Asking For It by Lana Laye Read Free Book Online Page B

favorite thing to have
done.
    R.C. was huffing and puffing behind me,
his sweat plinking onto my back, as he slid himself in and out of
my ass with long, smooth, even strokes. I could feel every ridge,
every vein, every contour of him inside me, and I liked it. I'm not
an anal freak by any means, and when I do engage in it, I prefer
smaller cocks, but like I said, R.C. wasn't rough, and his humor
had relaxed me to more than the usual degree. He was big, but the
discomfort was minimal. I would feel it later though, because no
matter how much preparation there is, and no matter the size of the
dick, my asshole is tight and stays that way, which, while it looks
great on camera and feels great for the guy, means a lot of wincing
for me later on.
    We were filming on a digital handheld,
and the camera guy—Josh Rhodes, who looked like he wasn't long out
of film school—hovered around us, trying to get the best possible
angles of everything that was going on. Occasionally he'd mutter a
direction or two ("move your leg, Cal," or "look at the camera for
a sec, Lana", but more often he just floated quietly around the
action like a man with a big glass eye.
    The director, a man I've worked with
many times, but have never quite managed to warm to, is an
egotistical and grossly overweight guy who goes by the name Ken X.
I've done eight films for him and have never once felt as if he
thought of me as anything other than a necessary evil. I'd
understand this attitude more if I were an ego too, or a cast-iron
bitch on the set, but I'm not, and don't understand people who are.
I've heard similar stories from other actresses too, some of whom
have had worse experiences than mine, so maybe he just hates women.
I guess it's fair, because I happen to think that if not for the
fact that he's won an AVN Award, he'd probably be working as a
grocery bagger by now.
    "For fuck sake, Cal, I'm getting tired
of looking at your asshole!" was about the sum of his contribution
to the scene. "Close your fucking legs before I ram a boom mike
into it."
    Against my cunt, Cal sniggered. I
wished for a moment I had teeth down there.
    As Cal closed his legs, denying me
further asshole-terrorism in both senses of the word, Ken shouted,
"Mike, you're up!"
    Mike stepped into frame, his long—but
not ridiculously long—cock primed and ready thanks to Mandy, the
fluffer, who was sitting on a chair just beyond the harsh studio
lights and watching with interest as she guzzled water from a
plastic bottle.
    He brought himself close to my face and
angled his cock downward so that I could take it into my mouth. I
gave him the expected sultry look for the camera's benefit, because
by now Josh had dropped to his haunches, the camera trained on my
face and Mike's throbbing prick.
    Still stroking Cal's cock with
increasing disinterest, I took Mike in my hand and began to jerk
him, slowly. His skin was smooth. He smiled down at me, and it was
a curious smile. Not for the camera's benefit. A genuine smile.
Either that, or he was a hell of an actor, and if that was the
case, he really did have no business being on a porn
set.
    I smiled back at him, and found I meant
it too. And suddenly, I felt compelled by reasons purely my own, by
commands that came, not from the director or another actor, but
from a need inside myself, to pleasure him. And so I held his eyes
as I first ran my tongue from the seam of his balls, all the way up
his shaft, and then took him deep inside my mouth, the head of his
cock probing the back of my throat.
    I watched him; he watched me. And in
stark contrast to Cal's greedy and slightly painful suckling at my
pussy, and R.C.'s measured strokes into my asshole, I attended to
Mike with a gentle enthusiasm that I could tell from the way his
legs twitched, was appreciated.
    Usually during scenes like this, the
guy getting blown uses his hands with all the tenderness of a
robot's mechanical arms—or Cal's arms—grappling and pulling,
slapping and pinching