“We can fix some of this in post,” Tanner says, eyes still on the girls, “but right now, it’s kind of got a laundry commercial vibe.”
I chew on my lip for half a second. The essence of this business is speed and quantity, specifically the speed at which you can create quantity. Which often means sacrificing quality. Most directors wouldn’t give the lighting a second thought—in fact, there is a certain sense of tradition to the harshly lit scenes. What began as an accidental convergence of cheapness and lack of equipment turned into an industry aesthetic. After all, who gives a shit what the mood of the scene is? The mood is fucking. The mood is always fucking. And if you can jack off to it, then mood achieved.
But that wasn’t what I wanted O’Toole Films to be when I started it. I wanted to find a place between the high-end vanilla stuff that suburban couples rented on anniversaries and dirty dungeon porn. And there has to be a place in between, right? A place for the depraved porn junkie who also happens to have taste?
I make a snap decision. “We’ll finish the kissing here. Then I’ll pull them both into my bedroom. The windows in there are north-facing, so maybe the light will be less…”
“…1970’s sitcom?” Tanner finishes for me.
“I was going to say aggressive.”
“Ah.”
With a sigh, I trot back over to the girls. “So I was thinking after we get done with the kissing—the part where I make you two kiss each other—we’ll move to my bedroom.”
“You should drag us by the hair,” Ginger suggests, lowering her phone and narrowing her eyes past my shoulder at the door to the bedroom, as if blocking the scene in her mind. “That’d be hot.”
“So hot,” Lexi echoes, not bothering to look up from her Instagram.
That is one thing about this business. In about an hour, I’ll have my dick up both their asses, but right now neither of them will look me in the eye. Not like they’re ashamed to be here. But like I almost don’t exist to them unless we’re fucking.
Which is kind of a lonely thought.
Kind of a really lonely thought.
And I want to slap myself for that. I’m about to fuck two women who I love to fuck, and we’re all going to make money doing it. When did I get so goddamn broody about everything?
Raven. That’s when.
Today is a good day. It is also going to be a sober day. So I refuse to let Raven infect my thoughts, moving them instead to the pleasant way Lexi’s ass curves into her girlish hips, the way her sleek blond hair begs to be tangled and tugged.
Tanner gives us a thumbs up and we move to my sofa. The phones vanish, Ginger’s thigh-highs are adjusted, and then we’re back to the kissing, which is one of my favorite parts of my line of work.
Well, all the parts are my favorite part, but this especially. Ginger—red-headed, tattooed, a ten-year industry veteran like me—crawls up to me on all fours, her full tits threatening to spill out of her bra, her pretty, overly made-up face schooled into a convincing pout. Lexi, small and slender, has nestled against my other side, petting my dick through my jeans, coaxing it to full-length as I impatiently grab for Ginger and pull her to me.
“Come here,” I growl, delighted at the little squeal she gives as I yank her onto my lap. Ginger’s a hardened pro, and so I’ve made it a private goal of mine to shock genuine reactions out her whenever I can. I like genuine. I like raw.
I like real.
Lexi transitions seamlessly into petting Ginger’s ass now, tugging on Ginger’s thong and spanking her for the benefit of Tanner’s second camera directly across from the couch. He stays behind the one shooting from the side, so he can change angles or cut in closer when he needs; later we’ll blend the footage between the two cameras to maximize all the elements of the scene. But the reason I have Tanner is so I don’t have to think about this shit too hard when I’m actually in the scene—I tell him what I want, we discuss everything beforehand. After it’s over, we’ll edit the scene together, but right now I can just focus on the only thing I want to focus on, which is tasting the inside of Ginger’s mouth.
I crush my lips to hers, and she tastes, fittingly enough, like Big Red gum. We kiss a few more times before I cup my hand around the back of her neck and hold her face fast to mine as I part her lips with my own and lick inside. She tries to pull back, since, like a lot of girls, she likes to stage kiss. But I don’t. I deepen the kiss, stroking my tongue against hers and then pulling her lower lip between my teeth. She makes a little noise—a noise of protest or affirmation, I’m not sure which—but I keep going. As per our pre-game discussion, she’ll reach up and subtly tap the outside of my arm if she gets emotionally or physically uncomfortable and I’ll stop the second that happens, but until then she’s mine.
No tap, no mercy.