‘This is your studio?’
‘Yeah. Well. It’s my parents’ house, actually. But they’ve moved to Spain so …’
‘Do they know it’s been immortalised on film?’
‘Not as such,’ he confesses.
Inside, in the spacious living room, there are cameras and big microphones with those spongey jackets on and a tea tray with biscuits and … that’s about it. A bored-looking young woman and a man are waiting for us, sipping tea on the cream leather sofa.
‘Hi, guys, let me introduce our star for the day, Carmella. Carmella, this is our cameraman, Dale, and our runner, India.’
I smile at the thought of this production having a runner. Though, alas, there appears to be no Best Boy Grip.
‘So, India, get us a cup of tea and we’ll run through the first scene, yeah?’
India glowers, obviously unhappy at her place in the pecking order. I wonder if she is an aspiring porn actress – she is certainly attractive and somewhat pneumatic. Something occurs to me, something rather dismaying, and I ask, straight out.
‘So do you have to have a … fluffer? For this?’
Dimitri laughs and puts a hand on my thigh. ‘I think not,’ he purrs. Oh, the relief. I am sure I don’t want to watch India getting him ready for me. I think that might be the most depressing thing I could possibly imagine at this moment. ‘My screen name was Woody Woodward. I think that tells you all you need to know.’
The tea is drunk. I feel drunk. I’m not sure I want to go through with it now I’m here.
‘So, Carmella,’ says Dimitri, once Dale has started fidgeting with the camera and India has retired to the kitchen to wash the cups. ‘Is that what you’re going to wear for the first scene?’
I have taken off my coat to reveal a very skimpy, see-through blouse and teeny stretchy miniskirt. I have worn black lacy hold-ups rather than stockings because the thought of a million retakes while Dimitri struggles with suspender snaps did not appeal, and on my feet are skyscrapers, black and patent leather in style.
‘Well … yeah. Don’t you think it’s tarty enough?’
‘On the contrary. It’s exactly tarty enough. Can’t wait to see what’s underneath. Though I kind of can.’ He grins and, sensing my nervousness, reaches over to stroke my cheek. ‘Don’t think about what you’re doing, Carmella. Just … live it. Enjoy it. I’m planning to. I promise I’ll make you forget what planet you’re on, let alone anything else.’
That’s what I needed to hear. My pussy clenches, sending a squirmy sexy feeling through me. I am going to get fucked senseless, on camera, by an evil mastermind of porn. This is what I want! I’m going to go for it.
He puts his thumb to my lips and I kiss it, almost absent-mindedly, drinking in his expression of … well, I can only describe it as a sort of lustful kindness.
‘Come on. Scene one. I’m outside – you’re “cleaning the windows”. Let’s go!’
Dale and Dimitri head out of the front door and mooch on the driveway, waiting for me to get into position in the large front window. In the doorway, India glares at me. She obviously thinks I’m too old, too flat-chested, not leggy enough. But I’ll show her.
I pick up my bottle of Windolene and my cloth and spread myself luxuriously behind the glass, stretching up so the mini rides up past the lace, revealing plenty of thigh, pressing my sheer blouse to the cold, smooth glass so my nipples harden against it. Outside, Dale films Dimitri mock-strolling past then stopping and double-taking at the lewd display that confronts him. For a moment he folds his arms and watches, eyebrows aloft, so that I am encouraged to scale ever ruder heights of display, shoving the cloth into my cleavage and running a hand along my thigh, one high-heeled foot perched on the window sill so my leg is bent and the hem of the lycra miniskirt stretched so wide my knickers are visible. I love this. I put a hand on my breast, lick my lips, beam out the message through half-closed eyes to my audience. Come hither, come hither, come hither.
He winks at me and walks up the garden path – not in a hurry, but quite slowly and purposefully, then rings the bell.
I run to the door, pouting in a sultry manner at my visitor, ignoring Dale and his camera over his shoulder.
‘Special delivery,’ says Dimitri. ‘Did somebody order a good, hard fuck?’
‘Yes,’ I say, as huskily as I can without losing sound quality. I perceive that India is behind me, out of shot, with the microphone. ‘Do I have to sign for it?’
‘No, but you might have to beg,’ snarls Dimitri, stepping over the threshold and pushing me up against the wall, tongue down throat, rock-hard pelvis crushing my lower abdominals, hands wrenching my arms up above my head and holding them there, pinned at the wrist.
‘Nice,’ says Dale. ‘Can I get a shot of your tongue … yeah. Good. Are you going to do that thing with the shirt?’
Dimitri keeps my wrists held with one hand and uses the other to rip my blouse in half, fondling my breasts with thorough finesse, poking the fingers down into the lacy cups so my nipples are visible to the audience.
Dale talks through the whole thing, so I can only assume we will have to overdub the sound later. ‘That’s it, mate. Can we see her nipple? Think it’s time to move over to the couch?’
Dimitri’s wandering hands have wandered down to my thigh now, lifting the skirt inch by inch for the camera, revealing slutty red string briefs.
‘Did you know I was coming?’ he asks breathlessly, plunging a finger inside the cheap nylon. ‘Were you expecting this?’
‘I do this every day,’ I tell him, my mind hard-pressed to remember my lines, with his finger on my clit, painting itself in my juices, and his other hand squeezing a tit. ‘I’m always on the lookout.’
Dimitri rips the rest of the blouse off me and wrenches my skirt down, all the way down, before pulling me by the wrist into the centre of the living room, then standing behind me, supporting me, so that we are both facing the camera. His hands cup my unclipped breasts, thumbs tormenting my nipples with their slightly rough whorls of skin. He nips and nuzzles at my neck, making my head droop to one side. I push my bottom into his hard cock. Woody Woodward. Yes. Very apt.
The bra comes off and I am standing, topless, in front of a camera, a man and a sneering girl, being comprehensively felt up by Dimitri.
‘If you want it, slut, you’ll have to get your knickers off,’ he says, moving a hand down there and hooking it in place between my thighs. ‘I can feel how wet you are. God, you’re wet.’ He slips a finger under the slippery silkiness, feels my slickness, takes it out and makes me lick it off. ‘Do you want it?’
‘Yes,’ I sigh. ‘I want it.’
‘You know what to do, then.’
I arch my back and peel the knickers down while Dimitri holds me by the hips. As the twin globes of my buttocks present themselves to him, he slides one finger down the crack from the top, stopping at my secret little hole and prodding at it. ‘You’re getting it up the arse later too,’ he says matter-of-factly. ‘That’s what happens to dirty girls who show off in windows.’
Oh, the rush, the shame, the thrill. I can’t help the tiny moan of delight that comes out, though it’s fine to make any noise I like. In fact, Dimitri had said, the noisier the better.
‘Turn her around,’ says Dale as I step out of the knickers. ‘Let us see her arse properly.’
Dimitri spins me to face him and his hands reach around to spread my hind cheeks to the camera’s unblinking eye. ‘You’ve had a few cocks up here before, I’m sure,’ he asserts, pushing at my anus once again. ‘You’ll know what to expect, eh?’
‘Mmm.’ I cannot remember any of the script now. Dimitri is going to have to improvise. He commandeers me around to the leather couch, pushing me down so my naked bottom puckers with gooseflesh on contact with the sheeny cold surface.
‘Lie back and spread those legs. That’s it. Feet up on the couch, wide as you can.’ He stands aside to let Dale capture the glistening split. ‘And play with your tits. Go on. I’m going to get something.’
Dimitri saunters out of shot for a moment, while I settle into role, flicking my nipples and keeping the longest possible distance between my ankles. At Dale’s request, I begin to touch my pussy, enthralled and amazed at how gushing wet I am down there.
‘That’s it, love,’ Dale encourages, his rough-edged voice inserting itself perfectly into my erotic haze. ‘I want to see that clit, big and fat as you can get it. Oh yes.’
Dimitri returns, wielding a large black vibrator.
‘Whenever I pass your house,’ he says, ‘I always make sure I’m carrying this.’
He throws it on to the couch and drops to his knees between mine, gazing intently at the rippled, glazed flesh that so blatantly trumpets my need to be fucked. He pinches the lips between his fingers and urges them even wider apart, making sure that Dale has a good angle to capture the slow, precise fingering that follows.
The sound, that sweet, slithery sucking noise, is so loud I am sure the microphone must be picking it up. His fingers plunge and knead and strum, taking me almost to the edge, but never over it.
Very quietly he mutters, ‘You’re going to come and they’re going to watch you. They’re going to see what I do to you.’ I begin to lose control and he takes his hand away, picks up the vibrator.
Speaking to the microphone again, he says, ‘I don’t think fingers are enough for a greedy girl like you. I think you need something thicker and longer. And more powerful.’ He switches it on and begins to move it languidly over my pussy lips and clit, alternating the power settings when it looks as if I am starting to enjoy myself too much. Dale is now almost touching me with the camera, hanging over the arm of the couch, his lens focused right at the point where the rounded head of the vibe and my pulsing clit meet.
‘Make her come, Dimitri,’ he says, businesslike, and Dimitri homes in on my swollen bud, switching the vibrator to its highest setting, and pushes three fingers hard up inside me.
His face, so pale with lust that his eyes look almost violet, lowers over me.
‘Come now, and come hard,’ he grinds and there is his hot breath, a bit pepperminty, and the underlying smell of him, all dressed up and debonair while I lie here, naked and at his mercy.
So I do, I come hard, kicking my feet so Dale has to retreat a few inches, moving the camera to my contorted face, then down to my bum which is rising and falling on the couch, in time with the spasms that Dimitri has forced.
‘Sexy, sexy, sexy!’ approves Dale. ‘Dimitri, you need to do something with that hard-on before it busts out of your trousers. Get on top of her and make her suck you.’
He crawls over me, moving me to a lying down position with my head slightly elevated, resting on the arm of the sofa. He unbuckles the belt and unzips the fly, and then clamps my shoulders between his knees, introducing his big stiff cock to my mouth and pushing it in. I suck like a professional, watching Dale and India from the corner of my eye and taking silent direction from the cast of their expressions.
‘Hang on!’ Dale interjects anxiously. ‘This isn’t in the script, is it? I thought …’
‘Fuck the script,’ says Dimitri energetically. ‘Ever heard of improvisation?’
‘Yeah but …’
‘Stick to the camera stuff. I’m the director.’ He shoves his cock an inch further into my mouth. ‘Aren’t I, Carmella?’
‘Nnrgh.’ He obliges me by withdrawing from my now aching jaw and scooting down to lie flat on top of me, all long and bony but surprisingly comfortable, sealing our conspiracy against Dale and India with a kiss.
‘What do
you
want?’ he whispers into my ear. ‘What do you want right now?’
His hand is playing between my thighs. I love the feel of his suit against my bare skin, the shirt buttons pressing into my chest.
‘I want you to strip down and fuck me,’ I tell him. He feels so good, those hands, those long fingers, that neat, glossy hair – could anything feel better? There is only one way to find out.
‘I’ll be glad to,’ he proclaims, jumping up and doing a sexy striptease, even though the camera is focused on me, on my shifting down and spreading wide, on my expression of studied dumb lust.
‘More slut!’ Dimitri urges. ‘You don’t look dirty enough. Look like you’ll die if you don’t get some soon.’
I push two of my fingers into my cunt and squeeze a tit, bucking and slithering all over the leather, channelling my inner nymphomaniac.
‘Please, I can’t wait any longer!’ I declaim, and actually, there is some feeling behind the words. I really want this luscious cock of Dimitri’s; I really want to see his face when he comes. I think it will be one to remember.
‘Good thing you don’t have to then!’
Dimitri, now naked, slender but sinewy, slides knees-first on to the couch and lifts my legs up so that my ankles rest on his shoulders. ‘Good angle for the camera,’ he mouths silently, and indeed it must be, for now Dale is very close to us, so close that his lens is almost a third element in our coming together, homed in on Dimitri’s cock as it hovers ever closer to my jewel-red pussy. I try to take no notice and concentrate on Dimitri’s face, which is intent and triumphant. He has a thin gold chain around his neck with a small charm – a coin of some kind – attached and it begins to swing over my breasts, brushing them, sending a tiny chill of cold through me, then it comes to rest just beneath my chin, and Dimitri is in, inside me, holding me by the hips. There are some obvious contrivances to be made to ensure that the camera gets what it needs – it has to peer through an arch of mixed flesh to capture the cock in action, and I must admit that at times my calves feel achey and I want to flatten my back, but I zone out of all that and keep my eyes on Dimitri, who is working so hard, slamming and thrusting and rubbing over the sweetest spot and bringing one hand to my clit to keep the pressure up, up, up.
We go at it hard and fast and his face becomes a tangled blur, his pendant zigzagging all over my neck and face, his upper arms corded and taut with the effort. He is the sexiest thing I have ever seen. My legs stay slung over his shoulders so that my upper thighs almost creak with the strain, my knees up near my ears, but Dale is happy. ‘I can see it all,’ he enthuses. ‘Fuck, that is one good bit of action, man! Wait till you get to do the editing!’