American Blue (24 page)

‘We have assfuck!’ he declared. ‘How’s it feel, honey child? Oh sure, you can’t answer, on account of how you’re sucking on the buttcam, but I reckon we all know she likes it, folks, and just to prove it, I’m going to make the little whore come.’

He began to pump into me, slowly at first, but gradually faster, his cock squelching in the well-lubricated cavity of my rectum, his balls slapping on my cunt lips but missing my clit. That didn’t matter. I was too high to stop myself, my hand snatching for my cunt even before he’d got his pace up properly.

I thought of what I’d had done to me, of how they’d made me a whore, how I’d been made to strip and show off my body, how I’d been made to denude my
sex
and give myself an enema, to handle cock and suck him into my mouth. How I’d been fucked and filmed with him working in my hole, how I’d been lubricated and stretched behind until my bumhole could have accommodated a marrow, how I’d been filmed internally and had the camera stuck in my mouth. How I was being buggered on film, and all for men I’d never met, men who’d laugh at me and wank over my degradation, men who’d spunk over the sight of my abused body, men who’d know me for exactly what I was, a whore, a dirty, disgusting, degraded little anal whore.

My bottom locked tight as I started to come, my bumhole squeezing on Fishbaugh’s cock as he rammed himself in and out. The buttcam slipped from my mouth and I was gasping in air and yelling.

‘Hard, deeper … bugger me, you filthy old bastard … bugger me, and when you spunk do it in my mouth … come on, you filthy pig, you bastard, bugger me and make me suck it, or spunk up my bum and make me suck you clean. That’s what you’d like to see, isn’t it, you perverts, you filthy dirty perverts! That’s the sort of thing you do to whores, isn’t it? Isn’t it? So do it to me, you bastard! Come on, bugger me … bugger me …’

‘I think we got a live one!’ Fishbaugh said, and laughed.

I trailed off, whimpering as my orgasm began to die, only to pick up once more as he began to thrust harder still and to grunt, pig-like in his ecstasy as he rutted up my bottom. My fingers were locked on the table, my feet kicking in empty air as I hit a second agonising peak, which broke as he jammed himself deep, holding me by the hips with his cock pushed in to the very hilt as he pumped spunk up my rectum. I screamed out in ecstasy and blinding shame for what I was doing and what he’d made me do, ending with a sob as he
extracted
his erection from my bottom, because I knew exactly where he was going to put it.

‘You want it, you got it,’ he said, and he thrust his cock at my mouth.

I took him in, sucking eagerly, my fingers still working in the cleft of my pussy. My bumhole closed slowly, squirting out a little of his spunk, which I rubbed into my pussy as I masturbated, my pleasure rising once more as I sucked on his dirty cock, all the way to a third and final orgasm which left me limp and weak. I collapsed on to the table, his already deflating cock slipping from my mouth, to lie gasping and shaking uncontrollably, streaming tears and sobbing bitterly to myself, overcome both physically and mentally.

‘That’s a wrap,’ Fishbaugh declared as he collapsed into a chair.

‘Nice work,’ Hudson commented, stepping back. ‘You OK, Penny?’

I managed a nod and pushed myself up on to one elbow. Fishbaugh was inspecting his cock, and, finding it satisfactory, folded it back into his trousers, then looked up at me.

‘Best keep a small plug in your butthole for a while,’ he advised.

He’d already taken his gloves off, and went to wash his hands as I swung my legs off the table and forced myself to sit up. I felt oddly detached, as if nothing particularly mattered any more, and even his piece of advice seemed oddly impersonal, when it would normally have made me both excited and ashamed. I climbed down from the table, stripped off my top and followed him into the bathroom, completely indifferent to my nudity.

‘Do you want copies, Penny?’ Jemima called to me, and I answered with a vague hand signal before climbing into the shower.

Fourteen

WE LEFT AUSTIN
that afternoon, with Hudson driving the Winnebago. Jemima had the money in her bag. She had thanked Fishbaugh with a slow, loving suck of his cock while I lay face down on the bed and wondered if I’d ever be able to go without the small yellow plug he had given me to stick up my bottom.

It was no further from Austin to Phoenix than Jemima and I had already travelled, and, with plenty of time to spare, driving had been the sensible choice. Also, while Hudson was more than happy to be spending the next few nights with the two of us in the Winnebago. I didn’t mind at all, as the prospect of being subjected to a combination of his dominance and her cruelty rather appealed to me, or at least I knew it would once I’d recovered.

I was asleep before we’d got out of the suburbs, and by the time I woke up again it was dark and we were moving at speed through open countryside, with red taillights ahead of us and white headlights coming towards us, but no more than the occasional distant glitter on either side. Hudson and Jemima were talking, her voice a little peevish.

‘… was hoping to get enough to see me through uni.’

‘How much would that be?’ Hudson asked.

‘A lot,’ Jemima replied, ‘what with living expenses and tuition fees. Maybe twenty thousand pounds?’

‘You’d need to do a lot to get that much,’ Hudson told her, ‘even in mainstream porno, which is where the big money is.’

‘I know,’ Jemima said, ‘and what with Mum and Dad, and Penny being such an old mother hen about it all. Then they’re all telling me I should learn to stand on my own two feet! And if taking just one spanking earns as much as maybe two weeks flipping burgers, then what sort of idiot flips burgers? I’d do it even if I didn’t like it so much.’

She went quiet. I could just about make her out by the dashboard lights, flicking moodily through the bundle of tattered five-and ten-dollar bills Dan Fishbaugh had given her. At length she spoke again.

‘Is there any chance of doing something else before I go back?’

‘Between here and Phoenix?’ Hudson queried. ‘No, I wouldn’t say so. Dan’s quite rare, working in Texas, and I don’t know anyone else, not this side of Vegas.’

‘How about Vegas then?’

‘There’s plenty there, every size of cat house and all the big desert ranches. Most of them do porno.’

‘Do you know anybody from around there?’

‘Sure, my old pal Ron Costilla. He and I were in ’Nam together.’

‘And what does he do?’

‘Big Ron’s Booty Ranch it’s called. I’ve not been there in three, four years, so I ain’t too sure, but straight stuff I’d guess, nothing too kinky.’

‘I don’t mind that. Do you think he’d want me?’

‘With your body and your English accent? Sure he would, just like other every red-blooded man from San Diego to Cape Cod.’

‘I mean for a film of something? I thought girls had to have big chests and blonde hair?’

‘Not so much nowadays. There’s a lot of call for the natural look.’

‘Can we go then?’

‘It’s two hundred miles past Phoenix, and what’s Penny going to say?’

‘We’ve got time, and I don’t care what she says. It’s my body, and my life.’

Finally I could hold back no longer.

‘I’ll tell you what Penny has to say, Miss Jemima,’ I snapped. ‘I say that you’re a greedy little brat, and it’s just as well you like being spanked, because, by God, do you deserve it! For goodness sake, when are you going to realise the risks you’re taking? It was bad enough with Blue Ridge and Bugger my Bottomhole or whatever it was called, but at least they’re minority interests. This is mainstream, which means a vast audience. Do you realise the US porn industry has a bigger turnover than Hollywood? Well, it does, and you needn’t think that people who watch mainstream films are going to be shy about admitting to it either. Spanking and anal stretching maybe, but not main-stream. Yes, they’re hypocrites for watching it and objecting to you being in it, but that won’t matter, not with mainstream porn. So please, please—’

‘Oh shut up, Penny! You’re like a broken record. We’ve had all this before, haven’t we? You even agreed I could do Virgin Whores, and I’ll wear my stupid wig if it makes you happy, or put a mask on, or whatever, but I’m doing it, and that’s that.’

The remainder of the journey west was not the period of happy depravity I’d been anticipating. We spent the night at a motel, with Hudson and Jemima sharing a room while I was left in the Winnebago. I couldn’t get to sleep, and lay tossing and turning until I finally decided to attempt to soothe my battered feelings by
masturbating
. The plug was still up my bottom, because I wasn’t sure it was safe to take it out, and for all my worries it felt nice.

I dug out my pussy pump and spread myself out on the bed, with my nightie up over my tits and my thighs wide apart. The physical sensation was there, making me shiver and arch my back as my flesh grew swollen inside the plastic cup, and I eased the plug in and out of my bottom, but my mindset just wasn’t right. I forced myself to concentrate, remembering how Buttman Bailey had pumped me up and buggered me in front of the girls, but still my bad thoughts wouldn’t go away.

Fishbaugh was stuck in my head too, his ancient face red with exertion and running sweat as he puffed his way towards orgasm in my pussy and later my bumhole. In the end I had to give in to that, and how they’d made me a whore, working myself up as I rubbed my fingers between my blubbery, denuded cunt lips and pumped the plug in my bottom hole, pulling it free at the last instant as I brought myself to a shame-filled orgasm, telling myself I would never prostitute myself again even as I writhed in ecstasy at having done exactly that. It proved to be no help at all in getting me to sleep.

Hudson was determined to reach Nevada the next day and made sure we were all up early. I let him drive and was soon asleep again, waking only occasionally to glimpse an increasingly dry and barren landscape from the window, and for lunch just beyond Phoenix. Back on the road the landscape quickly grew wilder and more desolate still, scrubland giving way to near desert and ever taller mountains. It was beautiful, in a way, and I was absorbed in staring out of the window as the miles passed. At length we crossed the border into Nevada, heading towards Las Vegas past now
drab
scenery, ground the colour of ash and set with sparse, dull green bushes, running absolutely flat to a range of weathered, grey-brown hills in the distance.

I’d been drifting towards sleep again when Hudson slowed abruptly and announced that we’d arrived. Aside from the road, there was only one piece of evidence of human existence, a sign, which was as great a contrast with the bleak landscape as a live elephant in an English living room. It was maybe thirty feet tall, brightly painted and picked out with neon just in case you missed it, showing a blonde girl in a cowboy hat and an inadequate stars-and-stripes bikini, the bottom half of which she was just about to pull down. Above her, bright pink letters two feet high spelt ‘Big Ron’s Booty Ranch’.

‘Very American,’ I remarked.

‘Sure is,’ Hudson remarked, indifferent to sarcasm as ever.

He turned off on to a well-made track that appeared to lead nowhere until we came round the shoulder of a hill and into sight of what could only be the ranch but looked more like a military camp. A high chainlink fence surrounded a cluster of largely windowless buildings, none of them more than two storeys high, and there was even a Stars-and-Stripes flying from a tall flagpole by the gate.

We were let in after a brief explanation to a man who seemed to be a Native American, to judge by his hawk nose and copper-coloured skin, but the man who came out of the main door looked more Mexican than anything, as big as Hudson, solidly built, with a round head topped with curly black hair, and what I’d once heard a politically incorrect friend refer to as a ‘beanfeaster moustache’. He was grinning broadly as he recognised Hudson, and they folded each other in bear-like arms as soon as we’d climbed down from the Winnebago.

‘And who’re the little ladies?’ the man asked when they’d stepped apart.

‘My girlfriend, Jemima, and Penny,’ Hudson said. ‘This here’s Ron Costilla. Say hi to Ron.’

‘Hi,’ I managed, already imagining myself spitted on his cock, which seemed inevitable.

‘I was hoping to do some work for you,’ Jemima put in immediately, shameless even for her.

Ron looked surprised and glanced at Hudson, who grinned and shrugged.

‘Well, there’s always work for a pretty girl like you,’ Ron told her. ‘You too, Penny, if it floats your boat.’

‘No, thank you,’ I said quickly.

‘I was hoping to be in a film,’ Jemima said.

‘Sure,’ Ron said, his eyes flicking up and down her slender body. ‘You can be in a film. Come inside.’

We followed him through the main doors into a lounge which appeared to have been decorated by a colourblind Satanist. The principal colours were scarlet, purple and black, along with a lot of gold paint and glass. Even the bar was painted gold, with a purple plastic top, which at least matched the bustier of the blonde girl standing behind it, smiling. Vulgar it might have been, but I’d seldom if ever been given such a warm welcome, and found myself responding in kind.

‘Champagne all round,’ Ron declared, clapping his hands at the barmaid. ‘Pass some lists, Doll.’

He introduced us and took some pieces of laminated paper from the barmaid, whom he introduced simply as Doll.

‘These are our prices: for porno, which is flat rate, and for regular work, where the house takes fifty per cent.’

He was holding out two sets of lists and I took one. A single glance at the figures and I realised there might be a way out. It wasn’t satisfactory from a personal
viewpoint
, just the opposite, but it would mean Jemima stayed off camera.

‘Are you busy?’ I asked Ron.

‘Sure,’ he told me. ‘We start to fill up late afternoon.’

‘And how long does it take to make a film?’

‘A day, maybe two, for the ordinary stuff, more when we go for a big production.’