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June Lewd - 2F Karnakians, 1M Smol: SECOND IMPACT
🕑 Added 2020-07-13 01:16:50 +0000 UTCI mean. Might as well make it dramatic~!
The next lewd vote will be up right after this posts.
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[Ambrosia] chirruped quietly with a mixture of frustration and anxiety, flicking the clock indicator out of her HUD’s peripheral vision once more. Things were not going to plan, and the plan hadn’t even technically started yet.
It was 14:27 station-side relative time, and the “talent” was supposed to arrive at 14:30. Simple enough to begin, however… the “talent” wasn’t here yet.
Any reasonable individual would have arrived at 14:25, or as near to it, to avoid any possible tardiness. The fact that it was 14:27 and they had not yet sent word indicated to her an impending lateness. Ambrosia gently adjusted a pinion that had splayed out of place during the course of her pacing back and forth across the studio floor with her snout, before checking the clock again.
14:28.
Absolutely unacceptable. She had the studio prepped hours ago, the cameras were set up, the microphones checked and directionally tuned, and all of it was ready to start filming with the press of a button. The set was to be an artists’ painting nook; A ludicrous premise, but it took a ludicrous premise to make something like this work.
As she drew in a breath to sing yet another note of frustration, the doors hissed open to reveal a boisterously chatty pair. The human, diminutive but lively with a charming smile and boyish features was bearing a cup of coffee, while the Karnakian he was idly chatting up sipped at a similar but more fragrant herbal brew of her own.
The human might not have been able to read her frustration, but [Sweet Pea] could.
Her crest flattened in an expression of deferential apology as Ambrosia’s rose in a display of righteous indignation.
“You two were nearly late.”
The human, Lance, shot her a most quizzical look, as if he didn’t quite what she’d said. The words, he of course, understood, but that particular arrangement in this particular context with that particular inflection didn’t seem right.
“Uhh . . . I mean, I guess we were cutting it close, but we got here on time. Stopped to get a coffee to warm up, these sets are always freezing, you know?”
Ambrosia snorted. Actors. Typical. Always thinking about themselves, never about production schedules or costs.
Sweet Pea, to her credit, simply looked away while muttering a half-hearted apology. It was sincere enough, the wrathful director’s soul sight told her as much, but she was frustrated with the blasé attitude the human carried himself with.
“Well, now that you’ve had a cup of coffee and are all warm and toasty, we can begin. Have you read the script? Was it to your liking as well?” The remark was meant to be scathing, but it didn’t seem to find any purchase on the human.
“Yeah!” He bobbed his head in the universal display of ‘affirmative’ that his species used, but his expression faltered slightly as she stared him down. “Well . . . I skimmed it.”
A muscle on Ambrosia’s neck strained beneath her downy array of plumage, fluttering it slightly.
The human looked away, and coughed quietly into his hand. “My agent skimmed it.”
You cannot flog the talent, Ambrosia. The bruises would ruin several critical shots. Her eyelid twitched slightly, and she could see the fear radiating off Sweet Pea, even without the fear-splaying of her tailfeathers. We could fix it in post, or maybe makeup-
“No.” She forcibly cut off that train of thought, speaking aloud to herself. She would never actually do him harm, she knew this, and her body deflated visibly as she let out all of her pent up tension in a sigh.
Well, most of her pent up tension.
“I suppose it was to be expected, on some level. You were picked for your body, not your brains.” She flicked her tail in a tight arc, a Karnakian equivalent of an eye-roll. “Sweet Pea, did you at least read the script?” She chirped a nervous affirmative, clearly intimidated by the corona of wrathful intent that Ambrosia knew she was giving off.
“Good. Now, go get into your outfits. Now now!” Ambrosia practically snapped at the two of them, and Sweet Pea hurriedly shuffled off to the attached dressing room. If Ambrosia was being honest, it wasn’t so much a dressing room as it was a store-room for things that weren’t supposed to be ruined. The importance of such . . . barriers, had been a hard learned lesson, one taught to Ambrosia after working with a set of Dorarizin siblings many years back who had definitely earned their stage moniker of “The Twin Cannons.”
Her feathers ruffled involuntarily at the details of that memory - she had to pay the cleaning crew overtime to get those stains out. Had she been younger, perhaps a little sigh would have escaped her then. A sigh of exasperation, a chuckle of good humor, maybe even a chirrup of lustful reminiscence; when you were the “talent”, things were new, exciting, and very much risqué. Once that got old and you flipped to the other side of the camera, being in the adult entertainment industry just sucked a lot of the taboo out of things. Now it was all practical application: Budgets, schedules, positions, angles, viewer demographics and production logistics. The money was good, sure, better than ever actually, and the market was still under-served because of various diplomatic and legal complications (especially with a new species on the scene), but she found an unusual pang of nostalgia for those wild-west days of yore… back when it was just her, whatever interspecies pair would agree to sign a contract, any location that wouldn’t ask too many questions about what kind of film she was making, and a lot of wet friction.
Lance shuffled awkwardly in place as Ambrosia’s eyes glassed over, her trip down memory lane distracting her as he shed his clothing into a small pile by the door, only snapping back to reality as he shuffled towards her with his hands between his legs.
She’d already seen him nude, of course. She’d been in contact with his agent and seen every inch of him, blown up past life size and in crystal-clear high-definition glory. Still, the way he awkwardly tried to preserve his modesty with his hands over his private regions was endearing, in that innocent-bordering-on-naive kind of way. Cute, almost.
Lance was attractive. Ambrosia wouldn’t have booked him if he wasn’t, but flesh did him better justice than a frozen image. She could appreciate the way his musculature caught the studio lights, the way light and shadow highlighted the shape of his pectorals, deltoids, and quads. She admired the near perfect skin that she wouldn’t have to run through a color corrector in post-production, and the impeccable symmetry of his considerable yet lean mass. His jawline looked like it could have been fresh cut from stone, and his cheekbones were high and accentuated the shape and size of his nose perfectly. Aesthetically, for humans, he was . . . impeccable.
He might even be acceptable for the galaxy at large, actually. Her eyes continued to wander across him, tracing the curvature of his masculine but still shapely legs up and across the unyielding weight of his powerful haunches. A little flicker of something she thought long dead ran up the underside of her tail. Desire.
Ambrosia didn’t betray it though, in words or actions. She leveled him with the same hard, inscrutable stare as always, reading his body language the best she could. There was nervousness, of course. A hint of fear, as there should be, but mostly there was apprehension. Not the kind that came from not wanting to do something, but the kind that came from very badly wanting to do something. Or someone. Her head crest rose slowly as she realized this session might turn out to be a very good one.
Sweet Pea shuffled awkwardly out of the storage-closet/dressing-room, clad in a crude approximation of a painters smock, a comically small French beret (a human joke as far as Ambrosia was aware), and with a painters palette in one hand. “I . . . couldn’t find the brush.” She chirped like a fresh hatchling, and Ambrosia could see the increased fear in her aura.
Ambrosia felt another unexpected jolt of emotion run through her thoroughly jaded heart. Sympathy. Sympathy for a Karnakian that was new to the job, under pressure to perform, and scared about both… much like how she was on her first few jobs.
Her tail feathers splayed in a calming display as she looked at the young thing. “Don’t worry about it. That hand isn’t in frame during your first scene, and if the angle is wrong we’ll fix it in post.” Ambrosia cooed softly; There was no reason for Sweet Pea to be afraid. Even in the terrible, terrible costume the prop director had put together for her, Sweet Pea was still stunning. The vibrancy of her colors, the complimentary shades in a riotous display of juvenile vitality, wouldn’t have been out of place on a model that didn’t make a living screwing across species barriers. She wasn’t here because she didn’t have options, she was here because she wanted to be. Her legs were lean, and the charcoal grey of her flesh blended slowly to lighter and softer shades on her insides and underbelly in very alluring, almost subtly striped patterns. Her crest of head feathers didn’t just sweep back, they flowed together into a shape that Ambrosia would have assumed was surgically fixed if she hadn’t read the agency report on her.
Of course, finding beautiful people and getting them together to screw was for amateurs, hacks, and people with a less discerning eye. Ambrosia could see that these two were compatible. Their soullights, intermingling, would be something of pure chemistry. He was cock-sure and brash with a sensitive side, she had an innocent uncertainty that was undercut with more than a little animal-lust . . . the only way this wasn’t going to work is if they didn’t actually get it on.
If Ambrosia could have smiled like a human, she would have.
Maybe.
She was still pretty jaded, after all.
“Alright, Lance, on the platform, center stage. Strike a pose. Sweet Pea, at the easel. Look like you’re trying to paint.”
The human took up his place on the pedestal and struck a pose. If it had been an actual art studio, would have been a good one, Ambrosia mused silently. There was a quiet nobility to it, the way his brow furrowed, and his eyes sought the horizon. His stance was surprisingly fluid, and almost dynamic. It gave an impression of motion, even as he froze in place.
Sweet Pea on the other hand, was an absolute mess. Her actions were ham-fisted and ridiculously overplayed. The squinting at something just a few feet away, the faint tongue-blep of concentration, a loose feather-pull to use as a makeshift brush . . . ugh. She kept glancing directly at the cameras too, which wouldn’t be too terrible if she also didn’t smile and wave. Tacky, terrible acting. Ambrosia kept the cameras rolling anyway… as tacky as it was, nobody really cared.
She flicked a switch on her controller to change the primary angle. It was going to just be non-stop filming from here, and anything screwed up would just get cut or fixed in post. She let the cameras roll, enough time for fade in, fade out, or maybe a couple of angle-switches. Whatever she was feeling later.
“Aaaand, Action!”
Sweet Pea cleared her throat. “O-oh, umm, Lance? Lance Dirkwood?” She peeked out from behind her easel at the human, who only stared, bewildered for a moment.
“Oh! Yes! That’s me! I am Lance Dirkwood!”
There was an audible slap as Ambrosia’s palm impacted her forehead. “Nobody cares. Nobody is listening. Just get to the part where your dick is in her mouth.” She muttered to herself.
“Could you ahh, turn a little to the left?” Sweet Pea’s voice was unnaturally high as she practically sang out of nervousness alone.
Lance adjusted his footing slightly. “Won’t you have to start over, now that you’ve shifted perspective though?”
The control remote in Ambrosia’s grip popped quietly as she clenched her hand into a fist, frame flexing as she tried to squeeze the stupid out of her male lead vicariously.
“Uh . . . uhm-” Sweet Pea blanched, and then continued on with her part of the script. “W-well, yes, if I were painting you, but I’m not actually painting yet. I forgot my brush.”
Murder. Hate. Die. If looks could kill, Lance would have been blown limb from limb already.
“Maybe I should be painting you then.” Both Sweet Pea and Ambrosia’s jaw dropped a little. If that was improvised, it wasn’t bad. Well, Ambrosia knew it was terrible, but absolutely par for the pornographic course.
Sweet Pea just turned pink. “I think I’d like that.” She half mumbled, quietly, looking away from the camera.
“That was adorable,” Ambrosia muttered under her breath. One back and forth, and they were already off script but honestly, still traveling in the right direction.
The blush rose through Sweet Pea’s feathers, and as it did, her body relaxed visibly. Her movements were a little less jerky, a little more certain. She was more focused on Lance now than the cameras.
“S-so . . . do you come here often? To this studio, I mean.” Sweet Pea added, her tone a bit more certain, her voice a little bit more believable than before.
The grin on Lance’s face grew from playful to shit-eating. “Only when you come. To this studio, I mean.”
Sweet Pea’s tail was swishing back and forth, slightly agitated. None of this was in the script. Not that it mattered, the script was terrible; Ambrosia knew, because she wrote it herself. “Yes . . . c’mon. Don’t freeze up.” She swung one of the cameras around, getting a full body shot of the both of them. If she could have whistled soft enough to not be picked up on mic, she would have. Lance was definitely a grower, and he was clearly not done growing.
Hiding behind her tail feathers, Sweet Pea peered at her model coyly, before setting down her palette, and lazily tossing her frankly absurd hat between his legs. A puzzled expression crossed his face for a moment, and he began to turn to pick it up before she called to him. “Wait, I’ve got it~”
There was something sultry about the way she said it, and while her voice only hinted at indecent intentions, her walk advertised it. Her tail was held up, feathers above the line of her shoulders in a graceful arc, and her hips swayed salaciously as she padded across the stage to her partner.
Ducking her head down, she slowly dipped her head between the legs of her “model,” flaring the feathers of her crest as she did so.
A sharp gasp escaped Lance, as his body stiffened visibly. His hands lurched down and forward, bracing against Sweet Pea’s neck as she tantalized him. Drawing back, her hat snagged in her teeth, she pulled the same maneuver in reverse, drawing a long, low groan from him.
If it wouldn’t have ruined the take, Ambrosia would have applauded.
Smoothing her crest down, Sweet Pea placed her beret back were it began, but a switch had been flicked in her. Her tail was twitching, her pupils had drawn to pinpricks. She glanced down, clearly pleased with the effect she’d had on Lance. “Looks like I’ll have to paint quickly then… To catch you in your best light.” The smug self-certainty she was displayed had completely overridden the halting, naive Karnakian from earlier.
“No rush. We can take as long as you want. As long as you need.” He grinned back at her, but it was a more earnest smile than hers. Their eyes met, and Ambrosia watched as their aura’s shifted. The fear, trepidation, the forced elements of the encounter were fading, and they were enjoying themselves. Oh, they were absolutely joking around, but no more than any dialogue in a film like this was serious. What mattered is their emotions were sincere.
“I’m going to need a lot. But it looks like you have a lot to give.”
Ehh . . . okay. It was getting pretty hammy. Still, Ambrosia reasoned, they just needed to go from here, to a little bit of fang-play oral, to size-difference missionary, to Dorarizin stock-broker position, and then pull out for a money shot, and this video would make enough to balance the books for another month or two.
Things faltered though. The moment faded . . . and both of them froze up again. Several long, awkward seconds of silence followed, and Ambrosia watched as her male lead began to “lose heart” as it were.
She let out an angry, frustrated trill. “Great improv banter, loved it, now suck that dick!” Her crest bristled with indignation. “It’s not complicated, you have a mouth, he has enough to work with for 2 humans, start at the base, and do your job!”
The two actors flinched. “It’s just that-” Sweet Pea began, but Ambrosia’s heavy footfalls cut her off. “Amateurs . . . I swear. Watch me, okay?” The director-producer’s tail whipped back and forth irritably as she stomped onto camera, head ducking in between Lance’s legs as he yelped in surprise.
A thick, powerful tongue leapt from the triangular maw bumping up against his abs, and his fingers ran deep into fluff as that warm, fleshy tendril wrapped itself around his manhood. The cry of surprise melted into one of panting pleasure as the muscular appendage began stroking him, up and down, dagger like fangs merely inches from his sensitive, thin flesh. The automatic camera saw the movement change and swung around, catching it in silhouette with a bump of a button, and almost as quickly as Ambrosia started she pulled away, leaving a glistening strand of saliva trickling down his proud member. “Sweet Pea, lap at the underside of him while I do the fang play . . . you’re not going to get it if you don’t already know how.”
Ambrosia’s tone was bored, disinterested, and aloof, but the truth was far removed from appearances. This was new. Humans were new. Soft, supple, surprisingly smooth, yet with an unexpected resilience. She buried her nose against his pubic bone, taking his entire member inside her mouth once again as Sweet Pea ducked lower to prod lightly at the underside of his sack. Neither of them could see as both his eyes rolled back and one eyelid began to quiver under their attentions. Ambrosia could taste it though, taste the excitement, the arousal, the sweat. The air was soon filled with the sound of human moaning, Karnakian panting, and the wet schlick of tongue-on-tool action.
It carried on for nearly a minute, both the Karnakians lost in the unusual morsel they were savoring.
“Ah- A-Ambrosia, I think-”
Ambrosia planted a claw firmly over the noisy human’s face. The universal sign language for ‘no talking, the adults are busy.’ A muffled whine slipped out of him before his loins tensed, and he unloaded. A thick wad of seed blew directly into Ambrosia’s mouth, but fortunately the volume the human was capable of producing was less than the amount required to gag her. She didn’t much care, turning her head to the side as some of the next few rope-like shots splashed across her cheek, and dripped onto Sweet Pea’s crest.
Pulling away, bewildered by the sudden wetness, Sweet Pea let out a warble of distress. “Not in my cre-”
Ambrosia’s other claw latched firmly over her snout next. Licking her lips, and pulling away, she muttered quietly. “Comes with the job, you’ll get used to it. I’ve got a shampoo, does wonders for that thing. Made by Dorarizin, and they know their stuff. Anyway, that’s the price you pay for staring at it instead of sucking it . . . now . . .” The domineering Karnakian released both her proteges, turning to pad off the stage. “Until you’ve found your second wind, I’d strongly suggest you entertain your partner with the same level of dedication she showed you.” Dropping back into her directors seat, Ambrosia didn’t bother wiping the seed off her face. She was actually having fun again. She couldn’t help it. It was the human. Too small, too adorable, too many cute sounds to stay jaded about.
“Right, yeah.” His tone was unsteady, but he was on his knees before he found his voice. Gently handling her rear haunches, he guided her close as she lifted her tail, only for Ambrosia to trill in anger yet again. “I can’t film what’s happening sandwiched between you two! On your back!” She crowed at them, her voice full of faux exasperation.
As Lance awkwardly laid down on his back, she let out an actual sigh of exasperation. “Okay, just . . .”
Within moments she was on stage again. “I am not going to be able to let you two do this on your own. You’ve got the chemistry, but I’d swear you two are virgins. Do either of you even watch porn?”
The awkward, paired “no” in response made her groan internally.
Ambrosia could only stand and blink at the absurd pair before her. “Are you people even real? Rhetorical, don’t answer that.” The human had already begun to open his mouth, but she silenced him by stepping on his face. His tool twitched visibly as her taloned foot pressed down on him. “I’m going to remember that, now pay careful attention.”
Laying down, legs splayed helplessly in the air, Ambrosia motioned for Sweet Pea to do the same. Shifting until their hips were pressed together, Lance was met with the unabashedly presented sexes of both Karnakians. Sweet Pea’s slit had been subtle, but it was flush to a pastel purple, the wet inner folds shivering in anticipation of some kind of touch. Ambrosia, however, was on the far end of the spectrum. If Sweet Pea was a blushing bride, Ambrosia was a hot-wet-mess. “Stick something you don’t mind going numb in each of us, and try to keep up.” Ambrosia grinned fiercely.
Lance probed them with his fingers first. Just two for Sweet Pea, she seemed . . . daintier, somehow. The moment he touched her, an electric tingle shot through his entire hand. He practically ached to feel more of her but showed restraint. He tried to dip into her, inch by inch, but she was having none of it. Rolling her hips against him, she struggled to get some kind of leverage against the studio floor to feel more of him against the inside of her. She let out soft, whistling notes as her eyes flickered closed, and Lance was soon knuckle deep in her pulsing, hot confines.
Ambrosia was a beast of an entirely different nature. “Yeah . . . anything less than your fist is just going to feel like teasing, so get at it,” she chuffed, while a scaly claw pulled her pulsing, quivering entrance open for him. With no slight trepidation, he balled his hand up, and pressed against her slit. If Sweet Pea was a dainty tingle, Ambrosia was like gripping a live wire. His entire arm felt like it was buzzing inside her, and he sank up past his wrist with the first gentle nudge. An exited, almost feral trill tore its way free of her as he finally bottomed out somewhere near his elbow. “That’s more like it. Do that again. But harder. And faster.”
The heat radiating off of their bodies was unmistakable, and the very air seemed electrified as Lance did his best to balance pleasuring the both of them with just his hands. As the songs of their carnal pleasure began to mingle they almost seemed to harmonize, a strange tune filling the air in a melodic blend that would have carried notes of desire and pleasure to any ear that heard it. It was a challenging balance for him to maintain, playing the two like fine instruments. It took precise, nimble caresses down and around Sweet Pea’s delicate nethers and powerful, driving thrusts that took most of his strength into Ambrosia’s depths. The result was spectacular, and left his body tingling all over as bio-electricity tantalized every nerve that touched them.
Ambrosia arched her neck, bending towards the younger Karnakian, a tiny little spark flicking between the tips of their snouts as they both shuddered sharply. Their song reached a harmonious climax as their bodies did the same, sharing the moment through means Lance couldn’t really comprehend. He didn’t understand why, but he knew. The air was filled with the heavy scent of sex and the light scent of ozone, as the panting trio paused for a moment to collect themselves. Ambrosia spoke first.
“That . . . wasn’t bad at all. Crude, but you had the enthusiasm I asked for.” She tottered unsteadily to her feet, leaving him on his knees, slick with sex and sweat. “Okay . . . camera’s in position . . .” He watched as she wobbled her way off the set, legs still unsteady. “Let me just adjust this . . .” She flashed him as she bent over her chair to find the camera controls. A sly glance over her shoulder let him know it wasn’t an accident, and she was letting him examine the fruits of his labor, namely the wet-glistening sheen of moisture that coated the space between her thighs and beaded up on her plush purple lips.
She fished for something behind the chair, and Lance could only stare as she slapped down an intimidatingly large toy ringed with ridges and studded with nodules. With a click, the bright pink faux-phallus began to vibrate with enough vigor that the directors’ chair started shimmying towards a low spot in the floor.
“Look, you got me warmed up, and I am too old to be shy about this.” Ambrosia shot him a look of indifference, even as he ogled the absolutely brutal looking adult novelty. She lowered herself onto it with a careful but purposeful intensity, a look of bliss spreading across her face as her haunches met the metal of the chair. “Ohhhhh yeeeeah . . .” There was a faint warble to her voice as her eyes descended to half lids, and she keyed the camera controls while the human before her could only stare with incredulity.
Sweet Pea still hadn’t managed to recover from her shared orgasm when the cameras re-focused on her. “A-Alright, c’mon, get up! Not paying you to b-bask in the . . . oh fuuuuck . . . afterglow.” Ambrosia tried to sound commanding, but there was no venom in her tone, not anymore. She was enjoying herself too much. It still took the slightly dazed Sweet Pea two tries to get back on her clawed hindlimbs, but she wasn’t the only Karnakian in the room with quivering jelly-legs at that moment. “O-okay, Lance . . . uuuhnn . . . you see those cushions? The -oh fuck me, right there- to the far side of the stage?” Ambrosia took a moment to throw her head back and moan. “There’s supposed to be aaaaaaaAAAAAh transition here, but just -UGH, FUCK, get on them a-and move in for a Dorarizin stock-broker.”
The confused and helpless look in his eye told her that he didn’t understand what precisely she meant by that. Or even generally what she meant by that. The fact that all her stage instructions were interspersed with very vocal signs of her ongoing self-satisfaction probably wasn’t helping any, but she didn’t much care. “Just go -yes, right there, right there right-there rightthere~!” She rose to a shrieking climax that filled the studio with her cries, and several seconds of her barely controlled spasms went by before she managed any more speech. “Go . . . go lay down on the red cushion.” She managed to gasp out.
Hesitantly, he complied, all the while watching Sweet Pea close in on him. The large red cushion he was splayed out on wasn’t just some throw or decorative pillow, he realized, as he laid back into it. It was some kind of memory foam, and definitely robust as far as padding went.
He went limp in Sweet Pea’s claws, doing his best to accommodate the strange way she manhandled him into position, his eyes more focused on Ambrosia absolutely destroying herself and her directors chair as she rocked back and forth on it with gusto. Sweet Pea straddled him at first, facing him, and then bent forward so her face pressed gently into his chest. He almost thought that “Dorarizin whatever” was going to wind up being some kind of alien cowgirl, but when she reached backward blindly to fumble for his ankles that hope was dashed.
As claws closed in around his calves, he found himself pulled and lifted and bent into an almost C shape. His hips were pressed into the back of her thighs, and his neck and head were pressed firmly into the foam cushion beneath him. “H-hey, wait, I don’t know if this position is such a good idea.” He was lying, because he knew for certain that it was a bad idea.
Sweet Pea let go of one of his legs, reaching between them to find his member as he struggled to keep from falling over entirely. “You know why it’s called the Dorarizin stock-broker?” Ambrosia crowed at him from her chair off set, a sex-addled grin plastered across her face, crest askew. “Because you’re getting fucked, but at least they’re doing all the work.” Driving the toy to bottom out in her while throwing her head back, she let out a cackle of laughter. “FUCK YES- lift your tail Sweet Pea, gotta frame this one nice.”
“No, really, if you put your weight on me you’re gonna snap my spiiiiIII~!” His protest was warped into a high-pitched moan as his partner finally aligned him properly. The sensitive head of his tool parted her folds, and was immediately bombarded by a storm of electro stimulation. She gave his ankles a gentle pull, hauling him up off the cushion and pushing him to strange kind of coupling that defied gravity. He wasn’t thrusting into her, she was pulling him up into her. Forcibly.
The dual shocks of both positioning and overwhelming sensation left him at a loss for words as she began to churn her hot, heavenly insides with him. Gone was his reality of the studio and the lights, and the director only directing between moans. This had his full attention.
Sweet Pea’s control was expert, and she pulled him into all of the spots they both had been wanting to hit since they’d started chatting at the coffee place just outside the studio. It was heavenly for her, and by the time he climaxed in her, she’d forgotten there were even cameras filming it all. She savored the pulse and twitch of his tool, the heat spreading through her as he painted her insides. The head of his tool had a pleasantly broad shape, one that stretched the deeper parts of her sex in ways she’d never felt before. She hammered away at her insides, glancing over at the director as she did so. She realized when she accidentally faltered that Ambrosia did too. She was timing herself, her toy, to match the two of them on stage. Vicariously, she was doing him too.
Sweet Pea thought about it for a moment, at first wondering if that was unprofessional of her. A fresh thought slowly replaced that initial impression though. If the director that’s making your porno can’t help but rub one out during production, then you must be doing something really well. Taking it as a compliment, she let out her own trilling song of bliss to add to the score of the film.
Lance, however, had no ability to carry out such long, complex, or coherent thought. To his credit he never screamed. He wanted to. He wanted to cry out in extreme discomfort and loud protest. He wanted to beg her to stop. The first few seconds had been divine. The way her body lit up every nerve between his knees and his bellybutton made everything he’d ever done before this seem like a pale shadow of what sex really was. His climax had been hard, fast, and almost full-body. But then she didn’t stop. She didn’t stop with the assault on his every nerve, she didn’t stop with the lewd slap of her body against his. As thick strands of their joining splattered his chest and face, drooling down from her needy snatch, she didn’t even slow down. His toes curled, and he clawed at the cushion beneath him, at his lover’s chest, struggling like an animal to escape the overwhelming, body wracking over-stimulation of it. Every second felt like minutes, and every minute felt like hours. His breathing was little more than an insensate wheeze, and his eyes rolled back in his head.
The second climax hit him like a meteor. Religions had been founded on experiences less intense than his second, forced climax. Sweet Pea came in union with him, but he didn’t notice. He didn’t even know he was still in the studio. If someone had pressed him, right in that moment, he couldn’t have told them his name. He flopped limply against the cushion, body quivering uncontrollably. The after echoes, the waves of pleasure still crashing through every functional nerve he still had left him as so much fleshy putty. It was like he had been hit by lightning, 50,000 volts of of ecstasy blowing his nervous system out.
It took nearly 10 minutes before he was able to move, and 15 before he was able to speak. Ambrosia had already begun to pack up the camera equipment, and had a pleasant chat with Sweet Pea about some of her sloppier technique, and how to pose better for the camera by the time Lance managed to string together an entire sentence. “I have concluded-” He began, struggling to even sit up. His whole body felt like fuzzy, warm lead. “I have concluded, that before just now, I was a virgin, and everything I’ve done up to this point doesn’t deserve to be called sex.”
Ambrosia grinned savagely again, and Sweet Pea let out a titter of flattered excitement.
“Congrats on popping your cherry then. You’re an unprofessional clown with a dick that belongs on a draft-animal. I’ve got another shoot planned in 6 days. You two in?”
“Yes.” The response to Ambrosia’s question was instantaneous.
“Good. The check, and the script, will be in the mail.” Her tone was smug, but her eyes warm. “And please read it this time . . . Lance.”
