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Archive name: cremed.txt (MMf, ped, exh)
Authors name: Alasder (alasder@planet-save.com)
Story title : Cremed Pate

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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2004.  Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story.  You may post freely to non-commercial
"free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites.
Thank you for your consideration.
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Cremed Pate
by Alasder (alasder@planet-save.com)

***

The making of a porno starlet. (MMf, ped, exh)

***

Part One

When I was six I was 'June' in the Kids Collection 
Calendar for which my mom received the princely sum of 
$1000. The following year, on being promoted to June, 
July and August as Summer Pƒt‚, I earned just over 
$5000 for my mom. By the age of ten I had taken over 
the entire year; we were outselling the Pirelli 
Calendar and mom was taking 2% of the gross. 

By that time I was also appearing on mildly sexy 
commercials on television and in advertisements in 
glossy magazines, where I gave just a fleeting glimpse 
of peerless white panties, and mom could name her price 
and I could hardly bear to speak to other kids. 

I wore the latest fashion clothes, minis, summer 
dresses, tennis skirts, sweaters, footwear free gratis 
for ninx as part of a sponsorship deal. On my eleventh 
birthday, we moved into a luxury apartment in a high 
security block and I was enrolled in a ridiculously 
over-priced private school for girls with anti-social 
attitudes. It was also around my eleventh birthday that 
my breasts showed up for real - not just firm nipples 
that had frequently enlarged from their golden aureoles 
when the photographers jokingly touched me up.

My father, whom I had never seen outside a photograph 
album, appeared on the doorstep, so to speak, one 
Thursday evening midway through my twelfth year, and 
demanded part of the action. Once past the security 
guards and seated in our vast sun lounge, he appeared 
as the most attractive man in the entire world to me. 
The way he kept looking at me with large, blue, sensual 
eyes sent delicious thrills up and down my spine, and 
for the first time in my life I was conscious of a 
serious tingling, burning itch in my womb and a wetness 
being generated in my pussy. 

I decided that if mom did not want this guy I would 
have him. Any time any way! He filled one of our 
enormous arm chairs. I sat on the studio couch beside 
mom. As his eyes studied me from my toes to the tips of 
my auburn hair, I parted my knees. The already 
abbreviated skirt slipped another inch up my thighs, 
and the faintest ghost of a smile flirted with his 
lips. When mom had her face turned away in pretended 
anger at some remark he had made, he winked and I 
giggled. And wriggled my backside.

'Where the hell were you in the seven lean years?' mom 
demanded with vigor. 'When we had to scrape and scratch 
to find enough to eat?'

'It was you who walked out on me. Remember?' He 
smirked. 'And it was nine, not seven!'

'I was speaking figuratively!' Mom snarled the words. 
'Like in the Bible! It's a metaphor! You didn't even 
bother to look for us! Never mind try to find us or 
fend for us! We could have starved for all you cared. 
And now in the fat years you suddenly appear to lap up 
the gravy!'

'I don't see any fat,' returned my father with a 
snicker. 'And I don't want anything from you,' he added 
with more than a hint of irritation and frustration in 
his voice. 'All I have been trying to tell you for the 
past hour, if you would just shut up for a minute and 
listen, is that you have been selling the kid - our kid 
- for popcorn and peanuts. I could make both of you, 
and me, millionaires by this time next year.'

This has to be said about her: my mom has many grievous 
faults, but all of them dissolve to utter 
insignificance when set alongside her greed.

The outcome of the meeting with my newly discovered dad 
was that all three of us, a full two months, two weeks 
and a day later, journeyed inland several hundred miles 
to a desert town not the same distance away from Las 
Vegas. The place we finally stopped at was about a mile 
outside the town. A genuine stone replica of the Arc de 
Triomphe in Paris topped by a neon sign, flashing 
needlessly in the sunlight, announced 'Magestic 
Studios'. I wanted to correct the spelling. The armed 
guard at the gate was not interested. He admitted us 
with admirable indifference after speaking briefly into 
his radio telephone.

'Ah! So this is the famous Miss Pƒt‚!' 

The man who spoke was the oddest human creature I have 
ever set eyes on, and I have seen some weirdoes - they 
gather around a young model like flies around the 
proverbial effluence. He had a round fat body only 
slightly bigger than that of a circus dwarf. His 
fingers intertwined from skinny arms that scarcely made 
it round his belly. But his outstanding feature was his 
face, grotesquely ugly and far too small for a head 
that was several sizes too big to fit on top of his 
body. I could not tear my eyes away from him. He 
laughed jovially at my interest. His laugh was like 
that of a part-time Santa Claus in a department store. 
He slid from his swivel chair unlaced his fingers with 
difficulty and extended a hand.

'It is a real pleasure to meet you, Miss Pƒt‚.'

I shook the hand. It was the most peculiar sensation, 
like holding a comic fish after the cat had done its 
worst on it. I was fascinated now by the thin wrists 
sticking out from the oversized cuffs of his coat. The 
odd man had no interest in any one else in the room. He 
held on to my hand at arm's length as he let his eyes 
drift up and down my body. Dad had insisted that I wear 
my briefest skirt and the tightest shirt in my 
wardrobe. 

'I'm Sam,' the human freak declared with obvious pride. 
'Sam, Sam,' he repeated just in case we had difficulty 
in hearing or with such an unusual and complicated 
name. 'Samuel B Godwin!' He shrieked laughter while 
still holding my hand. 'Not to be confused with the 
sound-alike.' His middle finger tickled my palm. I had 
read in one of my mom's magazines that the palm of a 
young girl's hand was supposed to be her most sensitive 
erogenous zone and that tickling it was accepted as a 
male's invitation to fuck. 

'Sam B Godwin,' he said again even more loudly, 'whose 
sole aim in life is to make you rich.' He released my 
hand with obvious reluctance and, for the first time 
since we entered the room, he turned his attention to 
mom and dad. He did not scowl exactly, but the leer of 
amusement evaporated. 'And who are you?' he demanded. 
'If I may be so bold to enquire!'

'We're the parents,' explained my dad meekly. 'It was 
me who phoned.'

'I,' corrected the freak. 'It was I who phoned.' He 
climbed back on to his swivel chair after applying a 
sort of brake, which he pumped as if jacking up a car 
in order to change a wheel. 'My old English teacher - 
God rest the merry soul - had a saying: If you can't 
speak properly, why speak at all?' He wriggled his fat 
backside into position in the chair having got it to 
the required height. 'And if you can't speak English 
properly, what hope in hell is there of you ever trying 
to speak Spanish or French?' He returned his fishbone 
fingers to his belly. 'So you are Pƒt‚'s parents. So 
you telephoned a couple of months ago. So?' He gawked. 
The scowl demanded some kind of answer.

There was an embarrassing silence. Dad floundered. His 
mouth worked stupidly. 'We wondered,' he muttered 
apologetically, 'if you could do something for the 
kid!'

The ugly face broke into a wicked grin, not just the 
lips, but the cheeks and the eyes, the nose wrinkled 
and the ears seemed to flap. 'Oh, yes! And how! Could I 
do something for Pƒt‚!' He demanded of me, 'Do you know 
what we do here, Pƒt‚?'

'Films!' I answered, then thought about his earlier 
rebuke to my dad. We had an English teacher at our 
toffee-nosed school who also had an intense dislike of 
the short answer and insisted we make ourselves quite 
clearly understood with every utterance. 'You make 
films here.' I decided to go for the home run. 'If I am 
not mistaken, nor have been misinformed.' Then thought 
that 'misinformed' was dangerously close to 'misformed' 
or 'malformed' as in our present host.

'Do you know what kind of films?' When I answered 
negatively, he said, 'Pornographic films, my dear, that 
what we make here. Do you know what pornography is?' 
Again I shook my head and denied all knowledge of the 
subject. 'Sex films, my dear, with men and women boys 
and girls and some animals doing some extremely naughty 
things to each other. That's what we do here.' 

His face assumed a threatening scowl as he turned it in 
the direction of my mom and dad again, and demanded, 
'What sort of people are you? You bring your own flesh 
and blood along here to be exploited without telling 
her what she is getting involved in! That is the worst 
possible kind of child abuse and parental negligence.' 
He faced me again and beamed. 'Would you like to be in 
films, Pƒt‚? Our kind of film?'

I thought about the question. I forced my eyes away 
from the exquisitely ugly face to wander around the 
room. The walls were covered with posters and 
photographs of women, some of whom I recognized as 
famous actresses. I made a token acknowledgement of the 
presence in the room of mom and dad. I nodded. 'I think 
so,' I said with feigned reluctance. I nodded again in 
affirmation. 'Yes! I definitely think so - if the money 
is right!'

Samuel B Godwin burst into raucous laughter. 'I like 
it!' he screamed. 'If the money is right! Yes, I like 
it!' He leaned forward and pressed a couple of buttons 
on his desk top. 'That's my baby!' he yelled. 'And you 
can stake your life on it: the money will be right for 
you!'

Almost instantly two different doors opened almost 
simultaneously at opposite ends of the room. The two 
men who entered could not have been more different. 

'Jerry!' Godwin spoke directly to a huge black man who 
was built like an ocean liner. 'This is Pƒt‚. I want an 
assessment. A seventy two! Please!'

The black man nodded. He smiled at me and held out a 
hand, not to be shaken, but to be taken, to be led from 
the room. As I left, I heard the other man, sickly 
white, hollow faced, skinny necked, being introduced.

'This is our attorney, Harvey Hamilton. He will explain 
the contract you will probably be signing, and put you 
in the picture.' The door closed.

Jerry, the black man, looked like and was built like a 
heavyweight boxer I had seen on television. He wore 
extremely tight blue jeans, however, and a shirt that 
was open all the way down to where it went under the 
waistband of his pants.

'Pƒt‚, huh?' I nodded. I felt there was no need of 
precise English with this big man. We had stopped while 
he considered the proposition for a moment. 'CrŠme 
Pƒt‚,' he exclaimed. 'Yeah! We'll bill you as CrŠme 
Pƒt‚!' As if he suddenly became aware of my presence 
again, he crooned, 'You wouldn't mind? CrŠme Pƒt‚ seems 
to suit you perfectly.' He gripped my hand more firmly 
and we went on along a wide corridor with windows at 
either side and the sun seeming to stream in from 
either side. The matter had been decided. From that 
moment I was to be CrŠme Pƒt‚. He snickered to himself. 
'Yeah! CrŠme Pƒt‚!' He was congratulating himself. He 
cast me a sidelong glance. 'And boy! Will you get 
creamed!' 

We entered an enclosed area as wide as a football 
stadium. There were some men at work painting scenery, 
arranging property, moving furniture around from one 
space to fill another, and some other men working on 
cameras, cleaning lenses, manipulating flexible arms 
and tightening bolts and screws. No one gave us a 
passing glance. I saw one woman. Only the one! 

She was carrying what looked like a basket of laundry, 
and her heels clicked regularly on the hard floor as 
she walked. She certainly did not look like a washer 
woman; she was dressed in the latest fashion business 
suit, had well-shaped legs and a big bosom, and her 
nails were painted bright red. She acknowledged the 
black man as she passed, and gave me no more than a 
mildly inquisitive glimpse.

'Hi, Jerry! See ya tonight?' The voice was east coast.

'Probably!' The big black man smiled politely, but that 
was as much as could have been said for his response. 
It surprised me. I wondered if he were queer. 'Will 
Bernie be there? And Guy? Or Arnie?' he demanded. I 
decided that he was most definitely gay. 'Poker!' he 
explained to me when the woman was well past. 'We have 
a poker session at her place every Wednesday! Heavy 
stuff! Needs tight stomach muscles!' He snickered. 'And 
lots of goulash!' By which I assumed he meant dollars.

The place was like the last word in what I would have 
imagined a film studio not to look like! It certainly 
didn't look like a place where men and women did 
naughty and nasty things to each other; somehow it 
reminded me of the Kids Collection Calendar studio, 
only bigger, very much bigger and with more people and 
equipment. I gazed around and asked timidly, 'Do they 
really make films here?'

The big black man had a peculiar way of snickering, as 
if the sound were coming down through his nose. 
'Sometimes,' he replied. He laughed. 'When they have 
nothing better to do!' He hauled me aside to a kind of 
open-plan recess where a solemn faced Porto Rican 
waited with an over-sized camera. He lifted me on to a 
low table with no greatest effort than he would have 
expended replacing a book on a shelf. 'For now, 
however,' he grunted, 'we have to have a look at your 
talents!'

The Porto Rican activated his camera and pointed it in 
our direction as Jerry unbuttoned my shirt and massaged 
the bumps on my chest. There was nothing lewd or 
indecent in it. He pursed his lips and flicked a nipple 
until it stood out like a tiny pink bud. He held up the 
hem of my skirt and studied my legs. He nodded 
approvingly.

'Pull your knickers down to your ankles,' he commanded, 
'turn round and bend over and touch your toes.'

I could do it easily. Touching one's toes and then 
stretching up was the first requirement in our 
gymnastics class, and was a regular part of the warm-up 
exercises - if you had difficulty with it, you were not 
allowed into the gymnastics class. I felt the cheeks of 
my backside being pulled apart. It was a peculiar 
sensation made doubly odd by the close presence of the 
whirring camera.

'Spread your legs!'

I separated my feet as far as the panties around my 
ankles would permit. A thick finger was pressed into 
the cleft of my fanny and slid back and forward a 
couple of times. I was laid across the table with my 
legs dangling over the edge while the Porto Rican 
flourished his equipment.

Jerry lifted me from the table. Both men seemed to lose 
interest in me. They conversed for a few minutes. Jerry 
swung away to speak softly into a mobile. 'Sort your 
clothing, sweetheart!' he said to me after I had been 
standing there for a while with my knickers around my 
ankles, then he washed his hands at a ceramic basin in 
the way the school doctor did after giving us a 
physical. 'Do you really want to be in our films?' He 
looked down on me; there was something I took to be 
pity in his eyes. The two men exchanged amused glances. 
When I nodded, Jerry demanded, 'Have you ever seen a 
sex film?'

'Only what you see on TV,' I replied. 'Only what mom 
watches.'

He sighed. He brushed the subject aside with a wave of 
his hand. 'You'd have to be a bit more scrupulous with 
washing," he said, almost apologetically. 'Nothing puts 
our stars' noses out quicker'n the smell of shit!' And 
for the first time the ice on the Porto Rican's face 
melted. Jerry snickered. 'I don't deny it!' He cast a 
significant glance at the other man. 'There are some 
among us who rather like it.' And the face from Porto 
Rica became solemn again.

He took my hand again and led me to a darkened room. 
There was light enough to see the white screen and the 
half dozen rows of seats. He planted me down. The seat 
was not a regular cinema seat; it was more like a 
double seat on a sofa. He spoke into his mobile again, 
and what light there was in the room vanished. In about 
twenty seconds some signs and letters and numbers 
flashed on the screen.

The first ten two- or three-minute shots were of little 
boys and girls playing on the beach, in a garden, on 
swings in a play park. They were innocently idyllic 
with only a flash of little girls' panties and little 
boys peeing in a corner. This was followed by slightly 
older children with progressively less and less 
clothing; they were throwing a ball at each other, then 
chasing one another, then wrestling and kissing.

'If any of this stuff begins to get uncomfortable for 
you, kid,' Jerry said, 'let me know and we'll kill it 
dead!' He put an arm around the seat behind me.

Older kids appeared on the screen, young teenagers, but 
the antics were much the same: running around, throwing 
beach balls, wrestling, some mild pecking. To tell the 
truth, I was beginning to get bored to my back teeth 
with it. Then, quite unexpectedly, out of the near 
distance a hulk appeared on the screen, a guy so 
masculinely desirable and sensuously handsome that I 
was sure the big black man noticed the jolt to my 
system. 

'That's Harris Packer! He's the male lead in a lot of 
our productions. He seems to do things to the girls.' 
He snickered again. 'Particularly little girls; 
especially pretty little girls!'

Jerry laughed. His hand snaked over my shoulder and 
began to brush back and forth across my tit. The man on 
the screen and the hand on my chest were certainly 
doing things for me. Packer selected one of the older 
teenaged girls from a melee. He hauled her by the hand 
towards a chalet. Cut to the interior. 

The man kisses the girl, girl responds with open mouth, 
and male lead's hand cups girl's ample bosom. Hand 
unclasps the strap of the girl's brassiere, close shot 
of breast with enlarged nipple being gently caressed. 
Pan to hips as hand slips under waistband of girl's 
shorts. Bulge in front of girl's shorts as she is being 
felt up, bulge also in front of man's pants. 

With his free hand, Jerry unbuttoned my blouse, slipped 
a huge hand inside and kneaded the pliable flesh of my 
breast. The Packer, on the screen, pulled at the zip of 
his flies and unleashed a cock that I could hardly have 
credited with any reality. Fake photography, I tried to 
convince myself. Nevertheless I gasped at the sudden 
sight of such a thing on a screen.

The big black man snickered again. 'Spread your knees, 
sweetheart!' He emphasised the words with his hands. He 
pulled my skirt right back and started to rub my 
crotch. 'Yeah! That's smooth!' His finger slipped under 
my panties and ran along the groove. I realised I was 
soaking. He probed with his finger. 'You ain't been 
down with a boy yet?' 

I shook my head and his exploring finger confirmed my 
virginity. 'Good!' He spoke into his mobile again. The 
screen went blank, the lights blossomed again. 'Button 
up!' he said to me. Then as we left the theater, he 
pulled me back and demanded, 'You absolutely certain 
you want to be in our films?' By this time the question 
was beginning to irritate me.

It was another two months, two weeks and several days 
before we heard from Magestic Studios again. I had 
decided that it was all a silly dream anyhow, and tried 
to pretend that I was not bitterly disappointed as the 
weeks rolled by without a blink of a promise. When the 
letter arrived I actually peed myself with the 
excitement of opening it: it was addressed to me! 

Inside was an invitation to attend screen tests the 
following week, with the possibility of professional 
acting tuition alongside normal school-work to be given 
privately for the time I would be there. My mom was 
also invited along, but not my dad! I felt that was a 
bit unfair. There was also a check for $1000 'to cover 
expenses' which I felt was moderately generous. My 
heart was thumping like to burst.

The real stuff started almost as soon as we reached the 
studios. The freak, Sam Godwin, rambled on about 
fucking for ten minutes then invited my mom to join him 
at the bar and the swimming pool in his quarters. I was 
left alone for another ten minutes wondering what the 
hell I was supposed to do. A huge black man entered by 
the same door Jerry had used, but it was not Jerry; he 
was even bigger and blacker and dressed in even tighter 
pants and a indigo shirt without buttons. Thus hunk 
gave me the kind of look he would have given to a new 
office chair.

'Pƒt‚?' He referred to a quarto sheet of paper. 'CrŠme 
Pƒt‚?' I nodded. It was as if he doubted my word. He 
referred again to his paper. 'I'm Joe.' He crossed the 
room and offered his hand. When I shook it he looked me 
up and down, then explained. 'I'm your tutor.' He took 
a couple of steps backwards. 'Lift your skirt!'

I complied instantly. It was a standard request at any 
of my photographic sessions. He stared for fully a 
minute.

'Spread your legs!'

Again I obeyed instantly. He thrust a huge hand between 
my legs to feel my crotch. He made a meal of it; I 
could feel the wetness starting. He grinned. He grasped 
my hips and rubbed my backside. He brushed down my 
skirt and stepped away. He glanced at his paper again.

'Got a tit yet?' When I nodded, he waited, then sighed. 
'Right! You got a tit! You want me to take your word 
for it?' He fluttered a hand in the direction of my 
chest. 'Let's see it then!'

I undid the buttons of my shirt. He did not seem all 
that impressed. He stepped forward and fondled each 
breast in turn. He twisted and tweaked each nipple 
until I could feel it hardening - and hurting.

'I've seen bigger!' he exclaimed. 'At your age! But 
they are beautifully shaped. Have you had them sucked 
yet?' I shook my head, and he retreated to the desk, 
searched around for a ballpoint, settled for a pencil 
he had previously rejected, and wrote something on his 
sheet of paper.

I assumed the physical was completed. I buttoned up. 
Joe straightened then sat on the edge of the desk. 

'Sam has explained to you? In our films you get fucked! 
Maybe not right away, but ultimately, before you are a 
great deal older.'

'If the money's right!' I felt myself that the line was 
getting a bit frayed at the edges. I looked away. 
'Yes!' I said. 'He said something about it.'

'I should think he did,' returned the big black man. 
'That what we do here: fuck sweet white girls and 
capture it on film; otherwise we could pack up and go 
home - and probably go hungry.' He snickered in the 
same way that Jerry did. 'We all make lots of money by 
girls getting fucked on film! As sure as tomorrow is 
the day after this, and as soon as it is legally 
possible, if not before, you will be well and truly 
fucked - if not by Harry Packer, then by some big black 
guy!' He punted himself off the desk. 'We start with 
kissing today!' He took my hand and we left the room. 
'And probably for the next week you'll learn how to 
kiss in a hundred different ways each one designed to 
get women wet and men hard!'

He wasn't kidding! Every male in the establishment had 
a go at me, and many were complimentary and offered 
their services if I wanted to put in some practice 
after work! You don't just open your mouth to kiss 
sexily; you have to use your lips, teeth, cheeks, chin 
and tongue to full effect and let your eyes glisten as 
if you were enjoying it. 

All the cameramen and sound technicians kissed me, then 
on the second last day of the kissing classes I was 
shown how to make it look real with other females, a 
couple my age, but mostly much older women. The real 
wow came on the last day. I had to kiss the little fat 
freak with the small face and my stomach churned as he 
sucked and blew and tongued my mouth until I truly felt 
I was about to throw up. That wasn't the wow! At the 
last gasp, so to speak, and out of thin air my father 
appeared on one of the sets. 

I was given the flimsiest chiffon and lace costume to 
wear, made to lie on a king-sized divan alongside his 
all-but-nakedness and kiss as if my life depended on 
giving satisfaction. And I'll never know why my mom 
left him! This guy was a sex machine and I wanted him 
to fuck me almost as soon as our lips touched. The way 
his fingers traced the contours of my breasts and 
flicked my nipples, his gliding caresses down my belly 
and between my legs, had me absolutely paralysed with 
unadulterated sexual lust. Love juices poured from me 
on to his exploring fingers.

The director called 'Cut!' as my first ever gorgeous 
orgasm was about to burst over me. All around applauded 
their appreciation, and my dad shot off in his drawers! 
And I was assured of a job! 

Over the weekend, a six foot something woman who had 
once 'sung Wagner in the Carnegie' gave me lessons in 
elocution and posture and taught me how to enter a room 
and say, 'Custard and cake for tea' with such effect 
that men would ejaculate in their seats. She also 
showed me poses that would drive men to suicidal lust. 
There were also camera tests and make-up experiments 
'to give emphasis to my dominant features'. All in all, 
it was truly exciting and made me feel like a million 
dollar starlet.

The following week, however, was a drag, for I had 
normal school work supervised by martinets who would 
not have been out of place with a whip on a Roman 
galley. Samuel B Godwin popped into the classroom at 
least once daily, remained for a few minutes, asked 
about my progress 'for he was paying good money to give 
me a mind', the body would take care of itself then 
begin to fade and then it would be worthless.

It was at the end of that second week when I began to 
wonder when I would be fucked. I knew instinctively 
that it had to happen soon. On that Friday afternoon, 
Joe appeared in the schoolroom, had a whispered 
dialogue with the tutor, then took my hand.

'Have you ever jerked a guy?' he asked on the way out.

The vast expanse of studio we walked through was all 
but deserted. The black man wore sneakers and made 
hardly a sound, in fact he walked almost like what I 
would expect of a ghost. The noise of my hard-soled 
shoes seemed to reverberate from one distant wall to 
another, which added to the feeling of unreality. There 
was a late afternoon autumn mist hanging around as we 
emerged.

'Your mom has gone off for the weekend with your dad.' 
It was the first time the big black man had spoken 
since we left the schoolroom. 'I think they are going 
to make a go of making a go of it.' We crossed a kind 
of quadrangle and alleyway into the staff living 
quarters. 'I have to help you with your home 
assignments, then revise the techniques you have been 
taught.' He snickered. The sound was incongruent; it 
was almost childishly simple in contrast to his 
cultured speech. 'You can shack up at my place, or you 
can go over and sleep at Sam Godwin's!'

'What's wrong with my own quarters?' 

The man shrugged. 'Alone? Home Alone? Please yourself!' 
He showed me into his apartment. 'First we'll get your 
school work out of the way, then have something to 
eat.' He clucked as it were all a bore of a chore, but 
there was a twinkle in his eye that made me wary. 
'Samuel B Godwin says I have to entertain you.' His 
final words were chewed into incoherence in laughter, 
like it was all a big joke to him. 'But he says I've to 
fuck you - only as a last resort....' His voice trailed 
away.

There is no denying it though, the man was smart. He 
explained difficulties and problems in my math, English 
and theoretical science work. I always put myself in 
the middle of the road average in class. Joe, in a bit 
less than an hour, did more for my intellectual ego 
than seven years of professional teaching. For the 
first time in my life I was actually interested in 
learning school work. When he was satisfied, he revised 
the kissing techniques, the elocution and the posture 
exercises. He had me naked several times in a matter of 
minutes. Love juices were gushing out of me, and I 
doubted if he even had the beginning of a hard-on.

We went into the kitchen when it was all over. 'What 
would you like to eat?' he demanded. 'Name it, and if I 
ain't got it, I'll get it!'

'I'll have what you're having.'

He referred to some packages from his deep freezer. 
'Poulet r“ti … la cr‚ole? Chili con carne? Merluzzo 
alla siciliana?' He laughed in his odd way. 'Fuck it! 
We'll lord it! We'll have pot au feu portugaise!' He 
hoisted me on to the work surface, brushed my skirt 
back as far as it could go and spread my knees. 'It 
will take half an hour; we may as well have a look at 
some pussy while we prepare it'

It may have been a packaged meal, but when Joe Fasenar 
served it up it was as good as any cordon bleu stuff I 
have eaten in hyper-expensive restaurants. I helped 
with the washing-up. We had just settled down to watch 
television when three other black guys, each as big as 
Jerry and Joe, appeared on the scene. All wore 
extremely tight pants, which advertised the bulging 
meat underneath, and designer shirts and jackets; one 
sported a kind of Count Dracula cape. They hugged and 
kissed. I mean they all kissed Fasener on the lips. My 
stomach muscles pulled. Guys kissing? Yeugh! 

My first impression with Jerry had been that he was 
sexually off-beat, even when he was touching me up in 
the little cinema - it was the kind of cold aloof 
professional touch. I was convinced all these guys were 
gay. It was fully three or four loud chattering and 
laughing minutes before any attention was paid to me.

'Is this the pussy for the evening?' One of the 
incomers lifted me, with less effort than he would have 
expended lifting a rag doll, from the studio couch. He 
planted a kiss on my lips.

'This is Crˆme Pat‚, our latest!' explained Joe. 'She's 
my pussy for the night.' He laughed. The others joined 
in. He introduced them. 'Telford, Jeffreyson, and 
Sephrahem.' He laughed again. I wondered why black men 
always seemed to have such fancy names. 'Just call them 
Tuff, Jiff and Syph!'

Telford took me from his companion's arms and kissed me 
with full lips and handed me to the third, Jeff, who 
tongued me and was reluctant to put me down again. When 
they all got settled Joe Fasenar produced cans of beer 
and Coke for me, the inevitable playing cards, and wads 
of dollars. 

'Play poker?' The question was obvious directed at me. 
Telford split the cards and flicked them in a shuffle.

'A bit!' But there was no way I was going to play for 
the kind of money these guys were producing. 'But not 
very well!'

'We'll let her play for free,' Sephrahem suggested.

'She can discard a piece of clothing for every fifty 
dollars,' declared Telford, and dealt out five hands. 
He snickered. 'We'll have her naked and screaming in no 
time.' And they all made dirty noises.

But it was true. I was down to my knickers before the 
night was half-way through, and was gratified by their 
approving glances and appraisal of my developing 
assets. Fasenar had stipulated: 'No touching till I say 
so!' But things began to turn my way very soon after 
the panties had to be pulled off while I stood on the 
table. I found, after a while, that I was able to read 
these guys like pages in a book, and they were teaching 
me the game to their own destruction. I was able to 
reclaim my clothing bit by bit: knickers, training bra, 
blouse, skirt, socks and shoes. Then I started to win 
money, lots of money!

At ten Fasenar put some CDs into his music center and 
each man danced with me in turn. We watched a late 
night sports program on television and some strip turns 
on an erotic channel. All through the evening they had 
been drinking beer and Southern Comfort and straight 
scotch. Joe Fasenar rose and demanded, 'You made up 
your mind what you're doing?' He grinned. 'You want the 
boys to take you back to your place? You want to shack 
up here?' He laughed loudly. 'Or sleep with Samuel B 
Godwin?' At which the 
other three hooted and laughed.

I was not fucked that night. I was felt up, top, 
bottom, back and front, and I jerked off Joe Fasener a 
couple of times in the night and sucked him in the 
morning. Breakfast was a purely token affair. Joe took 
me out for a drive into the desert, We lunched in a 
remote diner and spent the afternoon in a motel room 
where I was felt up again, sucked him off and jerked 
him between naps. 

We had a late meal in a classy country club, danced and 
watched a few cabaret turns, then returned to Joe's 
place where the events of the previous night in bed 
were repeated. The only difference being that Joe 
Fasener brought me off a couple of times in his 
touching. And promised that I would be well and truly 
fucked if I were to spend the next weekend at his 
place.

***

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The author does not condone child abuse, this story is
meant as an erotic fantasy not real life. Anyone acting
out such scenarios in "real life" can look forward to
many unproductive years getting it up the butt by a 
fellow convict in their local prison.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 27