The Office Girl by T.H. Sandal

The Office
Girl
     
    I knew a pornographer once. A man who made porn films. He
liked to think of them as art, and in a sense they were. He was
good you understand, had a way with the camera, knew about lighting
and such like, had an eye for the right line or profile. And that's
important in a porn film. Almost as important as the tenor of the
girl's moan.
    It's like women's tennis. A bit like that.
    We'll call him Trevor, Trev for short, though you understand
that this wasn't his name at all and as it happens, he'd probably
like me to use his real name because it sounds so much more
impressive than Trevor or even Trev. But that's they way it will
be. For all the Trevs reading this who haven't featured in stories
about sex and erotica – this is for you.
    Now naturally, Trev had a load of equipment – cameras,
lighting mostly – but what he didn't have was a studio. If he'd
been a photographer, and as I understand it, he'd done some of that
as well, but if he'd done that for a living, he might have based
himself in a studio, but being a pornographer, being, to all
intents, a film-maker, he liked to work on location. Which meant,
depending on the finances, a borrowed flat, a dingy hotel room, or,
if the cash flow was at all healthy, a hired residence.
    Those last were the best, preferably something with a bunch of
rooms because, again depending on the cash flow, he'd make a point
of filming a few scenes in one or two days and in an effort not to
repeat a particular setting, he'd make use of the various rooms
available.
    Now it has to be said that not everyone renting their pad out
for the weekend likes to think that it would used in the making of
a porn film. Some, I know for certain, were not best pleased at
all, but that didn't run across the board and there was always the
old adage to consider: only a limited percentage of posh types with
residences to rent out ever watch porn film and, more to the point,
would admit it if they did.
    Likewise, for those acquaintances who did watch porn and did
manage to recognise the location as the wonderful London maisonette
owned by the Howards, well how likely was it that they'd actually
pluck up the courage to tell Sophie and Jeremy Howard that there,
right there on that deep, plush sofa on which they were drinking
their G&T's, yes, right there had been a freshly made-up
actress, her legs all akimbo, getting power-fucked by some
well-built hunk with a huge prick.
    Of course there were always some who would blurt it out,
probably between courses at one of the Howards' special dinner
parties, but it was unlikely, even with straight porn. Naturally,
lesbian porn would have been acceptable, but not, definitely not,
gay porn. Everyone has their peccadillos.
    And where do I fit in? You might just as well asked me where
did mine fit in?
    You'll know, if you've read my other stories, that I possess
something of an unusual appendage, and in this context, as you
might read in a later story, I was known to play a part in the some
of the more wild scenes that Trev put together. In fact, I could
list out for you all the scenes in which I, or at least parts of
me, appear, but these were never starring parts. Though that's not
to say that parts of me never starred.
    Without further mucking about then, let's take a trip to
Brighton. Been there? For those half way round the globe and
wondering about the spelling, Brighton sits on the coast some few
miles south of London. It's a seaside resort for the most part but
its also a student town that also incorporates a fair quota of
office workers.
    Apart from other aspects, Trev likes to go there because the
property is full of character; a lot of Georgian-style terracing
that was established in the early nineteenth century when the
Prince Regent was building his rather salubrious palace. So imagine
big bay windows letting in loads of light, tall ceilings, elaborate
plaster work, old-style wooden panel doors and, in those residences
where they've spent the