I got loads of lingerie work, they like big tits you see. Also some magazine work for fuller-figured girls and a few ads including one on the telly. So all in all I think I got the better end of the deal with that designer. Problem was he’d turn up from time to time expecting sex. We weren’t supposed to have men at the house, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Eventually one of the other girls blabbed about it and I got thrown out.
I wasn’t sure what to do, I didn’t have much savings and without the agency the work was drying up. But then Bob came along and saved me. I’d met him before; he was a photographer on one of the lingerie catalogues. I told him about my misfortune.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you some jobs. Lovely girl like you should never be out of work.’ I liked Bob. He took me for a drink and was a perfect gent. Nice-looking too, which helped, though he had a bit of a beer gut.
He told me to meet him at a place in North London. When I got there I realised at once this was a different sort of modelling. In the studio was a king-size bed, and next to it was a clothes rail stuffed with a bewildering variety of lingerie. Crotchless panties, see-through negligees and what-not.
‘You’re shooting porn?’ I asked him, more surprised than shocked.
‘It’s glamour modelling,’ he insisted. ‘I’m not asking you to fuck anyone. Not yet anyway.’
So apparently that’s the line of distinction, ladies and gents. If you just take your knickers off, then you’re a glamour model. Stick something up you and you’re a porn star. Anyway. I’d already made my decision, weeks before in the studio with the designer. I modelled the crotchless panties, a leather bra that chafed something wicked, the see-through camisole, the frilly knickers, everything. Then we did some shots with me starkers.
‘How do you feel about touching yourself?’ he asked.
‘How do you feel about doubling the money?’ I replied.
We negotiated a bit, but it soon became apparent that the more I did, the higher the price went. It was all the same to me. I’d stepped over the line and was determined to make sure I got my money.
So there I was. Lying on a bed at some anonymous address in North London. Legs spread wide while I rubbed my clit and tried to look sultry for the camera. Fact is I was getting worked up, and Bob could see this. He took a couple more snaps, and then he put the camera down and just stared at me for a while as I continued to work my clit. I could see the bulge in his trousers and wondered what he might be like naked.
I stared back for a good thirty seconds, thinking it over, then said, ‘Come on then.’
He didn’t need to be asked twice, and had his trousers and pants off before he hit the bed. He kissed me and I rolled him over until I was on top of him. I was determined this time to do it my way. I wanted to be in control, you see.
I reached down between my thighs as I kissed him and took hold of his cock. He was a bit bigger than the designer, but as I was wet and ready, I figured he’d go in easy enough, and I was right. As I slid down over his pole I moaned without meaning to. He seemed to like it too and thrust his hips up at me. But I told him to lie still while I did the work. The designer hadn’t just got me my start in fashion; he’d shown me a few other things too. I got me arms around his back and lifted him up, leaning back at the same time so we were both half sitting, with my legs crooked over his thighs. In that position we rocked back and forth, slowly, while I kissed him, the four or so inches at the end of his cock sliding gently in and out of me. He seemed to like that and I could feel him getting even bigger. Then he held me close to him, sat stock still and shuddered as he came. His orgasm lasted a long time and I don’t think he’d had anything quite like that before. The look I saw on his face after was gratitude, not satisfaction. I think from that moment on he’d decided he’d do anything for me.
I’m sure Bob did well out of that little photo session, I saw those pictures floating around for years afterwards, and they weren’t bad. I moved in with him that night. I had nowhere else to go and he seemed nice enough.
Truth is, he wasn’t a bad bloke. He was just in a bad business. A couple of days after he moved in, he told me he had some more work for me, if I was interested. This time though we were talking films rather than pictures. Was I interested? I shrugged, what difference did it make to me?
He took me to another warehouse, this time in West London. Inside there was a film studio. I didn’t think much of the set, just a few shabby old sofas in a fake living room. The lights were too bright and there were too many people about. I started to have second thoughts, especially when Bob introduced me to the bloke I was supposed to be in the scene with. He was dodgy-looking. He wore a manky old dressing gown and he hardly acknowledged me.
‘This is Trevor “The Truncheon” Collins,’ Bob said. ‘He’s been in this business a long time and he’s a total professional.’
I must have looked nervous, because Bob said, ‘Hey, don’t worry love; I’ll make sure you’re okay. And think of the money. Look, have some of this if you like.’
He offered me some pills. ‘They’re happy pills,’ he said. ‘It’ll get you in the mood.’
This is in the days before ecstasy, or even Viagra. God knows what he was giving me.
I thought about it for a second, and then decided no. I needed to be in control. If I was going to do this, I wanted to do it knowing exactly where I was, who I was and why I was doing it. I shook my head.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to be honest with you; you only got this job because another girl pulled out. She had an overdose so won’t be back anytime soon. The money’s bloody good. These sorts of jobs don’t come up too often. You turn this down and it’s back to the crappy lingerie stuff.’
I knew he was right, back in those days there was no internet. It was all about VHS and there was good money to be made in the right niche, but there were a lot of hungry girls out there ready to do pretty much anything. I couldn’t afford to be squeamish.
I stripped off and got into the skimpy dress they wanted me to wear. It didn’t fit at all well, but that was okay I suppose, my boobs were so far out my top it looked like I had two bald men in there head-butting each other, which I suppose is about right for this kind of film.
Anyway, there wasn’t much of a script. I was supposed to be this horny housewife playing with herself when suddenly, by massive coincidence, the doorbell rings and there’s a bloke to fix the washing machine, or tune the piano or something, I don’t remember exactly.
In fact, the only thing I do remember about that film was the size of Trevor’s truncheon. It was more like an axe handle really, in length and shape. I was a bit scared when I first saw it, and the director loved the look on my face. I wished I’d had the pills then. The Truncheon had certainly had his. I’d been well lubed though and he was pretty good with it. When they say size doesn’t matter, it’s what you do with it, that’s true only to a certain extent. Size helps a lot, and if you’ve got a big dick and you know what to do with it, well, most girls wouldn’t say no to that.
He was a professional, and he certainly tuned my piano, I can tell you. I didn’t have to act. I forgot about the lights, I forgot about the crew, I forgot about Bob. I just closed my eyes and felt that huge cock pounding into me from behind and I knew I’d found what I wanted to do. That was the first orgasm I’d had from a bloke. On screen. There were to be many more over the years.
It wasn’t that I hadn’t enjoyed the sex I’d had with Bob, or even the designer for that matter. It was mostly okay. But it wasn’t until that day on that mouldy old sofa in an echoing warehouse in Acton that I understood how good sex could be.
And how much I wanted more.
After the day’s shoot, the director invited everyone back to his