Free Asking For It by Lana Laye Page A

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