Chapter 6: The Porn Set Interview
The phone buzzed against the polished walnut of the coffee table, a low, insistent thrum that cut through the Sunday morning quiet of Cherry's apartment. She had been curled into the corner of her sofa, a mug of coffee cooling in her hands as she scrolled through headlines on her laptop, still riding the pleasant, bone-deep ache from her afternoon at Big Wrench Garage. Gus had called her yesterday to say her car was ready, a gruff, hoarse sound to his voice that suggested he was still thinking about their transaction. She had promised to come by with her recorder and a bottle of something strong.
She glanced at the screen. Unknown number, Los Angeles area code. Her heart, the horny little traitor that it was, gave an immediate, interested thump. This was how it always started. A ring, a ping, a chance encounter. She swiped to answer.
"Cherry Valentine," she said, her voice bright and professional.
"Ms. Valentine, hello. This is Sal DeMarco. I'm the director of production here at Neon Palace Studios."
The name of the studio hit her like a splash of cold water. Neon Palace. The banner behind every single scene of Cumming Home, the series she had burned through more tissues than she cared to admit watching. Their flagship production, a reality-style porn series following a fictionalized group of roommates, had been her go-to fantasy for the better part of two years. She knew the cast by name: the perpetually grinning, thick-dicked landlord, the step-brothers with a shared wall and no sense of boundaries, the electrician who always showed up at the worst possible, best possible time.
"We have a slot for an exclusive, behind-the-scenes interview with the cast of our current season," Sal continued, his voice raspy, as if it had been worn smooth by years of yelling over a loud set. "My publicist gave me your name. Said you do, ah, unconventional work. Profiles with a personal touch."
Cherry's mind was already racing, conjuring images of the studio, the pumping soundtrack, and the five men she had watched, over and over, bury themselves in the series' leading ladies until they were all a sticky, sweaty mess. Her own personal touch had gotten her through more than one lonely night with her phone propped against a pillow.
"An exclusive with the cast of Cumming Home?" she repeated, letting the words roll off her tongue. She kept her voice level, but her thighs pressed together under the hem of her sleep shorts. "That's very generous of you, Mr. DeMarco. Of course, I'm interested. When were you thinking?"
"We're shooting on the lot all week," he said. "My schedule's a clusterfuck, but if you can get here in the next hour, we're just setting up for the scene. You can watch from the monitors, get a feel for the workflow. Then we'll do the interview after we wrap. Tight, dirty, and real. That's how you like it, right?"
The double entendre wasn't lost on her. She grinned into the phone.
"I like it however it comes," she said. "Give me the address. I'll be there in an hour."
She hung up and immediately stood, a jolt of adrenaline and pure, unadulterated lust surging through her system. This wasn't a fraternity house full of amped-up college boys or grease-stained mechanics. This was the big leagues. This was professional-grade, stud-farm dick. The kind that knew how to perform on cue, that was paid to hit the same angles for seventeen different camera takes.
She thought about the money shot. The money. She was a freelance journalist living story-to-story on ramen and good will. This story would be a golden ticket. But the real prize was the access. The chance to be inside the bubble, to touch the fantasy, to get up close and personal with five men she had pleasured herself to in the dark of her bedroom.
She threw on her usual work uniform: a crisp, white silk button-down that strained magnificently across her chest, and a high-waisted charcoal pencil skirt that hugged her hips like a second skin. She slipped into a pair of low heels, ran a brush through her strawberry-blonde hair, and checked her reflection in the hall mirror. Her bright eyes sparkled with a mixture of professional ambition and unashamed hunger.
Perfect. She looked like a journalist. A journalist who was about to get the most exclusive story of her life.
The drive to Neon Palace Studios was a blur of LA traffic and daydreams. The address Sal gave her led her to a nondescript warehouse in a sun-scorched industrial park, its only concession to glamor a faded painted sign of three overlapping golden stars over a purple neon moon. The parking lot was a graveyard of production trucks and crew vans. She pulled into a spot near the entrance, grabbed her recorder and press badge from the passenger seat, and was out of the car before the engine had fully cooled.
The heavy metal door to the soundstage was ajar, and a wave of temperature-controlled air washed over her as she slipped through. The change was immediate and overpowering. The world outside, all bright sun and pale concrete, vanished. Inside, it was a cavern of manufactured intimacy, a plush but chaotic dream space, with the scarlet of velvet curtains draped over massive black cameras, making them look like strange, massive creatures at rest. The air hummed with the electrical buzz of industrial lighting, and the faint, clean tang of ozone mixed with the heady scent of makeup, hairspray, and something else. Something musky and primal. The scent of sex.
Her heels clicked on the polished concrete floor as she navigated the maze of equipment, cables snaking over the floor like black serpents. A few crew members, mostly wiry guys in black t-shirts who looked like they hadn't seen the sun in years, glanced her way, their attention snagging on her curves before moving on to more pressing matters.
In the center of the stage, under a cascade of hot lights, was a set. A living room, mocked up to look cosy and lived-in, with a huge leather sectional couch facing a flat-screen TV that was off. The eye-catcher was the couch. It was the couch. The same one from every episode of Cumming Home, a dark brown leather beast with a patina of use that no amount of cleaning would ever erase. Her heart gave a thick, heavy thump.
Standing near the couch, yelling into a headset was a man who could only be Sal DeMarco. He was in his late fifties, weathered and wiry, wearing a faded black t-shirt that said 'Director' on it with a smirk. His grey hair was thick and messy, and his eyes were the keen, assessing eyes of a man who had seen every permutation of the human form and wasn't impressed by much. He saw her and waved her over, never pausing his instructions to a camera operator dressed in black from head to toe.
"Yeah, I'm rolling on the wide, then we'll tighten up after we get the first insertion," he barked into the mic, then lifted his head to look at Cherry. He looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on the V of her cleavage visible at her collar. A slow smile spread across his face. "You must be Valentine. Right on time."
"I aim to please," she said, holding up her press badge.
"That bad, huh? You're just in time, you haven't missed a thing. We're about to roll on the first scene. The boys and the new girl are still in the makeup room." He nodded toward a door on the far side of the stage, covered in a red curtain. "You can either grab a seat in the green room and wait, or, if you got a stomach for it, you can hang right here by the monitors. But I warn you, it gets pretty visceral."
"I didn't come all the way to LA to watch from a monitor," she said, her eyes flicking to the door where his cast would emerge. The hunger was building in her, a low, hot thrum between her legs. She'd come for an interview, but her superpower told her there was more on offer. She had a reputation to uphold, after all.
Just then, the red curtain swished aside and five men walked out, talking and laughing, their conversation a low, masculine rumble. Cherry's breath caught in her throat. There they were. The cast of Cumming Home.
Vinny, short and stocky with a chest like a barrel and forearms like slabs of beef, was the 'landlord,' his face permanently creased in a warm, predatory grin. Rico, lean and dark, all simmering, liquid heat, was the electrician. Dex, the 'step-brother,' built like a golden surfer with feathered blond hair and a grin that promised trouble, was toweling off his hands. They were trailed by the 'best friend', a broad-shouldered Black man named Cletus who moved like a panther across the concrete, and finally by a younger man, the 'new roommate', with shaggy brown hair and a smattering of freckles across his nose, his stage name, Cherry recalled, was Kai.
They were just as goddamned gorgeous up close. Real. She had imagined their smell, their sounds, the weight of their cocks, and now she was standing twenty feet from them. Her heart was hammering so hard she could feel the pulse in her throat. Every skin cell in her body was screaming to be touched.
Vinny was the first to notice her. He turned, his head cocked, and a grin bisected his face. "Whoa, Sal. You bringing in talent now? 'Cause I thought we was already shooting with, uh..." He snapped his fingers, the name escaping him.
"This is Cherry Valentine," Sal said, an amused glint in his eye. "Journalist. She's here to do a piece on you jack-offs." He jerked his thumb at her. "She's gonna hang around and then interview you after we wrap."
"An interview?" Kai asked, his voice cracking with a youthful charm that didn't match the hungry, confident look in his eyes. He was looking at her the same way she was looking at him. Like a piece of prime meat.
"An exclusive," Cherry said, stepping forward. She could feel the combined weight of their gaze, five pairs of eyes taking her in. It was a familiar, electrifying feeling. She smiled her brightest, most professional smile. "Cherry Valentine. I'm a huge fan of the series. I mean, genuine, certified fan. I've seen every scene."
Her eyes drifted from one face to the next and back to the couch. The leather was cool and smooth under her fingertips as she set her recorder down next to a discarded cum-stained sock. She put her badge on the side table next to a bottle of lube. "I was hoping, maybe, to get a little taste of the real thing before we do the formal interview. Usually, I find my articles are a lot more insightful if I fully immerse myself in the subject matter."
The implication hung in the air, thick and heavy as the scent of the studio. Dex laughed, a low, appreciative sound. "You hear that? She wants to get immersive."
"Should I call the talent from makeup?" Sal asked, his voice level, but his eyes twinkling with mischief.
Cherry's grin widened. "Already here, Mr. DeMarco. That's me." Her hands reached for the buttons on her shirt. Her movement was slow, deliberate, a performance for her small, enraptured audience. One button. Two. The crisp white silk parted, revealing the lacy edge of her bra and the creamy swell of her cleavage. "So, boys," she said, her voice dropping to a husky, conspiratorial whisper as she shrugged the shirt from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. "This is for the story."
Vinny didn't need any further invitation. He was on her in two long strides, his thick, calloused hands finding her waist and pulling her flush against him. His mouth was hot, searching, and his kiss was a filthy promise. She smelled his cologne, cheap and rugged, and the faint, salty scent of his sweat. Her hands came up to grab his shirt and pull him closer still, while somewhere behind her she registered the sharp hiss of a zipper and the rumble of appreciative male laughter.
She moaned into his mouth, her tongue tangling with his, and then she was being pushed back, her thighs hitting the edge of the leather couch. She fell onto her back with a surprised little gasp, the leather cool against her exposed skin. Cletus was there, his dark hands making quick work of her pencil skirt, peeling it down her thighs along with her panties, leaving her bare from the waist down in a matter of seconds.
"Fuck, look at this," Rico breathed, his hungry gaze fixed between her legs. "Clean as a whistle and fucking soaked already. I love a fan who's this dedicated."
A hand was on her, sliding up her thigh, and then two fingers sank into her pussy. It was Dex. Her eyes fluttered shut and she bucked her hips against his hand, giving a guttural sound of pure pleasure. "Christ, she's tight," he murmured.
"Time's wasting," Sal's voice called from the edge of the set, matter-of-fact. "You want to do it on the couch, I'm rolling. Cameras are hot. Don't waste the shot, people."
Vinny was fumbling with his belt, shoving his jeans and briefs down to his knees with a grunt of impatience. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, curving up toward his belly, the head glistening with a bead of pre-cum. It was everything the camera didn't lie about: fat, veiny, and perfect.
Kai, the newest member of the team, leaned down until his face was inches from her ear. He smelled of mint and cheap soap. "You ready to be in the movies, Cherry?" he breathed, his voice full of raw, boyish eagerness.
She answered him by reaching down and wrapping her fingers around Vinny's thick girth, stroking him slowly, deliberately. He grunted, his hips jerking forward. "You gonna put this cock in your pretty little mouth first, or you want us to start stretching that virgin cunt?" he asked, his voice thick with gravel.
Cherry looked up at him, her eyes gleaming. "I've had my mouth full of cum before," she said, licking her lips as she guided his cock toward her mouth, "but I've never had a mouthful from a certified fucking star."
Her lips parted and she took him inside, sliding her mouth down his shaft as far as she could take him. He was thick, a perfect mouthful, and the taste of his pre-cum flooded her tongue, salty and raw. She sealed her lips around him and sucked, hard, her cheeks hollowing as she worked him in a rhythm that made his moans vibrate against her scalp.
Dex moved behind her, his hands on her thighs, spreading them. His fingers teased her slit, skimming her clit before dipping inside her wet, quivering entrance. He slipped in with no resistance, and she gasped around the thick cock in her mouth. "Oh, she's fucking dripping, boys. Dripping like a broken tap."
More hands were on her. Rico's fingers combed through her strawberry-blonde hair, guiding her mouth on Vinny, while Cletus moved to kneel at her side, his own massive, dark erection held in his fist as he watched Dex finger her. Her world collapsed into a cacophony of touch, taste, and sound. She felt impossibly alive, every nerve ending screaming for more.
Vinny was getting close, she could feel the tremor in his thighs and the desperate, jerky rhythm of his hips. She wanted to taste him, wanted to feel his cum coat her throat. She fucked her mouth on him faster, her tongue swirling around the sensitive head of his cock, her hand working on the slicked base that she couldn't fit. She looked up at him, making eye contact as she swallowed him whole, and the sight of his face contorted in bliss sent a shockwave of pleasure through her own cunt.
"Fuck, that's it," he grunted, and then he was coming, his release flooding her mouth as he slammed his cock to the back of her throat. She swallowed convulsively, gulping down the thick seed, tasting the heady, salty mix of his climax. She held his gaze, not breaking eye contact as she milked him, and as the last spurt of his cum coated her tongue she pulled back, licking her lips clean with a satisfied flick of her tongue.
Before she could catch her breath, Dex was positioning himself between her legs, his own erection, hard and ruddy, pressed against her slick folds. He didn't ask, didn't slow down. He drove all nine inches into her in a single, brutal thrust that ripped a long, guttural moan from her throat. She was so wet, so taken by the moment, that the invasion was nothing but a wave of pure, lightning-bright pleasure.
"That's it," she heard Sal call out. "Good penetration, good sound. Keep going, Dex. Don't be gentle. She's a pro."
Dex obeyed, fucking her with a hard, piston-like rhythm, his balls slapping against her ass with each powerful thrust. She felt a hand on her breast, squeezing and twisting her nipple through the silk of her bra. They were all around her, the men she had jacked off to for years, and now they were touching her, using her, devouring her.
Rico knelt up by her head and pressed the thick, smooth head of his cock against her lips. "Open up," he commanded, his voice husky. She hadn't cleaned the taste of Vinny's cum from her mouth yet, but she obeyed, opening wide as Rico slid his cock between her lips, joining the buffet of sensation.
Her body was a feast. Kia had somehow gotten behind her, his cock sliding between her cheeks, seeking the second entrance. The tip pressed against her puckered hole, a cool and slick pressure that made her jump.
"Fuck, you want me in this tight little ass?" Kai asked, his voice strained with excitement. "You want the new guy to fuck your ass while your pussy's full and your mouth's busy?"
She couldn't speak, her mouth full of Rico, but she could nod, a frantic, desperate gesture, and he took the invitation. He pushed, a slow, grinding pinch of pressure that made her see stars, and then the head of his cock popped through her sphincter, and he was inside her, filling her in a way that made her whole body clench and quiver. Three cocks. She was being filled in every hole, a living, quivering piece of meat on a casting couch, and she loved every fucking second of it.
The three of them moved in an uncoordinated but perfect symphony of need. Dex pounded her pussy, Kai took her ass, and Rico fed his curving cock down her throat. She was drowning, lost in a sea of dick and dirty talk, and her orgasm began to build, a fast, startling acceleration in her belly from the sheer brutish thrill of it.
"That's it," Kai grunted from behind, his breath hot on her ear. "I want you to cum. Cum all over Dex's cock so I can feel your little asshole clench around mine."
The dirty talk tipped her over the edge. She screamed, the sound muffled around Rico's shaft, and her body convulsed. Her cunt squeezed Dex's cock in powerful, milking waves and her ass clenched tight around Kai, drawing a deep groan from him. The orgasm was a violent, shocking release that rippled through her, making her toes curl and her eyes roll.
The men didn't stop, kept using her shaking body, riding out the waves of her climax. And as the last tremors of her orgasm started to fade, they picked up their own pace, chasing their own releases. She was surrounded, wanted, used in the best possible way. And in the midst of the fucking chaos, in the middle of her beloved fantasy made flesh, she couldn't help but think, this interview was going to be the story of her life.