Cassandra's Plan Ch. 03

He looks at me with a furrowed brow. I get the feeling he doesn't like me, but maybe it's just his way of concentrating. He's doing his job, and I guess he wants to do it right.

"Turn around."

I turn around. I almost giggle, feeling like some sort of model. I'm facing a blank wall. At least there are no pictures pasted there. I try to focus on a crack that goes diagonally from the northwest corner almost to the floor. I wonder if my buttocks are shaking.

"Okay. Put your clothes back on."

I do so in such a hurry that I almost rip my pantyhose to shreds and break the zipper on my skirt.

"What now?" I manage to say. I wonder if I have a fever, my face feels so hot.

"The shoot's at 8 p.m. on Tuesday. Is that all right?"

"Yeah, sure. Where? Here?"

"No. Not here." He scribbles something on a piece of paper. "Here. Be there next Tuesday. Eight o'clock."

I take the paper and leave without a word.

Lauren Oxley / September 23, 1980, 8:20 p.m.

"Here. Take this."

Weaver has just handed me a dildo.

"What am I supposed to do with it?"

He looks at me as if I'm a slow-witted kindergartener. "What does a girl usually do with a dildo?"

I get all red. Maybe that'll look more appealing to the camera. I'm lying on some satin pillows, wearing a kind of middle Eastern costume that reveals all the parts that the camera seems to think worthy of interest. The corset or whatever it is pushes my breasts up so that they almost touch my chin. And they're not that big, even.

"Mr. Weaver, I'm a little dry . . ."

I'm sure he was prepared for that. He throws me some K-Y jelly that he happens to have in his pocket. "Here. Use this."

I use it. Then I start stroking myself with the dildo. I feel absolutely nothing.

Weaver: "You gotta look a little bit more like you're enjoying it, okay? How about it?"

The cameraman—he's the only other person in the room—hasn't taken any pictures of me yet in this costume or in this position, although there have already been plenty of me taking off my clothes one by one, lying on my back, my stomach, on my side, and once standing up and looking down between my legs, so that my breasts seem to hang like ripe fruit. Now he has me arrange my hair differently—so that I look like a different girl, I suppose—and dress up in this costume.

I moan a little bit. I start feeling something—not turned on, because this dildo's cold as ice, but a kind of irritating abrasion, as if I'm rubbing myself with sandpaper.

"Stick the dildo in your cunt."

Weaver is saying this with absolutely no emotion. I guess there's some mercy in that. I mean, he's not slobbering. It's just a job to him.

I stick it in—too fast, for I'm not ready and it hurts. I cry out.

"Just go slow, doll. No rush."

"Okay."

After a little bit of this, Weaver says: "Do you want to stick that thing in your ass?"

I'm speechless for a moment. "Oh, God, Mr. Weaver, it's too big . . . it'll kill me . . ."

"Okay, okay, skip it." I think that's very nice of him until he says: "It's not in your contract, anyway."

A little more of this, and then we stop.

"You can get dressed now."

In order to get dressed, I first have to take off the stupid costume. But why should I be embarrassed at being seen naked by these two men? They've already seen everything I have to offer. I take the costume off blandly and put on my own clothes.

"What now?" I ask.

Weaver reaches into his pocket and pulls out an envelope. "Here."

It's full of money. "Cash?" I say in some surprise.

"Sure, what did you expect?" He chuckles. "Tax-free, doll."

There is that, I guess.

As I'm about to go he takes my arm—not gruffly, that's not the way he is.

"Listen, doll . . ."

"You can try using my name, Mr. Weaver. I use yours."

"Right . . . Listen, Lauren, do you want to do any more of this? You're really pretty good."

I look him in the eyes, trying to read his expression. It's as bland as always. "What do you mean? Do what? More photographs?"

"Sure. But maybe with someone else. A guy, maybe . . ."

I'm not sure I'm hearing this. "I won't fuck someone in front of a camera, Mr. Weaver! I just won't!"

My tone of voice finally gets an emotional response from him. He winces a little and puts his both hands in front of him. "No, no, nothing like that. You won't actually have to fuck. For photographs, you just pretend. Nobody'll know the difference."

I suddenly feel incredibly weary. I just want to get out of here. "Listen, Weaver"—if he doesn't want to use my last name, I won't use any "Mister"—"I'll think about it. Okay? I'll think about it."

"Okay. Fine. Maybe I'll hear from you."

"Maybe. Maybe not."

Lauren Oxley / October 1, 1980, 8:14 p.m.

"Hey, baby doll. Why don't you give me a little help?"

A guy sticks a cock at half-mast in my face.

I look at Weaver, half in anger and half in pleading, but say nothing.

Weaver: "She doesn't do that, Joe. Just get it up yourself."

Joe looks at Weaver as if he's said something offensive about his mother. "You gotta be kidding. I've just come from a shoot where I had to do three come shots in two hours, and now this little girl can't give me a little head to get me up again? Do you know who I am?"

Weaver, in tones of disgusted weariness: "Yeah, I know who you are. But Lauren doesn't do that kind of thing. She's not a porno actress, she's just a college student. And this is photography, not video. You don't touch her parts, she doesn't touch yours, okay? Got that?"

Joe looks at Weaver, then at me, then at Weaver again. "What kind of set-up is this? I've never heard of such a thing—"

"You're hearing it now, guy. Let's go."

I'm lying there naked, and Joe is standing nearby, also naked; but he's now so disgusted with me that he doesn't even look at me while trying to get hard. Instead, he turns around and closes his eyes while pumping himself. Maybe he's remembering the shoot earlier in the day. I guess three come shots is quite an achievement for one session.

When he's at about a forty-five degree angle Weaver says it's good enough and let's get started. He wants me to get on my knees in front of Joe, take his cock in my hand (but letting the camera see the circumcised head), and pretend to be licking it.

"Why do I have to be on my knees? Isn't that kind of—"

"Our audience likes that," is all Weaver says. I bet they do. Poor saps.

"You don't mind touching my thing, do you, doll?" says Joe sarcastically.

"No, I don't mind. But don't call me doll."

The next shot is supposed to be Joe licking my pussy. I'm totally dry. I say so to Weaver.

"How about K-Y jelly?" volunteers Joe.

"No, that doesn't look right." Weaver ponders the problem as if he's trying to solve a differential equation. Then his face lights up (you can almost see the light bulb over his head going on), and he goes to a cupboard—we're in the kitchen of somebody's apartment, a real apartment where somebody actually lives, not a set—and gets some cooking oil. He hands it to me.

"Put a few drops of this on your cunt. Not too much."

"You gotta be kidding!" Joe cries out. "That stuff tastes awful!"

Weaver turns blandly and a little scornfully to him. "I don't give a fuck. And you're not going to taste it anyway. No touching, remember?"

"Oh, yeah." Joe looks almost sheepish.

I pour a little on. It seems to work well enough.

"All right, now pretend you're gonna fuck her," says Weaver.

I'm supposed to climb onto the kitchen cabinets and lie down flat on my back, with my feet hanging over the edge. I guess the audience likes that position, too. Joe stands in front of me, holding his cock about a half-inch from my pussy. Don't get any closer, asshole.

The photographer is going to shoot over Joe's shoulder. Weaver stands behind him to gauge what the shot will look like.

"Spread your lips a little, Lauren."

I don't think he's referring to my mouth.

After a little break Weaver takes me over to a corner—it's funny how I no longer give a damn whether I'm naked or not—and asks me something. I just shrug my shoulders. "Sure, why not?"

We now go to the living room. I lie down on some pillows—on my back, of course. Joe straddles me across my stomach. He takes one breast in each of his hands and moves his cock back and forth between them. The camera clicks like a spastic cricket.

And now for the climax. Joe is kind of losing his hardness, so we'd better act fast. Weaver takes a little dishwashing detergent and spreads some drops of it over my stomach and breasts. Then he applies a few drops to Joe's cock, where it slowly drips off. Joe adopts a look of almost painful ecstasy, opening his mouth wide and shutting his eyes tight. The camera clicks a bunch of times before all the dishwashing liquid falls from his cock.

"Okay. Good work." Weaver wraps things up, I put my clothes on, Joe puts his clothes on while glaring a little resentfully at me.

Weaver shoves an envelope into my hand. Just as I am about to go, he takes my arm gently and says, "Listen, Lauren . . ."