Читать книгу Confessions: A Secret Diary - Amber Stephens - Страница 9

Chapter Five

‘God I love Hobnobs,’ Cian said, ‘Hey Verity, are we allowed to fuck biscuits?’

She stared back at him in astonishment. ‘What?’ she said.

‘Well I know we’re not allowed to shag each other,’ and he waved a hand at Cheryl, who giggled. ‘So maybe we could transfer our passions onto non-threatening, inanimate objects like biscuits. I quite fancy knobbing my way through a packet of Jaffa Cakes.’

Will shook his head and snorted. Abigail looked a bit green and put her biscuit back on the plate, from where Larry snatched it up.

‘And the best thing is you can eat them afterwards, saves the cost of putting ’em in a cab and sending them back to Mummy.’

‘I don’t think that kind of talk is really appropriate,’ Verity said as they took their seats again. ‘Now everyone quiet down please. Show Rose some courtesy. Rose?’

Rose stood, and Shelley smiled at her as their eyes met briefly. Rose cleared her throat and began to speak.

* * *

Home was Whitechapel and I left it when my mum told me I couldn’t be a model. She was right, though it took me a long time to admit it. My tits and arse were too big to fit into those tiny frocks, but I was sixteen and knew nothing. I’d met this bloke you see, a photographer who told me my cheekbones were just right for that season, and that he wanted me to sign up with him. He asked for £150 for photos and I emptied my savings account. He gave me a place to stay too, with some other girls, mostly from Eastern Europe. I thought I had it made right then, but someone took those rose-tinted glasses off me after a few days and chucked ’em in the canal. First of all nothing happened. I just stayed in the flat with the other girls. Horrible dingy place it was. Out near Ilford and you can’t hear the Bow Bells from there.

I had next to no money, and survived on nothing much more than brown rice and water. That was all the other girls ate as well. It was okay with me, I knew I needed to lose a bit of weight. The flat was owned by an agency the photographer was connected with. It didn’t cost anything till you started earning, then they took it all back.

The photographer brought this clothing designer around one day after a few weeks, said he was looking for new faces for a show. Me and a few other girls were herded into a van and taken to a freezing cold warehouse somewhere near Canning Town in the East End and we were asked to strip down to our knickers. I wasn’t so keen but the other girls did it straight away like they were used to it. I took off my bra and it hit me then that I didn’t fit in. The other girls hardly had a tit between them; I saw a row of tiny nipples poking out in the cold air, and then looked down at my melons. Pretty fine they were, no implants then but firm enough to fool a blind greengrocer. The designer was staring at them and said something to the photographer who looked over me, said something back and they both laughed. I felt pretty cheap.

But later, the designer called me into another room and asked me to try on some clothes. He came up behind me as I was getting myself into this tiny little frock. Horrible thing it was, all colours of the rainbow, like something Joseph’s slutty sister might have worn. God knows what he was thinking when he came up with that idea. Anyway, he ‘helped’ me into it, acting all businesslike of course, but his hands went everywhere. I didn’t know what was normal, so accepted it. But then I found his hand up my skirt.

‘Oy!’ I said, ‘No pot of gold up there, mate.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ he said in this toff voice. ‘I need to see what it looks like without the panty line,’ and then he whipped me keks off! I was too surprised to say anything.

He stood behind me again and felt my tits, making out that he was just positioning them for best effect. I figured something was wrong, but I still had this stupid idea I’d be a top model. Now let me say right now that he wasn’t bad looking. I don’t want to pretend he was some big, fat creep with a face like a bulldog. And if he’d just asked, then I might just have said yes. I’d been stuck in a grotty flat with a bunch of Polish tarts for three weeks at that point, and would have appreciated some attention from someone who spoke English. What I didn’t like was the liberties he thought he could take. Still that’s the business isn’t it? Models are just tarts without the cream at the end of the day.

‘You’re very beautiful,’ he said. Finally someone being nice to me. I felt a bit better after him about that, especially when he told me he’d probably have some work for me. He poured me a glass of wine and asked me to sit down.

‘Now you’re young,’ he said, ‘and you may not know how things work in this industry, but there are certain perks of the job for designers like me.’

I looked at him, standing in front of me. I was starting to guess what he was talking about, but I wasn’t going to serve it up on a plate, was I?

‘I mean for designers who are hetero. You know, straight?’ He sipped his wine and winked at me. ‘There aren’t many of us, and we get to choose from a large pool of pretty young girls.’ He reached out and stroked my chin. ‘You see, I could choose anyone for this job I have in mind, someone with a less feminine figure, for example, it would make things easier for the dressmakers.’ He shrugged, like he didn’t care, but I knew he was acting. ‘But on the other hand, maybe someone with your more, er, ample charms is what the fashion world is looking for. Do I take the risk? And get my reward? Or do I play it safe?’

I’d got it by then.

‘You’ll be expecting this reward from me, then?’ I said.

‘That’s right,’ he said, stroking my hair. He moved closer to me, took my hand and moved it to his fly. He wanted me to do the deed, to put the responsibility on me.

I made a decision then. That I’d do what I needed to do to make it. I didn’t want to piss about with the scrawny Poles for the next year. I took hold of his fly and pulled it down. His cock was already trying to burst out. He wasn’t wearing pants, he’d planned it all. I’d seen penises before of course, round my way the lads aren’t shy about whopping it out in the hope you’ll grab hold of it. But I was still a virgin. I’d never even had one of them in my mouth. It sort of made its own way out of his fly, rising up and pointing straight towards me, like it was saying hello. He moved even closer and I could smell him, a musky scent.

As I watched, a tiny drop of fluid appeared at the tip.

‘You look like you’ve been starving yourself,’ he said. ‘How about a bit of sausage?’

I rolled my eyes, opened my mouth and gingerly moved my head forward. He sighed as my lips made contact with his cock. I had no idea how you were supposed to do this sort of thing, but how hard could it be, I thought. You just take as much in as you can and try to chew without using your teeth. He seemed to like it anyway. He wasn’t really that big, but it felt enormous in my mouth. I remember thinking it tasted a bit salty, or not salty, but … well, most of you know what it tastes like. Thing was, I didn’t mind the taste. And I liked being able to make him react, you know? It was like I had some power in this exchange too. Though he was trying to dominate me, I wasn’t completely under his control. I pulled my head back, letting the slippery head come out and he tried to stick it back in, but I held him back, then slowly licked the end. Little feathery dabs with my tongue. This drove him wild and I liked that even more.

Eventually he couldn’t stand it any more. He stood back, took off his trousers and grabbed a condom from the nearby table. I watched him, nervous, but also ready for what was going to come.

Now I reckon I was quite lucky to get the guy I did. Plenty of girls have it much worse on their first time. Sure he was pushing me into something I hadn’t asked for, but he had given me a choice; it wasn’t like he was raping me or anything. I could have walked out anytime I liked. Also, I was lucky he used a condom, and lube. God alone knows the places his old feller had been. Further afield than Canning Town anyway.

He came back, knelt down before me and kissed me. He pushed me back a little and I had to lift my leg so as not to overbalance, then I felt his hand slip between my thighs. He was good this guy. I only hope he’d dry-cleaned the couch recently because I reckon it got a lot of use.

I remember the feeling as his hand touched my pussy lips. It felt wrong, sort of invasive, but at the same time it felt so good, it was what I wanted. I opened my legs a little more as he bore down on top of me and I gave up the fight and lay flat on the couch. I felt his lubedup fingers sliding across my labia and then one of them popped briefly inside me. I would have squealed but his tongue was down my throat. His breath smelt fresh and I felt my body relaxing as his mouth moved against mine and his fingers explored inside my vagina.

Then, almost before I knew it, he was on top of me sliding my tight skirt up my thighs and exposing my bare arse to the elements. He lifted my legs up and over, so my ankles were around my ears and he positioned himself over me, I could feel his big purple head throbbing and tickling my open fanny lips.

‘How old did you say you were?’ he asked softly, gazing into my eyes.

‘Sixteen,’ I replied quietly. He smiled and nodded. Then he thrust himself inside me. We both closed our eyes and groaned. He with pleasure, I with pain.

Jesus, it hurt. I’ve had some huge things jammed in there since which hurt more, but I was ready for those, I knew what I was getting. This took me completely by surprise and knocked the wind out of my sails for a bit.

I wish I could say it stopped hurting after a while, but it didn’t. He took some time to finish off and each thrust hurt, despite the lube. Could have been worse, I suppose, but could have been a hell of a lot better too.

Afterwards he gave me the details of the job. It was a shoot for a no-name lingerie catalogue. Not quite what I was expecting, but I was hopeful it would lead to better things, and better sex.

I got quite a bit of work from that designer, and he put me in touch with a different, more up-market agency he used who put me on their books. They also fixed me up with a better place to stay. It was a big house with half a dozen models in it, a couple of ’em were top shelf or second shelf at least. They were snooty bitches and didn’t talk to the likes of me. 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.