Strange Hunger

That alone made her come off juicily again in another series of wrenching, juddering waves that drove the cocksman in her cunt over the edge. And as he felt his prick begin to spit the second load of the night deep into her, as she heard and felt the heat of more and more lustful, hungry male bodies pressing in toward her, she knew that this was what the hunger needed. And she knew, with mingled ecstasy and fear, that it was going to be a permanent addiction.

* * *

By Hanna's count, her cunt took a dozen loads that night, her mouth and face took three more, and one enterprising gentleman with a strangely crooked dick actually used the sloppy river of sperm dripping from her pussy to anoint her asshole and give the teen her very first buggering, pumping half of his own contribution into her bowels and spending the rest of his hot seed across her buttocks and her trembling back.

That was just the first round, though; by the time the lights were back on and the orgy had moved into further phases, she was left lying there to drip with sperm and shudder with the aftershocks of multiple orgasms as her paramours recovered themselves or played with the other women available to them. Sometime later some of the men, having revived their vigour, came back to her for a second round, this time gathering around her and jerking their throbbing pricks. By this time she'd been normalized as a fixture, and she listened to their wives and girlfriends laughing and commenting gaily on the spectacle until streams of sperm splattered her from every direction.

After it was all over and the maid was sponging her off in the bath-tub, she found herself speechless when Maxine asked her if she'd enjoyed herself. The look of shining satisfaction in her eyes must have said it all, because the woman had nodded and smiled and said: "Well, then. We shall have to do it again, shan't we?"

She would have happily stayed with Maxine—and did stay for two whole months, in fact, the longest she'd remained in any one place since leaving home—and been her regular cumslut party-girl and personal sex slave. The warmth and security, the delicious food, the free flow of drugs, the clothes Maxine insisted on buying her (and she didn't try to "dress her up," in fact it seemed the more completely she looked like a classic skinbyrd, the better), and of course the orgies... it was all beguiling. The tattoo artist did a wonderful job on the design she had given him and by the end of the month the whole of it had been filled in; looking at her back in a mirror, Hanna thought it looked mysterious and profoundly sexy.

But the wealthy libertine started getting weirder, and taking the whole "sex slave" and "pet" thing much too literally for Hanna's liking. She didn't mind getting bent over and used by the butler or various other male servants at random times of the day for Maxine's pleasure, or made to eat out the maid or suck off Maxine's male friends when they dropped by for coffee. Other things were more problematic: the woman was far more into bondage than Hanna was and began to reveal a taste for more than just playful spanking. She grew steadily more demanding and more degrading, issuing orders as if she seriously believed she could control Hanna with the power of her voice and a gesture of her hands.

Eventually Hanna had happened across one of Maxine's occult books, and had worked out with equal parts hilarity and horror that the woman actually believed that the tattoos she'd had her teen "pet" decorated with were some kind of Satanic "binding spell" that would bend her to her will. It was then that she realized she was dealing with a genuine fruitcake and decided to get out. The night Maxine gifted her a dog collar, served her dinner in a pet bowl and tried to make her sleep in a cage was the last straw.

Luckily most all of Maxine's servants were sympathetic to her aim. The driver actually took her to the bus station when she was off the grounds. She was back on the road again, but she had to hand one thing to that nutty aristocrat, at least; now she knew, when the hunger came, just what she needed to satisfy it.

Actually finding what she needed was another thing again, of course. She played passed-out-drunk or passed-out-drugged in various places where she thought she might find the right kind of male attention: especially house parties or, when she could manage it, backstage at punk rock gigs. Sometimes it worked, like the time she lured upwards of a dozen guys into banging her apparently-helpless body sprawled out on a pool table in a dive bar. Other times people just covered her up and clucked their tongues and she'd been left almost crying in frustration.

It was all appallingly risky, though, even moreso than trying to work the hooker strolls solo. What would she do if one of the guys decided to get rough? She bought a knife for self-defense at one point, but she was barely more than a hundred pounds soaking wet and had no illusions about being able to overcome a certain sort of bruiser if it came to violence. As the months ticked by and the gambles got riskier, she began yearning to meet someone she could trust to watch her back—and she grew more and more afraid that she might never find that person, might never be able to truly trust again at all.

Then she'd found herself at a hardcore gig somewhere in Arizona, drinking beers and hanging with some of those temporary "friends" that were ubiquitous anywhere street hustlers needed to pool their resources to score coke. And she had looked across the room and seen an unforgettable pair of dark eyes looking back at her from an impossibly beautiful face. That was the night she had met Nomi.

* * *

There was some salvation to be had in that last memory, in what came after. Sometimes she forgot how much fear she had used to live with, and how much of it having her drop-dead gorgeous Jamaican beauty by her side had driven away. How much of a miracle it was that she had found it in her to trust someone again after all. Back in the here and now, Hanna found herself watching Nomi program an epic reggae journey into the jukebox, and smiling.

It's worth it, to do the hard things, she thought. For that. For her Even fucking a man who brought up phantoms of Chris, no matter how much the notion filled her with sickness, shame and dread. After all... it filled her with other things, too.

Hanna reached for the syrup and doused her waffles liberally. She might as well make a real effort to eat them. She smiled again as her bae finally finished with the jukebox now and got ready to tuck into her own breakfast. Nomi caught her staring and gave her a quizzical look.

"I love you, babe," Hanna said. "I really do."

Nomi's eyes shone. "I love you too, kid." She winked. "But your waffles are gonna go cold."

"Not a chance in hell."

Hanna tucked into them as best she could. The prospect of the House still turned the flavour of the food to ash, but she'd been through worse times than this. She'd survived things that would have broken other people, and she had love in her life. She could do what had to be done. She would find a way.

3. Wet Dream.

"Okay, so we've got three scripts right now that we're looking to shoot before the end of the week. As it happens, I've got openings in all three, so you girls are in luck."

Luck. The word struck Hanna with a bleak irony as she and Nomi sat in the kitchen of the House, but she did her best to smile brightly as Eamonn grinned at them like he was gifting them an all-expense-paid trip to the Bahamas.

The House was deceptively normal-looking, at least on its ground floor. A lot like any other family duplex, carpeted in neutral beige and painted in cream with nondescript landscape paintings on the walls. The kitchen was normal-looking too, white lino and a well-stocked fridge whose only hint at the pornographic goings-on surrounding it was that, if you opened it up and looked, it contained large glass dildoes chilling alongside the orange juice. Apparent normalcy was one of the points of the House, because of the "family"-related content of so many of its shoots.

Eamonn was deceptively normal-looking, too. No, more than that: he was good-looking. His smile would have been comforting and even beguiling if it didn't look like an echo of Chris' smile. The cleft in his chin might be cute, his big hands and rugged frame attractive if they didn't seem like near-replicas of her not-so-dearly departed brother's. Like Chris he had the air of a man who had been a sure touch with women since the day his balls dropped, although unlike Chris there was an openly lecherous edge to Eamonn's voice and expression. The kind of thing that Chris had only let slip when he was at his worst, his drunkest, his lowest moment.

Well, at least that last was a point of distinction, something to hold onto. Other distinctions? Eamonn's hair was red instead of blonde - and he favoured the rockabilly fashion and grease-sculpture pompadour hair that some people mocked as the "skinhead retirement plan" - and his eyes were green. He liked to keep a toothpick in his teeth as if he was in a movie playing a Fifties dime-store hood. He had his cowboy-booted feet up on one of his kitchen chairs and his fingers laced behind his head as he rocked back in his seat and grinned, mannerisms Chris would've disdained.

Taken all in all, it wasn't enough to keep the memories from welling up. Hanna smiled at his news but she couldn't look across the table at him. She settled for studying the pitted, worn formica table top as Nomi, sitting at her left with their hands clasped, took the lead. "The more, the merrier," the Jamaican beauty laughed. She had a trick of sounding perfectly amiable and at ease in almost any situation, especially if it involved dealing with a man. "Lay it on us, Eamonn."

Eamonn's eyes kept flickering to Hanna. He liked her, which was what made it all the worse. Any time he interacted with her, his eyes were drinking in her creamy skin, her delicate features - he'd been one of those who told her she looked like that certain porn star, Emily-Green-or-Grey-or-whatever - admiring the ink on her arms or the swell of her pert B-cups or the sexiness of her buzz cut. If she happened to be standing he would always angle for an eyeful of her fabulously thick glutes.

She was glad to be sitting now as he licked his lips and said: "Well, we've got a girl-girl femdom bit slated for the Dungeon." This meant the BDSM dungeon, complete with all the trimmings, that he'd rigged up in the basement. "We're shooting that one this afternoon. Got one half of the female talent ready to go, I just need someone to domme her." He favoured Nomi's flawless mahogany gorgeousness with an appreciative look: "Why I'm particularly glad to see you today, Hot Chocolate."

Nomi's hand clenched in Hanna's ever-so-slightly. Her bae fucking hated white guys calling her 'Hot Chocolate' or similar bullshit - Hanna hated it too, on her behalf - but there was no point taking Eamonn to task about it while he had his hand on the money spigot. She just said: "We were kinda hoping to work together this time."

Eamonn shrugged. "You know my policy on that. One 'byrd in a scene I can do, but I put two in there and I'm making niche content. Can't do it." His eyes flickered over Hanna's perky tits under her navy blue Perry dress once again. She had to fight a sudden urge to cross her arms. "Besides," he said. "I know you don't do boy-girl and I know Hanna here does. Be leaving money on the table for all of us, using the two of you in just one scene."

The girls' grip tightened again as Hanna summoned her nerve and forced herself to speak up: "So what have you got for me, then?"

"Thought you'd never ask, sugar-pop." His grin broadened. "We're shooting a scene in a couple days' time with a couple guys from out of town. Ace talent from the coast, pretty straight-forward threesome scene but it includes a DP and I need someone with the kind of bod that will... inspire them. Not to mention selling the fuck out of the scene. I think you could do it."

Hanna felt even bleaker. The one time he throws out an option for boy-girl work that isn't with him, and I can't take it. She wondered if he'd worked out that out already, if this offer was a deliberate bit of false hope. She didn't dare look at him lest he sense the anger that rose in her at that moment, and she couldn't manage to say anything more.

It was Nomi who finally spoke up. "Eamonn, you know we need the work today and you know why. Don't be a dick."

"Hey, I'm just trying to broaden her horizons." The porn merchant shrugged. "Fine, I also got one shoot for today where my model cancelled on me. One-on-one boy-girl co-starring yours truly, it's a brother-sister incest script. Got a call in to someone to cover it, but it's yours right now if you want it."

The words brother-sister incest script made Hanna's vision dim for a split second.

She'd fucked Eamonn before, but never on that kind of a shoot, though she well knew that "taboo" was eighty percent of what he did. Now the moment was here. Her grip on Nomi's hand surely was growing painful as she fought to keep from decorating Eamonn's tabletop with a spray of lightly-used waffles. And parallel with the nausea was that other feeling, rising like a fever, stiffening her nipples almost painfully and bringing out that yearning ache in the moistening juncture between her firm thighs. Nothing fed the hunger like thoughts of Chris, and the three words "brother-sister incest" hit her subconscious like a poleaxe, bringing vivid memories bubbling out from the wound: his boozy breath; his ranting insults; the surging thrusts of his iron-hard cock in her wet, traitorous, horny little cunt.

She caught a curious gaze from Nomi - more than curious, a gaze sliding into understanding, alarm, horror as she suddenly seemed to realize a certain something - but it was like when they were lying together in the dark, running one of Hanna's scams. The kind of look they'd exchange where her bae would silently ask her if she needed to cut loose with the knuckle-duster. Just like in those moments, Hanna caught her eye and gave her a subtle shake. No. We need this.

Hanna forced herself to look him in the eye. "Okay," she told him. "I'll do it."

Eamonn actually clapped his hands in delight, coming down in his chair with a bang on the lino floor and leaping to his feet. "That's my sugar-pop, I knew you'd be in!" He was already headed for the hallway to his den - which was the other side of Hanna - as he said: "I'll grab the paperwork straightaway. You guys help yourself to anything you want from the fridge in the meantime, nothing but the best for my stars, you know that." He seemed to contemplate touching Hanna as he walked past her, but he must have read her body-language and thought better of it, because he just finalized his exit with his personal catch-phrase: "We're gonna make some magic today!"

Nomi and Hanna looked at each other in the resulting silence. There was a bright grief in Nomi's eyes. "Hanna." Her other hand came over to stroke her bae's fingers, her cheek. "I... I didn't realize. I'm so fucking sorry." There was no need to specify what she meant: the message Hanna's touch had shared with hers on the words brother-sister incest had been a vivid, split-second education in why exactly she was on the road and what sort of family member Eamonn might remind her of. "No wonder you don't like coming here. We can still go."

"And do what?" Hanna shook her head. "Work truck stops? Panning? Shoplifting? No, I won't ask that of you. I can do this."

"Only if you're sure."

"I am sure." They leaned together, pressed noses. Hanna asked: "Could you see if he's got any Sprite?"

"Yeah." Nomi breathed quietly. "Absolutely."

* * *

When they were done signing their contracts and waivers and Nomi had given her a parting hug before heading downstairs to her assignment in the Dungeon, Eamonn had sat Hanna down and told her just what the script was. Her mood actually lifted a little, then. The lust and the nausea were still warring within her, but she realized—keeping any sign of this carefully out of her face—that at least there might be a way to feed the hunger a little of what it wanted in the course of all this.

An idea started to take root, and those roots sunk steadily deeper as they went into prep. He showed her the bedroom they'd use. It was hung around with bright lights and boom mics but otherwise decorated pretty much like a normal bedroom. There was a beer-bellied tech working to change some of the posters on the walls, to make it look a little more "authentic" to Hanna's style; Eamonn was, after all, an old scene guy himself and had plenty of Trojan Records memorabilia, British football flags and saucy pictures of skinbyrds on hand. The tech had already hung one big poster over the bed that featured a stylized, big-chested girl in a Perry polo and a Chelsea framed in elaborate Gothic lettering: SKINBYRDS DO IT BETTER.

Much of the prep ritual was familiar. He gave her a paper bag full of random items and told her to "personalize" the room. "You know the drill, just put them around the room, like this is your room and they're your things." She'd done this weird routine with him before. He said he had gotten the idea from the Chris Nolan flick Memento, which had been on her "to-see" list until she'd come to associate it with the House. One of the items was an old, worn copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover with half of the first chapter missing, and it always made her realize how much she missed reading, something she never seemed to have time or head-space for these days. She'd been good in English classes at school. Better than good. As usual, she found herself wistfully putting that prop right next to the bed, in easy reach, as would have been its natural place in her room back at home.

The other thing he gave her, without much fanfare or instruction, was rather less usual. It was a mickey of lemon gin. Usually he would have filled this with something non-alcoholic, because it too was meant to be a prop; this was to be a "fucking my drunk sister" skit. But it was plain that even Eamonn could tell that there was something difficult in the incest angle for his star—nor was he enough of an idiot to have to guess at what it might generally be—and must have sensed that she could use some Dutch courage, because this was actual gin.

"You can take a belt or two if you feel like it will... add authenticity," was the excuse he gave her. And he left her to her own devices for a time after that, telling her that make-up would be up in a moment and that he and his cameraman would join her to shoot the scene as soon as he was sure the Dungeon shoot was properly set to go. He guessed he might be a half hour at least, maybe a little longer.

All that time to myself with a bottle of gin, hmmm?

With that, the idea that had taken root earlier really started to blossom. The situation was perfect for what she was planning, which would undoubtedly qualify as a "stunt." It would either piss Eamonn off and get her permanently kicked out... or delight him. She wasn't sure which. But it took hold of her, speaking to the hunger, amping up the lust and making the nausea recede, and she knew she was going through with it.

A gorgeous, big-breasted, doe-eyed girl with a retro-pinup look about her - her hair done up in a bandana, Rosie the Riveter-style, even though she was otherwise casually clad in yoga pants and a T-shirt - came in to do Hanna's make-up, which she kept minimal, basically just a bit of foundation to reduce glare from the lights. The girl also handed her an enema kit; prepping for anal was one of the most awkward parts of this whole ritual, but as she already knew, Eamonn never did boy-girl scenes without it. He swore by the Nineties porn aesthetic, which had been in his words "all about the butt stuff."