Carole Wilson - Video Games

And then she was there!

Oh, God, her hotly arching little pussy was cumming like wild fire!

Her naked hips flailed frantically at the bed as wave after wave of intensely bursting release seized her. It was pleasure so acute that it approximated pure pain. Then, as her cum began to ebb, her naked asscheeks sank back to the spread and her hand stilled but did not leave her cunt. She lay there, not moving, her eyes squeezed tightly shut now and her huge tits rising and falling spasmodically.

And then sanity returned to her brain. With it came abject mortification, a feeling of self-loathing that was almost as great as the delight of her ebbing cum. She moaned aloud in despair, sitting up, knocking the films from the bed and flinging them to the floor around it as if they were vermin of the foulest type. Then she threw herself face down on the bed, crying out her torment, sick with the knowledge of the act of finger-fucking that she had just performed on her own cunt.

Those damnable films! They were the cause of her rising excitement into the throes of lust, her loss of self-control. Those filthy films! Oh, damn you, Stephan! Where did you get them, anyway? But it wasn't Stephan's fault, it was his brother's fault for even suggesting this stupid movie-taking in the first place. He was probably the one who gave them to Stephan. Well, if this was Frank's idea of art, let him keep it to himself!

The questions spun and rotated in Gillian's tormented, liquor-fogged mind. She felt sick to her stomach, and…dirty. She needed the cleansing release of sleep; she couldn't be this upset when Stephan came home. He must never know she'd finger-fucked herself tonight; no, he must never know.

She took off her gown and lay back down on the bed, slipping between the sheets, praying for the respite of sleep to ease her tortured mind.

As she sobbed into her pillow, all time stopped, the only measurement being the thud of her heart punctuated by the soft sobs of her guilt.

The films lay scattered on the floor, unremembered.

On the other side of the city in the back room of a private film studio Stephan Edwards found himself in a situation that no fiction writer could approximate. It was even better than any of his wildest sexual fantasies. He was a star in a movie, but in no ordinary film: this was what the movie crowd called sex films, or-as those who frequented those movie houses referred to them-fuck films.

How it all happened, he wasn't actually certain. His recollections ran only as far back as stopping en route to the studio with Kitty for a "taste of weed." From there on, he could remember little, but from what bits and pieces he could glue together in his confused drugged mind, he had been chosen by the eighteen-year-old nymphomaniac to star with her.

She claimed she "really got off on the taste of his prick."

Basil, standing by with a deeply furrowed frown on his face, glowered at the scene. This was supposed to be his night to fuck young Kitty.

After all, wasn't he the one who found her?

What's going on here? Basil asked himself silently. This idiot prick comes in and steals the whole show. Square too. Real square. Christ!

Can't even get his ol' lady to let him take films of her naked! How the hell is he gonna make a fuck film? Probably scream for his mommy when that little nymph gets her hot hands on him!

But Basil stood by and watched, watched as Frank's brother read through the lines of the poorly written script, as he mouthed lines to himself, a look of stark agony on his handsome face.

Guess he's perfect for the part, chuckled Basil to himself. A nervous husband-boy he does fit the part. Taffy must have had her brother-inlaw in mind when she wrote it.

The script was an easy one for Stephan, because the emotions and fears of this one Sunday in his life were reflected in every line and every action. Even the cues fit perfectly. He was to portray a newly married man whose wife was out of town. The husband, alone for the first time since his marriage, when drunk, is propositioned by a teenage streetwalker. The man had always craved oral fucking, but his new wife, whom he loves dearly and had never cheated on in six months of marriage, refused him. Once inside the teenager's room, the young husband recalls himself, and his head clears of the excess drink he'd indulged in and he lets his guilt take over.

Just as it was, reasoned Stephan to himself as clearly as one can after drinking double-bourbon on the rocks and smoking marijuana for the first mind-bending time. I'm playing myself. Shouldn't be too hard.

Besides, his mind went on, relaxing the tight grip it held on his taut neck tendons, if it doesn't work out, what the hell? Nothing lost, nothing gained.

In the first scene Stephan was propelled inside the girl's room and the door was shut by Kitty. He was alone in a strange room with a young whore. As he sat on the bed and the camera kept shooting, Stephan stared weakly up at this beautiful young prostitute and had to take her in his arms and kiss her, love her up a bit. He wouldn't have to fuck in this scene, Frank had assured him, knowing that sometimes people can't concentrate when they're unused to public display-it's hard to get it up and keep it up. But Lord, thought Stephan, it would be nice to kiss those cherry red lips, caress her huge titties to hardness after that little blow job she'd treated him to earlier that evening.

He felt his cock jerk into instant rigidity as if it were alive and independent of him. Stephan almost wished he wasn't such a good actor.

He tried to will it limp again, to banish the lewd thoughts swirling in his bourbon-filled head, but it remained throbbingly swollen.

Kitty chuckled as she stood by the side of the bed. "Stephan-baby's got a hard-on." She was smiling at his bulging pants. "Stephan-baby's got a great big hard-on because he knows he's going to fuck Kitty's hot, slick little pussy…"

Forgetting he was being filmed, Stephan came to life and proved himself to be a natural actor.

He had never heard a woman talk in such lascivious language and in his drug-induced consciousness, he snarled up at her. "Kitty…cut it out, for Christ's sake!"

"You're going to fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me…" She came toward him tauntingly, the camera zooming in for a close-up. Her breath was like a white-hot firebrand on his cheek. She touched his knee lightly, her fingers almost searing the cloth, and then she reached higher, higher…and touched the thickly throbbing cock between his legs!

"Ooooohhhhh God!" he managed to breathe, forgetting the written script.

He almost leaped off the bed in a convulsive reaction. He could feel his cum-filled balls ache with sudden pressure, and will himself as he might, he couldn't pull away from her caresses. Her tongue trailed over his cheek, searching for his mouth, and her hand continued to rub his heavily pulsing cock.

Kitty faltered for a moment and then someone from the side whispered,

"It's physical, fuck is physical."'

The young actress regained her composure and blurted out the line:

"It's purely physical," she droned on, mesmerically, hypnotically. "You want to get your big cock into my wet pussy, and I want it too."

That's when Stephan's guilt-ridden conscience rose to the fore with an imperious: "I love my wife." It was a protest.

"Sure you do, Stephan-baby. All of them do. But that doesn't have anything to do with us, with here and now, with fucking!"

This is wrong! Stephan's mind screamed. I'm a married man. What am I doing with an eighteen-year-old nympho making fuck films? This is the most ridiculous thing I've ever done in my whole life!

He wrenched himself off the bed, his heart hammering, and he was aware that his prick was still granite-hard and seeping hot droplets of scalding cock juices. This was enough, he'd had it. He'd walk off the set and it would be over with, film or no film…Kitty's husky voice whispered, "Stephan baby…"