Escapades of a Porno King

by George Alexander

  While dinner was being put on the table, Jack tried to formulate the relationship between the three girls. Joan was rather obviously the “leader of the pack.” She was forceful, but he doubted whether she would ever be impetuous. He imagined her calculating things—like this evening—in her mind, and setting them up so everything would go just perfectly. She had a restrained flair for the dramatic—a fine command of subtlety and understatement—that was communicated perfectly by the controlled intonations of her voice, in which Jack thought he could detect just a hint of a British accent. The accent was not of the affected type so common to the East Side phonies that Jack so thoroughly despised—rather, it was obvious that it had once been genuine, and was gradually and naturally succumbing to the flatter tones of educated New York.

  Janice, on the other hand, was what Jack would call “flashing.” Compared to Joan, she seemed to exude almost uncontrollable energy that flickered like heat lightning with her moods. She seemed changeable, and Jack guessed she could, at times, have quite a temper. Her body reminded Jack of that of a finely trained, well-bred animal—but an animal nevertheless. Jack guessed from the name Wild that her father was English, but he was sure her mother was pure Italian. While Joan's body tended toward softness, in places—like her stomach, and her buttocks—bulging with that slight excess of flesh that Jack found irresistibly sensual, Janice's body looked as though it had been poured into her skin red-hot, till every point was finely toned, till she was about to burst out of her perfectly conceived figure. Janice's language could be crude, her manner could be loose and easy—or challenging and stimulating, whichever she chose.

  As for Cindy—there was obviously a great deal more there than met the eye. Jack figured her as the most complex of the group, and perhaps—although there were certainly no dummies—the most intelligent. Cindy, Jack felt, was probably the most individualistic of the three, if only because she kept so much to herself. He also suspected, ironically, that Cindy would be the most demanding in bed. She seemed capable of having hidden programs and intricate—perhaps even bizarre—desires lurking behind those innocent-looking blue eyes. Well, he would see—perhaps.

  Dinner passed quickly and enjoyably. Fortunately the table was not made of glass, and the only distractions available were, of course, Cindy's belligerent little breasts, fully exposed, and Janice's larger, more motherly breasts, just barely covered. Afterward, the four sat around for a few minutes relaxing and drinking liqueur, letting their food digest. Finally, Joan said, “Well, let's get started.” She dispatched Janice to another room to procure a second typewriter, and began opening the packages Cindy had brought home.

  “Wow, what's this?” she said, opening the first one. She pulled out four or five magazines and, as she spread them out on the floor, Jack saw they bore such titles as “Well Hung,” and “Male Stud,” although there were also two girlie magazines, “Naked Flesh” and “Pussy Galore,” as nearly as he could tell from a cursory upside-down reading. Needless to say, the covers bore pictures appropriate to the titles, and Jack was somewhat amused to find a photo of an erect cock, at least ten inches long, staring at him from the floor.

  Cindy blushed slightly. “I told you,” she said, “to help with descriptions. I didn't know we were going to have a live specimen. Anyhow, we still might need variety...”

  Jack laughed. “What makes you think I'm going to be a guinea pig, anyhow?” he teased.

  Cindy glanced at him over her shoulder. “Well, it seems you just have to,” she said innocently, “because I have certainly never seen a penis before—or any of those other things that men have—and if you don't help us, how are we going to write our book?”

  “I guess you're right,” Jack chuckled. Then, “But it seems to me that I ought to be reimbursed for my services...”

  “Great,” Janice broke in. “Well pay you... let's see, we'll pay you by the pound. At a hundred dollars a pound of cock, that ought to come to about fifty cents.” Well, Jack had pegged Janice pretty well.

  “And of course, if we perform any similar services for you, we'll have to be reimbursed too,” Joan added.

  “I guess I'd better forget the whole thing,” Jack conceded. “Anyhow, where do you want to start?”

  “Well,” Joan said, “you tell us. You're the expert. Do we think up a plot, or sketch out a group of characters, or make an outline, or what?”

  “None of the above,” said Jack. “At least, I don't do it that way. I try to get one really sexy scene in my head, and then I just sit down and write. I add extra characters when needed, and the story just develops on its own, sort of organically.”

  “With the accent on the organ,” Cindy said.

  “Exactly. Ok, any of you girls got a really good beginning scene?”

  There was silence for a moment. Then Cindy spoke. “I didn't get a chance to read, all of your book—“Show Off”—but from what I did read, I really identified with that girl. How about this: this is even something I do myself sometimes, although we could change it around, make it a little more dramatic.”

  “Make it what you'd really like to do?”

  “Sort of.”

  “That's exactly what you should do. Write your fantasies. Of course, after you've written them, they become a lot more plausible, and then sometimes you go ahead and act them out. Anyhow, shoot.”

  “Sometimes I go to the park, on a Saturday or a Sunday in the summer.”

  “Oh yeah,” Joan broke in, “this is great. I'd forgotten this.”

  “Right,” said Cindy, acknowledging Joan's recognition of her story. “Anyhow, I wear a short dress, and a nice pair of bikini panties, and I find myself a secluded spot that's still within shouting distance of the road. That's in case I get hassled. I lie down on my stomach in the sun, and I pull up my skirt—I'm usually lying on my stomach—just about to my waist. That way it just looks like I've wandered into the park and decided to get a tan.”

  “Hold it,” Jack broke in. “Joan, you should start writing. Put it in the third person, and set up a scene with Cindy in the park.”

  “Ok,” said Joan. “How about... 'It was eleven in the morning, and Central Park was blooming with the varied activities of New Yorkers...” her voice faded.

  “That stinks,” said Janice.

  “I agree,” said Joan. “Can you do any better?”

  “How about, 'The thin material of Cindy's short dress brushed excitingly against her thighs as she turned off the busy city street and headed into Central Park.”

  “That's not so bad,” Joan said.

  “Frankly,” Jack interrupted, “it doesn't make a hell of a lot of difference. Just get going, and if you don't like the opening few lines, you can rewrite them later. I'd use Janice's beginning, and just plunge in.

  Cindy should tell her story, and Joan should translate it into the third person as best she can, with maybe a few suggestions.” Jack could tell that his fears of a book written by a committee, if realized, threatened to break the easy rhythm of the evening— and if that happened, not only would there be no writing, there might not be anything else. Anyhow, he tapped out a few lines on his own typewriter, and then heard the reassuring sounds of Joan's machine answering him.

  “Ok,” Joan said, glancing at Cindy, “continue.”

  “Right. Well, I'm lying on my stomach in the grass.

  “Hold it,” Jack said again. “Sorry to interrupt, but—go get one of the dresses you sometimes wear, and then lie down on the floor, so Joan can get an idea of what she's supposed to be describing.”

  Seconds later, Cindy was lying on the floor in a short pink dress. “Mmm,” she said, “this is comfortable. I'll tell you what I do. I sometimes start out with my dress about here...” She reached back and pulled it up just to the seamline of her underpants, so that the white line of her crotch was plainly visible, but in shadow. “Then I wait. Sooner or later, a guy comes along, and notices me. I try very hard to see what he looks like without having him notice I've seen him
. I usually succeed somehow. If I like him....”

  “You like him,” Jack said, “for the book.”

  “Ok. Well—from the very first, I can feel him looking at me. As I he on the grass, I can hear him moving around to get behind me, but I pretend I'm asleep, or almost asleep, and that I've got no idea anyone's around. Usually he sits down about ten yards away. I try to pick a place where there are a few bushes just behind him. That's so when I really get him going, he can go in there and jerk off.”

  “Why doesn't he just come up and ask you if you want to fuck?”

  “No chance,” Cindy answered. “I look really innocent, and he thinks I don't know he's there. He thinks he's getting away with something. Somehow I think men find it very exciting to think they're seeing something they're not supposed to be seeing. For the guy to get really excited, he's got to think I'm the kind of girl who would call the police if I even knew he was staring at me.”

  “I see,” said Jack. “Go on.”

  “After the guy's been there a minute or so, I reach back and pull up my dress maybe an inch or so. Then I can feel the air creeping up into my crotch, and I can feel his eyes fastened onto me. I can almost feel him shaking with excitement. It's like the first time he ever saw a girl. This goes on for ten or twenty minutes—I raise my dress about an inch, maybe less, at a time.”

  “A strip-tease,” said Jack.

  “Exactly.” As she spoke, Cindy raised her dress occasionally. The keys of Joan's typewriter flew, and now and then Janice, looking over Joan's shoulder, whispered a suggestion or two. Jack had put himself totally into the situation, and was imagining Cindy lying on the grass in the park, with himself only a few yards away. Now and then, Jack managed to type a page or so on his own manuscript, but he found himself less and less able to concentrate. It was the first time he'd ever suffered from too much inspiration. His cock was fully erect in his pants, and his loins were quivering. He realized that his throat was dry, and he reached for a glass of bourbon on the rocks that sat by his side.

  Cindy resumed talking. “... After I get my dress up around my waist, I just lie there for about five minutes. Sometimes I move a little—spread my legs a little more. By this time, since I'm wearing fairly tight pants, the guy can see where the slit of my cunt is, and I can almost feel his eyes boring into it. Then, lots of times, I shift my arm under me so I can put a hand on my tit without him seeing and I start massaging one of my nipples. That makes me want to squirm, and it makes my cunt hot and juicy, but I try to contain myself as much as I can. I act as if I'm just sunning myself. But now I can feel the sun beating down on my ass, and my asshole is getting nice and warm...”

  “Don't stop,” Jack broke in, with what really happens. Go on into your fantasies.”

  “Ok,” Cindy said.

  Joan looked at Jack for a second. “You're the guy,” she said. “We've already got a description of you, but you have to do everything Cindy says—ok?”

  Jack was ready. “Ok,” he said.

  “By this time,” Cindy went on, “the guy thinks he's seen a lot, because he knows he's looking at my underwear. If I were wearing a bathing suit, he'd be seeing the same thing, but he wouldn't be excited at all.” She hesitated for a second, but Joan's typing filled the silence. “After a while, I reach back like I've got to adjust my panties—like the band is too tight on my legs, or something. I slip my finger up under one of the seams on my ass, and lift it a little. I push it back up an inch or so, and the guy can see about an inch more of my ass. His cock is getting so hot it's about to explode, and he sticks his hand down and starts to rub it.”

  Jack felt Joan's eyes move to him, as he let his hand fall to his crotch and massage the lump beneath the cloth of his pants. Searing pleasure shot through him. He pushed his typewriter aside and concentrated wholly on Cindy. Electric shocks of sensation ran from the root of his organ in all directions, turning the inside of him to liquid, putting him totally under the control of his fantasies and desires. He rubbed a little harder.

  “Finally,” said Cindy, “I pretend that my crotch is really getting hot from the sun.” As she spoke, her hand moved back to her crotch, over her buttocks, and her fingers slipped beneath the cloth. They rubbed the flesh underneath, up and down, up and down. In the background, from far off, Jack heard Cindy's voice guiding him—and herself—on; but he didn't need it. He found himself doing just what she said he would do, before she even said it. He could tell she was becoming very excited as she lay on the floor before him. He could tell she felt his eyes as they grasped hungrily at every new development in this agonizingly slow, agonizingly pleasurable striptease. It was as though Jack was hypnotized by her words. The power of his gaze was drawing the juices of womanhood out of her; they were lubricating the delicate lips of her cunt for the savage onslaught of his cock. No—for the savage onslaught of his eyes. It was as though he was fucking her with his vision, as though the concentrated power of his stare was actually penetrating her, opening her up, pumping in and out, filling her up, satisfying her.

  From even farther off now, Jack heard the dim echoes of Cindy's voice. He had unzipped his fly and drawn out his cock seconds before her words penetrated to him... “He's getting so he just can't stand it any more. He unzips his pants and lets his fingers in, but that isn't good enough, so he lets his fat cock slip out, and begins stroking it. He makes little circles at the tip of it with his fingers, teasing himself while I tease him, and then he grabs it in his whole hand and begins stroking up and down, up and down. After a little while there's a tiny clicking sound, as a little bit of cream oozes out and gets beaten to foam at the head of his cock. He takes a look around, and then moves a few feet back into the bushes, where he can see me but nobody can see him. There, he drops his pants and squats down, and the grass underneath him tickles his balls and his asshole. He wants to come, but he wants to wait too, to see what else I'm going to do. Now I act as though I've sort of accidentally turned myself on—or maybe as if I'm sure there's nobody around, and the sun and the grass and the wide-open spaces turn me on—and maybe he even dimly suspects that I get a charge out of being exposed in the open, where someone is liable to see me—maybe he thinks I'm a gambler, and I get my kicks that way. I pull aside the cloth of my panties, and start fingering my pussy.” Cindy was doing everything just as she said it, and now her long, slender fingers revealed the tight, pale, almost hairless lips of her cunt, at whose center a dark reddish shadow showed where the slit was. The juices were already flowing heavily from within her, and a thin trickle of them formed a droplet that finally fell and spread into the carpet, forming a tiny damp circle. “I pull my panties all the way to the side, and now everything's out in the open. His eyes are practically melting me, and I shove my ass up into the air and start squirming, pressing my cunt against the ground and lifting it. I run my fingers up to the small of my back, and then down again, spreading my ass-cheeks as I go, and showing him my asshole. He likes it, because it's tiny and pink and tight at first, and there's a dark little shadow, like a bull's eye, right at the center.”

  By this time Jack was imagining himself in the bushes. He had got up from the couch, and was squatting, his pants down, on the floor. Now Janice came up behind him and lying down on her back and shoving her face up under his crotch, gave his balls and asshole the attention that was supposed, in the story, to come from mere blades of grass. She took his balls in her mouth, and swirled them around. Jack felt as though he had been caught in a whirlpool, and although he stopped jerking at his cock, it was all he could do to keep himself from coming.

  Cindy's voice droned relentlessly on. “Then I put one finger on each side of my asshole, and I spread the cheeks, and the little pink spot gets bigger. I take another finger and start massaging my asshole, running my fingernail around in circles on it, stroking it from the center outward.” Jack watched Cindy doing all these things to herself, and at the same time he felt Janice's tongue licking down his crack to his asshole, prying into it, ope
ning it as Cindy opened hers.

  “Then I start to shove a finger up my ass,” Cindy said, and she pressed against the delicate flesh, worming a finger into the hole, thrusting her hips upward to meet it, rotating them to suck every last bit of pleasure out of it. Then she began pumping in and out, finger-fucking her asshole, and the pink skin moved in and out, in and out, clinging to the finger and shivering with ecstasy. By this time Jack could feel the sperm building up within him. The pressure was mounting, and it would have to be released soon. He was reaching the point of no return, with Janice worming her tongue up his ass, goosing his balls with her fingers, with Cindy writhing on the floor in front of him—not too far from a climax herself—and with Joan still typing away madly keeping the air charged with a rhythm of urgency—although she occasionally slipped one hand off the keyboard to rub her own burning crotch.

  “Then I turn over,” Cindy says, “and I look at the sky. I unbutton a few buttons of my blouse, and take out one of my tits, and pinch the nipple, and roll it back and forth between my fingers till it gets huge and red and puffy.” Jack stared at the tiny nipple as it grew to monstrous proportions—the size of a dime, and then the size of a nickel—before him. Cindy rubbed and pinched and battered it like a punching bag, and her breath came short. Her chest heaved, and her eyes rolled wildly, and her hair flew as she rolled her head from side to side. “Then I spread my cunt nice and wide, and I bring my knees up under me, and I start fingering my clit.” The lips of Cindy's cunt spread like the magic entrance to a forbidden cave, and at the top of the cave, looking almost as large and puffy as her nipple, stood her clitoris, now completely exposed and throbbing with the passions that wracked her body. Cindy's finger mashed her clit down, then drew it up, then stroked it from side to side. The flesh of her buttocks, squashed underneath her, was squeezed back and forth as she pumped away. Her legs were tense, the tendons standing out rigidly, as she reached desperately for a climax. “The guy is jerking as hard as he can,” she breathed, “and he's about to come. I take my hand off my tit, and I spread my cunt wide with it, and he can see all the way into my hole. The juice is dribbling out of it, and it's churning up and down as I jerk myself off. He wants to run out of the bushes and fuck the shit out of me, but he doesn't want to ruin it—he doesn't want to scare me off, he wants to watch my show. Now I shove a finger into my cunt, and one into my asshole, and now another into my cunt, till I'm all plugged up, and I'm still jerking myself off, I'm still beating the hell out of my clit, and he's beating his meat a mile a minute, he thinks he's going to explode, like when he comes the sperm will shoot out of the bushes and fall on me in big gobs, and I'll rub it all over me, and lick it up, and swallow it, and...”