King: Cocksure

Chapter XVII

> > > A Star Is Born

This novel include graphic sex scenes, some involving minors, rape and forced sex. It is purely a fantasy and is not depicting real people or events. It is intended as a satire and is meant to be both funny and stimulating. The stories have a political slant as you will see. I hope you enjoy them. New chapters will be published as they are finished.

(Mffffffffff)

Many young girls come to Hollywood with stars in their eyes, hoping to become the stars in the eyes of legions of admirers.
A few succeed and many more give up. Some however are less concerned with mainstream success and eager to become stars of another type. They may make an attempt to become mainstream actresses but often find that the Hollywood casting couch forces them into a form of unpaid prostitution. Eventually, they figure they might as well get paid well for their sexual activities and recruited by an agent, a friend in the business or a sex-movie director, they drift into porn, often taking a path through strip clubs, massage parlors or one of the many brothels that operate in the west. Very few become super-stars like a Sasha Grey, but the money to be made in making sex videos and going on tour and appearing on web sites can be extremely enticing. For a very few, porn becomes a route to legitimate stardom in mainstream media.
Terry Dendridge had advantages over the thousands of other porn hopefuls. First of all, she was incredibly cute and had matured into and even lovelier woman since I'd last seen her. She knew me and her mother and "aunt" were close friends of mine and that didn't hurt. Lastly, she was the closest thing to a human waterfall I'd ever seen.
She sat across from me in a chair with those skinny but flawless legs of hers crossed wearing a tiny red miniskirt, showing me why I should listen to her pleas to star in a porn movie.
"I graduated from high school last month and I turned 18," she said. "I have decided that sex is my life and this is where I can fulfill my fantasies and get paid well for it."
"Look, I have a responsibility to your mom, not to let you make a mistake you will regret the rest of your life," I told her sternly.
"My mother works in a strip club and so does Aunt Dez," she said. "Yeh, they want me to go to college, but they know me and have given up trying to control my urges. So they will tell you to give me a chance."
"I've already talked to them and that's exactly what they said," I agreed. "It's me who has reservations."
"You didn't have any reservation when you were pumping my ass last summer back in Minnesota," she laughed.
"Well, that was different," I said. "You and the other girls pretty much raped me with the consent...no, urging of your mothers."
"So you know there will be no repercussions if you give me a screen test," the auburn-haired beauty giggled. "They've always known the path I'd choose in life and they've become increasingly encouraging."
"Okay, we are shooting a squirt movie downstairs, what I call wet spot flicks," I finally conceded. "Let's go down and give you a test. Screwing on video is a lot different than in your private life."
"How so?"
"Well all your privates no longer are so private," I said. "Look, I'm tired of arguing with you. Let's get downstairs before they finish shooting for the day."
Director Francine Howell, who was a former Brit, was telling the stage crew to wipe the floor of the puddle left from the previous squirting applicant when we got down to what we call Studio Wet. Here, we often shot squirting and pee videos and there were drains built into the floor and ridges along the edges of the ceramic floors to contain the overflows. Francine looked tired from a long day of work and was ready to head for home.
"Francine, I have one favor to ask," I asked. "I have one other girl I'd like you to try out for Young Squirters 65."
"Do you know how many squirters I have seen in my life?" Francine said. "I tell you it's a lost art. These young kids get a few dribbles or piss all over themselves, but squirting...no, they are at best leakers. Not like in my day when they could put out a lighted birthday cake from across the room."
"Let me assure you that Miss Dendridge here is quite prolific, but I don't know she can do it on command on camera," I explained.
Francine took one look at Terry and mumbled "leaker" under her breath. She waved us wearily toward a couch in the center of the stage and told Terry to prepare for a test shoot. One camera man was asked to stay on duty to catch Terry's performance.
Soon Terry was lying back on the couch with coltish legs spread wide and her skirt hiked up over her hips. She had matured significantly since I'd last seen her, but in the studio lighting I could tell that was largely the illusion created by effective application of more womanly makeup. Her body and face were still that of the skinny red-headed kid I met more than a year earlier. Her lips curled in a carnal sneer and she began to stuff her pink, moist pussy with a large red dildo, slowly at first but then with more tempo and eventually frantically. She was soon yipping in her trademarked way, but no fluid emerged from her vagina.
"Leaker, just like I said," Francine intoned. "Not so easy to do it in front of strangers is it, kiddo?"
"Well, if Brad there would help me," Terry cooed.
"No, I won't always be around to help," I said. "You need to do this on your own."
"Come on, Brad," Terry said, still stuffing herself with the dildo. "You know I can do it. I just need your help to get started."
"Okay, damn it, but this is the last time," I said. "If you can't do it alone after this, you go back to Minnesota and go to college."
She removed the dildo and I kneeled on the floor in front of her and hooked three fingers at the front of her wet pussy to massage her G-spot. Within a few minutes she was bucking like an unbroken colt, rocking back and forth and yipping like a horny coyote. Still, despite my drilling, there was no gusher.
Francine was about to order the camera man to stop recording when Terry suddenly exploded in waves of liquid that drenched everyone in the room, including me. The effusion was positively amazing from such a skinny young girl. I looked over at the camera man and his hair, face and clothes looked like he'd swum the English channel. Lights above dripped liquid and sparked. Francine's face was a mask of liquid and amazement.
Wiping her face, she asked George, the cameraman if he'd gotten the explosion on digital video. He wiped the camera lens and nodded affirmately.
"If she didn't break the camera," he said. "I got it."
Francine walked over to the couch and asked Terry to arch her back so she could look under her bare glistening ass. She studied the area under Terry's butt for awhile and then walked away shaking her head.
"No, water bottles or balloons," she said with that elegant accent of hers. "I don't see how she does it, but it is amazing."
"I drank a lot of diet soda before I got here," Terry said sheepishly. She burped and her stomach gurgled.
"Well, young lady, let's see what you can do when you are on your own," Francine said.
Now that the damn had burst, Terry began to rival Old Faithful. After a few minutes rest, she could eject a virtual geyser in any direction an amazing distance. Moreover, she was so accurate, she could hit any target Francine or George presented to her. The cameraman's cigarette lighter's flame was extinguished. Terry even managed to shoot down an annoying fly that was unlucky to buzz across the set. She was a better fly killer than President Obama could ever hope to be.
Francine and George stayed on set late past suppertime to capture it all on video. After awhile, I began to think I was watching a watery version of Annie Oakley and gradually retreated back upstairs to my office.
"What happened to you?" Creach asked me. "Girls push you in the pool?"
"No, I pulled my whole hand out of the damn hole in the holy damn dam and got sprayed by a dame," I explained. Creach had a puzzled look on her face as I closed the office door behind me.
It was getting late and I was tired. I wanted to get home and enjoy the evening with Claire, Devin and the girls. I checked my messages and found one waiting for me from an unidentified person at a number I didn't recognize.
I didn't waste time asking Creach about who it was. She would have recorded the person's name if she had known who it was. I called the number and had no trouble recognizing the voice.
"Loyola, is that you?" I asked in surprise.
"Brad? Brad you called me back. Oh, I am so grateful."
"Loyola, the last time I saw you, you were so mad I figured we'd never see each other again," I told her.
"Well, I had good reason to be angry after what you, Red and that horrible office manager of yours pulled," she said.
"Well you did try to warn me at the inaugural ceremonies," I said, "and for that, I am grateful."
"Yes, and now you need to be careful again," she said. "Exeter has told his Saudi buddies who it was who desecrated the most holy object in Islam. Now they are after you and me."
"Why you?"
"Exeter never liked me after you foiled his plans to beat Obama last year and he discovered I was involved or at least that I didn't tell him what you were planning," Loyola sighed. "He vowed revenge against me and you and when he learned of your little stunt in Mecca, he figured he'd let the Saudis take care of both of us. At this minute, a Saudi jihadist hit squad is assembling in Los Angeles to kill us. We need to get the police involved in protecting us both."
"Haven't you heard that L.A., hell, the whole damn state, is bankrupt," I laughed. "The police aren't going to waste any precious dollars to protect a pornographer and his friends. Besides, what makes you so sure that this threat is real?"
"There are a few good people left in the Republican Party," Loyola said, "and some of them are still my friends and they look out for me. I got a call last night from one of them warning me to get out of town."
"Or the Saudis would kill you?"
"And you, too, you dope."
"Okay, Loyola, let's assume you are right. I have a much better protection plan than involving the police or the FBI. Get your ass over to my house if you want to be safe. You're spending the night."
"With you and all your little bimbos?" Loyola said. "No, I don't think so."
"Okay, suit yourself, but you have such a pretty head and I'd hate to see you lose it to decapitating jihadists."
Loyola was already at the house by the time I got home around 8 p.m. in the limo with Terry, Claire, Devin, Piglet, Rachel and couple of other studio gals who tagged along. Donna was waiting there, too.
"Decided there is safety in numbers, eh, Loy?" I told Loyola. She was spectacular as usual in a gold sequined dress that simmered in the late California summer sun. Before she could answer, I turned to the florally attired Donna who was pacing like a hungry tigress protecting her cubs.
"We have people covering all of the potential vulnerable spots along the outer walls," she said. "Loyola tells me that this is the Jehileed who have targeted you and that is bad news, Brad. They are an al Quaeda affiliated group who play for keeps. They won't be easy to stop if they decide they want you dead."
"Well, I suspect that decision already has been made," I said, "so what do we do to protect ourselves?"
My mansion in LA is not as spectacular as Hef's (but, of course, he's selling his). Mine covers more acreage, however. A 12-foot high brick wall surrounds most of the property and it is fronted by a 16-foot wrought-iron gate which almost never closed, but today it would be. The non-protected side faces a steep 200-foot drop off into a ravine covered with rocks and scrubby pine. The view was spectacular but it was a potential vulnerability. A determined terrorist band could without much difficulty scale the cliff face and enter the property to lie in wait until a good time to strike. Adding to Donna's security concerns were the countless brush-covered secluded enclaves around the two-story house, swimming pool and guest house, where thugs could hide. These were a deliberate addition after I bought the house to give shelter to the porn stars and guests who I knew would tryst there during parties.
Donna's first thought was to herd me, my guests and the house staff into the large downstairs library.
"Now you are all in danger," Donna announced to everyone. "You will be confined in here until we announce it is okay to come out. If you decide to leave the property, talk to us and we will escort you out. Do you understand?"
"Boy, Mr. Surecock, you sure know how to throw a party," Piglet said. "Who's catering? Osama?"
Piglet always knew how to break the tension. A rivulet of titters splashed through the crowd and a few smiles appeared on what had been anxious faces.
"What are we going to do to occupy our time locked in here?" Devin sighed.
"Yes, this is hardly the evening of fun and games we were promised," Claire said.
"I don't know about you, but I'm getting fucked," Piglet said, removing her clothes. "I always said I'd die with my legs spread in bed."
"Yes, but this is like throwing a party for a Pollock in Ireland," Claire said.
"I don't get it," Piglet said.
"Not enough poles," Claire answered.
"Oooooh!"
Claire had a point. Or rather my point was among only a very few in the room. Besides me, there was the butler, a mechanic and the chauffer, who had point. Counting Loyola, Donna, Carmel, Patrice and a small crowd of other women who were here before I arrived in the limo with the girls from the studio, there were about 30 pussy holes for four poles. Add in the other orifices and the math got complicated real fast.
"We have enough poles for an orgy," Terry said, flashing her bright red dildo that Francine had given her. "Besides, I kind of like girls, too."
All of the girls starting taking their clothes off, too. Loyola and Donna were the only holdouts.
"Wait, you people really want to potentially die in here naked, fucking?" Donna said. Her military training made her sort of a prude. But I planted a big kiss on her lips and she melted like cheese. Soon her skirt was a puddle on the floor and her lithe, muscular body was pressed against me.
"I refuse to remain in here in this damn library while you fuck all these other women," Loyola said.
"Loyola, you can go," I told her.
"No, you're fucking me first," she said, pushing Donna aside. Loyola was naked in the blink of an eye. Donna dropped to her knees and began sloppily to fellate me. Meanwhile, Loyola began a series of deep soul kisses that lent more steel to the rod Donna was sucking.
I looked over to Herman Kester, the auto mechanic, who had six women variously arranged around his crotch massaging and sucking. He gave me that "is this okay?" look and I shrugged and smiled. He relaxed a bit and closed his eyes so he could enjoy the girls' ministrations.
Herman was a huge bear of a man who from the looks of it was somewhat lacking the pole department. The girls were making do with what they had to work with, however.
Emmet Brownlee, the butler, was used to providing service to the women who visited the mansion, but I don't think he'd ever provided a "service" like Rachel was demanding of him. He was furiously pumping her backdoor hole while she screamed and demanded more.
"I figured I'd start with a dime before I took on the whole dollar," she told me.
Terry was busily wetting her surroundings while Gary Hinton, my chauffer, was rising and collapsing on top of her. "Never knew Gary was so good at driving home a point," Donna said, admiring his stroke.
Other women were scattered around the room in a variety of stages of undress making mad passionate love to one another. Over the evening, I played the whole 120-hole course, though my strokes were eagles and birdies on some holes and I went back to repeat several.
At last, Loyola and I were alone in a corner of the room, her long, tan legs stretching on arched feet to allow me access to her bung hole and her head turned so her full ripe lips and tongue could encompass my mouth. Her hands were locked around a sturdy table for support as I plowed eagerly into her. This was how I remember it the first night we met at the porno party. She was an animal who unleashed animalistic urges in me. We both were sweating profusely as she rocked to a quivering climax.
There was something about Loyola that was unmitigated sex incarnate. It seethed from every pour. I felt that ancient urges pounding within me again and I pounded her repeatedly even as she quivered from her just finished orgasm. Eventually, I exploded with thick wads of cum that covered her back and thickly matted her golden hair.
Donna and Claire had been watching us while safely collapsed on the carpet.
"My god, Brad, just once I wish you'd do me that way," Claire said.
"I'd settle for half that intensity," said Donna, "and I am already worn to a frazzle."
Loyola fell to the floor with a look of complete satisfaction.
"Happy, Mr. Cocksure, that at last I've joined your harem?" she said.
Eventually, we all fell asleep in chairs and on the plush carpet around the room, all, of course, except the ever-vigilant Donna. Meanwhile, her armed security agents patrolled the perimeter of the property alert for any intrusion. The doors and windows of the mansion were all locked and we felt relatively safe. I remembered the stories my mother had told me about Vlostock and how he handled the problems with Chicago Mob the night the Sausage Factory opened. Too bad, I thought, that I don't have a weapon as powerful as the Indian mystic Rashan to protect us. Little did I know, I had something almost as effective.
At about 7 a.m., we were all awakened by the sounds of machine gun fire just outside the house. Almost immediately, cracks of more distance rifles were heard. Screams of fear and anguish followed.
Donna grabbed her holstered gun from nearby where she had been sitting and drinking a cup of coffee and ran toward the sound of initial gunfire. She was already fully clothed and had her gun ready as she emerged cautiously from the house.
Meanwhile, Terry came wandering downstairs sobbing and back into the library. I hadn't noticed that she had wandered off and gone upstairs earlier.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I was just practicing."
"Practicing?" I said.
"Yeh, for Francine," she said. "Francine told me to practice today before returning to the studio for more video."
Donna came rushing back.
"It's okay," she said. "Our guys killed all of them."
"All of who?" I asked, now totally perplexed.
"There were three swarthy-looking guys with machine guns," Donna said. "They apparently climbed the cliff wall in the night and cut the throat of one of the guards posted there. Then they approached the house and were preparing to climb up to a second-story balcony when Miss Dendridge here threw water on them. They screamed and started wildly firing their machine guns. That's when my snipers spotted them and killed them all almost instantaneously."
"It wasn't water," Terry interrupted. "I was upstairs on the balcony practicing for Francine."
Donna thought for a moment, then laughed.
"No wonder those terrorists started screaming," she said. "They climb to a balcony undetected and suddenly they get hit with a water blast from Miss Dendridge. You know how they feel about women and to get hit by unclean female ejaculate must have been their worst nightmare come true."
Loyola looked stunned.
It was barely audible but I thought she said, "Quin Suan Shalat."
Terry was already famous when the video Young Squirters 65 hit the market later that month and the publicity surrounding her having foiled a terrorist hit squad drove the video to not just the top of the porn charts but to the top of all video charts around the world. For awhile there, the video with her image on the cover was even outselling old videos of Michael Jackson. A star was born as another died and even I could not have predicted where it would all lead.
And I couldn't help but wonder where Loyola had heard about Quin Suan Shalat.