to sail to Antarctica. The virus can't survive the cold. We are all safe. No one onboard is showing signs of the flu."

As he wrote, the man began to sweat.

Balling his hand, he pressed it to his mouth.

And coughed.

"CUT!"

Blake Bradley sat back in his chair and looked at the director, a thin, bald man wearing glasses and a puffy vest over a checkered shirt. He was seated in a canvas chair with DIRECTOR stenciled across the back in white. Cameramen and technicians loomed in the shadows past the hot lights, and Blake swiped the back of his hand across his forehead. To achieve the sweating effect, they had turned the lights brighter, hotter, and right now, he felt like he was sitting in the mouth of a freaking volcano. "I don't like it," the director said. "You're supposed to be sick. You're supposed to tell the audience that there is someone infected onboard, and that that someone is you." The director clutched his hand into a passionate fist and held it to his scrawny bird chest. "I want spittle. I want snot. I want people to look at you and know that you're the infected piece of shit who's going to kill everyone on the submarine."

Blake chuckled at the director's colorful language. He had never worked with Sayyid Khan before, but he had heard tons of stories about him. Like Stanley Kubric, he was one of those temperamental and possibly psychotic filmmakers who ran their sets like concentration camps…but turned everything they touched into classic cinema. Blake, bored by the dull humdrum of a long and full life in Hollywood, had been excited (and nervous) over the prospect of working with such a filmmaker as Sayyid Khan. It was far different from anything he was used to and seemed a fun challenge. At the very least, he would come away from this movie with a load of funny and interesting stories.

So far, that wasn't really the case.

Instead of flying off the handle and threatening people with death, as he was rumored to have done in the past, Sayyid forced take after take for the most arbitrary of reasons. God, how arduous it was to shoot the same scene thirty or forty times. Once, there was a two second scene where Blake was supposed to walk across the deck of the ship and disappear into a gangway. Sayyid shot it again and again and again. Finally, he exploded out of his chair after crying cut for the final time and stormed over. "That's now how a radio operator walks," he said. His voice was hoarse and cracking and he gestured wildly as if for supplication. "You're walking like a petty officer. You're not a petty officer. Stop walking like one. Okay?" He chopped the air after each sentence for emphasis.

During lunch that day, Blake, following a hunch, looked up "What rank is a navy radioman?" He came back to Sayyid with his phone held out, facing the director. "Actually, radio operators are petty officers."

Sayyid looked at him like he was the biggest piece of shit on the face of the earth. "Oh, fuck you."

For the rest of the day, Sayyid refused to speak to him, issuing all orders and directions through the costume lady, with whom Blake had worked on several other projects in the past and with whom he had a good relationship.

Looking back on it, he supposed that was a funny and interesting story, but still, instead of pure madness, he was just being forced to reshoot every scene a thousand times. It was coming up on noon and they had been shooting this one three minute clip since before seven. Blake was tired, headachy, and his stomach growled so loudly that he was sure the boom mic picked it up during the last take.

"Alright, fine," Blake said, "I'll spit when I cough."

"Good," Sayyid said and settled back into his chair. "Let's do this again."

They reshot the scene from the point where the commander walked away. Blake jotted down his journal entry (actually writing I'M FREAKING HUNGRY a few times, since the camera wouldn't see it) and when it came time to cough, he made a little tunnel with his hands and spat through it.

"CUT!" Sayyid screamed.

Oh, God, what now?

Getting to his feet, Sayyid held up his hands and looked like he was going to say something, then stopped himself and turned around, putting his back to Blake.

Blake threw his arms up in defeat. "What was wrong with that one?" he asked.

Sayyid spun prissily on his heels, his lips pursing together and his eyes filling with fire. If looks could kill…Sayyid's probably wouldn't have been deadly, but it would have drawn blood at the very least. It may even have sent him to the on set nurse. Which wouldn't have been such a bad thing, come to think of it; she was an attractive, big breasted blonde with ruby red lips. Blake would much rather spend his time with her than with Sycho Sayyid. "It wasn't authentic," the director said. "It looked fake."

Normally, Blake kept his composure no matter what. He had been in Hollywood since he was a little boy and had worked with a hundred directors, all of whom had their moments. Hey, they're human, after all. But right now, he was tired, starving, and so sick of holding this damn fake headset to his ear and preteending to have the flu on this fake ass submarine set. He just wanted to knock off and have some lunch - hell, a bag of chips would do. "That's because it was fake," he said. "It's called acting. I know you've never done it before and couldn't if your life depended on it, but maybe look up the definition. Or have your assistant do it since you're too good to do grunt work."

"That's right," Sayyid said mockingly, "let it all out. Show us that famous ego, big man."

It had been reported in the tabloids that Blake was "egostistical" and "difficult to work with" but those were just stories made up by some harried gossip writer up against a deadline. He prided himself on being a reasonable person. Whenever someone repeated that line about him having an ego, he couldn't help but get mad. "You know all about egos, don't you?" Blake clapped back. "You still have that bobble head of yourself in your office."

"Turd," Sayyid hissed.

"Buttface," Blake retorted.

"You literally have poop in your skull instead of brains," Sayyid declared.

"I know you are, but what am I?" Blake asked.

Sayyid turned as red as the nurse's lips. "You're dumb and childish."

"I know you are but what am I?"

That was it. Sayyid stomped his foot on the ground and let out an exasperated sound that was half sigh, half growl. "I'll be in my trailer when you decide to act like a grown adult. Until then, I'm out."

"Bye," Blake said.

Sayyid stormed off, and all the crew members looked uncomfortable. Letting out a sigh, Blake got to his feet, feeling embarrassed. He was already ashamed that he lost his cool. Sayyid was a real jerk, but he was right: Blake had acted childishly.

Then again, Sayyid hadn't been the paragram of maturity either.

Oh well.

Blake's stomach growled.

"I'm breaking for lunch," he announced, "when I'm done, we can film this scene a couple hundred more times." He walked off the set and went to the concessions table. Kevin, his assistant, materialized from seemingly nowhere.

"You alright?" Kevin asked.

Blake ignored him for a minute as he scanned the table. There were old muffins, stale bagels, bowls of chips and pretzels, and some weird kale smoothie thing that was all the rage in Hollywood right now. His stomach gave an urgent rumble and he winced a little. He didn't want any of this crap. He wanted real food. Meat and potatoes. A greasy burger, a hotdog, something cheap, hot, and filling - the type of thing that normal people ate.

"Champ?" Kevin asked.

"I'm fine," Blake said, "just hungry." He picked up a bagel and took a bite out of it. Sure enough, it was hard and tasteless, like cardboard in his mouth. He forced himself to swallow since spitting it onto the floor like a drama queen and expecting one of the techs to clean it up would be an egotistical move. It wasn't easy, and it scraped and scratched his eshopogus all the way down, then lay in his stomach like a rock. "This is bullshit," he said. "Why can't they have real food. What am I, a dog? No, no, don't answer that, I already know. Dogs eat better than this. Why can't he spring for something good, like pizza?"

"Because most of the food budget went into the scene at the end where all the nukes explode," Kevin said.

"It's CGI, though," Blake said. "How can some computer graphics cost that much?"

Kevin gave a clueless shrug as if to say Beats me, Blake. Blake didn't like CGI to begin with, but knowing that it was the reason he didn't have real food made him downright despise it. Even now, in the 2020s, CGI looked fake and dumb. If you asked him, old school practical effects were the way to go. Sure, you couldn't actually explode a bunch of nuclear bombs and film it, but still, CGI should be used sparingly.

And it shouldn't get in between an actor and his food.

"I need something to eat, something real," Blake said. "If I don't get a good meal, I'm going to scream. If that guy thinks i have an ego now, just wait until I go postal. I'll tear this entire set down with my bare hands then eat every morsel. His stupid director's chair included."

"There's a restaurant just down the street," Kevin said. "It's called Lynn's Table. I don't know what they serve. Probably pot roast and other fly over country crap."

Ummm, pot roast sounded really good right about now. Oooh, with a hunk of Italian bread to mop up the gravy.

Now Blake's mouth was beginning to water.

"Perfect," he said, "how far?"

"A couple blocks. I can drive -"

"Nah, I'll walk. I wanna clear my head anyway."

Blake took another bite of the bagel to keep from starving on the way and left, walking the five blocks to Lynn's Table. It was a small place with an awning out front anda patio dining area. Inside, red vinyl booths lined the wood paneled walls and a sea of tables stood in the center of a green carpet. A blonde woman stood behind a podium, and when he walked in, her jaw dropped. "Oh, my God," she said, "you're Break Badley…I mean Blake Bradley. I'm Rita Loud, I'm a huge fan."

"Pleased to meet you," Blake said, looking her up and down. She was middle aged and a little on the bigger side, but her tits and ass were bussin'. He'd totally give her the business.

She took him to a booth and gave him a menu, chattering the whole time about how great he was and how much she loved his work. They ended up talking for a little while, Blake doing his best to ignore the gnawing, threshing agony in his stomach - Jesus, he had breakfast this morning, but from the feel of it, he hadn't eaten in days. No more egg and cheese sandwiches from Burpin' Burger. Next time he'd have to get a whole freaking bag of them.

Anyway, from their conversation, Blake gleaned that Rita's husband, Lynn, owned the place and was something of a "self taught master chef." They had eleven children together - holy shit - and lived in a "big, drafty house" across town. She told him that her daughters gathered around the TV once a week to watch his show, and that that was how she became aware of him. "It's literally the only show they can all agree on," she said with a laugh. "The rest of the time they fight like cats and dogs over what to watch."

"That's me," Blake said with a grin, "bringing families together."

Rita giggled like a schoolgirl. "Yes it is. They all have a crush on you."

Hm, they did? What about you, Rita? Do you have a crush on me as well?

Any other time, he would have asked that aloud, being as smooth and charming as humanly possible, but not right now. Right now, he was so hungry that his stomach hurt and if he didn't get something into it pronto, he was going to keel over and die. He scanned the menu and tried to focus while Rita kept talking. She was a chatty one, but then again, most women were when they met him.

He ordered a Coke, a burger and fries, and a bowl of banana pudding for dessert. Rita jotted that all down in her notepad and hurried off. While Blake waited, he people watched, spying on the other diners and trying to see what they were eating. One of the people he saw, a woman, looked familiar. She was chowing down on some kind of appetizer - looked like jalapeno rolls or something. Yum. It took him a minute to place her but then it came to him: Principal Rameriz. She was at his signing the other day.

Rita came over and blocked the way. She did her best to flirt with him but wound up drooling like some kind of sex crazed ape. While Blake sure didn't mind that, but he was more interested in Principal Rameriz. He didn't want the sour cream…he wanted the enchilada.

When Rita left again, Principal Rameriz got up and came over, having noticed him at some point without him realizing it. She put on a big smile and sat across from him. "Fancy meeting you here," she said.

Blake demurely lifted and lowered one shoulder. "I was filming nearby and had to break for food. I'm freaking starving."

As if on cue, Rita brought his food out and sat it before him. The smell filled his head and made him dizzy with delight. He thanked the waitress and dug in, doing his best to keep from wolfing it down. He would have done so gladly, but Principal Rameriz was watching him and he didn't want to look like a slob. She reached across the table, took a fry, and slipped it into her mouth with a smug smile. "Hey, now," he said. "No touchy the merchandise."

"Oh?" she asked, a slight challenge in her voice. "What if I like the merchandise?"

"Then you have to ask first."

Something brushed his leg and he jumped a little. Oh, no, this place doesn't have rats, does it? He looked underneath the table. It wasn't a rat, it was Principal Rameriz's foot. She trailed her toes up his shin, making little circles in his flesh and tickling him. She propped her elbows on the table and leaned in, a wicked little smile crossing her sensuous lips. "I know a much better place to get dessert than here." She flicked her eyes to the bowl of pudding at Blake's right hand. "It makes that pudding look like sludge."

From her tone and from the way she batted her eyelashes, Blake already knew what she was thinking and what she was going to say. Regardless, he asked, "Where?"

"My place," she said.

Blake chuckled. "Sure, I'm down…just let me finish my burger."

They took Principal Rameriz's Audi, a spacious car with all the features. The seats were leather and stored the light of the sun like heaters. The car was immaculately tidy, which shocked him. It didn't look like a car that someone actually used on a day to day basis, it looked like it had just rolled off the showroom floor, even though it was a good five or six years old. They drove in silence, neither talking. The sexual tension was thick between them and Blake stared at her bare legs from the corner of his eye. Should he put his hand on her knee? Eh, right now wasn't the best time to make his move. He'd wait until they got to where they were going.

Principal Rameriz lived in a two story apartmrent building on a hilly, wooded street near the school. Inside, the place was just as spotless and unloved in as the car. "Make yourself at home," she said, "I'll make us some drinks."

While she went into the kitchen, Blake wandered around the living room, looking at the pictures on the walls. She came in and handed him his glass. "You have a beautiful home," he said.

"Thank you," she replied, proud. "I work so much that I'm rarely ever here."

"I know the feeling," Blake said. "I own a home that I still get lost in. The last time I saw it was…jeez…six months ago."

They shared a laugh and sipped their drinks. "I love my job," she said. "It's challenging sometimes, but very rewarding. It's hard, though. It doesn't leave much time for a personal life. I get lonely sometimes and…well…a woman has needs."

"Indeed she does," Blake said. He stood behind her, pressed his crotch to her butt, and wrapped on arm around her. He slipped his hand deftly into her blazer, pushed aside her bra, and cupped her breast. Principal Rameriz let out a breathy sigh and tilted her head back as he began to massage her already stiff nipple. Blake brushed his lips over the soft curve of her throat and a little shudder went through her. She leaned back, pressing her butt harder against his hard cock, and Blake breathed her smell in through his nose. Her scent was sweet and fruity and made him all the randier.

He kissed the side of her neck and she bit her bottom lip, her closed eyelids fluttering. Blake rolled her nipple between his fingers and she lightly thrusted her butt against him, her need so thick that he could taste it on her salty skin. She turned and they kissed, their tongues swirling around one another and their hands touching and exploring each other's bodies. She pushed him down the hall and into the bedroom, both of them shedding clothes along the way and leaving a trail in their wake like Hansel and Grettle with their bread crumbs. She pushed him back onto the bed and mounted him, wearing only her skirt and a black, lacy bra. She splayed her hands on his chest and moved them over his abs and pecs. A wicked, animal light shone in her eyes and her mouth turned up in a devious smile. "You have no idea how badly I need this."

"I'm always happy to help," Blake said.

She leaned in and peppered wet, urgent kisses over his washboard abs, her breathing coming in short, hot bursts. She ran her hands up and down his chest as she kissed lower and lower. She trembled like a small, excited dog and Blake laid back to enjoy it. She obviously had a lot of pent up lust and he was more than happy to let her get it out of her system.

Unzipping his pants, she reached in and took out his cock. She barely even looked at it before she wrapped her lips around the head and bobbed down, taking it all the way to the back of her throat. Sensation exploded over Blake like a bomb blast and he sucked a sharp intake of breath. He grasped the sheet in his hands and closed his eyes, relishing the feeling of her warm, wet mouth sliding up and down his shaft.

Principal Rameriz lapped and licked his dick, making moans and purrs of desire. She locked eyes with him and swirled her tongue around the tip, the corners of her mouth spreading in a naughty smile. "I love the way you taste," she panted.

"I love the way you feel," he said.

She took him in her mouth again and began to pump, her head flashing up and down. Blake ran his fingers through her hair and pulled lightly, making her moan. She spat him out, reached behind her back, and unclasped her bra, throwing it aside. She tugged down her skirt and panties, freeing her sex. The warm musk of her middle filled the room like perfume and Blake's heart pounded. She crawled up onto his lap and mounted him, his tip pressing against her leaking core but not entering.

Yet.

She brushed her teeth over her bottom lip and laid her hands on his chest. "Let me do all the work," she said and lowered herself a little. His head penetrated her, going in only half an inch, teasing her.

"You're the boss," Blake said.

Curling her fingers against his chest, Principal Rameriz jerked down and sheathed his entire length. Her wet walls molded to his shaft and her muscles gripped him as if to keep him in place. They both gasped and paused for a minute.

Then Principal Rameriz began to thrust. She bounced up and down on his dick with a desperate frenzy that Blake couldn't help but compare to a starving woman wolfing down a life saving meal. She panted and moaned every time his dick smashed into her limit, but she showed no signs of slowing down. Blake held her hips in his hands, then played with her bouncing breasts. Her black hair came undone from its severe bun and hung in her face, veiling her narrowed eyes.

Without warning, she rolled off of him, got on her knees, and stuck her butt into the air. "Fuck me," she begged.

Blake got on his knees behind her, grabbed her hips, and slammed into her bubbling core. She moaned into the pillow and her body bore down on him. He pulled back and slammed forward again, going hard but slow. She let out an enthusiastic "Yes!" every time. Blake arched his back, laid his hands on top of hers, and sped up, flashing forward and back. He buried himself in her to the base then pulled back until his head was almost out. "God, I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum!" she yelled.

So was he.

He started to pull out but she stopped him. "No! Inside me! I wanna feel it!"

Blake weaved his fingers through hers and squeezed. His dick swelled and then spurted, shooting his load deep into Principal Rameriz's center. She let out a strangled cry and shook with the power of her orgasm. Her muscles clenched him and for a moment they were one, him giving, her receiving. His load overspilled her womb and oozed out around his shaft, dribbling onto the bed.

They collapsed in an exhausted, sweaty heap and caught their breath. "God, that was good," she finally said. "It's been so long since I've been with a man."

"You need to work less and get out more," Blake said. "You have a lot to offer."

She laughed. "I know." She rested her head and hand on his chest, and for a while, they drifted on the verge of sleep. Blake's cellphone buzzed with a text from Kevin asking where he was. "Sayyid is cooled down and wants to pick the shoot back up."

Ugh.

"You gotta go?" she asked.

"Yeah," Blake said and sat up.

"I'll drive you."

She dropped him off at the site and they kissed before he left. With tongue. "I'll see you later," she grinned.

"Not if I see you first."

Blake walked back on set feeling like he could accomplish anything. It's amazing what a good meal and a good fuck can do for a man.

Now, he thought, back to work.

He could play later.

And something told him he would.

He would play hard.