Blow Job Princess

Later that afternoon back at work I emailed her a copy of the script, delaying the inevitable as much as possible. I made sure it was after she had left for the day. It would sit in her inbox, burning all night. I replayed our lunch conversation over and over, looking for clues that said it would be okay – that she knew what kind of smut she was going to read and yes, she would still talk to me next time I saw her. But then my thoughts wandered towards the more likely scenario: She expected to read yet another boring script on product safety – 'Know Your Compound Miter Saw', or something equally mind-numbing. And then she would read 'Blow Job Princess' on the title page and the game would be up. She would be thoroughly creeped out and have nothing to do with me or Krakov's little porn enterprise.

The next day, I wandered into the office later than usual. It was Tuesday, which meant planning meetings. I wanted to retreat and somehow start life over. I wanted to go back in time and graduate school with the degree my family and friends thought I was born for, and which at least might have guaranteed a sane existence: Architecture. Instead, I was sulking over a self-made, high school-style disaster; walking straight into a train wreck. In short order I would be embarrassing myself in front of the one girl I truly wanted to like me. Love was far too much to ask from her. And even yesterday I would have settled for friendly, if not friend - and now even that seemed ridiculous.

Krakov took one look at me as I oozed into the conference room, and I waited for the tirade about keeping decent work hours. "Get to your desk," was all I heard. I slinked back to my corner of the world and there, I found a sticky note waiting for me. 'Drop by my desk. Let's talk...' It was signed by Vada.

She was polite and completely unreadable. I stood there, avoiding eye-contact, knowing that she knew every last piece of me, down to the many ways I had pictured her and I together, and the unoriginal way I obsessed her breasts. I was sure my upper-lip was moist with perspiration; I imagined I looked like a guilty man awaiting his verdict.

She handed me the script: "I've made all of my comments in red ink, because, you know, I'm a redhead."

My eyes couldn't help but sink into hers for the briefest moment. I smiled like a goofy teenager.

She changed her expression then, just the slightest bit. "I couldn't help but notice" she said, "that the girl in the script has a lot in common with me."

"Yes," I stammered, then cleared my throat in an overly dramatic way, "that's just a funny random accident, I suppose. As they say: this is a work of fiction, any relationship to persons alive or dead is purely coincidental." I tried to laugh to show just how absurd the idea was – her and me - I wanted to limit the damage already done, but I was simply burying myself further.

I was about ready to excuse myself and launch into an escape orbit when she brought a bag that was sitting under her desk to my attention. She opened it and pulled out a fuzzy white bathrobe, the kind you might find at a decent hotel. I knew exactly why she was showing it to me.

"What do you think about this?" She offered it to me, and I made a little play about feeling its texture and evaluating it for costume purposes. "It's like the one in the script, isn't it? Will it work?"

I tried to sound professional. "Uh, yes, perfect." I looked around to see if anyone else was there to witness my crumbling cool.

And then she brought out the high heeled slipper-shoes from the bag. "How about these? I had to go to three stores to find them in my size, but I think they look right, yes?" I avoided looking at her then, noticing instead that she had miraculously found some crazy-sexy 1950's Hollywood starlet slippers, complete with the little feathers on the toes. I only managed an uncensored "Wow," in response.

Back at my desk I sat still for a few minutes, waiting for my heart rate to settle and my brain to begin functioning again. I felt like a passenger in my body, watching from a distance as every last ounce of my grace-under-pressure disappeared in front of Vada. Her last words to me were what did me in: "Krakov wants us to finish the edits over the week. I guess he got excited and jumped the gun; he's got camera equipment rented starting next Monday. I'll be by your place around eight so we can get to work."

The rest of the day was a blur for me, absolutely nothing was accomplished, not even a single phone call. When I got home early I quickly cleaned and threw clothes into the closet and stuffed dishes into the cabinets. There was a knock on my door just after eight, and when I went to open it, there she was standing tall and with two bags in each hand. I gathered with a wild thrill that one bag contained the goodies I saw at the office, the other kept writing material, the script, and other odds and ends. She was smiling, a bit nervous this time, which at least made me feel less the gawky outsider. Again, when I looked into her eyes I felt that instant pull of a girl I simply adored for all sorts of reasons.

We sat down at my kitchen table where I had her red-marked script open to the first page. There was the shared intimacy of an intellectual project that bound us immediately, no matter the awkward realities of the situation.

She began reading my original words. We skipped forward and back, she asked questions about the scenes, the motivations, the way I pictured the characters interacting. She took it all as seriously as Krakov, but without his misguided sense of artistic mission. She pulled me back into what I had created and complimented me simply by treating it as a worthwhile enterprise, pornography or not. I made a bold assumption - she had done this before. I wondered over the curvy, busty redhead from the adult website who wouldn't write back and didn't show her face. Sex seemed like it was simply a 'thing' to her.

"... As she reclines on the couch, her white bathrobe is open. His hands are lustily squeezing and caressing her breasts." Her words cut through my wandering mind and focused me suddenly. She was pausing now, waiting for me to comment in some manner.

"Yes?" I looked up from the page at her; we were mere inches apart, my leg nearly touching hers and our faces only slightly further away from each other.

She spoke now. "I'm not understanding - how are they positioned in relation to each other? Are they both sitting on the couch at this point?"

I had to stop and think. "Yes, he's sorta' there, and she sorta' over there." I demonstrated with a gesture and body movements, which only confused the issue more.

"I don't think he would be able to reach quite like that. It would be awkward at the very least. Maybe it would work if her legs were wrapped around him a little bit, resting on his lap maybe."

I was trying to imagine what she was saying and nodded my head in agreement. "Uh, yup." I hadn't considered most of these details – hitting marks - or explicit positioning of the actors was something we generally ignored. The results showed when lighting was screwed up, or the most prominent physical feature in a scene was an elbow; it was amateur hour, all over again.

"Usually," I said, "we only worry about this stuff when we're shooting."

The way she ignored my excuse was painful. She walked over to the couch – the script and her red pen in hand, which she then set on the coffee table - and then reclined length-wise and looked at me as if to say, 'Are we doing this, or not?' I understood only a little of what she expected, and so I stood up and walked over, wondering how far I dared go. Yes, we were doing this, to a point perhaps. I joined her on the couch, our legs were touching now, my breathing was obvious, my grace again leaving me and I felt like I was nothing but a mess of nerves as we sat together, just as they did in the script. I refused to make the next logical move.

"You can't reach from there, can you?"

I twisted a bit to show her it was theoretically possible and then looked at her, trying to read in that expression of hers how she would feel if I broached that border.

"Okay," I said, conceding a point I was happy to concede. "You're definitely right. It will be awkward and it won't look right. It will look stagey." I felt with that small admission something had changed, and a weight was lifted. I scooted towards her, and I set her legs onto my lap. She circled them around my middle and held me tight, like an embrace. It was natural now, not like a movie.

"Try it again," she said. I read everything I could possibly read into her three short little words. I told myself, "it's just work." I tried to calm down, and yet when I reached out and squeezed her breasts, there was nothing but lust in my touch. I stayed there far too long, my hands feeling and caressing her through her shirt and bra, as if we were in the throes of passion or in a deep long kiss. And yet she was just reclined on the couch, her eyes passively on mine, perhaps wondering what bolt of lightning was passing into my body. I returned my hands to my side. An erection the size of the Eifel Tower was suddenly trying to push its way through my pants.

"In the script," she said with a nearly unchanged voice, "she just stays there, as if she is uninterested, yes?"

I nodded my head, wanting only to put my hands back on her and trying to ignore the obvious shock: I just felt your tits. "Yes, she's almost just putting up with it. Sex, foreplay, and all the rest of it mean nothing to her." My voice almost sounded normal.

"And so he continues, and she does nothing? She's just passive?"

"Yes. And it continues like that. He, umm, does all sorts of other stuff, and she just lets him. At one point she starts reading while he's doing his thing, which I find quite funny."

"I remember that." She leaned over, grabbed the script from the coffee table and with the pen made a note. Still writing, she talked with a happy voice: "I made the change. Good. She and him are now arranged thusly on the couch. Her legs are wrapped around him. His body is..." she searched for the right word, "diagonal to her." She wrote the last bit, and then paged through the script. She kept her legs wrapped around my middle, like a tight hug. I thrilled and loved it. I wondered if she could feel the rock hard bulge in my jeans.

"I think it would be good if we included a coffee table like yours," she said.

"Sure," I answered. "Any reason?" I said this with a blurred curiosity – I had no idea what she was thinking – and my mind was slowly succumbing to the urges of my fantasies. I wanted simply to unzip my pants, show her my gigantic erection and have her either runaway in repulsion or climb on top of me in lust.

"Well here..." she said. She was pointing to the next part in the script.

I remembered those few lines; I wrote that part with all sorts of gusto and poetic language. He was licking her pussy. He was gorging himself on her, completely lost in the act. There was a moment of expectation as I imagined her reading those lines and seeing my passion and redhead weakness completely exposed. I thought: I am a sex-crazed lump of flesh.

And yet she read it out loud as if it were nothing but a few words in a news paper article: "Her legs are apart and his mouth is devouring her pussy." She paused for a moment and continued on:

"We see her red bushy pubic hair wet from his tongue and his crazed licking. Her feet, still in her high heeled-slipper shoes, rest on his back. But she is indifferent and cares nothing about the act. She reads a magazine, shifting pages, scanning pictures. Occasionally she makes a slight expression as if she is enjoying it on some level, but her focus is not on him or the supposed pleasure. The camera at this point should record just how focused he is on her: his fingers pushing inside and then returning for a craven squeeze of her breasts, his tongue playing, his lips tasting... We shift to a new angle now, and see that he has moved her to all fours. Again the magazine is in front of her, and she reads it with great attention, despite his passion, despite the fact that he is throwing his entire being at her out of lust. His mouth, his lips, his tongue."

I avoided her eyes. That is all you and me, I wanted to say. I have fantasized about licking you and tasting you since the moment I first saw you. So, now you know.

Suddenly she raised-up a bit and pulled the coffee table over closer to the couch. "See," she said, "if her left foot rests on the coffee table instead of the couch or your back – or, oops, I mean his back – then she's way more open and exposed. It's just a lot more sexy, I think."

"Wow," I said. "Yes, I do see." For a moment I began to believe we really could make a great film, if only those details somehow piled-up and made their way into the camera. And then my mind clouded again, overrun by my obsession for the girl in front of me.

She pushed around me and before I could make sense of it, she was positioning herself like she was describing. She reclined on the couch. Her legs were spread wide, one leg over the back of the cushion, the other supported by my coffee table. And there I was, right there, looking at her, imagining how she would look in that white robe and heels. Her pendulous tits were squished like smothered mountains against her shirt. They wanted to roll off to either side and were barely contained by her bra. She caught my eyes crawling over her, and my cock pushing insanely against my pants must have been as obvious as my undisguised stare at her. Just a moment ago you let me touch you, I wanted to say. Please, let me do it again.

She grabbed the script and started reading, paging through. There was something on her mind, and it wasn't the craven longing in my eyes. I doubted she had any idea how much I obsessed her breasts and the rest of her.

"Why doesn't she like sex?" Her voice was genuinely perplexed. "Here she is. She's absolutely getting ravaged by a great, devoted guy, who is completely into her - and this goes on for pages - and yet she just doesn't care. I've read it over a few times now, start to finish, and I don't get it. That's my one problem."

I pondered her question for a second, wanting my answer to be clear, though I was hazy and more distracted than ever. "Well, maybe that's part of it. She's not really being ravaged, see... I guess I didn't make that so clear. He thinks she is absolutely gorgeous - beautiful. He's probably intimidated, actually. That's why he won't do those other things that happen later. See, that's the 'princess' problem. He won't treat her like the sex-goddess she actually is, because he thinks she's too lovely to really – excuse my language - fuck. "

I could see she was thinking; the wheels in her mind were turning.

I continued on. "He never loses control with her. He treats her like an object to be adored and lusted after, yes, but he can't take that last step. He can't make her belong to him."

She started nodding her head. The light bulb was turning on, I could see. She started speaking in a new way now, "So then, in Act Two, that's actually what finally happens. She goes out with this other guy. He takes her home. To him, she's just a good lay, and so he has his way with her. Completely. He takes her hands and ties them up. This guy, he really does ravage her..."

I was smiling like a smitten high school kid again, unable to ignore my conversation-killing cock, which was begging for her attention.

She continued on, following the thread. "And so there's that scene just at the end of the act. The way you write it is pretty pornographic, I have to say." She took the script and paged through until she found the lines she was looking for. "You have it here. He's holding onto her head and her hair. He's literally fucking her mouth with nothing else to hold him back. He's absolutely using her. And then right at the end, he pulls out and sends his cum into her mouth and a little gets on her lips and cheek."

I had nothing to say. "Yeah, that's it."

"And that is the moment when her inner Blow Job Princess is awakened?"

I laughed at the restatement of the idea. "I know. It's a bit ridiculous. But at least we don't see that immediately. It's only when she goes back to her original guy that the change in her becomes apparent."

She smiled at me. "I actually quite like it," she said. "It's not completely pornographic if there's a bit of socially redeeming personal development in there."

We both laughed, and I saw that I needed to do some more work on the script to get the idea through: "I think if I re-wrote some of the early scenes to show how he can't really treat her with anything but a timid sexuality, the change afterward would be more apparent. I should cut a lot of the passionate language he feels for her. Make it more about him adoring her, rather than simply, uh..."

She filled in the missing words, "wanting to fuck her brains out?"

I smiled; she was obviously catching my own timidity. "Yes."

There was something more I needed to say, but couldn't quite get my mind around it. More than ever, I wanted simply to make that scene with her a reality. I wanted to live it, in all of its clichéd porno lust. I wanted to rip off our clothes, hold her down and yes - simply fuck her brains out. I wanted to cum in her mouth and see it dribble over her lips and onto her cheek. And I wanted it to somehow push a secret button in her deepest desires. It was pure, stupid smut, and yet I didn't care.

No matter, I still found a word or two. "I wish there was a way I could figure out how to show something else that's going on. It's kind of complicated." She looked at me with a wry smile, and I felt like I was finally lifting the last veil of the story. I decided to let it unravel however it wanted: "It has something to do with the way she looks."

There was a bit of surprise in her expression and probably in my voice as well, as I continued on. "She's voluptuous. Plump, and okay, maybe the word is 'fat' by some opinions. And well, because of that she has these great, huge tits. He obsesses her tits, in fact. I think that comes through pretty clear. His hands are always on them, and so is his mouth."

She nodded her head. It was all over the script, and she got the point as clear as day. Her smile was wide now, in some kind of just-about-ready-to-bust-a-gut-laugh, and her voice said it as well, when she asked the question I couldn't. "You're worried about objectifying her, yes? Wanting her just for her tits, and wondering if that plays out in the script?"

"Something like that, yeah." I picked up the pages and fiddled with them, acting as if I were looking for a particular place or phrase that captured something profound I was trying to express.

The ruse was too much now, and she let the laugh – a full on guffaw – fly out of her mouth. Between giggles she nudged me. "Let me get this straight: You're worried that your porno script objectives a woman?" She laughed out loud. "Oh... you and Krakov. You are both so obvious. I can see why he likes your script."

"Okay," I answered honestly for once, "Objectifies you. It's all about you. It's not all about some fictitious woman and man." I let my guard down completely and I admitted what she knew all along. My love and lust for her was simply down to the way she looked and the way I saw her: a busty sex-kitten. I felt more than a little ridiculous.

"It's alright," she said. "I'm used to it, I suppose."

I tried to read her for something else, but I saw that the years had accustomed her to such things. She was the fat chick with huge tits that guys wanted to fuck. And yes, I was certainly one-of-those-guys who saw her as such. No dating, no candlelight dinners, no hand-holding, no late night phone calls just because you wanted to hear her voice. I felt like my confession netted me nothing but the scolding I deserved. I truly was obvious just like Krakov, and my weaknesses were visible a mile away.