It may not be art, darling, but it pays the bills
by Mike Kimera © 2005

The second cock is thicker and longer. Its owner moves it carefully into my mouth, not wanting to risk damage to his pride and joy by accidental contact with my teeth.

"Jesus, BT, that bitch’ll never take all that. Look at it. I bet even Mr. Ed weren’t hung like that."

His accent is so bad I’d laugh, except I’d choke if I tried. He’s yet another white-middleclass wannabe-gangsta from the suburbs. I wonder what his mother would think if she could see him now?

Of course it’s not all his fault, he’s just saying his lines and frankly my dear, the dialogue in this movie sucks more than I do.

Still, what did I expect of something called "Gaggin for it ­ the Bitch Tamer face-fucks your Mom, Dude"?

I play the "Mom", dressed in a business suit so small that my tits spill out of the jacket and my knees get friction burns from walking in the tight pencil skirt. Not what we used to call cinema verité back in RADA. I feel more like a pantomime dame trying to fuck the principal boy.

I’m the only one who finds this funny. My co-stars, who are blessedly ignorant of any cultural reference points beyond Disney, Fox and HBO, genuinely believe that this is a movie about hot kinky sex.

The reality is that this is a movie for men who hate or fear women, envy big dicks and know, deep down, where the ball-tightening, cock-stiffening truth is locked up, that they’d take my place as BT’s cock-swallower in an instant, as long as none of their friends ever found out.

BT puts his hand on the back of my head and pushes, trying to grind my nose into the place his pubes would be; except BT shaves, so I’m heading for a close-up view of the tattoo that gives him his name. It reads "Bitch Tamer" in Gothic script in the shape of a cross, with both words sharing the same T. Bitch underlines his navel; Tamer stretches down until the two legs of the R snuggle up to the base of his cock.

Doesn’t that just scream latent-homosexual panic? I bet he was hard the whole time that the big guy with the latex gloves was sticking that tattoo needle in him.

"Read it and weep, bitch," BT says.

Weep? I want to cry with laughter. I bet this guy’s choice of bitch would be some tight arsed twink with a shaved head and a stud through his tongue.

But the show must go on, so I do my best to tear up and look scared. Or at least not to look bored. I must be getting it right because the still-photographer starts flashing away with his camera. That will show up in the movie of course but low production standards are all part of the grunge-porn package.

"Pull her jacket back, Dude, I wanna see her fat tits jiggle while I fuck her face".

Gangsta-boy rushes to obey BT’s command. He kneels behind me, pulls my jacket down off my shoulders so that my arms are trapped at my sides and then grabs my tits. I’ve got good tits large, silicon-free, heavy yet firm. But the best bit…

"Shit, Mumsy’s got nipple rings," gangsta-boy cries.

… Yep that’s the best bit. That’s the real attitude adjuster.

I smile around BT’s cock.

"Hold her arms back. Make her hold your cock while I fuck her face and get those nipple rings bouncing."

This is where I get really good at my job. I have a wide mouth, a strong neck and no gag reflex. It probably also helps that I’m not heterosexual. I share Larry Olivier’s view that true acting comes from distance, not from dredging up some best-forgotten "primal scene". Acting is a job, not group therapy.

For the briefest of moments I fantasize about stopping the show and asking, in true method actor style "Can you help me focus on my emotional motivation at this time?" Instead I concentrate on giving BT a hell of a ride.

According to the script he’s supposed to gag me with his cock, briefly block off my air by pinching my nose closed and then pull out and slap my tear strewn face with his engorged meat before forcing his balls into my abused mouth. We’ll see how well he does.

I’m not surprised when he grabs my jaw in one hand and my head in the other, I’ve seen his act before. I don’t resist; I take everything he has to give. I’m a professional, my dear and although this may not be art, it pays the bills.

There’s a kind of THWOCK, THWOCK, THWOCK noise as his cock bottoms out in my throat. He’s big, but truth be told, he’s not all that hard. Perhaps I’m not his type. Still, his pliability means that I can take him more easily.

The video camera is almost as close to my face as BT’s cock. Allegedly this is so his fans can relish the abuse he inflicts, but I think it’s so they can get a better view of the long column of slick flesh. What else is all this ball-sucking stuff about, if not to get a better view of BT’s erection?

Meanwhile, gangsta-boy tries to feed his smaller-but-harder (must be the fine view he has of BT’s weapon) cock into my hands. He’s holding my arms none too gently behind my back so I give way to a wicked urge and do something that isn’t in the script. I capture his dangling chicken-skin balls in my hand and hold him firmly in place. He doesn’t have any lines at this point and, compliant little lamb that he is, he says nothing but he does give out a satisfying little squeak. Is that perhaps the sound gangsta-boy would make if BT ever pressed his substantial girth up against the boy’s tight little ring?

BT must be smarter than he looks (actually, everybody has to be smarter than BT looks) because he’s figured out that I’m yanking his boy’s chain (well, actually his scrotum) and decides to do a bit of adlibbing of his own,

"I’m gonna choke the bitch unconscious," he quips. Then he uses both hands to pull my head forward until my stretched lips are pressed into his groin.

Now I really can’t breathe and he knows it. An evil voice in my head tells me to bite him and watch him bleed to death but I don’t listen. I’m sure the movie would make a mint but I would never work again and besides, I’m a vegetarian.

I don’t have to work at making my eyes tear anymore; BT is pressing my head so hard I think my nose will break. Surely he can’t really mean to make me pass out? Then I get it. This is about power. About teaching me my place. About submission. About me letting go of his little friend’s balls. For the first time, BT is looking me in the eyes. He sees me work it out. He smiles. It’s not a pleasant sight.

BT makes me wait a couple of seconds after I release gangsta-boy’s family jewels. I feel his cock stiffen in triumph. Then he releases my jaw, pulls my head back by the hair, and extracts his cock with the slow deliberation used in the ceremonial unsheathing of a sword.

I’m still gasping for breath and trying not to puke when BT slaps me with his cock for the first time. He’s slapping with enough force to bruise. There’s no doubt that he’s hard now.

I’m angry at BT but there’s no point in letting it show. The best punishment for this kind of attention seeking prick is to ignore him. Of course that’s not going to be easy when he’s spraying his cum on my face. Not for the first time, I ask myself how a nice girl from Hampshire ended up on her knees in LA. Sigh.

"Way to go, BT."

Gangsta-boy has brought us back onto the script.

"Work the up-tight slut," gangsta-boy cries.

Up-tight slut? It seems that the "writers" of our little drama have unleashed an oxymoron. It should feel right at home with the other morons around here.

"Keep her mouth open for me," BT says.

Gangsta-boy leans against my back, slips two fingers into either side of my mouth and stretches me.

When BT pushes his (mercifully shaved) balls into my mouth his cock (which now curves wickedly at the tip) is so close to gangsta-boy’s face it must take all of the poor boy’s self-control not to take a quick lick.

BT lets some of his weight rest on me, pushing his balls deeper into my mouth ­yeuk.

After a few seconds, during which the still camera flashes, doubtless enticed by my smeared lipstick and tear-damaged make-up, BT pulls out and leaves me gasping for air and drooling spit ­just the way the punters like to see a woman apparently. BT’s little helper is behind me pulling off my jacket so that I’m naked from the waist up.

I’ve almost finished retching when BT grabs me by the hair and pulls my head up. He and his helper are standing on either side of me, pushing their cocks into my face

"It’s time you did some work, bitch," BT says. "Jack us off all over your face."

The man has such a way with words.

Still, once I get this over, I can go home and take a long, long shower.

I take a cock in each hand and start to stroke. Gangsta-boy is definitely a little soft. He’s trying to play the part by touching up my tits but it doesn’t seem to be helping him. I don’t want to spend all day on this so I suck the tip of his cock as hard as I can.

This isn’t enough for BT, who pushes my head further down gangsta-boy’s cock. The cock twitches in my mouth. I wonder if this is the depth of the penetration or the fact that BT is effectively using my mouth to wank his little buddy. I decide on a little experiment to speed things along.

As soon as BT let’s go of my head, I sit back on my heels and push both cocks into my mouth. The cameras love this so the guys can’t pull back. I can only fit the tips into my mouth at the same time but that’s not the point. The object of the exercise is to rub gangsta-boy’s cock up against BT’s as often as possible.

The effect is immediate and very visible and very messy. With a cry that is half embarrassment and half delight gangsta-boy shoots his load. BT trys to pull back but he isn’t quite fast enough; some of gangsta-boy’s cum shoots all over him. There’s a frame the fans will come back to again and again.

I’m having fun now. I let go of gangsta-boy’s rapidly shrinking dick and turn my attention to BT. I act fast enough to ensure that I actually get to push gangsta-boy’s jizz all along BT’s shaft.

Then BT retaliates. I think he wants out of here too but he wants revenge first.

He slaps away my hands, puts his hand on the top of my head, pushing me back at an angle that almost breaks my neck and makes it impossible for me to move and then the bastard wanks off into my eyes. Shit, I hate that.

There’s a few seconds more while the boys half heartedly push cum around on my face with their dicks but we all know that we’re done.

At last, the "director" says, "Good job, people," a phrase that American’s don’t seem to find in the least bit ridiculous, and I can get up off my knees.

Gangsta-boy actually hands me a towel, bless him.

Ah, well, it was all in a day’s work I guess. I lock myself in the bathroom and clean up. Looking in the mirror I’d like to be able to say "never again", but I know I’ll be back. In fact my next gig is already booked.

Still, at least it’s a lesbian shoot.

_______
© 2005 Mike Kimera. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio:  Mike Kimera was raised as an Irish Catholic living in England and now works as a management consultant living in Switzerland. At the age of forty three he started writing stories about sex and lust and the things they do to us and five years later he’s still at it.

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