Big Hard Girls

by Nikki Crescent

  And my heart buzzed as I realized I wished I was Monica in that moment. I wanted guys to be passing notes around about me. I wanted guys to be ogling me and wishing they could get into my skirt. I wanted to be cute and sexy. I wanted to wear a little skirt that hardly covered my ass as I sat behind my little desk. I wanted guys to fight over who got to sit behind me during class, so they could stare with glowing eyes at my backside.

  It was during my second period gym class that I found myself feeling even more jealous of the girls in my grade. They got to wear the cutest little outfits: short cotton shorts and tight t-shirts, which were a little bit translucent. Some girls were wearing bras under their shirts and some were wearing nothing at all. I could see one girl’s nipples, and so could all the other guys—it was the gossip of the locker room afterwards. And once again, I wished they were gossiping about me.

  Next it was lunch. I watched with jealousy as the girls all sat together and gossiped. I listened to them giggle and then I watched as they compared nail polish. My God, I wanted to paint my nails the way they had theirs painted. I wanted to be one of them.

  Would these feelings ever go away? Would I ever get over these new feminine desires, or was I just going to be stuck with them for the rest of my life? Would they only get worse, the way they already had been getting worse? Every day they were stronger, and every day I felt more depressed, knowing I would never actually be a woman.

  But was it true? Would I never be a woman? I knew that I passed as a woman—I’d gone out a few times all dolled up, and no one had ever said a thing. I even got a man’s phone number, and I was about 99.9% sure he had no idea that I was actually a man. So if I were to just show up for school the next day as a woman, would anyone even know that I wasn’t, until the teacher asked who I was? And by that point, the guys would have already ogled me, and the girls would have already admired me with jealous eyes. They could pretend like they could tell all along, and they could make fun of me—but how long would that last? Soon enough, they would get bored and move on with their lives. And then I would get to be Jacqueline—the female version of me that I knew I wanted so badly to be.

  The thought brought a smile to my face. I’d endured embarrassment before—it was nothing I couldn’t handle. Like when Miss Barrett made me stand at the front of the class with a massive erection—how could showing up for class dressed like a girl be any more embarrassing than that?

  So I decided I would do it—I would show up for class in my feminine attire: wig, makeup, shoes, clothes, voice, and attitude. I was excited, ready to embrace the new me… But why did I have to wait until tomorrow? It was lunch now, and my next class was just an elective. I showed up for the beginning of class and then I told the teacher I wasn’t feeling well. He told me to go see the nurse. I went straight from his class to my locker, to get my girly bag. I took it to the girl’s bathroom and I started to get ready. My heart was pounding with a combination of fear and excitement. I couldn’t wait to see the reactions: good and bad. I didn’t care if they mocked me—I was ready for it. You have to endure a bit of bad if you’re really going to appreciate the good sometimes.

  And then I showed up for my last class—Miss Barrett’s class—all dolled up and adorable. I caught a few guys looking my way as I took my seat with a straight back. I crossed my legs and took a deep breath. My heart was slamming out of control into my ribcage. No one had figured me out yet. They probably thought I was a new girl or a visitor. They had no idea what was about to hit them.

  Miss Barrett walked into the classroom. She started taking attendance and then she noticed me sitting at my desk. She stopped and then a grin crossed her face. When she got to my name, she said, “Jacqueline?”

  I put up my hand and everyone spun to look at me. I caught one guy nudging his buddy. I could tell they both wanted to fuck me.

  She marked me in her attendance and then she called out my male name. “Jake?” I remained silent, and no one clued in. Miss Barrett was playing along, giving me time to settle in before everyone knew the truth. It wasn’t until the next morning when my first period teacher took attendance that everyone learned who I was. There were gasps and some seriously dark red faces in the crowd. Men were silent after spending the whole last afternoon gossiping about how hot I was, and the girls were silent, impressed by how convincing I was. And I just sat there with a big smile on my face, feeling happier and more hopeful than ever before in my life.

  THE END

  I KNOW HER SECRET

  Cliff has a special job: colour correcting film footage for major movie studios. He gets access to hard drives filled with cut takes and scenes. In some of that spare footage, major celebrities have wardrobe malfunctions in front of the camera, and Cliff, being an opportunist, can’t help but sell those clips anonymously for thousands of dollars to magazines and websites.

  One afternoon, while going through the footage of a major motion picture, Cliff finds a tiny wardrobe malfunction with big consequences: Vanessa Klein, a rising star, accidentally let her big package slip out from under her skirt. It all happened so fast that the cameraman probably didn’t even notice. And on that same hard drive Cliff finds Vanessa’s personal contact information. So rather than going to his usual contacts for his pay-out, this time he tries going right to the source.

  CHAPTER I

  It was 2013 and I was quite possibly the only guy on the planet with a photo of Jessica Perkins’s tits. And yes, I do mean the Jessica Perkins.

  I’d had that photo for almost a year, sitting on my hard drive, begging to be released to the world. I didn’t even show it to my close friends—I couldn’t show it to my close friends or I would jeopardize my chance to make an easy hundred thousand dollars. And yes, that was the going rate for a picture of Jessica Perkins’s titties. She was arguably the most famous actress at the time, after she did that string of blockbuster movies.

  Sometimes I wonder if I was the one who ended her career. After that photo got out in 2014, she stopped acting for a few years. When she finally came back, she was just doing indie stuff and people only remembered her as ‘that girl who was in the movie with the green guys’. While she was hiding from the media, her buzz died and that was it for Jessica Perkins. And I was no longer the only person on the planet with a photo of Jessica Perkins’s tits.

  But I had plenty more photos in my collection, waiting to be released into the world for the right price. Were they my photos to sell? Technically not. But I had them, and people were offering lots of money, so how could I say no? How could I turn down tens of thousands of dollars for a quick e-mail when I only made about $45,000 per year? It was just business.

  It was always a bit awkward when people asked how I afforded such a grand lifestyle with my measly job as a colour timer. It was easy to explain away to friends who didn’t work in the industry. “The pay is really good,” I would lie. But with my friends who did work in the industry—my friends who knew that even the best colour timers in the world don’t make more than about $70,000—explaining my wealth away wasn’t so easy. “A few years ago my rich uncle kneeled over. He left everything to me but never said why,” was my go-to lie when I needed a good one.

  I didn’t have any uncles. Both my mom and my dad were only children. But no one had to know that. I couldn’t let people know that I was selling nip-slip photos to dirty websites and gossip rags. Was I really the bad guy? It’s not like I was the one publishing the pictures. And it’s not like I was the one taking the pictures—I wasn’t even technically stealing them—I was just the middleman.

  Whenever our office got a new job, a production assistant would come by with the hard drive. Back in the day they used to come by with ten hard drives that needed to be chained together with USB splitters and other fancy gadgets for the time. But that was when the biggest hard drive you could get was 100 GB. By 2018, the production houses were using 50 TB drives that could hold absolutely every little piece of information from even the biggest films—and they could
be plugged into even the most ditsy little laptop computer.

  It was my job to set up the Davinci file. Davinci was the program we used to colour correct movies. I would name the file and the folders we would use, and then I would import the movie and the EDL list, and then I would go through and make sure all the clips were named and organized nicely so that the senior guys could come in and finish the whole film in just a couple of days. Sometimes, if it was a little indie on a small budget, they would let me colour correct some of the movie. Usually I was just stuck with the administrative monkey work—but they always left me in my own little room to do my work, alone with that hard drive, alone with all of the footage from the set.

  It was back in 2013 when I learned how to open the RAW film footage, while I was bored working a night shift. It was actually quite simple: the program was free online, and I learned everything I needed to know from a fifteen minute YouTube tutorial video. That night I found myself going through take after take of the footage, fascinated by the filmmaking process. I wanted to be a filmmaker, so what I was seeing was invaluable—better than any behind the scenes featurette on a DVD disk.

  And I found myself admiring Jessica Perkins, the super famous, beautiful young actress. Every guy in the world had a crush on her, and in this particular scene, she was wearing a tiny dress that showed off more cleavage than she’d ever showed in her career. I was watching the takes, hoping she would turn at just the right angle to expose her tits. And then, in take fifteen, she stumbled and the straps of her dress fell over her arms, and her tits were out. Her nipples were being covered by little pasties.

  The director shouted “Wardrobe!” and then two little Asian women ran into the frame.

  “Can I get a new pair of pasties? I can feel these ones slipping already. And can someone get me a coffee? Where are the PAs on this set? My agent was right—I should have never taken this damned job.” One of the Asian ladies ran off while the other worked behind Jessica, adjusting the straps of her dress. Jessica’s tits were still out.

  “Hold the roll,” the director yelled. “Let’s hurry it up with wardrobe. We’re losing our light!”

  Then, the most magical thing ever happened. Jessica, who maybe couldn’t hear the director and didn’t know the camera was still rolling, peeled the pasties off of her nipples. Then she cupped her breasts and gave them a little lift, letting them breathe for a moment before they were covered up again. The cameraman reacted quickly, turning the camera away to give Jessica some privacy.

  But on a film shoot, nothing is deleted. I had about four and a half seconds of Jessica Perkins’s exposed breasts, in glorious 4K resolution, perfectly in focus, amazingly lit by one of the best cinematographers in the business. I took a series of screenshots and sent them to myself via e-mail. And I knew what I had was valuable. A week later, I saw an ad in the back of a gossip rag. “Have an exciting photo of a star? We want to buy it from you!” I e-mailed the rag asking how much they would pay for a photo of Jessica Perkins’s tits, and they replied, “If it’s a real photo, we would pay a lot.” I decided to wait a year before making my move. I needed that hard drive to get into the hands of many more people before I cashed in, so that there would be too many suspects to investigate.

  It was a year later when I e-mailed again. They sent a person to my house, and I spent almost an hour interrogating her before letting her see what I had. I had to make sure she wasn’t going to reveal my name and ruin my career. And I had to make sure she was serious about paying me one hundred thousand dollars. When I showed her the screenshots, her eyes lit up. “It could be Photoshop,” she said.

  “I’ve got the video file to prove it,” I said. And that night I was paid one hundred thousand dollars in cash.

  The next night, I found myself at work, searching through the newest hard drive that was dropped off by Paramount Pictures. It was an action movie, and there was a scene in the movie where Lauren Fox was wearing the tiniest little skirt with nothing but a thong underneath. I went through take after take after take. And eventually I found what I was looking for. In scene 19, take 9, Lauren sat down to get a pebble out from her shoe, before action was called. Her legs were spread just enough, and her little thong was nudged just enough to the side. Her snatch was only on screen for two seconds, but that’s all I needed.

  They shot the film in 6K resolution, so I was able to zoom right in and snap the clearest screenshot imaginable. That photo got me forty thousand dollars.

  And then there was the little indie film that came in with a cast of no-names. I wasn’t going to bother searching for hours through the footage, knowing there wouldn’t be any valuable photos, even if I did find some tits or a pussy. But the actress in the film was so stunning, I couldn’t help myself. I ended up scouring for more hours than any other film before, and sure enough, I ended up finding a nice clear shot of her rack while she was adjusting her loose-fitted tank top in one of the film’s later scenes. I saved it for my own personal use, and then a year later, I saw that girl’s face on TV. She was the star of some big director’s new movie, and her name was blowing up. So I didn’t miss my opportunity. I e-mailed a few of my contacts, and they put in their bids. That titty picture was work seventy-five thousand dollars. I used that money for a down payment on a nice big mansion, not too far from where that very girl lived.

  By 2018, I had over a million dollars in my bank account. I didn’t just limit by side business to pictures of tits and pussies. Whenever I chanced across a shot of a guy’s cock, I would save that as well, though cocks never got nearly as much money as tits or pussies.

  One of my best finds was with a movie called John Cherokee. There was a sex scene in the film, with two famous actors. Now of course everyone knows that sex is fake in movies. They have special underpants that the actors wear, so that their genitals don’t touch each other. But they don’t usually do anything to cover the actress’s tits, so I went searching. And while I was watching take after take of simulated sex, I came across something big. In the third take, the blanket got tugged up when the actress went to fake her orgasm. When that blanket got tugged up, for just a brief second, I could see penetration. The actors had taken off their special garments and they were having real sex on camera. The exposed penetration was so quick, the director didn’t even notice. I don’t even think the camera guy noticed.

  I zoomed in as much as I could and I recorded the slip. That little clip got me another seventy thousand dollars—and it was responsible for two divorces. I can’t say that I feel too bad though. Even if they were acting, they were cheating.

  The penetration clip was big, but it was in 2018 when I found something even bigger.

  CHAPTER II

  It was a Monday like any other. I was at work, sipping coffee in the lobby with the other colourists, waiting for an expected delivery from 21st Century Fox. The production assistant was running late, but none of us minded.

  Sammy was telling us about his weekend. “I haven’t drank like that since I was a teenager. Seriously—I had my first beer, and then I had a second, and then I just lost track of myself. I lost track of time for a while. My wife tells me that I had ten drinks. Ten—can you believe that?”

  “You haven’t had ten drinks since you were a teenager?” asked Alex.

  Sammy laughed and shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve never been much of a drinker. But damn, that was Friday night, and I’ve still got a hangover. I took four Tylenols this morning, but of course that did nothing.” He reached into the air to stretch out his arms. “But hey—guess who I saw down at the bar?”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Here’s a name you haven’t heard in a while: Jessica Perkins.” My heart stuttered. It always stuttered when I heard that name, as if I still had some lingering guilt over what I did to that poor girl. Though she wasn’t a poor girl. She pulled her top down in front of a rolling camera—all I did was take a screenshot a few months later.

  “Oh yeah—a name I haven’t heard in a whil
e but a name I’ll never forget,” said Alex. “You know I had to ground my kid when that picture came out. I went into his room and saw that he’d made it his desktop background picture.”

  “You grounded him for that? I’m pretty sure it was my laptop’s background picture for at least a month.” Sammy laughed. “You know, I heard they paid the guy who sold them that picture like a quarter million dollars or something.” I was tempted to correct him, but I kept my mouth shut. “Can you imagine getting a quarter million dollars for a photo? And that hard drive was here in the office. That could have been one of us.” Now I remained very silent, staring down into my coffee cup as if I wasn’t paying any attention at all.

  “Maybe it was one of us,” said Alex. I kept my gaze down. “Maybe it was Cliff.” My heart stuttered and then fizzled down into my gut. I looked up and saw Alex staring at me with a serious look on his face. Did he know? Had he known all along?

  He cracked a smile and then started to laugh. “I’m just kidding. Don’t look so serious,” he said. And then he turned back to Sammy. “I bet it was the camera guy. Camera guys are always perverts.”

  “Amen to that,” I said. My heart was slowly lifting itself back out from my gut.

  Finally that front door opened and the production assistant from 21st Century Fox came running in. He was a small guy, probably not a day older than nineteen, with pimples all over his face. “I’m so sorry,” he said, panting for air as if he’d run up forty flights of stairs instead of taking the elevator. “Traffic was terrible, and your elevator is being services.” So he did run up forty flights of stairs. That explained the sweat dribbling down the side of his face.