King: Cocksure

Chapter VII

Loyola

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)

It amuses me to know that after mom took an interest in the family business—notably me—I at last got a chance to participate in some of the profits which seemed more than fair.

With a profit share came a new professionalism that would eventually lead me to found a porn empire, but my first efforts to give myself a porn name were underwhelming. I called myself Calico Cockeye. Actually, Brenda came up with the name Calico because she had a cat by that name. I was a Popeye fan so I gave myself my last name focusing on my primary work tool.

Mom figure if I was going to be using my tool to bugger all the women in town, it wouldn’t do to have me drag the family name through the mud. So my business cards (yes, I had business cards), read Calico Cockeye and His Giant One-Eye Wonder Sausage. Mom figured it would get the message across without being too explicit. If we got caught, we could always claim we sold meat, which I guess we did. None of us, mind you, were marketing geniuses.

As I sat at my desk in the big office atop Cocksure Industries main headquarters (actually, it’s a two- story complex of ramshackle warehouses and studios with nice office space inside), I contemplated how far I’d come and how far all I’d built could fall. Like Creech, I mistrusted Loyola Marin and her motives and wondered who was behind her sudden appearance and the super porn party of a few nights earlier. Creech imputed strictly femme fatale womanly motive to Loyola. I suspected there was a lot more to her than met the eye. I had Creech summon a private investigator to my office for later in the day to fill in the details of the disturbing dossier on Loyola Creech had assembled. Until he arrived, there wasn’t much I could do about Loyola, so I followed my usual Monday practice when I am in town, of roaming through the studios to see what new movies were being shot

I was careful not to get too close to Gloria’s office, but I figured that it always paid to buck up the other troops by taking an interest in their work. Gloria needed more than a buck up.

On what we refer to as studio 1-A (yes, we stole it from the Today show), French director Leslie Centerre was directing an epic on a smaller scale than Gloria’s Laguna fantasy. It was called simply Elastic Ass and it was about girls who can gape as wide as the Grand Canyon. When I got to the set at 8 a.m., there already was trouble. Leslie was yelling at some poor girl with innocent, wide almond eyes. Tears streamed down the girl’s cheeks in buckets.

I wouldn’t say she was beyond beautiful but those eyes of hers had a dramatic, almost electric effect.

“What’s going on Leslie?” I asked.

“Brawood (I loved how she pronounced my name) Miss Elizabeth here has signed a contract to feelm an anul scene for us, but now she refuses,” Leslie explained.

“Leslie, you can’t force anyone to do something they don’t want to do? Give her her clothes and let her go home.”

“I have tried, Brawood, but she won’ leave eider,” Leslie complained, waving her hands demonstratively.

“Let me speak to her to see what is wrong.”

I pulled the girl identified as Elizabeth aside and asked her what was wrong? She told me her full name was Elizabeth Martin and that today she was to film her first anal scene.

“I have never done anal even in my personal life,” she cried tearfully.

“That’s fine, Elizabeth, look get your clothes on and go upstairs and get a check,” I said. “We’ll pay you for your time today. Just remember not to put yourself in this situation again.”

“No, I won’t take your charity,” she said. “I want to do this scene and I will do it. I need to learn how to because I want a career in this business and girls who do anal get paid more.”

“Why don’t you go home and practice with your husband or boyfriend, then come back and try,” I said. “A lot of girls don’t do anal scenes at first or ever if they don’t want.”

“I have no one to practice with,” Elizabeth said. “My husband—he is very religious. He always says the booty hole is the devil’s playground and they who play there shall reap the whirlwind.”

“So don’t do anal or don’t get into this business at all. Your husband sounds like he would not like you doing this if he knew.”

“That’s just it,” Elizabeth said. “He will never know. He is so focused on the church, he will never see my scenes and I love sex. Just love it. I want a career in the sex business.”

“Well then film your scene with Erick over there.”

Elizabeth’s partner in the scene was fisting his cock trying to keep it inflated for when shooting resumed. The video and camera crew were also standing around waiting impatiently while several other naked girls paced nervously. Delay on a porn set builds destructive nervous energy among the entire crew.

“I would except Buster Hymen over there came over and started sawing into me like I was the Holland tunnel. It hurt like hell.”

“Well, you understand this is a gape movie,” I explained. “Buster’s job—er Erick’s—job is to open you up as wide as possible so that the camera can peep way up inside you.”

“Well, maybe if he started more slowly and I trusted him. But I think he started out wanting to hurt me back there.”

“We have other stunt cocks on the premises,” I said. “Maybe we can get them to take you off set and warm you up back there. A gape movie really is not a place to begin your first foray into anal.”

“Maybe if you tried it,” she suggested, batting those big almond eyes.

“I really don’t do that type of thing anymore unless I have a role in the movie and I don’t in this one,” I said. “Besides, if you can’t accommodate Eric back there, I’m out of the question.”

“I know,” she said. “I have seen your movies but if I can take you, I can take anyone. And you will do it right and take it slow at first.”

I edged her toward a men’s restroom, out of eyesight of the rest of the crew. It was the only way I could think of to get her off set so shooting could resume.

“Okay,” I told her. “if this what you want. We’ll take it slow at first, but I don’t want any complaints, later.”

I motioned to Leslie to start shooting the next scene with another girl.

“We’re going to do it in here?” she said nervously.

“Porn can be a filthy business,” I said. “if you can do it in here, you can do it anywhere. It’s kind of like New York.

I decided I really needed to get on the maintenance crew. They’d let things go in my absence. The tile checkered floor was littered with cigarettes, crumple hand towels, candy wrappers and assorted others debris I couldn’t recognize. This place really was filthy. I shoved her roughly into an empty toilet stall.

“I am going to poke you in your pooper,” I said. “Let’s go to where you’d poop. Lean over the toilet.”

“Ewww,” she said.

“Look,” I said. “You wanted this. You can leave now if you want, or you can do all the way.”

She dropped to her knees and leaned her slim naked body over the toilet, her face inches from the swill of piss slowly churning in the bowl. I knew what I was doing was cruel, but I have learned from experience that a girl either has what it takes to make it in porn or she doesn’t. It was better she found out now what it takes to become a porn whore or let her run from the business and never look back.

“How old are you, Elizabeth?”

“I’m 18,” she said. “My husband and I married early, when I was 16, but I hardly ever get sex from him and never in my back hole.”

“This will be either the worst experience of your life,” I said, “or the best. Either way, you won’t forget it.”

Elizabeth was a dish-water blonde with long hair that was now dangling freely in the piss water. I’d learned early on that some women really love hard-core, humiliating sex, the dirtier and freakier the better. We’d learn soon enough what kind of girl Elizabeth was.

“Oooooo, that hurts a little,” she said. “What are you doing?”

“The idea of a gape movie is that your ass opens into a big round chasm,” I said. “I am taking two fingers and poking them up there to spread you open. Okay.”

“Yes,” she said. “But hurry….it hurts.”

“You have a very tight, not very elastic butt,” I told her. “I have no idea why a girl with a nice round ass and tiny bung hole should want to appear in a movie titled Elastic Ass.”

“I figured that if I was going to break my anal cherry, this was the place to do it. But hurry, it hurts a little.”

“We’re just beginning,” I said. “Soon, I am going to stick three fingers up there and move them around to loosen you up. I spit on your ass so you are well lubricated. But it’s going to get tougher. Eventually, I will stick four fingers and then my whole fist inside and move it around. It’s going to feel like I am re-arranging your intestines. Then after I have spread you open that far, you will be ready to take my dick. I’ll take it slow at first, but eventually I will pound you like you’ve never been pounded before. Your face will be immersed in that yellow piss water and you will be splashing it all over….In your hair, all over your face and body. I will cum in your ass and pump a half pint of cream up there. It will be leaking from you for days. Your ass won’t close for hours and for days, it will feel like you were raped with a sword. Is this what you want? If not, speak up now. This is how you pay your dues in the porn business.”

She gritted her teeth and held on to the side of the toilet bowl as if she were an astronaut fearful of floating off earth and into space.

“Okay, I’m ready,” she said. I admired her bravery. Not many girls would have stuck around after my speech. Elizabeth was a trouper.

By the time I had my whole first up inside her, Elizabeth was rocking back and forth and screaming insanely. The crew outside the restroom must have assumed I was raping her.

“Holy Jesus mother fucking Christ,” she screamed, her face now deep in piss water. I was literally churning her insides and you could actually see my fist rolling her stomach muscles and turning her ass into quivering jelly. With my free hand, I slapped her ass cheeks hard and they turned a bright crimson.

“Smack me harder back there,” she cried.

When I thought she was ready, I pulled out my cock and slammed it into her hard. By now, her ass was gaping wide, red and free. I ripped into her with a force that literally knocked the wind out of her and spilled her whole head forward into the toilet. She burbled something unintelligible then pulled her head out to look back me with that thank you look women get when they are quite literally nearing nirvana.

“Put your head back in that piss where you belong, bitch.” I told her.

I shoved her roughly forward again and she took another dive. By now, both of us were soaked, and her hair and face were dripping wet.

“I never knew what it was like to cum before.” She wailed. “This is fucking, fucking unbelievable and so fucking dirty….”

Her caterwauling spilt me over the edge like a waterfall. I pumped wave after wave of ropy cum up inside her tight bung, then washed it out with a piss chaser. She wasn’t expecting that and the shock forced her head down into the toilet bowl and detonated another rolling cum from her that ejected copious amounts of ejaculate from her pussy, drenching me again. When she was done, her messy face was pressed hard against the wet and filthy tile floor, her ass in the air and every hole in her body (even her ears) leaked some type of fluid.

“That Mrs. Martin is what a dirty porn shoot is all about,” I told her.

We emerged wet and messy from the restroom a few minutes later. She was leaning on me for support. Two dozen sets of astonished eyes watched us as we both gasped for air. Suddenly, Elizabeth burped and regurgitated a mouth of piss water. She threw her arms around me and kissed me deeply,,,passionately.

“That was,” she said, “simply the best.”

One of the other teen porn starlets turned to a friend and said, “Nobody helped me like that when I was just breaking into the porn business. Some girls get all the luck.”

I held Elizabeth in my arms tightly. She was almost ready to collapse from a combination of exhaustion and ecstasy. Fluids still leaked from her holes and stained the plush hallway carpet.

“Okay, Leslie…Erick…and Mr. DeMille…if he’s here,” I announced. “Mrs. Martin is ready for her close-ups and to be a porn whore. Take her and abuse her asshole and get somebody from maintenance down here to clean up this mess and that godforsaken restroom.”

After a quick shower and change of clothes, I visited other porn shoots later that morning. At the MILF’s, Cream and Nookies shoot, I supervised the selection of women to play the MILF’s. There is a whole artistry to getting the right MILF for every scene. You can’t have some pornlet who just stepped off a teen set pretend to play the Mom. It’s not believable. You can’t get a tattooed coke whore for the role either. Nobody dreams about moms who look like that.

No, it’s always been our policy to pick pretty, fresh young women with a mature glow for our MILF lines, women who could play the Beave’s mom. Mrs. Lindsay Buckner Smith had the right look and attitude, but she’d never done porn before and I was concerned she might try to back out at the last minute like Elizabeth Martin had on the Elastic Assholes shoot.

“Mrs. Smith,” I started.

“Call me Lindsay,” she said. She had the ripe understated elegance of a Kate Hepburn in her youth, complete with white gloves and dainty slightly askew hat with lace covering the upper portion of her exotic eyes.

“Lindsay then,” I started again. “You realize that to do this shoot today, you are going to have sex with a total stranger, perhaps two or more.”

“Yes, of course, and I thought the idea perfectly wonderful, Mr. Cocksure,” she said. “I can’t wait to tell my husband.”

“Your husband?”

“Yes, perhaps you know him, the investment banker Gustavus Buckner,” she said. “He is such an admirer of your work.”

“Well, what made you want to come down here today and film a pornographic scene like this?”

“Lilly, Mrs. Lilly Preston Taylor,” she responded.

“Lilly?”

“Yes, my friend and the wife of Frederick McMillan, the real estate tycoon,” Lindsay said. “She came here last week to shoot a scene and had just a grand time. She participated in what I think you call a bang gang and said she’d never had a deeper, inner centered orgasm in her life. And she said she earned a nice sum of money for what was just a superb sexual experience.”

“Surely, people of your social standing don’t need the money?”

“Well, I hardly need to tell you, Mr. Cocksure that the investment banking and real estate markets have not exactly been as resilient as we’d hoped. Pookie—that’s my husband Gustav—is just beside himself with worry and as bad as things look now, the worst news is still to come. Gustav just spends his days now selling, selling and selling off our assets before people discover they are worthless. He even cut my allowance and Lilly’s was cut by her husband. By the way, did you get a change to meet Lilly when she was here last week?”

“No, I’m sorry I was out of town,” I replied.

“Well, after all that has happened in real estate here in Southern California, Lilly’s attitude about sex has changed. She says “I’m not getting Freddie Mac in my pussy or my crack. I might as well go someplace where my Fannie Mae get a hard poundin’ lay’. Lilly considers herself a poet.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Her husband Freddie is heavily invested in Lehman and AIG which—though it is not yet well known—have a few balance sheet problems of their own and the crap there has yet to hit the fan. She really needed the cash. She just can’t get over that George W. Bush and how he has led the country into such misfortune. I mean we elected the son-of-a-bitch to keep the undesirables out of this country and protect people in our tax bracket, but he’s been such a disappointment. I mean all those people begging for help after Katrina from the tops of roofs in New Orleans. We didn’t need to see all those black people. Why don’t they keep stuff like that off of television?”

“So you have no problem sucking a cock or two?” I asked.

“If it’s essential to the plot, why then I think the idea is a positively splendid idea…a real lark,” she said.

Rufus and Antonio, two prized members of our maintenance crew were heading back to the Elastic Assholes set pushing a rolling trash barrel to clean up the restroom and the mess left by Mrs. Elizabeth Martin on the carpet. I stopped them.

“Hey guys, Mrs. Buckner-Smith here is not worthy to see your cocks, much less suck them,” I said. “But as a favor to me, would you take them out and jam them down her gullet.”

“Mr. Cocksure, you realize, of course, that these gentlemen are of a darker ethnic variety?” Lindsay said.

“Yes, Rufus Thomas, here is black and Antonio Lopez is, I believe, Mexican,” I said. “Their dicks are waiting…”

“Okay, Mr. Cocksure, certainly, but can I use my cell phone to call my chauffer outside in the parking lot and tell him not to bother to wait for me? And can I keep my gloves on? These gentlemen’s privates are positively putrid.”

I nodded affirmatively and a few minutes later she was kneeling going from one cock to another, stroking with her white-gloved hands and choking down some impressive sausages with her mouth.

“Don’t you gentlemen ever wash down here,” she gagged.

I wondered what Wally and the Beave would say if they witnessed this scene.

“I’m telling you, Antonio, these are the kind of benefits they just don’t offer at Wal-Mart,” Rufus said with a smile on his face.

“Yeh, but I hear their 401k plan is a leetle better,” Antonio said.

“Fuck the 401k,” Rufus said. “I’m interested in the 69k plan.”

Not long after I was summoned to my office by Creech. I had unexpected visitors.

“Mr. Cocksure, I believe you and Rep. Exeter from Texas already have met,” Loyola told me after Creech showed my three visitors into my office.

“Yes, but as I recall, Rep. Exeter was not a fan.” I said, extending my hand in greeting

“I’m not, Cocksure,” Exeter said, pushing past me without accepting my handshake. “What I have in mind is purely a business proposition. Whether I like you personally or not is immaterial.”

Loyola quickly tried to defuse the potential for conflict by introducing my other guest, a tall, thin black man in an Ivy League suit. He looked vaguely familiar.

“This is Red Herlihy, an actor,” she said.

“Oh yes, Red has never done work for us but I have see his work for other studios in town. He’s quite the cocksman.”

“I try, Mr. Cocksure, but I haven’t done as much great porn as you.” Red said, grabbing my hand and shaking it heartily. “The rest of us porn stars here in Los Angeles look up to you and as a black actor, I appreciate the opportunities you’ve given to minority stars like myself.”

“We have quite a few black male stars under contract, Mandenko, Iron Rod, Pistol Pete…they all make great money here,” I said. “Maybe you should join us.”

“I’d love to, Mr. Cocksure, but I’m already under contractor to Ass Sets Studios,” Red explained. “Maybe when that contract expires…”

“We want you to make a movie with Red here, Cocksure,” Exeter said, interrupting rudely. “Loyola here said you are the only man she trusts to do the job we want done.”

“Yes, Loyola and I have a very special chemistry,” I smiled.

On this day, she looked especially delectable in a starched white blouse and trademark gold belt and tan micro-mini resting on a gorgeous pair of wide-set legs in fetish ankle-strap spiked heel shoes. Somehow when you stood next to Loyola she gave off a dizzying mixture of perfume and pheromones that reeked of hot, tight, wet pussy.

“I should tell you that if Red were under contract to us, I would have no problem making a movie with him,” I said. “But as he is already under contract elsewhere…”

“Not a problem, Cocksure,” Exeter said, interrupting again.

“…perhaps we could make the movie with one of the other actors in our company,” I finished.

“No, Mr. Herlihy has to be the actor we use and as I said earlier, his contract with Ass Sets is of no concern to you,” Exeter said.

“It is a concern, Exeter,” I said, getting riled for the first time. “This is my studio and I decide what pictures get made and what actors and actresses we use.”

“As if you operate on some moral high ground,” Exeter said as he got up to leave. “The very thought of this place fills me with loathing and disgust. I am going to go and let Miss Marin and Mr. Herlihy here negotiate the contract. Whatever it costs, the Republican Party will assume the expense. Miss Marin has authority to negotiate in our behalf.”

Exeter turned to address us as he walked out the door.

“Goodbye, Mr. Cocksure, my presence here today was necessary only so I could make it known to you the wishes of the Republican party,” he said. “Loyola can do the rest.”

When he was gone—much to my relief—I turned to Loyola angrily.

“Okay, Loyola, what is this all about? My patience with that bastard has run its course. I have the feeling I just talked to the most evil man on earth.”

“Brad, as I tried to hint to you the other day, there are far worse threats to you than Mr. Exeter. He is only a pimple. You have to squeeze the whole body to excise the corruption,” Loyola said.

“Well, I’m ready to start squeezing,” I said. “Where do I start?”

“By making this movie with Red as the star,” she answered.

“I don’t get it. Why Red Herlihy?”

“Don’t you see the resemblance?”

I studied Red’s face for a minute.

“Barak Obama?”

“Slowly the light dawns,” Loyola said.

“But why? To what end?”

“The movie Exeter wants you to make will star Red as Obama, who is secretly an Islamic terrorist bent on raping and killing innocent white school girls.”

“That’s crazy. No one will believe that,” I said.

“To the contrary,” Red said. “”Sixty percent of Americans already believe Sen. Obama is a terrorist or has Islamic fundamentalist ties. This movie will just play into that fear.”

“But where would you show it? No one would watch and it would be denounced as the worst racist claptrap since Birth of a Nation. I won’t be a part of this.”

“You don’t have to let people see it to show it to them. Insert frames in between theatrical releases between now and the election. Do the same on television. The subliminal message will get through.”

“And the Republicans have done research to show that many white women who fear and mistrust black men will be swayed to vote against Obama,” Loyola said. “White men, too, who feel social and sexual inferiority to blacks and are already inclined to vote against Obama because he’s black.”

“I’m afraid even some of our beautiful sisters will vote against Barak because of the hidden message that he prefers white women,” Red said. “It wouldn’t take much to cost him the election or help the Republicans steal the election like they did in 2000.”

“This sound like a bunch of hokum to me,” I said. “But I’m not playing along any more. I want both of you out of here.”

“No, you have to make this movie or someone else will,” Loyola said.

“Don’t you see that of all the dirty, dirty tricks the Republicans have pulled over time…making liberal a dirty word, stealing the election from Gore, Swift boating John Kerry, almost getting Clinton impeached because of a blow job, this Is, by far, the worst,” Red said. “This is the chance to expose their lies for what they are.”

“What’s your role in all this, Loyola?” I asked. “I thought you were a go-where-the-money- is type of girl.”

“Normally, yes, Brad, I won’t lie to you,” she said. “But this just turns my stomach so much, I have to do something to restore some decency in my life.”

“And Red what about you? I can’t believe you would work to sabotage the historic first election of a member of your own race.”

“I am an Obama supporter, but if he is going to win, making this movie and exposing what the Republicans have done is the only way. If someone else without your integrity makes this feature the way the Republicans want, Obama’s candidacy is toast.”

“So we pretend to make the movie and collect evidence to expose the Republicans,” I said.

“No, that won’t work,” Red explained. “You actually have to make the movie so you have something to show what the Republicans planned. Otherwise, no one will believe you.”

“It doesn’t have to be Gone with the Wind or even Gone in Sixty Seconds,” Loyola said. “It just has to follow the basic premise of the Republican script.”

“Script?” I said.

Loyola pulled a folder out of her purse and handed it to me. Inside was a stapled and typed manuscript of perhaps 25 pages. It was titled “Insane Hussein.”

After Red and Loyola left, I sat back and thumbed the two folders I held in front of me, one containing the script Loyola handed me and the other, the sketchy dossier on Loyola that Creech had put together, I had perhaps never been more conflicted. On the one hand, I wanted to trust my last two visitors, especially Red, who seemed a good and trustworthy person. I’d heard nothing but good things about him from people who’d worked with him. On the other hand, I had serious doubts about Loyola, especially about who she was working for and what her motives were. Creech’s dossier created some serious questions about her veracity.

Her part-time employer Exeter, I despised deeply. His work within the most conservative wing of the Republican Party was well known, but he’d shown himself to be a lying, race-baiting hypocrite on top of everything else, a disagreeable and obnoxious one at that. Despite their pleadings that I do the movie and quickly, I refused to make a commitment to Red and Loyola and they’d left disappointed. “I’ll let you know later this week,” was all I’d promised. For all I knew, they could be setting me up. I could see the headlines: “Porn Producer Makes Racist Video to Influence Election.” All they had to do is deny everything and I’d be ruined.

“Creech, when is Westbrook getting here?” I asked her on the intercom.

Westbrook was the private detective who I’d known for years. He did odd jobs for us like check out whether girls were really of legal age as they claimed. Creech had him working on filling in details in the dossier she’d assembled from what she could learn on the internet.

“I kind of thought he’d be here by now,” Creech replied. “He said he’d already struck some pay dirt and he’d be here soon to tell us in person. I’ll call his office and check. I do have someone else waiting on the line for you, however. Want me to let her through if I promise it’s not Gloria?”

“Claire, how are you doing?” I said into the speakerphone after I’d learned who was on the line. “Are you in town?”

The tall, imperial Russian beauty with whom I’d formed a great friendship while filming on Laguna Island had flown back to Europe after the film shoot wrapped. I’d thought about her several times but I’d been so busy since I returned, I had not had time to contact her.

“No, I’m calling from Dusseldorf,” Clair said. “I’m here for a Divas of Decadence fashion shoot…all fetish, all the time. Have you seen any of the other girls from the island.”

“Well, Devin, of course, she’s a permanent fixture here and Minnie…er Piglet…but enough about them. How are you doing?”

“Brad, I think I’m getting married.”

“You think? Aren’t you supposed to know one way or another?”

“Well, he hasn’t actually asked me yet, but all of the signs are positive. I met him on the island and we just hit it off. He’s older, but very wealthy and prominent. He’s an investment banker.”

“How did you meet an investment banker…at Gloria’s wrap party?”

“No, I stayed over a couple days after you guys left to catch some sun. I was just lying on the beach one day topless and he walked up and introduced himself. From then on, it was just love.”

“He checked out your assets and you checked out his, I’m guessing. I told you you’d catch a wealthy husband on the island if you stayed long enough.”

“Well, I won’t lie,” Clair said. “I did Google him to find out more about him. But what I discovered was all good. He’s aristocracy, related to some of the most monied families in Europe. He has homes all over the world and travels in very exclusive circles. Gustavus is…”

“Gustavus?” I said, incredulously.

“What? Do you know him?”

“Gustavus Buckner?”

“Yes, so you do know him?”

“No, I just met his wife,” I said.

Wally and the Beave were probably laughing their asses off now.

Suddenly, Creech buzzed in with some news.

“Brad, I called to find out about Westbrook,” she said. She was crying.

“He’s dead, Brad, killed in a car wreck.”