The Art of the Deal

[al****]

The first time I really noticed her, she was perched on the rim of a bathtub at a gangbang. She wasn’t a performer, just the friend of the headliner getting railed, there to play the role of moral support. We might have said hi at the start, if a nod across a crowded room counts as a greeting, but I barely registered her. Not until I stepped into the bathroom during a break between rounds and saw her sitting cross-legged, scrolling through her phone, while thirty guys waited for their turn in the next room.

I'd already done my part, left my own souvenirs. The first round was a quick *** shot across the face, leaving her friend gasping, dripping, eyes blinking against the sting. The second round was doggy, hands locked on her hips like the handles of a machine, with shot number two across her back. The finale was the crowd-pleaser. She's on her back, with that theatrical pout, telling me to fill her up, so I do, a messy, no-regrets creampie, as if signing my name deep inside her.

Once I'm done, I leave it to the B-listers. So I'm heading for a towel, figuring I'll wipe myself down and catch my breath. That's when I notice her watching me from the tub, chin propped on her hand, that half-smile twisting up like she's savoring a private joke.

Her blonde hair hangs loose, framing her face in soft, messy strands that make you want to brush them back to see what else she's hiding. Her eyes, a pale, steely blue, track me, unblinking, as if she's watching the credits roll on a show she doesn't want to end. I pull the towel across myself, wiping off what's left of tonight's star, and she keeps watching, a hint of something wicked in her expression.

"I think I've seen all your videos," she says, her smile stretching just a bit wider, her tone light but edged with something sharper. "I love your work."

"You make any yourself?" I ask, tossing her a grin, casual, as if the question could float away with the steam.

She shifts, almost sheepish. "No," she says, voice catching a bit. "I've got a son... so, you know, don't think I could ever make porn."

"That's a shame." I toss the towel into the sink, letting it hang there, and let myself stand there bare, casual, her eyes flicking down for half a second. Her pupils widen just slightly; there's a spark under all that nervousness, a thrill she's trying to keep in check.

She breaks into this huge grin, way too big to be coy. "I'd totally fuck you, though," she says, words tumbling out like she can't hold them back.

I chuckle. "That's a shame," I say, letting the grin settle. "I only fuck on camera."

She pouts, playing right along. "So I've heard."

The tension hums between us, buzzing just under the surface. Her hands start rubbing against her jeans, like she's trying to wipe away the nerves. And me, I'm watching every detail, every flick of her hair, drawn into the idea of her, untouchable yet right here, wrapped in that invisible line of the forbidden.

I lean in, let my smile widen. "You know," I say, voice low, like I'm sharing a secret, "I think I'm spent. Don't have another round in me." A pause, just long enough for her to believe it. "But... if you put those cute lips around my cock, maybe you'd help me find one more for the shoot."

She fires back instantly, barely skipping a beat, "I would, but I don't want anyone else thinking I'd blow them, too."

That does it. That thrill, the rush of something new, something singularly hers, pulses through me, sharp and electric, igniting that familiar rush. I grab her arm, that grin still plastered on her face as I guide her to the doorway. Out in the hall, the men stand, naked and waiting, a line of bodies ready for their turn, oblivious.

I raise my voice, a glint of excitement slipping through. "I need everyone's attention!" They all look, eyes drawn to me. "This girl's about to blow me, and I need you all to understand, she's mine."

They don't question it, just the ripple of acknowledgment passing through the line. I don't wait for anything more. They got the message. We slip back into the bathroom, urgency pressing us together, like the whole thing might unravel if we pause to think.

I hop up on the bathroom counter, feeling a jolt of excitement, like a kid who's just been handed the keys to the candy store. I nudge her toward the floor, a slight smirk as I say, "So, you ready to help me out with this?"

She doesn't hesitate. Drops to her knees like she's been waiting for this moment, one hand sliding softly around me, a deep breath filling her lungs before she takes me in. There's a quiet confidence to her, and when she starts, it's like we're in our own world, one where the set and the noise and the stares don't matter.

Doesn't take long before I'm hard again, back to full capacity. I think about telling her to stop, saving it for the scene, but there's this calm that's settled, like a heavy blanket over us. The bathroom is quiet, just her, me, the heat between us. A couple of guys wander in, lean against the doorframe, watching the show like they're staring at a rare piece of art. Doesn't matter. It's like we're on another planet, orbiting somewhere else entirely, just me and her.

I'm close. That edge where pleasure teeters on the knife blade, where you almost can't handle it. I catch one of the guys' eyes, motion for him to go tell the director I'll be ready when he is.

Then the photographer, curious, steps in, camera in hand, snapping a few shots before she can even think twice. The flash bounces off the tiles, and for a second, she gets shy, her hand moving to cover her face.

"It's okay," I tell her, voice low. "Nothing happens with those photos unless you say so."

Her hand lingers, but I give her a look, one that says more than words. "Put your hand down," I command, and she does.

"Look at the camera," I say. She obeys, her stare meeting the lens, wide and unblinking, holding something that's both defiant and exposed, like a trapped *** weighing the threat against a thread of trust. There's an intensity there, a flicker of vulnerability shadowed by something raw and guarded, as if the camera could see all the way in if she dared to let it.

"Stick out your tongue, lick the tip." She responds instantly, her tongue slipping forward, pink and glistening, a flash of warmth against the cool air, tracing a slow line with a deliberate touch. Her lips part slightly, naturally flushed, the edges curved into something almost defiant but restrained, as if every motion is calculated. Wisps of blonde hair fall loosely around her face, framing her expression, strands brushing her cheeks and crossing her gaze without ever hiding it. Her hair catches the light just enough to give it a slight sheen, softening her intensity but never diminishing it.

Then one of the crew pokes his head in. "AleXxX, you're up."

I nod, signaling that I'm on my way. I look back down at her, meeting her steady, patient expression. "Open your mouth," I tell her. She does, wide and ready, waiting. I grab the base, tap my head against her tongue a few times, gentle and deliberate.

"Good girl," I murmur, feeling the words as I turn and head for the door, leaving her there as I step back onto the set, ready to finish the shoot.

The second time we crossed paths was two weeks later, a Saturday, noon sharp, the earliest the hotel would let us check in. Sara had set the whole thing up, bringing in three other starlets, all here to churn out content, build up their sites. The guys? Just me and Dave. The others in the room? My camera guy, and her, the blonde, the one with that relentless smile. She practically skips over, flashing her clean bill of health like it’s a golden ticket. "I brought this for you," she says, handing it over with a grin, "just in case."

The day blurs by in a carousel of bodies and lights. Scene after scene, breaks filled with smoke and laughter, a couple of beers passed around, greasy pizza boxes piling up on the nightstand. Hours bleed together until the sun slips below the skyline, shadows stretching long across the room. By the time we're calling it, I'm six orgasms deep, every muscle thrumming with exhaustion. I crash onto the bed, flat on my back, feeling the weight of the day press down like a lead blanket.

Eyes closed, exhausted, I feel her presence before I see her, a shadow, a whisper of movement at the foot of the bed, then her warmth settling around me, soft and inviting, coaxing me back to life.

My brain switches off, letting go of all the rules, the endless calculations. Just her and the way her mouth moves, like she’s weaving a spell, slowing everything down, my heartbeat steadying. I stay in that darkness, letting the moment drift. If I open my eyes, it becomes real. And if it’s real, I’ll have to slip back into control, lay down the rules, step back into the game I know.

So I keep my eyes closed, holding on to the quiet.

Then she pauses. Maybe teasing, maybe finished, and I take a deep breath, bracing myself to look, ready to snap back. But before I can, there’s this sudden wetness at the tip, a press, her tightness enveloping me, inch by inch, her body claiming every part of me as she eases down.

I hear her gasp, a small, breathless "Oh my God," as her body takes me in, inch by inch. My toes curl, a jolt shooting through every nerve. She’s snug, gripping me with an intensity that’s almost overwhelming, and I don’t want her to stop. Not this time.

Her voice pulls me back, breaks the trance. "How are you going to film if you can see me?"

From somewhere in the room, Sara's voice responds, "I won't get your face on camera."

I open my eyes. Every person in the room, watching with a kind of fascination, like they’re seeing porn for the first time. And it’s strange, because these are industry people. Veterans. But something about this scene, the way we’re tangled up, has them glued to the edge of their seats.

Instinct kicks in, feeding off the room's energy. I feel this compulsion to put on a show. My arm slips around her waist, and we spin, her back sinking into the bed. I tap her clit twice before easing back inside her, slower than usual. She's tight, almost too tight, and I'm working my way in inch by inch, feeling her warmth, my hands holding her thighs wide to give the camera the perfect angle.

It doesn't take long. She gasps, "Fuck," her hand slapping the hotel wall like she's trying to stop herself from floating away, gripping onto something solid to slow down the current ripping through her. But it's no use. Her first orgasm hits fast and hard, like her body is desperate for it, or maybe we're just wired perfectly for each other. Her moans, sharp and guttural, fill the room, spilling into the hallways, maybe even down to the lobby. It's raw, pure, more than making porn, it's something electric.

There's no need to change the scene, no new angle. What's working is working too well, so I anchor myself, pounding with a steady, unrelenting tempo. Her body arches, spasms, her climax rolling through her again and again, and all I hear is her, filling the room with these sounds, making the air thick with it. The audience is silent, riveted, like we're the only people in the world.

As her wave of orgasms starts to ebb, I shift her legs to wrap around my hips, adjust myself, driving deep, slowing the pace. My balls swing with each thrust, landing with a measured beat against her asshole below, each contact sending a jolt through her, pushing her closer to something wild, uncharted. Four*** minutes in, her chest heaving, heart racing, she's been stretched to her limit, her body pushed into a place she's never been.

I lean down, my mouth at her neck, her pulse beating hard beneath her skin, tasting her as her lips part, a soft sigh escaping. She licks her lips, lost in it, her body humming under me, and I'm lost too, in a moment that feels like it could go on forever.

"You like that big dick in your tight pussy?" I whisper, low and close, as if we're the only two people here, as if it's just a private conversation between us.

She nods, biting back a sound, her focus unwavering, and in that look, there’s a glint, an understanding. I kiss her, close enough to spark, to feel it, a silent fuse lit between us before I pull back. Now, it’s my turn. I’m all drive, chasing my own end.

She's reaching out, fingers groping for Sarah, who's waiting, hands ready to lock. The two of them, their hands tangled, fingers white-knuckled together. My first finish hits, hard, but even as I start to slow, catching my breath, there's a part of me still alive, still pulsing, and I know I'm not done. Not yet. She's mouthing to Sarah, "Oh my God," fanning her face with a smile that hits me somewhere deep. I love it.

My hand finds her shoulder as I brace for support, starting again, deeper. She's rubbing herself, moving to match, and I tighten my hand around her neck, feeling her pulse beneath my fingers as I thrust harder, chasing my own close.

And then she screams, loud, breathless, a firework. "Not so much," she gasps.

"Oh? I thought you wanted it harder," I tease, easing up just a fraction, watching her.

"Yeah, but..." she falters, but then her face shifts, this mix of rebellion and need, "I haven't complained this whole time."

My hips find a rhythm, our words blending into the pulse of movement. "Softer or harder?" I ask, half-demand, half-offer.

"Little bit softer," she manages.

"Okay." My voice drops, leaning into the cadence. "Nice and easy."

Maybe it's because I've cum so much tonight, or maybe it's just the way she keeps reaching for Sara's hand, clutching it like she's never felt anything like this. That look on her face tells me she hasn't. I'm the first to put her here, to watch her fall apart and gather herself back together with me still pushing, still driving, while my end stays just out of reach.

"You want me to cum?" I ask, edging closer just by hearing her beg.

"Yes," she breathes, the plea drawing me in, a spark of urgency that drags me closer.

"Then say it," I tell her, a little closer, words tight with the strain. "Say, 'AleXxX, I want you to come for me, please.'"

She’s panting, her face a beautiful mess, twisted somewhere between desire and delirium. “I can’t take it,” she says, her voice cracking, a trace of real desperation breaking through.

I slow, lean in, tilting her chin up just enough to catch her eyes. “Serious, or just playing it up?” I ask, close enough that she can feel the words as much as hear them.

Her face, flushed and unguarded, says it all, and she breathes out, almost whispering, “No, I’m serious.” And that’s it. That look on her face, like this is too much, like maybe she won’t make it.

This isn’t about holding out or dragging out the end. It’s about giving her a mercy release, a way to close the night, something gentler. I pull back just enough, let the final wave take over, spilling across her face in a quiet act that ends it, the last goodbye to a night she swore she wouldn’t survive. It’s not about exhaustion; it’s about preserving what’s left of us here before it spills into something uncontainable.

Sara’s promise not to catch her face on camera drifts up, like smoke, forgotten somewhere between the lens and her hands. And now? Now we’ve got forty-eight minutes of pure, unfiltered memory, the kind you’d lock up in a vault. A masterpiece, really, one I need to keep.

But she holds the keys and hasn’t given them up, lying there, stretched out, half-buried in the sheets, barely awake, eyes heavy with the haze. She murmurs, “I don’t think I can.”

I drop to my knees, hands clasped in mock desperation. “Please,” I beg, thick with want. “Sign the model release form. I know I’ll want to share this.”

She hesitates, her expression shifting as she weighs her response, and then her words hit like a curveball: "Six months of that dick. Minimum."

I reel back, letting her offer hang in the air, savoring the weight of it before I speak. “Once a week,” I tell her, each word deliberate, “but only if you promise my needs come first. Always.”

Her eyebrow lifts, intrigued, playful. "And what is it that you want?" she asks, the words slipping out slow, daring.

I slide the release form across the sheets, flicking the pen her way. "Anything and everything," I say, holding her gaze, confident.

She takes her time, eyes glancing over each line, every printed word like she's deciding her fate. Name, address, phone number, date. She's there, pen poised over the signature, but then she looks up, face unreadable. Her hand drifts down, fingers brushing my shaft, a promise, a demand. "You swear to give me six months?" Her voice barely more than a whisper, her fingers trailing just enough to remind me who holds the last card.

I keep steady, my heart pounding from the thrill, the edge of negotiation. "As long as you meet my needs first," I tell her, not breaking the look, feeling the possibility teetering between us. The tape, this deal, it's all on the line.

That smile again, a flicker of triumph as her pen moves, leaving her mark, the signature sealing the pact. “Deal,” she breathes, her voice soft but laced with as much promise as it holds surrender.

We shake on it, a vow inked in lust and hunger, the start of something bound by an agreement, wild and wonderful.

[al****]

I felt there was so much intensity in this chapter that I had to upload two videos onto my profile from the day that inspired this chapter and a picture!