Asking For It (2 page)

I watched him; he watched me. And in
stark contrast to Cal's greedy and slightly painful suckling at my
pussy, and R.C.'s measured strokes into my asshole, I attended to
Mike with a gentle enthusiasm that I could tell from the way his
legs twitched, was appreciated.

Usually during scenes like this, the
guy getting blown uses his hands with all the tenderness of a
robot's mechanical arms—or Cal's arms—grappling and pulling,
slapping and pinching whatever they can find to take their mind off
the mounting pressure at the base of their balls that tells you
you're doing it for them. They get aggressive to offset the urgency
of cumming, a way of delaying it.

Mike didn't do that.

Instead, still smiling that mischievous
and yet endlessly appealing smile, he brought both hands down and
put them in my hair. There was no pulling, no yanking, no forcing
my cock deeper than it could go—I have no gag reflex, but, like
most people, my throat does have a wall to prevent food from flying
out the back of my neck. He simply threaded his fingers into my
hair as I circled my tongue in swirling motions around every inch
of his cock. When the salty taste of his pre-cum touched my tongue,
I let him withdraw from my mouth, massaging his cock gently enough
that it wouldn't make him cum prematurely—the kiss of death for any
newcomer on a porn shoot, and he cupped my face with one of his
hands, ran a thumb across my lips.

And then he whispered: "You're
beautiful."

I might have frowned. I know I stopped
jerking Cal off. I know I was now only vaguely aware of R.C.
fucking my ass. I know Ken yelled "Cut!" and asked me what my
fucking problem was.

How to tell him?

In my real life, I've been called
beautiful. In porn, I've been called the same, but never with any
sincerity. It doesn't belong here, and nobody ever means it. It's a
line.

From Mike's mouth, it had sounded
sincere, and it was so sudden, so unexpected, that it forced me to
break character. And by character, I mean "forced me to stop acting
like a complete slut who loves getting fucked by three guys (one of
them a guy I wouldn't mind running over with my car) in a poor
imitation of a medieval castle while wondering if my sister
remembered to feed my cat."

"Lana?" Ken all but shrieked. "Are you
having your fucking period, or what?"

I came back to myself in time to tell
him, "No, I'm fine. Just got dizzy, sorry."

"Dizzy," he muttered disdainfully.
"You're not getting paid to be dizzy."

The show, as it were, went
on.

The guys changed positions
multiple times, some of which I even managed to enjoy despite the
nagging distraction of Mike's out of place proclamation.
You're beautiful
.

Later, we were instructed to do reverse
cowgirl. As I'd understood it earlier, Cal was going to be in my
ass, R.C. in my pussy, with Mike once again in my mouth. As much as
I had grown over the hour to enjoy the prospect of sucking him
again, it's not where I wanted him, and for the first, and only
time in my career, I decided to instigate the change.

Cal was getting his sweat toweled off
and makeup rechecked, while Mandy kept him hard. R.C. was listening
to his iPod and absently jerking his cock while humming along to
whatever tunes were raging in his ears. Once I'd been touched up, I
walked naked over to Ken. "Can I have a word?"

He sighed as if this request was the
most unreasonable thing ever, and focused his gaze squarely on my
tits. "What is it?"

"Any chance we could switch things
around a bit?"

"What things?"

"The arrangement."

"Arrangement?" He laughed loudly, too
loudly. "What is this, a fucking symphony?"

"I mean, maybe have Mike do something
other than stand there like a lamppost."

Ken regarded me much like a shark will
regard a bleeding seal. "You like him or something?"

Yes I do
, I thought.
I'm not even sure why.
But I know I want him to fuck me right now. And maybe I want him to
come home with me and fuck me for real too. And more than
once
. But of course if I'd said that to
Ken, he'd probably have fired Mike on the spot, just because he
could. So instead I told him, "He's a little bit smaller than the
other guys. It won't hurt as much."

A long moment passed between us in
which Ken continued to look at my chest as if the next week's
winning lottery numbers might be revealed to him at any second if
he concentrated hard enough. Then, to my surprise, he said:
"Okay."

"Yeah?"

He nodded curtly. "Yeah.
Whatever."

"Thank you."

He shooed me away and called for
Naomi.

After applying a fresh round of lube to
the appropriate places, I went back to work.

As the men readied themselves to get
into position, Ken called out, "Hang on a sec, fellas. Your starlet
here has requested a change."

I glanced at Mike. He wasn’t smiling,
but his eyes were. I felt a flutter of excitement in my
chest.

"Mike, I want you to sit this one out,"
Ken said, and the light in Mike's eyes dimmed.

"What?" I looked at Ken. He was
grinning. "No, I—"

"Cal and R.C., I want you both in
Lana's ass."

* * *

I did the scene because my
contract—courtesy of my shithead manager—never stipulated that I
wouldn't. And the money was good, and when the money is good and
the economy isn't, you shut up and take it. So I did.

The shoot ended and Mike was not a part
of it anymore. At some point he'd been "relieved" of his duties,
and I felt both angry and upset that the one thing that had
elevated this shoot from anything other than mundane had been taken
away just because it was the opposite of what I'd
wanted.

I remember lying there, Cal
and R.C.'s cocks poised over my open mouth as they frantically
competed to see who could cum first and who could cum the most, Cal
using his free hand to twist my nipple as if it were the door key
and my tit was the lock. And I left the building. Even as the moans
came out of me like any good porn girl, I wasn't there. I was in
Ken's office, ramming the boom mike up
his
asshole, and force-feeding him his
script. I was at home with my cat, dressed in my sweats—the only
clothes that seem to feel right anymore—eating ice cream and
watching a Nora Ephron movie. I was in my bed, kissing Mike all
over, his hands in my hair again, hearing that wonderful whisper in
his Irish brogue:
You're
beautiful
.

I smiled.

The semen brought me back as it
splashed into my face, blinding me in one eye and burning. I
continued to moan as if I loved every second of it. More thick,
ropy spurts across my face and into my hair. I gasped, and then,
with a shuddering sigh, R.C. unloaded straight into my mouth. It
seemed to go on forever.

"Let the camera see it," Ken demanded,
and then Josh was leaning over me, the light blazing down as I
opened my mouth wide, constricted my throat and let the thick pool
of cum bubble up like a white lake between my lips.

"Good girl," Ken said,
pleased.

* * *

I entered my dressing room, which was
roughly the size of a high school locker, and used the sink to
splash some cold water on my face. After rubbing myself down with a
washcloth and brushing my teeth, I felt a bit better, but not much.
And I still had the aches to look forward to. Those would come
later. Eager to be free of the heat and the smell of what we had
done here, which hung like a fog in every inch of the building now,
I shrugged on a robe, some heels, and quickly went to Ken's
office.

When I walked in, he was reclined in a
leather chair, smoking a cigar, his eyes narrowed. Naomi's head
bobbed up and down in his lap, her small mouth clamped around his
stubby, porcine dick. He had a handful of her hair and was forcing
her down on him. I could hear her choking.

"I can come back," I said from the
doorway.

"No need, almost done," he said,
clearly delighted. A moment later, he gave a curiously high-pitched
whine and his face contorted into a look of pain. A shudder, a
muted gag from Naomi, and he was done. He jerked her head off his
already flagging member and brought his attention back to
me.

Naomi, looking humiliated and disgusted
with herself, hurried out of the room. I grabbed her elbow. She
looked at me, pain in her eyes.

"Wait outside my dressing room for me,"
I said. "We need to talk."

She didn't nod, didn't seem
to acknowledge me at all, and I had no idea if she'd be there or
not when I returned to the dressing room. Because, yes, to you and
me it seems like she was being victimized by an ogre who relished
in the "perks" of his job and his dubious fame. But I have learned
the hard way that sometimes girls like Naomi, for all their
apparent humiliation and tears, deliberately put themselves in such
situations because a part of them thinks they deserve it. Some part
of them
likes
it.
And sometimes, they are indeed victims. Victims who will never have
the courage to make the abuse stop, to report it, or to just get
the hell out of Dodge. Victims who somehow come to believe what
happened to them happened because in some way they were asking for
it. Intervention in these cases is, more often than not, a wasted
exercise, and to a degree I understand that. We're all victims,
every one of us. The choices we make define us. And when the bad
things come as a result of those choices, we might cry, and
protest, and try to run, but there will always be a part of us deep
down inside that whispers:
You asked for
it
.

And sometimes we listen.

"Saving another one?" Ken asked as I
leaned against the door and folded my arms.

"Does being this much of a prick come
naturally to you or do you have to work on it?" I asked him, the
anger and disgust lapping at the corners of my throat. I feared I
might be sick. That's another thing about this business. Just when
you think you've seen it all, you see more.

"Had to let your boy Mike go," he said.
"He wasn't performing to my standards."

"You mean he wasn't taking advantage of
innocent girls?"

He laughed, humorlessly. "I spoke to
your manager."

"And?"

"And I'm bumping up your pay for
today's work."

"Mighty white of you."

"Well, I felt bad about the
change. You didn't
disagree
to the double anal scene, but we never mentioned
it either, so…"

"Hard to mention it when it was
something you thought up just to fuck with me."

"…so I felt it only fair to compensate
you for the work. You know how this game works, Lana. It's all
about the money."

"Ah yes, the money," I said, my body
shaking with the need to rip his fucking face from his skull. "The
money you use to ensure you get everything your way. Well, I've got
news for you, you fat tub of shit. Sooner or later that money will
run out. You won't be able to throat-fuck naïve young girls who
only do what you want because they have some half-bred notion that
someday they'll be pornstars. Things are changing, pigboy, and
you're going to be one of the first to fall."

His eyes widened, even as his lips
spread to reveal a mouth full of smoke-stained teeth. He was
delighted. He stood up so suddenly, I flinched, then cursed myself
for doing so.

"Josh!" he yelled. "Josh, get your
camera in here! We need to get Ms. Laye's outburst on YouTube!
It'll be like that Lily Tomlin thing!" He sat back down and
chuckled to himself. "You're priceless! Maybe we should get you
together with Chasey Lain."

I stared at him for a moment, trying to
deny the ugly reality of who and what he was:

A cog in a machine that grinds people
up and spits them out every single day.

A machine of which I was also a part. A
machine that would grind me up too and eventually spit me
out.

Because I'd asked for it.

Repulsed, with both him and myself, I
exited the office, and noticed two things at once.

Josh wasn't running with his camera. He
hadn't moved at all. I gave him a nod, which he
returned.

And there was nobody waiting for me
outside my dressing room.

# # #

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lana Laye is the pseudonym of a former
adult film actress, and model. She was born in the Midwest, but has
traveled globally, and currently makes her home in New York. She
runs a successful sales business and writes and models in her spare
time.

ASKING FOR IT is the first in a series
of stories partially based on real-life experiences.