Jasmine Reviello is a 22-year-old college dropout living in Southern California, just outside of Los Angeles. This series follows her through the erotic, degrading misadventures of her life as an employee of a popular new Sex carnival opened on Venice Beach.

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Thank you!

*****

The Korean MILF sitting across from us in the lobby of Dill’s Porn studio had the biggest natural tits I’d ever seen. I wouldn’t have been so sure if she’d been wearing anything more than a pair of lacy black and purple panties, but as it happened, that’s all she had on with her legs crossed and her whole tan body lightly oiled. She was reading a months-old Cosmo with the air of a mom waiting for her child at the dentist’s office. Even her square, black glasses looked motherly — but she couldn’t have been older than 35.

“Pick your jaw up, darling, or your tongue will fall out,” Marcy smirked without looking up from the studio portfolio laying open on her lap. She was flipping through the laminated collection of DVD box art and behind-the-scenes stills, licking her thumb as she turned each page.

“That’s probably not very sanitary,” I shook off my titty trance and looked at the big black binder in her delicate hands.

“I swallow strange cocks for money on the beach, and so do you — ‘sanitary’ isn’t really in our repertoire,” she adjusted her own glasses, smaller and more stylish than the MILF’s. Leave it to Marcy to drop words like “repertoire” into standard conversation. The page she held open showed box art for a gonzo Porn called “Dumpster Sluts 9” — it was a POV shot of a white girl’s Ass hanging half out of a grimy trash skip, with her high-heeled feet kicking up into the air. It was overlaid with flashy text callouts like “Filthy Fucking for Dirty Sluts” and “Trashy Whores Used and Tossed” — I kind of loved it.

“Mrs. Park, they’re ready for you on Set C,” a slender redhead with a secretarial updo leaned out from the clean, white door of the studio proper. The oiled-up MILF set her magazine aside and stood to follow, while Marcy and I watched her immaculate Ass jiggle with every step of her pedicured, wicker-wedged feet. The secretary turned to us before closing the door and said, “Mr. Randall will be with you ladies in a moment.” We smiled politely and nodded.

He’d told us to call him Dill when we spoke on the phone Thursday afternoon. We mentioned Lenny the cowboy, and his offer of a tryout, and Dill asked us to come in on Saturday for a casting session. He’d said they were always looking for fresh talent, and that Lenny had an eye for that kind of thing. I took that to mean the cowboy was a huge perv with lewdly wandering eyes, but it didn’t matter so much how we ended up there — it was a tempting financial opportunity. And we were indeed talented, in a sense.

I wore a blue bandana top with scarcely enough material to tie behind my back after squishing my tits into it, and a dark, sheer sarong over black lace panties. Marcy had on a criminally short, plaid schoolgirl skirt and a white, belly-baring, button-up top with no bra. Her poofy orange hair was even pulled into comically juvenile pigtails on the sides of her little head. I rocked my classic, curly high-pony, good for doggystyle pulling AND avoiding errant cum sprays, somewhat.

We honestly didn’t really know what to expect. We’d both seen casting videos before — black leather couch interviews, some desk fucking here, a topless facial there — but we didn’t have much experience with recorded performances. At the carnival you didn’t really need to perform, just had to be a warm enough, wet enough hole that was pleasant enough to look at. It was honestly the easiest gig on Earth, if you could stomach all the smelly cum and rampant misogyny. How different could that be from shooting Porn?

“Ladies, hello there. Thanks for coming,” Dill pushed through the lobby door and stood there in his tailored, dark gray suit, grinning through a neatly-edged 5 o’clock shadow. His dark hair was slicked back and his brown eyes seemed too kind for a guy who watched girls getting ravaged by dozens of cocks all day. He strode over and held a firm handshake out to each of us in turn, admiring our outfits. “You both look phenomenal, can I show you to my office?”

I couldn’t get a clear read on him one way or another. Sleezy wolf in business clothing? Sociopath with a poker face? Honest tradesman with his finger on the perverted pulse? I’d have to wait and see, instead choosing to focus on the handful of scenes playing out on the active sets as we moved through the surprisingly large interior of the building. It was evenly segmented into a series of 5 or 6 staging areas, and most of them were “live” as we passed by. Dill pressed a finger to his lips to indicate that some of them were rolling sound and we didn’t want to interrupt. We paused outside Set C, where Mrs. Kim’s stepmom fantasy production was being prepped, and watched the crew for a moment.

“As you can see, we pride ourselves on variety here, but we’re also committed to quality — even for the typical or cruder genres,” Dill leaned to us as we stood in a line just outside the set’s open double doors. In the large black space a little faux kitchen backdrop had been constructed, and Mrs. Kim was standing in front of the sink getting her lipstick touched up by a woman in a ballcap. A young, studly white guy was standing nude by the false countertop talking to a man with a headset and clipboard.

“So again, the line is: ‘Mom?? What are you doing home??’ — really surprised, okay? You were jerking it on the couch and didn’t even hear her come in, got it?” The naked guy nodded to the clipboard guy. Then the clipboard guy turned and called, “can we get the fluffer on set please? Need Aaron’s dick hard for the start of the scene!”

A voice in the far corner repeated the request, and a pear-bodied lady in a one-piece swimsuit crossed the space to kneel in front of Aaron. She slurped his dick into her mouth and started bobbing along it while he continued talking to the guy in the headset.

“Why is she in a bathing suit?” I asked Dill, watching her mechanically work up his erection.

“Saves on laundry. Fluffers can wear whatever they want, but most prefer not to make a mess of their street clothes,” he shrugged.

“Do they ever star in any of the videos?” Marcy scratched at an itch on the back of her porcelain thigh.

“Nah, most are either camera shy or… well, not camera material, you know.” It could be considered a harsh truth, but we had eyes. The swimsuit girl was no Mrs. Kim.

“Where did you find her?” I was staring at the huge Korean titties again, as they gleamed in the set lighting by the fake sink.

“Kim? She’s been with us forever. An honest-to-God bored housewife! Stranger than fiction, that one,” Dill shook his head, grinning.

“She’s married?? Does her husband know about all this?” I swung around to search Dill’s handsome face.

“Sure, he dropped her off today,” the short-ish exec laughed, “probably her biggest fan.” I was blown away. Guy dropped his Wife off to fuck some little white stud on camera, pretending to be a sexy stepmom for millions of strangers on the internet. What a fucking world.

“Probably likes her bringing home the extra dosh — better than sitting around clipping coupons all day,” Marcy flicked her eyebrows, arms crossed over her perky nipples. It was surprisingly cold in the studio — I wondered what kind of effect that had on shrinkage for the male performers. Dill signaled for us to follow and we continued on toward his office. We passed another set where a group of guys fucked a girl in a bar wench outfit, and one more where a couple of girls took turns rimming and blowing a hairy guy on a white ottoman footstool.

When we got to Dill’s office, he shut the door and offered us seats on the fresh-looking black sofa across from his desk. I wondered if Porn companies all bought them from the same place — and who had to clean them between castings.

“Can I get you two some water, tea, coffee, liquor?” He stepped over to a cabinet/countertop combo and opened it to remove some mugs.

“Just water,” I said, but Marcy wanted tea. Her voice was sounding reedy after an eventful Friday night on the Thrash stand. A guest had to be ejected for choking her out while he humped her face — claimed he just wanted a little extra tightness. The barker, Red, gave it to him in the form of a swollen jaw before he dragged the ingrate to Rod’s office for a temporary ban. Dill filled the little Keurig on the countertop and let it percolate while he grabbed me a water bottle from the mini fridge.

“So, why don’t you girls tell me a little about yourselves?” He leaned on the front of his mahogany desk and crossed his legs comfortably. I was sprawled back with my usual bad posture against the rear couch cushion, and Marcy was sitting upright with her hands folded on her lap.

“Don’t you usually record this part?” I asked. I’d been watching more Porn than usual in the days between the call and the meeting. The producers always asked the girls on camera about their Sex life, whether they had boyfriends, their favorite positions — that sort of thing. Half the time they weren’t even real castings, just amateur starlets playing the role. But guys liked to pretend they were watching real “girls next door” behaving like the sluts of male fantasy. And the fake interviews usually did the trick.

“Oh, no need,” he chuckled, “that’s more for unknowns — girls I might not remember, or need to keep on file for review. Lenny vouched personally for you two, I’m mostly just curious.” If he was some twisted freak, he was a pro at covering it up.

“Well — I’m from Denver, moved out here to live with an aunt after I got expelled from my high school back home,” Marcy looked to the ceiling tiles for memory. “She was a lesbian bachelorette — lots of debauchery in her little two-bedroom bungalow. And when I moved out to college I sort of carried on the party, except with more dicks than Aunt Lyla was partial to. And that’s where I met this dumb, beautiful slut.” She turned to me with an impish grin and I finger-stabbed her under the ribs, making her squeal and slap my hand.

Dill nodded, smiling. “So you’ve known each other a while?”

“Yeah, unfortunately. Can’t seem to shake this little ginger cum rag,” I sighed, propping an elbow onto the sofa’s arm and resting my face on my palm.

“And are you from out here originally?” The Keurig finished filling the mug on its base and Dill collected it for Marcy, adding a spoon for her to stir with.

“Oh, no — my folks live in Maine. I could never keep up with their expectations, so I figured moving far, far away might lessen them,” I crossed one thigh over the other with the cold water bottle resting against my hip.

“And, did it work?”

“I’d say so. We’re down to one text a week from mommy dearest. They think I’m a waitress at some boring diner — sort of gave up on their successful daughter dreams after I dropped out.”

“So they don’t know about the carnival. Any concerns about them seeing you do what you do on a Porn site?”

The comment suggested that he might really put us in a production. But I also hadn’t considered the broader public aspect of doing Porn, as opposed to getting fucked like furniture on a single, though populous, beachfront stand.

“Nah, don’t even think my dad watches Porn. Clashes with too many family values.”

“And you?” He turned to Marcy.

“If my parents called about me having a Porn career, they’d be more likely to ask for money than give me a lecture,” she smirked, stirring her mug before taking a sip.

“I see, well good,” he straightened up in front of the desk. “I would like to do a little aptitude test, if that’s alright. Not that I don’t believe you’re both talented, I just want to categorize those talents and put you where you belong.” The phrasing probably wasn’t intended to sound so much like a Dom commanding his submissives, but the similarity was appropriate, all things considered.

“Okay, yeah” I said, lifting my head and setting my unopened water bottle on the carpet. I expected him to drop his slacks and drag us over to blow him, but instead he nodded and stepped around his desk to press an intercom button.

“Yes, Mr. Randall?” The redhead secretary’s voice crackled through.

“Can you send Terry over, please?” He opened a drawer with his Free hand while he spoke.

“Right away, sir,” the reply came. Marcy looked at me, clearly also a little surprised, as Dill slid a GoPro camera and a little posable tripod stand out of his desk and began setting it up to record. A minute later there was a knock, and a big-muscled, bald, black man opened the door of the room, wearing a simple white tee and athletic shorts.

“Afternoon, boss,” he said in a bassy tone, hand still on the doorknob.

“Hey there, Terry. Need you to run through some assessments with these two lovely ladies, here,” Dill indicated us with an upturned palm, and Terry craned around to regard us.

“Hi there,” the large beefcake said with a goatee-encircled smile.

“H-hi,” I breathed. He was as big or bigger then half the muscleheads on the outdoor weight benches at Venice. And when I glanced down I could see the dark helmet of his cock just scarcely poking out from the hem of his shorts. Marcy was taking him in, too, but seemed unfazed. Terry entered the room and shut the door, nonchalantly peeling his clothes off and dropping them in the corner. He was a smoking, vertical valley of rippling quads, abs and pectorals, with arms like a sleeve full of cantaloupes and a dick the size of a fat baby’s leg — flaccid.

“Terry’s clean, girls, and one of our best male talents. You’ll be in good hands,” Dill assured us as he propped the GoPro on the desk and sat in the comfy-looking chair behind it. I still couldn’t believe he wasn’t going to fuck us himself, or even jerk off while he watched. Maybe he WAS a real businessman. Or maybe he had a tiny dick. Or was gay? Who knew. For the time-being I needed to untwist my stomach long enough to get through the giant, black “assessment” standing beside the office couch.

“One at a time, or both, boss?” Terry looked at Dill.

“What do you say girls, turns or double-act? I’ll get what I need either way.”

“Double,” I blurted out, and Marcy looked at me. The truth was that I was nervous about being the center of attention. If I could lean on my BFF being there I could probably manage more comfortably — even if I was getting stuffed like a Christmas stocking on camera. Dill motioned to Terry that he had his answer, and the black giant took one of our hands in each of his, helping us down to the floor. He set Marcy’s tea mug on the desk, and adjusted our positions so that we were facing the camera in profile, then rested his huge mitts on his hips.

Marcy moved first, hefting the huge, dark balls beneath his meaty hose in her tiny, white hand — seeming mesmerized by the sheer size difference. That left me with the meaty hose itself, and I raised it in both hands to stroke, realizing that even soft, it still protruded from both my palms stacked together. Dill studied us from behind the desk, as Marcy leaned down and started to suckle the grapefruits in her hand. Beside her I opened wide and tried to fit the absurd dome at the end of Terry’s shaft between my lips.

We moaned softly, suckling and stroking the colossal package to life, and Terry watched with a professional air about him, enjoying the perks of his very irregular line of work. As his shaft thickened, I couldn’t close my fingers around it anymore, but continued to stroke it and wet the head with swipes and swirls of my tongue. Marcy scooted in front of me, between my folded legs, and leaned under Terry’s thighs with her head turned up into his taint. She fit there like a puzzle piece, with his heavy balls on her forehead while she rubbed her face around enthusiastically, lavishing his nethers with her tongue and breathing hotly on them from below. He let out a little groan of aroused approval and placed a hand on my head.

His fingers crowned my skull the way an NBA player palms a basketball, and he gently rocked my head along the first couple inches of his girth. Even with my jaw stretched as wide as it could go before warming up, it was all I could do to keep my teeth from scraping his shaft. I was almost embarrassed. At the carnival I could swallow cocks like Advil, back to back, for hours. But those were normal, human cocks — this was a creature from a different kind of black lagoon. I scrunched my face up and forced my jaw open until I thought it would cramp or pop, then pushed my neck forward another couple of inches.

“Damn,” Terry chuckled, even though there was probably 8 more inches of uneaten meat sticking out from my filled mouth. He looked at Dill who echoed his impression with a raised eyebrow. The dark stud leaned down, smothering Marcy between his thick thighs, so that he could untie my top and toss it behind me on the floor. Then he reached down and juggled each of my fleshy tits with strong fingers, appreciating the way my spatters of drool reflected on them while I struggled and gagged.

“You eat Ass, right, Jasmine?” Dill spoke up from the desk. I blinked my watery eyes open and tried to turn my impaled head, and Terry let go so that I could slide off.

“Ye-yeah, for sure,” I panted, white slobber bridging my lips to the meat pillar in front of me.

“Why don’t you and Marcy swap, you can get around behind Terry,” Dill motioned with his fingers. Marcy paused her worshipping and crawled out with spit-sheened cheeks to kneel where I’d been, while I crawled around behind Terry with my tits hanging beneath me. Marcy was obviously shorter on her knees, and the black giant had to crouch a bit to access her lips, even when she propped up from her haunches. He straddled her head, and started feeding his thick sausage between her lips, while I spread his hairless cheeks and stuck out my tongue to bathe his presented starfish.

It was kind of nice, for once, to be tongue-bathing a guy who actually manscaped, and who seemed to know what a Shower was. Granted, most guys at the carnival had been at the beach for a few hours, so they were sweatier and more full of sand than usual. But I could tell from their unkempt pubic bushes and musky nutsacks that they didn’t care much for personal grooming. Terry, on the other hand, had to look good on camera, and be somewhat tolerable to the female talent. He smelled like cocoa butter, and his asshole just tasted like… well, skin I guess. Maybe a little chalky, but clean.

Marcy coughed a wet sputter around his mammoth shaft — but like a python devouring some cylindrical prey, she’d gotten 5 wide inches of the monstrous thing into her face. I couldn’t see Dill, but he was rapt with attention as Terry tested the little ginger’s limits.

“Let’s see those perky little treats under there,” he said to his naked employee, and Terry undid Marcy’s top to toss it beside mine. Her pert little A-cups stood at attention as drizzles of slime plopped onto her belly and coursed down over her skirt. Dill signaled for Terry to push her a little further, and her hands balled up at her sides but she didn’t resist. The huge ogre wrapped a hand around the back of her neck and placed the other on top of her head, wriggling her forward as his shaft curved against her throat barrier. It was like squeezing a kielbasa into the mouth of a Coke bottle, but her throat gave way with a sloppy *glompf* — and Marcy’s neck bulged like a fleshy balloon animal.

“Shit,” Dill said, resting a hand on his desk and grinning. I had a good idea what was happening, even though all I could see was the dark crevice of Terry’s muscular Ass. My friend was a marvel, in her own right. She let out a harsh, strained retch, but didn’t spill anything, even as snot leaked from her small nose onto Terry’s dick. He held her there another few moments, then steadily worked her loose. She flopped her thighs down onto her calves and sat panting, red-faced while I continued to nosh on Terry’s pucker.