The Aristocrats

Author's Note: Certain allowances had to be made due to laws, Literotica rules and standards of common decency.

*

When I graduated from college, there just weren't that many jobs for a history major. I'd gone to school in Chicago, although I'd grown up in Southern California. I stayed there as long as my money held out. But eventually, I had to move back home. I went to Chicago to get away from them, and four years had done nothing to improve the situation. Which was why I took the first job I found that allowed me to get a place of my own.

I worked in Chatsworth for a talent agent I shall call "Morris Goldfarb". Some of you may wonder what a talent agent was doing in Chatsworth. Well, that's at the heart of the "other Hollywood." They make films there, but you won't see them in the theater. These are the kind that you enjoy in the privacy of your own bedroom, if you get my drift.

It was a terrible job. He paid just above minimum wage, and I was a combination of gofer, secretary, personal assistant and janitor. On the other hand, I'd done almost everything involved in the business, contacting both clients and production companies, doing the paperwork and signing contracts, keeping the books – you name it. It was a lot of responsibility for a 23 year old, but college must have been good for something, because even in Morris' sink-or-swim management style, I'd mostly swum.

I'd only been there for a few months when I came to work one day and Morris wasn't there. I found out that he'd gotten some 15 year-old girl work in the industry. He'd sold the production company a total bill of goods. Arranged a fake ID, swore up and down about her to them, taught her how to act. They'd made two or three films with her before the truth came out. The company was in deep, deep shit. But Morris was in even deeper. So he took a permanent vacation to Brazil or some other country without an extradition treaty.

So my options were pretty narrow. Either I could go back home to the parents or I could take over the agency and see if I could make a go of it. I'd never really been in Morris' offices during interviews and things, but I'd done nearly everything else. I figured it wouldn't be too hard. And I wouldn't have to share any profits with him. It was risky and stupid, but a damn sight better than living with Mom.

The first week was crazy. There were calls from clients at all hours. I discovered, to my concurrent surprise and disgust, that Morris specialized in people that did the fetish stuff. The crazy kind of shit you see on the internet – not the donkey stuff, but the stuff that's somewhat legal in one or two of the more liberal states – those were his clients.

I had a phone call from a girl that did watersports. Not the kind with skis or in a pool. She had a urinary tract infection that turned her pee green. Some woman came in and offered to take a crap on my carpet. Apparently there's a market for that stuff. There were people who specialized in playing with balloons. Seriously. There were others that wore furs or superhero constumes. Apparently Morris represented at least half of DC Comics' roster. A couple of midgets, several amputees and I don't want to go into how many transsexuals rounded out the visits I got. There was even this couple (and I believe they really were a couple off-camera) who would pretend to be mother and son. I'm not telling you this to titillate or disgust you. I just want you to understand why I acted the way I did.

Then, one day, I was in Morris' office, feeling pretty good about myself. The casting couch lay yet unused, but the clients seemed to be accepting me, a couple of checks had come in, and I thought I was getting the hang of things. There was a knock on the door and I opened it to find a man and a woman. It's important to note at this juncture that there definitely was not a dog. They thought I was Morris and they said they'd heard that I was the one to look up if you did fetish type stuff.

I sat them down on the couch across from the cluttered desk. The man spoke first.

"We have this thing. We thought it would be appropriate for burlesques or strip clubs. I heard you could set that up."

Porn stars make most of their money stripping. They go on a circuit, like a tour, to strip clubs around the country. Morris would set that up, and he had a list of clubs in his rolodex, so I was nodding at them. I'd set that stuff up before.

But then the wife continued, "Well, maybe we could put our act on DVD. There's some stuff we can only do once, and I'd hate to waste it on a single show."

Now they had my attention. Stuff you can only do once? I hadn't heard that one before. But I told them I could arrange all of that.

"So what exactly do you do – some companies specialize in certain acts," I asked.

"Would you like to see?" the wife asked, "I mean, the stuff we can do in our live act, although we'll tell you what you're missing."

I gestured at them to go ahead. Months of working in the porn industry, and finally, I was going to get to see some nudity! "Maybe, if I played my cards right, even..." I thought to myself.

The girl was cute enough, in a MILF-y way. I didn't care for the guy though. Come to think of it, that was my first time ever seeing another guy's toolcase in real life. An experience I'd have rather foregone, to be honest.

Anyway, they looked at each other sheepishly, almost as if they were embarrassed to be there. It was sweet. But it wasn't porn, so I waved at them to hurry up and get to it. So they stood up and stripped, leaving their clothing in multi-colored pools on the carpet. He held his arms out and she flung herself into them, head held back for a deep kiss. As they kissed, she climbed up his body. His cock was hard and she wrapped her legs around his back and lowered herself onto it. He grunted as it penetrated into his wife. They stood there, kissing, as she bounced up and down on his tool. She had pulled her mouth off of him now and began to lick all over his face, shoving her tongue up his nostrils. The dog that wasn't there was certainly not doing anything to the man's leg.

At this point, the door opened. I glanced up in guilty surprise like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. A young man entered. For the purposes of Literotica, he was 18 years old. There was even an ID that confirmed this. Really. So the father maneuvers his head around the wife's now green-tinged tounge and says, "Hello there, son – how about double-teaming this bitch?" He might as well not have bothered – the kid (by which I mean a young man certainly no younger than 18, no matter how little fuzz on his chin) had already dropped his drawers.

The father went back to kissing the wife as the young man got on all fours and began thoroughly tossing his mother's salad. The figment of my imagination that had a certain dog-like quality about it did not leave the dad's leg and maneuver itself behind the boy (who was, I absolutely insist, of legal age). The young man moved his head away from his mother's glistening anus and spread her cheeks, revealing the nascent birth of what promised to be a healthy-sized turd. Then, carefully, so I could see, he licked it ever so gently with the tip of his tongue.

This was when the daughter (also with legal documents that would prove she was 18, perhaps even upon close inspection) entered. The son got up and maneuvered his dick to point at his mother's back entrance. I want to point out that, had there been a dog there, the most amazing part of the performance (in retrospect only) would have been if it had managed to continue its particular part in the performance as the young man stood up and began to ram his hard cock into his mother's already full behind. But, as I've mentioned before, there was no such dog, so that amazing acrobatic feat never happened.

The ease with which this happened made it clear that neither the mother nor the son were inexperienced at anal sex. His plunging young dick was now smeared with brown. The daughter remained watching. Some might say that, had there been a dog there, she would have sat underneath the trio (or quartet, if we count the hypothetical dog) and alternately licked the members of her father, brother and the family pet. For all I know, that did in fact cross her mind. But the dog was in the car outside (or so I've been told).

Now is when it starts to get weird. There were the three of them, fucking like the most perverted threesome anyone could imagine, while the daughter licked on. I mean, looked on. But the thing that made it both so much better and so much worse was what they were saying.

"Yeah, baby, stick that cock in my ass. Oh, you fuck it so good. Way better than your father."

"Take that, you bitch! This is for not getting me that bike for my sixth birthday!"

"Annie, oh Annie!" (That was the father. I found out later Annie was the name of their youngest child, just a baby, who had been left out in the car with the dog) (Yes, it is disgusting what people will do to their kids! Leaving her alone in the car like that!)

The daughter, her face mysteriously smeared with brown, had managed to insert herself underneath the trio (most definitely only three beings, all of them human). As her father cried out for Annie, she stood up, upending the others. Cocks popped out of mom with a rather unappetizing sound, and her loosened sphincter could no longer hold its burden. Fecal matter flew out all over the room. The family wallowed in the stuff, the two men spraying piss all over everyone. Later, the mother told me that this would have been the point at which the dog, which I didn't see, but was apparently part of the full act, would have been fucked to death from either end by the two men. This was one of those one-time only things.

Then, the mother and the daughter start to make out in the middle of the mess. The father inserts himself into his daughter's ass as his son explains to me that in the full act, he would have joined his father in the tight hole. After this, there would also have been some play with the dead dog's body, but I prefer not to remember that part. Anyways, the two guys would pull out of her ass, taking some of the colon with them and then they would stuff their heads in her prolapsed rectum while singing a rousing rendition of "When Johnny Comes Marching Home."

Any normal person would have run screaming from the room and returned to live with his parents. But, having dealt with such amazing weirdness and perversion for months, I was not normal anymore. In fact, my mind was already altering the act to make it more sellable. So I asked the first thing any agent worth his salt would have asked.

"What would you call the DVD?"

They stood up in front of me, stinking to high heaven and streaked in colors unknown to the rainbow and put their arms around each other. In unison, in the key of D sharp, they sang, "The Aristocrats!"