Sissy Pornstar Pt. 01
The camera clicks and he tells me to pull the straps higher. I slip my thumbs under the black g-string straps, pull upward, and look back at the camera. I pout my lips. Soft hip-hop plays in the background, the beat mixing with my high to create a quiet pulse in my head. Over the cameraman's shoulder there's a large screen where the pictures he's taking show up for a few seconds. It helps me work the camera. I pull the g-string higher, the thin strap rubbing against my bleached asshole making my dick twitch.
It's a glamour shoot, nothing too intense but I'm still anxious. I've never done professional work, only selfies on forums and porn sites. I stare longingly over my shoulder at the camera, trying my best orgasm face, copying what I see on Instagram.
"That's it whore, now stroke your ass," says the cameraman.
I roll my eyes. "I told you not to call me that," I say.
He smirks behind the camera, perpetually chapped lips pulling back over yellowed teeth. His name is Roy, which seems fitting for such a gross middle-aged man. "My fault. You're right. You're not a whore," he says.
With my right hand I stroke my right ass cheek. My long painted white nails glide across the smooth tanned flesh of my ass.
"Good slut, work the camera," Roy says.
I don't say anything, just look up at the ceiling as I put my fingers underneath each ass cheek and press up, making my already round ass look plump and inviting. The cameraman's a creep, but it's just for a few hours and the money is too good.
That's the whole reason I'm here; that's why I'm shaved and oiled, my eyes painted gold and purple with massive fake lashes, my lips covered in gloss, my body covered by nothing save a black g-string, a green mesh crop-top, black knee-high stiletto boots, and a black leash. The leash doesn't count as clothing—it was a cute accessory.
I've been cross-dressing in secret for a few months, occasionally posting a picture without my face when I wanted the attention. The mixture of liberation and degradation is indescribable, and as a straight white male it makes my head swim. The idea of not being a man for a few hours, of leaving behind all the responsibilities and instead becoming a sex object is too enticing to put into words.
Roy and I found each other through one of these forums where I realized he was a photographer I followed on instagram. He takes really slutty photos of strippers and escorts who want to make themselves internet famous. He explained that he has a special client, a network of gentleman, willing to pay handsomely for these types of pictures. The catch was that they preferred men. Straight men earned even more. The men have a private, members only website, where the pictures are posted for purchase.
I wasn't sure about doing actual pornographic content, even solo glamour work like this. When the check cleared though, and I realized that for a few hours work I would pay rent and actually put money into savings for the first time, I couldn't pass up the offer.
"Bend over and show that ass. Yeah, baby, grip your heels. Good, good. Show the client's that you're a sexy slut. Now come up slow. That's right. No. Back down you little slut. Good. Let that leash fall down between your cheeks. How's that metal chain feel on your ass," Roy says, laughing.
Roy gives orders constantly, the whole time leering at me from behind his camera. I try to think of the clients, the men paying my rent, but all I can see is the vile cameraman. I'm not sure what I had expected, but certainly not this ogre. He's average height and overweight, with his belly hanging over his belt. Roy's hair is thinning and bald on top, but he insists on a greasy comb over which is only made worse by the ponytail he sports. Saying he has jowls is unfair, but his cheeks and neck are certainly flabby. Patchy stubble sits on his face and makes a neck beard. Despite being a fashionable photographer, Roy wears a striped polo tucked into cargo shorts with white New Balance sneakers.
He wears a massive, gaudy high school football ring on his finger. The blue gemstone is the size of my knuckle but looks small on Roy's fat, sausage fingers.
"Doing so good. Whore yourself out to the camera baby," says Roy. He smiles and winks, knowing how annoyed I am by that word. He's a disgusting creep who smells like cheese and sausage and gets off on these photo shoots. Being behind that camera is the only way he gets close enough to anyone, male or female, who looks this good.
I'd been disgusted by him since the moment I walked into the studio. He leered at me like meat, knowing how lucky he was to be in control of my body for the next few hours. I'd gone into the changing room and shuddered at the outfit options. I knew I'd be wearing something slutty, but seeing the choices, it had suddenly dawned on me that I was choosing an outfit for Roy. There were lingerie sets, sling thongs, bodysuits, skirts, bras, mesh outfits, really any costume you've seen in a porno. As I looked through the outfits, I realized that Roy would know I'd picked an outfit for his enjoyment. There was no way to deny that whatever I wore would be enjoyed by Roy first and foremost. For a few hours I was putting on a show for Roy, degrading myself for his amusement.
I'd kept the thin silk robe wrapped around my body as long as possible, unwilling to give Roy even a second extra to view me in this humiliating state. He'd only grinned knowingly, probably used to his models attempting to hide themselves until the last moment, until they had no other choice but to display themselves for Roy's pleasure, to submit to his lecherous gaze.
That's when he had first used the word "whore." He had told me to drop the robe and called me a "good whore" when I did. I'd immediately told him not to call me that and had said it with some force. Roy had just given his bemused smile.
"Alright, you're a cute slut. Now turn forward and squat. Yes, that's it, legs spread wider. Now down onto your knees and sit up straight. Good. You look so pretty like that. Yeah let the chain hang there. Cute slut," says Roy.
I pout at the camera, mouth open, body on display, but its impossible to look past Roy. Yes there are clients paying for these pictures, but right now it's just me and Roy. I'm on my knees in a g-string posing for Roy. I'm behaving like a vapid bimbo, showing off my ass, staring longingly and lustfully into the camera. It's all at Roy's direction.
"Arch your back like a real bimbo. Ass high in the air," says Roy. I do as I'm told. I spread my hips wide, bend my back, and lift my ass up into the air. On the screen, I see myself posed in this degrading position. I'm on display like an animal.
"Hold it like that you slut," Roy commands. He's excited by this pose. My dick twitches as Roy licks his lips.
"Can you relax with the name calling?" I ask.
I see my picture enlarged on the screen, my eyes rolling and my face turning away from the camera. I look dismissive and annoyed. Roy loves it. He tells me to push my face to the floor and I do as instructed. My arms are spread out long so my whole nearly naked form is stretched and elongated. The two perfect round orbs of my ass sit up high, the black string cutting an enticing barrier down the center.
"Now lick the floor," says Roy.
I don't hesitate, kissing the white tiled floor twice before adding a little tongue.
"No, not like that slut. Stick that tongue out and lick it like a pornstar," says Roy.
I lift my head up and stare back at Roy. I want to imagine I look defiant, but a quick glance on the big screen shows nothing but a sex toy glaring into the camera. I gather up my dignity, whatever I have considering I'm on my hands and knees in a thong and leash arguing with a middle-aged man about how to lick a floor. I blink hard because of the oversized lashes.
"I told you to stop with the name calling," I say.
"What you don't like it?" Roy says. He uses a mocking tone that makes my stomach hot. "Your little dick seems to be into it," he says.
It's true, I'm rock hard.
"Go on and lick the floor," says Roy. I wait to see if he's going to add any degrading names, but Roy seems satisfied with the fact that I'm being obedient. I follow his instructions, dipping my head down and lapping at the floor, dragging my wet tongue across the tile in slow deliberate strokes. I shut my eyes, imagine licking ice cream, until Roy gives me the command to look into the camera. I meet the camera, lusty eyes staring back at Roy as I run my tongue across his floor.
Roy gives his next direction with a wide smile. "Now sit up back on your heels. Excellent. Stick out your tongue and let the saliva drip. Drool and spit onto the floor. That's it, make a little puddle," he says.
My tongue, wet from the tongue bath I gave Roy's floor, drips spit in small droplets. I see myself on the screen, an empty sex toy, a drooling object meant to entice men's pleasure. It makes me sick, but I persist, the lure of money letting me swallow my pride.
Roy shakes his head. He's unsatisfied and puts the camera down for a moment. I watch him chew on the inside of his mouth as he stares at me, his tongue and teeth moving behind his closed lips. He does this for almost thirty seconds, and by the time I realize what's about to happen it's too late to even consider formulating a protest.
I watch in disgust as Roy comes closer, his salami-like body odor now enhanced by his arousal. I'm reminded that he's not a neutral observer. No, not at all. In his eyes I'm a slut on display, beholden to his whims.
Roy spits several times onto the floor in front of me, making a thicker puddle. It's a mixture of clear saliva and more yellowish mucus.
"Now lick that off my floor," says Roy.
"No way," I answer.
"You better suck up that puddle before it dries."
"I'm not licking your spit off the floor," I say. It feels like some kind of last stand, like Roy is firing a shot to see how far he can push. I know how ridiculous I must look protesting his commands. I'm on my hands and knees like a bitch in heat, an amusing piece of ass prancing around Roy's studio. I can see in Roy's eyes that my defiance is nothing but funny.
Roy shrugs. "Fine, then I'll just stop the shoot and tell my clients that you couldn't fulfill the contract. You'll pay the advance back and I'll find another whore. Not a problem," he says. Then he stares at me, waiting for my next move. I can't give up the money. I'm making as much right now as I would all month at my job. My lip quivers and I look away in shame, knowing what comes next.
"Or, do you want to continue?" Roy asks.
"I want to continue," I whisper.
"Say 'please let me continue Roy'."
I bite my lower lip. "Please let me continue, Roy," I say.
"Say 'please let me lick the spit off your floor, Roy'."
The words get stuck in my mouth. I try a few times, gulp hard, and then say it, letting my dignity go. There's no point in having dignity in a place like this.
"Please let me lick the spit off the floor, Roy," I say.
I hear a grumble in Roy's throat and then watch as a fresh, thick glob of spit joins the now sizable puddle. "Then lick all that up." Pause. He looks directly at me and says the words with the strength of someone who knows he's in control. "Slut," he finishes.
I bend forward, the scent of Roy's mucus and saliva now in my nostrils. There are bubbles in the spit, and streaks of yellowish liquid. My stomach rolls and I gulp hard before sticking out my tongue for the first lick.
"Perfect. Lick that all up," says Roy. "Make my floor clean." Another pause as I await the inevitable signal of his dominance. "Dumb slut," says Roy.
I take a long lick across the puddle, slurping the thick saliva into my mouth. Not waiting for the next insurrection, I swallow Roy's spit and then immediately return to the puddle. I suck and slurp, drinking Roy's spit from the floor. I try to make it go quickly, but I know that if Roy doesn't get the pictures he wants he'll make me do it again. I circle the spit puddle with my tongue, and then suck up from the middle. A thick, yellow strand of mucus is stuck to the floor. I slurp hard, then stare into the camera as I suck down the last of Roy's spit.
"That was great slut," he says. I don't even protest the word. I just want to get this over with and leave. The contract was for a two hour shoot, so I've got about an hour left. After begging Roy to let me lick his spit off the floor, I'm sure I can swallow my pride and do whatever else is required to finish.
"Alright now play with the leash like a good petgirl," says Roy. To Roy I probably am a girl because for a misogynistic pig like Roy a girl is just an object. A girl is a toy for sexual amusement. To Roy, any trace of my manhood was gone the moment I walked into his studio. He snaps pictures, moving closer, as I pose with the leash, pulling it around my body.
Roy tells me to turn around and I do so, dropping my face to the floor. My asshole is open and on display, the single strap of the g-string barely hiding my dignity. I let the leash fall to my side, stretching forward. I hear the camera clicks and Roy's heavy breathing as he comes closer. I imagine the clients receiving these pictures, thinking I put on this show for them. None of them will know it was for Roy; none of them will understand that for two hours I was Roy's plaything.
I feel the leash tighten a bit and realize Roy's now holding the other end. A shudder passes over my spine. The leash has been a cute prop, something to complete the outfit and add a little naughtiness. In the costume room there had been animal ears, tails, gloves, hats, and all sorts of accessories. I chose the leash. And Roy knows I chose the leash.
The chain tightens in Roy's hand and I feel the pressure against my neck. Roy is holding my leash. I don't breathe for a moment and I'm unsure if my heart is working. It's hard to process. Roy—this fat, disgusting, middle-aged creep—has me on a leash.
"Let's go for a walk, pretty slut," says Roy.
He starts to move and I follow behind, crawling on my hands and knees as Roy pulls the leash. The word degradation barely explains what I feel in that moment. It's hard to describe what its like to submit in such a way to another man, let alone someone you find so repulsive. I try to stare at the screen where the pictures are visible. All the images show is me on all fours on a leash, no Roy in sight. But I would always know. Worse, Roy would know. He would always have this moment where he walked me around his studio on a leash, and I said nothing, made no protest, showed not the slightest ounce of self-respect.
"Heel," says Roy with a pull of the leash.
"I'm not a fucking dog," I say.
Roy grunts. "Be a shame to stop the shoot now," he says. "So be an obedient little bitch and heel."
I want to pull away and escape. I want to kick Roy in his fat stomach, call him a disgusting pathetic asshole, and leave him lying on the floor writhing in pain. I want to knock him to the floor and then spit on his face. I fantasize about kicking him with the stilettos and then drowning him in spit. How would he like being coerced into swallowing my spit?
I do none of that.
I heel.
"Sit," says Roy.
I follow the command like the obedient slut I am. Just a little while longer and I can leave this place with enough money to go on vacation all month.
Roy puts the leash down for a moment and tells me not to move. He brings the camera over to a tripod and sets it up. I watch my image on the screen, a dumb porn bimbo sitting pretty.
He comes back and grabs the leash, pulling me tight against his leg. "Now look up at me. Come on baby, look at me like you love me," says Roy.
The leash pulls against my neck so I'm forced to stare up into his face. I can see the screen. I can see myself looking with abject devotion up at Roy. It's a pitiful, disgraceful display. He pulls a bit harder, elongating my neck.
"Good whore," he says.
rn"
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