OBVIOUSLY THERE IS SOMETHING wrong with me.
Women are meant to like wafty costume romances with bedroom curtains blowing symbolically in the wind. They are meant to like chocolate box fairy stories of the Richard Curtis variety. They are meant to want something left to the imagination.
That’s what Aunty Mavis always said. ‘Oh, I like to have something left to the imagination.’ But she didn’t have one, so I’ve always thought she meant ‘Ugh, that filthy sex, get it away from me.’
Well, there’s nothing wrong with my imagination. But I want to see. I want to see the lips licking and the thighs spreading, the stiff cock and the glistening sleeve and the way they come together. I want to see the look on her face while she’s humped fore and aft with her mouth wrapped around a third hopeful erection. I want to see the mechanics and the bare bones of it. I even want to see the ridiculous overacting, hear the heavy huffing and ersatz begging and share the plastic ecstasy of it all.
But there’s more to it than even that. Shameful enough as my porn-viewing habit is, I want to go further. I want to be the girl in the picture.
You see, I like to watch a skinflick, but I always have this unease of conscience. Is the girl cracked up to the eyeballs? Was she abducted from an outpost of the former USSR? Is she trying to escape a myriad of childhood demons by becoming a faceless fuckdoll? I don’t know. But I feel I should know. I feel I should disapprove of myself for potentially green-lighting exploitation and international sex slavery. How will I know for sure that nobody is being exploited in a film? It seems there is only one sure-fire answer. Take the lead role. Make sure the only holes being filled are mine.
Easier said than done, though, especially when you are a well-respected district nurse.
Or so I thought, at least, and yet today I sit here in a back-alley branch of Starbucks, talking with an elegantly wasted man in eyeliner about fucking on film.
‘So, to get down to the nitty gritty,’ he says, fidgeting with a pencil, ‘what do you want in this picture?’
The pencil could be his twin; so long and thin he is, with a burgundy stripe blazer that only reinforces the effect. Is he hard lead or soft graphite, I wonder. 2B or not 2B? But I really have to stop avoiding the question, because it is THE question, the answer to which will take me far inside my deep-down fantasies – only now I’ve been asked it, I really don’t know what to say. Isn’t life always like that? Aren’t we always stuck for words in Starbucks with a famous indie porn director?
‘Well?’ His eyes, red-rimmed as if he has been up all night, widen. ‘Carmella? What’s in the script? Anal? Sixty nine? Dildos? Strap-on? Bondage?’
‘Stop! Stop!’ I beg in a fierce whisper, my hot chocolate going down the wrong way. ‘Sheesh! This is Starbucks, not bloody … Spearmint Rhino.’
‘If you want me to direct this film, you need to tell me what you want in it,’ he says, toning the impatience down. ‘I have the experience … but this is about what you want, isn’t it? That’s what the people at the bureau told me when they commissioned me.’
‘How much are they paying you for this?’ I ask.
‘What’s that got to do with it? Anyway, it’s you that’s paying, isn’t it? So you need to start telling me what you want.’ He takes a sip of his Americano and grins suddenly, his slightly sulky face ghoulish with glee. ‘Quite a set-up they’ve got there, isn’t it? Kind of like Jim’ll Fix It for sex fiends.’
I laugh, despite a slight prickle at being called a sex fiend. Perhaps he has a point, after all. And surely, as an up-and-coming director of filthy films, he can’t exactly distance himself from the description.
‘It doesn’t come cheap,’ I tell him. ‘You’re right. I really need to get over my scruples and give you a list. It’s just that this is so … weird.’
I look around. The cognitive dissonance between our conversation and our surroundings frightens me. At the neighbouring table, two smart women with enormous handbags compare manicures.
‘Just tell me what sexy stuff you want in it and we’ll work a storyline around that, yeah?’
He is unbending a little now. When we met, he had seemed so uncomfortable, almost angry at finding himself in this position. I had thought about quitting then and there but … he was pretty in a slightly exotic way, with the cheekbones and the mildly slanting eyes and he didn’t use too much of that chaotic wax in his hair like most of the young media boys did, though I guessed he was about thirty, so maybe past all that. So, yes. Pretty. So I stayed.
I take a deep breath. I am going to outline my fantasies to a very attractive, but completely uninterested-in-me-as-a-person-slash-sexual-partner man. Why couldn’t we have done this by email?
‘Well, I think I’d like … you know, some straight sex. Umm, not fussy about positions.’
‘One man or two?’ he interrupts. ‘Two is popular.’
‘We aren’t selling this, are we?’ I blurt, alarmed.
‘Oh, no. True. I forgot. OK. So one man then?’
‘I think … yes. One man. Unless I think of a reason for having two. And maybe … a girl?’
‘But I’d have to know she was, you know, not being exploited.’
He laughs. ‘How about my girlfriend? She isn’t being exploited, I promise.’
‘Really? Your girlfriend?’
‘Yeah. She’s more the typical porn star look than you, though. You might not want that.’
‘She doesn’t look like a real girl, you mean? More like a blow-up doll?’
‘She’s 100% real,’ he huffs, a little offended. ‘I don’t do those plastic porn shows. I mean, she’s a bit more … let’s say … amply provided for. In the T&A department.’
‘Oh. Right.’ I consider this for a moment. ‘Can we hold the girl thing. I’m not sure I want to be the second prize in my own private sex tape. I want all the attention on me.’
‘OK, so we’ve established that much. I know plenty of skinny girls, by the way …’
‘Forget about the girl.’
‘Right. You’re the boss,’ he says, with an edge of feline pique.
‘Let’s get this list down,’ I murmur, glancing sidelong at the modish women and their Mulberry bags, hoping they haven’t heard any of this. ‘OK. Straight sex, any position. Something involving a vibrator. Umm, oral. Both kinds.’ I’m trying my hardest not to use any rude words; it’s quite a challenge. ‘And, you know, I think I’m not averse to a bit of, um, back door …’
‘Really? Anal? Excellent. One of my favourites.’ He smiles, reminding me of the devil. The Mulberry women look utterly scandalised and move away to a more distant table, whispering to each other. When they look back, I hold their eyes. Then I turn to Dimitri and raise my voice above its terrified quaver.
‘Yeah. Anal. I’m up for that.’
Our next meeting takes place in the more congenial atmosphere of an ill-lit bar in Soho, near his office. I wonder why we don’t actually use his office, but he shrugs and says it’s too annoying and too busy and he would never be off the phone before finding a suitably inaccessible booth in which to continue our dealings.
‘So we can do it in this order,’ he says, taking out his notes from before. ‘Oh, do you want kissing? It’s not compulsory.’
‘Er, yeah, I think kissing would be fine.’
‘So kissing, then he undresses you, masturbates you … with a vibrator? Yeah. Then sixty nine, then straight fucking, then you give him a blowjob to get him hard again, then anal.’ He dashes down his notes and gives me a querying look, as if he has just asked me to confirm the accuracy of some accounts. ‘Of course, there’ll be breaks between most of it,’ he says, noting that I can do nothing but blink. ‘We’ll try and get it all done in a day though.’
‘What about the setting and all that?’ I ask.
‘It can’t be too elaborate. Budgets are always tight, though I have a little more to play with than usual. What do you want? I’ll tell you if it’s feasible.’
‘I don’t want cheesy cliché. No plumbers. No horrible wallpaper.’
‘Yeah, but I can’t do country estates either.’
‘That’s fine. I’m not into costume drama. The man can look and dress like a person you’d see in the street. Though good-looking would be nice …’
‘Good-looking, eh?’ He smirks and makes a note. ‘We need to do a casting. Next week?’
‘OK. This time next week. We cast my … opposite.’
‘Your opposite.’ The smirk deepens. If his cheekbones got any higher they’d be flying. His fingers are long and knobbly, always busy, always fidgeting with that damned pencil.
‘Doesn’t it bother you?’ I ask, out of left field, not sure why I care. ‘Your girlfriend.’
‘What, that she’s a porn actress?’ He looks up at me, his eyes hooded, trying to assess whether to take offence or not. ‘No more than it bothers her that I make the films. It’s how we met. We can’t exactly …’
‘Is it serious between you?’
‘Not … deadly serious.’
‘She fucks other men for the camera. Do you ever …?’
‘Fuck other women? Yeah. I started out in this business as a performer. In college. Paid the rent.’
‘You’re not the usual type. You aren’t beefcake. Or blondy Nordic-looking.’
‘Right. I don’t have a moustache either. Have you seen any non-mainstream, post-80s porn, Carmella?’
‘Not so much,’ I confess.
‘It’s not like that any more. I got the gig because I’ve got a big cock. And I’m sexy. Or so I was told.’
He is. He is sexy. Not obvious-sexy, but sinuous, graceful, elegant, sardonic, jaded. It’s the way he moves, and the tired eyes, and the look of a lightning rod he has. A lightning rod or a whip handle – better images than a pencil, after all.
‘Why are you doing this?’ he asks, betraying an interest in my motives that has been entirely absent up to now.
‘Because … I’m bored with watching it. I want to do it. My way.’
‘Your way will be my way,’ he reminds me. ‘I’m the director. Are you kinky?’
‘Well … isn’t this a bit … kinky?’ I am floundering. I wish he would lose this sudden forceful interest in me. I’m not sure I can handle it.
‘You know. Any shameful little secrets? Do you fancy it in leather? Do you want to walk a man like a dog? Do you like a good whipping? I can do all that. Cater for it, I mean.’
‘I might want to walk before I can run,’ I say with a nervous laugh.
‘Ah, fair enough.’ He sits back, dispirited, the pencil twirling madly between his long, slim, sexy … oh, stop it! … fingers. ‘I’ve been wanting to get into the kinky market,’ he confesses. ‘Jazz won’t go for it.’
‘Jazz. Your girlfriend?’
‘Yeah. Jazzy Jewel. That’s her pornstar name. She won’t let me tie her up.’ He sighs. ‘You think, when you date a porn actress, that she’ll at least be broadminded.’
I laugh. I can’t help it. He looks so forlorn.
‘Maybe … we should just see where the wind takes us,’ I tell him.
The casting session takes place in an odd little corrugated shed that might once have been a hall attached to one of the less popular churches.
Dimitri meets me outside the tube station, slouched so perfectly against the wall with a cigarette and a sharp suit that he could have come straight from the cover of a Jam album. God, he is fine. I wish I could stop thinking it. He is the director of my porn film. He is the means to my end. He is … a commodity. Just like those exploited porn people I worry myself over. I must objectify him, or I won’t be able to do this.
Inside the hall, five men sit on iron-framed chairs, chatting awkwardly with cups of tea. Two of them are topless, towels slung over their shoulders, as if they have come fresh from the shower.
‘OK!’ says Dimitri, taking charge of the scene with ease and a click of the fingers. ‘I have some lines of script for you to read through, and Carmella here is going to act out a scene with each of you.’
I stare at Dimitri. ‘What scene?’ I ask sharply. He emailed his first draft to me earlier in the week, and it is pure filth. I keep my clothes on for roughly two minutes. Luckily, those two minutes are the ones we will be going through.
I pretend to be standing cleaning a window in a skimpy, revealing outfit, while each of the five men acts the role of passer-by, stopping, staring, then responding to the blatant invitation of my (imaginary) breasts and stocking tops with a predatory stare and a knock at my door.
‘Special delivery. Did somebody order a good, hard fuck?’ is the line the men must attempt. Only three of them seem able to read. Of those three, one is far, far too pumped-up for my taste. One has hideously bad breath. The other … I don’t know. I just don’t … I just can’t see myself with him. He is quite handsome, well-built, tall, I like his clothes, I like his tan, I just … don’t find him very sexy.
‘I’m sorry.’ I turn to Dimitri. ‘I didn’t realise I was this fussy, but …’
‘What? None of them?’
‘Sexy is an elusive quality,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t find that many men have it.’
‘So … what? Put out another call? Give up? Do you want your money back?’
‘No. But … I was wondering …’
I really can’t say this. I shouldn’t even think it. It’s madness. Sheer folly.
‘Go on.’ He leans against the radiator, tapping his teeth with the pencil, his eyes narrowed at me.
‘You’ve heard of actor-directors, right?’
I almost have to look away for fear of how he will react. He removes the pencil just half an inch from his mouth and stares, a big mooncalf stare. Then the sides of his eyes crinkle and he shouts out a laugh.
‘I kind of picture you … every time I look at the script,’ I admit shiftily. ‘But if you don’t want to … don’t worry. Do another casting. I’m sure that’s best, actually, yeah, just make a few phone calls and …’
He puts a hand on my shoulder, steady and firm. ‘It’s OK,’ he says gently, his eyes amused below raised brows. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘You’re … sure?’
‘Uh huh. I’ve got a friend who can stand in behind the camera. I know how things look on film too, so it’s likely to need a bit less in the way of editing. So shall we meet at my, uh, studio, same time next week?’
‘Yeah. Same time next week. Your studio.’
* * *
I drive to the studio, which is an unremarkable bungalow set back from the main road, surrounded on all sides by a ten-foot hedge.
‘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!’
‘Like it hard, eh?’ Dimitri grunts. My back is stuck to the couch so his ferocious fucking is inescapable. ‘Like it hard and in public, being watched. How does she look, India?’
‘Like a dirty fucking whore,’ says India, and that’s when I come, whimpering into Dimitri’s laughing face, into India’s disgusted titter, into Dale’s long-drawn-out ‘Yeeeeaaaaahhhhh.’
Dimitri carries on, though, drawing yet another climax from me before he is ready for the ‘money shot’. He shoots all over my tits and belly, and his face is no disappointment, crumpled and vulnerable, beautifully shocked for those few fragile seconds.
Then he is Dimitri again, sweating and puffing, but the lanky love god I have come to know, just a little.
‘Sweet,’ he says, brushing a plastered hair from my forehead. ‘Nice one. Did you get that, Dale?’
Dale is busy filming my jizz-gleaming breasts and the flush that spreads from my collarbone to my hairline.
‘OK, cut,’ he says. And that’s when I remember. It’s not even over yet.
‘What do you think of the show so far?’ whispers Dimitri, leaning over to my ear and offering me some more popcorn.
‘Rubbish,’ I mug, but then I smile at him. ‘No. I love it. It’s so much better than I ever expected.’
We are in the same living room we made the film in, sitting on that same cream leather couch, with all the blinds drawn down, all the lights off, and the film running on a huge, wall-mounted TV screen. Dale and India are either side of us, making comments at key intervals.
‘Your cock looks better than ever, D,’ says Dale dispassionately. ‘You keep it in good nick.’
‘Do other porn actors let themselves go, then?’ I ask, amused. ‘Let their cocks get fat and hairy and dress them in dowdy boxers?’
Dimitri snuffles with mirth, chewing contentedly on his popcorn.
‘Something like that,’ he says.
‘Nah, I mean it still gets hard really quickly and stays hard for ages,’ says a mildly affronted Dale. ‘It’s a gift, man.’
‘Some of us are born with it,’ says Dimitri, ‘some achieve it, and some have it thrust upon them. Like you.’ He nudges me and we giggle like pathetic schoolchildren.
‘Look, it’s getting to the good part,’ says India sulkily. ‘Stop mucking about and let’s watch the anal scene. That’s my favourite.’
‘Mine too,’ I agree. Dimitri puts an arm around me and I lay my head on his shoulder.
It is so odd to see what we did this way. I can’t keep my eyes off my face, which does not seem like my face. It seems alien, as if there is nothing of me behind the avid eyes. Is this what I look like to Dimitri, to others? Five feet six, one hundred and thirty-five pounds of sex. My voice is all wrong too. Do I really moan in that ridiculous drama-school way? Do I really sound that posh?
It is lovely, though, to see Dimitri’s hands on me, and to see the way his body combines and flows with mine. The dance is intricate, compelling, almost beautiful to watch in a way – a bizarre performance art.
I watch myself bent over the arm of the couch, legs in a V, camera shooting me in profile while Dimitri, with cock rigid once more, fucks me standing up behind. During this scene, India was given a camcorder to use, and scenes of Dimitri pumping away are intercut with images of my screwed up, puffing face, or his hands, fingers splayed over my tits, squeezing them as he thrusts.
‘Do you ever get enough?’ he grinds out, spearing me up against the leather, holding me firm for a moment, waiting for my answer before he will start again.
‘Never,’ I vow, and I’m impressed with how genuinely deranged with lust I sound as I say the word. This is one hell of a sexy film. ‘I need it all the time.’
‘That can be arranged,’ says Dimitri, resuming his rhythm. Off camera, India hands him a bottle of lube. My body stiffens – at the time, I could hear him unscrewing the cap, and I knew what was coming. ‘But you’ll get a very sore pussy, won’t you? Perhaps we should give it a break. Try something else.’
I begin to whimper like a kicked puppy; his finger is so swift and smooth, the lubricant cold as it is spread between my cheeks with no-nonsense professionalism.
‘This is what you need,’ he says, softly, just loud enough for the microphone to pick up. I can see what he is doing, see my split cheeks, see his finger working the little twisted opening, making it shiny sheeny with lubricant. It looks so obscene, but I cannot look away. I think I will be rewinding this scene, quite often.
The camera pans out a little, making it clear that the root of Dimitri’s cock is still buried inside me; he is swivelling his hips in small rotations, just enough to ensure I still feel it there in full effect. Another close-up – Dimitri’s finger, breaking the seal, sneaking up inside to the knuckle. My face, damp and gasping, eyes tight shut.
‘I hope there’s room for me up here. What do you think?’
‘I don’t know,’ I whisper.
‘Better find out then.’ Dimitri’s finger is two fingers now, and they are squelching lubriciously back and forth, widening the tiny aperture to suit his purpose. ‘My guess is … yes.’
The hard, gleaming cock pulls slowly out of its sheath and places itself at the tiny hole vacated by Dimitri’s fingers. It is slow, excruciatingly but very arousingly slow, watching the blunt round head push, push, push until it begins to stretch the arsehole enough to take it in.
On the couch, transfixed, I don’t hear Dimitri’s words at first.
‘You like this bit, don’t you?’ he says, his fingers finding the dimple in my sweater caused by a hardened nipple. ‘I can tell.’
Without looking away from the screen, I nod. ‘Wow,’ is all I can say.
‘Dirty girl,’ he teases, but I don’t stop him pulling up my jumper and playing with the nipple, chafing it with the lace of my bra cup. ‘You aren’t the only one.’ He pulls one of my hands over to his crotch, the fabric of which is straining with the force of his erection.
On screen, Dimitri’s cock – the very cock I can feel right now – is edging onward. His cock, my face – looking astounded, my mouth and eyes wide open – then his cock again, further up now, getting to the point where I start to squirm and try to thrash.
‘Your face,’ chuckles off-screen Dimitri. I am starting to look very alarmed – I remember this bit being painfully tight. ‘That hurt you, didn’t it?’
‘You’re so big!’ I excuse myself. ‘I don’t think I’ve had one that big before.’
He grunts with satisfaction, then pulls me on to his lap, making my skirt ride up in the process so he can get one big hand inside my knickers with ease. My bottom is on the zip of his trousers, the cheeks rudely bisected by the hard lump within. He begins to finger me, lazily, while the four of us continue to watch me getting buggered on the screen.
Dimitri in the film is all the way up now. I try to recall the feeling: stuffed to bursting, stretched and a little sore, wondering if he had gone too far, but also revelling in my filthy sluttiness, loving that I was caught on camera with a big fat cock up my arse. He draws back – that part felt so strangely wrong that I began to wring my hands, which looks quite comical on the film – then slams, hard, so that his pelvis slaps my bum cheeks with a resounding crack. I cry out.
The audience laughs. Dimitri’s fingers twiddle my clit and my nipples simultaneously. I wriggle on his rock-hard cock. We carry on that way, watching me get sodomised, the cock in, the cock out, my face, his face, fingers up me, on my clit, everywhere, his stiffness between my bum cheeks, in, out, in, out.
The woman in the film comes first, the camera catching that shameful rapture in its full no-holds-barred glory; then film Dimitri whips himself as quickly as he can out of my arse and splashes his spunk all over my red rear cheeks, painting it on so it covers them. I am next, jiggling all over Dimitri’s lap while Dale and India cheer and express their intention of going to the bedroom.
‘Good,’ says Dimitri, no longer interested in the fucked-out couple on the screen, collapsing down on the sofa. ‘Get on your knees on the floor. I’m going to fuck you again.’
It was worth every penny. I have my lovely secret tape to watch whenever I like now. Dimitri asks me now and then to star in one of his films, but of course, I can’t say yes to that. There have been a few more private productions since then, though … Jazzy Jewel has gone on to more mainstream porn fame now. When she is interviewed in Forum or Penthouse she always acknowledges the role Dimitri played in her career, and wishes him well with his new relationship.