Forced into a ghetto whore - Chapter 1
of
Djian
genre
bondage
Natasha walked out of the studio at 5 in the afternoon. It was a drizzly afternoon, but she was happy; hell, she'd done it! She had been accepted! Next Tuesday, she'd be in that studio again, for a couple of contracts and, then, the shooting would begin. She was to be the next Playman's Playgirl! It was all too good to be true.
Sure, she knew she was beautiful. It was all her life that she had been told that she was nice. And her beauty had been important to escape from her family and home in Russia, because they were so poor that she could barely complete an In tourists' guide course to learn some English, then she had had to work hard. The arrival of some Playman talent-scout in Moscow had changed all that. The man that had found her had been good to the point to not even try to force her to sleep with him, something that all the men she had met in the past had always tried to.
A few of them had succeeded, but she had been careful to avoid troublesome relations, and, most of all, to avoid the kind of 'career' that had been chosen by some girlfriends of her. Beginning with nude pictures by some Moscow cheapskate photographer, they had turned in porn movies, then, she had heard, they had simply become prostitutes. Of a high level, maybe, in Paris or Rome, but still prostitutes.
Natasha didn't want any of that. She would never consider it: she didn't like sex, and being paid for it was too bad even to think of. But Playman was different. She felt it was 'clean'. And it paid a lot of money, 10.000 dollars maybe, so she liked it a lot.
She came back at her hotel. It was cheap, not luxurious at all, but calm and clean. And nobody cared. Most of the people living there were older gay men, the clerks were kind, nobody ever troubled her, and she was there since a week. The men from Playman had offered her a room in one of their residences, but she had declined the offer; she feared that she'd be forced to stay with them, and she was very wary. So she simply had refused and had got an address from a directory. She hadn't even told them her address. The less they knew of her, the better she felt. Even if she had to admit that the Playman guys had been almost unbelievably correct in their behavior, never trying to get an advantage over her. Real professionals, she thought, satisfied to have been smart enough to get in touch with them and to have exploited that contact.
She took the key from the counter, the clerk wasn't even there. Climbing the stairs, she thought that it was good to have a hotel where there was nobody around. And she had got a superb room, cheap; it was a spacious room with a large bed, it was quiet, well-furnished and cheap. It was very private, very relaxing for a girl whose curvy body had always attracted a lot of attention, even if he had been careful to hide as much of it as she could. She didn't like men's attentions to her body; it was a dirty thing, she thought. Really, she wasn't a whore and hated all the girls that sold themselves for money.
Posing nude was nice for her, because she liked teasing men. But having those leering eyes glued to her body, that was something entirely different. That's why she usually wore a pair of baggy jeans, sneakers and a large sweater when going around, and her bras were normal-fit. Of course, she could allow herself this kind of bra: her breasts, huge, soft buttery mounds, didn't need to be enhanced by a WonderBra, and were so firm and high that no support was required.
In the room, she undressed quickly for a shower. After that, completely nude, she lied on the bed, watching the TV. She toyed a little with her pussy, then decided to try some of the flashy lingerie that she had been given by the Playman photographer.
Opening the pack, she found a lot of expensive stuff. She knew she had good legs, and liked to enhance them, so she put on the pair of garter belt that the photographer had liked the most, a simple white garter that she paired with a pair of black nylon stockings.
Natasha got in front of the mirror and looked at her body. She smiled. Of course, she knew she was more than pretty. Her smallish face was very beautiful, her little nose perfect, her lips full and bright red; her bright blue eyes were simply lovely. But it was her body that had made her win the place. Her legs were long and perfectly tapered, ending up with a pair of superbly firm round ass cheeks, and, over a flat belly, she carried the two most perfect pair of tits that the photographer had ever seen. Big, round, perfectly shaped as them didn't simply hang down but projected themselves in front of her, like huge flesh torpedoes, topped by a pair of large, pink nipples. Everybody liked those jugs a lot. She held both delicately, turning in front of the huge wall mirror, then, being satisfied, put on a long, wide T-shirt that acted as a nightgown and lied on the bed again. He lit the TV. And, suddenly, she fell in a deep sleep.
In the next room, the young clerk checked the tape recorder and nodded. He was satisfied. The young dumb Russian blonde hadn't even suspected that the mirror could cover a hole in the wall and that in the next room there could be a complete video studio, the lenses of the TV Cameras being, of course, pointed at her bed.
Well, he had been right. The tools there had proved their worth many times already, and he had a few good tapes of girls naked in their room like this one. But this was the best, Harry knew. She was absolutely the best one he'd ever seen, and he had seen, fumbling through her papers while she was away, that she had signed a contract with Playman. This gave him a tremendous opportunity.
He checked that the sleeping gas was still exiting from his hidden nozzle in the room. The bottle was half-empty now, so the girl must have been deeply asleep by now. He closed the nozzle, knowing that he had a full hour before she could awake. Having done all that before, he didn't mind too much, so he put a couple of special sponges in her nose, put a mini mask and walked in the Russian girl's room via the small interconnecting door.
He was over the sleeping girl in a moment, horny as hell. He knew exactly what the wanted and could do, and lost no time, while the video camera recorded his actions. He'd spliced it later, to make one of his private porn tapes.
First of all, he raised her T-shirt and got at her big jugs. He fondled and squeezed those huge mounds in turns, played with them making them wobble and dangle, then his hands went between her legs, and he splayed those legs for good, so that her tight, almost invisible slit was just in front of the mirror, of the hidden cameras.
Slowly, he peeled her young, fresh cunt lips apart. Pink meat appeared; he stretched the lips more open, and put a finger in. The girl didn't react. She must be stoned for good, he thought with pride.
Then it was two fingers. It was hard to insert them both: her pussy was tight, extremely tight. He felt his cock bounce in anticipation of that tightness. But, first, he bent between her open legs and inserted his rough tongue in her slit. Hell, he wanted lubrication! And the taste was extremely good.
Then he made her sit, and, now, it was his cock that went all over her face. He paused often to let the camera record the cock exploring her pretty face, his swollen purple cockhead going over her closed eyelids, prodding at her nostrils. Only then, as he was obscenely playing with her limp face, his eyes fell on the pictures she had looked at until few minutes before. One was unquestionably a Playman cover, and she was on it! He grabbed the picture, then the whole pack. Many of them, he saw browsing through the pack feverishly, were of Natasha naked or half-naked in Playman settings fake, expensive, clean and beautiful.
His cock ached at the thought that he was about to fuck a Playgirl. A real Playgirl, for Christ's sakes. And there was no way to mistake it. She was gorgeous enough to be one. When she'll be famous I'll enjoy this tape even more, he thought, proudly.
His smallish but very hard cock prodded her full, red lips. After a few prods, her mouth opened to let it enter, and he began to shaft it there. He fucked her mouth for good for a few minutes. She didn't suck, of course, but was warm and wet all the same. When he had enough of it, he splayed her obliquely on the bed, opened her legs and cupped her defenseless crotch. His fingers, now, entered much more easily, thanks to his spit; so he mounted over her limp body and inserted slowly his member in her pussy. He was slow, because she could awake; but she didn't, and he, slowly, could shove all his hard cock in. Once it was all in, to the balls, he began to pump her snatch, always slowly, but now that he was all in he felt safe. He checked that the entering of his cock was included in the lens of the camera's visual field, and continued his fucking. Only 20 minutes had passed, he could take it easy, the cunt wouldn't wake for another half hour.
He could prod her asshole, of course, but decided against it. He continued to fondle her jugs instead, and, when he had to cum, he shot it all over her nipples. Some of it fell on her face too, and he liked the white glob hanging down her nose.
Back in the other room, after having cleaned her so she wouldn't imagine what had happened, he lit a cigarette and watched the naked girl still lying on the bed. He'd just fucked a Playgirl! Well, not a Playgirl yet, but, surely, the most beautiful girl he'd ever had . Boy, did he like her. No, not like: how much had he liked to abuse that bitch. And he loved the whorish garter belt and stockings she was wearing. A proper whore's attire. I'd like to make it to her again, he thought. But he didn't dare. If this one was a whore, instead of a Playgirl, it would be much easier. A few bucks, that'd be all. But this one wasn't a whore: she had to 'broken in', before she could fuck for money.
A whore somebody was saying him if he knew a white whore, a few hours before Yes, Johnny. That weird Black drug-dealer. He was asking him a whore for his son's birthday.
"For your son? Come on, Johnny, he's still a kid".
"Hey, white faggot, he's my son, so at 15 he's a man, clear? And I want a good birthday present for him. A white whore. He has to learn the ropes, getting in the women's trade. Christ, better to be a pimp than be shot for fun".
So, Johnny needed this girl. And Harry needed some cocaine. And he wanted to do something else to that girl, that was too beautiful to be left alone, but he knew he couldn't do it alone. He needed the right help. He lifted the receiver and called a telephone number. "Johnny? Hi, Johnny, that's your friend Harry. How much would you pay for a white girl?."
Sure, she knew she was beautiful. It was all her life that she had been told that she was nice. And her beauty had been important to escape from her family and home in Russia, because they were so poor that she could barely complete an In tourists' guide course to learn some English, then she had had to work hard. The arrival of some Playman talent-scout in Moscow had changed all that. The man that had found her had been good to the point to not even try to force her to sleep with him, something that all the men she had met in the past had always tried to.
A few of them had succeeded, but she had been careful to avoid troublesome relations, and, most of all, to avoid the kind of 'career' that had been chosen by some girlfriends of her. Beginning with nude pictures by some Moscow cheapskate photographer, they had turned in porn movies, then, she had heard, they had simply become prostitutes. Of a high level, maybe, in Paris or Rome, but still prostitutes.
Natasha didn't want any of that. She would never consider it: she didn't like sex, and being paid for it was too bad even to think of. But Playman was different. She felt it was 'clean'. And it paid a lot of money, 10.000 dollars maybe, so she liked it a lot.
She came back at her hotel. It was cheap, not luxurious at all, but calm and clean. And nobody cared. Most of the people living there were older gay men, the clerks were kind, nobody ever troubled her, and she was there since a week. The men from Playman had offered her a room in one of their residences, but she had declined the offer; she feared that she'd be forced to stay with them, and she was very wary. So she simply had refused and had got an address from a directory. She hadn't even told them her address. The less they knew of her, the better she felt. Even if she had to admit that the Playman guys had been almost unbelievably correct in their behavior, never trying to get an advantage over her. Real professionals, she thought, satisfied to have been smart enough to get in touch with them and to have exploited that contact.
She took the key from the counter, the clerk wasn't even there. Climbing the stairs, she thought that it was good to have a hotel where there was nobody around. And she had got a superb room, cheap; it was a spacious room with a large bed, it was quiet, well-furnished and cheap. It was very private, very relaxing for a girl whose curvy body had always attracted a lot of attention, even if he had been careful to hide as much of it as she could. She didn't like men's attentions to her body; it was a dirty thing, she thought. Really, she wasn't a whore and hated all the girls that sold themselves for money.
Posing nude was nice for her, because she liked teasing men. But having those leering eyes glued to her body, that was something entirely different. That's why she usually wore a pair of baggy jeans, sneakers and a large sweater when going around, and her bras were normal-fit. Of course, she could allow herself this kind of bra: her breasts, huge, soft buttery mounds, didn't need to be enhanced by a WonderBra, and were so firm and high that no support was required.
In the room, she undressed quickly for a shower. After that, completely nude, she lied on the bed, watching the TV. She toyed a little with her pussy, then decided to try some of the flashy lingerie that she had been given by the Playman photographer.
Opening the pack, she found a lot of expensive stuff. She knew she had good legs, and liked to enhance them, so she put on the pair of garter belt that the photographer had liked the most, a simple white garter that she paired with a pair of black nylon stockings.
Natasha got in front of the mirror and looked at her body. She smiled. Of course, she knew she was more than pretty. Her smallish face was very beautiful, her little nose perfect, her lips full and bright red; her bright blue eyes were simply lovely. But it was her body that had made her win the place. Her legs were long and perfectly tapered, ending up with a pair of superbly firm round ass cheeks, and, over a flat belly, she carried the two most perfect pair of tits that the photographer had ever seen. Big, round, perfectly shaped as them didn't simply hang down but projected themselves in front of her, like huge flesh torpedoes, topped by a pair of large, pink nipples. Everybody liked those jugs a lot. She held both delicately, turning in front of the huge wall mirror, then, being satisfied, put on a long, wide T-shirt that acted as a nightgown and lied on the bed again. He lit the TV. And, suddenly, she fell in a deep sleep.
In the next room, the young clerk checked the tape recorder and nodded. He was satisfied. The young dumb Russian blonde hadn't even suspected that the mirror could cover a hole in the wall and that in the next room there could be a complete video studio, the lenses of the TV Cameras being, of course, pointed at her bed.
Well, he had been right. The tools there had proved their worth many times already, and he had a few good tapes of girls naked in their room like this one. But this was the best, Harry knew. She was absolutely the best one he'd ever seen, and he had seen, fumbling through her papers while she was away, that she had signed a contract with Playman. This gave him a tremendous opportunity.
He checked that the sleeping gas was still exiting from his hidden nozzle in the room. The bottle was half-empty now, so the girl must have been deeply asleep by now. He closed the nozzle, knowing that he had a full hour before she could awake. Having done all that before, he didn't mind too much, so he put a couple of special sponges in her nose, put a mini mask and walked in the Russian girl's room via the small interconnecting door.
He was over the sleeping girl in a moment, horny as hell. He knew exactly what the wanted and could do, and lost no time, while the video camera recorded his actions. He'd spliced it later, to make one of his private porn tapes.
First of all, he raised her T-shirt and got at her big jugs. He fondled and squeezed those huge mounds in turns, played with them making them wobble and dangle, then his hands went between her legs, and he splayed those legs for good, so that her tight, almost invisible slit was just in front of the mirror, of the hidden cameras.
Slowly, he peeled her young, fresh cunt lips apart. Pink meat appeared; he stretched the lips more open, and put a finger in. The girl didn't react. She must be stoned for good, he thought with pride.
Then it was two fingers. It was hard to insert them both: her pussy was tight, extremely tight. He felt his cock bounce in anticipation of that tightness. But, first, he bent between her open legs and inserted his rough tongue in her slit. Hell, he wanted lubrication! And the taste was extremely good.
Then he made her sit, and, now, it was his cock that went all over her face. He paused often to let the camera record the cock exploring her pretty face, his swollen purple cockhead going over her closed eyelids, prodding at her nostrils. Only then, as he was obscenely playing with her limp face, his eyes fell on the pictures she had looked at until few minutes before. One was unquestionably a Playman cover, and she was on it! He grabbed the picture, then the whole pack. Many of them, he saw browsing through the pack feverishly, were of Natasha naked or half-naked in Playman settings fake, expensive, clean and beautiful.
His cock ached at the thought that he was about to fuck a Playgirl. A real Playgirl, for Christ's sakes. And there was no way to mistake it. She was gorgeous enough to be one. When she'll be famous I'll enjoy this tape even more, he thought, proudly.
His smallish but very hard cock prodded her full, red lips. After a few prods, her mouth opened to let it enter, and he began to shaft it there. He fucked her mouth for good for a few minutes. She didn't suck, of course, but was warm and wet all the same. When he had enough of it, he splayed her obliquely on the bed, opened her legs and cupped her defenseless crotch. His fingers, now, entered much more easily, thanks to his spit; so he mounted over her limp body and inserted slowly his member in her pussy. He was slow, because she could awake; but she didn't, and he, slowly, could shove all his hard cock in. Once it was all in, to the balls, he began to pump her snatch, always slowly, but now that he was all in he felt safe. He checked that the entering of his cock was included in the lens of the camera's visual field, and continued his fucking. Only 20 minutes had passed, he could take it easy, the cunt wouldn't wake for another half hour.
He could prod her asshole, of course, but decided against it. He continued to fondle her jugs instead, and, when he had to cum, he shot it all over her nipples. Some of it fell on her face too, and he liked the white glob hanging down her nose.
Back in the other room, after having cleaned her so she wouldn't imagine what had happened, he lit a cigarette and watched the naked girl still lying on the bed. He'd just fucked a Playgirl! Well, not a Playgirl yet, but, surely, the most beautiful girl he'd ever had . Boy, did he like her. No, not like: how much had he liked to abuse that bitch. And he loved the whorish garter belt and stockings she was wearing. A proper whore's attire. I'd like to make it to her again, he thought. But he didn't dare. If this one was a whore, instead of a Playgirl, it would be much easier. A few bucks, that'd be all. But this one wasn't a whore: she had to 'broken in', before she could fuck for money.
A whore somebody was saying him if he knew a white whore, a few hours before Yes, Johnny. That weird Black drug-dealer. He was asking him a whore for his son's birthday.
"For your son? Come on, Johnny, he's still a kid".
"Hey, white faggot, he's my son, so at 15 he's a man, clear? And I want a good birthday present for him. A white whore. He has to learn the ropes, getting in the women's trade. Christ, better to be a pimp than be shot for fun".
So, Johnny needed this girl. And Harry needed some cocaine. And he wanted to do something else to that girl, that was too beautiful to be left alone, but he knew he couldn't do it alone. He needed the right help. He lifted the receiver and called a telephone number. "Johnny? Hi, Johnny, that's your friend Harry. How much would you pay for a white girl?."
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