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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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WARNING!
This text file contains sexually explicit
material. If you do not wish to read this
type of literature, or you are under age,
PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!!
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Bukkake
by Tyler Knight (no address provided)
May 24th, 2010
***
Graphic firsthand account of a Bukkake Porn Shoot from
a male's point of view. (M+/F, facial, extreme, mast,
orgy)
***
The line of mopes wraps around the warehouse hidden in
the Valley's North Hollywood. It moves, I take a step.
These men are not the chiseled, two-hundred pound
studs with eight-inch-plus penises of the A-list. They
will never get the call to work with even passable
looking woman in a scene for a mid-tier studio, and
they know it. This is the bukkake line.
Sure, I'm in line just like these mopes are, but I'm
different. I've done scenes for top tier studios
already. Christ, look at these guys, then look at me.
I'm not like them. Even my shirt, the sample I modeled
in the Krizia Uomo show in Milan two Springs ago, may
be old but it's a tangible link to what I've done.
Proof of who I was. More than these mopes will ever
accomplish in ten lifetimes.
Conversations include: a group scene where one mope
brags about actually getting to fuck the girl for a
solid minute before another mope tapped him on the
shoulder to swap out; another man boasts of his one-
on-one scene with a used up, twenty-year porn veteran,
milf that he managed to not fuck up, which he
proclaims, "We had a connection!" to the porn parties
they lie about being invited to.
The line moves. I take a step.
Directors for other bukkakes and group scenes (most
not any better off than the mopes) rove up and down
the bukkake line handing out business cards. One
director poaches talent for a fifteen-on-one scene
with a burly and pregnant woman that's shooting down
the street in an hour. The man front of me is
swallowed by the building. I follow.
Inside the processing room we're tagged and packed
like cattle along an assembly line. I fill out the
release and show my HIV/STD test to a production
assistant that doesn't even glance at it. Next, I hold
my IDs next to my face and another P.A. takes a
snapshot with a digital camera.
The line moves. I take a step.
The next P.A. keeps the beef line moving and into the
killing floor. He tells me to be quiet as I enter
because the filming has started. Through the doors I
hear it. Panting. Snortling. Not unlike a kennel of
English bulldogs. I enter the room.
Take a step.
The first thing you notice in the main room is: the
line has congealed into a clump of man asses. They
sag, and drag. Some pinch together, others hang down,
flapping against the backs of legs. Hair covers some,
puss drips from sores on another. Probably one hundred
have packed in before you; you hurry to the side to
strip your clothes to make room for the men that pile
in behind you. The brightness of the lights is obscene
and it's cold like a meat locker–your breath hangs in
the air in front of you, and the hairs on your legs
and forearms stand erect. You pick an unoccupied spot
on the floor for your clothes, and your bag, then walk
to the crowd.
Take a step.
The other men are naked except for their shoes. The
mob surrounding the girls (the rumor is there are
actually two girls) has to be ten men deep because
even though you're taller than the average mope you
can't see the center. You hear, though. What you hear
is squishy, wet, two-inch cocks jerking off in unison,
like a thousand teens smacking chewing gum. With the
sheer volume of men in the room the sound echoes off
the walls. Punctuating this sound is the frequent
moaning of your fellow man ass-mates at the front of
the line as they dump their loads, followed by
gargling.
Take a step.
Naked, you take your place in the pack, and no sooner
than you do this does the trickle of new arrivals fill
in around you; the group absorbs you into its mass.
Inch by inch, the current moves you closer and closer
to the front. Still, nothing is visible. Just the
occasional cheap phone sex voices:
"Ooooohh yeah baaaaybeee. Gimmie that hot load, you
stud!"
Another woman's voice says, "Yeah, I'm soooo horny!"
Take a step.
Now you're now at the middle ranks of the Man Ass
Organism and are absorbed into it as yet more naked
men pack in behind you. You're trying to stroke your
cock up to an erection with the only spit in your hand
for lube, shoulder to hairy shoulder, surrounded by
hundreds of strangers, and it's harder and harder to
breathe because there are no windows in this room and
the used-up air that enters your mouth has exited the
lungs of scores of other men. You taste the staleness.
Take a step.
When you are closer to what you think is the front,
the odor invades your nose and there's no way to
escape it. Hygiene is not a big priority for some of
these guys, but you've been around unwashed people
before. No, that's not it. It's too acrid and burning
to be just body odor. You look straight ahead because
heaven forbid if you look down you see that you're
stroking your cock millimeters from some hairy, saggy
ass. This gives you an acute awareness of the fact
that there is some dude pulling his pud directly
behind your ass at this very moment. His breath blows
warm on your nape. Is he looking down at your cheeks
as he strokes?
Take a step.
The Man Ass Organism spits you out to the front of the
line the way an amoeba excretes waste through its
membrane. There they are. Two girls, on their knees,
caked from head-to-toe in the multi-shaded come of a
hundred men. Drenched baby bibs are tied to their
necks. Faces covered, you can distinguish them only by
their breast size. The studio lights above them heat
the jizz on their foreheads, creating swirling spunk
currents the way a lava lamp would, solving the
mystery of the stench. Both women's breasts have space
on the undersides where the semen dried to a crust–
crackling, and splitting, and flaking when a tit
moves.
Two men stand ahead of you in line. An unseen,
megaphone amplified voice screeches over the ambient
din, "You two! Snowball! Go, go, go!"
The two men take their steps.
A dripping slot opens just above Big Tits Girl's chin
that can only be a mouth. She sucks one man, and Small
Tits Girl sucks off the other. Gooey hands grasp at
the men's doughy asses for leverage as the girls shove
mope dicks into their faces. Big Tit's man pumps her
face and after ten seconds, convulses, howls, then
slathers his load into her mouth and onto her face.
She swishes spooze around her mouth and teeth the way
you'd rinse with Listerine. The second man shoots his
load into Small Tits Girl's mouth.
Both girls gargle their ejaculate in unison as the men
step away and are re-absorbed into the crowd. Small
Tits leans over, places her head in the Big Tits's
lap, and opens her mouth like a hungry baby bird. Big
tits then purses her lips. Come mixed with spittle,
phlegm, and yet more come drips from Big Tit's mouth
in long strings, and into Small Tit's mouth. Small
Tits sits up, kisses Big Tits, and the women snowball
the loads back and forth, fingering their pussies all
the while.
The opaque liquid, now well mixed, drizzles down their
chins and onto their tits, and the floor. This is when
you see for the first time that the girls are kneeling
in a pool of semen and it's clear why the other men
are wearing shoes. You recall among the gossip in the
line, one story was about some shoeless man at a
previous bukkake that slipped and fell into the
primordial ejaculate pool.
Eye-spots surrounded by semen lock in on you, and a
soaked princess beckons you over. The megaphone
screams, "Go!"
You take a step. When your foot lands, it squishes
deep into what feels like warm hair conditioner. Your
foot sinks and the gelatine goo oozes hot between your
toes. When you lift your foot the sticky floor doesn't
want to let it go. You stand in front of the girls,
cock in hand, no erection. The Big Tits Come Princess
scoops spilled seed from the floor and feeds it to
Small Tits Girl, whom sucks her friend's finders dry.
She smiles at you, blowing come-bubbles. Your stomach
flips inside out, and your breathing comes shallow,
and it feels as though your bones have been sucked out
of your legs. You sway.
The megaphone shrieks, "Stop! Half-time show!"
The director's minions–dressed in rain coats, hats,
fly-fishing boots and gardening gloves–cattle prod
their way through the crowd carrying an industrial
strength blow dryer. The appliances roar to life and
the minions glaze the women's faces with the come,
glazing them like pottery. Fresh broiled spunk wafts
into your nasal cavity. You look around and see the
dead eyes of the Organism reflecting your feelings
back at you; the Beast Of One Hundred Penises is
looking through you to the girls, stroking away.
Moaning and the sound of smack-smack-smack–
Enough!
You push your way through the Organism, not caring
that you graze past someone's loose genitals in your
haste, which is good because as you rush, greasy
penises brush against your wrist and your hips.
Once in the back, clear of the Organism, your body
doubles over, resting your hands on your knees,
sucking in air until the roof of your mouth tingles
and your pulse throbs in your eardrums, and you get
the tell-tale tunnel vision from hyperventilating.
Your pants are in your hands but you remember there's
not enough bus fare in the pockets to get you out of
the Valley, let alone get something to eat, and you
still have a week to go until you might get paid for
the three-on-one you did last week–assuming the check
clears. Your gut, heaving a moment ago, now bellows to
be filled. You take a step. To the back of the
Organism.
The moaning mass of flesh wraps itself around you once
again. You step, wait, and step again until the
Organism shits you out once more. There is only one
Come Princess, now. She rests upside down on the back
of her neck and shoulders. Legs open, speculum prying
her vagina open. The guy ahead of you drops his load
down the pried open vagina. You're up.
A gas masked minion squirts cheap lube into your hand
from an industrial sized drum. You close your eyes and
go through your wank bank of images in your head to
get you cock hard. You stroke, thinking of that sweet
smelling bank teller with the low cut blouse who took
your deposit, and this jars you from the fantasy
because you remember that you have to give the
inverted snatch in front of you her deposit.
You keep stroking but your curiosity nags at you to
peek, but you're so close to coming and don't want
blow it, but your eyes have minds of their own. You
peek. Her clamped open cunt is infinite, raw, and
teeming with mottled, bubbling spunk. Still clutching
your penis, your eyes roll back and the floor comes up
on you hard and fast.
When your eyes open, you're at the back of the crowd,
next to the pile of clothes, semen stuck between the
webbing of your fingers, a tightening feel of crust
drying on the left side of your face and lips. You
lick your lips and are rewarded with a bitter-salt
taste on the tip of your tongue.
Your feet kick away a pair of skid-marked tighty-
whiteys to get to your socks, but fuck it, do you
really want to put them on again? You've got one pant
leg on when you stop and look to the dried sperm
crusting on your feet. Your shirt, the one you got
paid $1,500 to wear down the runway in Milan, is
missing. Scanning the back of the room, you spot it. A
mope is using it as a come rag. You struggle to
control yourself from weeping and manage long enough
to sling your bag over your shoulder and walk.
As you are leaving a minion stops you. He says, "Don't
forget your cash."
He hands you fifty bucks, a baby wipe for your face,
and a t-shirt that says:
"I Got Cummed On and Left For Dead In A Bukkake And
All I Got Was This Stupid T-shirt."
The minion says, "Can you come back to do the Gangsta-
Land Come Slam next week? There will only be ten of
you, you actually get to fuck the girl, and the pay is
$150."
At first you think he doesn't know you've failed, but
then you realize he doesn't care. You're walking
corpse, there to make the set look full. As a mope,
nothing you ever do will matter...
END
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. 4-million people around the world
contract HIV every year. You only have one body per
lifetime, so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 75