The Letter Ch. 01

The letter was one of several pushed through my front door as I left for work, I was running late already, so I picked them up and stuffed them into my bag to be dealt with later. It would be junk-mail or bills anyway, they could be thrown away just as easily later as now. Being late again would mean either dismissal or a 'favour'. Sacking people seemed to me my bosses second favourite pastime.

I was not late. It was lunchtime though, by the time I sorted my mail. Until lunchtime, the only breaks allowed were 'comfort breaks'. We had to put up our hand to be given permission to use the loo, drinks were served to our desks by another minion. By 'we', I mean the employees of the telesales company that formed my current employment. It was a sweatshop, the boss patrolled constantly looking for faults that would lead to - yes, dismissal or 'favours'. The letter was neither junk nor final demand, hand-written, with a US postmark, it was an invitation to a funeral. And it was to be life-changing.

Normally, an invitation to a funeral would be no cause for excitement, but this was the funeral of my uncle, and the invitation was from his daughter, my cousin Christine. I had neither seen nor heard from her for eight years. We had been close despite the fact that Christine was six years my senior. Then she disappeared, along with her parents. At first I was desolate, no reason was given, other than that they had 'gone away', but I was fourteen years of age and soon forgot her.

Looking back, the incident probably contributed to my own fall from grace from that time on. I became something of a wild-child. I left school as soon as I was able, with nothing useful by way of qualifications, the school were probably glad to see me go, certainly I don't remember being persuaded to stay on. I soon found clerical work in a series of office jobs, none of them lasting long. As soon as I was above the age of consent I consented at every opportunity, experimenting with sex in every way, I liked it, I liked being fucked, I liked to suck cock and best of all, I liked to wank men off, I was obsessed by projectile semen.

So, if for no other reason than curiosity, this was one funeral that I just had to attend. Why had Christine vanished? The problem was, it was on Friday, in three days' time. The company rule was at least a week's notice of any leave to be taken and I had pushed the taking of 'sickies' beyond reasonable levels, leaving only one option - a 'favour'. Most of the female employees, or at least, the young attractive ones, were expected to do favours for the boss. Favours were his favourite pastime. A favour meant sucking his cock or bending over his desk to be fucked, in return for whatever we needed outside what was written into our contracts. In the recession, or whatever the politicians liked to call it, employment was hard to come by, so we did what we had to. After lunch I steeled myself to the inevitable and asked if I could speak to him privately.

There was the usual sucking of teeth,

"This Friday? Not a chance," he said.

I pleaded, it was my only uncle.

"It will require something special in return," he grudgingly offered, "Stay after we close and we will discuss it."

My boss might think that he is God's gift to women, but they would have to be very strange women. He was fat, sweated a lot and his body odour was made worse by the cheap scent that he wore as a substitute for showering. When everyone was gone, he called me into his office.

"Strip," he ordered, everything off."

I obeyed meekly, he also stripped naked. He usually just dropped his pants, I had never seen him naked and it was not a pleasant sight. He groped my tits before going for the main prize, pushing two fingers roughly into my dry cunt. He produced a condom and handed it to me, one thing in his favour was that he always used a condom, and as much as I dislike the taste of latex, it is preferable to that of smegma. I tore open the pack, held the condom between my lips by its teat, and knelt in front of him. His cock was fully erect. Quite a decent cock really, were it attached to anyone else and washed more often. We, his victims, probably saw more of it than he did. The only way he would ever see it was in a mirror, such was his beer-belly. I sucked him until he placed his hand on my face, the sign that he wanted it in another place. I bent over the desk and pushed out my bum, there was a slight delay as he smeared a generous amount of lubricant around my dry hole, then he pushed into me.

He fucked me like this for longer than usual, he was normally a 'stick it in, spurt, pull it out' man. Perhaps he had already been serviced today by one of the others, he always had the office to himself at lunchtimes, nobody spent more time there than they had to, so he had two opportunities every day to extract 'favours'. He was pumping away at me for so long that he began to hurt me, the lubricant had dried out. I informed him. He pulled out and slapped on another cold anointing. When he positioned himself for re-entry, he pushed against the wrong hole, I thought that he would re-position himself but he continued to push against the sealed-tight sphincter.

"No!" I protested, "not there, I don't do that."

"You'll do it for me or walk," he replied, "I've always wanted to fuck your cheeky little arse."

I wriggled free from his grasp.

"Please no," I begged, "you're much too big, you'll tear me apart. Something else, anything, I'll suck you off without the condom, you can come in my mouth, I will swallow it."

He pondered this for a while, then nodded, peeling off the condom.

"Make it good," he said, "or clear your desk."

I knelt again and took his prong delicately in my fingers, pulling back the foreskin to reveal his bulging tip. I held my breath and took as much as I could of his length in a single gulp, he grunted his approval. I sucked as well as I know how, intending for it to be over quickly, but as he grew more and more aroused he began to thrust his tip down my throat. I can do 'deep throat', given time and a co-operative partner, but he was out of control, choking me. He was probably three times my weight and much stronger, my struggles had no effect, I could die here I thought. I took the only action available to me; I bit him. Hard.

He sprang away from me screaming in agony, clutching his injured manhood.

"Fucking whore bitch," and other similar compliments streamed from his foul mouth, finishing with; "Get out, you're finished."

I gathered my clothes and handbag, I kept nothing in my desk anyway, and quickly vacated.

So I was unemployed. Still, I had to smile on the tube home, he had had it coming for a long time, and if it had cost me my job, perhaps my female ex-colleagues would benefit. Even if I had not done him permanent damage, he might think twice in future about extracting favours.

I lay wake that night considering my options. They were few. Then I remembered that I had met an old school-friend a few weeks ago in the supermarket. Over a coffee, we had reminisced. Like me, she had been a rebel at school, unlike me, she was employed. She worked in massage parlours.

"Why don't you give it a try?" She had asked. "You could earn three times as much as you do now, in fewer hours. I could introduce you."

She went on to tell me that she had a partner, who knew about her 'profession', and a child, his child.

"It's just a job," she concluded, "I have a completely normal life when I've got my clothes on."

I turned over the thought for many hours, I was unattached, an orphan and skint. Men certainly found me attractive and I was certainly no innocent when it came to sex. I might even enjoy it! I had her 'phone number, I would call her. But first, I had a funeral to attend.

It was raining, a good day for a funeral. I was late as usual, proceedings had begun as I slipped into the back of the crematorium chapel. There were about twenty other mourners, Christine was instantly recognisable despite being eight years older than when I last saw her. She stood out like an orchid among daisies.

My uncle slipped slowly through the curtain. The mourners turned to leave, Christine leading. I caught her eye as she approached and she recognised me. Her mascara was smudged by tears.

"Lynne? Is it really you?" I nodded, there were tears in my eyes, whether for my late uncle or tears of joy at seeing Christine again, I am not sure, but it seemed appropriate. We embraced, we linked arms and left the chapel together into the rain.

"There's drinks and a buffet," she said, "You will come?"

Again I nodded. There was a long black Mercedes waiting, the driver held the door for us. My first ever ride in a Merc, and it was a short one. The 'wake', if you could call it that, was a subdued affair. It was in a nearby pub, all of the mourners attended, but after telling Chris how sorry they were for her loss, and drinking most of the champagne, they made their excuses and left. They seemed uncomfortable in Christine's presence, adding to the sense of mystery. Eventually there were just the two of us, lots of wine and lots of food. I made a serious attempt at the wine, but not the food.

As if the loss of her father was not enough, selfishly, I burdened her with my own problems, finishing with my decision to start earning my living on my back.

"Would you really do that?" She asked.

"I have few options," I sobbed, "My only qualification is good tits."

"Let me speak to some people I know," she said, "I may be able to come up with something."

Most of this is rather vague recollections, I was sloshed. I remember Chris bundling me into a taxi and little more. I awoke much later in, or rather on, my own bed, covered with a blanket. On my dressing table was a note;

"Come for lunch tomorrow at about mid-day," and the name of a hotel.

The hotel was very posh, way out of my league. I gave my name to the receptionist, saying that I was expected.

"Yes, Ms Rivers is expecting you, go straight up, room 505."

Room 505 was a suite of rooms, very luxurious. It comprised a sitting room with a panoramic view of one of the royal parks, doors led off to the bedroom, the bathroom and a small kitchen. Christine sat me down on one of two huge leather couches, one facing the window and the other facing a massive high definition TV. She handed me the room service menu, telling me to choose anything I liked. She telephoned our order, sat next to me and said that there was something she wanted me to see on TV. She pressed a button on the remote and the picture filled the screen. It was a paused still from the DVD player built in to the TV, the picture was of a shapely dangling breast. Christine pressed the play button and the picture zoomed out to show a white woman on all fours, being serviced at both ends by two muscular black studs. The previously paused tit and its neighbour bounced in time to their thrusts.

I looked across at Chris questioningly, she just nodded at the screen for me to continue watching. The camera panned to the head end and zoomed in on the girl's face. Although grossly distorted by the impossibly large cock that stretched it, the face seemed familiar. On screen, a male voice said;

"Change ends buddy?"

The camera moved to the owner of the voice, whose equally immense cock was pumping rhythmically in and out of the girls cunt. He stopped his movements and pulled out, the shaft gleamed with the girl's juices. The camera followed the cock as it moved to her face and she gulped the sticky monster greedily into her mouth. For a few seconds, the mouth had been empty and the face undistorted. I recognised the face. I stared at Christine in disbelief;

"It's you!"

Chris paused the picture again and smiled.

"It's how I earn my crust." She said simply.

There was a knock at the door, lunch had arrived. Chris turned off the TV and opened the door. Two liveried hotel staff laid the table and held chairs for us. One showed Chris the wine bottle, opened it, poured it and they left smiling deferentially after one of them had palmed the bank-note Chris had given him.

Over the meal, Chris told her story:

She too, had left school with minimal qualifications, but her parents, or at least her mother, had already mapped out her career path. Christine had been a pretty child and her mother had decided that she was the right material to be a model. For years, mum had bombarded agencies with Christine's portfolio, eventually it worked, Christine appeared in mail order catalogues and on-line, modelling teenage fashion. She was 'spotted' and more work followed.

My own parents had not approved, my dad in particular thought that modelling was 'selling herself', but our parents had remained friends. As Christine developed, she came to be in demand, eventually doing topless, then nude for men's mags. By now, Christine was sexually active, and it seemed to be a natural progression for her to go 'hard-core' when asked to. This really was too much for my parents and was the cause of the rift.

I was astonished. I had known nothing of this. Was I so self-centred that I had not even enquired what Christine did for a living when she left school? Chris said that, as a condition of our continuing relationship, she had been sworn to keep me unaware. But even so, I must have been completely stupid not to see the signs.

Chris concluded that she had been offered porno work in the U.S. and had taken it. She and her mother had moved there, her mother was alive and well, living in the same Santa Barbara apartment block as Chris, and was in fact her agent. Her dad had declined the chance to go with them, they had eventually divorced and mum had re-married, someone in 'the business'.

"And this is what you meant by 'coming up with something'," I asked.

She nodded. "At least give it some thought, some people would say that what I do is little more than whoring on camera, but it pays better than what you are planning, the life-style is good and you get to see exotic places when on location. You also get fucked by professionals."

She looked at her watch, it was late afternoon.

"I'm going to have to throw you out," she said, "I have a meeting with some associates tonight. Take these," she said, handing me the DVD from the TV and several others, "Study them with what we have discussed in mind, you will not be forced to do anything that you don't want to, although the more you do the better the money. I chose them because the cover most genres, call me here tomorrow, the desk will take a message, just yes or no will do and I will try to fix up an interview."

She went to the door to let me out, then paused in thought before saying;

"The people I'm seeing tonight are not all actors, they are money-people, people who finance the business. I will probably have sex with all of them tonight, bear it in mind, it goes with the job."

And she ushered me out.

I stood on the hotel steps, dazed, more by what I had seen and heard rather than by the wine. I stuffed the DVDs into my bag and headed for the tube home. Chris was right, the DVD's did cover all sorts of activity, straight sex, through lesbian and gay to BDSM and even 'water sports'. I tried to watch them as instructional rather than as arousal, but still ended up masturbating until I was sore. It could be me doing all those things. And being paid for it! I eventually wanked myself to sleep.

I called the hotel at about mid-day the next day and left a message;

"Yes."

Christine called on Monday morning, I was to meet her for lunch again, this time at an Italian restaurant near to her hotel. She had arranged for me to meet someone the next day, at eleven o'clock. She gave me the address.

"His name is Angus and he is a sweetie. But he will put you through it, he will question you about everything sexual, he will try to shock you, just be honest and you will be fine. You will have to get naked, and probably be asked to perform sex of some kind. And now it's goodbye again, I'm flying home tomorrow. Let me know how you get on."

We parted tearfully, but at least I knew now how to get in touch, and we promised to do so.

On the way home, I stopped at a sex-shop that I know to be female-friendly and bought a vibrator. I already have one, but this was special, an anal vibrator. In practically all of the scenes in the porn-films, there had been anal sex, even in the lezzie ones they had buggered each other with dildoes, it was almost de rigueur. I would need practice.

And so I practised. I searched the web for advice, 'buggery for beginners' sort of thing, and found the key points to be: Empty. Relax. Lubricate. Be aroused.

The first and third I could manage, relaxation was not easy, mindful of what I was trying to achieve, and as for arousal, well, I had the videos, but only the promise of a plastic prick at the end. At least it would not go soft!

I managed to accommodate the anal vibrator without too much difficulty, and kept it in position for a long time, but when I switched to the life sized version, I tensed up and locked it out. I persisted and at last it was in, it hurt like hell but I had done it. I had to hold it in position, my natural reaction being to expel it, but I was determined to get used to it. Would I be able to do it with a real one though?

The address Chris had given me was in Wardour Street, the traditional home of the British film industry, but 'Angam Productions' was accessed from a dingy alley off the main road. The brass plaque said it was on the fifth floor. I had to pass several doors advertising the services of 'models' as I laboured up the narrow stairs, as I passed one of them, a punter was being shown out. I could feel his eyes on my tightly clad posterior as I started the next flight.

The offices of Angam were small, but quite smart once inside. 'Offices' is probably too grand a word really, it was a small reception area with three doors off, one to a toilet, another to a small kitchen and the third to an office. The receptionist, a good-looking young black man, showed me straight in. Angus stood to greet me and invited me to take a chair that was placed before his desk, an impressive, leather topped antique. Angus instructed the receptionist to bring coffee and sat down behind the desk. I judged him to be in his late forties, quite tall, well proportioned, dark hair greying at the temples. He wore an expensive looking blue suit. I thought that he was quite tasty, demonstrating my talents for him would be no chore.

"So you're Kristal's cousin?" he asked.

Kristal? I nodded.

"And you think that you might have what it takes to become an actress?"

Another nod. The door opened and a tray with coffee was placed on the desk. The young man poured, handed me the cup and left the room.

"Do you have a boyfriend Lynn?" asked Angus.

"Not at present," I replied.

"So when did you last have sex?"

"About a week ago."

"Tell me about it."

I took a deep breath and began;

"I met someone in a club who looked quite fit and we ended up afterwards in his flat. It was less than satisfactory, he did the business, missionary position, then rolled off and went to sleep. I dressed and left."

"You did not orgasm?"

"No. At least, not with him, I sorted myself out when I got home."

"You masturbated?"

"Yes."

"Do you masturbate often?"

"Define often."

Angus did not answer, he just looked at me and waited.

"Sometimes several times a day, some days not at all," I said, "I suppose it averages about once a day."

"When did you last masturbate?"

"This morning."

"And before that?"

"Last night."

I was beginning to get aroused, my nipples were stiff and I could feel the gusset of my knickers stating to get damp. Angus made a note on the pad on his desk.