Vice, Virtue, & Video: Captured

Chapter 1

Lola

THERE YOU ARE, LOLA! my best friend, James, says as I walk in the door of my apartment. It smells delicious in here, and I know he’s been slaving away on a tasty meal for us. He cooks for me most nights, and has since I moved out to California after graduating from college a little over a year ago.

Sorry. I shake my head with frustration. Of course they asked me to make, like, a zillion copies as I was walking out the door. I’m an Ivy League grad whose only job opportunity is as a glorified secretary in an accountant’s office. Thanks, economy!

It’s okay, James says, walking over to give me a hug. He’s about a foot taller than me and built like Michelangelo’s David, so he’s all firm and muscular as I wrap my arms around him. I figured I’d wait until you got home to put the pasta in so it wouldn’t get all soggy, he adds sweetly.

Did you do alfredo tonight? My mouth waters at the thought.

You know it! He smiles, flashing me his perfect, pearly whites.

Last night it was that delicious mustard-thyme chicken and the amazing banana bread; today it’s your creamy fettuccine. I think you’re trying to fatten me up, I say, grinning back up at him. James is an incredible cook and has been since he was a teenager. Though I’m generally pretty lithe, I’ve gained ten pounds since moving out here, and I’m certain he’s to blame.

You’re, like, eighty pounds soaking wet, kid, he teases. Somebody’s gotta help you put some meat on those bones.

I roll my eyes with a laugh.

Want a glass of wine? he offers, heading back to the kitchen.

Yeah, lemme take this skirt off. The zipper’s digging into my hip, I reply, walking toward my bedroom.

My apartment is small and cramped, but it’s cheap enough for me to afford, and it’s two doors away from James’s place on the second floor of our complex.

I kick off my stilettos and peel off my pencil skirt. I pull my blouse off and change into some yoga pants and a racerback tank top, twisting my long hair into a bun as I dart into the bathroom to wash off my makeup. I look a little tired from the long day, but I’m just hanging out with James tonight, so no need to be a glamazon.

Here you go. James hands me a glass of red wine as I sit at the counter and watch him finish up the cooking. He looks nice in his worn-out jeans and white, V-neck T-shirt as he leans over the stove to stir the pasta.

James is handsome. Very handsome. Apparently I’m the only girl who doesn’t see him as a sex god, because James has been the ultimate ladies’ man since middle school. But he’s been my best friend since I was six, and it’s hard to picture getting sexual with someone you knew since they were a third grader. He’s three years older than me, and everything I’ve learned about sex came from him because he’d accrued a library of experiences before I’d even gotten my braces off.

So how was work? I ask, taking another sip of wine.

Good, he says as he drains the pasta. I had a threesome scene, but it was a quick one, which is why I went out and got the stuff to make alfredo tonight.

James is an actor…of sorts. He moved out to LA with stars in his eyes after dropping out of college at age nineteen. With his good looks and charm, he was hoping to become an action star or some kind of Hollywood heartthrob, but his career took a little turn, and he’s currently a superstar in the wild world of adult films. Most of his friends from back home dropped him when the word got out, and his parents basically disowned him. Sometimes I feel like the only person from his past who doesn’t care about his job. He’s my best friend and always has been, so who gives a shit if he bangs chicks for a living? It’s not like he wasn’t screwing hundreds of girls before he started doing it on camera.

Dude! This is so delicious! I groan as I take a bite of pasta. James could defeat an Iron Chef with his eyes closed.

He smiles proudly, watching me savor another big bite.

So…how’s that Eric dude? he asks, zapping me out of my nostalgic childhood memories.

Oh, he’s good. He knew Peter was making me work through lunch, so he brought me one of those portobello sandwiches I love.

Eric is the hot guy who works at the law firm on my floor. He’s about six-foot four, and he works out like crazy. He’s got blond hair and blue eyes, and looks like a hulking Viking. At thirty-eight, he’s fifteen years older than me—which worries James, I know—but he’s sexy, and he flirts with me all the time.

James gives me a look. Growing up, he was like my big brother and he always looked out for me. I remember him fighting off bullies for me when I was going through my gawky, tween phase in seventh grade and how he’d intimidate boys who got a little over-amorous with me once I’d hit puberty and emerged with a pair of D cups and a healthy dose of low self-esteem. He’s like my bodyguard, my protector, and he’s the only person I can share absolutely everything with.

He raises an eyebrow at me.

What? I laugh, feeling my cheeks starting to flush.

He likes you, you know? he says with a teasing undertone in his voice.

Maybe he’s just being nice, I reply, knowing very well that’s not true.

He’s been really ‘nice’ for the past three months since you met him. I’m telling you, Lo, dude’s trying to hit that.

I give him a look that says I’ve heard all this a million times before retorting, You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t take advice from a guy whose relationships with women begin with ‘action’ and end with someone yelling ‘cut!’

Cold as ice tonight! He laughs, grabbing his heart.

I shoot him a smirk and then impersonate the girls in his videos. Yes, Master Langdon. I’ll be a good girl. Don’t give me a spanking. I roll my eyes. I swear, I don’t know how these girls can let you boss them around like that!

James has done videos that fall under every category and appeal to almost every fetish, but his most recent genre is BDSM porn. His scenes usually involve a buxom woman tied up, handcuffed, or bound in some other fashion while he goes to town on her with a riding crop, or a flogger, or whatever instrument is the tool of the day. There’s a lot of yes, Sir and please, Master, and I’ve just never seen the appeal.

I guess I just don’t see the point of spankings and all that, I say, shrugging. We’ve had this debate since he first got into this particular genre, but he’s never managed to sway me on the whole Dominant/submissive thing.

It’s acting. He chuckles at my eye rolling and mocking.

Is it? I tease. Because you don’t see Meryl Streep doing movies that involve ball gags and nipple clamps.

I can see him trying to resist it, but he laughs hard at that comment. I’ve spent over a decade sassing James about his extraordinarily active sex life, and now that he’s doing porn, I have so much more material.

Hey, some girls dig it. He shrugs, reaching for the bottle to top off his glass of wine. They like giving up all control and being totally at my mercy.

Yeesh! Not me, I reply, shaking my head.

Oh, like you have room to talk! You’ve never had sex at all, so how would you know what you’re into?

Immediately, I blush. It’s true; I’m a virgin. Pretty funny considering my best friend is a porn star, right? People can’t wrap their heads around the fact that I made it through my horny teenage years without falling prey to my Casanova best bud. In truth, James was always very cautious when it came to me, and he never made an attempt to seduce me.

Now he likes to pull the purity card on me every time I tease him. I can joke about his sex life a million times a day, but when he turns the tables around, I go all pink cheeks and giggles, and he loves it.

Shut up! I say, trying to sound stern despite the fact that I’m giggling like a Japanese schoolgirl.

Ah, there’s that blush. He tips his wine glass to me. Not so tough anymore, huh?

This is about you and all the fake-titted girls you screw on film, I protest, still laughing uncontrollably, not about me and who might or might not be between my legs.

I certainly hope no one’s between your legs! Otherwise I’d have to kick somebody’s ass. He yawns and stretches in his chair.

Sleepy? Must have been a very rigorous scene, I say with a snarky hint of sarcasm.

He gives me a devilish grin. Two girls can wear you out, dude, you don’t even know. We had to stop for stills, like, a zillion times, and they fucked up an entire section of close-ups so we had to do those over. Plus, I had to do, like, seven pop shots, he says casually like he’s talking about sending some faxes instead of ejaculating all over some poor, shackled starlet.

Well, isn’t life so hard for you, I tease.

You try coming seven times and see if it doesn’t wear your ass out! he says, chuckling. Suddenly, his eyes flash on me, and he gives me a cartoonishly exaggerated version of the James Laird Sex Laser Beam, the look that might as well be a gamma ray burst of pure sexuality. I could show you, if you want, he says, his voice filled with overplayed flirtation. I’ll put your ankles behind your head and show you exactly what it feels like to come seven times in a row.

James! I squeal with laughter.

He throws his head back as he laughs at my shy response. He loves riling me up like this.

Our relationship’s always been a brother-sister, platonic one—but there were a few times during our teenage years when my highly skilled friend served as a lab rat for my sexual experimentation. James was responsible for my first orgasm, his was the first penis I ever saw, and he was the first boy to touch my breasts. But that was a long time ago. We haven’t done anything like that in years.

I’m just fuckin’ with you, kid. He chuckles and stands up to clear the table.

I help him put all the dishes in the dishwasher, and we move into the living room to watch TV. This is how we spend most evenings. I lie back against the arm of the couch and stretch my legs over his lap. By the second commercial break in The Colbert Report, I’m nodding off. I’m half asleep when I hear him turn off the TV, and I feel his strong arms scoop me up as he carries me off to my bed. I remember how I always used to fall asleep before him every time I stayed over at his house when we were little kids. He’d opt for the air mattress on the floor, and he’d pick me up and get me comfortable in his bed. Some things never change.

Chapter 2

James

THE DUNGEON SET is dimly lit with racks of canes, whips, shackles, and belts. There are two lighting guys standing off to the right, looking bored. Next to them is a makeup artist with an apron of brushes and powders for touch-ups. Our director is in a chair behind the camera as he observes the shot like he’s filming The Godfather, not Bound Babes 8. I’m standing at the edge of a big, heavy wooden table. Beneath me is Misty, one of the many hot blondes that I’ll be having sex with today. Her arms are tied behind her back, and her ankles are tied to the legs of the table so she has to bend completely over it. She’s panting and moaning loudly, wiggling on the table like she’s trying to free herself—all part of the act.

Yeah, you like that? I grunt as I pound into her, making it look as forceful as possible, even though I’m not really hurting her.

Yes, Sir! She pants and pulls at her restraints.

Stay still! I command, pressing her hips into the table as I continue slamming into her.

I spank her ass hard enough to leave a handprint, making sure I angle it so the camera can get a perfect view. Sure enough, her skin turns pink in the shape of my hand, and I spank her again to bring some nice color to the surface. She, of course, moans loudly with each swat, acting like this is the most pleasurable thing in the world.

I’ve been doing a lot of these kinds of movies lately, and it feels pretty routine by now. Usually I play some kind of authority figure type, and I tie up and fuck girls who are pretending to be all shy and timid. The point is to be harsh, and while I’d never hurt them for real, I have to make it look like hardcore bondage and sexual punishment. Apparently I’m pretty good, because my bondage and spanking videos sell like hotcakes.

A camera guy moves in for close-ups, so Misty and I slow down and shift our angles a little bit so he can get a tight shot on the center of the action. Next, a guy with a DSLR comes in and takes still shots, so we freeze in the most exaggerated poses. She’s bending her back and pulling tightly on her ropes so they bite into her skin, and I’m tugging on her nipple clamps so the whole thing looks harsher.

Switch! our director calls.

I move down, untying her arms and legs before pulling her up onto the table so she’s lying on her back. I bind her again, tying her wrists to her ankles and spreading her open. I slide back into her, and we get back down to business, using over-exaggerated motions and putting on an awesome show.

Of course, no one behind the camera really gives a shit. This is just another day at work in our industry, and there are a few people standing around, totally ignoring me and Misty going at it a few feet away. I can hear our hairstylist talking to one of the lighting assistants about American Idol, and there’s even a guy sitting off to the side reading a People magazine.

We pause for stills, close-ups, all the usual interruptions, and then get back to it.

You want me to let you come? I ask Misty.

Yes! she moans.

I stop my motions and slap the side of her ass hard—actually, it’s just an open-handed smack, but it makes a great noise and her skin brightens up nicely. She pretends to wince and whimper.

Yes, what? I say sternly.

Yes, Sir! she mewls.

Good girl, I say, resuming my motions, but at a torturously slow pace.

Power play is the name of the game, and I’m in charge of her pleasure. If I get her right to the edge, but don’t let her come, it’ll drive her totally crazy and I’ll be fully in control of her orgasm. At least that’s how it will look on film. In reality, all of this shit is planned out in advance and we know exactly what we’re supposed to do—and more importantly, what we’re not supposed to do—in each position and situation.

She starts moaning loudly, so I stop. No, no, I say harshly to her, you’re not allowed to come yet. Not until you beg me.

Please! Please, Sir! she whines.

Try again, I growl.

Please, Sir! Please let me come! Please! She whimpers weakly for dramatic effect.

Mmmm. Since you begged like a good girl, I’m gonna let you come, I say, speeding up my pace.

With that, I start going really hard and fast. Misty’s groaning with pleasure, some of it real, some of it played up for the cameras. If I remember right, she likes it deep, so I grab her hips and shove into her as far as I can. She starts moaning like crazy, but now these moans are all real.

One of the reasons I got so big in the industry so fast is that the girls like working with me because I make sure they get off. I don’t just know how to make it look good; I know how to make it feel good too, and they always enjoy themselves. If the girls like you, you’ll always get work in this business.

Misty’s eyes look up at me, and I know she’s about to feel it. Sure enough, I feel her quivering inside, and she cries out loudly. Another job well done. I swear, I don’t think I could ever get tired of making girls come.

Get down on your knees! I command as I quickly untie her.

She hops off the table and kneels down in front of me with her mouth open and waiting. I thrust myself into her mouth, and she eagerly sucks me. I can tell she’s putting more into it than the usual scene, and from the way she looks up at me, I get the impression that she’s thanking me for making her come—a lot of dudes in our industry don’t really give a shit about whether the girls are digging it. I smile down at her, breaking character for a second or two to let her know that we’re on the same page. It’s cool though; the guy’s face is never in the frame when they’re doing a facial come shot.

Oh, fuck! I exclaim as I reach my release. I pump out onto her face, and she flicks her tongue over me.

Perfect! our director calls. Nice pop shot, you guys!

We pause as the still photographer steps in and takes some close-ups of the aftermath all over Misty’s chin.

I reach down to her and help her up as the dude with the towels comes in and hands one to each of us. She wipes off her face and slips on her robe before giving me a big smile.

That was fucking great! she says as one of our crew guys brings us some water.

It’s always great working with you. I open up my bottle and take a big sip.

You too, James, she says. Can’t wait until the sequel.

I give her a wink before I head back to get showered and cleaned up. I still have a scene with a brunette where we’ll be using a butt plug and a riding crop this morning, and later this afternoon, I’m doing a regular scene with a blonde who’s going to be suspended from the ceiling and flogged before we fuck.

I wonder if I’ll be too tired to stop by the grocery store and pick up tilapia for fish tacos tonight. I told Lola I’d make them, and I don’t want to disappoint her. Before I have time to think too much about it, I need to start getting my shit together for my next shot. Just another day at work for me.

Chapter 3

Lola

I TRUDGE UP THE STAIRS, eager to get out of my work clothes, when I spot a note on my door. In James’s handwriting, it says:

Lo, still down for fish tacos tonight?

The guys are on their way.

Come over when you get home.

Below that, in different handwriting, the following message is scribbled:

Sugar, we want your fish taco! XO ~Chad.

I snicker to myself and shake my head. Tonight will be fun.

I dart inside, quickly changing from my pencil skirt and blouse into yoga pants and a Queen A Night at the Opera T-shirt. I pull my hair into a messy ponytail and head out the door to James’s house.

I hear someone is hungry for my fish taco, I say, bursting in the door.

Chad Rockwell, one of our closest friends, gives me a big smile, his bright blue eyes sparkly with just a hint of mischief. He stands up from the breakfast bar where he was sipping a margarita, quickly scooping me up in a big hug.

I don’t think you’ve ever even tasted fish, I tease, raising an eyebrow at Chad.

Well, there was that one time in college. He sighs before giving me a wink and patting my butt.

Right on Chad’s heels is his boyfriend, Alejandro Carrera, who hugs me next. His long-sleeve shirt hides the elaborate Day of the Dead tattoos that climb from his wrist up his shoulder. He looks imposing, like one of those Vato guys you see whenever a movie needs a cliché Latin gang member, but his smile is warm and sweet, and he kisses my cheek. He’s the more soft-spoken one of the duo, and he usually sits back and lets his charismatic boyfriend dominate a conversation.

Both Chad and Alejandro are quite popular gay porn stars, and they’re like big brothers to James. He met them at an industry party shortly after getting into porn, and they were instant friends. When I moved out here, they became my besties too, and we all hang out together quite frequently.

You want a margarita, kid? James asks me, making his way over and giving me a quick kiss on the cheek.

Sounds great.

Chad hands me a margarita, and Alejandro offers me his seat at the breakfast bar. He stands on the other side, running his fingers through his Chad’s silky blond hair before putting his arm around him.

James is in the kitchen, whipping up a delicious meal for us as we all watch like it’s a show on the Food Network. It’s kind of fascinating to watch him cook, like watching an artist create a beautiful painting out of a blank canvas.

How was work, baby girl? Alejandro asks me.

Eh, all right, I reply, shrugging. Peter was in a foul mood, and he demanded that I refill the water cooler, even though those bottles weigh like eighty pounds. But thankfully, Tim saw me and helped.

Tim’s the sexy one, right? Chad asks. The tall one with those blue eyes?

Yep, I reply, nodding. "He swooped in and lifted that thing up for