Bimbo Drive
Copyright© 2025 by CreepyUnclePete - by Limnophile
Chapter 2
I leaned back in the driver seat of my luxury sedan, feeling the plush leather embrace me while the scent of my expensive cologne clashed with the lingering aroma of Jenny’s cheap perfume and Samantha’s stale cigarette smoke. We pulled into the parking lot of “Willy Wanky Productions,” though calling it a production company was generous. It was a dilapidated three-story apartment complex that looked like it had been condemned in the nineties, with peeling grey paint and a neon sign that flickered with a dying, spasmodic buzz. The whole place radiated a sense of desperate failure, which made my sudden urge to buy the property feel like an exploitive act of colonization.
Jenny was practically vibrating in the backseat, after a snort of her nose candy. She leaned forward, her breath hot against my ear, and told me; “I’m not a bad girl. I’ve only been in porn two months.”
I nodded. “That’s not so bad.”
“Yeah. I haven’t done that many movies, only about fifty.”
My shocked brain wondered aloud, “Fifty adult movies? ONLY fifty?”
She tried to mitigate the damage with, “I only did it with about twenty different people. In the movies, anyway.”
Samantha, meanwhile, let out a slow, hazy exhale of smoke and giggled. She said, “I’m practically a virgin, compared to that! I was only in one movie.” A mischievous smile curved her lips. “I set a record, though. Nobody else has ever done a fifteen-man anal gangbang on their first day.”
“GAH! Fifteen! OMIGAWD!”
The air in the car was suddenly much hotter. A violent jolt of arousal hit my groin, coupled with a genuine, wide-eyed shock that nearly made me choke. I looked at college-aged hotties and realized that my quiet, cautious life had been permanently derailed.
We stepped out of the sedan and onto the cracked asphalt. Jenny was skipping, actually skipping, with a level of energy that only coke and a desire for fame could provide. Samantha followed, trailing a cloud of smoke and a certain of nonchalance that suggested she had seen everything the world had to offer and found it wanting. As we pushed through the heavy, rusted double doors of Willy Wanky Productions, the smell of stale incense and old sweat hit me like a physical wall.
The interior was a chaotic blend of a 70s disco and a medical clinic. There were velvet curtains draped over peeling wallpaper and strange, oversized pillows scattered across a linoleum floor. At the center of it all sat a woman who looked like she had been carved out of a single piece of flint. This was Karla. She was the general manager and the director, and she was currently massaging her temples with a look of profound, existential exhaustion.
“Where the HELL have you been! You were supposed to be here YESTERDAY! Girls, change into your lingerie quick. Tom, take off your underwear, then put your pants back on.”
I was confused that she called me by the wrong name, but did as the demanding woman ordered. She stared as I dropped my trousers and seemed quite disappointed. “You’re Ten-Inch Tom? Looks more like eight, to me.”
“No, my name is Jim. I came here to...”
“Whoever. Stand by the bed and get your cock ready for the end shot.”
“End shot?”
She sighed in frustration and explained, “We always record the cumshot first, in case you go off in other positions, too. Most fans love lots of cum flying onto female faces.”
She slammed her hand onto the dusty metal desk, nearly knocking over a half-empty bottle of gin. “And the timing is a disaster! My idiot brother is supposed to run the camera! That useless waste of oxygen went out with a whore ... err, performer ... three nights ago and hasn’t come back. He’s probably passed out in a motel with a girl clueless as he is. Now I have a schedule of four shoots and no cameraman! Again!”
I felt my face heating up, my cautious nature fighting against the sheer absurdity of the situation. I stepped forward, trying to regain some semblance of dignity. “Look, there’s been a big mistake. I’m not ‘Ten-Inch Tom.’ Actually...”
Jenny and Samantha moved with a coordinated, predatory precision. Before I could blink, they had lunged at me from opposite sides. I felt a pair of manicured hands snap the waistband of my pants, and with one violent, synchronized tug, they were around my ankles. I stumbled, losing my balance, and fell back onto an oversized velvet pillow on the bed.
Before I could utter another word of protest, they were on me. I felt the warm, wet slide of Samantha’s mouth enveloping my head, while Jenny focused on the base, her tongue swirling around the shaft with an intensity that made my toes curl. The shock of the cold room and the sudden, hot friction of their lips created a sensory overload that nearly short-circuited my brain. I tried to say something, anything, about the purchase price or the legal paperwork, but all that came out was a strangled, breathless moan as they licked me.
Suddenly, the heavy clatter of a tripod being dragged across the floor echoed through the room. Karla didn’t miss a beat. She moved the camera in position and peered at us through the viewfinder, her expression one of clinical professionalism.