- 5 months ago
- 6 min read
- 1,500 views
Joanie Salinger grinned into the camera, her face filling the entire frame: hazel eyes, head tilted to the left, a hesitant little smile that revealed a delicate overbite.
"Does this work?" she asked. "Is it on?"
The view suddenly pitched, growing unfocused then sharpening. A smatter of freckles above her nose filled the frame. She laughed, placing the camera on something, her hands momentarily covering the lens.
Seconds later she removed her hands.
The camera was resting somewhere at about the height of Joanie's waist, canted low, toward the floor. Moving across the room, she sat on the floor in front of a couch. A slim body. Thin dark-blue hair cut just above her shoulders. She wore a too-small grey T-shirt with the name of a local high school stenciled in red letters across the chest: Saint Barnaby School for Girls.
To keep her bangs out of her eyes, she flicked her head or used her fingers.
Barefoot, she crossed her legs Indian-style, and then rubbed her hands on her denim thighs. She was chewing gum and talking to someone, but the other person was out of the frame and the audio was bad, making it difficult to hear what she said.
A radio, tuned to a Top 40 station, played in the background.
She reached into the front pocket of her pants and retrieved a cell phone. Head bent, she punched buttons on the phone's keypad. Whoever else was in the room protested at the interruption. She raised her head and grinned.
What a great smile.
"Hold on," she said. "This is Roger. This is text from Roger."
The other person said something. She stopped grinning. Tossing the phone onto the couch, she slipped to her knees.
"I will," she said.
She scooted forward on her knees, reached for something just out of the camera's view. A young man appeared in the frame. She was tugging him by the waistband of his sweatpants. Shirtless, a muscled torso. Hairless chest, unblemished skin.
She put her hand on the front of his pants, rubbing his crotch. "I already told you," she said, "Roger and I are done."
She tugged his pants down his hips, grinning as his thick cock sprang out.
"Finished," she said, looking up.
He stroked his dick with his hand. She took him in her mouth, her back to the camera. Using both her hands to stroke him, her bottom bobbed on her heels as she worked.
He took her head in his hands.
She stopped, knelt back. Her fingers went into her mouth and she fished something out.
"Hold on," she said.
She stretched her lithe body to toss the gum into an ashtray near the couch. Her phone started to flash. Scooping the phone off the couch, she started working the keypad. The boy protested, his hand now lazily stroking his thick cock.
"Wait, wait—" she told him.
She settled onto the floor in front of the couch. Stretching out her arms, she pointed the phone at the boy's crotch, a big grin on her face.
The young man laughed, shook his wet dick.
She snapped a picture, then punched a few more keys on the phone.
"Where did you send that," he asked.
"Roger," she said, an impish grin on her face.
"Bitch," he laughed. "Turn that thing off."
She got up from the floor, clicking off the phone. She tossed it on the couch and walked toward the camera. The frame zeroed in on her waist.
Seconds later, the camera rested on a table and she was bent over, looking right into the lens, adjusting its angle. Satisfied, she stood. The camera pointed at her exposed navel, a small tattoo of a flower peeking from the waistband of her jeans.
She popped the button on her pants, slid them off her hips and down her legs.
She stood, revealing a dark patch of wispy hair between her legs, a gap between her slim thighs. She stepped out of her pants. Leaning over, she crossed her forearms in front of herself and then rested her weight on the table. Filling the frame with her face, she turned to the young man.
"Fuck me," she said.
He stood behind her, his face still out of the frame.
She reached between her legs to help him mount her. Bringing her hand to her mouth, she licked three of her fingers and then reached down between her legs again. When he finally penetrated her, the look on her face gave it away. Her mouth fell open, her eyebrows shot up. She turned her head, placed her hands on either side of the table to brace herself. He held her hips, rocking his torso. She stared into the camera, her brows knitting together.
A phone rang, the familiar jangling of a landline.
She bit her lower lip. The soft slap of skin on skin: his pelvis banging against her bottom. The phone rang again. She closed her eyes and set her chin.
The phone rang twice more.
From a telephone answering machine, her recorded voice called out—a sweet chirp of a greeting, in sharp contrast to the sweaty, contorted face of the girl in the camera right now— and then a long beep.
Finally, this: "Honey. Baby. It's me. It's Roger."
She pitched her head to the side and groaned.
The boy increased the rhythm and intensity of his thrusts. The picture began to shake. Something crashed and then the radio went silent. She let go of the sides of the table to steady the camera, even as she pitched her head.
"Who is this in the picture you sent me? Are you fucking with me?"
With the radio off, her moans seemed to grow louder. Roger was also raising his voice, but it was hard to make out his words.
Finally, she took a deep breath, raised her head almost out of the frame, stretched behind herself to grasp for the boy, and then held her body very still. The boy ground himself into her. His hands went from her hips to her shoulders.
He impaled her onto his cock.
"You fucking bitch, you fucking bitch!" Roger shrieked. "Don't fucking do this!"
She exhaled loudly and collapsed onto the table. Her face filled the frame once again. Her cobalt blue hair fell into her eyes, sticking to her moist forehead. Behind her, t he boy resumed a slow driving rhythm. As he methodically pumped, she began to match his thrusts with loud breathy exhales.
"I'm sorry," Roger said. His voice was still intense, but lower now, more contrite.
The boy stopped. He dismounted and stepped out of the frame.
She looked over her shoulder. Wiped the hair from her eyes. She followed the boy with her head as he took a position closer to the camera, but just out of its field of view.
"Please," Roger said.
The boy's wet cock suddenly loomed hard and large into the frame. Without saying a word or even looking up, she took him into her mouth.
"So sorry," Roger said. "Please. . ."
The top of her head filled the frame. Surely this had been the very act she'd hoped to capture on video all along. The boy placed one of his hands on the back of her head and held her face to his groin.
The picture failed.
For the last few seconds of runtime, the sound of her contented nuzzling as she worked to receive her prize. Eventually a low moan of relief from the boy. And, of course, throughout it all, the pitiful sounds of Roger whimpering softly in the background.
COPYRIGHT © 2020 Huck Pilgrim. All right reserved.
Huck Pilgrim has lived on the streets of New York City, in a communal home for Christians, and on an American submarine out of San Diego. He has washed dishes, made costumed helium balloon deliveries, and robbed designer jeans from department stores.
Huck writes gritty stories about submission, blackmail, and coercion. Occasionally he tosses a hand grenade of action and adventure into the mix. Huck’s stories are vivid fantasies, exploring the darker sides of submission and exposure. In Huck’s stories, the mousy girl becomes suddenly bold and capable, often discovering the hidden slut inside her. The men are handsome, hard-bitten, and cruel, enjoying all manner of debauchery.
Sign up for the newsletter: http://www.huckpilgrim.com