Asking For It Read online

  Asking For It

  Lana Laye

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2011 by Lana Laye

  Cover Model: Lana Laye

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  * * *

  The lights were too bright, the air too thin. I was tired, sore, and ready to go home. But I hadn't even made it to my dressing room, the taste of cum still in my mouth and sweat dripping down the small of my back and the insides of my thighs, when one of the production assistants, a cute little Asian girl named Naomi, hailed me in that soft yet insistent way that is typical of people who are too sweet to be anywhere near a porn set.

  "Ms. Laye?"

  I sighed, couldn't help it. My body felt as if I'd been dropped from the tenth floor of the Chrysler Building. I was sticky and every muscle ached. I turned, offered a smile, because whatever she needed was probably not her fault, and she didn't look as if it gave her any pleasure to interrupt me.

  "Hi," I said, my voice hoarse. Sucking three cocks for two hours will do that.

  She was clutching a clipboard. The perfect image of a fish out of water. Why she needed one was beyond me. Her hair was tied back in a stubby little ponytail, and her breasts were small flat lumps beneath her pink and white striped T-shirt. I envied her, though I'd never admit it. As a well-endowed porn star (36DD, and real), what I have is considered a great asset, and to moan about that or express envy about the less well-endowed would be potentially damaging. Only my cat, Kaylie, hears the truth about what an utter hindrance my tits are, and listens to me moaning about the strain they put on my back.

  I felt that same pain now, a dull ache between my shoulder blades, but straightened so they were at their maximum effect, because that's what's expected of me. Naomi's eyes flickered to them only briefly. Everybody's does, whether they're gay, straight, or asexual. They draw the eye. That used to thrill me. Now I hardly notice. I have considered getting my eyeballs implanted in my nipples so that for the first time in eight years of doing porn, I'd get looked in the eye when people are talking to me.

  Naomi saw me noticing her and blushed. I wondered if perhaps she was a little gay, or a lot gay. She was certainly intimidated by me, but that kind of a reaction always puzzled me. I fuck for a living, I'm hardly Angelina Jolie or the Queen of England. Save your idolatry for the royals, folks. We're just people. And some of us don't even classify as people.

  "Ken wants to see you in his office," Naomi told me, clutching the clipboard to her chest now, as if ashamed to be so poorly endowed in the face of my two sweat and cum-slicked cannonballs. I resisted the urge to assure her she was better off, and wished I'd had time to get a robe. I get no thrill from seeing people feeling bad about what they've got and I hate to see them embarrassed in front of me. The stories I could tell them.

  "What about?" I asked her.

  She shrugged and made an apologetic face. "I don't know, but he said it'll only take a minute."

  "Okay, thanks Naomi," I said.

  She nodded, still blushing and moved away, back into the glaring supernova of lights and the deep shadows that hunkered around them. I glanced over at the set, to the rickety piece-of-shit bed they had set up. It was meant to look Victorian, though I doubted people in that era had gotten their pillows at Bed, Bath & Beyond, and I'm even more certain that they hadn't had tags sticking out of them. A few feet from the bed stood a plywood backdrop, upon which had been painted a stone wall and a mullioned window, the illustrated storm outside frozen in the act of raging.

  Sitting on the bed was Cal Stone. I feel describing him isn't really necessary. If you've ever seen a porn before, then you already know what he looks like. Fake tan, fake smile, fake everything. Not particularly good looking, but passable. Cock that he could use for pole-vaulting, and of course, this last is all anyone really cares about in this business: How big, and can you use it on camera? Cal uses his like it's a sledgehammer and girls are the pavement, and any stage whispered requests for him to ease up a tad go completely ignored. Cal is an asshole of the highest order, and resisting the urge to chomp down on his cock when he pinched my nipple so hard I almost screamed, was not easy.

  Next to him was a six-foot three black guy named R.C. That's it. I guess it's supposed to refer to the Cola, or maybe those are really his initials. I don't really care enough to find out, and he doesn't really care enough to tell. But I like R.C. He's got a wicked sense of humor—the kind that necessitates multiple takes because he keeps cracking me up, even while he's carefully guiding his massive member into my ass. But it's the humor that makes it easier to accommodate his girth, and I think he knows this. He's disarming, and he jokes a lot. I like guys who joke a lot. It tells me that the cancer that is this business hasn't yet eaten the soul out of him. And people like that are rare.

  The other guy is a relative newcomer, a young Irish guy I don't know much about, and it's him I looked hoping to see. He's quiet, about as shy as Naomi, and looks just as out of place as she does on this set. But he met the requirements, so he's here.

  When you do this business long enough, the faces of the people you work with tend to blur together. Come see me in my dressing room once the shoot is done and ask me who I worked with and I'll give you their names. Ask me what they looked like and I'll have to think about it for a while. Which is why I found myself surprised to be looking for the Irish guy. His stage name was Mike Long—a dumb name, but then they're supposed to be, because people are probably less likely to watch a porn staring Dennis Higgins Mayhew III, and Victoria Slattersly-Wintergreen. I know I liked his accent, though typically the only lines spoken during a low-rent shoot like this one are nuggets like: "Yeah, swallow that cock, you fucking bitch," "Spread that tight cunt, baby" or "You like that big cock, don't you?" And Mike had said his share of those lines, and they'd only stood out from the usual white static such lines tend to become because of his accent.

  His accent and something he'd done, and then whispered after we did our first blow job scene together.

  We were fifteen minutes into the shoot. I was playing a princess and these three were my knights/bodyguards, ordered to protect me from the imminent threat of some evil knight from an opposing kingdom or some such nonsense. Naturally, being the oversexed princess that I am, my character apparently decides that the best way to ensure my safety is to have a foursome, and so off we go. I was already out of costume and on all fours on the narrow bed, with Cal beneath me in a 69 position. His heavily tattooed arms were wrapped around my back, squeezing me tighter than necessary. He was attending to my saturated pussy (courtesy of lube, I might add, and not his greatness) like a dog with a chew toy, alternating between driving his long tongue inside me and masticating on my swollen clit while kneading my heavy breasts as if he hoped to eventually make a cake out of them. As a means of revenge, I jerked his dick hard enough that he must have thought I was trying to detach it. It would look good and rough for the camera, but I doubted Cal would appreciate it much. Periodically, I tongued his asshole, because I'd read in a magazine interview with him that it was his least favorite thing to have done.

  R.C. was huffing and puffing behind me, his sweat plinking onto my back, as he slid himself in and out of my ass with long, smooth, even strokes. I could feel every ridge, every vein, every contour of him inside me, and I liked it. I'm not an anal freak by any means, and when I do engage in it, I
prefer smaller cocks, but like I said, R.C. wasn't rough, and his humor had relaxed me to more than the usual degree. He was big, but the discomfort was minimal. I would feel it later though, because no matter how much preparation there is, and no matter the size of the dick, my asshole is tight and stays that way, which, while it looks great on camera and feels great for the guy, means a lot of wincing for me later on.

  We were filming on a digital handheld, and the camera guy—Josh Rhodes, who looked like he wasn't long out of film school—hovered around us, trying to get the best possible angles of everything that was going on. Occasionally he'd mutter a direction or two ("move your leg, Cal," or "look at the camera for a sec, Lana", but more often he just floated quietly around the action like a man with a big glass eye.

  The director, a man I've worked with many times, but have never quite managed to warm to, is an egotistical and grossly overweight guy who goes by the name Ken X. I've done eight films for him and have never once felt as if he thought of me as anything other than a necessary evil. I'd understand this attitude more if I were an ego too, or a cast-iron bitch on the set, but I'm not, and don't understand people who are. I've heard similar stories from other actresses too, some of whom have had worse experiences than mine, so maybe he just hates women. I guess it's fair, because I happen to think that if not for the fact that he's won an AVN Award, he'd probably be working as a grocery bagger by now.

  "For fuck sake, Cal, I'm getting tired of looking at your asshole!" was about the sum of his contribution to the scene. "Close your fucking legs before I ram a boom mike into it."

  Against my cunt, Cal sniggered. I wished for a moment I had teeth down there.

  As Cal closed his legs, denying me further asshole-terrorism in both senses of the word, Ken shouted, "Mike, you're up!"

  Mike stepped into frame, his long—but not ridiculously long—cock primed and ready thanks to Mandy, the fluffer, who was sitting on a chair just beyond the harsh studio lights and watching with interest as she guzzled water from a plastic bottle.

  He brought himself close to my face and angled his cock downward so that I could take it into my mouth. I gave him the expected sultry look for the camera's benefit, because by now Josh had dropped to his haunches, the camera trained on my face and Mike's throbbing prick.

  Still stroking Cal's cock with increasing disinterest, I took Mike in my hand and began to jerk him, slowly. His skin was smooth. He smiled down at me, and it was a curious smile. Not for the camera's benefit. A genuine smile. Either that, or he was a hell of an actor, and if that was the case, he really did have no business being on a porn set.

  I smiled back at him, and found I meant it too. And suddenly, I felt compelled by reasons purely my own, by commands that came, not from the director or another actor, but from a need inside myself, to pleasure him. And so I held his eyes as I first ran my tongue from the seam of his balls, all the way up his shaft, and then took him deep inside my mouth, the head of his cock probing the back of my throat.

  I watched him; he watched me. And in stark contrast to Cal's greedy and slightly painful suckling at my pussy, and R.C.'s measured strokes into my asshole, I attended to Mike with a gentle enthusiasm that I could tell from the way his legs twitched, was appreciated.

  Usually during scenes like this, the guy getting blown uses his hands with all the tenderness of a robot's mechanical arms—or Cal's arms—grappling and pulling, slapping and pinching whatever they can find to take their mind off the mounting pressure at the base of their balls that tells you you're doing it for them. They get aggressive to offset the urgency of cumming, a way of delaying it.

  Mike didn't do that.

  Instead, still smiling that mischievous and yet endlessly appealing smile, he brought both hands down and put them in my hair. There was no pulling, no yanking, no forcing my cock deeper than it could go—I have no gag reflex, but, like most people, my throat does have a wall to prevent food from flying out the back of my neck. He simply threaded his fingers into my hair as I circled my tongue in swirling motions around every inch of his cock. When the salty taste of his pre-cum touched my tongue, I let him withdraw from my mouth, massaging his cock gently enough that it wouldn't make him cum prematurely—the kiss of death for any newcomer on a porn shoot, and he cupped my face with one of his hands, ran a thumb across my lips.

  And then he whispered: "You're beautiful."

  I might have frowned. I know I stopped jerking Cal off. I know I was now only vaguely aware of R.C. fucking my ass. I know Ken yelled "Cut!" and asked me what my fucking problem was.

  How to tell him?

  In my real life, I've been called beautiful. In porn, I've been called the same, but never with any sincerity. It doesn't belong here, and nobody ever means it. It's a line.

  From Mike's mouth, it had sounded sincere, and it was so sudden, so unexpected, that it forced me to break character. And by character, I mean "forced me to stop acting like a complete slut who loves getting fucked by three guys (one of them a guy I wouldn't mind running over with my car) in a poor imitation of a medieval castle while wondering if my sister remembered to feed my cat."

  "Lana?" Ken all but shrieked. "Are you having your fucking period, or what?"

  I came back to myself in time to tell him, "No, I'm fine. Just got dizzy, sorry."

  "Dizzy," he muttered disdainfully. "You're not getting paid to be dizzy."

  The show, as it were, went on.

  The guys changed positions multiple times, some of which I even managed to enjoy despite the nagging distraction of Mike's out of place proclamation. You're beautiful.

  Later, we were instructed to do reverse cowgirl. As I'd understood it earlier, Cal was going to be in my ass, R.C. in my pussy, with Mike once again in my mouth. As much as I had grown over the hour to enjoy the prospect of sucking him again, it's not where I wanted him, and for the first, and only time in my career, I decided to instigate the change.

  Cal was getting his sweat toweled off and makeup rechecked, while Mandy kept him hard. R.C. was listening to his iPod and absently jerking his cock while humming along to whatever tunes were raging in his ears. Once I'd been touched up, I walked naked over to Ken. "Can I have a word?"

  He sighed as if this request was the most unreasonable thing ever, and focused his gaze squarely on my tits. "What is it?"

  "Any chance we could switch things around a bit?"

  "What things?"

  "The arrangement."

  "Arrangement?" He laughed loudly, too loudly. "What is this, a fucking symphony?"

  "I mean, maybe have Mike do something other than stand there like a lamppost."

  Ken regarded me much like a shark will regard a bleeding seal. "You like him or something?"

  Yes I do, I thought. I'm not even sure why. But I know I want him to fuck me right now. And maybe I want him to come home with me and fuck me for real too. And more than once. But of course if I'd said that to Ken, he'd probably have fired Mike on the spot, just because he could. So instead I told him, "He's a little bit smaller than the other guys. It won't hurt as much."

  A long moment passed between us in which Ken continued to look at my chest as if the next week's winning lottery numbers might be revealed to him at any second if he concentrated hard enough. Then, to my surprise, he said: "Okay."

  "Yeah?"

  He nodded curtly. "Yeah. Whatever."

  "Thank you."

  He shooed me away and called for Naomi.

  After applying a fresh round of lube to the appropriate places, I went back to work.

  As the men readied themselves to get into position, Ken called out, "Hang on a sec, fellas. Your starlet here has requested a change."

  I glanced at Mike. He wasn’t smiling, but his eyes were. I felt a flutter of excitement in my chest.

  "Mike, I want you to sit this one out," Ken said, and the light in Mike's eyes dimmed.

  "What?" I looked at Ken. He was grinning. "No, I—"

  "Cal and R.C., I want you bot
h in Lana's ass."

  * * *

  I did the scene because my contract—courtesy of my shithead manager—never stipulated that I wouldn't. And the money was good, and when the money is good and the economy isn't, you shut up and take it. So I did.

  The shoot ended and Mike was not a part of it anymore. At some point he'd been "relieved" of his duties, and I felt both angry and upset that the one thing that had elevated this shoot from anything other than mundane had been taken away just because it was the opposite of what I'd wanted.

  I remember lying there, Cal and R.C.'s cocks poised over my open mouth as they frantically competed to see who could cum first and who could cum the most, Cal using his free hand to twist my nipple as if it were the door key and my tit was the lock. And I left the building. Even as the moans came out of me like any good porn girl, I wasn't there. I was in Ken's office, ramming the boom mike up his asshole, and force-feeding him his script. I was at home with my cat, dressed in my sweats—the only clothes that seem to feel right anymore—eating ice cream and watching a Nora Ephron movie. I was in my bed, kissing Mike all over, his hands in my hair again, hearing that wonderful whisper in his Irish brogue: You're beautiful.

  I smiled.

  The semen brought me back as it splashed into my face, blinding me in one eye and burning. I continued to moan as if I loved every second of it. More thick, ropy spurts across my face and into my hair. I gasped, and then, with a shuddering sigh, R.C. unloaded straight into my mouth. It seemed to go on forever.

  "Let the camera see it," Ken demanded, and then Josh was leaning over me, the light blazing down as I opened my mouth wide, constricted my throat and let the thick pool of cum bubble up like a white lake between my lips.

  "Good girl," Ken said, pleased.

  * * *