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Authors: T.H. Sandal

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The Office Girl

BOOK: The Office Girl
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The Office Girl

 

By T.H.Sandal

 

Published by T.H.
Sandal

 

Copyright 2012 T.H.
Sandal

 

License Notes

 

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The Office
Girl

 

I knew a pornographer once. A man who made porn films. He
liked to think of them as art, and in a sense they were. He was
good you understand, had a way with the camera, knew about lighting
and such like, had an eye for the right line or profile. And that's
important in a porn film. Almost as important as the tenor of the
girl's moan.

It's like women's tennis. A bit like that.

We'll call him Trevor, Trev for short, though you understand
that this wasn't his name at all and as it happens, he'd probably
like me to use his real name because it sounds so much more
impressive than Trevor or even Trev. But that's they way it will
be. For all the Trevs reading this who haven't featured in stories
about sex and erotica – this is for you.

Now naturally, Trev had a load of equipment – cameras,
lighting mostly – but what he didn't have was a studio. If he'd
been a photographer, and as I understand it, he'd done some of that
as well, but if he'd done that for a living, he might have based
himself in a studio, but being a pornographer, being, to all
intents, a film-maker, he liked to work on location. Which meant,
depending on the finances, a borrowed flat, a dingy hotel room, or,
if the cash flow was at all healthy, a hired residence.

Those last were the best, preferably something with a bunch of
rooms because, again depending on the cash flow, he'd make a point
of filming a few scenes in one or two days and in an effort not to
repeat a particular setting, he'd make use of the various rooms
available.

Now it has to be said that not everyone renting their pad out
for the weekend likes to think that it would used in the making of
a porn film. Some, I know for certain, were not best pleased at
all, but that didn't run across the board and there was always the
old adage to consider: only a limited percentage of posh types with
residences to rent out ever watch porn film and, more to the point,
would admit it if they did.

Likewise, for those acquaintances who did watch porn and did
manage to recognise the location as the wonderful London maisonette
owned by the Howards, well how likely was it that they'd actually
pluck up the courage to tell Sophie and Jeremy Howard that there,
right there on that deep, plush sofa on which they were drinking
their G&T's, yes, right there had been a freshly made-up
actress, her legs all akimbo, getting power-fucked by some
well-built hunk with a huge prick.

Of course there were always some who would blurt it out,
probably between courses at one of the Howards' special dinner
parties, but it was unlikely, even with straight porn. Naturally,
lesbian porn would have been acceptable, but not, definitely not,
gay porn. Everyone has their peccadillos.

And where do I fit in? You might just as well asked me where
did mine fit in?

You'll know, if you've read my other stories, that I possess
something of an unusual appendage, and in this context, as you
might read in a later story, I was known to play a part in the some
of the more wild scenes that Trev put together. In fact, I could
list out for you all the scenes in which I, or at least parts of
me, appear, but these were never starring parts. Though that's not
to say that parts of me never starred.

Without further mucking about then, let's take a trip to
Brighton. Been there? For those half way round the globe and
wondering about the spelling, Brighton sits on the coast some few
miles south of London. It's a seaside resort for the most part but
its also a student town that also incorporates a fair quota of
office workers.

Apart from other aspects, Trev likes to go there because the
property is full of character; a lot of Georgian-style terracing
that was established in the early nineteenth century when the
Prince Regent was building his rather salubrious palace. So imagine
big bay windows letting in loads of light, tall ceilings, elaborate
plaster work, old-style wooden panel doors and, in those residences
where they've spent the money, furnishings to match.

The place he'd rented was a maisonette taking up the bottom
three stories of a terraced house on Brunswick Square. You can
check out pictures of the type of property via google if it takes
your fancy, otherwise just imagine a house with a huge bay front,
immense windows on the first floor easily twice your height
overlooking an wide street with plush cut grass in the middle and,
to the left, a view out to sea.

It was a beautiful late Summer day, the sun shining down onto
the Brunswick Square and creeping round to reach the huge bay
windows. We'd positioned ourselves in large bedroom at the front of
the house, more of a sitting room in fact, with appropriate
comfortable furniture towards the window and the bed against the
back wall.

Trev thought the light might get a bit intense, but he'd taken
a liking to a particular chaise long – an ornate antique, newly
covered in an expensive looking fabric – which he'd moved towards
the centre of the room. It was an open style chaise, without the
side panel, but with a back rest on one end.

The other furniture had been moved aside; enough to create
some space around the chaise, but not so much to make the scene
look false and the chaise was backed to one side by the bay window
and to the other by the fireplace above which was a huge fancy
mirror, expensive enough to be without imperfection, and spotlessly
clean.

Knowing how Trev worked, I was sure that he'd be moving his
cameras around the two opposing sides, though with an effort to
avoid stupid reflections in the mirror. His main camera, an
expensive video with all the trimmings, was positioned on a tripod
facing the window and looking straight down the length of the
chaise. Apart from raising and lowering the tripod, he liked to
keep that camera stationary.

Apart from a boom mike and its necessary sound recording
equipment, the playback screen from the stationary camera and a
lap-top to upload video from the portables, and a couple of serious
looking studio lights and their attendant tripods, apart from all
that, the bedroom also contained Trev, his two cameramen, the sound
man. And me. Lounging on the bed.

The first to arrive who wasn't going to be behind any of this
equipment was the male actor for this first session. To save his
embarrassment, and to give him a sense of the exotic, we'll call
him Felix. He'd probably like that better than his real name,
which, to be honest, is a little boring and doesn't at all match
his persona which can be summarised as threatening.

By which I mean that he wasn't, in his appearance, obviously a
nice bloke. With his hair short, cut to a close grade, a sharp
angular face and close-set eyes, he didn't look like the kind of
bloke a young lady might want to meet socially. He was also fit.
Wearing fashionable jeans and a fairly tight t-shirt, there was no
mistaking the fact that he worked out and while there wasn't, to a
cursory inspection, much or any fat to speak of, there was plenty
of muscle on show.

His nick-name amongst those in the trade was
two-stroke
. Which should suffice.

The female actor, much to Trev's consternation, was a bit late
and was announced not by her appearance at the door, but by the
irritating ring tone of Trev's mobile. He seemed to know it was her
because he immediately talked by name – Alice will do – but rather
than go through with the conversation in earshot, he took himself
and his phone through the door.

Some minutes passed before he returned. In place of the phone,
but attached to the same hand, was Alice. The office girl. I call
her that simply because of how she looked, rather than any personal
knowledge that she was, in fact, employed in an office. But if she
wasn't, she should have been.

Maybe in her mid-twenties, perhaps a little older, from feet
up, she was wearing black court shoes without heels, black sheer
stockings, a tight, well-fitted skirt that finished perhaps three
or four inches above the knee, a plain white blouse, tucked into
the skirt, over which she had a black jacket. Her hair, also black
and particularly fine, was held up in a tight bun.

She was certainly pretty. Not ostentatiously so, she clearly
wasn't flaunting it, but it was obvious that while she was wearing
make up, it had been effortlessly applied. Her eyes – large and
dark – were accentuated only with what was necessary, a hint of
eye-liner that did as much to highlight eye brows that had not been
over plucked into some thin line but retained a measure of
expressiveness. Wonderful cheekbones had been shown off with a hint
of blusher and likewise, her lips, which were full, showed just a
hint of colour – a delicate pink.

All that was enough to know that something was amiss and her
demeanour on entering the room and seeing the set up only served to
confirm it. While I, along with others on the set – especially
Felix – didn't hide our examination of what kind of body was hidden
beneath that smart attire, she was looking around with a certain
amount of trepidation.

Fortunately, Trev was professional enough to notice and, for
want of anywhere else to go, shepherded her over to the chaise, sat
her down, and started talking quietly. The discussion was
punctuated with a number concerned head shakes from her and a
similar amount of re-assuring nods from Trev, and gradually it
seemed that professionalism – or more likely money – was winning
over.

While it was still in the balance, Felix sidled over to where
I was sitting.


She's never done this has she,” he said in a flat whisper. He
had a noticeably Mancunian accent.


Doesn't look like it,” I replied.


You think she will?” At this point, half listening to Felix,
half running my eyes up the line of her legs – they did look
particularly well shaped – I noticed Trev retrieving his wallet
from his back pocket.


Looks like it,” I said to Felix. “You'd better go easy on her
I suppose.”

He gave me a crafty smile. “I dunno. Not like she'd know the
difference.”

If there was any more to say, it had to wait because Trev
motioned to Felix to go over. I saw a quick exchange of notes –
they went into Alice's jacket pocket – then she was being
introduced to Felix, standing up from the chaise to see it done.
Satisfied that he'd done the business, Trev stepped away and
positioned himself behind the stationary camera while both
hand-helds were retrieved and switched on.

There followed a prelude of sorts, occasioned by an amusing
handshake that Felix held on to and used to offer her seat on the
chaise, sitting down next to her once she'd assumed her place. It
was immediately noticeable to what extent Felix dominated her; in
stature of course, he was perhaps half a head taller sitting down,
but also in the way she was shrinking back from him. I had the sure
sense, much like my first impression, that she found him
intimidating.

Felix talked to her quietly. I couldn't hear what he was
saying, but since Trev gave no direction for him to speak up, I
assumed that it was being picked up on the microphone boom.
Whatever he
was
saying – leaning in until he was close to
her right ear – wasn't designed to make Alice feel any more
comfortable; though not quite shuffling away from him, she wasn't
exactly engaging with the process.

And as he talked, Felix started touching her; a casual contact
with the back of his hand against her arm, absent mindedly moving a
few strand of hair from the side of her face, emphasising a comment
with a gentle pat of her thigh. Odd, simple touches that Alice
seemed either to ignore or else to take in her stride. She didn't
react to them, but neither did she try to get closer. Felix was
doing enough for both of them.

BOOK: The Office Girl
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