What if some wealthy Literotica readers commissioned a film version of "February Sucks?" And what if my favorite film crew couple, Abbie and Scott, somehow got hired as actors? ( see https://www.literotica.com/s/abbies-juicy-journal" for background) Thanks to GeorgeAnderson for the endlessly interesting Jim and Linda "characters from his legendary story, "February Sucks," who I just can't seem to leave alone. BTB fans be forewarned and read no further: there's none of that in this tale of reluctant but consensual cuckoldry...
The Making of "February Sucks:" Abbie and Scott's Porn-Star Debut
I gazed at my wife as she raised and lowered herself on the enormous cock, assisted by the two big hands that gripped her ass from beneath her. Her legs were spread wide, presenting a clear view of the cock's rhythmic in-and-out, a view obstructed only by the action of her hand, which was rubbing her clit in a rapid circular motion. From a seat near the bright LED "softbox" that provided the practical, if unartful, key lighting for this scene, I watched Abigail as she noisily responded to the spirited fucking she was receiving from an actor who was portraying her football star lover. Her mouth was slightly open, her tits bouncing on her heaving chest, her breathing strained from the effort. I'd never seen her nipples so erect. I was standing directly within her sightline, just a few feet away, and her blue eyes locked into mine. The pupils seemed to roll back in her head as she focused on the sensation of that cock pounding her pussy. My cock hardened as I heard her moan and gasp and I wondered: was Abbie acting or was she really enjoying this?
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
The strike had gone on for six months, bringing all film and TV work to a screeching halt and causing all of us who were dependent on that industry to dig deep into our savings just to keep our homes and cars. My wife and I were both walking picket lines as members of the International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees, she as a union make-up artist, me as a production manager. It seemed like everybody we knew was out of work, not just industry people, but our friends who worked in restaurants, in marketing agencies, and even art galleries. Every business in the city, big and the small, was cutting back wherever they could.
When the strike finally ended, our sighs of relief were tinged with anxiety. Now that it was over, shows would be staffing soon. We were sure that production would ramp right up, wouldn't it?
It didn't. When the cameras began to roll again, they rolled in Atlanta, in Vancouver, in New Orleans. Lured by tax benefits, lower overhead and a more docile workforce, both the big studios and the small indie production companies took their work out of Hollywood and into the hinterlands.
I scoured my Linked-In page and industry publications like Variety and Deadline every day, looking for any kind of tip that would lead to work. Abbie and I both stayed on the phone pestering friends and acquaintances, practically begging for any kind freelance assignment. We watched our savings dwindle, the envelopes with the pink past-due notices piling up. Our fancy cars, Abbie's BMW, my Audi, had become albatrosses. They would soon have to go.
We'd been married for five years. With the exception of one rough patch--an affair that Abbie had had with a work colleague--we had had a fairly idyllic marriage. We liked to hang out together and enjoyed working on the house, planting and pruning in the garden, cooking together in our kitchen and listening to music. We had both gravitated to the film industry out of a love for movies, and we went to as many independent film screenings as our schedule allowed. We could both quote lines from our favorite films and often worked movie references into our conversations.
With both of us out of work, we found ourselves together all of the time, rattling around our house in the hills just east of Hollywood, cooking our own meals, pinching pennies wherever possible. I was starting to gain a bit of weight from all the pasta we were eating. We began to get on each other's nerves.
When the strike began and neither of us had to put up with the insane hours that our jobs required, we were fucking like bunnies. I can remember the first Monday morning when both of us were unemployed. My eyes opened up before 6 am, as they always did. I looked at the clock and remembered that I didn't have to be anywhere that day, and I rolled over to Abbie, cupping her breast. She murmured in her half sleep, then turned toward me with a feeble, female complaint.
"I'm still sleeping," she said, her eyes closed, a sexy half-smile on her face.
I scooted my hip just a few inches in her direction, until my morning erection was brushing against her naked ass.
"Oooh, somebody's awake early this morning," she said, her voice still heavy with sleep.
I pressed my hips forward to squeeze my cock more closely against her skin and she responded by gently rolling her bum against it. Her skin felt like silk. It was a delicious sensation.
"The early bird gets the worm," I said.
"The only worm in this house is rubbing against my ass at the moment," said Abbie. "And that worm has got to be a little patient. This bird needs to brush her teeth."
For a few weeks, sex was fun and frequent. Abbie was an inventive bed partner and took delight in trying new positions, new ways for both of us to find pleasure. Evening sex was usually short and intense. Morning sex was more languid, more inventive. She'd edge me with her tongue, her mouth on my cock for over 15 minutes, squeezing the base and removing all pressure when she felt I was about to cum. She could keep me going for 15 or 20 minutes before allowing my orgasm. I reciprocated, going down on her for as long as it took, with and without a finger or two in her ass. We were enjoying each other. We were having fun.
But as the weeks wore on, money worries and repetition inevitably overtook our sex drives. It's not that I loved her or desired her less. It was more like we needed something other than sex to keep our marriage buoyant. And we were becoming frightened. Two months after the strike had ended, our financial situation was becoming dire and a blanket of gloom began to settle over our bedroom. We were fucking less frequently and enjoying it less.
We were barely making our mortgage and Abbie's BMW payments were three months behind. On a Friday morning, Abbie set out on an errand but returned from the driveway shrieking. "Scott, my car is missing!"
It had finally happened. Abbie's beloved BMW had been re-possessed. I did my best to console her. "It's going to turn around, I promise. And you'll see, we'll get you a new car. A BMW, if that's what will make you happy. It's all going to be OK."
On a Monday afternoon, we were out in the garden, pruning roses. Gardening was something we liked to do together, and both of us prized our collection of beautiful English rosebushes. Abbie's cell phone rang, and she walked off a few steps to take it. She wore a bright smile when she returned.
"It's a job! Not a great job, but I finally have some hair and make-up work," she said.
The gig was over at Half Moon Productions, an independent, low-rent studio known for churning out a hodge-podge of cheap horror films and soft-core porn, mostly for international markets. They had a couple of surprise hits over the years with the sci-fi/horror film, "Zombie Moon Mission" and the horror/porn "Wolves In The Cat House," but most of their films just slipped into the obscurity of international videos, the fading DVD market and streaming services in far-flung markets where they were roughly dubbed into languages and dialects most people had never heard of. Somehow, they found enough of an audience to warrant producing a new picture every two or three weeks with no-name actors and non-union crews.
"It's three weeks' work, and maybe another show after this one wraps" said Abbie. "Not great money, but at least I'll be able to buy us some groceries and help a little with the mortgage. Hey, it's work! It's going to be nice just to have somewhere to go to every morning."
The picture was a soft-core porn production called "February Sucks," an adaption of a story that had apparently developed a cult following on an internet sex story site. In the story, a married couple sets out on a date, intending for an evening of erotic re-connection. They start their night out with dinner and dancing, but when local celebrity, football star Marc Lavalierre, asks for a dance with the wife, she abandons her husband and is whisked away for a night of hot sex. She returns, unrepentant, the following day. The studio was doubling their usual budget for this picture. They signed two famous porn actors, Windy Edwards, for the female lead and Don Laramie, for the guy. Abbie's job would largely consist of doing the two stars' hair and make-up.
I was surprised when Abbie told me about the film's cast. You didn't have to know much about porn to have heard about those two. They were two of the most famous actors in the adult film business. "Those are hard-core porn actors," I said. "I thought Half Moon only did soft-core stuff."
"I heard they have big investors on this one. Some rich middle eastern guys who loved the story, and want to see it on film. Probably nobody is going to see this picture outside of some pervy guys in Dubai or somewhere"
"You've never done a porn film before. Do you have to style their pubes?' I teased.
"I'm pretty sure she's bald down there," said Abbie. "And it would be fun to style his junk. You're not going to get jealous, are you?'" she teased. "He's done hundreds of films. I'm sure he'll be very professional."
"I had a momentary twinge, remembering Abbie's affair from a few years back. She had had a weakness, a lapse in fidelity, But I was confident that she'd been faithful in the years that passed since then. I had no reason to doubt that she'd remain loyal to our marriage.
I read the story on the Literotica website but couldn't figure out how they would turn the piece into a workable porn script. There were two sex scenes, a very long one with the football player, a shorter one with the husband, who was to be played by Windy Edwards' real-life husband, Jeff Longfellow. "Oh, they've spiced up the story a bit," said Abbie. "And they've brought in one of the porn industry's top directors, Vince Napolitano, to write and direct it."
I didn't know much about the porn industry. It doesn't really intersect too much with mainstream production. But even I had heard of Vince Napolitano. He was a flamboyant fellow, a former manager of a bigtime rock band, and he had partnered, for a time, with the of a high-tech consortium that included adult websites in its portfolio. He had even acted in some of his soft-core films, allegedly for the opportunity to display his considerable anatomy to potential bedmates.
Since Abbie no longer had a car, I drove her to the set for the first day of shooting. Half Moon Productions was housed in a former warehouse in an industrial section of northeast Los Angeles, close by some garment factories and a wholesale auto parts facility. The stage was surrounded by a high chain link fence and the gate was manned by a security guard, who took our names and checked them against a list on his clipboard before waving us through.
Although it had been re-purposed from its original use, the interior looked like every other sound stage I had worked in: the high ceilings rigged with truss scaffolding supporting LED and Fresnel lights. The room was cold and drafty, cooler, somehow, than it ought to have been on an April morning. Scattered here and there were some props from previous productions. Some of them were comically odd: enormous vegetables with teeth, realistically fashioned from Styrofoam, a dummy with its intestines hanging out, various other artifacts from the studio's horror productions.The walls were lined with acoustic panels for soundproofing and the show's gaffers and set designers were scurrying around getting ready for the morning's first shot. Three sets, created with plywood walls, were already dressed: a table and a dance floor in a section of a nightclub and two bedrooms. It was all so very familiar to me and reminded me how much I missed the daily routine of film production. I saw an Arri Alexa camera mounted on a tripod, a pretty high-end camera for a low-rent studio. A good choice for low light, I thought. There was one element that seemed unusual. Facing one of the bedrooms, some bleachers had been erected. I couldn't figure out why there'd be bleachers on a sound stage, especially one that would probably be functioning as a closed set.
