Licking Little Nell

This story is a follow on from “It May Not Be Art Darling, But It Pays The Bills”.

It follows our heroine into a lesbian shoot where things do not go entirely to plan

The black latex double-headed dildo is so large that even the idea that I might push it eagerly inside me requires a suspension of disbelief that only a porn-movie audience is capable of. In reality, I’m hoping that there’s enough lube on this monster to allow me to get an inch or two in my cunt without tearing anything.

Nora, our camerawoman smiles at me as she moves in for a close-up. She has a pretty smile. I close my eyes, holding on to the image of her lips; spread my legs as wide as I can and push, very slowly.

The dildo doesn’t feel like a cock; it’s cool rather than warm, the surface is smoother, you can bend it to get the angles right without having growls of protest and, best of all, there isn’t a man sweating on the end of it, trying to balance his performance anxiety with his urge to spew his sperm as quickly as possible.

I’m not into men and, given the choice, I prefer them not to be in me either. I fuck men in front of the camera because it pays the bills but my preference, on and off camera, is for women.

I make a show of massaging the shaft of the faux-cock; the camera likes that sort of thing. Then I concentrate on guiding the head up against that cum-for-momma spot. I believe that the existence of the G-spot is proof that God is a woman. The existence of testicles is proof that She has a sense of humour.

I push the smooth fat head of the cock, just as dense as most men and even easier to manipulate, up against the roof of my cunt. When I find my rapture point, my smile is wider than the camerawoman’s and I start to rock on the cock with genuine pleasure.

Warmth spreads from my belly outwards. I arch my back, revelling in the way my breasts lift, enjoying the slight bounce of the nipple rings, and give all my energy to coming.

Filming the female climax is less immediately gratifying than filming the male equivalent. Women, most of us anyway, don’t spurt when we come. Inside, the body is celebrating but visually, not nearly as much is happening. That’s why so many porn movies are filled with fake screams of “God! YES. I’m COMING” – how else would the audience know? Hell most men can’t even tell if their wives have come.

But this porn movie is aimed at women as well as men and fake screams won’t hack it. Fortunately I come well on screen. My face and chest flush, my nipples and clit salute and my labia swell and unfold. I don’t scream. I smile. And I make a small noise in the back of my throat, deep and primal, that makes old men hard and straight women wet.

The wave of the climax breaks and I’m sliding back to earth when I hear:

“Mrs. Carling! My God! What are you doing?”

The line is delivered in an English accent that announces a heritage of wealth and privilege. I open my eyes and look at the speaker, a plaid-skirted schoolgirl in a chaste white blouse, knee-socks and Mary-Janes.

This is “Little Nell”, a rising star in the porno heavens and a specialist in the “Barely-legal/Lolita-teen” market. Although she is nineteen, Little Nell looks significantly younger: she has long coltish legs, a flat chest blessed with dark, stubby nipples that rise to every occasion, pale skin, blood-red hair, green eyes, a wicked mouth and a smoothly-shaven mons that begs to be kissed.

Nell offers men an acceptable outlet for their paedophilic fantasies. They can convince themselves that it is the woman she is becoming who makes them hard, not the dew-fresh memory of the little girl she was. They are, they tell themselves, normal, red-blooded males, on the scent of new meat; not twisted perverts stiffening at the promise of being the first to split open her vulnerable girl-child flesh.

I am fascinated by the thought of these married-with-(girl)-children men, who leave the reproach of their under-sexed marriage beds in the early hours, to sit hunched before their computers, sweating and squeezing and pulling at their desire to be men. It is one of the bye-ways of heterosexuality that I will never understand.

Nell came to fame in a short but-greatly-in-demand movie called, “Ringing Little Nell’s Bell”, allegedly made on her eighteenth birthday, in which she fingers, sucks, fucks, and glazes her face with the cum of a gray-haired man who is clearly old enough to be her father. They are then “discovered” by the man’s wife. Little Nell smiles, and without letting go of the old man’s dick, scoops some cum off her chin, rubs it over her nipple and says to the woman, “Would you like a taste?” The threesome that follows is the hottest I’ve ever seen. (Well of course I bought the movie, Darling; research is an essential part of an actor’s preparation.)

What hooked me was that Little Nell looked so in charge: predator not prey. She may only have been eighteen years old, but the knowledge behind her eyes was ancient and unrepentant. She looked directly into the camera, not at the sad-old-sod whose cock she was using, looked, it seemed, straight at me, with an expression that said “even if you’re smart enough to know how absurd this all is, I bet your libido is still screaming at you to fuck me”.

She was right, of course. I didn’t take this gig just for the money; I took it because I wanted to know what it felt like to look up into those eyes with the taste of her still fresh on my tongue.

My dream gig started to go weird when I met Nell’s mother, Isabel. Isabel is Nell’s manager, directs all her movies and is notorious in the industry.

The story goes that, on her eighteenth birthday, Nell arrived in Amsterdam with her mother and her lawyer and set up an auction for the “Little Nell” franchise: a series of “Little Nell” porn movies, backed up with a “Little Nell and friends” web-site and a “Little Nell Live!” party tour of Europe, in which website members would be invited to an orgy hosted by Little Nell.  DVDs of the live tour would be marketed on a limited edition subscription basis.

While her mother met with the money men and pitched the franchise, Little Nell gave private screenings of a demo tape called, “Virgin fingers: Little Nell lends a hand”.  It’s whispered that she reprised her hand-job technique live for each bidder, to improve their appreciation of the movie. Apparently, the demo tape was bought by a private collector and made more money than Little Nell’s first movie.

Isabel met me with Nell just before I hooked up with my black latex companion. They sat side by side on the sofa that was going to feature in our little drama. Isabel looked disconcertingly like Nell’s older sister. She generated all the warmth and affection of a cobra.

“I understand you went to RADA,” Isabel said in a tone that suggested that she found this unlikely. “Well then, I won’t have to spend much time explaining my approach. Like Altman, I work without a script and let the action emerge from the characters and the situation.”

I was stunned. I’ve been in a lot of porn movies and I’d never heard anyone talk so much bollocks.

“So you want me to…?” I said, trying to think of reasonable ending for the sentence

“…do what it takes to ring Nell’s bell. ” Isabel replied. “This will be a touching teacher/pupil counselling scene. You should feel free to touch her anywhere that takes your fancy.”

Nell and Isabel both laughed at this wit. It wasn’t a pleasant sound.

And now Nell standing over me, looking clean and pure and good enough to eat. Which is quite appropriate really as that’s what’s going to happen next.

“Nell,” I say, struggling to sit up, “I thought you’d left – we finished your flute lesson ten minutes ago”

“Don’t get up, Mrs. Carlson.”

Nell’s voice is softer now but it still carries that obeyed-for-generations tone of command. I remain obediently supine, futilely trying to hide the black monster that is still lodged between my legs.

“You look wonderful like that.” Nell says with a smile that makes her look so young I feel momentarily ashamed of myself. Moving towards me she says, “I’m sorry I shouted. You surprised me.”

She sits on the sofa beside me, her eyes fastened on the dildo as if she’s never seen one before (well, the girl can act). Then she reaches out and holds the protruding end of the double-headed black cock, palm along the underside of the shaft, finger and thumb closing behind the absurdly large head. Yes, she’s definitely done this before.

“Nell,” I say but she talks over me, almost whispering now, as if the black stallion in her hand has cast a spell over her.

“I came back because I forgot my instrument,” she says. “It’s smaller that the one you’re using. Although I’ve used mine just like that.”

Trying to sit up, I say, “Nell, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to see this.”

“I told you NOT to get up.”

This line is delivered with the stern tone of a practiced dominatrix and punctuated by an ungentle push on the black brute that lodges it firmly and uncomfortably in place. I grunt, more in surprise than pleasure. We’re not working to a script here. Little Nell does it Altman style – we make it up as we go along.

“Nell, stop that,” I say, this time really trying to sit up. I want that thing out of me right now.

Moving fast, Nell straddles me so that her legs are around my ribs.

“You don’t really want me to stop,” Nell says, reaching back and working the black monster backwards and forwards a little. “I’ve seen how you look at me when I have my flute to my mouth, Mrs. Carlson.” Nell pulls open her blouse (Velcro fastening – ah such gritty realism) exposing her tiny breasts. “And I know you’ve wanted to touch me.” Nell grabs one of my hands by the wrists and runs it across her nipples.

I ought to be enjoying this. Nell is remarkably pretty, her flesh is smooth and her nipples are gratifyingly hard. But, up close and personal like this, I can see that there something seriously wrong with Little Nell. If I looked into eyes like hers anywhere else I’d make my excuses and leave. There’s nothing behind them; nothing at all.

Well, if we’re going to play the improv game, then I’m going to find a way out from under this girl as fast as possible, even if it means I don’t get paid. I could just throw her skinny body off me and leave but I’m a professional. I’ll act my way out.

“Nell, please, you’re very pretty but this is very wrong,” I say, in my most sincere voice.

Nell isn’t listening. I can tell from her twisted little smile that she’s thought of something. I’m fairly certain that I’m not going to like it.

“I’ve wondered what your breasts would be like,” Nell says, scooting down my body so that she can lean forward and lick my breasts. Actually, that feels quite nice. Nell has a talented tongue.

“Your breasts are so much larger than mine. See how small mine look when I rub them against yours.”

Nell pauses and I realize that I’m supposed to pay her some sort of complement at this point. I look up at Nell’s face while Nora leans in close to film our breasts and realize that Nell is irritated with me. Or perhaps I’m not her type. I’m now fairly certain that she’s not mine.

“Mrs. Carlson,” Nell says, in a cloyingly sweet voice, “You have nipple rings. How delicious. Can I touch them?”

The question is apparently rhetorical as she grabs hold of the rings without waiting for a reply. Then she twists them hard.

“OW. That fucking HURT.”

That line required no acting on my part. Little Nell has pissed me off. I summon my RADA training, reach for my inner Harpy and push Little Nell off me so hard that her head hits the arm of the sofa.

My fury has developed it own momentum and without thinking it through I pull the ugly black monster out of me and start to beat Nell with it. She raises her arms in defence and I let the dildo fall and grab hold of her.

“What are you doing? LET GO OF ME.”

Ah, now we’re hearing the real little Nell and she sounds like a spoiled brat. Well I know what to do with spoiled brats. I pull Nell over my knee and start to spank her as hard as I can.

I get four or five blows in before Isabel grabs me from behind and makes me stop. Nell rolls off me so fast; you’d think I was scalding her.

On her knees, pointing at me as if her finger was an assault rifle, Nell spits out: “I want her fired. I want her arrested. I want her sued. MOTHER, DO SOMETHING.”

Isabel lets go of me, goes over to Nell and holds her close. It should be a touching mother daughter tableau. Instead, Isabel looks like she’s protecting an asset.

“Well, THAT was fun.”

I turn and find Nora, the camera woman sitting on the arm of the sofa next to me.

“Yes.” I say, “It was. But I rather think I’m fired.”

“Well, if you’re fired, I quit. Here,” she says, holding out a robe “I thought you might need this.”

As Nora helps me shrug into the robe, she says, “Fun as it was to see the uber-brat spanked; I enjoyed your solo the most.”

I recognize an invitation when I receive one. It seems the day will not be entirely wasted.

“Well, Nora,” I say, turning to face her and taking hold of one her hands, “I prefer duets to solos.”

“Then we should find somewhere private to practice.” Nora says.

She really does have a sexy smile. I’m certain that practice will make perfect.


© Mike Kimera 2005 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk


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