My daughter needs white cock

At breakfast, Simone poured the last of the coffee into her daughter's mug before she even sat down.

She looked very pretty today, her mom thought. Pretty, but not sexy. More like neutral. This could be way different, she added to the stream of thoughts.

"You know," she said, sliding the plate of eggs across the counter, "if you ever wanted to make some extra money this year, I could get you on a set. Just once. See how it feels."

Stacey didn't even look up from her phone.

"It's gross."

"That's it? That's your whole review?"

"It's gross, Mom." She finally looked up, eighteen and certain. "The whole porn movies thing. People watching you. Cameras. And it's so—it's like, the same thing over and over. You're a mom doing it."

"I'm thirty-six."

"Exactly."

Simone laughed into her coffee. "Four years of tuition paid and you're still talking like you owe somebody money."

"That's why I don't need to do it," Stacey said, standing, stacking her plate with the quick efficiency of someone already thinking about a lecture hall three miles away. "We're fine. We're fine. Don't need it, don't want it, don't like it." She grabbed her bag and kissed her mother's cheek on the way past, smelling like coconut lotion and fresh vanilla body spray. "Bye. Love you. Gross."

Then she walked away down the hallway toward the door, and Simone turned on her stool to watch her go.

God, the body on that girl.

Stacey had gotten the best of everything—the long legs of Simone's own mother, the small tight waist, and an ass that had come out of nowhere and just kept filling out until the shorts she wore now barely had anything to hold. She was wearing the gray ones today, the soft ones, and they moved with her, riding up a half inch with every step so the crease under each cheek showed when she shifted weight. Her shoulders were bare and narrow, shoulder blades moving under smooth brown skin, and the little tank top was thin enough that the outline of her back dimples showed through when she reached for the door handle.

And full up top. Still those little dark nipples that had barely changed since she was fifteen, sitting high and tight on a chest that hadn't needed a bra until recently. And still, judging by the way she'd bent over the counter for the orange juice, there was absolutely nothing soft about the middle of her. Flat belly. Hipbones like handles. The kind of body a camera loves.

Simone had fucked on camera for 18 years, and she knew what the lens did to a body. She knew exactly what that body would look like on a mattress with the lights warm and low. And she knew—she knew, in a way that sat in her stomach like a swallowed stone—that nobody on a set in Los Angeles had ever had it yet.

Her daughter Stacey didn't have a boyfriend. Had never had one, not a real one. And Simone had never once found a condom wrapper in the trash, never found a box of them in the bathroom drawer, and never found a stray wrapper in the cup holder of that Civic she drove everywhere. She wasn’t on the pill either; she knew that for sure. No boyfriend, sure; that explained some of it. But eighteen and no rubbers in the house, not even a box just sitting there optimistically in a drawer? That meant something. That meant nobody had gotten close enough to need them. That meant—and Simone was almost sure of it, in the way mothers are sure of things they've never been told—that Stacey was still tight as a fist and had no idea what it was like to have that taken out of her.

She thought about it at the sink, drying the same mug twice.

She thought about it in the way she always thought about things: with her body. She imagined some big white cock, thick and uncut and heavy, laid flat along that flat little belly just to see how far it reached. Imagined the moment it found her. Stacey's face doing that—oh, the surprised one, the one she made when she bit into something too hot—because the first push in always looks like pain and usually is. Imagined her gripping the sheets, hips lifting, that tiny waist twisting while something too big for her worked its way past the first inch. How tight she'd be. How the pussy of a girl who'd never had anything in it grabs and holds and pushes back like it's trying to decide whether to let you in. How she'd probably squeak. How she'd probably bleed a little and act like it was nothing.

Simone remembered being well fucked last year. What was his name again—that tall white guy from the Redondo shoot, the one with the hands and the flat stomach and the patience of a man who'd done it a thousand times? He'd put her on her back and opened her up like he was turning a key, slow, so slow, until she'd had to reach back and grab the headboard, and then he'd bottomed out and stayed there, and she'd made a sound she was embarrassed about later. And they were only filming. But Lord, how deep and how good he fucked her. With the whole team present. That sound. She wanted that sound out of her daughter. That crying, grunting moaning. Just like she did. That day, during the shoot, she had come three times on his cock. That had never happened to her ever before. Three times.

She'd text him. She'd actually text him. Hey. Have you ever broken into a virgin?

She finished the dishes, and then she didn't; she just sat down on the edge of the bed with the towel still in her hand, and then she wasn't holding the towel at all; she was holding the waistband of her shorts, pushing them down past her hips.

She was already wet. Of course she was. Remembering that beautiful cock.

Two fingers, easy, no preamble, because she'd been wet since the kitchen, and the only thing left to do was finish the thought. She pressed her palm down against her own clit and rocked and let it go somewhere.

In her head, Stacey was one year older, nineteen, and different. In her head Stacey wore shorter things and laughed louder and had a way of standing with her hip cocked that made men's eyes drop. In her head Stacey brought those big cocks home. That was the part Simone would love. Not the sets, not the cameras—home. Her own couch, her own hallway, her own thin apartment walls, and her daughter on the other side of them learning what her body was for.

She imagined the sound. God, the sound. Skin on skin, that wet, heavy slap slap slap through the drywall, a headboard tapping, a mattress squeaking off its frame, and a man's low grunt at the end of every stroke. Stacey is trying to be quiet and failing at it. Stacey making that "oh!" Stacey saying, "Don't stop," in a voice Simone had never heard her use.

And then, in the morning, her daughter would come out for coffee with her hair a mess and her thighs still pink and would shrug like it was nothing at all, and Simone would know, because she'd heard, that some man had spent the whole night using that young cunt like it belonged to him—spreading it, filling it, pulling out and pushing back in and watching it grip.

Simone wondered, with her fingers curled up and her hips starting to lift off the bed, whether her daughter was shaved. Whether she kept it bare and smooth the way Simone did, that neat little strip, or whether she'd let it grow in dark and soft and had no idea what it looked like to a man when he knelt down between it. She hoped bare. She really did. She hoped some lucky white boy would get to feel that first—that first lick on smooth skin, no hair in the way, nothing between his tongue and her.

Her thighs closed on her own hand, and she came like that, teeth together, one long squeeze.

She lay there a minute, staring at the ceiling fan, still buzzing.

Fine, she thought. We're fine. We don't need the money.

She picked up her phone. Because my daughter needs cock.

She called him before she could talk herself out of it, standing barefoot in the kitchen with her shorts still unbuttoned.

He picked up on the fourth ring. "Simone."

"Kyle." She heard the TV go quiet on his end. "Are you busy?"

"For you? Depends on what it is." His voice did that thing it did—flat, unhurried, the voice of a man who'd never once been the nervous one in a room.

She got it out in one breath. "My daughter's eighteen. She's a virgin. I want you to take it."

There was a pause long enough that she checked the screen to make sure the call hadn't dropped.

"You want me to do what?"

"Take it. Her. Her virginity." She pulled a stool out with her foot and sat. "She doesn't want to do porn; she thinks it's gross. She's got her whole life planned out. But if I put her in a room with you and a camera and nobody else, one time, she'll get it. I know her. She'll get it."

"You sure she's a virgin?"

"I'm sure. No boyfriend, no wrappers in the house, not one box of rubbers in that bathroom in eighteen years. She's never been opened up, Kyle. I'd bet money on it."

He laughed, low. "That's a hell of a thing to bet money on."

"So. You in?"

Another pause. She heard him shift and heard a bottle open.

"I'm in, but I might need somebody to hold her down."

"That's my job," Simone said. "I'll secure her for you. Both hands. She'll be right where you want her."

"So, you're offering me your daughter's virgin cunt," he said, slow, like he was tasting it.

"Yes."

"Just like that."

"Not just like that." Simone leaned forward, elbow on the counter. "I need you to fuck her an entire weekend. Not once, not a nice little first-time scene, and everybody goes home. Friday night to Sunday. Until she craves it. Until she's the one calling you. Can you do that?"

She could hear the smile.

"Will do," he said.

"Good."

"Which studio?"

She winced. That was the actual problem, and she'd been avoiding it. "That's the thing. I need somebody who films the first ones. First-time, virgin, whole thing. The big houses won't touch it; they want girls with scenes already up."

"Try Filthy Studios."

"Where?"

"Oakland. They've got equipment—real equipment, rigs, the frames, cuffs, everything. You can strap her down, and I'll work her over in the meantime. You want her held; that's the place." A beat. "And they film the young ones. They'll put it up raw."

"Oakland."

"Oakland."

Simone looked at the fridge, at the college sticker on the freezer door, at four years of tuition that had already been paid.

"Okay," she said. "I'll do it."

"Call me when you've got a date."

"Kyle."

"Yeah?"

"Be good to her."

"I'll be very good to her," he said, and hung up first.

Simone sat there with the phone against her cheek for a second, then let it drop to the counter.

It started again, right in her stomach.

Because now she could see it. Kyle was six-foot-two and built like something that lifted things for a living, and she'd had him inside her last year on that Redondo set, and she knew exactly what that thing of his looked like—long, pale, and thick at the root with a blunt fat head and that one vein down the left side that stood out when he got hard. She'd felt it split her. She was thirty-six and used to and had had a baby, and it had still made her gasp like a girl.

And now his beautiful cock was going inside her daughter.

She could see it: Stacey on a low platform with her knees pushed apart, that flat little brown belly rising and falling, no hair—please no hair—just smooth skin and the neat little slit of her pussy, tight and closed and pink, the way a girl is before anything's been in it. And Kyle kneeling between her legs, taking his time, thumbing it open just to look, spreading those soft outer lips wide with two fingers so the inside of her showed—dark and pink and wet and so small it looked like it couldn't possibly fit what he was about to give it.

And it wouldn't. Not at first. That was the part Simone couldn't stop picturing.

The head against it. Pressing. A first little dip that doesn't go anywhere. Stacey flinching. And then the push—that slow, steady push, no hurry, no mercy, just weight—and her slit stretching around him, white and shining, wider than it's ever been, wider than it wants to be. It would hurt. It always hurts. There'd be that sound, that little "ah" she'd make, hands fisting in whatever she was tied to. He'd have to go through the hymen, and there'd be resistance, a small tear, a bright sting, and then—a little blood. Not much. Just a smudge on her thigh, on his shaft, on the sheet under her. Proof. Evidence of the exact moment her daughter stopped being a virgin.

And he wouldn't stop. That was the whole point. He'd keep that fat head working in and out of her, an inch, two, three, until the blood smears on his breaking cock and the wetness of her daughter made it slick and the burning turned into something else and Stacey's breath changed.

And it would change. Simone knew that part too. There was a moment—where the pain just slides over into a kind of hot, thick, humming need, and suddenly the thing that was hurting you is the thing you want pushing. Stacey would get there. She'd fight it, and then she'd stop fighting it, and then her hips would start tipping up to meet him. Little moans. That high, shocked, breathy sound a girl makes the first time she realizes her own cunt likes it. Then louder. Then shameless.

By Saturday she'd be moaning out loud with her legs wide and her heels up on his back. By Sunday morning she'd be pulling him inside her before breakfast, sticky and sore and not caring, wanting the stretch, wanting that long pale cock sliding in and out of her tight young slit like it had always lived there.

Simone pressed two fingers against herself over her shorts and swallowed.

Crave it, she thought. Just crave it, baby.

To be continued.