The camera is a cruel mistress and a mean inhibitor-or whatever it is that causes inhibitions. I obeyed instantly. I smiled. And when the camera, speaking through Alec, ordered, “Drop your pants,” I dropped them.
One thing I like about my inhibitions: when my pants are down, I lose them. That's a great advantage for a porno performer. A lens focused on your jock, after all, presents a challenge. You have to make it look its best for all the folks out there. I held up my erection, squeezing it gently, while Alec covered all the angles.
Before I succeeded in squeezing out an orgasm, Alec had swiveled to my co-star. Fran was registering a bevy of emotions, none conflicting, all indicating desire for a stiff prick up her twat.
Fran's dialogue was explicit. “Fuck me!” she demanded, in six breathless letters. That may or may not have been in the scenario.
About to obey the command of a lady, I found myself elbowed aside by a whale of an elbow. Our director-cameraman-producer shrewdly realized that more than a verbal direction would be needed to keep me off the bed at this point. Ignominiously cast aside, I finished my strip act while Alec hovered nearby, his back to me. Davey's dictum was accurate. No footage was wasted on mere stud stripping when there was a cunt to concentrate on.
Close-ups! If the lens had an extension, that extension would be doing my job, deep in Miss Fran's pussy. After a variety of shots had been taken, I got the nod from Alec. At last I had the chance for an unimpaired view of the twat all the fuss was about.
A twat. Pale rose in the midst of the foliage. Faintly moist, as delicate as Jeannie's. Soft, pulsating. The cunt lips were as vulnerable as Fran's lips. Finding himself faced with that sweet flesh swaying under his power impels a guy forward. That's when he starts fucking or raping. Don't blame it on sex drive or animal instincts. Blame it on vulnerable labia. Rosy flesh yawning non-resistant and helpless and cloying before him.
I mounted her. Cleared a path with my dong through the forest, poised at the gates, and girded for the invasion.
I clean forgot about the camera. As I started to ball her, I kept hearing a voice in the distance. Alec direction. “You're going too fast-too slow-speed it up-take it easy.” Directions handed out haphazardly, not really meant to be heard, much less heeded. Foreplay can be directed. The telephone bit, the action with the comb, a tit-squeeze-“Hey! Watch it, bellhop, you're hiding her nipple!”
Although she had heatedly requested the pleasure of my prick in her pussy, Miss Fran wasn't overly responsive. She enjoyed only two orgasms-both vaginal and recorded in fullcolor close-up. Her relative languor made me angry. Righteous anger is an invaluable adjunct to fucking. I got it out of my system by boffing her ruthlessly. If you didn't happen to see my ass twitching, you might not suspect I was unloading.
Alec suspected.
Vaguely, I heard Fatso order, “Pull out. Pull out, you son of a bitch!”
His indignation was unfeigned. I had broken a cardinal rule of porno production. Every epic must show a girl inserting finger, candle, or chair leg, depending on exigencies of plot and circumstance. And regardless of plot and circumstance, a stud's first load must not be squandered on twat, tongue, or cupped palm. Cream should be seen gushing freely, unhindered, in the open.
Futile cries of “Pull out, you bastard!” continued to accompany my squirting. Fuck the director! I wouldn't pull out if he offered me a long-term contract with residuals. A screwed cunt needs that soothing gism. Only a heel would deny it. Anyway, I like to stay in till I'm limp; otherwise I feel short-changed.
End of Reel One.
Picture the coffee break. The two stars contentedly bare ass. The porcine director mentally counting his profits. The caveman lurking in the wings in his socks and garters, awaiting the call to action. Stir your cloddish imagination. Would a lousy cup of coffee be appropriate? Champagne, a vintage wine, perhaps a dash of absinthe for flavor. Sly glances exchanged among the happy company, with an especially warm glance between male co-star and female. Languorous mewing from the latter. “Darling, you were wonderful. Meet me after the performance. We'll put on our show.
Give your imagination a two-week vacation. There was no vintage wine, no absinthe, not even coffee. The sly glances were mostly at wristwatches. Alec spent nearly an hour adjusting his camera while the happy company stood by, glum and idle. You couldn't say Davey was lurking. He sprawled in the most comfortable easy chair, periodically snapping his garters. One more snap and I jump him, I promised myself. But I'm a law abiding citizen. Davey kept snapping, and I kept inching toward Fran.
“Places everybody.”
We took our places. Davey, in his avant garde, cat burglar regalia, bounded up to the window ledge. Fran and I resumed our horizontal position. Before the camera started whirring, my schlang started stirring. Nature before art.
Davey became the center of attention. A guy bent on burglary who discovers there's better loot to be grabbed. The camera turned briefly on Fran below the waist and above the dimpled kneecap, just to make sure that the audience got the message. Then to make sure that the burglar received the same message, he had to exhibit his receiver. Pulling down his trunks, with the vacuous grin he wore on all state occasions, Davey unveiled it. He wasn't in heat yet. But you could tell that the cunt who won that cock was due for a bumpy ride, if not an internal hemorrhage.
In order to keep the plot churning, Fran and I had to play deaf, dumb, and insensitive to vibrations. The burglar crept toward us with the stealthy approach of an elephant in sneakers. Crept up till he hovered over us, putting me out of my misery-and out of camera range-with a realistic right to my jaw.
That left poor Fran utterly defenseless, prey to the thief's lust and to Alec's shouted directions. She emoted like a seasoned trollop trouper, but Davey gave a truly bravura performance.
The grizzled genital giant proved to be a slow riser. Gazing at a naked cunt didn't seem to give him a hard-on. I perched on the sidelines at the foot of the bed while he hunched over the supposedly terrified lady. This wasn't going to be eligible for the Academy awards, yet it was fabulous acting. You could swear Davey was a real-life rapist, Fran an unwilling victim. When he bent over her, she tried to put her hand over her silky triangle in a pitiful gesture. Davey simply stuck his paw over her hand, blunt fingers tearing her legs open. Fran's delicate twat in its tender beauty. The rapist speared two fingers between the quivering labia. Probing her cunt, he forced her to handle his ramrod. The immense whacker had started to stiffen. Fran kept stroking it till the poker stood rigid. A foot of throbbing flesh, thick as my fist, big enough to start the girl dripping.
Davey posed, the tip of his labe resting flush on Fran's box. She seemed to be struggling. To evade the monster or to welcome it? Following Alec's directions or her own inclinations? You couldn't be sure from the sidelines.
At that crucial point in the action, Alec called out, “Hold it.” One of the lights had blinked out. Only a director would notice. During the enforced intermission, our burglar realized he lacked an essential item of his calling.
“Hey! I forgot my mask!” he exclaimed.
“No one's gonna look at your face,” Alec assured him. “Anyway, your fans'll recognize you, mask or no mask.”
Davey wondered aloud, “How the fuck would anyone recognize me?” When the question remained unanswered, he dropped the subject, lit a cigarette, and helped Alec with the uncooperative light. In a few minutes shooting continued.
They took up precisely the same position as before, Davey just barely in the saddle. The guy couldn't have been human. With his stiff rod poised on the honeypot, he looked up for the director's signal. Alec gave him the go-ahead sign that Fran's snatch had long since given.