On Camera

His finger trailed across my boy shorts.

"No," I whispered.

Hadn't we done it enough already?

But I could feel the tingle growing at the base of my spine.

"You need it," he whispered, his finger exploring the elastic.

"Nooo," I moaned, but my body tipped into him slightly.

He had awakened me. The room was pitch dark. I felt the unfamiliar mattress and the satin sheets against my bare back. It had been a wild night, but maybe not as wild as the Honeymoon Suite had seen in its history. Wild enough for me. The tip of his finger slipped under the ridge of the waistband.

"I can't sleep naked," I'd told him, before we turned out the light. The image of his self-satisfied smile the last thing I'd seen before the room went dark. "It's true!" I sounded petulant. He didn't say anything and I slipped the shorts up my legs. My vagina was wet and sticky. Even now I could feel the cool moisture as I tipped up slightly in response to his finger. Two fingers. In my fur. Slowly. Maddeningly slowly, my lips unpeeling, responding to the agonizing progress of those fingers.

"You're on camera," he whispered, his hand moving across my belly, the tips of three fingers rubbing across my bush.

My eyes shot down my body, invisible in the pitch dark, except for a halo of green light on my pelvis, dimly highlighting his hand, half-buried in my underwear. I looked up to see the blind eye of the camera at the foot of the bed.

"No!" I protested, bringing my hands down to stop him.

"That's right," he whispered. "Tell your fans how much you don't want it."

His free hand reached down and peeled my arms up over my head. I moaned again, pushing up against his fingers, bending my waist to reach for those fingers. I could feel the cold and wet on the gusset of the shorts, the record of our lovemaking from earlier in the night. It seemed endless, the climaxes. I'd lost count..."OHH" The tip of his third finger lightly glanced across my clit. I jerked up, my body betraying me. The men. They were watching. Or would be. I moaned again as he pressed more firmly, his knuckles lifting the waistband letting cool air wash across my vagina. I could feel how sticky I was -- a mixture of his cum and my cum.

"Take them off," he whispered, too quietly for the camera to pick up. "Show them what they've signed on to see."

I moaned again in protest, but it just came out as raw sexual need. The hand that had been holding my arms slowly let up, sliding down to my shoulders to stroke my naked breasts. I really couldn't sleep naked, I heard myself arguing with him. I need to cover something. His fingers pushed at my wet entrance, not

into it

, just against it. I pushed back, my clit begging for more pressure.

"Unn unnh," he whispered, waiting. "Naked. Stripped. Exposed. Show them what a hungry slut you are."

I moaned again, a whimper, a wordless plea for him to stroke me. The thought I would be exposed, spread open to hundreds of pairs of eyes, they're hands stroking their cocks. I could feel the moisture building behind my inner lips, beginning to ooze out. I reached my hands down to the waistband, curling my legs up, bending my knees. As I peeled them off, I knew the camera was catching my cheeks, stretched, framing my opening, the curls of hair inadequate to cover myself, my lips, thick from arousal but momentarily pressed together. They would open, traitors to my virtue.

Hah! Virtue. You have no virtue. You are a horny slut.

I slipped the shorts up my legs, then down my feet, letting them drop to the floor. I looked down at the camera, the light cast across my full bush, his fingers resting lightly on me. A headless naked torso. Even my breasts would be lost in the shadow. I looked at the viewfinder -- turned to face us -- the green-gray night-scope play of shadows and highlights on the tiny screen.

"Spread them," he directed into my ear, silent to the camera. "Press your feet together. Let them see what a beautiful cunt you are."

I blushed at his crudity. Blushed and complied, knowing he meant it.

I

was the cunt. Not my vagina. I moved my hands back above my head, stretching my stomach and lifting my breasts. I couldn't tell from the images exactly how much the camera could see. I didn't wait for his instruction, I just knew it was the right thing to do.

"Good girl," he whispered, his fingers moving down. I hated that he called me that. Self-hatred at how it made me feel: submissive, his, as if I was performing for his approval. But it wasn't his approval. It was the watchers'. He was just one of them. In the room with me. His body, naked and wet, pushed against my side. I could feel him hardening and I moaned again at the image of those men. Hundreds of them. Watching him finger fuck me. Watching my hips lift to hungrily reach for more. "Beg me," he whispered. My self-hatred blossomed into unbridled need. I

needed

to debase myself for those men.

Wasn't this bad enough? Just being stripped and spread open?

"OH GOD." He rubbed and pushed against my clit. "PLEASE. Fuck. Please fuck me. Please...yes...yes..oh fuck...yes..." He rubbed gently, firmly. His fingers slippery from my juices, moving into me and out. So maddeningly slowly. 'Please. Don't tease me. Fuck me. Push into me." The camera picked up everything: my hips lifting every time he pulled back, my lips peeled open, exposing my juicy pink interior: a hungry slut begging for release.

After our night on the town, after the multiple orgasms I had laid there listening to his breathing, trying to sleep, exhausted from what we'd done in that bed. I hadn't fallen asleep right away, my body still aroused. I couldn't believe how much I loved him, how good he made me feel. How even when he belittled me he aroused me.

I felt his erection now, hard and hot, pressed against my naked hip. I remembered how it had pierced me. Pushed into me. Hard. Pushed against me at just the right spot. How perfectly we fit together.

"Fuck!" His hand cupped my pubic bone, the base of his fingers pushing and sliding across my slit as two of his fingers snaked into me. "Yes, Mickey! Harder! Fuck yes harder!" I shoved my hips up to meet his hand, spreading my thighs further. The slurping sound as his fingers moved more quickly in and out of me added to my humiliation. The men. Their hands stroking their cocks. Did one of them ejaculate? Another. I moaned, a long hard exhale as I felt my climax building. The image of the boys, hard bodied, young and their cocks hard, their faces open and filled with arousal, their sperm glistening at the top of their holes and then I couldn't contain myself.

"FUCKKK ME!" I clenched against his fingers, my stomach muscles contracting, my hips rising off the bed, the image of those cocks fountaining their sperm as they watched me cumming. And cummng. And cumming. I screamed as his hand kept pulling another climax from me, my pelvis jerking from the intensity. "Please," I whispered. "Please stop." I brought my hands down to gently push against his. "Please," I begged him. "Thank you."

The exhaustion hit me, enveloped me, pulled me under. I moaned again, a sigh only, as I realized I was naked. "My clothes," I breathed out, uncramping my legs.

He turned me on my side, away from him, lifting my top leg, exposing my pussy. I was too tired to protest.

"You'll never have to worry about sleeping uncovered," he whispered, kissing my ear softly. I felt his cock, hard and hot, slipping into me. Deeply, slowly. He held our hands to my mouth, my juices wet and fresh from his fingers slipping between my lips, his arms pressed against my breasts, his body enveloping me.

I moaned at the last words I heard before slipping unconscious, my body thrumming. ""Get some sleep, you need your rest. Your audience will be waiting."