Her first shoot

She was still sitting in the kitchen with her coffee, and she got to thinking about her daughter's skin.

Latte macchiato. That was the only honest way to put it. Not Simone's deep brown — Maya had come out two shades lighter, warm and golden and soft, the colour of the foam on top of a good cup, that pretty caramel swirl. Half her and half something else. All that white, potent white seed pumped up deep into a black girl's cunt, swimming, finding the egg, taking, and eighteen years later walking out the door in grey shorts with coconut lotion on her neck.

And it started, all of it, on one Tuesday when Simone was eighteen and stupid.

God, she'd been so naive. 'Naive' is the word she used now, remembering her first weeks in the porn industry.

It was her first shoot. The shoot took place in a house in the Valley, with four guys booked—all of them white and big—for an interracial gangbang, featuring a Black girl who had never been on set before in her life. She'd done the physical, done the paperwork, and done the nervous little small talk in the kitchen while somebody powdered her shoulders. And it had, honestly, genuinely not once crossed her mind that she was ovulating. Not once. She was eighteen and had forgotten that her ovulation date was today.

Upon arriving on set, she saw four men sitting around a card table wearing only towels and quickly realised the situation. And panicked.

She found the director by the light rig and said it flat out. “We have to use condoms.”

He looked at her like she'd insulted his mother. “Why?”

“I'm ovulating. Like, right now. I think.”

“Oh, baby," he said. Then he nodded and told the AD to call it and had somebody run out for rubbers, and Simone stood there in a robe, feeling like she'd ruined the whole day.

Because studios hate condoms. It's not the sensation, not really — it's the audience. The public wants to see the load go in. They want it to drip out after. You put latex in the shot, and half the comments turn into complaints. That's why they test every week, why the paperwork, why every porn star on the roster gets a swab and a blood draw at their doctor like clockwork — so they can shoot bare and nobody has to think about it. Bare was the house style. Bare was the point. And here she was, eighteen, on her first day, asking for raincoats.

They rolled. Guy number one was the perhaps biggest build of the four, a blonde with broad shoulders and a genuinely absurd cock — thick as her wrist at the base, blunt, and heavy. They tried an XXXL condom, and it rolled on like a sock on a forearm, only making it halfway down before the rubber's length gave up. Everybody laughed. Simone's stomach flipped.

Then he got inside her, and she stopped laughing.

He fucked her slow and long, and she was wet in a way that felt unfair — soaked, sloppy, her whole body going loose and hot under him while the lights burnt and somebody's camera clicked somewhere off to the side. And she forgot it was work. Completely. Forgot the boom mic hanging over her head, forgot what her name was on a call sheet, and forgot she'd ever been nervous. There was just that white hard belly against her dark one, his hands under her thighs, that heavy thing of his opening her up stroke after stroke, and something in her — some kind of deep stupid animal part of her — waking up and starting to scream.

Baby seed. That's what it was screaming for. Not cock, not money. Seed. Fill me up, put it in me, make it stick. Nature calling. Nature wanting his baby.

She didn't even say it out loud the first time. She was writhing under him, thighs clamped around his ribs, hips tipping up to meet every push, and she leaned her head up to his ear and whispered it. “Take it off.”

The director caught it. He was watching her face, not the monitor, and he nodded once and snapped his fingers at the guy.

The condom came off and went flying somewhere, and then that cock came back and pressed into her, and Simone made a sound out loud.

Warm. God, much warmer. Flesh inside her flesh, skin on skin, nothing between them — she hadn't known it would feel like a completely different cock. He slid back in, and her cunt clamped down on him instantly, hard, with that involuntary grip, and he felt enormous now, bigger without the rubber, every ridge and that thick base dragging onto the soft inside of her. In and out. Slow at first, because she was tight around him and he liked it. Out until just the head stayed in, then back in until he was pressed against the mouth of her womb. Out. In. Her slit stretched white around his shaft, shining, gripping, and sucking him back in every time like it was trying to pull him deeper, like it wanted him parked up against her ready cervix permanently.

She came on him. First real orgasm on camera, and it wasn't for anybody, and she couldn't have stopped it. Her back arched off the mattress, and her mouth opened, and nothing came out, and he just kept going through it, riding her through the clench.

Then he grunted and buried himself to the root and unloaded.

And Simone felt every pulse of it. That first hot flood inside her, then the next, then the next, four, five, six shots of it, thick white cum and endless, filling her tight black tunnel until it had nowhere to go and started pushing back out around his shaft and running down into the crease of her ass.

She lay there ruined and twitching while the other three stood around waiting their turn; the next towel dropped, all of them already half-hard.

Four of them. One shoot. Bare. Right in the middle of her window.

She never once thought about a condom again.

The second one didn't bother easing in.

He flipped her onto her stomach and pulled her hips up, and Simone was still slick and dripping the first guy's load when he lined up and shoved in to the hilt in one stroke, all of it at once, and she screamed into the mattress. No rubber. He hadn't even pretended to reach for one. Everybody on that set had already made the decision for her, and she loved them for it.

He was shorter than the first but built like a brick, with wide shoulders and a flat, pale ass that snapped like a machine, and he fucked her hard. Not slow, not pretty — driving, the kind of fucking where the sound of skin on skin comes in a fast slap and your tits move and your whole body scoots up the mattress an inch with every thrust. He had one hand fisted in her hair and the other flat on the small of her back, pinning her down, and he was ramming that thick, pale cock so deep that she could feel the blunt head of it butting up against her cervix, punching at the mouth of her womb over and over like it was knocking on the door.

Her egg was right there. She could feel it, the way you feel it in the belly when you're fertile — that heavy ache, swollen nothing right in the middle of her. Eighteen, dumb, ovulating, with four white men and no latex in the room. Every stroke was a knock, and her body answered every knock.

'Come on,' her cunt was saying. Come on, come on, put it in me. Breed me.

She stopped being filmed. She stopped being a girl on a call sheet. She fucked like her rent depended on it — no, like her life did — arching her back into him, pushing her ass back to meet every slam, grinding her hips in little circles when he bottomed out just to feel him churn her up.

Behind the lights, the director was grinning. Not the professional grin. The real one. He knew. He'd seen the two of them lock together like that, seen the wet string stretch between her thighs when the guy pulled out halfway, and he knew he had something on tape that money usually can't buy.

The second guy grabbed her hip, dragged her up off her face, and Simone got her legs behind her around his waist on instinct, locked her ankles behind his back and pulled him in tight, and then he couldn't pull out at all; he could only grind and ram short and deep, buried to the root in her, and that was it.

"Oh — take me," she heard herself say. Not the polished camera voice. Her voice. "Take me, take me, god, put it in me, come in me—"

Just noise after that. Broken little words between moans. “Deeper. Right there. Don't stop. Don't you dare stop. Oh! Yes. Yes. Yes.”

Her black pussy was in heaven. Stretched and her used tunnel shining white around him, gripping, wet enough that it made a sound on every stroke, that obscene slick sucking noise, and every time he dragged back her cunt clamped on the shaft like it was trying to keep him, pull him deeper, and drag his beautiful seed out of him.

This is what I missed, she thought. All those years of fingers and one clumsy boyfriend and her own bed at home — this. This deep. This raw. This is much cock slamming against the deepest part of her with nothing between them.

He felt it coming. She felt him feel it — the sudden swell, the way he got a half inch thicker inside her, the way his rhythm went ragged and short and desperate.

He stiffened. His hips slammed flush one last time, and he stayed there, his cock jammed up against her womb, and then he let go.

The first shot hit her so deep she felt it as heat, a pulse of it right against her cervix. Then another. And another. Hot white seed pumping into her tight black tunnel, and Simone came with him, right on the tail of it, her whole body snapping tight around him, legs crushing his ribs, heels dug into his back, her cunt milking in long squeezing waves like a fist opening and closing, wringing him out stroke by stroke.

She was shaking. Actually shaking, teeth chattering a little. There were tears on her face, and she didn't know when those had started.

"Don't move," she gasped into his shoulder, holding him in, legs locked, arms around his neck. "Don't you move. Oh, so beautiful," she whimpered.

He didn't. He stayed buried, softening slowly, while she clenched and clenched and drained him — every last drop of it pulled up into her by a body that had decided on its own what it wanted. When she finally let her legs drop, she was so full that the second he slipped out, she felt the wet flood of it come after him and run down her thigh.

Two down.

Two more standing by the couch, both of them hard again already, watching her drip.

…

He pulled out, and the sound was obscene — a wet shlick — and then the flood came after him, thick and white and pearling down the inside of both her thighs, dripping off her onto the sheet in a slow, steady line.

Simone felt empty for exactly one second.

"Oh, I want more," she shouted into the room. Not at the camera, not at the director — into the room, like a woman ordering in a bar. "More. Please."

She didn't wait to be arranged. She pushed herself up onto all fours, knees wide, elbows down, back arched in a long curve, that whole pretty eighteen-year-old line from her shoulders to the top of her ass, and hung there with her face turned sideways on the mattress and both thighs shining wet.

"Please fuck me," she said. To nobody. To all of them.

Somebody laughed, low and appreciative. Somebody said Jesus.

Then hands on her hips, and a fat, blunt head pressed up against her black labia.

Simone's breath caught and held. He was thicker than either of the first two — she could tell from the width alone, that flat blunt press against her lips, sliding along the wet seam of her without going in. Testing. Feeling how hot and open she was. Her lips gave around the head, and he welcomed it, wet and eager, and he didn't push. Just rocked it there. Back and forth, up and down the slit, dragging the head through the mess the first two had left in her, and Simone actually whined.

Then he slid in. Slow.

God, slow. He went in like he had all day, one long steady push that never sped up, and because she was on all fours and already wrecked and dripping, there was no resistance at all — just that thick thing opening her up wider than she'd been opened, stretching her from the inside in a way that made her mouth fall open and nothing come out. Inch after inch after inch, until she felt his hips against her ass and his whole length parked in her, and the fat head nudged up under her belly.

He stopped there. Let her feel it.

“Little black bitch is horny," he said to the room, looking down at that brown back and the sweet round ass pushed up against his hips and the thin string of the other men's cum still hanging off her thigh. Yeah. This was real. There was no acting in any of it — she was gripping him, fluttering around his shaft in little involuntary pulses, her cunt working on him like it was tasting him.

He pulled back out — so slow it was mean, that drag all the way to the tip — and pushed back in, same speed, same patience, bottoming out with a soft slap of his balls against her wet lips.

And again. And again.

Nice and slow. Long strokes, full depth, no hurry anywhere. It was a completely different fuck from the first two — no pounding, no noise — just that thick cock sliding in and out of her tight young slit in a smooth deliberate rhythm, and every single stroke went all the way, so she got the whole length every time and then the whole empty ache of losing it every time. Her cunt clenched on the drag-out. Her cunt swallowed on the way back in. Squeezing and releasing, squeezing and releasing, over and over, and it built in her like water rising in a tub.

He kept it slow for a long time, and Simone learnt what 'slow' does to a person.

It isn't gentle; that's the thing. Slow with a cock that thick is a grind. Every stroke took a full two seconds going in and two seconds coming out, and he never varied it, and after the first minute her body started doing things she had no control over. Her hips began meeting him — tipping back to take the last inch, then chasing forward a little when he left, so she was moving with him in a rolling rhythm like a boat on a swell. Her thighs shook between his hands. Sweat gathered in the small of her back and ran down into the crease of her ass, and he watched it and kept going, in, out, in, out, that smooth, unhurried slide of thick, pale flesh through a wet black slit.

The sound was the worst part and the best part. Not slapping. Squelching. That soft, slick, rhythmic noise of a cunt full of two other men's come-taking a third cock filled the room because nobody was saying anything; everybody was just watching.

He dragged it all the way to the head — until her lips closed tight around the ridge and her cunt was clenching at empty air — and held it there. Counted. Simone actually looked back over her shoulder at him, hair in her face, mouth open, and he looked back at her and pushed in again, one long even stroke, watching her eyes go unfocused as he filled her.

She came once from that alone. Not from friction — from the fullness. From that fat head bumping the deepest wall of her over and over in the same spot at the same speed until something in her belly wound up and snapped and she made a low animal sound into the mattress and her cunt milked in long shivering waves around his shaft. He felt all of it. Didn't speed up. Rode her through it, slow, so she had to feel every single inch of him while she was still coming.

Her knees gave out halfway through, and she went flat, face down, and he just followed her down and kept fucking her into the mattress, that thick cock sliding in and out of her from behind in the same patient rhythm with her whole body spread under him.

"Please," she said. "Please, please —"

Not even a sentence anymore. Just that one word, over and over, timed with his strokes, muffled and slurred into the sheet.

Then he finally changed. He dropped his hands from her hips, braced them on the mattress on either side of her, got his knees under him, and put his weight behind it. And he fucked her properly — still long, still deep, but now with force at the end of every stroke, a heavy driving finish that punched a little uh out of her each time his hips clapped against her ass. That wet squelch turned into a slap. The bed frame started knocking on the wall. Simone's hands clawed at the sheet and found nothing and clawed again.

"Yes—yes—like that, like that, don't stop—Oh, fuck my cunt!"

She was talking to him now, real words, filthy ones, things she'd never said out loud in her life, and the director was grinning so wide behind the camera that his face hurt because this was going straight to tape and there wasn't one frame of it that was fake.

She came again. Harder this time, hard enough that her heels drummed the mattress twice and a wet gush of everything in her pushed out around his shaft and ran down to her knees. And that was what finished him.

He pulled back one last time, drove in to the hilt, and pinned himself there — hips flat against her ass, buried to the root in that tight wet black tunnel — and let it go.

Simone felt it arrive. Heat, again, the third load of the night, thick and white and endless, pulsing up into her already-swollen belly in slow, heavy throbs while her cunt clamped down on him and wrung him and pulled and pulled, milking every last drop out of his shaft until he was twitching and shuddering on top of her, and still she squeezed.

He stayed inside until he went soft, then slid out slowly — that long wet drag again, worse than the last one — and the flood came with him and spilt over her lips and down the inside of both thighs, and Simone stayed exactly where she was, face down, ass up, ruined, dripping three men onto the sheet, breathing like she'd run somewhere.

She turned her head to the side. One of them was still standing there, stroking himself slowly, watching her drip.

Simone lifted her hips an inch and looked at him.

"Come here," she said.

He was probably the biggest of the four, and he was the only one who made her wait.

He came around the bed slow, stroking himself the whole way, and Simone watched it from the mattress with her face turned sideways and her ass still up. Long. Pale. Hard as a length of pipe, thick from root to tip, with a heavy veined shaft that bulged and twisted and a head that looked swollen and purple-pink and mean. She'd never seen one that size outside of a picture. Her mouth went dry, and her cunt — already full, already used, already dripping three loads — gave a slow wet clench at the sight of it.

"Oh my god," she said. "Oh my god, look at it."

He knelt behind her and laid it along her slit. Just laid it there, flat in the crease, and it reached from her clit past her hole and still had length left over. Simone actually whimpered.

Then he pushed the head in, and the stretch was different. Wider than the third guy. She felt her lips peel open around him, and her whole tunnel had to make room, and she let out a long, shaky breath through her teeth and didn't stop talking for the rest of it.

"Slow—slow, okay, slow—oh, that's it, that's it, push, push—ahh, good, good, keep going, keep going, don't stop, don't you dare stop—"

Coaching him. Straight-up coaching, like she'd been doing it for years. He liked it; she could feel him get harder inside her every time she told him what to do. So, she kept going. Deeper. All the way. Right there, stay right there. Now fuck me. Long strokes, that's it. That's my good boy.

He fucked her with real weight behind it, and she talked through every stroke of it.

"Harder. Harder, come on, use me — yeah, like that. Oh, you're so big; you're splitting me open. Feel that? Feel how tight I am for you? That's all for you; that's my pussy, that's — oh — oh —"

By then she was just noise with words in it. Sweat down her back, hair stuck to her cheek, ass red where his hips hit it, and tits swinging under her with every drive. She got her hand back between her legs and worked her clit while he hammered her, and the room was nothing but wet slap and her voice.

"Give me that white cock," she shouted at him. "Give me that beautiful white cock, oh god — give me that seed, give me that beautiful seed —"

She looked back over her shoulder at him, eyes wet, mouth open, and said the last part like it was a confession.

"Knock me up. Oh god, knock me up."

She meant it. Right then, in that room, with three other men's seed already sitting in her belly and this one huge pale thing buried up against her cervix — she meant it more than she'd ever meant anything.

He heard it. He put both hands on her shoulders, pulled her back onto him and started slamming — brutal, fast, deep, that heavy shaft dragging her open and ramming home so hard that the fat head punched right against the mouth of her womb in a fast, ugly rhythm, and Simone screamed and came.

It rolled through her like a fit. Back arched, legs stiff, feet up off the mattress, cunt clamping down on that enormous cock in hard rhythmic squeezes, wet pouring out around his shaft and running down onto his balls. She came for a long time. She came around him, over and over, while he kept pounding her through it, and she kept chanting, 'Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop.'

And then he was done.

He drove in one last time and stayed, buried to the root, hips flat against her ass, and Simone felt the first thick pulse shoot straight into the back of her.

Her black egg was right there. Waiting. Wet and ready and sitting right under the head of that pale cock, and he emptied himself up against it in slow heavy throbs — one, two, three, four — more than the others, more than all the others, so much that she could feel it filling the space that was already full and pushing everything else out around his shaft to run down her thighs.

She milked him. Instinct. Long, slow squeezes, holding him in, pulling, taking every last drop until he was shuddering and his breath was ragged and he had nothing left to give her.

Nobody said anything.

Just four men breathing hard and an eighteen-year-old girl face down in a wet patch, and that huge cock still inside her, softening, and the only sound is the whir of the camera.

Then somebody clapped.

One set of hands. Then another. Then all of them, and somebody behind the lights, and then the director — laughing, absolutely beaming, walking into frame with the headphones around his neck — clapping loudest of all.

"Best shooting of my life," he said. "Best fucking shooting of my life, baby. You hear me? That goes up as is. Nothing gets cut."

Simone turned her face on the mattress, cheek in her own wet hair, and smiled at him. Ruined. Eighteen. Dripping four white men down her legs.

'Yeah,' she thought, lying there. Nothing gets cut.

Simone sat down on the living room couch with the coffee in her hand and the same smile on her face, eighteen years later, and looked down at the phone on the cushion beside her.

Kyle's number was still on the screen.

To be continued.