EXTREME WARNING. This is intended for persons of 18 years of age or above. If you are not 18 then go away.

EXTREME WARNING. This story contains descriptions of violence, snuff, torture, impaling, eroto-cannibalism and sexual acts. Do not read if these subjects are likely to offend.

EXTREME WARNING. This is an erotic fantasy, not to be confused with reality.

Please do not reproduce in any form for profit without permission from author.

 

Jennifer ’s First Interview

 

 

 

 

 

By Dolcetta, (dolcetta@REMOVEgrimwilliams.co.uk)

written in winter 2001, dedicated to my best friend Grim (gw@REMOVEgrimwilliams.co.uk)

 

 

"Thanks, but I'm not hungry. I shan't be needing a menu."

 

With that I waved away the waiter and turned to my companion.  He was a reporter, a tall, dark young man.

 

I sipped my champagne cocktail, hiding a sly smile behind the movement of my glass. I had him interested – I knew it - both in me and my story. He couldn't take his eyes from my dress and my overflowing, barely concealed bosom.

 

Some people say I'm abnormal; a freakish aberration of nature. Maybe I am. I don't care what they think, what they say. I love the way men look at me, their need, their hunger, their long searching looks. And I certainly wanted this man to look, to sweat. That's why I' d chosen what I was wearing: to make him perspire. The neckline was o utrageously risqué and the waistline ridiculously waspish. This created the illusion that my boobs would explode in his face.  That was just the top:  as for the rest of me...

 

Ah, well. I did want to publicize my new profession, didn't I? In which case self promotion was the name of the game.

 

A small mini disk recorder sat on the table in front of me, its internal microphone waiting for me to begin.

 

I collected my thoughts and considered how I should begin. "I suppose the story starts with the disappearance of my sister, Merideth," I sighed, laying my shot glass on the table. "Since then, I've been forced to provide for myself. Merideth used to pay most of the bills. We were supposed to go halves, but it never quite worked out like that. She always paid more than her fair share of the rent; the gas; the electricity; all those other petty debts you discover once the money is gone. She was a reporter like you, as you know, and a good one. She was paid handsomely. It came easy to her: work, making money.

 

"But with her gone, I found things hard. At first, I didn't know what to do. I was upset, depressed. I tried ignoring the bills, but that didn't work. Things stopped working: the phone, the cable – all 'disconnected'. Then hefty types would turn up early morning banging down the door. I told them I hadn't heard of Jennifer Jones, that she'd gone on holiday. I told them I was only house sitting, but that obviously wasn't going to fool them for long."

 

I sat watching my champagne, wondering whether I'd be able to finish it. 

 

"So in the end," I continued, letting it be, deciding that I couldn't. "I went through my address book and rang round some of my old connections. I used to be an actress, you know, a starlet. That's how the producers would describe me. Isn't it a laugh?

 

"I'd taken small roles in advertising spots, commercials for dog food, cleaning fluid, that kind of thing. They weren't roles to get me noticed, to make a statement or my name, but they were a start. It was something.

 

"Then came the underwear. That did make my name. I got sacks of mail. Blokes would write to the agency asking for my phone number. They'd make lewd suggestions and tell me the innumerable ways they'd played with themselves while looking at the pictures.

 

"It made an impression. I was good. As you can see, I'm a beauty. I know I'm not supposed to say it because people say it's immodest, but look at me. I'm well suited for lingerie. I'm tall. I've a good figure, dark hair. Don't you agree? Am I not pretty?"

 

The young reporter agreed automatically and so, my ego pleasantly flattered, I continued with barely a pause.

 

"My complexion is good, dark, reflecting my Italian roots. That helps. I look good in bra and panties, even more so now. Would you like to see? Would you like some photos to illustrate the story? Later? Okay. Don't let me forget. You won't regret it.

 

"So there I was, in deep financial trouble. I was earning plenty, yes, but I was spending far more. The money was going out far faster than I could hope to bring it in.

 

"You see, I've never been one to economize. I've never had to. I've luxurious tastes.... I like expensive clothes – who doesn't? - especially silken underwear. I own a collection, drawers of it, if you'll excuse the pun. But with my credit cards maxed out, I was wading in debt. What could I do? I thought about making an appointment to see John Owen, the manager of the "Moulin Rouge". I worked there once as a table dancer, just for a short time. Did you know that? I got out because of a disagreement, but what goes around, comes around. Money was pressing...

 

I sighed.

 

"What would you have done – do - in my situation? Why not dance around a pole? After all, what's wrong with it? It's honest work."

 

My reporter nodded in approval. I could see him looking at me, thinking, imagining me rubbing my pussy against a long steel pole, smearing it with my juices and then transferring them to my breasts. I'd done it so many times I could do it in my sleep. I shifted on my seat, letting my short skirt ride up my thigh.

 

I did it deliberately. I liked him. He had kind eyes.

 

"I've always been attracted by shiny, metallic poles," I added with a twinkle, flicking my skirt back into place, grinning at his disappointment.

 

"This particular morning, the morning that changed my life, I left my flat and went to my friend's flat – Peggy, that's her name. I was going to ask her to lend me 10 bucks, just to see me through the day.

 

"I met Peggy years ago in drama school. She's been more successful than me but she never boasts about it. She knows my foibles. She's never been arrogant or selfish or suggested out that it's anything but luck that separates our fortunes. Whenever I've been desperate, she's helped me, slipped me the odd green bill. "Pay me back when you win the lottery," she says with a wink. After all, she knows what I'm like, that my purse has far too many holes.

 

"Anyway, this particular morning she came to the door in her dressing gown. Her hair was tousled and her makeup askew. I thought I'd caught her in bed with some Italian stallion, but I was way off the mark there.

 

"Jennifer, have you seen today's paper?" she demanded excitedly. She threw open the door and waved her folded newspaper at me like she was swatting a wasp.

 

"Look! No, not there, here! The quarter page ad! See, they're casting actresses down at the Holiday Inn. It looks just the kind of stuff you're after!"

 

She thrust her finger at the page making it a struggle for me to read. Then she turned the paper so that I could see nothing at all as she read aloud. "Wanted: Experienced actresses aged between 18 and 35. Require discreet, broad minded individuals with a good figure and the ability to improvise from a skeleton script. Experience in advertising an advantage. Apply before January 17 by calling 555-."

 

She pointed to the day rate. "See that!" she beamed. "Look at the money. I'm almost inclined to audition myself. What do you think? Isn't it just what you've been looking for?"

 

It was. What could I say? At that moment I would have taken anything. But something held me back. "Broad minded?" I considered, deliberating upon the phrase.

 

But Peggy was dismissive. "It could mean any of a thousand things," she responded quickly, pulling me into her living room, setting me at ease. "There's only one way to find out whether it's any good and that's to audition. $1000 per day. For that money they could have my ass if they wanted it."

 

I screwed up my face. "They probably do want my ass," I observed sternly.

 

She raised a cynical eyebrow as if to say "So? You've danced at the Moulin Rouge, haven't you? Where's your problem?"

 

She was right. What was I fretting about? I needed the work. If they wanted me to fuck, so be it. I'd never done it in front of the camera, but I was hardly a virgin. It might even be fun. I deserved a good screw. At once I forgot all about my primary concern, that I was broke and needed ten dollars. My anxieties were vanishing like the midnight darkness through a bedroom window come morning. Life was on the turn. I snatched the paper from her hand and read the advertisement again to myself.

 

There it was. $1000 per day. My fingers were shaking. "Can I use your telephone?" I pressed, already grabbing the receiver and lifting it to my ear. If only I could get the job, it would solve so many problems.

 

I heard a click at the other end and then the phone rang twice. A junior receptionist answered, very polite but totally wet behind the ears. I asked her about the job. No, she couldn't give more detail. How many days work was it? She didn't know. In fact, she knew nothing apart from how to make an appointment. "I'm afraid there's nobody here at the moment," she said sweetly. "You see, I only started this morning. But if you go to the Holiday Inn, you can ask your questions then."

 

It would have to do. She gave me a hotel room number and a time, now just two hours away.

 

"I'm going to have to hurry," I exclaimed excitedly, glancing hurriedly at the time. Two hours! Was it enough? So much to do! To get the job I would need to think about wardrobe, hair, make up...

 

All in two hours!

 

Peggy lent me some cash. Thank God she did. Otherwise I would never have been able to pay the stylist. The bitch won't touch my hair unless I give her cash up front. Stupid cow! Somehow I managed to do my nails while waiting for her to dry my hair.

 

God, what a rush.

 

I ran from there to the hotel, picking up some clothes en route. No time. I would have to change at the hotel. The clock was ticking.

 

I was panting and out of breath. I dashed to reception with my wardrobe bag tucked under my arm and there checked the room number. The fourth floor, they said. Yes, I was expected.

 

I was apprehensive. Had I smudged my make up or ruined my hair or creased my skirt? And I wasn't the only one. When I got out of the lift, I found the fourth floor in sheer commotion. It was full of girls like me, starlets with their heads in the clouds and their feet in the gutter, desperate for a break.

 

I'm sure most of them had been come straight from the nearest street corner or dirty stairwell. They were the sort that wear piercings and tattoos and think they look a million dollars. Seeing so many of the sluts gave me confidence. I couldn't believe that these would get the job.

 

"We'll see you in a minute," I heard somebody say. Was she talking to me?

 

"No, we'll see everybody. Be patient. Take a seat and wait your turn."

 

I saw a young woman in a crisp white blouse and a navy pleated skirt handing out questionnaires. She wore spectacles and smelled of wild roses. "Where can I change?" I asked her, cutting in to her conversation.

 

She pointed to the bathroom and I hurried there to dress and repair my makeup. God. What a shambles this was! What a way to run an audition! It was utter chaos. So much noise! The bathroom was full of girls too, hogging the mirror, undressing, changing, brushing their hair, gossiping about so many things.

 

I made a small space for myself next to the hand dryer and shuffled off my clothes: my jeans, my top and my sneakers. I stuffed them into a black duffle bag and then unzipped my wardrobe bag. Here were my secret weapons! I pulled out the smallest, sheerest G-string imaginable – this would show them I was broad minded; a nice skirt I'd got from Paris the last time I was there; a top; no bra. I considered wearing stockings – I'd brought some - but eventually decided to leave them off. Rule number one for any audition: wear as little as you can get away with.

 

All I needed now were some decent shoes, stilettos, of course, and I just so happened to have the business. After my last job they were throwing out these exclusive slippers, and it was such a shame to let them waste. Even so, I promised the director I'd keep it quiet – after all, he has expense sheets to sign - so I'd better not tell you the make. Let's just say they were stylish, very much so, with long six inch points.

 

"What's the job then?" I asked, shoving foot into shoe, fighting for some room by the mirror.

 

No one seemed to know for certain.

 

"Government contract, I heard," one girl declared.

 

"Getaway! I heard it was porno."

 

A blonde stuck her head through a tiny lycra top. "I don't do porno!"

 

"Could be a health promo: contraception... AIDS... something like that."

 

The blonde with the lycra straightened it over her forty inch boobs. "You really think it's porno? If my dad finds out..."

 

"Then don't tell him."

 

I could see not only the shape but also the colour of her nips. She was obscene. "But he sees all the new videos. It's his hobby."

 

Oh well. I brushed my hair and touched up my lips, completing a very different image to that of the blonde. I prefer my appearance to scream elegance rather than slut, and that's what I now saw. Happy with the result, I left them all to their speculation.

 

Outside, the lady in the blouse was still fussing and smelling of wild roses. Ah, I'd forgotten the damn form. I'd better fill it in.

 

I grabbed one from her and sat down, searching through my purse for a pen.

 

The questionnaire began innocuously enough, asking for my name, my age, address, also my personal statistics. Predictable enough. Then it asked for names of relatives and my state of health. That was also okay. I relaxed.

 

I answered its questions, and when I'd got it both finished and signed, I sought out the woman in the blouse.  I could see that she wore no bra. Her nipples were visible like twin polka dots through the white cotton.

 

I wondered if she'd ever been a model herself.

 

"Are they running late?" I asked, handing her my questionnaire and looking up impatiently from her breasts to the clock. It was already twenty minutes after the time of my supposed appointment.

 

It was annoying to be kept waiting.

 

"They won't be long," the woman said, smiling through her spectacles. "They want to give everyone a proper chance to present themselves. Better to get the right girl than to rush."

 

Another hour past. I kept looking at my watch. It was tucked into my purse for it didn't go with my outfit. Then I looked at the clock, trying to determine which was the slower.

 

One by one the girls came out, some disappointed, others still in with a shout. "How was it?" I asked one girl as she collected her things.

 

"Strange," she said after careful consideration. "But okay. The one on the end is quite dishy. I kept playing to him."

 

"So what is it?" I pressed. "The job. What's the job?"

 

She shrugged her shoulders. "They wouldn't say. So much fucking secrecy you'd think we were applying to be Mata Haris."

 

"Maybe we are," I murmured under my breath. "Nothing would surprise me here."

 

At last it was my turn. The woman with the blouse ushered into a largish room. I quickly dropped my purse and left it by the door. The less clutter the better.

 

There were three of them sitting on the far side of a long beech table. An older man sat in the middle and there were younger men on either side.  I walked steadily into the empty space in front of their table and turned confidently to face them. I tried to make up my mind which of them was the supposedly dishy one. The one on the left was wearing a suit; the one on the right was trendier. So I guessed it was probably him.

 

The woman with the blouse handed them my presentation folder and they flicked through it, occasionally looking up at me. "Very good," the older man said from time to time. "Yes, very good indeed."

 

I waited, standing still, on show in front of them. "Now if you would please undress," the older man said, looking at me keenly.

 

They rocked forward in their chairs, the three of them in unison, nervously rolling their pens between their fingers.

 

I was prepared for that. It's part of the job. They always want you to undress when you're doing figure work: after all, it's your skin they're buying. And I've learned one important lesson. When the inevitable happens, as it will, it isn't time for shyness or priggish uncertainty. Whatever reservations you have about the client, you have to undress boldly as if you haven't a care in the world. I've seen girls lose jobs simply on the way they undressed. "If it bothers you, get out," the client told them. He was a fat, oily guy too. "We're paying to see your body and if you have qualms about that, you're not for us. The camera sees everything, every nuance of your genitalia: everything, right to the very soul. If you can't handle it, you're in the wrong profession."

 

Confidence, poise and a certain bashful insolence win more jobs than good looks ever did.

 

I shrugged off my points and skirt, tugged my top over my braless breasts, shaking my tousled hair and naked titties. My current precarious financial predicament added focus to my acting. I was already giving a gutsy performance.

 

They were watching me. I could feel the intensity of their gaze. All I had on was my G-string now. Glimpses of the "Moulin Rouge" flashed through my mind. I smiled confidently as I used to back then, pulling in my back and thrusting out my bosom.

 

"Do you have any diseases? Either now or in the past?" one of the younger men wanted to know.

 

I shook my head. Embarrassing. Quite embarrassing. I jiggled my bosom provocatively. I've always kept good health.

 

They noted that down, then stood and walked around me, inspecting my semi nude body, looking for blemishes or scars, for some of the girls cover them with makeup.

 

The older man had a pencil in his hand. He used it to lift the nearer of my breasts, staring underneath, checking to see if it was real. "What’s about sports? Stamina training?"

 

"I do a little," I stuttered, a little surprised. He was now pressing his pencil under my other bosom.

 

"What about experience, former jobs?" the dishy one growled.

 

"Some spots, a little table dancing..." I replied.

 

"Abdominal operations?"

 

"No. Certainly not."

 

The older man pointed with his pencil to my boobs. He seemed quite taken by them: "Implants? Cosmetic surgery?"

 

He knew already that they were real. Again I shook my head. "My breasts just are as nature intended."

 

I knew they looked fine, although another inch or two would have been nice. You can never be too big in my line of work. Never. More important, however, is to be able to wear a dress without a bra. You have to be firm. Thankfully I've always been okay in that department.

 

The older man nodded, apparently content. The others also sat back down on their chairs. The dishy one made a brief scribbled note on the pad in front of him.

 

"Okay," he said, looking back up, smiling. "You can remove your string now."

 

I nodded quickly, then slipped my fingers into my panties and lowered them a couple of inches, bending forward, knowing that the twisted fabric just about covered my slit and not a lot else. I held the pose for a few seconds, remembering all I'd been taught by the art director at the Moulin Rouge.

 

Then I swept them down my legs and let nature do the rest. All three men stared for some seconds, visually examining my body, seeming to like my super smooth slit. Finally, the one in the suit spoke, pointing at my lower abdomen. He uttered but one word.

 

"Shaved?"

 

I shook my head again, glad that I'd seemingly made an impression. "Permanently depilated."

 

The dishy one raised a curious eyebrow. There was the curl of a smile on the end of his mouth. "Oh? How come?"

 

"A long time ago I discovered that a shaved pussy makes guys hornier," I explained, taking up a pose. "So I had my vulva professionally depilated. Only a slight fuzz grows there now. It makes me feel better, cleaner." His smile had widened. He obviously liked that. I held his gaze and then grinned. "My boyfriends like it too."

 

"You have a boyfriend at the moment?"

 

I shook my head. "We split up."

 

He seemed pleased.

 

I'm not sure why I was taking the trouble to explain my affairs, or what it had to do with the job. Maybe because I found him dishy. I like being the centre of attention.

 

The one in the suit nodded. "Ah, so you're unattached. That's good. Very good."

 

I asked him why it was good that I didn't have a boyfriend.

 

He grinned. "Boyfriends are prone to get jealous, Miss Jones . In our line of work, boyfriends mean trouble."

 

Now it was my turn to be curious. I hesitated. "May I ask a question?"

 

The suit sat back in his chair, looking at me dryly. I was still very aware that I was naked and that this gave me an advantage. The longer I could keep them looking at me the better my chances. Lust grows, you know. It starts as a flicker and quickly develops into a mighty forest fire.

 

I parted my legs so that my feet were about a foot apart.

 

"Go ahead, Miss Jones," he said, faltering. "But I must warn you that if it's the usual question, what does the job entail, then I'm not at liberty to help you."

 

I confessed that this had been my question.

 

He took a deep breath, gazing down at the point of his pencil. "I'm sorry we can't be more helpful, Miss Jones. I'd love to answer your questions but I'm afraid I'm not at liberty. The reason for the secrecy will become apparent if you get the job. For the moment, I can only point you towards the clues: we require you to be broad minded; the job has necessitated we examine you top to toe so to speak, and boyfriends often tend to be jealous. After that, I must allow you to draw your own conclusions. The fee is a generous one for this very reason, that we understand our terms are a little unusual. If you can't deal with that, then please tell us now."

 

"No, no," I exclaimed at once, frightened I might lose out on my hefty pay check. "I didn't mean to make you think... Yes, I'm still very much interested, whatever this is. But can I ask, can I ask then..." I hesitated, blushing profusely, so very unlike me. "Will I need," I stammered. At last I finished the question. "Will I need birth control?"

 

They were all leering at me, but it was the dishy one that spoke. "Very clever, Miss Jones . Very clever.   A smart way to make your enquiry. Would it bother you if I said yes?"

 

"No," I stammered quickly. I'd already decided that I was willing to be screwed if need be. "I mean, it would depend upon the rate."

 

He smiled. "The rate is already very generous, Miss Jones . So perhaps it would be wise for you to assume the need for protection, just in case. But please don't read too much into my words. I'm not admitting or denying anything. We're not at liberty to disclose any more than has been said."

 

Damn. It wasn't fair! How could they be so condescending?

 

"Is that okay, Miss Jones ?"

 

I scowled. Yes it was okay. It would have to be. Beggars can't be choosy.

 

They told me to dress and wait outside for their decision. I did so patiently, grinding out my revenge, forcing them to look at me some more. I began with my expensive shoes. That gave me plenty of opportunity to open my legs. I finished with my top so that the last thing they saw of me almost, as I went out the door, was my large, nice, buoyant breasts.

 

God. What a racquet this was!

 

While I waited, I grabbed myself a Coke from a machine down the corridor and then promptly spilt it over the carpet. That's nerves, I guess. The woman in the white blouse and pleated skirt told me not to worry, she would arrange for someone to mop up the carpet, but nobody came. Not that I saw anyway.

 

Time dragged. They had four more girls to see: just four more. While I waited I reflected on how the presentation had gone. Quite well, I thought with a sigh. No obvious bloomers. It was obviously some kind of porno. That's why they'd wanted to know about diseases, why they were worried about jealous boyfriends.

 

I've never done a porno. "You'll never get me doing that," I used to say. "Not real sex on camera with a stranger. I don't mind the Moulin Rouge. Showing my body naked is not a problem. But spreading my legs for a man, actual fucking, that's different."

 

Times change, eh, when we're desperate. The shifting sands of principle. I sighed again. I wondered whether I'd enjoy it.

 

Still I had to wait. In fact, it was another two hours before they finally summoned us all back into their room. After interviewing the last girl they took another eternity considering their verdict.

 

So this was it. We all stood nervously in a large semi circle waiting to hear them speak. Who was in? Who was out? This was the big decision. There were ten of us still present. All the others had gone home. Maybe they'd ruled themselves out, decided porno wasn't for them, who knows? We waited anxiously. Then it came, the decision. They were going to take six girls. They read out the names, or rather, the older man did. He read straight from the paper, his voice slow and distinct. For a moment the names meant nothing to me, and then I had a broad beam on my face. I was cuddling another girl, a girl who'd also been accepted. I'd got the job! I was going to get paid! God. How relieved I was.

 

Then the suit got up and came round to our side of the table. The production would start the next morning, he explained. We should arrive at seven sharp for hair and makeup. A contract would be given us which we should sign now, prior to leaving. In return, we would receive our fee in advance, one thousand bucks.

 

This was greeted with a warm ripple of astonishment. In advance? We stared at each other in surprise. Unheard of!

 

The woman with the pleated skirt handed us each a copy of the contract. While we casually flicked through the endless legal jargon the suit said: "We've also arranged for each of you to be examined by a local doctor for sexually transmitted diseases." He looked around the room for any signs of dissent.  There weren't any. "I'd like to get that done as soon as possible so that we can finalize who is working tomorrow. Does anyone have a problem with this? If so, speak up now. It's not optional. All our models must be clean. That's a fundamental condition of the contract."

 

I'm sure that at any other time the girls would have had plenty to say, but it's amazing what the promise of a pay check can do, the compromises it engenders, the palms it greases, for no one spoke.

 

I signed my contract with a resigned sigh and took my check. Now I knew. The doctor's appointment revealed the nature of my next employment, did it not? A test for sexually transmitted diseases could only mean one thing. I was to star in a porno movie.

 

I'm not sure how that made me feel: a little sad perhaps at betraying previously prized values; a little excited, at the prospect of being fucked in front of a lot of men; frightened: for what if my partner didn't think me attractive;  and hopeful: for porno attracts not just the prettiest girls, but surely, also the horniest studs.

 

After seeing the doctor, I went shopping. I did tell you, didn't I, of my love for spending money? Yes, I know I did. I'm teasing. Easy come; easy go, that's me. By the time the shops closed, I'd already spent half my advance.

 

I took a bottle of wine to celebrate with Peggy . I had to thank her somehow. Hadn't she been the one to spot the advert in the paper?

 

Arriving home later that evening, happy, tipsy and weighed down with worldly goods, I completely forgot to read the contract I'd signed.

 

Call it fate.

 

Ignorance, they say, is bliss.

 

 

The next morning I arrived early and somewhat hung over at the studio. God, what had happened to my head!

 

It was in a quiet part of town, tucked away at the back of a small industrial estate, surrounded by grey prefabricated buildings key to the local manufacture of plastic guttering and occasional furniture.

 

I grabbed myself a black coffee. I'd found a percolator with some cups in a small cubby hole that claimed to be a kitchen. There was bread and a toaster for those that wanted it, also tiny tubs of plum and strawberry jams.

 

Coming out, sipping at my coffee, I noticed two security guards. They stood some distance away next to a large window. They were wearing dark blue uniforms, black shoes and starched caps and were whispering conspiratorially. I was puzzled, for there weren't just the two. The place seemed to be swarming with guards. Moving around I counted half dozen of the beasts and there were probably others I hadn't spotted.

 

What was going on? This was a commercial movie we were making. What was so secret as to require so much security?

 

One of the girls came and stood by my side. "Maybe they're actors," she whispered into my ear, reading my thoughts. "I bet it's a gang bang. They're the studs. When the show starts, they'll whip off those pants and screw us silly."

 

I bit my bottom lip, scrutinizing the groins of the men by the window. "Maybe," I mumbled uncertainly, my paranoia heightened because they didn't seem too well endowed.

 

God, what was up with me? If they saw me looking, they'd think me a right nympho!

 

"You mark my words," my companion continued, checking her face in a compact, dabbing some powder on her cheeks. "They're here for the gang bang! That's all. So make sure you don't wet your panties!"

 

I gave her a dirty look. It wasn't a joking matter. I was full of butterflies, very scared she may inadvertently have hit on something close to the truth.

 

She caught my glance in the reflection of her mirror. "You alright?" she asked, peering up. "You look like shit. It's only a porno!"

 

Thanks, I thought. That's all I wanted to hear. The idea of being fucked by some strange man I didn't know in front of other people I didn't know was giving me stomach cramps. I'd never done a porno before and this was all way too strange.

 

"Just a headache," I invented quickly, hiding my apprehension. "I'll be fine."

 

She smiled and told me her name was Marilyn. She wasn't very unlike another famous Marilyn in her younger days, just as blonde, just as pea brained.

 

I followed her into a lounge area where the other girls were already congregated. They sat chatting and smoking, filling time while the so-called dishy man of the previous day checked that our papers were all okay.

 

He was wearing a sport's top, jogging bottoms and sneakers. Everything was so much more casual today.

 

"Sit down girls," he said, lifting his volume to be heard above the general chatter. "I need your attention."

 

No one sat down, although the idle talk did die away. Instead, everyone froze and turned to listen, waiting for him to speak.

 

I noticed that I wasn't the only one looking awful that morning. A couple of the other girls looked just as wretched. Maybe it wasn't just the alcohol, maybe it was the early start and lack of makeup. Not everyone looks their best straight out of the packet. I'd come to the studio from bed with barely any consideration for my appearance. I never do. What's the point? You spend time doing your hair, tarting it up, and then some snotty acne-faced hair stylist decides she wants it completely different and wastes all your efforts. Dress, hair, make up: leave it to the experts. These guys would do it all.

 

For free!

 

"Thank's for your punctuality, ladies," the dishy man said, smiling superciliously. "Very commendable. I'm sure we're all going to get along fine. My name's Howard Laurie and I'm the director of today's production. I know you're dying to know what we're doing today, what the job is all about, but before I tell you, for the record, we're relying on your discretion. This project is, and will remain under very tight wraps. Should anyone be less than we expect, the contracts you signed yesterday have an onerous gagging clause. Please, ladies, let's stay friends. I don't want to be suing anyone. No careless talk, eh?" He paused, gazing round, checking we were listening and hadn't dozed off. As if we could! We weren't all blonde!

 

"Okay," he continued. "So here it is, what you've been dying to know. You've been selected to help advertise a special range of kitchen appliance. This is new, very select. You'll be demonstrating both how to use and handle these appliances."

 

There was a murmur of surprised disappointment from all of us. "Kitchen appliances?"

 

What a let down! After I'd got myself so hyped up, thinking I was going to be fucked!

 

But hang on! If we were to make an advertisement, why the need for secrecy, why the need for the doctor's appointment? It didn't make sense.

 

"What kind of appliance do you sell?" one of the other girls asked. She was obviously also baffled. There had to be more!

 

Howard smiled. He has a nice smile. It lights up the whole of his face. "These are appliances for processing carcasses of meat, particularly for large barbeques. Think catering and you'll be along roughly the right lines."

 

"Then surely you should be hiring male models?" someone quibbled. "I mean, I don't want to be telling you your job, but isn't it the men that usually take charge of the barbeque?"

 

"You'll get us all fired!" another girl cut in.

 

"I don't care, not now we've been paid!" We laughed, and the laughter broke the ice, allowing us to relax.

 

Howard smiled, listening to our remarks, although he didn't comment himself. Once the chatter had worn itself out, he took hold of the reins once again. "Any other questions?"

 

I nodded. "If we're modelling kitchen appliances, why did we have to undress at the audition?" I demanded. Thinking back to that, I was beginning to feel duped, to say the least.

 

Howard had a robust defence, however. "Don't let the mention of kitchen appliances mislead you," he cut back with considerable fire. "We're making commercials specifically targeted at X-rated media. You'll be working stark nude all the time. It’s a question of competition. This is hard-core, no question. Don't let our subject matter delude you. We're not going to let the audience zap!"

 

"Can we see the script?" someone asked, coming at him from a different tack. "We need time to learn our lines."

 

Howard was very quick to block the question. "You’ll get a general screenplay. But don't worry about lines. You'll be reading from autocue. That's the easy part. No one's going to be listening too hard to what you're saying. You're eye candy, here to look decorative, not for your skill in presenting dense blocks of dialogue."

 

That sounded good. I was happy about that. Learning lines has never been my strong point.

 

"Okay, let's get going," he said, glancing hurriedly at his watch. He stood and clapped his hands, calling us to work. "Time's pressing. Everyone to the dressing room. I want you all back here in forty five minutes. The goal is to start shooting at eight o'clock sharp."

 

The make up artist was waiting for us when we got to the dressing room. She was an older woman who I guessed her to be in her mid forties. She rose from her chair as we walked in, stubbed out a cigarette, shook the ash from her apron and made a suspicious, semi-professional survey of us all.

 

"You'd better undress," she said suspiciously, eyeing us with disgust. "There's bathrobes on the hooks and clean towels in the cupboard. First you shower, then it's hair and finally makeup."

 

It took a couple more patient, pertinent questions to discover the whereabouts of the cupboard, and that the "hooks" were coat hooks.

 

With time pressing, we all piled into the shower together. I must say, the last time I shared a shower with so many hormones was at school. I must have been fifteen, sixteen tops. Looking around and seeing all these keyed up women pulling off tops, tugging down jeans, shrugging off underwear, it certainly reminded me of that time.

 

We'd all dreaded the showers. I remember my breasts being pubescent, hair sprouting from between my legs and being fretful about my puppy fat!  Was my ass too big? my legs too thin? God, I used to get so embarrassed! I'd have panic attacks, and, with hindsight, I'm sure the other girls were the same. The showers were the butt of all our jokes. We would have avoided them if we could, except we had this strict school mistress that would be on the lookout for anyone skiving. If she found someone, they'd be made to stand naked by the doorway to the shower, hands upon head, until the rest of us were finished and dressed.. That was most embarrassing of all.

 

"I'll not stand for any false modesty," she'd say. "I'll beat it from you if need be."

 

Ten years on, I'm not so coy. Those methods must have worked, I guess. Other girls don't bother me, neither does showing my body.

 

More than the coffee, the shower helped to clear my head.

 

It was invigorating. The water was boiling and the atmosphere muggy. It felt good, sexy, to feel the water rushing across my skin. I was surrounded by other beautiful women and we were all of one purpose, one mind, busily soaping our bodies and working to make ourselves beautiful. Once showered, I patted myself dry and came out, swathed in a white cotton towel and enormous clouds of hot steam. I was ready to be pampered.

 

First, a "stylist" dried my hair. She was no artist, just a scatty young student fresh out of college. Howard had apparently decided not to bother with restyling. He liked us as we were. She was simply to tidy up what we had: apply some mousse, blow in the odd wave.

 

Well so much for my free new hair-do!

 

Next we were shaved, both under the arms and also between the legs, easy for me, but for one or two girls it was like cutting down a rain forest. They lost a lot of hair. In fact, for one of the girls, Georgina, the sight of her own naked pussy came as quite a shock. She held her bald puffy lips open, staring at herself in a mirror. "Chricky!" she exclaimed in mild disbelief. "So this is what it takes to be a model! If Arnie could see me now! Wow! I do look obscene, don't I?"

 

Finally, we were turned over to Gladys , the make up lady. She beckoned each of us over in turn. "Off with the towel," she said suspiciously when it got to me. "Let's take a look at you."

 

I'm not sure what she thought I was hiding under the towel: contraband maybe?

 

Anyway, I dropped it to the floor and let her stare at my nudity with her critical, suspicious eye.

 

"Nice," she said at last, walking around me, one eye seeming to roam separately from the other. "Very pretty. I think I shall paint you in red."

 

It comes as a surprise to most people that nude models and actors have make up applied to far more than just their faces, for if that was all that was done the face would contrast very starkly to the rest of the body. It would appear paler, bleached in comparison.

 

There's also the matter of nipples. What's the point in deepening the model's lips, making them luscious and moist, but leaving her areolas and nipples insipid and wan? They're usually re-tinted, although only subtly. For you never look at Playboy or Penthouse and think: "God, that model is wearing body make up! I like the shade of her tits!" But it's there, and you'd notice if it weren't.

 

And so Gladys began working on my skin: applying her own special brand of magic. It's a strange feeling, lying back trying to relax while another woman brushes grease and powder across your body, peering into all those private, sensitive areas, opening your legs so that she can dab her sponge between them.

 

She tickled my teats, doing so sensuously, forcing them to harden. I leaned back in my chair, closing my eyes, pining suddenly for past boyfriends. God, what was she doing to me?

 

When she'd got my teats nice and hard and me into quite a state, she applied a special red tinted lacquer, painting it evenly over both areolas and nipples.  It hardened quickly, preserving my nubs in their excited, erect state.

 

"Don't you think?" I said, staring doubtfully at myself in the mirror while she worked. "Isn't it... I mean... Isn't it a little extravagant?   A little too red?"

 

I wasn't just looking at the state of my teats.

 

She'd painted not just my mouth, my nipples and areolas - but my beauty lips too in this gaudy red colour. It made me look worse than a whore, more like a blow-up sex doll.

 

"If you've any complaints," she said, slowly daubing colour along the crack separating my pussy from my anus. It tickled. "Then you must take them up with Mr. Howard himself. I'm only doing my job and obeying orders."

 

What else could I say? The matter was left like that.

 

The other girls were similarly garish, although in different colours. Special attention was being paid to our private parts. These stood out, an obscene mixture of pastels and vivid glitz. Samantha was sublimely peach while Marilyn was murder in purple. The whole of Nadia's abdomen was striped in diagonal lime green; Olivia 's breasts were an orange to behold.

 

Over the colour, Gladys painted strands of black, what looked like henna patterns. Several of the girls had never done figure work before and were unused to make up being daubed upon their bodies. They gazed at themselves self-consciously, at the gaudy waterproof emolument and black decoration upon their over-sized nipples. They were somewhat excited by what they saw, I suspected.

 

They girls giggled with childish embarrassment, pointing, making fun of each other , comparing the size of their teats and their protruding, now very visible inner beauty lips.

 

When we were done, we were given robes, slippers, and then pointed back in the direction of the studio. We were all chattering nervously and feeling foolish, especially when we saw so many men fussing about the film set.

 

I counted them. In addition to Howard there was also the teleprompter; the cameraman and sound engineer; two electricians responsible for lighting and also the woman in the crisp blouse and pleated skirt, only today she was wearing slacks.

 

And four security guards, standing by each of the doors.

 

We lined up, standing awkwardly and with arms folded to one side of the side of the set watching a final surge of activity.

 

"Are we ready?" the woman in the slacks called out, her high pitched voice piercing the masculine rumble of noise.

 

We were. Suddenly there was silence. Howard turned, his gaze flitting casually across us, from one to the other. Finally it came to rest on me. "You!" he said with a nod. "You look good! We'll do the first presentation with you."

 

"Oh shit!" I thought despairingly. "Why am I always the fall guy?"

The First Take

 

I was led by the woman in slacks into a quiet studio. It was the third door on the left of a long monotonous corridor. "We're using blue screen," she said knowledgeably, bundling me through an opening and then guiding me around the miles of cabling that connected the lights. "I assume you're familiar with that."

 

I was. Blue screen is ubiquitous nowadays, even if the screen is generally green, and not blue. It's so much cheaper to place an actress in front of a blue - or green - curtain, and then digitally merge her image with one of one of the Eiffel Tower or the Arc de Triumph, than to jet an entire film crew to Paris. It's simple economics. Blue screen is everywhere, from the weather on TV to the fictional fighters in blockbuster movies who defend earth from voracious computer generated space monsters.

 

"We're starting with the main product," my escort explained, brushing back her shoulder length hair. She prodded a curtain with her clipboard and then ducked under it. I followed. Suddenly we were on the set itself, an area bordered by three cameras arranged in a shallow arc, each supported on an enormous tripod.

 

The curtain was intended for the preservation of modesty. Only essential personnel are allowed onto a film set when nudity is involved. The rest are kept out, in this case, on the far side of the curtain.

 

I stepped cautiously over the heavy cabling and onto the set proper. Facing me there were three muscular workmen, frantically grappling with a peculiar piece of machinery. It was like a go-cart without wheels and it was obviously important, situated as it was right in front of the cameras.

 

"It's called the "Jessica"," my guide pronounced, thrusting her braless chest at me. She pressed her spectacles firmly onto the bridge of her nose and swung her hips. "The standard edition, the '3000'."

 

"Oh," I exclaimed stupidly, staring vacuously at the shadow of her breasts. Her words wafted over me with barely a flicker of understanding, followed a moment later by the gust of her perfume. It was lavender today.

 

"Once we're done with the "3000"," she continued patiently, making a quick note on her clipboard. "We'll take some footage of the accessories. Then, depending upon time, we'll do something with the "9000"".

 

I was taking an interest in the guys manoeuvring this 'thing', the Jessica, into position. If this was a porno set, were these the studs? Two of them were eye-catching enough, athletes with brawn, although the final one was pretty ordinary. One reminded me of Arnie in The Terminator, except he was less chatty. The other brawny one had a naked girl gloriously tattooed onto his left arm. Her midriff undulated with the contractions of his biceps, almost like she was performing a belly dance.

 

I watched spellbound as the girl's tits jimmied and shivered up and down the guy's arm, convinced he was doing it deliberately for my benefit. He kept glancing at me every now and again, just to check I was watching. It was strange, knowing I was naked under my robe, my private parts gaudily painted, and that soon this man would likely be fucking me. I was tempted to flash him, to flirt back, to allow my gown to slip open just enough to let him see that I was up for it.

 

But in the end I didn't.

 

For some weird unexplained reason, my concentration kept shifting to the contraption they were servicing. It seemed to be making some dark connection to my subconscious. I couldn't explain it.

 

"What is that?" I asked, suddenly very curious, examining it carefully.

 

There was this forked support which sat on a steel box, then sloping metal and another forked support. I'm not describing it very well. Suffice to say it looked like a piece of gym equipment except there were these nasty looking straps, seemingly intended to tie someone down, also twin recesses that seemed perfectly shaped to take someone's knees.

 

The woman in slacks looked at me as if I were mad. "It's the Jessica 3000, of course," she exclaimed. "Haven't you been listening at all?"

 

"Ah." I nodded foolishly, suddenly feeling entirely stupid. So that's what she'd been talking about. "Ah… the Jessica... 3000... I see."

 

I remember wanting to hide my face from the three men who were so obviously listening. I can recall thinking that while my guide smelled of lavender, I stank only of soap. Why was that? Why had we been asked avoid toilette? I remember feeling horribly embarrassed, like a virgin holding her first cock.

 

What the shit was a Jessica 3000?

 

My companion stepped over the guys who were connecting it up, whatever 'it' was, past a heavy duty electric cable and rubber pipes that locked to connectors at the back.

 

"How much longer?" she asked one of the guys, not Arnie, but the plain looking one. She was moving towards a small storage area.

 

"Nearly finished," he replied, grinning up at her stupidly.   "Why the hurry, Miss Doris ? Are you sitting in Jessica today?"

 

"No, not today," she stammered, taken aback by his question, her face turning pink.

 

"Well when you do, make sure you tell us. We want to be around that day, don't we boys?"

 

When she didn't respond to their good natured taunts, I realized how seriously they'd confounded her. She'd lost her calm and the unruffled composure of before. That interested me. What was this about the Jessica?

 

"Don't fret, Miss Doris," the plain one smirked, wiping his hands across the front of his oily jeans. "It's bound to be your turn one day soon." His curiosity suddenly transferred to me. He was staring, gawking, removing my gown with his eyes. There was something very knowing about the way he was looking at me. "What about this pretty lady?" he asked. "Will she be sitting in Jessica today?"

 

The ink sp latte red girl on the brawny one's arm was doing naked gymnastics. I waited for Doris to comment, wanting to know the answer myself, but she didn't. Not properly. Instead she stuttered for a few seconds and then went on to something else, calling me across to where she was now standing.

 

She pointed to some other appliances, her finger shaking like that of an old woman. Real Heath Robinson they were, all randomly stacked in the small storage place. At first, I was still curious, glancing at Doris carefully, trying to make her out, but as she began to show me things, I forgot about her and started to see the bigger brushstrokes.

 

There were miscellaneous pans here, also the most enormous oven you've ever seen, and a wide open fire pit. I looked around, perplexed, examining the stuff. It reminded me of the kind of equipment you would see in a factory canteen or hotel kitchen.

 

Clearly, we were making spots aimed at a commercial catering operation rather than a domestic one. These were very different barbeques from any I'd ever used. So why should such ads be run on an X rated TV channel?

 

I was about to ask that question of Doris when I noted a rack of stainless steel poles – spits – of varying diameters and length. They were hidden behind a second Jessica machine. I have to say, when I saw them I was amused. I had no idea what they were for. The sight of them reminded me of my time at the Moulin Rouge and made me wonder whether I might be doing some pole dancing after all.

 

Doris came over to my side. Her eyes were shining, literally glowing with adoration. I thought maybe she'd done some pole dancing herself and that this was the cause, but no, she was still thinking about that blasted Jessica machine. "The 3000 is a wonderful piece of machinery," she eulogized, her voice faint and throaty. She ran her painted nails lovingly along one of the spits, up and down, almost caressing it. "One day it'll be recognised for what it is."

  

I nodded again, feeling totally stupid.  "So what is it?"




 


"Why, the housewife's friend," she returned, without even a hint of irony.




 


What was she on? The 

Jessica

 behind me gleamed under the hot lights of the studio. It was clean, certainly; nice even. But I found it hard to say anything more complimentary. The 

Jessica

 was a machine. What else was there to say?




 



Arnie

 burnished away at its chrome work. The one with the tattoo plugged at its plumbing.




 


Maybe Doris understood that she was in the presence of a Philistine, that I don't share her fetish for kitchen equipment – maybe - for she turned away from the spits and waved me towards another corner of the studio. "Time's getting on," she said, more deliberately this time. She'd recovered her composure and was back to her business like self. "Perhaps you should get ready."




 


She pointed me towards a narrow recess with only a step ladder for curtain. I regarded it wryly for it wasn't much of a changing room. What about my dignity? The three workman would be able to see me clearly as I prepared myself for the shoot. It was, however, about what I'd been expecting. Mine is a tough, uncompromising business with little regard to modesty. Come the revolution, what is a glamour model but a dull commodity to be traded for a few dry beans? I'm simply the nuts and bolts of my industry: my breasts are its meat; my pussy its fresh produce.




 


I found a small mirror in my corner trapped between two steps of the ladder, a wire hanger lying askew upon its brow and a copy of a German newspaper on the floor, three months old and stained with coffee – at least I think it was coffee.




 


I unfastened my belt, letting my dressing gown fall open, but ventured no further. It was a bit early to strip off. Arnie and his friends were still working and there was yet no sign of the film crew. I kept my back to the set, fussing futilely with my appearance, preserving some minor modicum of dignity.




 


It's not that I mind being naked. In fact I quite enjoy prancing in front of handsome guys without my clothes. The attention is f

latte

ring. I'm the girl, remember, who liked working at the Moulin Rouge. 




 


But it was disconcerting to be wearing that trashy makeup. I hadn't yet made up my mind about having my private parts painted bright red. I certainly wasn't ready to parade it in front of the guys.




 


I checked the rest in the mirror: hair good, lips fine, even if terribly gaudy.




 


"Good luck," Doris called. She was retreating and about to leave. As a "non-essential" she was required to watch from outside, on one of the many TV monitors. I thanked her for her help and watched her slip through the curtain. 




 


Almost at once Howard appeared. He wanted to check on how things were progressing. Unfortunately, what he saw didn't please him. He pointed here and there in disgust, gesticulating wildly and shouting at the Jessica guys, making them run round tidying things up.




 


Soon the belly dancing young lady was doing the splits upon the macho one's arm, much to her own astonishment. It was quite entertaining to watch her.




 


The guys were becoming blaming each other for this, that, anything at all. But in the end the Jessica was ready: the workmen left and the film crew arrived. "Okay," Howard said, immersed in the script. He was with two guys I'd never seen before who were supposedly in "creative development", whatever that was.




 


He took several steps in my direction. "Jennifer," he said. "It is Jennifer, isn't it? Yes, okay, 

Jennifer

. We're going to begin nice and easy, nothing demanding."




 


I nodded, uncertain, awaiting his instruction. There was a tight cramp in my womb. Maybe the presence of the other guys was tensing me up. I wondered who they were.

 

"I want you to enter from the left," Howard said. "Naked of course, nice and slow. Try to dance, that'll look good. When you reach your mark, turn to face the curtain, the blue screen, and I want you to pretend that you're facing an audience, a big theatre crammed with hundreds of men. Got that? Curtsey to them. That'll allow us to get a sneak of your pussy from behind. Nothing fast: long, smooth sensuous movements. We want a good view. Got it? We want to see right up your ass."

 

I nodded inanely, watching him with open mouth. He was acting out what he wanted me to do. As he spoke, he moved as he wanted me to move, but clumsily, without the grace of a woman. I watched carefully, noting especially the places where he stood, mentally inserting the elegance he lacked. He was now bent forward, his legs spread in a lewd curtsey, flaunting the twin moons of his butt.

 

"Make sure you allow time for us to get a decent close up," he said, twisting round to look at me. "Then come and stand here, next to the Jessica, and for God's sake make sure you keep your painted pussy lips facing the cameras: that's important. Okay?" I nodded. I'd got it. "We'll have to switch the background at this point. Now the cameras will have the appearance of being located in the audience, shooting from their viewpoint. Don't get confused. Okay?"

 

I noted the spot where he was standing. Yep, I'd got it. Stand next to the Jessica facing the cameras. That much was easy.

 

He stood up. "After that, all you've got to do is find the camera with the red light - the one that's live - and read from the autocue. There'll be a few directions too, but nothing difficult. Just do whatever it says on the autocue. Should be a cinch. Any questions?"

 

I shook my head.

 

"Then let's go for it." He was about to go when he caught my breasts, partly visible between the open folds of my gown. He seemed to spot something he didn't like. "Doris?" he cried. "Where the fuck have you got to? We need ice cubes, plenty of them!"

 

Seconds later I smelt the aroma of lavender. That was followed, a moment later, by Doris carrying a glass jug. As she handed it me, I noticed that her blouse was no longer tucked into her slacks and that her glasses seemed misted. 

 

Her face was also flushed. "I guess you know what to do with them," she said sharply, biting her lip.

 

I knew exactly what to do with them. Ice cubes are an essential part of a model's equipment. My brightly lacquered teats had decided to deflate and so I'd need them to make my nipples hard again.

 

"Good luck," Doris whispered nervously, glancing hurriedly from my breasts to my brightly coloured pussy. She then disappeared as discreetly as she could, keeping well away from Howard.

 

He was waiting expectantly, looking at me, obviously waiting for his little thrill.

 

The things we do, eh? I fished an ice cube from the jug and rubbed my nipples with it, tweaking them sharply with my fingers, forcing them to stiffen.

 

Only when Howard was happy that they were sticking right out did he signalled to everyone that they should take their positions.

 

"Okay, Jennifer. Ready when you are."

 

I hurriedly threw off my gown, and checked my face in the mirror. Everything was good.

 

"Take one, Jessica 3000, presentation one. Run!"

 

This was it. I remembered what Howard had asked of me. Step into the cameras' field of vision dancing provocatively. Come to a halt alongside the Jessica .

 

That wouldn't be difficult.

 

I made my bow, stooping low as I'd been asked to present my pussy to the cams.

 

Somewhere behind me, the cameras were awake.

 

"Ladies and Gentlemen," I read from the autocue. "Welcome. Welcome to Dolcett, the channel with bite.

 

"BIG SMILE."

 

The two capitalized words crawled bleakly across an otherwise empty monitor. Smile? Behind the murky glass, I could just discern the outline of a camera lens staring voyeuristically from out of the darkness. I obeyed instinctively, grinning sweetly, as if my smile were made of treacle.

 

"Today we have a very special guest on our show," I read, placing my hands upon my hips, thinking how my words were pretty redundant because no one would be listening. They'd be scrutinizing my body, the gaudy make up, the strands of henna. "Our guest's name is Jessica. A little later I'll introduce you to her, both the standard 3000 Jessica as well as the luxury 9000 with vibrating spit and gas powered piston." It all sounded very boring. "Notice the porcelain interior and full harness safety belts. Jessica employs what is probably the best body/chassis in the world on any consensual spitting machine. It has a five speed automatic gearbox to drive the spit and straight cut power-assisted blades down below."

 

It was like I was describing a car, not a kitchen appliance. What was I talking about? Did any of it make sense? But then I reassured myself: it didn't matter. This was porno. The guys would be gawking at my painted nipples and highly decorated pussy lips, not listening to the niceties of an automatic gearbox.

 

I ran my hands across my breasts, holding them, touching them, making sure the punters knew where they were supposed to be looking.

 

"Jessica truly has an eye for the ladies," I continued, sliding slowly to my right. "She's soignee and elegant with long unbroken lines, a prestigious badge and the obligatory chrome safety bar. Coupled with her famed reputation for reliability, a Jessica is more than a machine; she's a friend. And to the pretty lady who becomes her victim, she's more than a friend, she's a lover."

 

As I've already said, these were words I was being paid to read. But part way through something jarred within my consciousness and the words began combining into ideas. I hesitated. A vibrating spit? For ladies?

 

There was no time to think, however. I was like Charlie Chaplin fighting that famous conveyer in "Modern Times". I was on stage, performing. The words were disappearing from the top of the autocue faster than I could read them.

 

"For non-consensual impaling we supply accessories to suit every possible taste, if you'll excuse the pun: automatic gutting, sewing, breast enlarging and for the man who has everything, how about an automatic baster?"

 

I froze, my skin crawling with unimagined horror. My hands dropped loose and I stopped motionless. I was stupefied. What the hell was I reading?

 

I could see bugs crawling across the autocue, vile looking insects that thought they were words. Not so. They were disappearing off the top of the screen.

 

I gazed at the Jessica, suddenly a monster. Shit! How could I have been so blind! My eyes were opened, truly seeing for the very first time. I was the wretched with the chimneys of Auschwitz looming before me. I was suddenly suspicious of their meaning. God. Could it be possible? I doubted my judgement, my sanity, even my intelligence. Surely there must be some mistake.

 

So I travelled the path again, walking the same journey, repeating in my mind the words I had just read: automatic gutting, enlargement of breasts, to a pretty lady... she's more than a friend...

 

Christ! It was diabolical! Inhuman! Almost without description! Had I truly grasped the purpose of Jessica ? Surely, it couldn't be, just couldn't be...

 

But where was the alternative...?

 

I saw a woman, pretty, human, kneeling down, strapped into position with a spit at her rear. It was spinning, the tip menacing and sharp, about to run her through.

 

"What’s up?" Howard 's face peered up from out of the glare, poking through from the other side of the curtain. "Why did you stop?"

 

Doris came skipping across the studio from out of nowhere, holding my robe, ever ready to oblige. I shrugged it on, pulling it tightly about me. "Why have they hired me?" I shivered, grabbing Doris's arm. I stared at her, into her eyes, searching for her soul. "What is this machine? What is it for?"

 

She seemed genuinely surprised that I should ask. She couldn't comprehend my confusion. "I thought you knew," she said, blinking nervously. "I told you. It's the Jessica 3000."

 

"I know that it's a Jessica ," I returned sharply, my nails sinking into the flesh of her arm. "That's not what I asked. What is it for?"

 

I might be asking what spectacles are for given her level of astonishment. She fought to retrieve her arm from my grasp. "Didn't you read your contract?" she countered, fighting to escape. "It was there in the glossary."

 

"No I didn't read the contract," I replied, feigning politeness. I had a vicious grip on her. There were tears in her eyes for my nails were cutting her skin. "Why should I read the contract? I was told this job was confidential. What part of the word "confidential" means to look in the glossary of a contract?" I pointed sternly at the machine beside me: at Jessica. "What is it for?"

 

She glanced momentarily towards Howard, as if to catch his mood, searching perhaps for his permission. Seemingly, he gave it.

 

"It's for spitting meat," she coughed, finally freeing her arm from my grip. The marks of my nails were red and puffy in its centre, almost like teeth marks. She shrugged her shoulders, and then pressed her glasses defiantly up her nose.

 

"Meat?" I repeated, suddenly extremely angry. What kind of fool did they imagine me? Was I stupid? Dim-witted? Or didn't they care?

 

I straightened, bristling with disgust at my own naivety. Was this a mad house? "I want out," I said, lifting my head and speaking into the anonymity of the glare. I was fuming. I'd been deceived. I might be broke, but there were still limits to the things I would do. "I don't want any more of this."


Howard shrugged his shoulders. I sensed he was on familiar ground. He'd been here many times with countless girls. "No problem," he countered with an innocent smile. "Give us the check. Return our money and you're free to leave."

 

I blinked. What had he said?

 

His words brought dryness to my throat and feebleness to my knees. Now I understood his oily self-confidence. The bastards! The weasels! That's why they'd given us our money. They'd known we'd spend it. Acting is an overly competitive business. They knew they were dealing with losers, that we were all broke. The buggers! They'd set out to catch a specific kind of prey: girls willing to rush to an audition at a moment's notice, girls so desperate they'd drop their knickers on demand, girls willing to accept an unknown, unspecified porno.

 

Girls like that were skint.

 

Oh Christ ! I was stupid; dim-witted! I should have seen.

 

I shook my head, remembering the unopened bags of shopping littering my hallway, the empty champagne bottle buried somewhere inside Peggy's bin.

 

"I can't," I murmured, my barely audible whisper testing the microphone directed at my mouth. A needle somewhere registered the faintest flicker. It could have been a distant tremor, the sound of a fly walking upon my shoulder or my hands falling limp to my sides.

 

In fact, it was a confession of quiet acceptance. "I can't."

 

They had me beat. They knew it. I knew it. The money was spent; Jessica had won.

 

"You signed a contract, Miss Jones," Howard said politely, rubbing the point in.  "You accepted its conditions. We want to be reasonable, but my company isn't a charity. If you can't return our fee, I don't see how we can help you. I have a film to make; a crew to pay; deadlines to meet."

 

"I know."

 

It was a lost cause. I was beaten. I knew it.

 

"If you can't return the fee than I must regard you as still under contract, bound by the terms of that contract."

 

I was trapped.

 

Doris whispered apologetically at my side. "You did sign, Jennifer ."

 

I nodded. She was right. But that didn't make her any less of a bastard. She was involved, part of the insidious snare. She was culpable. But more than her: me. I'd been naïve.

 

Howard turned to his technicians. "Let's start from the top. Are you ready, Miss Jones ?"

 

Slowly I nodded. I couldn’t back out. I was trapped. They'd been eminently fair even if by means of sleight of hand. I had been the fool. What more could I say?

 

I waited for them to leave, and then I pulled off my robe with tired resignation, hanging it upon her wire hanger with a sad doleful expression.

 

"Take one, Jessica 3000, presentation two. Run!"

 

At least I only had to read a couple more lines from the autocue:

 

" Jessica is now going to demonstrate what she's capable of. Watch closely gentlemen, because this lady has a wild semi-automatic bazooka of a temper. Take it from me, she does not like to be manhandled. All guarantees are invalidated and liabilities void if you lose your cool with this wild thing!"

 

The autocue prompted me to climb onto Jessica 's back, to place my knees into the special positions and bend forwards with my chin on the quaint little rest: for demonstration, it said.

 

But for demonstration of what? That's what I kept wondering.

 

My earlier fears that Jessica wasn't simply a meat processing unit never really left me. So why didn't I walk out right then? I kept asking myself that. The reason must be darker than the check I'd been unable to return. Let them sue me for the money! Blood doesn't bleed from a stone:  neither can cash be coerced from an empty bank balance.

 

So why was I here, my painted pussy protruding from the back of the dratted contraption?

 

I was beginning to find out. Lying there naked on the Jessica 3000, I could imagine the purpose of this terrible beast, and the thought was not entirely loathsome. For strange to say, although they made me repeat that scene five times, I had no further need of ice cubes.

 

Howard took me through it, position by position. "What we want, Jennifer," he explained patiently, poking his head through the curtain, "is for you to get onto Jessica as soon as you start that final paragraph.  You say: 'Jessica is now going to demonstrate what she's capable of.' By then you should be on her back. 'Watch closely, because she's got a wild semi-automatic bazooka of a temper.' By now you've got your knees in position and your hands tucked behind your back. 'Believe me, she does not like to be manhandled.' Now you've dropped your titties and they're hanging over the steel slide. 'All guarantees are invalidated and liabilities void if you lose your cool with this wild thing!' And with the final words you drop your chin quaintly onto the tiny rest and give us a smile. Do you think you can do that?"

 

I scratched my neck sceptically. "I don't know," I scowled doubtfully. "How do I read the autocue while curling into a gymnastic double helix?"

 

He didn't like that comment. Sarcasm isn't his style. The day was slipping away and we still hadn't completed the first take. "Learn it, Jennifer ," he blasted, his hands making fists. "It's one fucking paragraph for God's sake. Learn the words and parrot them back. Heaven help us! Who hired this damn bitch? Do you understand? Can you do that, Jennifer ?"

 

It would have been easy to rub his face in the shit and mess up my lines - especially as he'd been the one to say I wouldn't need dialogue - but that wouldn't have been fair. He was only trying to do his job.

 

So I tried to learn the lines. I forgot them a couple of times, but eventually I got it. The scene was in the can. They were happy.

 

"God!" Doris cried, running back to my side when it was over. Her face was smudged and I noticed that two of the buttons of her blouse had been purposely snipped off. They were gone, cut with scissors. "That was fantastic. Absolutely fantastic! I loved the way your tits hung down over the Jessica with your red nipples sticking out like real bullets. It just got better and better."

 

With the buttons now gone, her own breasts were only half hidden, pleading perhaps for a small walk-on part.

 

"Not bad!" Howard agreed, gazing at my bust lasciviously. A man of his experience would undoubtedly notice that my nipples were still erect and that I was heavily aroused. I tried to cover my teats discreetly with my arms but that made him smile. "Not bloody bad," he said, laughing at me. "I loved the way you got into the action, and how your legs twitched at the end! That's always the sign of a professional. Marvellous! You really made it look like you were really enjoying it."

 

I hastily pulled my cotton gown about me, covering myself from his patent irony, unsure what it was I did feel. I certainly wasn't f latte red by the false praise, that much was certain. To the contrary, I was embarrassed. My body had betrayed me, reacting in a way I hadn't expected. What had caused that? I never become aroused on set. Girls never do.

 

The unpleasant premonition in my stomach was as strong as ever. I had bad vibes about this one, very bad vibes. I was convinced that Jessica was intended for something far more malicious than processing meat, but I had no way of proving it.

 

I stopped. The reporter was watching me, listening attentively. The disc recorder was still on the table, following every word I was saying.

 

"You still had no real idea of Jessica's capability," my dishy reporter suggested. I paused, and then smiled politely as a waiter, a different one this time, returned with the first course. Upon it sat a small rectangle of pate covered in sauce, a sprig of mint, an airy froth of chopped orange and a single red strawberry.

 

"Thank you," my companion said as the plate was laid before him. He glanced guiltily at me. "Are you sure you don't want anything? I feel awful, eating alone, I mean..."

 

I waved my hand dismissively. "I couldn't," I insisted. "I really couldn't."

 

My mind wound back to what I'd been about to say. "That morning," I said quietly. "I had only supposition and guess work to rely upon. It wasn't until later that day that I really got to know about Jessica... That wouldn't have been until after lunch."

 

The Fifth Take

 

I wasn't required for the rest of the morning, so instead of returning to the lounge area where the other girls were, I found a quiet corner and brooded there, head in hands, trying to unravel the mystery of the Jessica.

 

However, I was soon discovered. The girls came looking for me, curious to know how it had gone, what I'd been asked to do, what I thought.

 

I put their minds at rest, fed them some baloney and then made an excuse to get away. This time I hid in a toilet cubicle. There had to be some way to explain the things I'd seen and heard, other, that is, than the crazy one I'd jumped to. I do get somewhat paranoid from time to time, but at least I know it.

 

Maybe we were part of some weird docu-soap, or an X rated prank, a TV practical joke being made at our expense. I humoured myself with the idea, mulling it over in my mind. It seemed more logical than to believe there was an actual machine named Jessica whose purpose was to spit women.

 

My deliberations were eventually slowed by a dizzy teenager named Nadia. She had red metallic hair and zero intelligence. She'd just finished her shoot and discovered me by accident in my cubicle.

 

Finding me, she decided I was desperately lonely and in sore need of companionship. So she took me in, like a small girl taking pity on a doleful puppy.

 

What more can I say? She was a light headed beauty with a perennial smile - but a person who never stopped talking. In half an hour I discovered more about her eighteen years than I know about any of my friends.

 

Nadia told me that her parents were divorced when she was fifteen, that her mother took lovers, one of whom had made advances: "Clothes for pocket money", he'd called it. A twenty dollar bill for everything she took off, "which made mummy mad, because he only gave her ten." After that, and considerably wealthier, Nadia went to live with her father "which also made mummy mad, because he only had the one bed."

 

She left me to read between the lines. Maybe it was good the way she befriended me, I don't know. It took my mind from Jessica.

 

After Nadia's father remarried, she moved into a bed-sit with a mechanic named Gary, cooking for him and doing his laundry, on Fridays stripping for his mates down at the pub, and on Sundays getting fucked for bets at the local football club. It was Gary who'd persuaded her to do it, to "use ye' bloody talents and shake ye' fuckin' ass", even though she wasn't really an actress, only a trainee hairdresser.  

 

What's more, he gave her ten percent of the money.

 

I listened politely, wondering whether to drown her or throttle her. She had a cheery charm but the incessant natter was becoming interminable. Nadia talked without letup, pause or comma. She went from subject to subject without punctuation so that I was never quite sure whether she was talking about herself, something she'd read, Gary or her mother's boyfriend.

 

Finally, the clock jerked to the hour of twelve and we were ushered downstairs by the security guards for lunch.

 

I yawned.

 

Nadia's soliloquy was in full flow. Apparently, Gary had said that today was a very special day; she must look her best and think of all the good times...

 

We entered a small dining room. It was cramped, with two long tables laid side to side, both set for a meal. I noticed a small kitchen beyond, its door partly ajar, with two black men in aprons and caterer's hats hard at work, tossing salad and braising small cutlets of meat.

 

A young waitress, with her light brown hair tied hygienically into a bun met us at the door. She curtsied politely and, showed us to our seats.

 

Nadia followed me like a limpet, unaware of everyone and everything. But the more she spoke, the more my mind drifted from what she was saying. I subconsciously filtered the continuum of her voice and heard instead the hissing of fat, the clinking of pans, the chaotic final preparations of our chefs.

 

Somehow that sparked a random synaptic connection and my thoughts returned sharply to the present. My concerns of the morning, the truth about Jessica and what I was now party to were all nagging my conscience.

 

But I had no way out. I was trapped. Without cash there was no way I could buy my way out of the contract.

 

"How do you feel about what we're doing here?"  I blurted, cutting across whatever it was Nadia was saying.

 

She didn't hear me, not the first time nor even the second. She hurtled on like a giant super tanker unable to stop. The third time, however, I managed to butt the question alongside a lull while she lit a cigarette.

 

"That machine we're supposed to be demonstrating, did it strike you as funny?"

 

Nadia shrugged, sucking repeatedly upon her cigarette. "It was okay," she said breathlessly. "I thought I'd be frightened. In front of those cameras, I mean. But it was easy: real easy. Gary makes me take off my clothes for his customers at the garage. It was just like that, in his workshop, bending and stretching and doing all the things they say... "

 

My patience was fast running short. "No, I meant the machine, Jessica," I timed my interruption to coincide with her next drag. "All that shit on the autocue. Didn't you read it? Didn't it make you think?"

 

She shook her head, grinning vacantly. "What did it say? Was it important?"

 

God help me!

 

She giggled, drawing smoke into her lungs and slowly puffing it out. "I don't think - that's my trouble. I'm a doer you see, not a thinker. Gary says them that can do, and them that can't... well, anyway... It really turned me on, posing, all them blokes getting stiff. I've never done naked on camera before, not real naked, not even swimwear.  Gary knew. He said I'd like it. He made me give up cutting hair, said I could better myself. And now, well, look at me! He was right, wasn't he?"

 

I sighed, none the wiser.

 

Lunch was served, The young waitress laid a meal in front of each of us, hurrying to and fro from the kitchen as fast as she could.

 

"Sorry there's no choice," she said with a faint Scottish accent, not appearing very sorry at all, plopping a plate in front of Olivia . "It's roast, served with Yorkshire Pudding, roast potatoes and peas. We don't have the space here to cook a full menu."

 

Marylyn complained that she was on a diet and so couldn't possibly eat anything fried. Olivia added that she was allergic to dairy products, so, would it be possible not to have the Yorkshire Pudding? The waitress picked up a fork from the table and shoved her pudding onto Marilyn's plate. "All the more for someone else," she tutted, hurrying back to the kitchen.

 

One of the chefs heard the commotion and peered through the hatch between kitchen and dining room. "Something the matter?" he asked with a smooth Jamaican lilt. "How is the food?"

 

I hadn't yet managed even a mouthful. "Delicious," I said politely, hoping that it was.

 

Why is it I do that?

 

And now it was Howard's turn to check. He came into the room, making a huge entrance and preening himself like a prize peacock. He also had one of his cameramen with him, trailing along with his camera. "Hello ladies. Are you enjoying your meal?"

 

There were a couple of enthusiastic nods, a few non committals and one - me - not deigning to reply at all.

 

All of a sudden he was behind me, watching us like some supposedly benevolent deity. I pulled my gown more tightly closed, conscious how naked I was beneath it. I was on edge. What was he after?

 

I soon found out.

 

"Do you mind if we take some footage of you eating?" he asked, directing the cameraman to the other side of the table. "It'll be useful for cutaways."

 

I was annoyed that our cooperation was being assumed. After all, where's the dignity in being asked a question if no answer is expected or required?

 

I lifted my hand across my face, hiding it from the camera. "I think I do mind," I said irritably. "I don't allow pictures off set."

 

He grinned, beaming like a small boy with a guilty secret. "Are you sure about that? What about if I offer you an extra five hundred bucks?"

 

My jaw dropped. "Five hundred dollars? Just for some shots of us eating?"

 

He had me and he knew it. I lowered my hands hesitantly from my face. Five hundred bucks! The money made dollar signs in my eyes, but, even so, I was suspicious. It was too much. There had to be a catch. I screwed up my face. "So what do we have to do? Undress?"

 

He laughed. "No. Nothing like that. Just carry on as you are."

 

I didn't trust him. "Sure you don't want footage of us in the bathroom? A shot of us peeing perhaps? Wouldn't that also be useful for cutaways?"

 

He paused, and then looked at me with mock seriousness. "Now there's an idea! In your case, Jennifer. Yes, why not!"

 

I scowled. The guy was too slippery and I didn't trust him. There was too much he wasn't telling us. He wouldn't even have given us the extra cash if I hadn't made him. I hate men like that. He would have kept it for himself, the tight bastard!

 

Anyway, he was busy telling the cameraman what he wanted.

 

Cutaways, by the way, for those of you who are interested, are those two second shots you get in the middle of every news interview: the interviewer nodding; the back of his head or something equally inane. They're inserted to disguise an edit.

 

"Take five, Jessica 3000, presentation one. Run!"

 

They were pretending to do an interview with Howard out of shot asking questions. Samantha was the first guinea pig.

 

"Do you enjoy barbeques in the summer?"

 

She giggled nervously, in two minds as to whether to eat or to pose.

 

"Do you like eat barbequed meat?"

 

She nodded, deciding finally on the latter.

 

"Did you ever barbeque by yourself?"

 

She rolled her eyes, confused by his question, looking for help. It made her look stupid. The camera swung round to face me.

 

"What about you, Jennifer ?"

 

I shook my head. "I'm a vegetarian."

 

It wasn't true, of course, but they could hardly call me a liar on camera. The camera moved on, to Olivia , this time.

 

I yawned. This was boring.

 

"How does your meat taste, Olivia? Crispy?"

 

Olivia nodded.

 

"Juicy enough?"

 

"Yes, thank you."

 

"What do you think? Is it cooked too much? Not enough?"

 

"No. It's cooked just fine."

 

Next, they asked several questions of Marilyn , doing so deliberately while she was chewing, her mouth full, the meat between her teeth She couldn't answer, poor girl, apart from some weird unintelligible noises. It was a wind-up, of course. Goodness knows how the pictures would be cut. Portraying her as a glutton, maybe?

 

Always be glamorous, I'd been taught. Always!

 

The curious interview lasted for several minutes. I studiously avoided their questions. They could take pictures if they wanted, but I wasn't going to destroy the mystique. They weren't going to capture me with my mouth full!

 

The other girls however, seemed unfussed. Maybe they saw it as a chance to make an impression -  most I fear, made the kind of impression they'd rather forget.

 

Our hard working waitress took away the plates and returned with desert. It was unusual, to say the least. It came out in a plastic container cast into the shape of a human breast. Inside was an airy, although slightly fatty ice cream. It had a nutty taste, pistachio, I think it was, and I admit, it was quite delicious. I'd been intending only a taste, worried that my stomach would betray my appetite on the afternoon rushes, but in the end I ate it all.

 

"Have we found something to your taste?" Howard pressured, in what I assumed was a further attempt at irony.

 

"It was very nice," I said politely, aware that I was being filmed. "Thank you."

 

He stared at me hard. "Would you prefer to film the lavatory sequence now, or would you prefer later?"

 

I snorted at him dismissively, giving the question the contempt it deserved. The bastard! 

 

I decided to take some air. I needed to get out, to escape the madness of Nadia and Howard. A few minutes oitside should help me get some grip on reality. The problem was, the exits were barred. At each of them were firm, unyielding security officers in dark blue jackets, checked ties, cap and shiny trousers.

 

One stepped in front of me as soon as I tried to leave.

 

"Sorry, mam. We have orders. No one is to go outside. Not until the shoot is over."

 

"What?" I puffed, pushing back my hair irritably. "I don't understand."

 

"No one is to leave, mam."

 

"So what is this? Am I a prisoner?"

 

"No, mam," he answered quietly. "Nothing like that. We're here to look after you. That's all. To make sure that no one gets lost."

 

I was annoyed. "How will I get lost? This is ridiculous.  I'm going outside to get some air, not for a hike about town."

 

"I'm sorry, mam. We have instructions."

 

Instructions! God!

 

I twisted about on my heel and returned to the table, sitting down, crossing my arms and affecting a sulk. The others were still finishing off their lunch, drinking coffee, smoking, chatting amongst themselves.

 

I was angry. What was going on?

 

But I was also confused. What a place! What a job! Why wouldn't they let me out? Was I caught here, trapped?

 

I pulled my gown more tightly about my shoulders, suddenly quite frightened, for I knew instinctively that I was.

 

I was a prisoner.

 

God. What had I left myself in for now?

 

The Second Take

 

 

I was fifteen years of age when I saw my first naked man. I was on holiday with my family in Dorset, England. We'd gone to a remote place called Studland, which is a short ferry ride from the town of Poole. It was labelled 'nature sanctuary' on the map, but I soon discovered that this meant more than just birds and insects. It was a double entendre, for here was where the nudies hung out.

 

My father locked the car and we carried our things along a rambling path, through some sand banks until we came to a peak looking down upon a long semi populated stretch of beach. The sea was in front of us, its white foam of breaking waves running effortlessly up the chalky sand.

 

And there he was walking towards us, bronze, athletic and without an inhibition in the world. Father was embarrassed. He made a fuss and turned us on our heels, shooing us into the sand dunes. Mother was falling about in hysterics, she couldn't stop laughing, and that made dad fuss even more.

 

And me?

 

I was dumbstruck, stealing secret glances even after dad thought us 'safe'. It's one thing being told about men, another to discover the reality. He wasn't hard – his cock, I mean - not in the way I now know men can be 'hard', but neither was he like those little boys who go unnoticed, scampering about the beach.

 

He was long ... thick ... It was like a length of rubber hose: malleable without being limp.

 

I kept thinking: if that is a man, how will I ever get it into my body? It will never fit. I concluded that I was doomed to die a virgin, a freak of nature, for having a pussy too tight, too small to accommodate the very thing for which it was designed.

 

He ambled towards two naked female sunbathers who lay supine and uncaring on the sand.  They must surely have had 'it' inside them, the hose, that hammer, his cock. And I was deeply in awe of them.

 

The reason I'm telling you this, I guess, is because when I returned to the dressing room, I discovered another naked man: a man who brought home to me all the confused feelings of that that bright summer morning in Dorset.

 

He made me feel like a shy virgin, uncomfortable, inadequate. He made me feel like a little girl again.

 

"Excuse me," I flustered, turning away, abruptly realizing what a stupid reaction that was. What a fool he must think me. I glanced back, my eyes automatically dropping to his waist. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize. I wanted... I was after my makeup..."

 

He waved me a gracious welcome. "Go ahead. Everything's communal today. And why not if it helps us to get acquainted? I'm Alec, by the way."

 

He held out his hand and I shook it politely, blushing furiously, for his cock had jerked upwards in a visible symbol of his appreciation.

 

"Jennifer," I replied awkwardly, trying vainly not to look at it. " Jennifer Jones ."

 

He was blond, with blue eyes, a smooth chest, and of course, that gorgeous cock. It wasn't hard, but it was like that thick rubber hose.

 

"Nice name," he smiled, flirting with me, using his big, sexy eyes. "What is it they say? Love is a many splendored thing?"

 

I blushed, caught out once again. In the early days of my career it had seemed smart to steal the persona of a screen legend. Why not? I admired her, and her looks were not dissimilar to my own.

 

But now it seemed tacky, cheap. "No relation," I apologized penitently. "I'm not in that league, I'm afraid. The real Jennifer Jones received five Oscar nominations, and won best actress once. Me, I've yet to score."

 

He grinned, walking round to check my ass, his dick showing greater signs of interest. "A virgin, eh? That's not what I heard. Well, who knows? Maybe we'll get to make great chemistry. Help you to that first score..."

 

I flushed. The presence of his growing erection was making me heady. He was flirting with me. Well, two could play that game. I unfastened the belt of my gown, allowing it to fall loose. "Maybe we will," I teased. "I'd bet we'd make quite a twosome."

 

It was Merideth who first accused me of stealing.

 

"You're hoping people will remember who she was. You want her mystique to rub off on you."

 

"That's rubbish," I'd contradicted. "Is New York pilfering from Old York? Is the mighty Bin Liner kept awake at night worrying about how many Moslem mites are being named Osama?"

 

"Towering Inferno, wasn't it?"

 

"Pardon?"

 

I was staring into the hungry eye of his cock, reminded of the naked man at Studland, the two naked women supine on the sand, and those final concealed moments I've never shared with anyone.

 

He lifted his hand and with a single finger outstretched, delicately pushed open my gown, moving it away from first one breast, then the other. I sucked in my breath, exposed, allowing him to stare at my painted nipples. He blinked, and reached forward.  "What do you think of the Towering Inferno?"

 

I stuttered. "Towering Inferno? I don't understand."

 

"Towering Inferno was the name of Jennifer Jones' last film."

 

The back of his hand touched the underside of my breasts, exploring, feeling. I had to close my eyes. My legs were like jelly, wanting to bend and open.

 

"How come you know that?" I sighed, my eyes sliding shut. "Most young people have never heard of Jennifer Jones."

 

"I cheated," he said, gently touching each of my teats in turn with the tip of his finger. The effect was electric, far more effective than ice. They bulged and hardened like inflated balloons, worshipping his touch. I was melting, sinking into his masculine arms.

 

"My audition was last night, after you'd gone. Someone had forgotten the hire sheet and I was curious. Sometimes in this job I encounter old flames, bones that I've jumped. I saw your name and thought I recognized it. Only when I got home did I make the connection and realize my mistake, and well... I did some research."

 

Doris poked her head round the door.

 

I groaned, hurriedly closing my gown and reaching for my bag. Shit. What awful timing! I guiltily grabbed a hair brush.

 

"Jennifer," Doris said, looking at me intently. " Howard wants a word."

 

Her eyes strayed over to Alec, then back accusingly to me. I could see her mind jumping to wild conclusions.  "Alec," she purred, readjusting her spectacles, her voice dropping in tone. "Gladys is lunching at the moment so she won't be able to fix you for another twenty minutes or so. In the meantime, have you signed your forms?"

 

She pulled her blouse at the waist, tucking it into her slacks. It tightened over her breasts, squeezing them, in effect forming a second skin. The blouse was still without three or four buttons. Whatever had happened earlier, she still hadn't managed a repair.

 

I watched Alex unzip a separate pocket of his bag. He was bending over, his muscles rippling like waves upon the sea. "Yes," he said. "They're... just... here..."

 

He was Adonis or Hercules or perhaps one of the Nordic gods, all rolled into one.  I was hooked, and it obviously showed, for Doris turned on me sharply, her face as stone. "Howard is waiting, Jennifer," she said dismissively, assuming the role of head cat. "Please don't keep him waiting. He won't like that..."

 

I sighed, disappointed. Three was fast becoming a crowd and I was the single over the pair. I was outgunned, so I sauntered back to the studio with the consolation that Howard might yet turn matchmaker.

 

This was porno, was it not? That was why I'd been hired.  Alec was a stud, so it was pretty obvious why he was here. He'd been hired to poke bitches. Well, I thought gleefully, that was perfectly okay by me.

 

I was a bitch. He could poke me.

 

When I got back to the film set, that thought still warming my tummy, I found several blue suited guards massing around the door. I hesitated. What was going on? They parted as I approached, but reluctantly. There was a seditious mood about them. I could feel their leering looks checking me up and down.

 

What had happened to have so changed their manner? They'd been awkward before, certainly, but polite. Now, they seemed arrogant, mutinous, like at any moment they might reach out and grab me.

 

What was up with them? That gauntlet of silent lechery was more defiant and menacing than anything I've ever encountered at the Moulin Rouge.

 

Who did they think they were?

 

They closed the door behind me, doing so exaggeratedly, locking it shut.

 

Did they think themselves God?

 

I walked on, a little unnerved.

 

Nadia was to my right, trying to catch my attention. I didn't want it, so I sauntered immediately to the left, sidling casually up to Marilyn.

 

"What's going on?" I whispered, glancing suspiciously back towards the door.

 

"Search me," she returned. " Howard 's giving us a lecture. Not sure what about."

 

"Oh."

 

Someone had been busy. While we'd been at lunch, they'd pulled down the 'modesty' curtains revealing the studio at its full size, the blue screen at the back extending now over the full width.

 

 

Jessica was still where she'd always been, in the centre with the cameras upon her. Howard was beside her leaning upon the forward of her two Y shaped supports.

 

But alongside him was something new: a pair of iron tracks, almost like a small railway. I initially thought it was for a dolly – that's a device for moving a camera – but I soon discovered that it had nothing to do with dollies, except for the human female variety. I also discovered that there are men who enjoy playing with this type of dolly, and who are totally ruthless. The track led to a large oven, and on it was a pan.

 

Sometimes you just know something bad is about to happen. You have a premonition. "Oh my God!" I exclaimed.

 

"Curious, eh?" Marilyn responded, rather wryly.

 

"If I can have your attention ladies," Howard scowled, glaring at both Marilyn and myself. He'd been talking, "lecturing", as Marilyn had termed it. I think he was annoyed at my lateness. "Please! We have a lot to get through."

 

We smiled politely and let him continue. "As I was saying, we've had to take down the curtains. I know this is a nude set and some of you don't like it, but I'm afraid needs must. We need both the space and the time. We have to shoot three demonstrations this afternoon and the third one is particularly complex. "

 

Marilyn and I exchanged glances, her expression speaking volumes. No curtain? I'd never heard the like of it before. Everybody would be watching me perform naked, all the security guards, all the other girls.

 

God. What if my 'performance' was to include Alec?

 

Strangely, the butterflies accompanying that thought weren't wholly unpleasant. I was remembering his cock, rock hard, looking up at my breasts. I was imagining it inside me, long slow strokes that were stretching my pussy.

 

"At least one of the 'demonstrations' is porno," I said, squeezing the words for fear of further antagonizing Howard. "There's a stud in the changing room by the name of Alec ... real dishy... big muscles... nice cock... What do you think? Should I volunteer?"

 

"Don't," Marilyn advised, keeping her words to a whisper. "It stinks...something's not right… too many secrets..."

 

I caught my breath. God. She felt as I did. We were being led up the garden path.

 

"Some of our customers get confused with the way Jessica works," I heard Howard say. The others were all listening closely, hanging on his every word. "Others have difficulty with the pans. So this afternoon, we're going to demonstrate the correct use of both."

 

Marilyn and I looked at him blankly. We hadn't been listening at all.

 

"We thought we'd use the fact that Kitchen Capers is for adult consumption to our advantage. I'm after humour, some spice, so what we're going to do is replace the meat with a girl."

 

Now I knew I'd come to the conversation late. What had he said?

 

Georgina stood up. "You mean: you want us to sit in the frying pan and pose like we're joints of meat?"

 

When Howard nodded, I glanced pensively at Marylyn. What was going on? This was Alice in Wonderland.

 

Georgina repeated her question. "You want us to pretend we're carcasses of meat?"

 

He agreed again, glad that his stupid starlets had finally understood.

 

Nadia stuck up her hand. "So you want to cook us? Is that what it's about?"

 

"Not at all!" Howard laughed, but it was a stiff, awkward kind of laugh. All the other staff laughed too. "It's television. A naked girl is prettier than a dead sheep. She's certainly more arousing to our male dominated audience. That's what television is about, Nadia. Ratings. We're after audience share."

 

I sighed. It was logical, certainly. It made perfect sense and yet it felt wrong. Maybe I came to that opinion because I hadn't been listening properly, or perhaps because I'm an emotional woman, not a logical man. I was uneasy. They were planning to use a living woman to demonstrate the frying of meat. It was degrading to both men and women alike: debauched.

 

But then, I reflected, what was new in that? Isn't most of the sex industry perverted? Tainted? Foul?

 

"Do we have any volunteers? Someone to take the first run?"

 

He looked at us each in turn, waiting, expecting, from one bemused face to another. Nobody volunteered. Why should we? A starlet is paid by the day, not for her minutes in front of a camera. Seemingly, the sense of doubt was unanimous. I certainly had a very negative vibe about this.

 

"You," Howard said, pointing accusingly at Georgina. "You'll do. You volunteer!"

 

She looked around, hoping, I guess, to find that he was pointing at someone behind, someone else, but there was no one behind, no one else. She took a deep breath, not wanting to do it. She was reluctant. But then, resignedly she stood up. The die was cast.

 

Two blue suited guards grabbed her by the arms and whisked her forward onto the set.

 

What was going on? I didn't understand. Why were they using force? She was cooperating, wasn't she?

 

She protested angrily, kicking and swearing.

 

"What are you doing?" someone else cried. "Leave her alone!" It was Marilyn. She'd reacted first.

 

I quickly joined in, raising my voice. I was stunned. "Leave her," I cried. The other girls were up on their feet too, shaking their fists and prodding with their fingers.

 

But our protests were futile and were always bound to be so. We were merely vocal spectators and Howard knew it. We had no power, no edge. The rest of the guards moved between us and the set, threatening us with their presence, warning us not to interfere.

 

And we didn't. We did nothing but stand passively and watch.

 

What can I say? We were cowards. We betrayed Georgina, abandoned her. We left her to her fate, and so, in my opinion, we deserved everything that happened to us thereafter.

 

Poor Georgina.

 

She battled as best she could to defend herself. No way could she be described as a volunteer now, not even of the heavily pressed variety.

 

One of the guards was holding her waist as she tried to get free. Her gown danced, riding up her thighs, flashing acres of lily white skin, and then more. She fought to scratch his face, to use her bare thrashing legs to kick him where it hurts...

 

I just couldn't believe what I was seeing.

 

She was shrieking, swearing, exposing her pink painted pussy to us all.

 

How could this be for real?

 

They thrust her, head first, into one of the big pans, the one on the tracks, yanking away her gown and denuding her in the process, leaving her humiliated and naked, her legs hanging over its lip. I noticed the cams chasing her like vultures after a kill, desperate for a big gaudy close up of her flailing legs and that velvety wetness that lay between them.

 

I felt giddy. "My God!"

 

The two guards knew precisely what was required. They helped provide the cameras with a perfect shot, grabbing Georgina's upended feet and parting them, holding her upside down. Even now she kept struggling, wriggling, kicking: desperately resisting her attackers.

 

Next, they looped straps of leather around her ankles, bending her legs, connecting her ankles to her wrists. They were transforming her into a thanksgiving turkey, and she was hating it, twisting about in discomfort, screaming abuse at them.

 

An apple was stuffed into her mouth to stop the shouting. It was pushed in so violently that she couldn't spit it out, although she tried. Oh yes she tried. I could see her jaws straining against it without movement, working to gain some purchase.

 

"They're making a meal of her," I gasped, understanding at last what I was seeing. "They really are going to cook her!  God! How humiliating!"

 

Could this really be true?

  

One of the guards wrapped leather straps around her torso, one across the shoulders, the other below her knees. Georgina cried hard into her gag, fighting to free herself. But it was a losing battle. The other man was pulling the straps tight, making the leather bite into her flesh. She was going nowhere. 

Georgina

 was now both immobilized and silent. 




 


I couldn't move. I couldn't scream. I couldn't believe.




 


What more? What next? Marilyn remained motionless beside me, as paralysed as I. 




 




Don't  volunteer



... It stinks...







 


How wise her words, how discerning! For it could only get worse. I had to get out. I could see that now. Whatever the cost, I had to get away.

 

I moved quickly to where Howard was standing.

 

"Cue, Nadia," he said.

 

I saw the script in his hand, neat and double spaced, 'Kitchen Capers' written boldly at the top of each page.

 

"Excuse me," I said. He raised his hand, holding me impatiently silent. Nadia was stepping into shot, her gown removed, naked and confident, her abdomen decorated with stripes of lime green, patterned in concentric vees radiating from her bald pussy.

 

They were paying her an extra thousand dollars for this commentary. The fool!

 

She leaned against one of the guards, looping a long arm across his shoulder. Her breasts were still young, almost boyish, and they were pressed against his blue jacket. She moaned suggestively, rubbing her naked body into him, her small breasts against his rumpled uniform.

 

"It's easy to transfer the meat to the oven," she cooed, kissing her guard seductively in the crook of his neck. She was sexy and dangerous, playing her part perfectly. "The pan slides along the rails so easily even a dumb dam could do it."

 

I could see why they'd hired her, why they were prepared to pay her extra. She had personality. She moved without any self awareness at all. Her bare ass cheeks faced me, a firm full moon swinging fluidly from side to side. "Excuse me," I repeated, tugging Howard urgently on the arm. "I can't go on. I can't. I'll send you the money... five hundred dollars. You still owe me the other five hundred so that makes us quits."

 

Nadia had been handed a ludicrously sized thermometer by one of the guards. She stuck it between her lips and then sucked it, doing so provocatively, teasing the viewers. "Of course you want to preserve the meat alive until the last possible moment," she said, casually massaging the guard with the palm of her hand.  I could measure his growth by the tent in his trousers.

 

She then coyly checked her thermometer, reading the temperature. "'Deep Ass' is the perfect tool," she said, handing it mischievously to the second guard. "At twenty four inches, it's longer than your average rectal thermometer. You can insert it as far as the mood takes you for an instant, accurate core temperature."

 

She draped herself across Georgina's back, spreading Georgina's butt cheeks to allow her colleague to insert the thermometer. It went in six inches easily, straight up the centre of Georgina's tiny hole, but then he paused, waited, before jamming it another nine inches inside her. Georgina screamed at the invasion, her body jerking in agony as it went in, her lower body then thrashing about in silent protest.

 

Nadia smiled sweetly. She had to be a demon! She was totally without compassion. "Call your local Dolcett supplier for information on this or any other approved Dolcett accessory," she read calmly from the autocue.

 

I pulled on Howard 's sleeve. I was fast freaking out. This was a mad house. "If you want me to sign something," I implored. "I'll sign. Just let me out. I have to leave. Please!"

 

"Silence," he said with irritable disdain, his eyes glinting evilly. "Can't you see? The cams are running!"  

 

That was the only answer I could get from him. He glanced down tetchily at his sleeve, firmly insisting that I release it. As soon as I'd done so one of the guards pulled me away, propelling me back from where I'd come.

 

I didn't resist. I couldn't. I was downhearted, dispirited, appalled.

 

"Death and taxes," Marilyn said stoically, once I'd been returned to her side. "It isn't worth the fight. Some things are just inevitable."

 

I didn't understand how she could say that. How could she be so indifferent about a colleague who'd been tied and was being abused against her will? We had to do something, surely... No. I had to do... something...

 

Nadia had a bottle of oil that she was rubbing along Georgina 's slit. "We recommend you use Greek extra virgin olive oil, by preference," she said pleasantly, pressing the neck of the bottle into Georgina's hole. When Georgina moaned, Nadia twisted it round, sliding it in, testing to see how far it would go.

 

Further than I would have thought possible, came the immediate answer. "Use plenty, even if your girl is slim," Nadia directed. "Baste her well before you pop her in the oven. Otherwise, her meat will burn and the skin will char."

 

Nadia smelt the contents of the bottle, drawing several long sensual breaths before handing it to one of the guards, who continued the job, pouring copiously over Georgina's body. Thick rivulets of viscous green liquid crawled across her breasts and thighs, which Nadia then rubbed in, deliberately nipping Georgina's teats from time to time to make her squeal. She worked the oil all over, including into Georgina's eyes, her ears and her hair.

 

By the end she was a mess, bizarre, completely basted in slimy green oil: but nevertheless, I reflected sombrely, probably looking something divine to a man.

 

The guard then inserted a device between Georgina's legs, screwing it firmly into her vagina with a sharp twisting action, making use of the olive oil to force it deep inside.  It was like a rubber dildo, but had a long white snout and a tube coming out of the base which connected to a machine.

 

Georgina wriggled frantically, doing her best to dislodge this 'thing' now buried in her cunt. It was obviously uncomfortable. But these squeals and moos were nothing to when the guard flicked the power switch located on top of the machine. It began to whine, then to purr. Air was being pumped along the tube. I watched as the dildo began to grow from the compressed air, increasing in girth, stretching Georgina's cunt. Soon she was writhing frenetically in pain - or was it pleasure? Certainly, she was a bucking rodeo upon some wild steer.

 

It had expanded to about four inches in diameter now. I was aghast. Her pussy was being tested to destruction and the cams were loving it, the cameramen moving closer to get their close ups, registering every tortured moment.

 

But the real surprise came when the guard released the short bronze lever on the side of the machine. I hadn't really noticed it up until now. It clicked open. There was a thud, and then with a sharp evocative slurp I realized something was being sucked out of Georgina. I was impassive. Something was passing through the long tube and being deposited in a plastic disposal bucket below her.

 

What was that mess?

 

I took a closer look. I couldn't help myself, and...  Christ Almighty! I turned my head. Christ fucking Almighty! What horror! My face bleached white. In the bucket were Georgina's entrails! Dear God! Her guts!

 

I could only imagine the confused disbelief of that poor girl as her belly suddenly emptied and spilt into the bucket. But her pain was easy to grasp. No ambiguity there. Her whole face had transformed into a rheumatic mask of misery and terror.

 

And yet I was remote, isolated from her emotionally.

 

"How strange," I thought absurdly, manically. "What a strange way to be gutted. The poor wretch probably doesn't even really know what's happened to her yet."

 

In the middle of mayhem and butchery I was completely unruffled, almost cruel in my detachedness.  What I was seeing was too awful to believe, too terrible to accept, and so I became, in my opinion, no better than Nadia: a dumb, unfeeling starlet.

 

But Georgina's extraordinary ordeal was not governed by my acceptance, one way or the other. I was a voyeur, a peeping Tom.. The guard had removed his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeve. I was about to discover why. He removed the white snout from Georgina's pussy and then stuck his arm – yes, that's right, his arm – right up her gaping cunt, into the cavity where her intestines should rightly have been.

 

I watched that hand disappear repeatedly between Georgina's legs, doing nothing. It entered her again and again, forcing open her oily vagina, the arm disappearing each time to the elbow.

 

"He's filling her belly with stuffing!" Marilyn exclaimed, as incredulous as I was.

 

Nadia appeared on the far side of the pan like a proverbial bad penny, posing there mischievously, her painted bosoms dangling across its lip. "All that's left for us to do is to pop our bird in the oven," she said.

 

Would she do anything for money, I wondered, or was she just thick? There was no way of telling. I was still pondering the matter when she shoved the pan into motion, pushing it along its rails.

 

"For a leaflet on this or other recipes, advice on gutting and stuffing, or just to chat, contact your local Dolcett supplier."

 

I heard Georgina 's strangled shrieks, her desperate cries imprisoned behind the apple gag. I watched the pan slide under its own momentum down the tracks, picking up speed all the way. It began at a snail's pace, but by the end, flew into the oven, hitting the buffers inside where it came to an abrupt stall. Nothing more happened for several seconds. I gazed pityingly at Georgina, her face and breasts sexily presented, her nipples sticking out like little guns, her waist impossibly waspish.

 

I knew what was about to happen, and she knew it too. She gazed out at us forlornly, hopelessly, facing the biggest and most terrifying horror she could possibly face.

 

And then with the hiss of powerful hydraulics, the door slid shut taking the bug eyed Georgina away from us. She was gone, lost, entombed in the oven and condemned to suffer its overwhelming heat, knowing irrevocably that this was no stunt, that she was doomed to roast alive.

 

Nadia posed with the bottle of olive oil in front of the oven, opening her legs and sliding the bottle towards her butt. Gary would be proud of her! "With a fan assisted oven," she said, experimenting to see how far the empty bottle would slide into her ass. "You'll need about three hours at 280 degrees Celsius. Lovely Georgina will remain alive for around half an hour and we can watch her, because inside this oven are two hidden cameras."

 

Oh shit!

 

To my great horror I saw that what she was saying was true! I glanced up at one of the studio monitors and there she was, inside the oven, tearing at her bondage, beads of sweat already dancing upon her oil coated skin.

 

They really were going to roast her! No one was making any attempt to save her, to help her. It was no joke, no trick.

 

"But where is the alternative?" I asked myself frantically. "What else can they do? She has no guts. Without guts she will die anyway. Even if she lives, she dies."

 

But this was of no real comfort when faced with the hopeless desperation of poor Georgina, the bleakness of her eyes, the certain knowledge they reflected of approaching death. I watched the monitors with morbid fascination. It was awful, and yet so compelling.

 

Yes, I watched. I watched her torture. First her skin as it began to steam. Then her soft flesh as it quivered like wobbling jelly. Already, her blood was heating; soon it would simmer and boil. The stuffing in her belly would harden and expand, bloating her abdomen and making the biggest artificial cock imaginable. Whether she would enjoy it, I would never find out. 

 

Yes, I watched her, the pink waterproof paint still marking her special places, my own nameless fears coalescing into icy balls of terror. I imagined my own belly hollow and empty, my guts in a bucket for everyone to examine. I imagined myself roasting in an oven, smelling the aroma of my own cooking meat.

 

Oh God!

 

I turned in panic and ran for the door: scared, terrified, having totally lost my marbles. I grabbed the handle, my gown flapping around me, tugging with all of my might.

 

"Let me out!" I shrieked. "I can't do this. Take the money. I don't want it. I can't take this any more."

 

But the door was locked and resisted my attack. I turned, frenzied and berserk, to see that one of the guards had a gun in his hand, a stun gun, a taser, I later discovered. He was aiming at my chest.

 

I heard a smarmy voice behind me. It was Howard.

 

"Surely you’re not leaving us, Miss Jones? After all, I had in mind that you might assist with our next demonstration."

 

The strange device held by the guard emitted a high pitched squeal and ejected two projectiles, each trailing a strong fine wire. Tiny darts sank into the skin of my neck and the next moment I felt an enormous bolt of searing pain lifting me from the ground, throwing me against the locked door of the studio.

 

I saw the guards standing over me, looking down. One of them reached for my gown and loosened it. He pulled it from my breasts and then from my pussy. They were talking, jesting, and then I blacked out.

 

The Third Take

 

I was dreaming.

 

I grunted, half asleep, half awake, sweaty, the sheets sticking to my perspiration. Five burly men were chasing me along an empty railway track through the middle of an empty overpowering desert. They were only a hundred yards or so behind me, and gaining. It wouldn't be long before they had me quivering in their clasp, ripping apart my tiny slip, leaving me in bra and panties.

 

Oh God.

 

I quickened my pace, running faster, needing to escape but knowing that this was impossible. The sun was unbearable upon my exposed neck and shoulders, its merciless heat blistering my skin. The covers lay heavy upon my chest, pressing me down.

 

I fought to remove them, to throw them off, to sweep them from the bed; but they were tucked tightly and despite my wrestling, they wouldn't budge.

 

What should I do?

 

The men had threatened to tie me to the tracks: one wrist and ankle to each, my body resting upon the concrete sleepers, my legs pulled wide open.

 

"And then we'll fuck you," the evil one had said. He wore a smart grey suit, a white shirt and a pale blue tie - and he was holding a camera, a silent, all-seeing video eye. "We'll screw you, each of us in turn while we wait for the train, your wrists and ankles dangling across the tracks.

 

"What do you think about that? Can you imagine it?

 

"The rails will squeal and the ground will shake: one hundred tonnes of thundering steel hurtling towards you. Imagine Jennifer ! The cock in your pussy squelching to the rhythm of the locomotive, its owner secure, his body tucked between the rails. He smiles because he knows he is safe. It is your hands that are vulnerable, in doubt, your feet that are defenceless, resting upon the red hot iron and about to be guillotined."

 

Instinctively I turned my head. How long until morning? How long till the nightmare was over? I examined my bedside clock but there weren't any hands. Oh shit! They were gone, cut off, two prolifically bleeding stumps.

 

Oh my! The train... I could hear it rumbling in the distance; the triumph of the hoot; the steady chug of its charge. I was nude. Men were around me, purring excitedly... waiting... expecting, fucking me hard, wanting the train to strike, hoping it would slice me to pieces.

 

The heat was irritating my skin, stressing and prickling me.  I fought to withdraw my hands from the rails, my legs as well, to pull them from the awful proximity to annihilation. I was sweltering from the heat and yet also freezing like hell.  

 

The wheels would scythe across me, slicing the extremities from the whole.

 

I was insane with fear. I tried to escape: I fought, but nothing would budge. My legs kicked and jerked, but nothing. I was trapped, caught. But not for much longer: soon I would be terrifyingly free. I could feel the rumbling of the train. God! What else? There had to be another... a less forbidding way to free myself. Goose pimples covered my body.

 

My back was arching and swaying, I had to get free. My ass slammed against the gravel jarring the length of my spine. The stones dug into my soft flesh. The ropes cut into my wrists, chafing and drawing red blood. Angry rings lined my ankles.

 

The train – was coming.

 

Nothing would move, not my legs, my arms, not even my head. Puzzlement grew in my still drowsy mind.

 

I opened my eyes. What was this? Was I dead? An intense white light blinded and hurt me, dazzling my retina. What? It seemed to be coming from the Almighty himself, celestial and glorious, peering down from the heavens. He'd come to summon me to his presence, to escort me to his throne. There he was, calling in his loud, booming voice.

 

I heard him:

 

"Take three, Jessica 3000, presentation one. Run!"

 

He spoke and others replied.

 

Where was I?

 

My mind was fogged, my head kicking and throbbing.

 

Oh God. I tried to prop myself up but my arms remained fixed, locked into position. They refused to respond. My neck was also pinned uncomfortably.

 

"Relax, my dear. This won't take a moment."

 

Hands were touching my ass, pulling apart the cheeks and firmly applying copious quantities of grease.

 

Were these the men that had been chasing me? The men from the railway? My hands and feet were about to be severed. What had happened to that?

 

"If you make any noise, you’ll be gagged," a sharp voice hissed into my ear.

 

I tried to calm myself down. Difficult: someone was forcing cold grease into my ass. There was a finger was probing inside the hole. I wanted to fight it, to push it out, but I couldn't do anything. I couldn't move a muscle.

 

Shit. I needed to assess what had happened, to think, to understand why I was so confused.

 

"Circle slowly. Let the cams follow... that's it... loving her curves... Let them... let them lust on her breasts. Just... just look at those beauties... dangling like prize udders... That's good... good... excellent... Look at her teats... how hard... yearning to be milked... she wants to be fucked this one. No doubts. She wants to be spitted, the sly bitch..."

 

Now I understood where I was, what was going on. It came to me. I remembered the job, the film crew and Georgina 's ignominious end.

 

Cold air was circulating around my boobs and... Was that a man's hand? What was it? Something was preventing my knees from moving. Panic supplanted my initial confusion and instantly I was awake, desperately trying to rise, to move, to scream for help.

 

I was in a kneeling position, my wrists bound together behind my back, my legs spread apart. My neck was stretched to a cold support, clamped fast to it.

 

I wriggled my fingers, my toes: and they moved. Not much, but movement nonetheless: an achievement, success.

 

"Zoom onto her face, will you? Give me a nice juicy close up. God, she's divine! Isn't she a beauty? Closer! Right onto her face. I want to test her lungs. Shall we see whether she sounds as good as she looks?"

 

The support upon which my neck was f latte ned reminded me of a chopping board, just like the one I use at home in my kitchen. In my mind I could see a carrot, its green bushy top about to be severed.

 

"What do you reckon? Do you think her screams can raise the rafters?"

 

But what was to be chopped?

 

Suddenly a word came uninvited into my mind like a magician's evil spell, conjuring up a petrifying image of terrifying horror.

 

Jessica .

 

That was the word.

 

I was on the Jessica . I was riding her.

 

I remembered the long cruel poles, each with a different diameter. They were spits. That's what I'd been told.

 

I recalled Georgina 's final silent entreaty, her pathos, her despair. I remembered her face staring hopelessly from inside the oven, pleading with me to help her. Somehow, the pieces fitted together with terrifying symmetry.

 

Now I had it: I was strapped to the back of a Jessica machine, ready to be impaled.

 

I was the big piece of "meat" they had spoken of!

 

I nearly emptied myself on the spot. Maybe I did pee, I can't really be sure.

 

What the hell!

 

I fought to recover my composure. Oh shit! I tried to move my hands and my feet: no success. Nothing moved, only my fingers.

 

I was set up for the next demon­stration, just like Georgina !

 

My knees, like my ankles, were held to a crossbeam. Movement was impossible, escape out of the question. My hips were fixed to a forked support.

 

I was going to be impaled, processed on a Jessica !

 

Was the spit already behind me? In position? Its sharp tip pointing at my pussy?

 

Nightmare had become reality. I was helpless, more so than I'd ever been in my life. My hands were firmly bound, no movement possible at all.

 

Would the spit really run me through, completely impale me? Surely that couldn't happen! Wouldn't happen! Not to me!

 

But if it did... if the unimaginable were to occur... what then? Would it hurt? Would I suffer a lot?

 

Now I knew the reason for my shivering, even amidst the heat. It hadn't been the cold. It had been something else, much worse, the premonition of something awful.

 

Oh God. Here I was bent doggy style with my private parts exposed to everybody: to the guards, to Howard, even to Doris, that curious lady with her clipboard. All of them would be looking and pitying.

 

So, what now? Was I really going to die? And if so, would death be quick?

 

Once again I heard someone talking, a pleasant faraway voice that sounded as though it were coming from down a long narrow tube. "The girl on your left is Marilyn ; the girl to your right is Jennifer . We'll use them to show both consensual and non consensual spitting."

 

What did it mean? What was going to happen?

 

My eyes were becoming accustomed to the strong brilliant light. If I screwed them up I could see, except there was nothing to make out apart from the stark naked lens of the voyeuristic cams, four of them, unblinking and cold, surrounding me like a pack of voracious hyenas waiting for the kill.

 

I strained, cricking my neck, pushing the back of my head against whatever impenetrable obstacle it was that was checking my movement. Doing so, I could just shift enough to discern my surroundings.

 

To my right, I saw a woman in a similar position to me. Her naked body was also straddling a Jessica , her ass was pushed provocatively upwards and her neck lay supine upon a metal support. However, unlike me, I saw to my astonishment that she was unbound. Her arms hung loose beside her body, limp and flaccid.

 

Not a rope or a manacle in sight.

 

It was Marilyn . I'd have known it was her even without twisting to see her face. I'd have known even if the announcer hadn't as good as told me. Not only were her short blonde locks unmistakable, but hanging beneath her, there was the matter of those bright purple darts coating each of her nipples.

 

What had they done to her? Why wasn't she fighting? Were they paying her a bonus? Was that it?

 

I soon found out that my guess was a million miles from the truth.

 

"Isn’t she a good girl?" someone laughed, his Godlike voice floating weightlessly in the ether. "No resistance at all. The reason she's so docile and compliant is because she's enjoying "Play Possum", the improved Dolcett muscle relaxant: available right now from your regular Dolcett supplier. 

 

"Imagine your own wife with a dose of this cocktail inside her! Think of the doors it opens, the fun you'll have preparing her for your menu! If she kicks a fuss or doesn't want to be your main course, don't fret: Play Possum is sure to make her come round, fully consensual and entirely conscious."

 

As the speech ended, its orator moved alongside Marilyn .  He was carrying a half gallon tub of lubricant beneath his arm and almost at once began scooping it across her ass, working it into her crack. He was naked; young, with an athletic body and a smooth muscular chest.  

 

I recognized him at once, of course, even though I couldn't yet see his face. I would know that long hose-like cock anywhere. It was Alec, the Adonis from the changing room who'd teased me about my name. He'd obviously recognized me too, for he bent into my line of vision and smiled, his bright blue eyes dancing happily.

 

"Hi!" he said. "You okay?"

 

The absurdity of his question wasn't lost on me. It was so banal as to be comic. Here I was, strung across a machine of death, shaking with fear and he wanted to know if I was okay. How insensitive can you get?

 

"My hands hurt," I replied, equally as trite. "And my feet. The ropes have been tied too tightly..."

 

He was concerned.

 

He placed his lubricant upon the ground, casually transferring the excess from his hands onto Marilyn 's thighs. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know."

 

He examined the knot pinning my wrists to my back, testing how severely the rope bit into my wrists. "Hmmm, it is tight," he agreed, loosening it a little. He checked my ankles next, allowing some slack into the bindings there as well.

 

"It's because you were tied by the guards," he explained patiently, looking up and staring appreciatively at my rear. I knew I must be a pretty sight, my ass sticking obscenely into the air. Alec apparently thought so as well, for his cock immediately jerked up., clearly indicating his approval rating.  "It's easy..." he confided, "when you have an unconscious lady... to tie too tightly..."

 

I thanked him for what he'd done, testing how far I could now move my fingers and toes. Although grateful for the extra freedom, I was suffering acutely from pins and needles. My limbs seemed on fire.

 

"Are you okay?" he asked for a second time, watching me assiduously. "I mean... does it hurt?"

 

Did it hell!

 

"A little," I confessed, working the blood back into my extremities.  He was apologetic, loosening the ropes a little more, and so I went on, assuming my sweet little girl voice: "I suppose it would be asking too much to hope you might... I mean... that you might untie me completely, just for a while. My legs and arms have gone to sleep, they're numb, you see."

 

He dropped his gaze to the floor, just as a shy adolescent might when caught spying upon his mother bathing in the shower. I'd obviously asked for a favour too far.

 

"No," I sighed, wriggling awkwardly to find a position less uncomfortable. "I thought not. But I had to ask."

 

Was it guilt? Embarrassment? Was that why he wouldn't look at me? I soon found out.

 

"I have to fuck you," he said, examining each of my bonds yet again.  "I mean... that's what I've been hired to do, in a minute, when I've greased the other one. I have to fuck both of you, one up the ass, the other in the mouth. If you had a choice, which... which would you prefer?"

 

Again I was caught off guard both by his utter mundaneness and the innocent charm of his smile. It was persuasively disarming. "I get a choice?"

 

He casually retrieved the lubricant from the floor. "No. I get the choice. But I like you, so, I'm offering it to you."

 

That was nice. Politely I thanked him - because of his pleasantness, I suppose. I didn't want to appear easy, in fact the very opposite, I wanted to give him a hard time - technically he was about to rape me, something that's hard for a woman to ignore - but his charm was managing to assuage me.

 

"In which case," I said slowly, swallowing hard, realising how hard he was looking at my dangling breasts. "If I have to choose then I prefer... to suck you... to give you a blow job."

 

Somehow that seemed the less traumatic of the two options. Marilyn obviously thought so too. Her eyes opened wide, knowing this meant she would have to take him in her ass.

 

Alec nodded. He seemed pleased - which concerned me. "You'll swallow my cum?"

 

I assented. "Yes."

 

"All of it?"

 

Again I agreed. "Yes."

 

"Every last drop?"

 

"Of course."

 

He was looking at Marilyn now, not at me, fantasizing about her ass. "Okay. A blow job it is. Only... There's one other thing..."

 

"Yes?"

 

He stepped over and parted Marilyn's butt, ramming dollops of lard into her asshole, pushing it in with his finger. She didn't react. "I have to fuck this one first. The blow job comes after."

 

"Oh."

 

He plastered the stuff into the crack of her ass, working it towards her anus and then forcing it inside. She took it passively. The Play Possum had clearly done its job and had totally paralysed her. All that moved were her eyes. These stared back at me like those of a doleful child racked by famine, or an emaciated ghost seen through the fence of a concentration camp, drowning in hopelessness and horror.

 

They made me feel guilty, for Alec had granted me a favour at her expense.

 

He pressed his cock against her sphincter, although not too hard, waiting for it to part so that his tool might slide inside.

 

"Despite its many advantages, there's one mighty disadvantage to using Play Possum," he gasped, his cock sinking deep into Marilyn 's rear. She and I were still face to face but I could no longer make much sense of her emotions. They had become impenetrable, a mask, hidden from me. Something inside her had just closed down, shut itself off from the outside world. "It's like fucking a doll. That's why many guys still prefer the good old fashioned non consensual method."

 

Alec wasn't talking to me, of course. He was speaking to the cams and the gastronomic voyeurs who ultimately were paying our wages.  But as he looked to camera, ending his piece with a practiced kinky grin, I wondered whether anything about him was genuine. I didn't know him from Adam. How could I trust anything he said?

 

Maybe it was all part of an act, even his apparent compassion, a pretence, put on for the benefit of our wider audience.

 

While I ruminated such thoughts, he began to build a rhythm, thrusting in and out, every stroke ramming Marilyn's paralysed body against her Jessica, forcing her to jerk to his beat.

 

I wondered how much she could feel, indeed whether she had any sensation at all. How deep did the Play Possum go? Would her body respond to this assault? Would her paralysed pussy become wet and swollen? For isn't that what happens to women who are raped? I've read of it often. They become aroused and wet despite themselves. Their nipples become hard and their labia swollen and puffy. Later, they despise themselves for their own involuntary reaction.

 

These were idle thoughts, stupid thoughts: my brain's way, perhaps of stalling anxiety, of calming my fear.

 

So why were we riding these Jessicas? What was the purpose of it all? My mind flashed back to the sight of Georgina, looking out from inside the massive oven, frightened and panicky, an apple stuffed into her mouth.

 

Idle thoughts; stupid thoughts. They weren't important, not really. All that mattered was that Marilyn had been relegated to the role of a fuck toy, fit only for satisfying the lusts of men - not just Alec and not just once - but over and over each time our video was replayed.

 

Alec was well into his part now, grunting and groaning and playing to the crowd. It was textbook stuff. He was the archetypal stud, signalling to everyone his intention to come. With a sudden gasp, he pulled out of Marilyn 's ass and held his twitching cock over her butt, allowing it to spurt across her rear. I watched, butterflies in my stomach, as three, four, five times, his creamy jism shot into the air and then fell in mighty dollops over her greasy skin.

 

It was certainly spectacular and it made me feel weak inside.

 

One of the guards now came into shot. He'd taken off his cap and had loosened his tie, but he still looked starched and formal alongside Marilyn and Alec.

 

"Oh shit!" I cried out, not even knowing that I'd done so. He was carrying one of the spits, a heavy six footer that brought home all my worst fears. "Oh my God!"

 

Marilyn's eyes pleaded with me to reveal what I had seen for he'd approached her from behind. They begged, they cajoled, but I couldn't tell. I hadn't the heart.

 

She would know soon enough.

 

"This is the three inch spit," Alec explained to our invisible audience, taking the huge spear from the guard and attaching it to Jessica's guiding support. He slid it lovingly into place and then fastened a pair of wing nuts. "That's the widest diameter we suggest you use. Any larger and the spit tends to tear rather than pierce."

 

Three inches? Was he serious? How could any woman take that? I knew that inside her stone façade, Marilyn was listening and would be panicking. She had to be. Three inches! Dear God!

 

Alec gazed along the barrel of the spit, almost like it were the barrel of a rifle and he was taking aim.

 

"Too low," he muttered in disgust, adjusting the collar of the vertical column supporting the spit. He checked again. This time, it seemed, the spit was positioned correctly, pointing directly into Marilyn 's stretched anus.

 

"Fucking your woman is always good preparation for the spit," Alec explained, flicking a switch and turning the machine on. The spit began to rotate, spinning at a low steady tempo. "Not only does it open her up, but it works the lard deep inside."

 

Marilyn was silent. She couldn't shout, neither could she protest. She couldn't even move. All she could do was wait. The spit was invisible to her but I know she saw it through the eye of imagination. She could see it clearly as it advanced, inch by inch, towards her spread butt.

 

We use lard for lubrication," Alec continued, teasing Marilyn's pussy with his finger, cruelly tickling it, knowing that with her nerves stretched to breaking, anticipating an altogether more unpleasant invader, his touch would bring terror to her heart. "This is one of the tricks of the trade, so to speak. A well lubricated ass stretches rather than tears, so it's vital to grease your lady properly before using any of the thicker spits."

  


Marilyn

 was whimpering faintly, hardly more than a whisper, almost not that. But even over the drone of the advancing spit it brought goose bumps to my skin. Why? What had happened? Had the spit touched her? Had she felt it parting her asshole, stretching her wide? 




 


I didn't know. I couldn't see. All that was visible to me was the activity of the guards. They were moving things around, pulling camera leads to one side; preparing a larger, empty space.




 


One of them – he had a mane of jet black hair, a broad rubbery face and deep sunken eyes  - had stained his trousers. There was a wet patch on the groin, right where it shouldn't be.




 


What was going on? How could I endure the uncertainty? I heard the screech of moving furniture, of steel upon wood, the raucous noise of men working frantically towards a common goal. 




 


Then they moved into my vision. Here it was. Now I could see. They were tugging two more Jessicas in front of the cameras, and neither of them was empty. Nadia was riding one and Olivia the other, like jockeys in a bizarre steeplechase. 




 


Nadia had been given the Play Possum treatment, she hung over her machine lifeless and inert, her arms dangling at her sides, her legs and feet tidied into convenient receptacles. Finally, I thought, she was silent!




 


Olivia, on the other hand, had been tied like me, her hands behind her back and her ankles fastened to the supports at the rear of the machine. 




 

"Four girls on four Jessicas," I thought quite rationally, almost as if I were somewhere else, quite apart from the scene, looking on: a female spectator perhaps, enjoying the show from the director's gallery. I stood there in my dream, looking down at myself, at the studio and the four naked women trussed up there. "What will happen to them?" I mouthed breathlessly, already anticipating the answer.

 

"Watch," whispered a heavy gravely voice in my ear, his hands sliding beneath my clothes and grasping my breasts, squeezing my nipples. I wanted him to stop but somehow knew that he wouldn't. He was confusing me, causing me distress. His tongue licked the inside of my ear, its tip following the curves. "Imagine being exposed naked on television and about to be spitted..." he whispered. "Doesn't the very idea of it turn you on?"

 

I didn't know what to say. My nipples were hardening but that was the effect of his fingers, not the things happening to Marilyn.

 

Dear God, the spit had touched her! It had begun its awful penetration, no doubts now. I could see the agony in Marilyn's eyes, could hear the horror lurking in their void. I could smell her fear, her anguish. Her entire body was taut and straining, her breasts jerking like jelly to the slow relentless whim of a voracious steel pole that was literally screwing her to death. 


 


I could hear her silent, unuttered screams, sense her tortured tormented cries. They were terrible, haunting: unforgettable. I had no doubt that although she might be paralysed and unable to move a single muscle, she could feel every sensation of that fearful rod driving relentlessly through her ass.

 

And now Alec came over to me. "Oh God, now it's my turn," I thought, fighting the urge to cry.

 

"First you must lick me clean," he said, thrusting his semi limp member into my face. It stank of grease and the slimy juice of Marilyn's ass. The sight of it turned my stomach. How could I put that thing in my mouth?

 

"Suck it," Alec ordered, his voice suddenly turning so hard and authoritarian that I no longer recognized it. I sniffled with fright. What had I done? What had become of his smiles and charm? This was so different from the pleasant young man in the changing room, the friend who'd taken the trouble to slacken my bonds. Was that too just an act for the camera?

 

He pressed his wet knob between my lips, scraping it against my clenched teeth. "And be careful," he growled, working my jaws apart. "Very, very careful."

 

It smelled atrocious. I didn't want to do it.

 

The taste was foul too. It was vile: fat and faeces mixed. But the smell was worst. It was making me gag. I was sure to vomit. My belly was heaving. How could I stop myself? I couldn't swallow. The best I could do was to let the muck run from the corners of my mouth, drip down my chin and dribble from there to the floor.

 

It was at that moment that I realized there was someone else behind me. My eyes opened wide in a big unuttered question. Who was it? Howard? One of the guards?

 

Alec was enjoying my uncertainty and did nothing to settle my mind. I felt used, second-hand. Hands were on my hips and fingers opening my pussy in some obscene gynaecological exhibition. I just knew that somewhere behind me there would be a cam, recording my shame and humiliation.

 

Why do men like looking at women like that? It's not erotic, it's not even sexy. It's humiliating, degrading. It's like looking at a piece of meat laid out upon a butcher's slab.

 

But wasn't that what I was now? A piece of meat?

 

Anyway, whatever the reason, what was being done to my rear was actually for the best. It bought me time.

 

Everyone was so busy looking at my open rump that they didn't notice I wasn't swallowing the foul tasting concoction coating Alec 's cock. All they saw was that he was in my mouth and that I was busily sucking.

 

And so slowly I washed him, diluting the dirt with spittle that then dribbled to the floor. And bit by bit as I cleaned him, the nausea subsided. I was able to relax my jaws, allowing his cock to glide across my tongue.

 

Were the cams still online? Were they still filming me?

 

I tried to keep going, to give them a good show, biting under the cleft of Alec's dick and licking around the hole. It didn't bother me now. I'd become acclimatized to what remained of the awful taste, a process perhaps accelerated by the fact that there was someone else looking into my pussy, touching it, playing a very different game.

 

Was it one of the guards? I guessed so. Who else could it be?

 

Alec played with my hair, idly tying it into braids. That felt nice. His fingers caressed my cheeks, passing lightly over the invisible down in front of each ear. We stared at each other, eye to eye, me sucking his cock, him playing with my face, each waiting for the other to react.

 

And all the time the other man was greasing my pussy, making it impossible for me to think straight. How could I suck him while he was doing that?

  

I fought the urge to close my thighs, to thrash against my bindings like an enraged demented maniac. I knew I couldn't get away, that the straps made escape impossible. But I was becoming claustrophobic. What if they beat me, or cut me? When you're free you don't think about such things, when you're bound and your body is being invaded, then the mind becomes panicky and starts playing tricks. 




 


What if I were to be spitted?




 


Call it pride, call it conceit, but I didn't want that wider unseen audience to think me feeble and weak, to pity me.  Even if I were to die here upon my Jessica, I wanted to be remembered as strong, as the master of my destiny.




 


Nevertheless, my resolve was weakening. A rough, calloused hand rubbed at my labia, determined to wear it away. It was inept and clumsy rather than brutal, but even so, having it there, letting it do its work without protest or complaint was unbearable. I would have to scream. I would have to cry out if it wasn't removed pretty soon. 




 


It wasn't. 




 


It kept rubbing, incessantly so. Its owner spread lubricant over my sore skin and then fiddled inside, prodding rather than caressing my delicate parts.




 


Oh God. Please. It was vile, it was horrible. I was at breaking point. My God, please stop him! At any moment I would snap. I would rattle about broken and uncontrolled upon my 

Jessica

, babbling and shrieking and mad.




 


But I didn't. I was wrong. I didn't do any of those things.




 


To my great disgust, my juices were leaking down my thighs.

 

What was up with me?

 

I tried to concentrate instead on Alec, to ignore my rape and instead give him the best blowjob he'd ever enjoyed. The taste of his cock was still repulsive in my mouth but was sufferable now. I'd acclimatised to it. His hands tugged upon my hair, urging me to speed up and I did so, tonguing his cock, exploring beneath the foreskin.

 

But even this distraction was soon ended. Suddenly something warm and hard was playing on my pussy lips and I knew at once this was no finger, but rather a grown man's cock.

 

This was it. This was what I was being paid for. I was about to be fucked.

 

Two cocks, both at the same time, one in my mouth, the other in my pussy! What is a girl supposed to think?

 

"That's it, Jennifer," Alec cried, jamming his cock into my mouth, slamming it against the soft sensitive tissue at the back. "Go for it, honey. Let the customers have what they're paying you for."

 

I reacted wildly to his spur, gagging for a moment and about to choke, but then picking up the rhythm, slowing him down, using my tongue as a brake.

 

How many girls had he fucked like this, I wondered, riding them to their death on a Jessica? I couldn't be his first. He was too proficient, too sure of himself.

 

I shut my eyes and savoured the fat cock sliding relentlessly into me from behind, moving rhythmically in response, contracting my inner muscles to the lead of its thrusts.

 

It was a magical experience, gorgeous.

 

What kind of men were these, I conjectured, Alec and this guard? How did they think? Did they have wives,? Girlfriends? Did Alec perhaps have a little sister? Where did they come from, these people? Had Howard advertised for them in a newspaper? Where do you find men who make their living raping bound, helpless women on camera? For surely, that's what this was.

 

I was being raped: gangbanged, two men at the same time. I was being corked, well and truly. And God, look at my reaction! What a hussy! I was strung to this evil machine, unable to move, but aroused as I'd never been in my life and I didn’t care. All I wanted was to be fucked, never mind by whom, never mind by what.

 

My raptors were only too keen to oblige. I sucked upon the one and squeezed the other, burning both candles at once. For several minutes they fucked me, making me stiffen and writhe. My breasts bounced and my nipples were like little chipolatas. And shit! It was wonderful. I was coming! I was building towards the most mammoth of climaxes.

 

And not just me. At my front, Alec 's breathing was quickening too. Behind, strange hands were gripping my flanks. Both of them were about to cum, both at the same time!

 

That did it for me.

 

I exploded, just as they too detonated within me. My pussy and overloaded mouth were being swamped with warm sticky juices. Oh gosh! I'd never had two men - not two - both ramming and using me like this.

 

They wanted me.

 

I was their meat, their food: they were fucking their meat, their dinner. Later they would eat but first they would screw me senseless. Oh shit! I was so in heat...

 

But then, suddenly, just as I was ascending towards a peak of desire, their cocks were being withdrawn. I was confused. How could they do this, steam me up and then leave me in the lurch? I didn't understand. What? Why?

 

But I wasn't left, not entirely.

  





For the cock in my yawning vagina was now replaced by something new, something metal, something big. It was demanding entrance to my vacant hole. Hey, what was this? A second rape?





 


There... Once more… That word again... It's a strong word, a violent word. Rape. Is that what this was?




 



Rape.







 


Was I really being raped?




 


I reminded myself that I'd agreed to a porno, signed the contract; put my name on the line. I'd known what kind of work this was, known it from the beginning. I'd been prepared to be porked, had gone for the medical. I'd taken the cash and blown it. 




 


How could I whinge now? 




 


How could I accuse these men of rape?




 


It certainly didn't feel like rape. I felt the cum dripping down my legs, drying to a silky feather in the heat of the blazing lamps. This was porno. This was the edge. My thighs were spread, my pussy lips pulled wide apart, displaying me like an opening flower.

 

"Look how she likes the spit, how greedily she searches for it!"

 

Who was speaking? The unknown man who fucked me? Or someone else? I wasn't sure. I couldn't tell for the cam teams were gathering behind me like hyenas to the kill. I heard the rumbling of their movement and anonymous footsteps moving into position.

 

Too many men, all so close, seeing me naked and the cum oozing from my spread pussy.

 

And now a new voice, deep in tone and with a local accent. It spoke with quiet authority, like an anatomy teacher surrounded by his class in a hospital mortuary, the naked body of some famous model staring blindly at them from the sanctuary of her slab: beautiful in life, arousing in death.

 

"A woman can be entered in one of two ways," it said. "Either through the anus or through the vagina. Notice how the spit is aimed at Marilyn's cunt. We describe this as ' Donna Spitting ' because it's – well - let's just say is specifically reserved for ladies: ' donna ' being Italian for lady.

 

"However, since Marilyn is being donnered, we'll spit Jennifer anally, or shish style as it's sometimes known; shish being Turkish for skewer. Shish involves less tissue damage and bleeding, and is more pleasant for the girl. However, before we demonstrate it, can I encourage you to take a good look at Marilyn and her donna ..."

 

I followed his direction, and suddenly I was back on the balcony of the gallery looking down, with a mysterious stranger tantalizing my breasts. I was the innocent voyeur looking on from afar.

  

"Can you see it, 

Jennifer

?" he murmured, and I blinked. What? What was there to see? What had I missed? I couldn't see a thing. But then... "There it is, deep inside her, through her cervix, having pierced the womb."

  

Now I saw it! A point below 

Marilyn

's navel had bulged – I saw it – God! It was so beautiful and yet so brutally inhumane. The point of the staff was deep inside Marilyn's abdomen. Oh shit! Her eyes wept thick silent tears, running across her pale unflinching face. She felt it twisting within her. I knew she did.




 


All I could think was that it was like an evil gestating Alien about to give birth. It would puncture her belly from inside and destroy her. It was horrible, awful, to have something like that moving inside. I couldn't believe the cruelty of what I was seeing.




 


The stranger bit into my shoulder, his teeth leaving jagged serrations that quickly filled up with blood.




 


And then the shaft straightened. 

Alec

 had somehow changed its direction. There he was, positioned at Marilyn's rear, adjusting the arm that supported it. It was moving parallel with her spine now. Gently he threaded it in, occasionally prodding her belly with his fingers to check upon its progress. carefully navigating its course, easing it through her one relentless inch at a time.




 


She glistened with sweat and fear. She couldn't struggle, couldn't writhe, couldn't even move except in the way that Alec and his giant cock dictated. The Play Possum held her captive. It was her master. In and in it went, so slowly, almost imperceptibly.

 

But now my voyeurism was at an end, the stranger had vanished, no longer interested in teasing my breasts. One of the cam teams was changing position, focussing on me.

 

Oh shit. This was it, my time had come.

 

Two hands forced my cheeks apart and I felt the touch of iron kissing my anus.

 

I gasped, powerless to resist it. It was unpleasant, uncomfortable. I held still. The tip was cold upon my sphincter, pressing, slowly rotating, threatening to penetrate my hole.

 

Again I heard an announcer's voice calmly explaining to the punters at home what was to happen to me. "Jennifer is demonstrating an electrically propelled spit," he said. "Its speed is fully adjustable from a fast one inch per second to a more leisurely inch per minute, which is what we've done for Jennifer. This is for when you want to slow things down, when you want to wallow in the moment. This way your meat remains fully conscious through the whole procedure, enjoying every subtle sensation."

 

The iron stick was pressing relentlessly into my rectum, demanding an unmerciful entrance. I could taste the salt of my sweat.

 

"The stabilizer is vitally important when you're roasting a live girl," the announcer continued, directing the camera's attention to a short pipe.  It was about fifteen inches in length and one end was penetrating Marilyn 's asshole. The other end was connected by means of a bridge to the spit itself.

 

Alec pointed to the pipe. "This is inserted into the girl's free hole. Once the spit is in place we lock this 'stabilizer' so that the girl turns properly over the hot fire and doesn't slide around."

 

If it were possible to intensify my sense of desperation and panic, then this was it.  They weren't only going to impale me. They were going to roast me alive!

 

"Nice example of non consensual," somebody mocked, one of the guards. He was talking about Olivia, I think. Or was it Nadia? They were ready for penetration too, Olivia wriggling her ass in a vain effort to escape the approaching rod.  "I always prefer the non consensual way. I love the way the meat twitches."

 

In vain she tore at the straps that held her down. She couldn't escape. None of us would escape. It wasn't in the script. Each of us was doomed to experience the giant spit, to have it pierce our most intimate parts.

 

Suddenly Olivia's wiggling ceased. Was she dead? Had she been knocked out? The spit had entered her certainly and the motor was making a ferocious noise. I saw a female technician fussing around without it being obvious what she was doing. If it hadn't been for the fact she was topless and with her back to me I'd have sworn it was Doris .

 

Then I realized: it was Doris .

 

She was still wearing her slacks but they'd been slashed repeatedly with a knife. The fabric hung loosely together, ribbons of cloth dangling from her calves and her thighs. Shards of black polyester crisscrossed her hips and her ass, more by accident than design. Perhaps her appearance was a signal, for all the cams were now congregating around her. What was going on? Doris lifted first Nadia's head, then Olivia's, kissing them sensuously upon the lips.

 

A moment later a bloodied rod lunged from out of Olivia 's mouth, narrowly missing the fast retreating Doris . It came with a wave of red grunge that sp latte red Doris's bare breasts. It was a horrible sight, like someone had just tossed a jar of pureed tomatoes across her chest.

 

A few seconds later a second rod emerged from Nadia's mouth, again, bringing with it all manner of red pulp that splashed over Doris's expectant torso.

 

It was far quicker than I had expected.

 

"One inch a second," Doris explained, rubbing the girls' mess into the skin of her plum like breasts. "This is fast spitting. It's so fast our ladies don't feel a thing. Before they know it, the deed is done and they're completely shot through. At this speed it makes no difference whether they're consensual or not. You only need the experience or luck to miss the heart of your beauty – there's no opportunity to steer the spit through her body."

 

It seemed to me that both Nadia and Olivia were still alive, indicating either that Doris had a wealth of experience or was blessed with luck. Olivia winced weakly in silent protest. The play possumed Nadia couldn't move, but her eyes were still alert and thinking of Gary….

 

"Do they look angry?" I asked myself sceptically, "or in pain? Should I be thankful for not having been spitted like that? Or should I be envious?"

 

"Now we’ll show you another example of non consensual impaling," Alec said, slapping me hard across the ass. I swore at him, which proved, I guess, the truth of what he'd just said: I was non-consensual. I was non-consensual by all stretches of the imagination. If I hadn't been firmly strapped to the Jessica , I would have been up and away for sure. Wild horses couldn't have stopped me. But I was tied up, with no movement possible. The Jessica had been cruelly and cleverly designed to keep its victims in total submission.

 

The spit edged forward, increasing the pressure on my sphincter. I could do nothing to stop it.  I was helpless, and about to be anally raped by a machine. The muscles of my sphincter were being stretched, and then stretched again. The pain was indescribable. Suddenly there came a snap and I screamed.

 

God, it was through!

 

My barrier had been broken. I was impaled. It was inside, fixing and sodomizing me.

 

I heard Nadia gag, her spit filling her mouth. Was it as big as mine? I couldn't tell. Everything was hurting.

 

"We recommend you use our vibrating device, 'Vibra' as a final favour for your lady," Doris was saying, unfastening her slacks. "It will confuse her deliciously, pushing her to the edge of ecstasy."

 

Vibra ? Oh God!

 

As she spoke I clenched my teeth. The spit had begun vibrating.

Christ . What was this new distraction! The electric motor was forcing my thighs against the Jessica 's hip support. But there was something else. Something was pressing against my vagina, another spit: cold, hard, metal. Shit. I knew what it was! It was the stabilizer, penetrating me like a second penis.

 

Was this vibra?

 

The vibrations had found a new conductor and were all the more intense because of it. I pressed my clit against the quivering steel, revelling in its lovely pulse, dreading its result.

 

For the second time there were two penis's inside me, penetrating me!  But these were artificial. Surely I was in trouble now! 

 

I didn't know what to think. Here was the nectar of pain combined with pleasure. The softly humming spit and the vibrating stabilizer were steaming me up and what could I do? And then, suddenly, without warning, a devastating orgasm hit me with its mighty hammer blow and I knew I was lost.

 

It made me shake and yell. 


 


"Ah, that's made her happy," Doris commented, sliding down her torn slacks. Underneath she wore nothing but a G-string, a silky panel of black gossamer held up by a single elastic thread. She pressed its tiny triangle into my face, rubbing her crotch across my nose and chin. "Come on, darling," she ordered. "Open your mouth. Eat me out""




 


I hadn't taken her for a lesbian and so I was shocked. What could I do? I couldn’t avoid her. I was bound with the steel spit pushing me into her. Doris took full advantage, whisking her little G-string to one side and pressing her bare steaming pussy into my mouth




. I could smell her aroma, taste her excitement. Soon I was choking upon her juice.




 


"Be a good girl, do a good job," she said, liking my red face, forcing me to suck her clit.




 


I didn't: not really. I tried to lick, to use my tongue, but I couldn't. Not only am I not practiced, but I was too preoccupied with what was happening at my rear. Not that it mattered. Doris was so high that simply having my face buried in her purse was enough to make her cum.




 


"Take your last meal," she shrieked, ramming me harder and faster, her juices dripping into my mouth. 




 


"Enjoy," she gasped, hitting me, slapping me. "Let my cum grease your throat."




 






Then something happened, something unpleasant, something I hadn't been prepared for. Oh God. Hot liquid was running into me, filling my insides, something like an enema. It was the spit. It was hollow and they were pumping water through it and into my ass! More and more water! Soon my belly was bulging. I was getting heavier. It was like I was pregnant, except I was swelling up in minutes rather than months. My belly had grown to an absurd size already and was hurting like hell. I could feel the skin stretching. 




 




Shit. I was inflating! All that time working out in the gym, and for what? I'd been so proud of myself, of my figure, but I now bulged like I was nine months and about to drop.




 


The same was true of 

Marilyn

. Her belly was enormous, almost ridiculously so. It was like she was giving birth to twins, triplets even. But then to my consternation, I saw the cover slide off her Jessica and out sprang a circular rotating saw. Its blade moved in a blur of motion, spinning with a viscous eerie hum.




 


Oh shit. 

Marilyn

 had no idea it was there. I screamed. Dear God! No! 




 


No!




 


Shit. It was done.




 


With a gushing noise her belly had been cut from pubic bone to rib cage, the shrieking saw spitting blood and gore in its wake. Where it had vacated, a cluster of grey writhing snakes plopped from out of her. They were her guts, and –fuck - she was still alive! I could see by her eyes.




 


What must she be feeling?




 


The other two girls had been pumped up too, their bellies as pregnant as mine.  I sensed it without really following what was happening. I had this hazy awareness of their cries and their movements. They were just a detail now.




 


My belly had swollen to an unbelievable size. .The pressure was incredible, and painful. I was expecting to burst, for something to give. The muscles were straining, failing, revealing a spider's web of angry white stretch marks.




 


But then there was a click from somewhere within my Jessica, from beneath me. "Oh my God," I thought. "The saw!"





 


I could hear it, feel its gentle breeze on my belly. 




 


"Not me! Please have mercy!" I prayed, helpless and wincing in my bonds. 




 


They were going to cut me, slice me open! I was in peril. There was no way out, not now.




 


Anxious and trembling,




 I tensed my distended abdominal muscles, hoping for a miracle, for mercy, but none came. My body erupted in a wild explosion of pain, a sharp, piercing agony that rushed along my abdominal skin, tearing at my belly. It moved deeper, through my flesh like a column of molten lead, hot and burning. I knew that what I'd seen happen to Marilyn had now become my own fate. I'd been sliced open like a slaughtered pig and I was squealing like a demented sow. I opened my mouth once again in a hysterical howl of misery but the sound became strangled beneath the incredible pain. 




 


My cloudy gaze fell upon Doris. She was happy. She was excited. She was enjoying my misery. Our eyes met and she gave me a satanic smile. 




 


"Soon," she said, sliding her pussy across my face. "Soon it'll be done. Soon you’ll be empty."




 


I felt a desperate urge to free my hands, to reach for my injured abdomen and hold myself together, to prevent my bowels from sliding out. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything.




 






As Doris humped me, they
 slid out, my entrails
, unstoppable, inexorable, slowly at first, but then faster, piece after relentless piece, loop upon loop. I heard them slithering alive down the chute and then splash into a plastic tray. 




 


I was eviscerated – empty.




 


The loose ends hung loose beneath me, untidy and useless. I was open, exposed. But at least the horrific pain had subsided. I took a deep breath, holding the pain, pushing it back. To my relief, the pressure created by the hot water was gone. It might sound ridiculous, but it felt good, my guts out – my insides so empty!




 


The cam in front of me panned across us – four gutted girls in a row, our entrails hanging out, naked, dangling in the cold air. 




 




"Four girls in big trouble," I thought absurdly, my mind searching for the perfect movie title, perhaps helped – if that's the right word – by my desperate need to relieve my aching clit. The stabilizer was still vibrating, firing me up, stimulating me without pause. There was no relief with my hands pinned to my back.




 


Oh shit! Was I crazy? I'd been gutted, and therefore was as good as dead – indeed, I was dead - technically if not officially. Here I was being spitted and absurdly, thinking of movie titles! 




 


"Oh Lord, what's happening to me?" I felt so empty! But I was alive! 




 


Just.




 


And all the time the spit kept moving, mercilessly crawling through my womb. 




 


This was no simple porno movie. I'd been wrong. This was more than porno. We were to be snuffed, all four of us. That was to be my end. I was going to die. 




 



And not just me.

 Alec came over and carefully wrapped his huge forearm around Doris's neck. She was facing me with Alec behind her. He was tightening his biceps, lifting her up. Soon she was on tiptoe, her arms extended, her palms outstretched. His muscles constricted. He was strangling her. And I climaxed at last.




 






What made me cum I don't know. Is there something erotic in death, in feeling its cold clammy fingers touching your skin? Or is it the ultimate submission, the evidence of a man's total control that women find arousing?




 


He was going to kill her. I knew it and 


Doris


 knew it too. She was going to die. I think she'd known all along, even yesterday at the audition.




 


Perhaps that explained her strangeness and her sombre thoughtful moments, also the reason she'd been so interested in speaking to Alec earlier in the changing room.




 


The cams were all around her, surrounding her. She saw them and parted her thighs, doing so deliberately to give them a better look.




 



Marilyn

 gagged and then shuddered. This had nothing to do with Doris but was because the spit was now in her mouth, almost through her. I could see it, the bulge in her neck pushing up through her mouth. 




 


Then it came, her tongue first, followed by the spit, jumping from her mouth, an inch, then six, and finally eighteen inches of hard solid steel, protruding from her lips. Blood seeped out too, first gathering upon her lips and then dripping across her chin. She squirmed, choking, her eyes wild, her breasts jouncing and swaying, her teeth squealing against the shaft. But in vain – the deed was done - she was impaled. 




 



Marilyn

 was done.  She was run through, end to end. And yet, even with the
 heavy mass of iron passing through her core, she was clearly alive, squirming and struggling against the horrible invader.












But then her spit began to turn, and her body to rotate.




 


Round and round she spun, like a suckling pig as it roasts.




 


What a strange exhibition! Three impaled girls and a fourth one semi-asphyxiated - only I was still to be finished. All of us were in line, like soldiers on drill.  Doris was gasping, her eyes wide open, her face a pretty pink. To her side, the other girls were wincing upon their spits, swivelling about them, insanely trying to free themselves or even to cry out. Yet nothing was heard, nothing was done. 




 


It was obvious to me that I was in a similar predicament. I had only a few minutes left. My heart froze. Already the spit was half through me and I imagined with horror how it would emerge from my mouth covered in blood and bile. 




 


"Ladies and gentlemen, the tip is past Jennifer's viscera and is about to pass her stomach, somewhere in the vicinity of her oesophagus. Guided properly, the rod will emerge from her mouth. But if we're careless, it could easily pierce her heart or one of her key arteries. Watch closely. This is the critical moment." 




 



Alec

 turned to me, suddenly letting 


Doris


 go. She fell to the floor gasping and wheezing, her face deep purple, her eyes bulging and bloodshot. Was she to live after all? "Any last words, 



Jennifer



?"







 


I couldn't answer. The merciless iron penis had now entered my gullet and I was struggling to breathe. My body shuddered, twisting and bucking but the movement of the rod was relentless. I cursed my luck. If they'd picked me for fast gutting like 

Olivia

 and Nadia, I'd have been spared this torture. 




 


But then, they wanted it to hurt, for me to be in pain. This was Howard's punishment for my earlier awkwardness. Of that, I was convinced. He wanted me to suffer and to film it with his cams.




 


Alec tilted my head and our eyes met. He saw self-pity in mine and I read amusement in his. He was waiting, waiting for the spit to fully spear me. He knew it was coming, that it wouldn't be long. Fear rose in my gut for I could feel it inside, choking me. Soon I would be incapable of sound. Once the spit tunnelled through my throat and mouth I would be incapable of words and laughter. They would be gone, lost to me forever.












I felt the spit in my throat, demanding passage. "Open your mouth," Alec said. "Open wide!"





 


My throat stiffened. God. I was choking. The spit was so big. It was filling my mouth, passing over my tongue, jarring against my teeth. I could taste blood, salty and tepid. Everything was a blur. My teeth were forced inexorably apart and suddenly the metal column leapt from my mouth, forcing my jaws to give way.




 






"And here it is!" Alec announced gratuitously.




 


I was spitted, my whole body from one end to the other. The spit was through me. A murmur went through the room from the cam operators and their sound crew. It must been a great sight, four impaled girls, all in trouble, all giving the same view.




 



And what of 




Doris




?

 What had become of her?




 






I couldn't tell. I could only see that bloody penis, nothing else. My lips were stretched upon it, like I was sucking a huge elephant's cock. 




 


But it wasn’t as bad as you might imagine. Strange, yes, but not overly painful. In fact, I was beginning to change my mind. There is something incredibly feminine and womanly about being spitted – being empty on the one hand, and yet stuffed and full on the other: penetrated in all of my holes.












"We can now demonstrate another of our accessories," someone was saying. "The spit can move rhythmically back and forth, simulating a real fuck. Take a good look. We recommend this for consensual spitting when you want to look after your lady. Think of this as a special last gift." 




 


He pushed a button in front of me and at once the whole pole began to move, acting like a piston, in and out, back and forth, very deliberately increasing my pleasure. 




 


"Please, don’t stop that," I thought dreamily, drifting in an out of my body.  "I never want it to stop!"




 


One minute I was on the Jessica, the next I was floating above it, looking down and seeing myself being 




prettily screwed by the wonderful Jessica. 
On the wings of pleasure I swept to my next orgasm. The stabilizer in my vagina thrust mercilessly into me, shaking my womb. slapping my beauty lips, squeezing my clit.




 


"The ultimate penetration, the ultimate fuck," I thought, shaking under the weight of the vibrations. They were steaming me up, incredibly so. Every fibre was at screaming point. I was shaking with desire.




 


"What a big gangbang fuck climax," I added to myself, stringing the words together.




 


Never before had I had such an experience. My whole body was on fire, an uncontainable inferno of lust. And already another orgasm was approaching. I tried to intensify and prolong it by moving upon the spit, back and forth, insatiable, desperate for release, fucking myself to death on the vaginal stabilizer. My tissues were stretched to their limits, the tension producing incredible lust. Each of my holes had its iron lover, each of them was being ravished by a cruel untiring penis. 




 


My jutting nipples would go pop soon, they were so hard. My whole body was shuddering forwards towards an almighty climax.  I tried to answer the spit
's
 thrusts, pushing back, like in a real fuck, imagining the iron cocks squirting their hot jism, imagining how much it would be.




 


Oh shit.




 


The biggest orgasm I'd ever had shook my body. It blew through me in a mushroom of pure lust that I hoped would never fade.












Now I was glad I'd been spitted. I felt proud and superior to other women who could never know the beauty of such an experience. Never would they know what sensations they had missed. This was truly heaven. I wouldn't have swapped places with anyone.




 



But what now?

 Where was I to be taken?




 


Alec was lifting Marilyn by the shoulders. What was he doing? He dropped her feet and then anchored the pole in a hole in the floor. In an instant, it was upright with 

Marilyn

's gleaming body run through. Bugger! The relaxant seemed to have worn off, or maybe she'd been given an antidote. However it had happened, she was now struggling, kicking, standing on her tiptoes, afraid of sliding any further down the spit. 




 


She was unbound, of course, and her hands went to the tip of the rod, trying in vain to lift herself up it. She kicked, one hand sliding to her throat and the other to her belly, fighting to control unimaginable emotions. She kicked, her breasts jouncing madly. She kicked again, her entire body straining, every muscle hard and defined, her nipples standing from her breasts like beautiful pink lemons. 




 


She was dying. I could tell. She was weakening. Slowly, her motions slowed. Her arms first, they slipped to her sides, palms outward; then her legs, relaxing and opening. 




 


Bugger! 




 


I was watching her die. She slid leisurely down the pole until the anal stabilizer called a halt and she could slide no further. She was dying.




 


Her belly shuddered and her breasts jumped once, then she was still.




 


She was dead. She had died. They'd killed her. The cams were still watching. 
In a few minutes I too would share her fate.




 










Only slowly did the waves of my huge orgasm fade. They wafted across me, long after I thought they ought to be gone, long after I'd watched Marilyn's end. 




 


Shit. And now it was my turn. Alec was doing to me what he'd done to Marilyn. He was lifting me up. I was annoyed at him because he was interrupting my cramps of pleasure. How strange the way the mind works at such times! I was going to die, and all that bothered me was that I was being disturbed!




 


I was going to die. This was it.  I was skewered, impaled, totally inseparable from my spit. It and I were humped across and then positioned next to 

Marilyn

, the lower end of the spit located into a socket in the floor.




 


This was it then: the end. Where was my life? I should be able to see it. Shouldn't it be flashing in front of me, reminding me of everything I had lost?




 



Alec

 was going to watch me die, becoming high, perhaps even climaxing at my twitching body.




 


I bid goodbye to the world, sad but happy, my body sagging and twirling around the rod, slowly sliding downwards upon it. Down I slid until my feet touched the ground and the vaginal support stuck firmly within my dripping love tunnel. 




 


Once again I began to float away, caught in a dream, soaring up and away from Alec, from the guards, from Doris and all my dead friends. I could see Alec kneeling in front of my unconscious shell, closing my open belly with sutures. He did it quickly, insensitively, like sewing up a Christmas goose, but I was pleased he did. It was better that way. Even dead, I would prefer to look presentable.








Then he cut the bonds from my hands. I was free. At once my mindless hands reached for my sex, greedily caressing my vulva and my hungry bud of joy.




 


"Look, how she fingers herself!" a voice said. "She likes it! Look how she masturbates. She has only lust and her own pleasure in mind. Isn’t it a pity her holes are stuffed? What a stunning girl she is, marvellous!" 




 


I was incapable of seeing what else was happening. I was too far away now, too high. But I could imagine the other girls stood up like me, like 

Marilyn

, four pinned butterflies preserved for video in an exotic insect collection. 




 


It must be great for the cams! 




 


Pinned girls, not unlike helpless bugs, still wriggling around their oversized needles, becoming slowly exhausted, descending in a series of chaotic random motions to the abyss of death.




 



"Looks like she was born to be spitted!"







 



"A natural!"







 


My sex felt like it had been set on fire. I wanted relief. I wanted not just a little, but total satisfaction. Maybe if I spread my legs, if I forced myself to take more of my iron lover. I had forgotten the cams, the team, the advertising, that I had fled my body and was now somewhere else. I wasn't aware how much of my shame was now on display to the world.




 


"Take a shot, a close one, look how her clit is pounding! See her swollen lips! Look at her juices running down the pole! Unbelievable!" 




 


I could feel the heat of the spotlights and reached for my breasts, cupping these burning hills of desire. Pain shot through my body, beginning where I had touched my tits, but at once changing into a wave of pure pleasure, spreading across my whole body.




 


I was alive, wasn't I? Surely I was. Exhausted yes, but not from the iron intruder in my pussy or the gutting. It was the endless cycle of climaxes, so intense, following one after the other that was exhausting me. 




 


"Please one more," I begged voraciously, unable to speak, unable any longer to stimulate myself. Why wouldn't anybody do me this last favour? Why wouldn't anybody lick my pussy?




 


"That's it. She's done. Let's get her ready."




 






Somebody fastened my weak hands and legs, attaching them to the spit, tying me again. This was it. I was to be cooked and eaten. They were taking me to be roasted. Shouldered by two men, I rode on top of the spit to my final destination. I couldn't turn my head but I glimpsed poor Marilyn as she was carried in front of me. I saw Nadia and Olivia too, already rotating over the flames.




 


"Didn’t she put on a great show?" I heard somebody ask.




 


"She did very well," came the answer. "I've never seen a girl like that."




 


I wanted to tell them about my incredible experience. . It had been so beautiful, so sublime. Here I was, gushing with words that could never form. This had been the ultimate fuck.




 


My vision was dim




, but I could just distinguish red flames beckoning me on. They were already licking at the flesh of the other girls: Marilyn, Olivia, Nadia. Soon they would be kissing at mine.




 


Even Nadia was silent now. Poor Nadia.





 


My vision was dim, but, yes, I could see my former companions turning, revolving about their spits, and Alec – yes, I saw Alec too - his cock hard and angry, coating their naked bodies with sauce. 




 


The heat was incredibly fierce. I could feel it already. It was sufficient to roast them, to cook their flesh although they all still moved, visibly alive.








 


Oh shit. So this was it then. The end. I screamed silently and said goodbye to the world, and blacked out into my last and final orgasm.




 

The Fourth Take 


 


The room in which I was lying was only partially lit, but the power was still on. An orderly sat in the corner. He stared at me, his eyes silent. I could hear shouting from outside, but I couldn't tell what was being said. 




 


Had it been a nightmare?




 


I was constrained to a table; hands, feet, and midsection bound by leather straps to keep me from moving. Not again! I fought against my bonds, testing what movement was possible and discovered that although I could raise my head, little else was possible.








My head hurt; so did my belly. Glancing at it, I saw a long suture running like some grotesque decoration from my rib cage to my mound: Alec's work, no doubt. My limbs were numb, no feeling. A catheter pierced my left arm, a colorless liquid running into it down a tube from a bag high above me.




 


No nightmare? 




 


To be alive was a surprise Why wasn't I dead? Had somebody changed their mind? What had happened? Why had I been spared? 




 


"Hi 

Jennifer

, did you enjoy it? How are you feeling?"




 


I looked around in disbelief. 

Howard

 had entered the room, and with him several of his team, including 


Doris


. She was dressed in a black top and skirt, with a silk scarf wrapped about her neck, concealing her bruises.




 


"What happened?" I muttered, my sore head pounding, beating me with a hammer. 




 


My voice sounded rough and harsh, broken. My larynx had been damaged by the spit.




 


"I changed my mind," Howard said, sitting casually on a chair at my side. "You're a natural! After that show I had to spare you. There has to be a sequel."




 



A sequel?







 


I swallowed hard, my throat sore and dry.




 


"What about the others?" I mouthed, guiltily fearing the answer I knew must come. It did.




 



Howard

 shrugged.




 


"Don't worry about them. You know what happened. They died upon the roast. It was a sumptuous climax to the video. Only you survived."




 


I shut my eyes. I felt empty, as though I'd missed out on something beautiful and poetically spiritual. In a curious way I missed the spit: being cooked, being eaten. 




 


It was my lost lover, my complement. Why hadn’t I known before of the ecstasy in riding a spit, of being impaled upon it? I wanted to climb the 

Jessica

 again. I wanted to be spitted, and why not? It had been a revelation. The vast majority of my sex will never experience that sensual roller coaster, the cocktail of endorphins and sexual adrenaline that accompanies the ride. But I had been there. I had done it.




 


"Are you going to spit me again?" I asked hopefully, thinking of his mention of a sequel. 




 


"Something like that," he answered, grinning amiably. He was pleased. I was making his job easier for him. "You liked it. Am I right?"




 


"I liked it very much. Is it possible...
  I mean... how...?"




 


He laughed.




 


"Our surgeon has repaired the two ends of your entrails, connecting them to what's left of 
your bowels. He's also inserted a stent between your diaphragm and throat. It provides a passage, if you like, for the spit to safely travel, bypassing your heart and other organs. Repeated spitting is now very possible, you're built for it. We want to sign you up. You're to be a star on our daily show."




 


I felt a flutter of excitement, but how could it work? I'd seen my guts sliding into the waste basket. Nobody could have mended all that.




 


"What about eating? Drinking?" I asked stupidly. "I'm empty. I'll starve."




 


He laughed. "You worry too much. Don’t you like your new waist, or haven't you seen it yet? It's as narrow as a wasp. You’ll be fed on semi digested liquids. And as for drinking, that's okay as long as you're careful. Only small sips are allowed – or you’ll "piss" yourself without warning." He laughed diabolically as he pondered my predicament. "Remember you've only two feet of bowel, that doesn't allow for much absorption."




 


"This suture," he said, pointing to the scar bisecting my stomach, "will soon fade. Nobody will notice the mark. You'll be a woman like no other! Totally unique!"




 



 



 




 

 

Future Takes 


 


I paused. 




 


I'd finished my story. But I wondered what he thought, my pleasant young journalist.




 


"You can see what they did. Do you like my waist, the size of my breasts? When I agreed to work for them they sent me back to the surgeon and gave me this boob job. They called it a present. You see, no one else has anything like me. Not as much as this." I cupped my twins, or at least, as much of them as would fit into my hands. My reporter had long since stopped writing, and was starring at my body. 




 






Was he fantasizing about the inadequate length of my guts, thinking what would happen if I were to give him a blow job? If I swallowed his sperm? Was he thinking how his jism would fill me and shoot out my rear?




 


Or was he thinking about my enormous tits?




 


"You can touch them if you want to," I offered, cupping my breasts again, letting them flow across my hands. People around us were watching, trying to hide their furtive glances. "They feel quite normal and are as sensitive as hell." 




 


I've grown accustomed to being a freak, people starring, drawn irresistibly to the size of my chest. At first, it was horrible being an oddity, but I don't think that way now. I've grown proud of the way I look. 




 


My reporter friend wasn't quite so confident. 




 


He was blushing. "What happened to the video you made?" he asked after a prolonged hesitation. He hadn't the courage to touch me in public which was a shame. "Did they... I mean... was it ever broadcast?"




 


"Oh yes. It was running every day for about four months." I slowly crossed my legs. "Of course, you need to know where to look for these things. We don't broadcast on commercial satellite."  
 The circles of my areolas were visible, jutting from beneath the fabric of my dress. "It was very cleverly edited. For instance, at the end the girls are seen eating their own meat, commenting upon its quality, drooling over the flavor of their own breasts. Remember all those shots they took of us over lunch? I did a voice over describing my own impalement. Because of that, nobody suspected it was real. Men watch the girls being roasted, see them taken to the kitchen and carved up. They think it's all special effects, a cheat, and why not? Isn't everything cheated in the movies? But this wasn't. This was real. I was the only one to survive. Even so, the sale of Jessica machines has reached record levels. Dolcett can't make enough of them. Of course, no one knows for sure who buys them or for what they're used. The sales operation is all very hush hush."




 


My reporter was looking at my legs, his face still quite red. "And what about you? What have you been doing? Posing for any more of that nasty underwear?"




 


I laughed – and shook my head. He was teasing me, I suppose, daring me perhaps to flash my knickers. What he didn't know was that I wasn't wearing any. So what should I do? Show him, Sharon Stone style?

 

Slowly I did so, uncrossing my legs. "I don't do underwear any more," I said deliberately. He couldn't see anything - not yet, but he was looking. "I'm way beyond that. I don't even wear it nowadays." I parted my knees, letting the idea sink in. I could feel his resurgent interest, his stare, his male curiosity.

 

"If you get a chance to see the Dolcett Show – I know it's tough to get the decryptor cards – but you'll see a good deal of me. In fact, there's nothing you don't see. I get spitted twice a day – consensually - of course. I have top ratings and money that Merideth only ever dreamt of. I can choose my contracts. I can fix my fee. I love life. I like my job."

 

He hesitated, wondering.  He couldn't quite see my pussy. "You're kidding me!" he coughed. "You get spitted twice a day, and you like it?" He knitted his eyebrows, willing the skirt of my dress to rise a couple more inches.  "Don't you get bored?"

 

I grinned because he was asking about female joys. These he would never comprehend. "No way!" I exclaimed, crossing my legs. "Why should I be bored? You've just eaten a meal, some very nice food. How many times have you done that? Does the idea of food now bore you? No, of course not. So why should a shattering climax be boring to me? The first time was painful, yes, of course. I thought I would die. But now, with my straightened short guts? My stent? I get pleasure but none of the pain."

 

He was becoming frustrated. He was so near yet so far. There was an irritated smile lighting his eyes. "After an iron cock," I continued wistfully, uncrossing my legs. "What can I say? No man can compare. Humans are now for me quite ridiculous. There are no faked orgasms, not even a single one."

 

He was still disbelieving, still not seeing.

 

"What about side effects?" he asked. "How long can you live without most of your entrails?"

 

I laughed, glancing casually at my wristwatch. I should be going. Doris would be waiting for me. Should I put the poor man out of his misery? "Eating astronaut’s food does sometimes get boring," I confessed. "There are things that I miss: a good steak - and fish, I used to like fish."

 

I opened my purse and took out a coin, placing it on the table next to my half empty glass. "You shouldn't feel sorry for me," I said, finally treating my companion to the view he'd been drooling for. "Gutting is not a burden for me. I will always be slim. I can never gain weight – how many women would die for that alone? - and I can be impaled whenever I want."

 

I held my legs motionless as he stared at my yawning pussy lips, his jaw dropping open.

 

I must get back. Doris would be waiting for me. I'd left her at home, strapped to my new Jessica . I'd promised myself a treat when I returned.

 

I got up and walzed to the door, letting the skirt of my dress fall across my smooth pussy, shutting off the view. I felt good, elated. I thanked the doorman, blowing him a kiss, and skipped to the kerb outside. A breeze was blowing across my tender parts. I leaned forward and hoisted my skirt, hailing the chauffeur who drives my silver-blue colored Mercedes limo.

 

He was blond with blue eyes and big muscles.

 

"Take me home, Alec ," I said, sliding my naked ass onto the rear seat. Alec watched me through the rear mirror, not blinking. I pay his wages. He does what I tell him to do now.  "I'm horny. You can have Doris, but I shall be taking the two inch to bed again tonight."

 

He switched on the engine. He doesn't like it that I prefer to be screwed by a spit than by his hose. "Yes, Miss Jennifer," he said. "The two inch it is."

 

 

 

The end