Posted in writing

A Quick Work In Progress Look At The Next Bit Of The Mommy Porn

I’m just putting this here for convenience; it’s not an actual blog, but I want to show it, and Facebook  fucks with Microsoft Word’s formatting, whereas this doesn’t. Read it while you can, I’ll be deleting it after 24 hours.

(continued from the last bit, 2 blogs ago, on onepercentperspiration. The rest is somewhere on http://ciaranwest.worpress.com )

The intercom on the desk buzzed and I pushed the flashing button for Belinda’s line.

‘Ah, Poll? Remember you have that thing with Simon at quarter to.’

‘Of course, yeah. I remember.’ I hadn’t remembered. Simon Baines and his ridiculous comb-over were pretty much the last thing on my mind that afternoon.

‘Need me to bring you anything?’

‘Ah, nothing I can think of off the top of my head, no. Thanks Bel.’ A gun and some bullets might have been a good idea. The man was insufferable.

‘Okey doke. You know where I am.’

I flicked through that morning’s copy of the Metro as I drank the coffee. A silly newspaper at the best of times; full of the sort of things London people were supposed to be interested in. My favourite, or least favourite, bit was the ‘Rush Hour Crush’ section. People wrote in to declare their undying love for complete strangers they had seen on public transport. The typical entry went something like:

To the gorgeous brunette in the green coat on the 5.43 to Paddington. You were reading Dan Brown, and I caught your eye for a second. Coffee sometime? Handsome guy in Armani specs.

It was a section which would have been wholly redundant if people on the Tube ever bothered to talk to each other, or acknowledge each other’s existences. London was a peculiar place, but I’d never live anywhere else, if I could help it.

It wasn’t even twenty before three when Belinda buzzed again to tell me that Simon had already arrived. I quickly tided away the mess on my desk, and used a compact to check my teeth for stray pieces of Starbucks chocolate brownie. People whom you had no real wish to meet were always early; the ones you couldn’t wait to see were invariably late.

‘Just a minute, Belinda.’ I punched in my details and password so I could access the relevant file. Matt’s profile was sitting in the background behind all the other open tabs, and I clicked the X to close it. Hopefully he wouldn’t phone in the middle of the meeting. Then again, it might be sweet relief to be able to step out of the room for five minutes, if Simon was going to be his usual, mind-numbing self. A small knock on the door, then it opened; he didn’t even wait to asked in. Typical Simon behaviour.

‘Polly. How goes it?’

‘Fine, Simon. How are you? How’s Natasha, and the children?’ He took a seat without it being offered. I restrained myself from obvious eye-rolling.

‘Her? Don’t ask. Long bloody story, I- well, best not to get into all that, eh? Kids are good, as per usual. Youngest is off to Eton in September, so can’t complain really. How about you? Getting any man action these days?’

‘Eton? That’s very impressive, Simon.’ I ignored his question; he was one of those men who tried to undermine you as a serious professional by making crass remarks. He wasn’t the only one of them I had to deal with on a regular basis. Some men were very threatened by the idea of a successful female.

‘Well, yes. It’ll give him a good start.’ Simon had had the best of starts himself, there was no doubt about that. He came from serious money.

‘Well, you do all you can for them, don’t you?’ I said it with no real enthusiasm or sincerity. His children would want for nothing in life; except perhaps for a father who wasn’t a pompous dickhead.

‘Indeed, indeed. Any plans for some yourself, Polly? We’re none of us getting any younger, eh?’ What an utter prick.

‘Who knows, Simon? Plenty of time for all that. Anyway, this programme we’re making. Any progress with the Residents’ Association yet? And has Jude given you a definite yes?’

‘Jude? Well, you know Jude…’ I did know Jude. He was a notoriously slippery character, with the morals of an sewer rat. There had been more than one occasion when I’d had to remove his hand from my arse at some Bolly-drenched press launch at The Ivy. He was unhappily married to some poor waif from the Home Counties, called Alison. She was incredibly beautiful, in a sterile sort of way. Natural blonde, thin as a whisper, with a chest courtesy of Harley Street’s finest. They had children, or rather, their nanny had them. She was usually too busy lunching in Primrose Hill, while he… well, he did whatever it was he did, elsewhere. Some people’s marriages perplexed me.

Simon launched into a tedious monologue about the project we were jointly funding; an awful reality show about the lives of three young couples who had all recently had their first child. One couple lived in a detached cottage in Surrey and grew all their own food, another were a pair of City professionals in a swanky Docklands flat, and the last lot were a pair of unemployed teenagers on a council estate in Bermondsey. It was real bottom of the barrel stuff; lowest common denominator trash TV, but that was what the digital channels were lapping up, and programmes like that were ridiculously cheap to produce.

‘Of course, the real draw will be the chavs,’ Simon said, running his finger over the varnished oak desktop.

‘Why is that?’ I asked, but I already knew his answer.

‘Well… it’s Car Crash Telly, isn’t it, Love? People like to see that sort of thing; lazy scroungers, living off the state. Sitting on their arses all day, watching ITV2 and eating ready meals. It’ll get people angry. That’s what you want.’ He was an abhorrent man; being in the same room as him made me feel I needed to shower.

‘Well, yes. But I don’t think that should be our primary aim, Simon; as people who produce entertainment programmes, I think-’

‘Poppycock! That’s exactly what our aim should be, Polly. Get them phoning in to complain about Johnny Girocheque and his pramface wife. Get them livid, that’s how you get more people to tune in.’

‘Well, yes. Or we could just try to produce something that’s of a high quality, you know? Have people tuning in on merit, because it’s a good show…’ I looked him in the eyes, and waited for him to scoff.

‘Pffft. We haven’t got the budget to make a good show, Pollers. It’s Chav vs Banker vs Vegan Hippy Twats. That’s the format we’re going with. It’ll be a hit, trust me on that.’ He sat back in the spinny chair, looking far too satisfied with himself. His suit was Savile Row, the teeth were expensive veneers. He’d been hitting the gym too, since the hair had started to go. That was probably the incentive to get the topless BMW parked outside as well. Men did the strangest things when their follicles begun to fail. None of it made him any less repellent though. That sort of desperate over-compensation was a massive turn off, for me at least.

 

It was after four by the time I managed to surgically remove Simon from the office. As always, when it was time to leave, he changed his tack and started being (what he assumed to be) charming and complimentary. Every time he left, it was the same. Niceties, platitudes, and the promise a future dinner/drinks which would never actually happen. He’d never particularly tried to get into my knickers, but I was sure that given half the chance, he’d have been in there like a rat up a drainpipe. I’d rather have stuck forks in my eyes. His wife deserved some sort of commendation from the Queen, the poor girl. The phone in my pocket had been on vibrate throughout, but there had been nothing from Matt. I wanted to go home, but there was more than an hour left. Belinda popped her head around the door.

‘How was it?’ She had a pair of glass tumblers in her hand, and a litre of Bombay Sapphire. She knew me far too well.

‘Jesus, the man can talk; and about absolutely fucking nothing.’ I took the glasses and the bottle from her, while she went to grab some ice from the cooler on the side.

‘Yeah. I got cornered by him once at the Christmas party. He spent the whole time telling me how great his wife was, while leering down my top,’ she laughed.

‘That’s Simon all right. Such a prick.’ I scooped a couple of cubes into each glass, and Belinda poured two healthy measures from the blue tinted bottle. You didn’t have tonic with BB; that would be sacrilege.

‘Has he ever… I mean, with you?’ Her eyes went round, like a child’s do when you’re telling them something that you probably shouldn’t.

‘Simon? What, tried it on, you mean? God no. I mean, at least I think not. Maybe he has, and I’ve just never noticed…’ The gin tasted fabulous, as always.

‘Oh, you’d notice. Trust me.’ She grimaced, taking a big gulp of gin, as if it were a medicine to cure her of the image of Simon’s unwanted sexual advances.

‘So, who’s the man?’ Belinda was sitting in the same chair Simon had been; legs crossed in her pencil skirt, showing off her amazing calves.

‘Pardon?’ The ice was playing havoc with my sensitive teeth. You couldn’t really drink gin through a straw though; unless it was in a cocktail. I hadn’t been for cocktails in ages.

‘The man. The one who hasn’t called. You’ve been looking at your phone all day, like a hawk.’ She smiled. I liked her; she and I would have been friends even if we’d never been work colleagues. She was kind and she was strong, and occasionally she was hilarious.

‘I have no idea what you mean, Madam,’ I said, with mock indignation. Had I really been that obvious? Probably not, but Belinda was extremely perceptive. And she’d known me quite a long time. I wouldn’t have discussed the Matt situation with her in a million years though. It wasn’t that she was someone I didn’t confide in. It was just that this other life I’d been leading; the internet dating and the meaningless, casual sex with various different men- it wasn’t the sort of thing that Polly the Boss would have done. That was sort of the point of it; an escape, a fantasy. Maybe if Matt and I actually became a thing, then I might feel like- but I was already counting all sorts of chickens there. It could wait.

‘I’ll say no more, Poll. Good for you, though.’ She clinked her glass to mine.

‘Still no idea what you mean, dear. Not. A. Clue.’ I gave her a wink, and looked at the wall clock. Still a while to go yet, but there was gin, so it wasn’t all doom and gloom. I went to pour us both another shot. These ones were going to be even healthier than the last.

 

The Tube was a nightmare as usual, despite my having left a half hour early to avoid the rush. There was no avoiding anything on the Underground between half past four and about seven, so it was a waste of time. Like with anything though, being a little tipsy made it slightly more bearable, and made the time go faster. During one of our little email back and forths before we’d met, Matt had written me a pretty filthy fantasy about meeting me on the Central Line, and pretending I was a stranger. (Although at that point, we were still practically strangers.) He wrote me a couple of pages of elaborate, nicely worded filth about being crushed against me in an overcrowded carriage, and sliding his fingers up my blouse, down my skirt; basically molesting me while we were surrounded by sweaty, grumpy commuters who were none the wiser. Looking around me, I realised that the fantasy was probably better than the reality, but it still gave me a little flutter thinking back on it.

The hour journey from east to west on the Tube was the first time all day when I wasn’t acutely aware of my mobile, as there was no way he could ring or text me when I was below street. It was a bit of a relief, like when you lose your phone and it’s a few days before you replace it; you get that little holiday from the stress of the rest of the world, and start wondering to yourself how we used to function in the nineties, when no one had one at all. When I came up the stairs from my last stop though, my eyes were glued to the screen; waiting for the signal to return, and the veritable avalanche of texts and missed call alerts which were going to come. All from Matt, naturally; every one of them a detailed explanation, or a desperate plea for forgiveness. No, there was nothing at all. The right bus was at the stop just as I passed, but I thought I’d rather walk and get some fresh air.

 

I wasn’t in the mood to do any real cooking, but the supermarket had a range of pre-prepped fresh dishes, which weren’t as bad for you as ready meals. You got the chicken, the peppers and other veg, a bag of stir fry sauce. You just heated the wok, banged it all in, and had some boil-in-the-bag rice on the side. Four minutes, tops. I’d changed into some yoga pants and a vest when I got in. The bedroom still smelt like sex, so I opened one of the windows. Outside, it was as quite as it ever was in our street. There was never any noise; even at weekends. No one seemed to have kids, or if they did, they didn’t let them play out.

I had dinner in front of the laptop, while I caught up on all the exciting things which had happened in the last hour and a bit. Nothing at all, then. My two main social networking sites were: one with all my friends and family, where no one ever said anything exciting, and my work-related one, where even less people said anything of note. It was just mundane complaining, flagrant self-promotion, and the occasional funny picture of a cat. What lives we led.

I took my phone out and went to compose a new message.

Oh, hi Matt. Just seeing how you were. Do anything cool today?Pxx

Oh, hey. Was thinking about you just now, and what we did last night. Give me a ring when you get this… Pxx

Hi! How YOU doin’? Px

Hey you, why haven’t you called? Is everything okay? I didn’t do something wrong, did I? Please call me. Even just to let me know you’re all right. I’m worried Pxx

Jesus fucking Christ no; none of those. The stir fry was delicious, but I needed something to wash it down with. I thought about a coffee, but it was late. There was some Schweppes’s in the fridge. Another gin wasn’t going to hurt. It’d make the time go a little quicker anyway.

The ice was being rather stubborn about leaving the tray, but I made it happen eventually. Just Gordon’s in the flat, no fancy blue stuff. I considered a slice of lemon, but it was too much bother, and my dinner was getting cold. There was a new message on the dating site. Kieran, the feet guy; asking did I want to meet up again. He had been fairly weird. We’d only had the one date. He hadn’t let on that he had the fetish before we met in person. When I sat down at the table with him in a pub in Haringey, the first thing he’d mentioned had been my shoes. Then the fact that I was wearing a certain type of socks; cute ankle ones, with a fold down frill. He’d had a lot to say about those socks. More than anyone would consider healthy. I wasn’t particularly disgusted or anything; the whole thing just seemed kind of alien to me. I was used to guys sending me messages online about my breasts or other, obvious parts. I’d never had a foot guy before. He’d suggested the pub, rather than my place (which was where I took everyone, without exception). I’d gone along with it because it was a public place, so there was no real danger, if he turned out to be a psychopath. He hadn’t, but he definitely had more than just a thing for feet; feet were everything to him. He was unable to talk dirty to me without involving my feet in the scenario. There really is a limit to how many times you can listen to a fantasy that ends in ‘and then I come all over your feet.’ The man I’d spoken to over the net had seemed like someone who was into normal sex. This guy, he didn’t seem at all interested in sleeping with me. I could have just given him my socks there and then, and he’d probably have marked the date down as a success. Eventually I got fed up and faked an urgent call from my sister. The cab driver had asked me how my day had been, and I’d told him that I’d had a date.

‘Oh right. Go well did it?’

‘Not really. I think we got off on the wrong foot.’ He had no idea why the woman in the back of his cab had collapsed into hysterics. I was still giggling when I gave him a twenty and said to keep the change.

 

My internet browser had a surprising amount of pornography saved to the favourites. I wasn’t that into smut of the visual kind, but occasionally I’d find something (or be sent something by one of my male friends) which was my cup of tea. Some people liked the natural, amateur looking videos, but I was more into the beautifully shot, pretty to look at kind. The whole ‘amateur’ concept was mostly a con, anyway. No one in those videos doing what they were doing without being paid. Calling it ‘amateur’ was just an excuse for the producers to put out low quality rubbish, with girls who weren’t in the business that long, and (often faceless) guys who came across as sleazy and exploitative. No, I liked the beautifully lit sets and the hopelessly gorgeous looking people. You usually got that from the French, or the Swedes. The girls in the American videos looked amazing and airbrushed on the covers and in the magazine spreads, but the videos themselves were just badly lit point-of-view affairs, where white trash girls with spotty behinds all gave the same scripted preamble, then proceeded to be railed violently in all of their holes, by charmless arseholes too viagra’d up to be able to come properly at the finish. All the girls had the same make-up jobs, the same bad breast augmentations (with a half-foot gap between their impossibly round silicone boobs) and the moans and groans and ‘oh yes’s all appeared to have been added in post, seemingly by the same woman, with a So-Cal accent, lacking in any genuine passion or dedication to the cause. Working in the media tended to spoil your enjoyment of TV and Film, as you’d been behind the green curtain far too many times to still believe that Oz was really Great or Powerful. Pornography came off (so to speak) even worse than most legitimate entertainment. I found it impossible to suspend my disbelief while watching.

The foreign films were different. They may not all have had a proper narrative, with a beginning, middle and end; but they at least tried to build a scenario- be it a boyfriend getting a treat of a threesome with his girl’s best friend, or the amorous husband giving the innocent but quietly sexy babysitter a lift home after she’d finished. The dialogue was classless, and impossible to find jarring, and (most importantly) none of the girls paid any attention to the camera, or broke the Fourth Wall, as was often the case in their US counterparts. They just looked at their lover or lovers, and let you (the voyeur) get on with what you were doing. It was easier to fantasise, to imagine yourself in the scene, with that sort of set-up.

I clicked on a link which I’d enjoyed many times in the past, and wondered quietly if I didn’t give these things far more though than was necessary. The scene began with a nice fade-in. Two pretty young girls were lying on their backs on a bed; the blonde, nearest the camera, was in some little white knickers. She had her hand inside and was already rubbing herself off. The brunette, who looked like she was part-Asian, was completely nude, and was doing likewise. To the left of them, a man stood naked, only visible from the waist down. He was fully erect, with what happened to be a very gorgeous looking cock. Both girls were looking up at him with a mixture of lust and playful flirtatiousness. He slowly hovered the shaft of his penis over one face and then the next, with the girls playfully extending their tongues to lick the tip of it as it passed from one to the other. I loved the blissful mood of the whole thing; the feeling that they were enjoying this, and that it wasn’t just a show for the cameras.

He came closer now, and now the girls presented him with their open mouths, both of which he gladly slid himself into. Each time for a little longer than the last. As one girl took his cock, the other would watch him slide in and out of her friend, and occasionally glance up; licking her lips, while rubbing between her own legs. I loved the idea of it all, and slid my own hand down so that I could join them.

The blonde turned over onto her front, resting on her elbows. She looked up longingly at her stud, and made an O shape with her lips. He began slowly fucking her beautiful face while I watched. She didn’t use her hands, and carried on making eye contact, save for the times when she seemed genuinely overcome with the pleasure of servicing his smooth, beautiful cock, and had to close her eyes, groaning. Meanwhile, her dark haired friend moved behind her, kissing down her spine until she reached the pristine white knickers. She rolled them gently down to the back of the knees, and began kissing and licking the blonde’s perfect, tanned bottom, momentarily dipping her tongue between the cheeks, which caused the other girl to arch her back and moan some more. More than likely spurred on by what he was seeing, Mr No Face began to thrust harder into the mouth of the blonde, who was showing no signs that she’d had enough. Even as the mascara started to run down her cheeks, the look of pure lust in her eyes told me that this was definitely her sort of thing, and she liked being used by him as much as she liked what the brown haired girl’s tongue was doing to her at the other end. I thought of Matt, the night before, ramming himself into my throat, and how I’d also stopped caring about smudged make-up and involuntary tears, when I’d felt his thick cock almost halfway down my neck. The feeling of utter submission was so arousing that anything else at the time just seemed incredibly trivial. My clit felt double its normal size as I rubbed it, and I brought my other hand down too, slipping a finger, then another, inside.

The camera view changed to one just behind the brunette, who was going to town on the other girl. She had two fingers inside her rhythmically fucking her with them, and her thumb circling the clit. Her tongue flicked back and forth over the blonde’s other hole, and I couldn’t help but think to myself that these girls really took care of themselves down there. Not a hair in sight, and every bit of them looked neat, tucked away and perfect. But then, that was their job, so I guessed there were certain standards to keep. At the other end, the blonde was taking a brief, gasping break from swallowing that enormous prick of his. She looked up at him through tears, smiling the filthiest of smiles. He held her head at the back, between the neck and the base of her hair, and pushed himself against her face again. She didn’t take him into her mouth straight away, instead running her open lips and closed teeth up and down his length, from base to tip and back again. It was a move I’d used countless times myself, and always one which went down well.

The film cut to a different view, with the man on his back; still no face though. The camera was situated just on front of his navel, pointing down. The angle made him look even bigger than before, and the rest of the frame was taken up by the girls, one on either side of his cock. The dialogue had no subtitles, but I’d watched it enough times to guess that the blonde was telling her brunette buddy just how boyfriend liked to be sucked, and the friend was doing what she was told. After a little instruction and a hands on (well, mouth on) demonstration, the little dark girl tentatively took the tip in her lips; looking first to the girl for reassurance, and then up at the man whose cock it was she was about to suck. My favourite part of it was the very audible groan of pleasure from Mr Cock when he saw those big, beautiful brown eyes look up at him over the sight of himself pressing between her lovely, bee-stung lips. She had an innocent look about her which was perfect for the theme of the story, if that was in fact the theme.

She very slowly took him into her mouth, inch by inch, egged on by the blonde, who (as well as supplying encouraging words) was also stroking her friend’s hair or trailing the backs of her fingers over the younger girl’s perfect, tanned skin. I didn’t know why this particular scenario got me off so well, but it never failed to do so. The brown haired girl took most of the guy’s length on her first go, but not quite. Her eyes bulged a little after a bit, and she let him come out all at once, with a little bit of a gagging sound, followed by a cough and a splutter. I was all too familiar with that feeling. Without missing a beat, the blonde took over, taking her ‘boyfriend’ all the way into her throat, then bobbing her head up and down furiously, while her little friend regained her composure. Taking him out of her mouth, she spat on the head and then again on the shaft, then said something to the other girl, who did the same, although her attempts at spitting were a little more delicate and less impressive. Pumping her hand up and down the spit-covered cock, the turned to the younger girl and kissed her; a gorgeously sexy kiss too, not the usual faux-lesbian nonsense you get in porn. The other girl enjoyed it even more than I did, if her moans and the way she ran her fingers through the blonde’s hair were anything to go by. They carried on with the kissing some more, then the blonde brought the guy’s cock up between their mouths, so that they were kissing each other over and around it. Their tongues touching intermittently as they rolled over his glistening head and thick, veiny shaft. I groaned with pleasure, knowing how much I’d give to be either of them right then.

There was so much more of the video to go; I’d watched it in full a few times, on lazy Sundays with nothing else to do, and a new vibe to try out. It wasn’t one of those days though, and I was already nearly there. I closed my eyes and listened to the sounds of cock in mouths and tongues on tongues. It only took a little effort; a little change in the scene playing in my head, where I was the blonde, Matt was the guy, and (for some reason) Belinda was the new, inexperienced girl to whom I was showing the ropes. That was very new; thinking about Bel in that way. It felt kind of wrong. Which was why it felt so good, probably. My mouth on hers, kissing her, tongues touching, fingers exploring. Matt’s gorgeous thick cock between us; him gazing down, watching us fight each other to be the one gets to swallow his spunk. The winner being gracious enough to spit some of her prize into the other one’s eager mouth. Bel and I, lying naked, legs intertwined, still rubbing each other off; while we kiss deeply and swap Matt’s come between us, feeling like his two filthy sluts. I kept my fingers inside me as I came; it always felt better that way. The porn played on in the background afterwards; seeming sort of silly and irrelevant, after the fact.

 

 

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