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Asking For It
     
    Lana Laye
     
    Smashwords Edition
     
    Copyright © 2011 by Lana
Laye
    Cover Model: Lana Laye
     
    Smashwords Edition, License
Notes
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    * * *
     
     
     
     
    The lights were too bright, the air too
thin. I was tired, sore, and ready to go home. But I hadn't even
made it to my dressing room, the taste of cum still in my mouth and
sweat dripping down the small of my back and the insides of my
thighs, when one of the production assistants, a cute little Asian
girl named Naomi, hailed me in that soft yet insistent way that is
typical of people who are too sweet to be anywhere near a porn
set.
    "Ms. Laye?"
    I sighed, couldn't help it. My body
felt as if I'd been dropped from the tenth floor of the Chrysler
Building. I was sticky and every muscle ached. I turned, offered a
smile, because whatever she needed was probably not her fault, and
she didn't look as if it gave her any pleasure to interrupt
me.
    "Hi," I said, my voice hoarse. Sucking
three cocks for two hours will do that.
    She was clutching a clipboard. The
perfect image of a fish out of water. Why she needed one was beyond
me. Her hair was tied back in a stubby little ponytail, and her
breasts were small flat lumps beneath her pink and white striped
T-shirt. I envied her, though I'd never admit it. As a well-endowed
porn star (36DD, and real), what I have is considered a great
asset, and to moan about that or express envy about the less
well-endowed would be potentially damaging. Only my cat, Kaylie,
hears the truth about what an utter hindrance my tits are, and
listens to me moaning about the strain they put on my
back.
    I felt that same pain now, a dull ache
between my shoulder blades, but straightened so they were at their
maximum effect, because that's what's expected of me. Naomi's eyes
flickered to them only briefly. Everybody's does, whether they're
gay, straight, or asexual. They draw the eye. That used to thrill
me. Now I hardly notice. I have considered getting my eyeballs
implanted in my nipples so that for the first time in eight years
of doing porn, I'd get looked in the eye when people are talking to
me.
    Naomi saw me noticing her and blushed.
I wondered if perhaps she was a little gay, or a lot gay. She was
certainly intimidated by me, but that kind of a reaction always
puzzled me. I fuck for a living, I'm hardly Angelina Jolie or the
Queen of England. Save your idolatry for the royals, folks. We're
just people. And some of us don't even classify as
people.
    "Ken wants to see you in his office,"
Naomi told me, clutching the clipboard to her chest now, as if
ashamed to be so poorly endowed in the face of my two sweat and
cum-slicked cannonballs. I resisted the urge to assure her she was
better off, and wished I'd had time to get a robe. I get no thrill
from seeing people feeling bad about what they've got and I hate to
see them embarrassed in front of me. The stories I could tell
them.
    "What about?" I asked her.
    She shrugged and made an apologetic
face. "I don't know, but he said it'll only take a
minute."
    "Okay, thanks Naomi," I
said.
    She nodded, still blushing and moved
away, back into the glaring supernova of lights and the deep
shadows that hunkered around them. I glanced over at the set, to
the rickety piece-of-shit bed they had set up. It was meant to look
Victorian, though I doubted people in that era had gotten their
pillows at Bed, Bath & Beyond, and I'm even more certain that
they hadn't had tags sticking out of them. A few feet from the bed
stood a plywood backdrop, upon which had been