tagNonConsent/ReluctanceMy Life as a Video Pornographer Ch. 01

My Life as a Video Pornographer Ch. 01


Author's note: It starts slowly and builds. If you're looking for a quickie, this chapter isn't likely going to satisfy. The story isn't rocket science, though, so feel free to skip the intro stuff and get right into the sticky parts of Part 2.


As I sit and write these words, I am contemplating the end of one part of my life and the beginning of another. There's nothing in particular that is causing the change - no major life event - I'm not getting married, I graduated college a few years ago, no significant change in my job prospects.

I've done very well for myself, given I'm only 26. I own my own house in a nice neighborhood; I have a respectable job that is challenging but not too boring; I have a good social life and I enjoy my parents and siblings. I'm still single, by choice, and my health is excellent.

I've decided to get out of the sex business. While I have earned way more money than the rest of my friends from high school or college, it is time. My physical beauty is still above average, but I can see it will be a continuing struggle to compete against younger women whose bodies naturally do what I have to work at.

I'm okay with it. It's time. Thankfully, the work has never taken advantage of me, but I can see how easily I could fall into a hole I'd never crawl out of. Quit while you're ahead. That's what my dad always taught me.

No young girl aspires to go into sex work - at least none of the girls I grew up with. And I never thought I would sell my body, until the summer of my 18th year. It all began with photographs.

The last day of school had come and gone. I had spent the following week partying, relaxing and trying to figure out what the next steps were going to be. I was free of school, 18 and ready to be on my own. Only, now I had to make a choice - get a job or...get a job. On the one hand I could get a summer job and go to college in the fall. On the other, I could delay the whole college thing and get some money together for a couple of years.

I had figured I could always get a job at one of the restaurants near the house. They were upscale, the tips were pretty good, and I knew I could handle the work. Still, even though tips were usually better than a working wage, I wasn't sure I wanted to be on the hook for on-call part-time work.

I hadn't applied to any colleges, raising eyebrows from everyone except my parents who seemed to be fine with whatever I was going to do. I knew I could always get into the local campus of the state university -- they had rolling enrollment and my grades and test scores were more than adequate. But I was sick of school and all of the games even though my older friends told me college was different...

I was scanning the paper looking at the ads when it occurred to me I could sniff around the car wash where my older brother Kirk had worked a couple of summers ago.

And so, there I was, filling out an application in the waiting room, the receptionist making small talk with me as I answered the idiot-questions. I waited a few minutes for the owner, Bill, to come out and talk with me.

"Julie Johannssen?" He smiled as he looked up from my application. "You a sister of Kirk's?"

I smiled and nodded. He looked me over as guys do, his eyes lingering momentarily on my chest.

"He was a good kid. How's he doing?"

"I think he's really having a great time. He won't be coming home this summer - he got a job out there, I guess." Kirk was having a spectacular time; he had an internship, he was practically living with his girlfriend - no way he was coming home this summer.

"So here's the deal, Julie," Bill said kind of like an uncle, "this isn't typical rub-a-dub-dub car washing, here."

I knew that already - Kirk used to come home with all sorts of stories of the cars, and the owners, who were serviced by Bill's shop.

"We do almost everything by hand here, and we get paid a small fortune for the service. The point is, it's hard work. Are you sure you're cut out for it?" He looked me over again, only this time his eyes flicked to my arms, not my tits.

I had been washing cars to raise money for the cheerleading squad for several years. Even our half-ass jobs were tough work. Who better to do it than the cheerleaders? We were all in top shape, and several of us had begun exploring the local body-building competitions. I had been lifting weights for three years - I figured I could bench press Bill if I had to. But none of that would impress him. I knew the type. If I suggested I could do it, he'd just give me a ration or make me do something stupid. I knew none of that was evident with my clothes on - in spite of my muscle building, I had made sure to keep everything in proportion.

I smiled back at him, keeping my eyes steady on his. "You bet. I've been washing cars for the cheerleading squad for years. I know how hard it is. Kirk used to come home and tell us about the stuff you guys do. I just love washing cars, sir. Weird, I know, but I think I'd love to spend the summer washing cars!" I made it sound so exciting!

He just shook his head and let out a puff of air.

"Okay," he relented. "Here's the deal. I need a spotter this week. If you can keep up, I'll bring you on board as a rookie. It pays 10 bucks an hour - time and half overtime. We put in a full 40 hours a week, half hour for lunch, two ten minute breaks. No personal phone calls during working hours , even if they're on your own cell- that's what breaks are for - so tell your boyfriends to keep it quiet."

I didn't have any boyfriends who would bother to call me -- we all texted anyway - and I had all night to do that.

"No problem, Mr. Johnson."

"It's Bill, Julie. We're all on a first name basis. Okay, the guys will fill you in on the rest of the rules. You can start first thing tomorrow - 8:00 am."

He left and I looked up at the receptionist. She gave me a wink and called me over. "Congratulations, kid. My name's Becky. I'll help you with the paper work and any other legal government stuff.

"But let me give you a small piece of advice. I've been here three years and I've watched young women get chewed up and spit out in the shop. No matter what crew, they are a bunch of horny guys who don't know when to quit. There's a few good apples in there, but you got to be careful.

"They don't fuck with me anymore, but it took a little while for them to figure out I wasn't some easy lay. Mostly, if you keep to yourself and don't trust 'em any farther than you can throw 'em, you'll be fine...but if you have any trouble with them, you come to me and I'll help work it out."

I screwed up my face at the thoughts that came racing into my head and absently took the paperwork she handed me, noting I had to get her my social security number and a bunch of other stuff I didn't have handy.

I practically ran home. 10 bucks an hour! I did the math - I'd be making $400 a week, practically all mine I figured. Knowing I wouldn't have any time during the day for the rest of the summer I finally got to the chores and errands I'd been delaying.

* - * - * - *

I got to the shop bright and early, not having slept well the night before. So many questions. Would I be able to keep up? Would they accept me or treat me like jerks? What would I do if the worst of Becky's images actually happened to me? My mind raced. How would I spend the money? Thoughts of new music, clothes, maybe a new phone...

Guys were milling in as I waited inside the door. I recognized a few of them - friends of my brother's from school. I was surprised at how many there were. Looking around the garage I realized why: Bill had some rich clients. Mazaratis, Ferraris, BMWs and Mercedes were all parked in their own stalls. The place was huge, space for at least 20 cars and almost all the stalls were filled. This was a Thursday. Was this a busy day? Was it always like this or did it get worse later in the week?

"You the new girl?" A giant of a guy walked up to me, his face was rough but his smile sincere.

"Hi. I'm Julie." I held out my hand.

"Ben. Bill told me to get you started. You'll be a spotter. You know what that is? Follow me to your locker." He led the way off to the side of the garage to a door marked private. Into a grimy hall with a few doors. "We don't have too many girls working here, so you'll have the locker room practically to yourself. Did you bring a change of clothes?" He was looking me over, again the eyes on my breasts.

"Uhhh, no, Bill didn't mention anything special. Is there a uniform?"

Ben smiled again and looked like he was going to say something. "Okay. No uniform, but there are strict clothing requirements:

"1) No metal. No snaps, no rivets, no belts, nothing. I see you don't wear glasses. That's good. But absolutely no metal - all rings, jewelry, hair clips. Nothing. Two reasons: 1) we can't afford to scratch these cars, and 2) the stuff we use may corrode anything that isn't gold.

"2) Goggles at all times. Again, we spray a lot of shit (pardon me, stuff) around and we can't afford to lose our eyes.

"So, the goggles are all over the place. Most guys find a pair that fit and they use 'em. They'll be some in there I'm sure. If not, see me. Regarding the clothes," he looked at me again, "you'll have to get out of the jeans. If you have metal in any of your underclothes, you'll have to figure something out."

I blushed slightly. From his comments it sounded like I was going to have to do this nude. I must have looked dumfounded.

"Sorry. That didn't come out right." He looked a little uncomfortable too. "What I meant, is that you should probably get some sweatpants or something that you can get dirty and doesn't have metal."

I did have a bra on and it had an underwire. I had a sports bra at home, but I didn't think about wearing it. I only had my jeans and a top. "Maybe I should run home and get some stuff. I'm only about ten minutes away?"

He nodded and told me to check in with him when I got back.

I ran as fast as I could. I pawed through my drawers looking for suitable clothing, thinking about being the only woman in a group of guys. I figured it wouldn't be much different than what my squad had to put up with the football team. After three years we'd heard most of it - the seniors would just roll our eyes and give it right back.

I mused about some of the scenes at the motels when we were on the road. A lot of the squad had no qualms about fucking any of the guys, but I never felt that way about any of them. Actually, there was one guy my first year - a senior - he didn't give me the time of day, but I had a crush on him. Nothing ever came of it - he probably didn't even notice - and I was better off as a result. I had my own romances in high school, but I never wanted to give the impression I was easy. Truth be told, I had never gotten past 2nd base with any of the guys I dated. The attention I got from the football team was a little bit of a turn-on, as long as it didn't get out of hand. Mostly I left the heavy petting to the looser girls on my squad. I was a member of a minority of girls -- one super-religious, a couple shy like me -- who didn't party.

I pondered the shop and thought about that hallway to the locker rooms. The more I thought about it, the more I figured that would be a really stupid place to go being the only female in the shop (I bet Becky never went back there). I guessed I'd be getting dressed and undressed at home.

I dressed in the sports bra, a light cotton t-shirt and some old sweats. It did nothing for my figure, which was probably the right thing given the situation. I pulled my hair up into a bun and used a net to keep it in place. Taking a last look, I realized I had to remove my bellybutton ring (no metal!), and I was metal free. Weird.

The first day was a little uncomfortable - I was breaking into a clique of jockey guys, many of whom had been working together for at least a year. Ben ushered me through the gauntlet, staring down anyone who started giving me a ration. I was exhausted by the end of the day, my elbows and biceps feeling numb from all the rubbing.

I had never heard of "spotting" before. When the squad washed cars we just dog-piled all over, slopping water and soap, dragging rags and sponges wherever we happened to be. A bunch of giggly bathing suit-clad young women was entertainment, not a professional detailing service. This place, this place was as serious as a heart attack. Spotting involved careful inspection of each part and piece of the car, inside and out, for any defects be they wax smudges, dirt, streaks, dust, bits of leaves, hair, whatever. Metal had to sparkle, glass completely clear.

It occurred to me soon after I dug into the job that the spotter had a real problem: if the car had a defect, it was the spotter's fault, but if the team didn't do a good job to begin with, the spotter was responsible for cleaning up their mess. I realized I had to be very careful about who I was working with if I wanted to be treated unfairly.

Throughout the week I watched each of the guys. There were about 8 teams, roughly three stalls per team. They all pretty much clustered the same way each day - rivalries were obvious and the undercurrent of competition became very clear by the second day. I didn't have much choice what team I was put on - depending on when I arrived in the morning, if a team needed a spotter I was usually attached to them. But it also became obvious why the spotter role wouldn't get the short end of the stick: the teams were so competitive that they didn't want to screw anything up or leave anything so important as a completely detailed car to an inexperienced bottom-of-the-totem pole team member like me.

Ben and Bill were the ultimate spotters. Before they called the owner to tell them the vehicle was done, they would inspect it for almost 30 minutes, a clipboard, chamois and sometimes a toothbrush at the ready in the cases where they found defects. It was nerve racking to watch, so I tried to keep busy on the next car instead of watching them go over my work.

There were several guys I didn't want to have anything to do with. I was wondering how they got their job - from what I could see they had probably been in jail before this. I tried to ask Ben about it casually, but he didn't get what I was driving at. On the other hand, there were a few guys who I thought I could get friendly with -- in their early 20s I figured, great builds, nice attitudes and always treated me fairly.

The place was noisy - the teams swarmed over their cars shouting insults to the others, music blared, the sounds of vacuums, power polishers, water hoses and the intercom all competed for our attention. By the end of each day my ears were ringing. I decided to get ear plugs - there were signs about health and safety, but aside from some of the power tool guys, nobody seemed to care.

The week proceeded without any drama and I picked up my paycheck on Friday night - $350 or so after they took out my taxes. The most I'd had in my entire life, and I had another 8 weeks to go!

On Monday, Ben greeted me at the door and waved me into Bill's office.

"Julie, Ben tells me you've done an excellent job! To tell you the truth, I'm a little surprised. I didn't think someone with your...frame...could keep up. But he says you've been one of the quickest learners he's had, and you've even had time left over on some of your cars to lend a hand to other teams. That's great news. Given the report, I'd like to expand your duties to include some of the front end work as well. Ben will give you the details. Keep it up and you'll be on lead before too long."

Ben gave me a raised eyebrow and walked me out to the shop to another station.

"By 'front end work' Bill means vacuuming and prep. It's only one step up from spotting, but it gets you onto a regular team. You'll be working with me and Tim - you'll take over the front end and do the spotting. Keep your eyes open and watch what we do in the middle."

Tim was a quiet guy. He always greeted me with a shy smile and when he did talk, it was to point out where he needed me to work. He was handsome, with one of the best builds in the place. Usually by day's end, most of the guys had stripped off their shirts (each time suggesting I should join them), and in most cases I wish they'd left their shirts on, but Tim's body was something to look at. His abs were incredible - a full six-pack, and his pecs were equally well defined. Every once in a while he'd catch me staring at him and he'd blush. Still, he didn't stop from taking his shirt off, round about 3 in the afternoon every day.

The guys started getting more comfortable with me around, especially after they saw the work I could do. It probably didn't hurt that I could dish it out as much as they could. They'd kid me about who I was going to lay, when I was going to strip off my shirt and the rest of the shit I'd heard around the football field and away games motels. Only here, I didn't have the safety of the rest of my squad.

I never went to the locker room. Ever. I came to work dressed for work and I never used the toilet in the shop. I went down the street to the Subway during lunch. There was something over the top about that hallway and about having a couple of dozen horny worked up guys any one of whom might notice me going through that door. Not.Going.To.Happen. I mentioned it Becky one day on break and she confirmed what I had suspected. At least one girl had left the shop in tears after being harassed down that hall. It was a shock to her that the place hadn't gotten sued. She "sure as hell don't go there. It's the Subway for me."

By the third week, I'd gotten the rhythm of the work; Ben and Tim both began to ease me into the detailing. I was already doing most of the front end prep - vacuuming, trashing, power washing, as well as the back end spotting and a minor detail polish here or there.

By the fourth week, Ben led me through the details of detailing. I had watched him carefully, but I had no idea how tough it was. He had to stay late that day finishing up 'cause of all the delay I'd caused. By the end of the week, though, I had mastered much of the interior work, getting through the tasks in roughly the right amount of time. By now, I was practically familiar with the whole operation - the only thing I hadn't been given was exterior polishing, the most obvious part to the owners, and therefore the last thing they wanted to give a rookie. While I was wiping down the interior, I'd watch Tim working across the hood, his chest sweating, his muscles rippling. I'd lose it every once in a while, feeling a little electric jolt in my gut or a tingle further down. He'd catch me and I'd practically die watching him blush.

It was mid-summer and I was feeling pretty confident. I had a great rapport with most of the guys - there were still a couple I wouldn't want to be stuck with alone at the shop, but I was careful to avoid them. The end of my fifth week - I'd made some pretty good money, a little overtime and I decided to go out celebrating with some buds from school. There was an underage club we'd go to - an excuse to get dressed up, dance hard and have some fun.

"Shit, you look fantastic, Julie!" Brenda slid over making room for me. Someone was handing me a joint as I noticed several others already squished into the car. Shouts and catcalls as I took a long hit. We hadn't been out together for almost a month and there was a lot of catching up to do.

I had put on my "leather" outfit - chocolate brown leather skirt, short of course, long boots that zipped up to my knees, a matching chocolate brown leather halter top and a leather collar with spikes. I had gelled my hair and put my most outrageous bellybutton ring in - a death skull with small rubies for eyes. I had put on dark blush and eyeliner, with some mascara to give my cheeks color - working inside during summer had done nothing good for my tan.

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