“What? You don’t think I can open the fucking door for myself?” She shoved past him and through. “Chauvinist pig!”
“Sorry.” His free hand pushed his black rimmed glasses up on his nose as he looked at the door to figure if the blonde was referring to it or him. He half shrugged, pulling his sport coat open and his tie tried to escape in a quick breeze over his shoulder.
A car honked and splashed past spraying the fresh muck created by the current snowfall. The noon-time sun was hidden behind thick steel-grey clouds and the falling white flakes that covered the sidewalk as people walked through as though afraid it were eggshells that would crack if their feet hit too hard.
Most people, seeing Peter, would have thought of a chubbier Clark Kent. He was rather tall, dark hair and blue eyes; usually sheathed in a suit slightly too large for him and even with the perfected slight hunch of his shoulders as he tried to vanish in crowds of people much shorter than he.
Following the blonde in, though keeping his distance, he felt his pocket vibrate. Pulling out his Blackberry, he quickly thumbed up a message from his sister, Jackie.
“Did you get the job yet?“
He quickly thumbed back. “FMH, Jax? The interview hasn’t started yet.“
A quick response flashed on, “FMH? Did you mean SMH?“
“I don’t know? What’s the difference?“
“Not much. lol. Bob will laugh. Good luck, little boy!“
Bob was Jackie’s husband. Ex-member of the New Zealand rugby squad that had immigrated after Jackie had been there to report on the World Cup of Rugby a few years back. He was a grunt of a man, as tall as a fire plug and wide as a bus. If Bob was going to laugh, Peter knew he had messed up.
Putting the phone away, he kicked the snow off his shoes and walked further into the building in search of Shivers Entertainment.
He got the job.
Peter held the microphone, hoping he had it above and out of the shot. He also blushed and tried not to watch the two brunettes that were licking each other on the bed. His inner Irish-Catholic upbringing, although something he had long said he had turned his back on, left him feeling guilty of seeing this action. His black shirt and jeans were baggy enough that he was afraid to move without causing too much sound.
“Perfect, ladies, now big finish,” Raoul, the director of this epic, said quietly.
The women grew louder and more aggressive as they worked through the end of their scene.
“Annnnn…cut! Da’ waz beau’e’ful!” Raoul applauded and soon the small film crew joined in.
Both brunettes smiled and giggled as they shifted off the bed and put on their robes. Quickly they both vanished into the hall and to two of the house’s other bedrooms that were carefully disguised as dressing rooms.
“Ogay, now where is Mizz Blaze?”
All the blood drained from Peter’s face as he kept his eyes on Margrite…the plump Latino woman in charge of changing the bed sheets between scenes. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the redhead wave.
“I’m here, Raoul,” she said with a smile. Her blue eyes were the same shade as her silk robe with the golden dragon snaking all over it.
Peter knew that body intimately…well, from the photos he had seen at least.
Roxie Blaze was the only pornstar he knew by name. Her red hair just past her shoulders…the birthmark on the back of her left shoulder…the tan line that was obvious regardless of how pale or tanned she was. Peter remembered back in his early twenties he would go each month to buy his copy of Cocktales Magazine in the hopes of finding a new pictorial featuring Ms. Blaze. He had memories of jealous paper cuts from the first time he had seen a boy-girl pictorial of her with Major Heights.
“Hello, mah darlink.” Raoul walked over and air kissed both her cheeks. “Jou loog ravishing. Lucky Gaystrom.”
Roxie laughed and swatted the short man. “Oh, Raoul, you old tease.”
“Well, he iz lucky. Where is Gaystrom? GAYSTROM???!!!???”
A tiny blonde in a bikini ran in the room from the hall and whispered in Raoul’s ear.
“SICK???!! Whad dah fug! How he be sick?”
The blonde decided the question was not rhetorical. “He’s throwing up in the bedroom and…”
“Shud dah fug up!” His shoulders slumped and he turned around with his brown eyes scanning the room. “Now whad do we do?”
Roxie walked over and sat on the corner of the bed. She absently stroked the hem of her robe.
Peter stood with the boom mic beside him, as though he were standing guard. His eyes still could not look directly at Roxie though she were right now close enough he could run his hand through her hair.
Roxie looked around and briefly caught his eyes and noticed the blush in his cheeks. Her mouth turned from greeting smile to a sly grin. “Raoul? Roll camera.”
“Why? We god no stud to…” His voice faltered as his eyes followed what Roxie was looking at and saw Peter’s awkward face. “Ummmm…and agtion!”
The crew quickly rattled into action.
Peter, as was his job, picked up the microphone and held it over the bed.
“Jes, daz perfect. Act as dough jou waz working.”
“So,” Roxie said looking into the camera. “I am so horny and I have no one to fuck. What is a poor girl to do?”
Peter, still not quite knowing where this was leading, held fast.
“Raoul?” Roxie cried. “Where’s my stud?”
Raoul answered in a voice loud enough for the mic to pick up. “I sorry, Mizz Blaze. He iz sick in hiz dressing room.”
Her head turned as she rubbed her chest lightly. “But I’m so horny.” She stopped turning and stared at Peter. “Well hello there, big boy.”
Realizing he was in the camera shot, Peter’s face went beat red. His eyes shifted to the crew and saw each of them were grinning at him. “Wait, I can’t…”
Roxie nearly skidded across the bed to where he stood. “Can’t what?” Her hand tugged down the zipper on the front of his black jeans.
Peter dropped the mic and ran, stepping straight on to the bed and finding his shoes sliding out from under him as he tried to escape. He landed face first, beside the boom mic, on the matress.
Roxie Blaze, his boyhood slut-idol, was straddled on top of him before he could move. “Please, don’t leave me. I’m so horny.” Her hand slipped between his legs and groped him through the crotch of his jeans. She had some serious strength as her next move was to pull his clothes off.
Peter became her clay-man, moving as she moved him and holding form while she controlled his positions. She had him naked and opened her robe just enough to show her pussy as it slipped over him…no foreplay, just raw intercourse. Words were whispered from Raoul of instruction, but Peter could no longer make them out as the sight of the redhead riding him made everything else a mumble.
Time vanished as though he were abducted.
His sight blurred and all he saw was Roxie.
His limbs numbed, afraid to move.
…then she collapsed on him in a screaming orgasm. She wailed as though shot.
“Cut! Dat waz fugging amazing!” Raoul cooed at them.
Roxie got off and curled in beside him.
More Raoul exclamations, “Holy fug…dah man iz still hard. How jou do dat?”
Peter, still afraid to move, started to regain his senses. He turned on his side and found he was, accidentally, cuddled with Roxie.
“Oh, sugar,” she purred and petted his hip.
“I’m sorry, did I do it right?” he whispered his question and even allowed himself to run through her hair lightly with one hand while the other, on her hip, stroked lightly as though touching gold.
Roxie froze from the feeling of his hands lightly on her. She shifted around and, for the first time, their eyes locked. Her whisper answered, “Yes, you did but…”
Raoul already knew the ‘but’. “Clear dah room, folks. Dah new stud needs privacy wid Roxie.”
Within two minutes, the camera was gone…Raoul was gone…the fluffers, disappointed not to blow the mighty Gaystrom, were gone.
It was just Peter and the woman of his wet dreams, Roxie.
Peter had no idea how the hell he got here…nor what the hell to do…he started to shake lightly.
“Oh, baby…are you cold?”