Sandra – A Very Special Adventure

[franzjosef1]

1st Part


1991. Sandra had just turned nineteen, her whole life ahead of her. Then came Franz. He was the first one who fucked her. The first who tore her hymen, ripped her cunt open and showed her what a cock is for. After that she was devoted to him. Completely. She would have lain down on the floor if he had told her to.

A year later they were both sitting in some offices and Franz suggested Budapest. One week. Sandra was on fire. Beautiful city, the Danube, something cultural, she thought. She packed the orange halter top that barely held her small, firm tits together, and the yellow high heels.

Second day. Apartment. Franz didn’t come alone. A guy with a camera bag behind him. “This is Péter. Photographer. Met him by chance, he takes great holiday photos.” Sandra smiled uncertainly. Franz grinned. “Put the orange top on. It suits you.”

She changed. The top, the thin yellow panties underneath, the orange strappy heels. Péter set up lights, flashes, softboxes. The first pictures were harmless. Sandra on the cream-colored sofa, legs still together, smiling, champagne glass in her hand. Péter poured more. And more. The champagne went to her head quickly. She felt like a star. Some model who had finally been discovered.

Then Péter said quite calmly: “Right. Now pull the panties aside. We’ll shoot your little cunt once.”

Sandra went hot and cold at the same time. She looked at Franz. He just nodded, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. She didn’t want to chicken out. Not in front of him. So she took the yellow fabric with her painted nails and pulled it aside.

Her cunt lay open. The labia, the wet slit, everything. Péter went down on his knees. The lens came very close. Flash. Another flash. “Legs further apart. Show us the hole.” Sandra spread with her fingers. The photographer photographed her pussy from up close, the inner skin, the entrance, everything. Then: “Turn around. Ass up. We want to see the other hole too.”

She did it. Face in the sofa, ass out, the yellow panties pulled even further aside. Péter took close-ups of her asshole, of the whole crease between cunt and anus. Sandra felt the warmth of the flash on her skin, the champagne in her head, and somewhere far away Franz’s breath.

Franz had already taken his cock out of his pants. Thick, stiff, the head already wet. He jerked off while the stranger photographed every fold of her holes. Sandra heard the wet sound of his fist, saw out of the corner of her eye how he stroked his prick and stared at her as if she belonged to him for display.

She no longer knew what was happening to her. The champagne, the flashes, the photographer’s voice that kept saying “spread further,” “with your fingers, we want to see everything,” and Franz jerking off as if she were just meat on a sofa.

When Franz came with a groan and his thick white fuck-cream splattered on the carpet, it was over. Péter closed the camera, packed up the lamps and just said: “I’ll call tomorrow.” Then he was gone.

Sandra stood up, legs shaky, panties still pulled aside, champagne and shame in her face. She went under the shower, let the hot water run over her cunt and her ass, washed away the wetness that hadn’t come only from the champagne.

In the room Franz sat with a fresh glass of champagne, pants still open, laughing quietly to himself.

After the shower Sandra came into the room, towel around her body, and stared at Franz, who was still sitting on the sofa with the champagne glass and grinning as if he had hit the jackpot.

“What kind of stunt was that?” Her voice trembled. “He photographed my cunt. From up close. All the holes.”

Franz just shrugged. “Surprise, babe. A little adventure. You looked like a star. Don’t be so uptight.” Nothing more came.

 

[franzjosef1]

2nd Part


Sandra lay down and slept restlessly. Again and again the flash in front of her eyes, the yellow panties pulled aside, Franz’s fist around his cock, the cum on the carpet. All night she hoped that had been the whole story. A one-time slip. Done.

Early the next morning the phone rang. Franz answered. The whole time just: “Okay. Yes. Okay. Fine. We’re coming.” Then he hung up and beamed across his whole face.
“Imagine, the boss likes your pictures. We can go to the studio today.”
Sandra turned bright red. “Who did the photographer show my cunt to? I thought those were only for you.”
“Nonsense.” Franz waved it off as if it were a trifle. “Get dressed. Taxi’s coming this afternoon.”

In the taxi she sat stiffly, shame eating her alive. Who had seen her fuckhole? How many men had bent over the photos of her spread pussy and her asshole and jerked off? She was angry and at the same time too submissive to get out.
The studio received her like a queen. Champagne, smiles, compliments. “So young. So beautiful. So natural.” The men congratulated Franz on his luck, clapped him on the shoulder, looking Sandra over quite openly. The champagne went to her head fast. The admiration hurt and felt good at the same time. Suddenly she felt like someone they worshipped.
Then the assistant came. Young, busy, a clipboard in her hand. “Come on, we’re going to makeup. Just a short test film. Nothing wild. Orange suits you so well.”
In makeup the woman talked nonstop about camera, light, a test. Sandra nodded; the champagne made her head soft. She was given a skimpy orange dress with black lace at the edges that barely covered her small tits, and black high heels. The fabric ended just above her ass.

A handsome guy came in. Broad-shouldered, smooth skin, his cock already visibly hard in his pants. They sat down on the white couch. The cameraman yelled “Action!”
At first it was banter. Smiling, a hand on her knee, a kiss on her neck. Sandra still thought: This is easy. Then the guy unzipped and pulled his cock out. Thick, stiff, the head already glistening. Sandra was paralyzed. She was in the middle of it. No going back.
He grabbed the back of her head and pushed her face onto his cock. The head bumped against her lips. She opened her mouth, hesitantly, and took the cock in. Spit, the salty taste, the cock sliding deeper. She sucked, uncertain, eyes wide. In the background she heard Franz’s breathing and the wet sound of him jerking off again, cock in his fist, eyes locked on her.
The guy pulled her off his cock, turned her, yanked the orange dress up. He pushed between her legs and poked at her pussy with the head, which was wet by now even though she didn’t want it. One thrust and he was deep inside. Her cunt stretched around the stranger’s cock. He fucked her hard on the white couch, her tits bouncing, the dress nothing but an orange rag around her hips.

Then he pulled out, flipped her onto her stomach, spread her ass cheeks with both hands and pressed the head against her tight asshole. Sandra gasped. It burned as he pushed in, centimeter by centimeter, until his balls lay against her ass. He fucked her ass while one hand worked her pussy. All holes. One after another. Sometimes at the same time with his fingers.
Franz stood beside them, cock in his fist, jerking off as if all of it belonged to him. The studio smelled of sweat, champagne, and sex.
After thirty minutes the guy pulled out, grabbed Sandra by the hair, yanked her head up and shot his cum in her face. Thick, warm ropes landed on her cheeks, lips, in her hair. A blob dripped onto her small tits.

“Cut!”

Everyone left. The assistant, the cameraman, the guy with the now-soft cock. Only Sandra still sat on the white couch. The orange dress crumpled, her holes wet and stretched from being stuffed, the cum dripping over her chin. She stared ahead.
It had been an abuse. A rape with camera and audience. And still she had come. Her cunt had clenched around the stranger’s cock while Franz jerked off.
The assistant came back, took her carefully by the arm and led her to the shower. “Wash off. Then we’ll talk further.”
Sandra stood under the water, the cum running over her chest, and she no longer understood the world.

In the taxi back to the hotel Franz talked without pause. How hot the lighting had been, how professional the studio, how Sandra had looked when the stranger’s cock disappeared inside her. Sandra stared out the window. The cum was wiped off, her holes still sensitive, the echo of the “Cut!” in her head.
Then Franz pulled an envelope from his jacket. “Two hundred dollars for you. Two hundred for me. The trip’s paid for.”
Sandra understood in that moment. No coincidence. No photographer he had supposedly met on the street. Franz had already sold her fuckhole at home, long before she put on the orange top. The photos, the champagne, the test film—all arranged. She had been merchandise, and he had collected the price.

They still did a bit of city tourism. Bridge, castle, Danube. Sandra went along, answered in monosyllables, was angry and at the same time too submissive to scream in his face. At night she lay awake and felt the memory of the stranger’s cock in her cunt settling in.
Back home the weeks passed. Fucking with Stefan became everyday again: bed, his usual position, his moaning, done. But at night, when he was already asleep, Sandra thought of Budapest. Of the flashes, the voices, the cock that had torn open her ass while strange men watched. Every time her slit got wet. Being fucked by strangers in front of an audience stopped being only shame. It became a thrill.

Summer 1993. After sex Franz lay next to her, still damp, and asked bluntly: “What do you think of a week in Budapest?”
Sandra knew exactly what the question meant. Whether she wanted to take strange cocks in all her holes again while he jerked off and someone filmed. She wrestled with it. Part of her wanted to scream that he had sold her. The other part was already wet at the thought. And she knew Franz needed the kick. Without the kick something between them would eventually tip.
“Fine,” she said only. “We can do that.”

Two weeks later they were back in the Budapest studio. This time no surprise, no champagne as cover. They were greeted like acquaintances. This time Sandra got almost no clothes: naked except for a thin chain, hair loose. The location was a bright room with a big bed, white linens, a view somewhere—for the film it was supposed to look like a villa.
The scene was simple, they said. A Black man with a huge cock.
The man came in. Dark, muscular, his cock already half hard and still so thick that Sandra’s gaze stuck to it. No banter this time. Action.
Sandra went to her knees and took the Black cock in her mouth. Thick, warm, the head stretching her lips. She sucked, slobbered, let it slide deeper until her eyes watered. The guy moaned, held the back of her head, slowly fucked her throat.

Then onto the bed. He turned her onto her stomach, pulled her into position, face to the camera, ass up. Sandra reached back with both hands, grabbed her pussy lips and pulled her fuckhole open herself. Wide. So the camera saw everything: the wet, opened cunt, the pink inside almost to the womb, the little asshole next to it.
The Black cock lined up and slid into her pussy in one thrust. She was already dripping wet. He stuffed her hard, balls slapping against her ass, one hand on her back, the other on her hip. Sandra moaned, no longer only forced. She came the first time, her cunt twitching around the thick shaft.
He pulled out, spat on her asshole and pushed in. Tight, burning, then full. He fucked her ass while she kept spreading her pussy with her fingers so nothing stayed covered. Franz stood to the side, cock in his fist, jerking off, eyes glassy, as if the flesh on the bed belonged to him.

The Black man switched holes, sometimes pussy, sometimes ass, sometimes her mouth again when he turned her around. Sandra was active. She pushed back, licked, pressed herself onto him. She came twice more, loud, thighs shaking.
At the end he stayed in her pussy, thrust deep and filled her. Thick, hot cum pulsed in her hole, already running out while he was still inside. Sandra kept herself open, showed the camera the creampied dirty hole, the slime dripping out of her.

Cut.

Franz came almost at the same time, his own cum landing on the floor next to the bed.

On the second day it continued professionally.
Another scene, different setting, more cocks, more holes, more camera. Sandra went along, came, let herself be filled, wiped the cum off her face as if it were craft by now.
At the end of the shoot they got six hundred dollars. Three hundred for her, three hundred for him.
In the hotel Franz counted the money and grinned. Sandra sat on the edge of the bed, her holes still wide and wet, and knew that the “adventure” had long since become a business—and that part of her had been waiting to be used again.

 

[franzjosef1]

3rd Part:


Home life settled back into routine. Once a week they ate at Sandra’s parents’. Once a week Franz’s mother came by and talked about the weather and the neighbors. Office, after work, television, fucking. Stefan fucked Sandra the way he always did, and Sandra went along with it, sometimes already with her mind somewhere else. Budapest sat deeper than she wanted to admit.

Summer 1994. There was nothing left to discuss. Both of them knew where the vacation was going.
First shooting day. Senior fucking, they called it in the studio. The man was old, fat, his belly hanging over his belt, gray hair on his chest, his cock only half-hard but thick enough. Sandra knelt down and took him in her mouth. She tasted sweat and skin, sucked until he got harder. Then he turned around, spread his fat ass cheeks and let her lick his hole. Sandra ran her tongue over his anus, licked it clean, pushed the tip inside while he moaned like an old animal. After that he fucked her as well as he still could: heavy on top of her, panting, his cock sliding into her cunt, getting stuck, thrusting irregularly. For Sandra it was new. The smell, the weight, the old body. She wasn’t averse. Somewhere to the side Franz stood jerking off, his eyes fixed on the pair on the mattress.

Second shooting day. A small gangbang, five men. Sandra took the cocks one after another in her mouth, let her cunt and ass get stuffed, was passed from one to the next. One after another they came on her: in her face, on her tits, in her open pussy, one last one down her throat. She swallowed, showed the camera the cum on her tongue, came several times herself, loud, her thighs wet. This time they collected seven hundred dollars.

Meanwhile back home, at Sandra’s parents’.
Sandra had turned twenty-two that year. Her father was fifty-five, loved porn more than anything and was a regular at the video store. One film had especially taken him: Giacomo Casanova in Venice. A proper costume piece, wigs, candles, masks. He rented it and looked forward to it all afternoon.
In the evening the mother sat in the TV room in front of some series. The father went into the study, where the VCR and the small television stood. He put in the cassette, turned off the light, sat down comfortably and immediately pulled his cock out. Half-hard, his fist already around it.

The first scene was pretty good. A salon, a blonde fuck on a sofa, skirt up, a guy in a jabot fucking her from behind. The father jerked slowly. The blonde wasn’t to his taste. Too soft, too pale.
Then the second scene. Exactly the fuck-mare from the cover. That was why he had taken the film. Slim, smaller tits, the face behind a baroque eye mask, baroque wig, mouth open, the body under the costume the way he wanted it. She looked barely legal in that light, he thought, and hoped the mask would come off.

First a lesbian number. A second young woman in a similar dress lifted the masked cunt’s skirt, spread her thighs and licked out her pussy. Long, loud, tongue deep in the slit, spit, slurping. The father got properly hot, had to slow his fist so he wouldn’t come too soon.
Then the fisting. The second woman spat, pushed first two fingers, then half her hand, then the whole fist into the masked woman’s cunt. The hole stretched, swallowed the fist up to the wrist. The masked cut moaned, her belly rose, the camera stayed close on the stuffed pussy. The father jerked faster, his cock glistening.

After the fisting came two baroque youths. Wigs, open trousers, stiff cocks. They took the masked cunt between them. One in the pussy, one in the ass, later alternating in the mouth. All holes. At the end both pulled out, stood in front of her face and came in her mouth at the same time. Thick fuck-cream ran over tongue and lips. She opened her mouth wide, showed the camera the whole load of jizz and swallowed it in one go.
At exactly that moment Sandra’s father came. The cum shot over his fist onto the desk.

The last shot: the main fuck close-up. A wide grin, the tongue ran once more over the lips as if to show how delicious that had just been. Then she took off the eye mask.
Sandra’s father thought he was having a stroke.
Only now did he recognize that the masked cunt was his daughter.

The father was still sitting there, trousers open, his own cum on the desk. He had shot his load over his own daughter. That hit deeper than any blow. He switched off the recorder and the television, first had to catch his breath, his hands shaking. Then he went to bed early. The mother asked something from the hallway, he only muttered. He barely slept. Again and again the open mouth full of fuck-cream, the swallowing and the grin afterward and then the face. Sandra’s face.

The next day he pulled himself together. He wanted to talk to her, immediately. But Sandra was still in Budapest, somewhere between studio and hotel, somewhere with Franz’s cock and strangers’ cocks in her head. So he took the cassette in his hand again. Read every letter on the label, the rental stamp, the title, the little number. Then he wound to the credits. Names, production company, studio details. He wrote everything down.
Telephoning was his hobby, languages anyway. English, French, Italian, fluent. All morning he kept lines open. Always the same lie: writer, new book about the Budapest scene of the early nineties, costume films, newcomers. Nobody learned that he was the father.

Finally he had an assistant from Budapest on the line. The man felt important, liked to talk. The father asked about locations, about money, about castings. Then, almost in passing, about the Casanova film. About the actress with the mask who had caught his eye.
The assistant laughed. She had been almost new. A natural talent. Always horny. Always curious about new cocks. Did everything, spread everything, came even when the camera was running. The boyfriend organized the shoots, brought her, collected with her, often stood to the side and jerked off.

The father felt sick. Still he wanted every word and then he didn’t want to hear anything more.
A week later he summoned Sandra and Franz into his study. The two of them came in. On the table lay the extra-bought cassette. Giacomo Casanova in Venice. Sandra turned bright red, wanted to sink into the floor. Franz’s breath caught, mouth open, no sound.
The father looked at them.
“Do you know how many men jerk off to that film?”

Pause.

“How many films have you made?”
Franz stammered that this was the only one, really the only one, a slip-up, costume, mask, nobody would recognize her.
The father raised his voice. “I called Budapest. They told me what a good fuck-mare you are. Natural talent. Always horny. Always a new pipe in the hole.”
Sandra said very quietly: “Five.”
Five films. Cunt, ass, mouth, old men, Black men, gangbang, fists, strangers’ cum on her face while Franz stood beside her and jerked off.

“This stops immediately.”

Sandra swore. Never again Budapest. Never again studio. Never again strangers’ cocks for money and camera.
That was the conversation. No scream, no blow, only that sentence and the oath. After that Sandra and Franz lived respectably. Office, visits to the parents, Franz’s mother, Sunday roast, ordinary fucking in the dark, no more envelopes, no more orange little dresses, no more “Cut” calls.

 

[franzjosef1]

If anyone would like a continuation, please let me know?

 

[franzjosef1]

Epilog


Sandra was quite content with her ordinary life without Budapest. Office, evenings at home, Franz, Sunday roast at her parents’, sex in the dark without cameras and without envelopes. The vow still held. Never again the studio.

One day the boss sent for her. The secretary knocked once, let Sandra in, and got the line from him: “I don’t want to be disturbed.” The door closed.
Sandra liked the tax firm. The boss, sixty, had been almost a second father to her: patient when she didn’t get something the first time, good at pushing her. She stepped into the room uneasy. Why did he want her now?
He sat behind the big desk. Six-foot-three, a heavy gut, the kind of man who left nothing standing where he put his hand. Nobody in the firm talked back to him. Will, a reputation for spite, respect all the way down the hall. What was this about?

“Sit.”

Sandra sat at his desk, hands in her lap.

“I hope things are going well in your relationship.”

“Yes. Franz and I are inseparable.”

“When are you getting married?”

“In a year or two we’ll take that step.”

“Children planned?”

“Yes. We thought two.”

He looked at her, voice still even. “And how are you going to explain that to the children?”
He opened the desk drawer and laid the tape on the blotter in front of her hands: Giacomo Casanova in Venice.
Sandra went scarlet. Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard she thought he must hear it. She needed the job. She liked the job. She would do anything to stay.

“So. What were you thinking with that film?” The voice sharpened. “Do you think I employ whores?”

Sandra stammered. How much she liked it here. That she would do anything to be allowed to stay. The words tangled. Her eyes stayed on the cassette.
The boss leaned back, thinking it over, the belly pushing over the belt. Then he said only: “Come here. Kneel between my feet.”
Sandra didn’t know what to do. She stood, walked around the desk, the carpet swallowing her steps. She knelt between his spread legs.

“You’re going to suck my cock now. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“Unzip. Take it out. Don’t hesitate.”

Her hands shook on the zipper. The suit trousers were warm. Behind them, in the boxers, he was already half hard. She hooked the waistband aside and pulled the cloth down. His cock sprang free: thick in the shaft, the head broad and already shining, a bead at the slit. The smell was strong, male, a little sweat under the aftershave.

“In your hand. Look at it first.”

Sandra took hold of it. The skin was hot, tight, the shaft filling her fingers. She stroked once from base to tip, the foreskin sliding over the head and back. He made a low sound through his nose.

“Lick. Just the tip. Tongue out.”

She bent forward, opened her mouth, ran her tongue over the head. Salt-bitter, warm. She circled the slit, took the bead, traced the ridge once, twice, slower. Spit gathered. She licked the underside of the glans, pressed firm enough that he twitched.

“Deeper. Mouth open. No teeth.”

Sandra took the head between her lips, sucked lightly, let it slide in. Spit ran at the corners of her mouth. She moved her head, took more of the shaft until the head hit her palate. The cock stretched her mouth. She pulled back, spit again, took him deeper, lips tight around the shaft, tongue flat along the underside. A wet smacking sound started.
The boss put a heavy hand on the back of her neck. “Slower. Suck. I want to feel that you can do it.”

She sucked. Cheeks hollow, spit running down the shaft onto his balls. With one hand she gripped the part that wouldn’t fit and stroked in the same rhythm, firm, twisting. The other hand found his sac, weighed it, dragged her nails carefully over it.
Sandra took him deeper. The head hit her throat, she gagged once, spit surged and dripped onto his trousers. She stayed, breathed through her nose, held him in her throat a moment, pulled off, coughed softly, strings of spit hanging between her lips and the head. Then she went down again, licked the shaft from balls to tip, tongue broad and wet. She kissed the root, licked the vein, took one ball into her mouth and sucked carefully while her hand kept working the shaft.

“Both hands. And your mouth. Properly now.”

She wrapped him with both hands, one over the other, twisting opposite ways, everything slick with spit. Her mouth took the head again, sucked in time, tongue working the underside. Spit dripped on the carpet, on his shoes. The cock was stone-hard, pulsing against her palate.

“Eyes open. Look at me while you suck it.”

She lifted her gaze, the cock still in her mouth, spit on her chin, lips red and shining. He watched her. Sandra took him to the limit, gagged on purpose, worked her throat, pulled back, breathed, went straight down again. Her hands stroked the wet shaft, hard, fast, then slow again, only the head in her mouth, sucking, tongue in the slit.

“Don’t swallow when I come. Show it first.”

She nodded with her mouth full. The strokes got shorter, harder. The boss pressed her head down and thrust a few times himself. Then a thick groan, the cock jerking heavy. Hot, thick come hit her palate and tongue, pulse after pulse, salty, bitter, a lot of it. Sandra kept her mouth open and let him empty until nothing more came. When he pulled out, a string hung between the head and her lower lip.

She stayed on her knees, mouth wide, tongue out, the white load sitting on it and already dripping over her lip onto her chin. “Swallow.”

Sandra closed her mouth, swallowed once, felt it go warm down her throat. A smear stayed at the corners. She wiped it with her thumb and licked the finger clean.
The boss didn’t put the wet, softening cock away at once. He looked at her, still between his legs. “Giacomo Casanova stays in the drawer. You stay at the firm. And you kneel when I ring. Understood?”

Sandra nodded, her voice raw from sucking. “Understood.”