Dickish Direction: Shemale

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A porn director asks the impossible of his twin starlets.
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Gweh
Gweh
65 Followers

2:45.

Friday.

Three separate re-sets, personally handled.

And very, very little patience left for his...'actresses'.

Leon Whittaker's lip curled a bit further at that last thought, the mere word souring his mood, even as he kneaded his brow ever-harder, even as he slumped ever further back in his flimsy directorial chair, even as he tried again, equally unsuccessfully, to dispel the pent-up stress of the decidedly unsuccessful shooting.

The long, unproductive hours he could take, he often reminded himself. Part of the job, especially in this particular field. Rests had to be taken, props had to be cleaned. He'd learned to deal.

Hell, Leon Whittaker was the one what made it part of the job, more often than not. Leon was a man that took his direction seriously, regardless of whether the production quite deserved his talents. It made for good practice, he figured - and he wasn't willing to cut corners. Not ever.

Not even in porn.

It was...a stepping stone, was how he saw it. A way to prove himself, even if only TO himself. He had the talent, the vision, the VERVE - and he intended to use it. He HAD to use it, in fact. So he could move on. Move upwards. He'd get where he wanted to be - not here, mainly - eventually. That was certain.

What he couldn't deal with were those without the talent to match his own conspiring to undermine his work. Those without the DRIVE to be their BEST acting like they shared - like they could even match! - his ambitions. Those to whom he gave the best direction he could possibly muster to work with, but who themselves refused to put equal passion, or energy, or LIFE into their performances for his cameras.

Those like the two glaringly talentless thespians Leon found it his increasingly irksome task to watch, for instance. Those like the pair of altogether unconvincing young wannabe "starlets" he was forced to stare attentively at, whose vapid faces and - to his eye - ever-more unappealing gawping, gaping, gasping genitals it was his place to direct. His role to oversee, even as the two writhed - unconvincingly, passionlessly - against each other. As they had sporadically done for hours, now. Seemingly immune to even the most basic of directions.

The young director ground his teeth slightly at the sight, the sound and feel of the grinding enamel doing little to calm his nerves.

It was infuriating. The set, the room - immaculate. His lighting - perfect. The cameras - all in order, all placed where they were meant to be. The bed was pristine, fitted with a fourth set of striking, pure-white sheeting, and the furnishing as a whole was professionally made and painstakingly matched to the size of his subjects. He'd made sure of that when he'd rented the place.

All to make those two...WHORES look better. To make them SHINE, and POP, and STUN.

And yet, before his very eyes, the two continued their inhuman mating dance. As if to personally SPITE him. His direction lost on them - utterly, maddeningly ineffectual. His vision, having shaped the rest of the scene around him to his whim, was like waves against their sheer cliff face of raw talentlessness. Hands pawing where they weren't meant to paw, moving where movement wasn't needed. Rubbing and touching and prodding, all without purpose. Feet pushed and pulled, disrupting the sheets, ruining the shot and adding nothing, PRODUCTING nothing, conveying no passion, no emotion. Enraptured, obsessed, with the groin, the vagina, the VULVA. The absolute basest of base.

The philistines.

They looked to make smut, damn them. To subvert his artistry, the class he was determined to bring to what pornography he saw fit to produce. All that the two conveyed was movement, and noise, and mess. All meaningless. None sensual, much less sexual.

And yet! The two were clearly prepping themselves, faces twisted in unnatural grimaces they doubtlessly thought to be expressions of pleasure. Leon could tell, much as it pained him - for he had seen this exact scene play out more times than he cared to repeat.

They thought to bring themselves to the brink of their fourth dubious crescendo in as many takes, if the raising cacophony of their moans, the accelerating pace of their breath were to be bought.

He knew how the cursed scene would play before even it did. Led, he knew, by the first of the two. A moderately endowed brunette of twenty-seven years, her full head of hair falling about her shoulders, the slightest hint of waviness shaping its form as it fell. Malena was her chosen moniker, as Leon had swiftly learned, being forced to oft repeat it in the early hours of shooting.

First she, the elder, would gape, her mouth open, her eyes spread to match.

Like a distressed, dying fish, he thought with distaste, already seeing the scene begin to play out before him.

And then, soon thereafter, her voice would ring out. Or, more accurately, would squawk. A high-pitched, grating noise, one no-doubt meant to elucidate some...ANIMALISTIC response in the lesser creatures that had been subjected to her performance in the past. No doubt crafted with the most low-brow of intent, the whiney tones of her voice a signal for the chimps she served.

"Come now", the squawk spoke. "This is the part where we orgasm. This is the part where our loins go aquiver, where they squelch and squirm with the juices of our lust."

Tasteless. Unappealing. Formless.

"Ah...AH...AHH...OHHH yeaaah...Ah..."

And there it was, as if on cue. A slightly slighter woman, her hair a lighter brown, falling down past her shoulders and tapering off about her breasts, changing hue and lightening as it fell. Becoming almost blonde at its tips, in a not unattractive style. A woman by the ever-commonplace pseudonym of Summer. The co-star that had begun to slam her fingers within Malena's slickened orifice, her hand guided reassuringly by that of the woman who had prompted the unwarranted penetration. She had tented the digits on her hand into a spear with which to probe the perverse depths of the organ. Roughly, and wetly, and vilely.

And entirely against Leon's direction to keep things slow, and rich, and romantic. And as far as possible from that nasty, misshapen, fleshy THING.

*Sluurrp. Shliiick. Slurrrp.*

Leon shuddered a tad, before steeling himself once more, a hand clenching tight in silent fury on the fragile wooden arm of his chair, the other pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. Needless, but comforting nonetheless A nervous tick he allowed himself to indulge. For the sight, the sound presented him - they were sickening to his senses.

A weakness, and a major one, he would grudgingly admit - but one of his few. And one he could, and did, deal with. The whole was preferable, after all. If only for the hole.

For Leon, truth be told, had no issue with women, nor with directing them through these carnal displays. He'd chosen to deal primarily with them himself, when he'd at the start submitted to the idea of porn production not so long ago. Indeed, he found their mannerisms, the way the carried themselves, their way of dress and decorum - all appealing. He preferred their personas on average, their lack of masculine grand-standing, and the deeper, emotional connections they used to display affection. They were soothing. Easy to deal with, and yet often unpredictable. The stories he was able to direct them through - simple as they were forced to be - lacked a certain pretention, an assumption that always came into play when a man was on set.

Yet, alas, all that ended when removed were the clothes, when over was the dialog. When the SEXES were on display. Always, without fail, an instinctive - a natural, he himself believed - revulsion overtook him.

The breasts, the nipples, they were fine. Attractive, even, to his eye. Shapely, curvaceous, perfectly complementing the more slender, more graceful forms of the women. Mounds of ample flesh blessing each side in turn, pushing out warmly and invitingly from their bodies. Drawing the eye, allowing it to drink deeply the lewdness that seemed to seep from every heaving pore - but then whisking it away to sights yet unseen, allowing the gaze to slide without interruption down, and across, and to every other inch of their refined forms.

But the Vulva. Like a fetid, seeping wound, they were. Barbaric. At complete odds with the overall beauty, the quiet grace of the rest of their form. Deep, dirty holes, distended lips flapping loosely about them as they leaked, and drooled, leaking mucous like so much snot all over their legs, their groins. Garish and amorphous, fleshy and formless.

And loud. So very, very loud.

*Shmack. Slckkk. Sluuurp.*

There, alas, they were inherently inferior to their male counterparts. The mess. The wet, dirty NOISE. They continued, urgently, unabatingly. Ravenous and insatiable. A head lowered to join the hand, a tongue added, another instrument joining the maddening song of the sex.

These qualities, and only these, he truly detested in women.

But how Leon DESTEDED them.

He often found himself wishing, as he sat and watched in his director's chair, that he could remove the issue entirely. It's what he sought in his work, what his camera aimed to capture. To capture the beauty of their forms, while excising all the vulgarity.

And that goal, that artistry, was what these two were categorically denying him. As their vulgar display continued on, no end to it yet in sight.

*Shlick. Shlick.*

How anyone could take pleasure in those noises, Leon could never understand. But he was, at least, certain of one thing. The shot had been thoroughly ruined. He could bear no more.

And so he opened his mouth to shout his displeasure.

---

Malena's breath hissed between her teeth, her fingers gripping white-knuckled at the silken sheets beneath her as the younger woman's tongue began to probe particularly deeply within her innards, finding its mark with precision.

For Summer's face had long-since acquainted itself with the inner workings of Malena's plumbing. And for the fourth time that day, Malena was nearly, rapturously overcome by the sweeping wave of pleasure her cunt could barely wait to give her. Almost unbidden, a moan escaped her lips, a sign of her ever-mounting sapphic indulgence - a sign she'd carefully groomed to be automatic over her years of work. Pleasure for her meant pleasure for the viewers, she'd long since deduced. And, quite often, pleasure for her partner. A very useful skill in her line of work.

The woman arched her back, breathing deeply and rhythmically as she angled her head perfectly for the cameras, as she ground her mound forcefully against the wet invader between her legs, feeling, and hearing, and ANTICIPATING as her nether lips parted moistly around the muscle of her partner, and clamped back together, and parted again, consistently, hypnotically. The cool air tingled against her perky, erect nipple, even as she shielded the other from the open window that was its source - rubbing it, teasing it, ENJOYING both it and the pleasure it brought her, as its electric energy upon her breasts joined and amplified the shocking warmth building within her.

All more for her stake than that of the scowling young man's.

She was, in truth, making an effort not to acknowledge the man. She could feel him staring daggers from the side, just as he had for the last three takes, but Malena no longer truly cared. For he was the kind of man, the kind of meddler, that she most despised. The type that could never quite be satisfied with just making, just taking, what came naturally.

And natural was her ONLY way to come. Malena was intent on giving the viewers what they expected of her, stuck-up director be damned. She loved her job, and she considered herself a professional. She could tell the man's type the moment she'd set eyes on him. The type that thought this all below him, thought he could bring some ill-conceived tact, some STRUCTURE, to basic human desire.

Fuck that, and fuck him. She was here because SHE wanted to be. She indulged because she loved to. She stayed because she LIVED for sex, for women, for the camera. It's what got her her reputation, made her one of the BEST, as far as Malena was concerned.

This woman, she often thought to herself, was all real. She loved to fuck, and be fucked. Take, and be taken. Watch, and be watched. Here, she was queen. And this bed was her kingdom. No room on her throne for fake, pretentious nonsense. This wasn't high art. It was porn. And she - she was its star.

Her, and her lovely co-stars, of course. This, her WORK - it was an adventure for two. Sometimes more. And she ALWAYS took whatever lucky gal got paired with her along for the ride.

And today, that meant the lovely, perky young Summer. Her turn would come, soon enough.

Malena relished the thought, even as she relished the feel, the tongue within her scraping sensually along and betwixt her folds. She could almost imagine already how the inner walls of the petite girl's organ would feel on her own skin, on her own tongue, once at last her turn was given. Once she had tasted that lovely little mound with more than just her eyes.

Malena, after all, had come to please all involved. And when she came, so too did her partner. She made sure of that.

That was, at least, when she was allowed to. On this particular autumn day, however, the young Mr. Whittaker clearly had other plans for her.

"That's enou-"

Malena's eyes shot open, the words she'd been dreading since their last utterance being birthed by the hapless, clueless simpleton who'd once more ruined the take. And who, as Summer's retracting head and her own pulsing, unsatisfied, suddenly and frustratingly vacant loins indicated, had ruined a good bit more than that.

Again.

"Are you fucking SHITTING-"

---

Summer sighed to herself, setting her rump down with a groan on a spare folding chair, having already moved it away from the harsh glare of the lighting around the bed. She crossed a smooth white leg over the other, trying to make herself as comfortable as was possible. A difficult task for a lady, when one was wearing nothing but a towel - around only their boobs, at that - but she managed well enough. The break was welcome.

Summer wasn't her real name, of course. The young woman was many things - twenty-two, budding English major, unsuccessful job-seeker, girlishly built - but she was not a porn star. Not in her view, at least. Summer was an experiment - a successful one, it was true - but an experiment nonetheless. She was a skin, at most. A maker of tuition. The under-sexed, inexperienced, always-submissive harlot she acted half-heartedly for the cameras. So long as they were pointed at her, at least. For now, at least.

Ashley was the girl on the chair, the girl digging for her phone in the bag she'd left hanging from its arm. The girl flicking it on with one hand as the other reached for her bottle. For the water with which to wash the taste of Summer out of her mouth.

Well, to be more accurate, it was the taste of the older woman Summer had been servicing. The woman currently cussing out the smartly-dressed young man sitting across from herself in the nearly barren room, himself starring daggers and speaking much worse right back at her. Ashley rolled her eyes at the scene. The absurdity of the woman's crimson-faced oaths - "What the fuck is your deal", "We had the shot!", "We could be done by now, you absolute COCK!" - coupled with her complete nudity, the bouncing of her sizable bust with every yell, had long since lost its humor for her. Ashley had coursework to do. Essays to write. Girlfriends to meet. Marco was expecting a call; perhaps a bit MORE. Life awaited Ashley, and it waited well outside the stuffy walls of this shitty little apartment studio.

Yes, As far as Ashley was concerned, it was time for Summer to fade to fall. A desire which the two increasingly irate coworkers across from her seemed determined to postpone for another few hours and another few takes.

"If you and your simpleton of a co-star could actually FOLLOW WHAT I AM TELLING YOU TO-"

The woman's ears perked a tad at the mention of herself, but the only response she gave was a smirk, focused instead on catching up on her friends. Monica had sent out a picture of the salad she had eaten for lunch. Nothing noteworthy, but it looked a good bit more wholesome than her own meal, at the least.

Ashley did not have much patience for this work, truth be told. She didn't much care for the venomous jabs her current employer was hurling her way from across the room, nor did she care for the passion and energy he most recent partner displayed for the work. Both had made her life harder than she liked. The man, Mister White-something, with his constant demands and re-shoots and meandering tantrums about "style" this and "pacing" that, and the woman, Malena, with her constant prodding insistence on defying him. Summer the, pornstar, the skin, had tried satisfying both. To the apparent annoyance OF both.

The slow, monotonous pace of the director left Malena angry, and unsatisfied, and pouty, sulking and shrinking away whenever Summer did as was instructed; her attempts to energize things, to follow the lead of her insatiable co-star, to unload and indulge whatever lesbian bullshit she thought looked and felt best, to cry and shout and moan to the best of her limited thespian ability - that always resulted in premature termination of the scene.

Ashley the student didn't care either way. She didn't care if she was getting touched, or she was doing the touching, or how exactly that touching was to be done, so long as she could BE done. This didn't get her off, nor turn her on. Not really. The sex did nothing for her. She didn't care about it.

Ashley the student cared only for the money. She went where her agent pointed her to, and did what she could to be swiftly finished with her roles. The work was distasteful, but it was easy, and the pay was decent. And so long as the demands made of her weren't dirty, or overly weird, she didn't much care for who she got stuck with. So long as she wasn't stuck with them for long. She'd do what she had to do to get the check at the end.

But this antagonism? Well beyond her paygrade. Let the idiots yell each other out, for all she cared. Fucking was a job, this homo crap a means. None of THIS was her problem to fix.

Sex was what happened at home. Passion was what happened with her boyfriend. Not with a pornstar, and CERTAINLY not with this "Malena".

In fact, Ashley didn't particularly want to see another cunt for a good, long while - hers or otherwise. At the very least until the weekend was over.

Gweh
Gweh
65 Followers
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