Escapades of a Porno King

by George Alexander

  “How's that?” Sharon asked. “Pretty good for an innocent looking little girl?”

  “That's about the nicest looking hole I've ever seen,” Jack said. “And I'm going to put something more than a banana in it before too long.”

  “I'd be pretty goddamn disappointed if you didn't,” Sharon said. “But get that banana the fuck in there—I've got to have something]”

  “Oh, a real hungry pussy, eh?” Jack said. “Well, I'll just drop this banana in there and see if that does anything for you.” With that, he thrust the banana into the hole. To his amazement, it was immediately swallowed up, the delicate, pink, moist tissue of Sharon's pussy grasping it gently but firmly at the edges, and coating it with warm, pungent cunt juice. Jack began working the banana in and out slowly. Sharon's hips began to move in a fucking rhythm, and each time the banana went a little deeper. Finally, Jack barely had enough of it to hold onto. He was shoving the banana in and out like crazy with one hand, and massaging Sharon's puffy, throbbing clit with the other, and finally Sharon gave a large bump, and the banana disappeared entirely. “Oh my God!” Jack said. “It's gone!”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Art asked. He leaned over to see what was going on. Three or four other men who had not been close enough to see the strange disappearance also leaned over. But two or three people had been sitting directly opposite the whole thing, and after they recovered from the initial shock of seeing it, they stated with great authority that in fact the banana had disappeared. Now Jack didn't know what to do. It was really pretty funny. But Sharon seemed to have an idea. She gradually stood up, with her legs close together. Then she began to spread them slowly. She looked perfectly normal.

  There was no trace of the banana. When she had her legs fairly far apart, she did something with her stomach muscles, and a white patch appeared against the dark hair of her cunt. Gradually the banana slid into view. When it was almost all the way out, Joan grabbed it and shoved it back up again. The crowd applauded some more. After a few minutes of this, Sharon sat down on the edge of the table, with her feet dangling over it toward the floor. Then suddenly she drew her feet up, back over her head, and landed with her ass ticking straight up, on all fours.

  “Does anybody want to eat my banana?” she asked.

  There were three or four volunteers close at hand—one of whom Jack did not recognize. He was one of the Kipling's East Side group, and Jack had never seen him before. But Sharon seemed to know him—Jack wasn't surprised at that—and called out “Oh, Roger, why don't you take the first bite?”

  “Only if I can stick my tongue up your ass too,” Roger said, and leapt into position.

  “You can stick your tongue up my ass till it comes out my throat if you want,” Sharon said. “I love it!”

  Roger, who was rather slim, with traces of freckles over his pale face, and red hair brushing down over his eyebrows, first made a valiant attempt to get the banana out of its hiding place in Sharon's cunt. But she managed to keep it from him, so he occupied himself by licking all around the outside of her cunt, lapping up her cuntlips like a dog, and then wandering with his tongue out over the cheeks of her ass, and finally ascending to her asshole. He put his hands on each side of it, and pulled until it opened. It was like a pink little flower, that had suddenly doubled its size. The tight flesh of the little, delicate circle that was Sharon's asshole had tiny lines—little wrinkles—pointing toward its center, and the skin was quivering. Roger's long, narrow, red tongue made tiny circles around the opening, which relaxed even further. Then, Roger's tongue disappeared completely into Sharon's asshole. Sharon squirmed with delight, and in order to increase her pleasure Jack began massaging her tits, whose nipples were already rock hard. Sharon began to move in response to Roger's intrusion, and suddenly, Roger yanked his tongue out of her asshole and fastened his mouth upon her cunt. Everyone was amazed at the sudden action, until they saw Roger drawing his head back, with the banana between his lips, giggling so hard that he was turning red and looked like he was going to burst. He was just about bursting to yell out “I've got it, I've got it!” But he didn't dare, from fear of loosing it again. Suddenly, when Sharon realized fully what was going on, she snapped her cunt closed like a pair of jaws, cutting the banana in half. “You bastard,” she laughed, “you tricked me.”

  “Well,” he said, “I was invited to eat the banana, wasn't I!”

  “Yeah, but you only got half of it,” Sharon returned. Then, addressing the rest of the audience, she yelled, “Who wants the other half?” This time, Sal Fortunato came forward. As Roger munched down the last of his slimy banana, Sal stepped up to get his licks. This time, Sharon rolled over on her back, and spread her legs. “Suck my clit,” Sharon asked, “will you?”

  Sal had just placed his head, shaggy with long, jet black hair, over Sharon's pussy, and he was all set to go. He practically dove into her, as you would dive into a swimming pool. In seconds, he was eating away ferociously at her cunt, and she was snapping and shoving at him with it as he penetrated her again and again with his tongue. The juices from Sharon's cunt welled up and began to flow down the crack of her asshole, and over her asscheeks, and onto the table. Jack noticed that while Sal was eating Sharon, Gretchen had casually zipped down Sal's zipper and begun to suck him off. Just at that moment, Dale Henry, whom Jack had hardly noticed so far, came up behind Gretchen and put his hands down the front of her blouse. Jack could see that the poker game was ended for good.

  After Sal had spent several enjoyable minutes eating Sharon out, she loosened up her cunt, and allowed the banana to emerge slowly. Sal licked it, and ate it in bits, as it came out. At the end, there was just about an inch of it left, which Sharon expelled from her cunt so forcefully that it flew several inches and hit Sal in the face. Sal laughed, and grabbed the piece of banana and mashed it all over Sharon's ass. Suddenly there was another banana flying through the air and dropping on the table, and then another—in fact the air was filled with bananas. People began peeling them and eating them and attacking other people with them and shoving them everywhere. For a second, it was pandemonium, but Jack only had one thing on his mind, and that was fucking Sharon. So he grabbed her, and laid her out flat, and brought his big rod, now dangling like a lead pipe between his legs, into position. Sharon was more than ready to receive it, and grabbed aggressively the moment it swung within her range. To Jack, it seemed like shooting an arrow into the mud when he plunged into her. Almost instantly he was at the bottom, buried in her to the hilt, but now he was stuck. Many times afterward he was to wonder how it could be so easy to get into Sharon, when she wasn't at all loose! Anyhow, Sharon started off in a very slow rhythm, grinding her pelvis up against his, riding the top of his dick with her clit, and continually thrusting to drive his organ even deeper into her. Now Jack put his hands beneath her, cupping them on her back, and began to shove her up and down as he moved. He could hear the noise of the juices below as they flowed out of Sharon's cunt and over his dick, and soaked his balls.

  Suddenly he realized that room had become very quiet and that they were the center of attraction again. There was another kind of music on now, a hard driving acid-rock piece, and it seemed to change the mood. Jack felt the urge to do bizarre things—so he kept his hands under Sharon and drew his knees up until he was kneeling. Then, drawing her up with him, he put one foot, and then both feet, on the floor, and slowly stood up. Now Sharon was impaled on the end of his cock, bouncing up and down, and her tits were flopping all over his face. He could hear the heavy sounds of her rapid breathing in his ears, and he could feel she was becoming very hot. He bounced her up and down again and again, and her mouth fell open, her eyes closed and her face tensed up. He could tell she was coming. Her hair flew from side to side, and she began to cry little cries of “Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh.” She was somewhere in a world of her own, and Jack struggled to join her. Suddenly, looking at her tightly closed eyes and seeing the blood pounding in her temples, he was overwhelmed b
y the realization that this was an animal doing an animal thing, and the raw primitiveness of the situation-even in this plush East Side apartment, on the island of Manhattan—made it immediately, overwhelmingly sensual. It was like something had grabbed him by the dick and taken him away. Suddenly his organ, although it had been excited enough, jumped to a new plane of pleasure, and almost took on a life of its own. He felt as if he and Sharon were running a race, and she was far ahead of him, but she didn't want to finish before he did—she wanted it to be a tie. It was a race, but they were on the same team. He didn't know who it was that they were racing, but he was going as hard as he could, and Sharon was waiting for him, struggling along to maintain her self on the peak of the wave of pleasure that carried him forward all the time.

  Finally Jack felt it coming. It was as if his insides had, in some mystical fashion, burst open—as if every part of him had somehow melted into every other part. As if he was all connected together in some new and very strange way. He could hear sounds around him—noise from the other people at the party, the sound of the table bouncing beneath them, the sound of Sharon. But none of that mattered. He was swimming in the depths of the ocean, seeing weird plants and fishes and strange lights. He was disoriented. He didn't know which way was up or down—but it didn't matter. Because he wanted to stay there. He had no place to go.

  But slowly, the room began to come back into focus. He saw a few figures on the floor beneath them. He felt the come dribbling out of Sharon's pussy and down his leg, all the way to his toes. He could see Gretchen and Dale fucking in the corner, the loose flesh of Gretchen's ass gyrating wildly as, lying on top of Dale, she pumped away furiously. From other parts of the house, there were moans and groans. Jack let Sharon down onto the table, and then together they stepped to the floor. Sharon, her face streaked with perspiration, but covered with a very self-satisfied, very contented smile, looked up at him warmly.

  “Would you like to go get some champagne?” Sharon asked.

  “Sure,” Jack said, realizing that they were now about the only people in the whole place not engaged in some land of sexual activity or another. In particular, he noted Joan draped over a sofa, fulfilling her ambition to be fucked by two men, one in the ass, and one in the cunt. The man in her cunt was Art Kipling, and the man in her ass was somebody Jack didn't know—the other one of Art's East Side friends. Joan was standing up, facing Art, and with the other guy behind her. They were all the way up her both ways, and she seemed to have a tense look in her eyes, as though she were afraid she would be hurt, lurking beneath the intense pleasure that was plainly taking her over. Jack and Sharon turned away from the sight, but just as Jack popped the cork to a bottle of champagne, he heard a loud groaning from behind him, and turned around to Art shooting his rocks, and Joan reveling in the warm bath of sperm that gushed into her insides. She returned the favor with an orgasm of her own, and the guy with his rod up her asshole apparently couldn't take it anymore either, because he let out a low grunt and shot his own wad.

  Jack and Sharon sought out a quiet corner where they could recuperate and look over the proceedings. They settled down not far from the door, and Jack found himself sitting on a case that looked familiar to him. Looking down, he saw that it was Mark's projector case that he was sitting on, and that reminded him of the movies that had been taken at the party at their house. He mentioned that to Sharon, and she was anxious to see them. Jack knew very well how to set up the projector—he had done it many times before, when Mark had been otherwise occupied. Within several minutes he was all set. He removed a picture from a wall, and he had a ready made screen. Mark had all the film cans nicely marked, and reel one of Gretchen's homecoming party was set to roll. At the sound of the projector clicking on in the dark corner of the room, several people came over—among them Marge and Art Kipling, Gretchen and a few others.

  The film was excellent, and hilarious. Mark had done a little editing on it, but not much, and now the great subway robbery scene flashed onto the wall before them. Meanwhile, Gretchen was telling everyone how she had been tricked, and laughing heartily over it. “I thought those girls from upstairs were as straight as could be,” she was telling Roger, “and here they came downstairs and started pulling this number! It really was too much!”

  The film ground on, and by the time the action really started to get heavy, nearly everyone at the party was gathered around. It got to the point where few people who had been there remembered exactly what had happened—they had been so stoned and drunk—and it was like discovering the whole thing all over again. One discovery, however, did not go over so well. Marge had apparently forgotten that she had taken part in the action, and when her naked body appeared on the screen in the midst of it all, eating Joan out on the floor and doing a number of other things as well, Art roared out, “What the hell are you doing in that movie, Marge?”

  Marge, well aware that if the movie fell into the wrong hands it would mean a great deal to then-social status, acted apologetic, mentioning simply that she had been extremely stoned and drunk at the time, and hadn't really remembered that the whole episode was being filmed. From behind him, Jack could hear Art saying that if anyone ever got ahold of that film, it could cost them an awful lot in blackmail, and that if it ever got out in public, their lives would be made pretty miserable.

  Mark went over to Art and said, “There's an easy solution to your problem—you can have the film. I have another print in the trunk of my car, but I'll get that to you in the morning. Then you can destroy or do whatever you want.”

  Art seemed to be reflecting briefly. “Well,” he said, “I don't think we need to do anything that rash. Can't you just edit out the parts with Marge in them?”

  “Sure,” Mark said. “If that's what you want. But it will take me a couple of days to get around to it. Why don't we do this—you keep this print and do whatever you want with it, and I'll edit the other one. We only need one anyhow—I just make copies in case one should happen to be destroyed somehow.”

  “O.K.,” Art agreed. “Let's do that. That makes me feel a lot better.” In a much lighter mood now, Art turned to Marge. “And from here on, keep your ass out of the movies!” He laughed, and everyone else laughed, and the party went on.

  It was nearly light when Jack collected the people who had come with them and drove back across town. It had been quite an evening. Jack was totally wiped out. He knew that he couldn't take another party like that for a while. But it had been great.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The next morning—or anyhow Jack thought it was morning, although it was really the middle of the afternoon—he was awakened by the urgent ringing of the telephone. Groping around for the receiver in the darkness of the practically light-proof room, he finally fastened his hand around it and dragged it under the covers with him. “Hello?” he mumbled in a groggy voice.

  A familiar voice greeted him with what he could tell was a tone of alarm. “Jack, this is Mark. I have some bad news. While we were at the party last night, my car was broken into, and along with everything else in the trunk, the movie with Marge in it was stolen. I've tried to call Art, but I haven't been able to get ahold of him. His maid says that he's out of town on business, and Marge has gone out shopping or something. What the hell are we going to do?”

  “Oh shit,” Jack said. “This could really fuck things up good. I'll tell you what. Meet me at that coffee shop down on fifty seventh street. We'll try to figure something out. I can't think at all before I have a cup of coffee, and we should be able to get to that place at about the same time. All I know now is that this is really a bummer.”

  “Right,” Mark agreed. “We've got to find out for sure what happened to that thing, or Art's ass will really be in a sling. Most of all, we've got to find it before somebody makes copies of it. But I don't know where the hell to look.”

  “Well, we don't know what happened to it,” Jack observed. “So let's just get our heads together and see what the fuck we can
do.”

  “O.K.,” Mark said. “See you in about twenty minutes.”

  Jack hung up the phone and rolled his reluctant body out of bed. He had been planning to write another chapter in one of the books he was working on—he was trying to finish three at the same time, and he had some really good ideas for one—but this was sure as hell going to blow his day. He just hoped it wouldn't blow anything else. In twenty minutes, he emerged from a subway stop and walked quickly into the coffee shop, where Mark was sitting, a glum expression on his face, over a cup of coffee and a half eaten bagel.

  “Alright,” Jack began without wasting any time. “Who the fuck do you think could have taken that film?”

  “I've been doing a lot of thinking,” Mark said, “and it could be one of two things. Either someone at the party heard Art talking about it, and saw a good chance to make himself some money, or it was just some fucking junkie or ordinary burglar ripping off my car for some money. In that case, he wouldn't know what the hell he had—at least, not unless he found out by accident.”

  “I don't like the idea that somebody that was at that party could have done a thing like that to Art.” Jack was pouring cream into a cup of coffee. “I can't believe that. Anyhow, if that's true we'll find out soon enough—we won't be able to do anything about it until Art receives a blackmail note or something. So let's go on the assumption that the thing was just ripped off accidentally. Now where would somebody fence something like that?”

  “The shit was all movie stuff,” Mark said. “If the guy fenced it to some mob organization, they'll probably ship it out of town. But he might take it straight to a pawn shop. You never know about the movie—it's just possible that the guy would try to sell it to some of the porno houses around here.”