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Pornographer’s Daughter: Sex Bus
Each story in the Pornographer’s Daughter series can be read independently. I anticipate half-a-dozen episodes, maybe more, plus a finale to wrap things up when I’m done with it. To get the character backstories, read the first story: Genesis. Look for an ordered list on my profile page. I will post a couple of stories back-to-back at the beginning to gauge reaction. Please vote high and add favorites. Thoughtful comments are always welcome.
All characters depicted in sexual situations are over 18.
Traci was gone when I woke up, although I could still smell her in my sheets. Today was my daughter’s first day on her job at Genesis FilmCo, my porn business. Employee orientation starts at eight every other Monday morning, and it was mandatory, even for a part-time summer intern who was the boss’s daughter. I had to attend, just before they broke for lunch, to welcome them to the team and tell them my door was always open. I meant it. It can be a stressful business for employees; I want to take care of the good ones. I fire the jerks pretty early.
It had been several days since Traci had scrambled my brain, and my groin, by running her foot up my leg at Truants, and then fucking me until I was empty that night, and every day since then. Traci is tall, smart, blonde, and she reminded me of my all-time favorite film goddess – Grace Kelly. We had talked a lot, me guiltily trying to unwind the incestual relationship while admitting she was perfect for me in every other way. For her part, Traci wanted to convince me that we were both adults, that times had changed, and that a wider variety of sexual pairings were tolerated – something she said she learned in her women’s studies degree program. Maybe – but I knew at least one person who wouldn’t see it that way.
It was tea-time in London; I called Traci’s mother to tell her what was happening. No, I didn’t tell the ex-wife that I was fucking her daughter. I told her that Traci was working in my accounting department while she finished her degree and that she was coming to Europe to meet her friends later in the summer.
My ex-wife really is the ice-cold blonde that Her Serene Highness sometimes had played on the big screen. “Traci is coming to London,” she said. “We need to talk.” Then she hung up. Yeah – nice talking to you, too. Shit. Usually, I’ve had a reasonably good relationship with my ex. I took Traci to see her often when she was too young to travel alone, and I had paid for any other trip when she wanted to see her mom. But some of Traci’s dislike of my business came from her mother.
“I want her to learn some of the odd parts of this business,” I told Mike Anderson, Traci’s supervisor in the accounting department. “I’m thinking that she should spend time working on distribution, contract renewals, and compliance.”
In the beginning, porn was always a shady, often illegal business that ran on cash, no records, no taxes, and lots of mobsters. Now that it was high-tech, and mostly legal in most places, it was starting to change. It had to change. Multi-million dollar investments in data centers and production gear needed access to banks, lawyers, and courts to finance expansions and settle disputes. Federal, state, and local regulations were different everywhere, which made it tough to run an essentially stateless online global marketplace that still needed actual physical production facilities that were unfortunately within reach of local politics and law enforcement. There was a lot of nasty, illegal activity on the dark web, but Genesis was diligent about avoiding all the little things that could cause us big trouble or get us ripped off.
One of the constant headaches was making sure that our distribution partners were staying on the white-hat side of the law. Of course, we wanted to make sure that they weren’t involved in anything on a list of problems like kiddie porn, snuff films, real violence, or harm to animals while we sold bukake compilations. We also wanted to make sure they kept honest books and paid us what they owed in clean currency we could run through our banks. In the last few years, we’ve had to become more involved in HR issues, payroll taxes, and union activities. It took a person with an eye for detail who could also see the big picture to spot hidden problems. I hoped that by sticking Traci down in this trough of straight business muck, she would absorb the details of the business side in a way no one would if they started as Daddy’s girl up in the C-suite.
“Since I’m really here to talk about the problems of Sex Bus,” I told Mike, “let her start by assisting whomever you have assigned to sort out that whole mess.”
Mike laughed. “Man, she is going to hate you.”
Even though back in the day we were starting to sell our re-cut mechanic training porn titles by the dozen, I still had a contractual obligation to finish the straight industrial training films for the bus company. There was a brand new lovely city bus ataşehir escort bayan sitting in my other studio as a prop that the manufacturer had made available for our use. I wanted to start making original porn. So in one of my dumber moments, I decided to use that bus. I called the result Sex Bus.
The basic idea was that I would hire sorority house girls from the various colleges in the region, a licensed professional driver, and two cinema verite film crews to capture the action as the bus filled with hot, young college girls went in search of sex and adventure. I lit the inside of the bus for one crew and rented a pickup for the other crew to capture everything outside of the bus as it traveled. This was before reality TV became a real thing; it seemed to make sense at the time. I promised bonuses to the girls and their sororities if they generated more nudity and hot sex than the other rival sororities.
As the producer, I always show up on the first day of shooting on a new project. I want the talent, the crew, and especially the free-lance director to know that this was a job, for a business, with a budget, and a boss – me. These days I only work with experienced pros, sometimes A-list, well – the porn A-list, a lot of reliable B-listers, and a minimal number of beginners who had recently turned eighteen. But on the Sex Bus, everyone was an amateur except the driver. And me.
The problems started immediately. Not all the girls on the bus with their sororities were fully on-board; they didn’t want to get naked; they didn’t want to have sex. Then a girl wanted to pee, so we had to stop. Five minutes later, another girl had to pee. I told the director that his shoot was falling apart and that he better fix it if he wanted to keep working. He stopped the bus at a liquor store, made a phone call, and then went inside to buy a keg of beer and a couple of cases of cheap champagne. A few of the girls started drinking. He kept the bus idling at the curb. I asked him why he was waiting. Forty minutes later, fifteen of his fraternity brothers, and as was discovered later, his coke dealer, piled onto the bus. The party was on. I got off and took a cab home.
The police report said that a transit vehicle filled with nude and partially-clothed occupants had disturbed the peace throughout the community with a variety of loud, lewd, and lascivious behaviors and noise, including but not limited to female passengers exposing their breasts and buttocks to innocent passersby. The report went on to say that several witnesses had reported seeing the occupants engaged in a variety of sexual acts, and there was one report of a sexual act involving a goat. Apparently, a fraternity brother had caught up to the bus with the house mascot. The reporting officer had been unable to confirm the sex acts or the goat’s role.
I took my lawyer to meet with the District Attorney, who seemed to be very angry. He threatened decades of jail-time and ruinous fines. I pointed out that the bus and driver were both fully licensed and insured. The DA didn’t care. I pointed out that everyone mentioned in the police report was over eighteen, an adult, and of legal drinking age due to recent changes at the state. The DA didn’t care. I pointed out that the girls were members of a sorority at the local college; they were the daughters of local merchants, judges, and elected officials.
All the charges were dropped. I promised to get an event permit and a safety inspection in the future and to make a generous donation to the youth league the DA sponsored. I made five more Sex Bus videos and learned several useful lessons. First, I showed outtakes to other sororities, so they knew what they had to do to be competitive for larger cash payments. Second, I hired off-duty cops as security. Third, I started cultivating mutually beneficial relationships with elected officials.
Eventually, I learned another valuable lesson – never work with amateurs. But, damn – once those sorority girls got warmed up with a snoot-full of their preferred party favor, and the music was blaring, they got naked and got down with their frat boys. It was awesome – then. It was the sexual revolution; no one was worried about deadly diseases, gender stereotypes, or photos posted online.
It was not awesome now. A few of the girls had stayed on to work with me for years, as screen talent, as directors, and as producers. Others, though, had become pillars of their suburban communities with lawyers of their own. I had distributed the VHS tapes across the United States, and when sales slowed, I bundled all six and sold them in Asia. They still sold steadily in third world countries with repressive cultures and limited internet access. In recent years, standards and practices regarding on-screen talent had shifted. I had an international cluster-fuck on my hands, but no way to get my arms around it.
On Friday, Mike Anderson called me. He said, “Traci sorted all the paper files, created an encrypted database, and taught two of the escort kadıköy clerks to do the data entry with tags to create meta-data. Legal has a hard-on; they say they can isolate the whole thing off-shore within a couple of months, and sell our problem to a Saudi kid in Australia.” He snorted. “I’m keeping her.”
“Good luck with that,” I said. Then I called Traci to invite her to dinner.
“I’ve already made plans for us,” she said. “Meet me in the lobby at seven.”
Don’t quote me, but in my business, thank god for lawyers. Early on, mine had created a holding company where we kept most of our financial assets. The original company had been stripped, including the name which was licensed back to the entity that now only had liabilities and risk exposure. These days, all of our projects are shell companies that we can manage, sell, leverage, or discarded as needed. We had separate entities for the real estate transactions to maximize tax benefits and local development incentives. Our technology infrastructure was separate, too; they sent us bills for the charge-backs and generated revenue with services. Data was the new oil, and we had very valuable data, including our customer lists. Other data-rich companies hired us for our expertise without ever knowing it all started with porn, and that porn kept the internet lights on twenty 24/7.
Traci’s private college had a required standard uniform that was mandatory for some college events. When I got to the lobby, she was wearing it, which was odd. I had seen her earlier in jeans and a blouse. She was wearing the dark blue pleated wool skirt that was mid-thigh length, penny loafers, and knee socks. She was wearing a different blouse than this morning. This one was about two sizes too small and darted to accentuate her boobs and tight body. She had on glasses that I had never seen before, and her hair was in pigtails.
“Mike says you did a great job on your first assignment,” I said. “So, congrats on that. And, oh yeah, you look hot. You are rocking that schoolgirl look, though I’m not sure why.”
Traci smiled and came into my arms to kiss me, not necessarily the best thing for the lobby. “Hi, Daddy,” she said and took my hand, “follow me.”
She pulled me out of the lobby to the sidewalk. At the curb sat several hundred thousand dollars worth of new articulated city bus. The bus was kneeling at the curb, and its wheelchair lift was loading an ice chest and a rolling cart covered with a white cloth. Two young women dressed in catering garb supervised the loading; the driver stood by the front door.
The driver nodded to Traci and said, “We’re all set, Ma’am,” and then he looked at me. “Welcome aboard, Sir.”
The caterers had set some high-top tables in the front section of the bus and had pulled trays of hors d’oeuvres out of the cart. We were handed flutes of sparkling Pinot Noir from Argyle – a favorite of mine; I quickly munched a shrimp on a skewer with some cocktail sauce.
“Welcome to the final run of the Sex Bus,” Traci toasted as we clinked glasses.
I looked around. The back section was screened by a curtain hanging at the articulated joint. The front part was the new standard for a city bus: comfortable seats, attractive fabric, good design, and accessible. If hors d’oeuvres and sparkling wine were standard, I might ride a bus every day – or not. Throw in some hot schoolgirls, and the math worked for me.
Traci told me her mother had called after talking to me to insist that Traci come to London before doing anything else. Traci got along with her mom just great, but I could tell she was apprehensive about this trip: Hi Mom, I’m fine. You look great. I’m fucking Dad and working at his porn studio. What’s for dinner?
What could go wrong with that?
It took about half an hour to ride downtown from my office in the tech park. We drank wine, snacked on the fancy treats, and chatted about our week. Once we got down into the old section of the city with all the fun clubs, the bus slowed with the heavy traffic and pedestrians. Traci got up on a seat, opened a window, and stuck her bare ass out to moon the crowd. A loud cheer erupted. Traci laughed and kissed me. My serene highness.
“Let’s have some fun,” she said.
As we crossed the pedestrian mall, we jumped off the bus after Traci arranged for it to pick us up again three blocks further on. It was a beautiful, warm, summer Friday night in the city; the mall was packed with people enjoying themselves. Some were already loud and boisterous; some were strolling the mall on what might have been their first date. At the expensive sidewalk cafes, older couples sipped wine and took in the scene.
There were jugglers and sketch artists, of course. Fortunately, I didn’t see any mimes or clowns. We stopped to watch a busker entertain the tourists by naming their hometowns without error when they called out their zip codes. I glanced at a strange-looking man sitting with a dog that had a cat on its back, maltepe escort and in turn, a white mouse on the cat—some things I just don’t want to know. Then I noticed someone waving at me; she looked familiar.
It was Frannie Stevens! Frannie was one of the original Sex Bus girls and one who had also made a couple of videos as talent but then worked as a director for me for six years. She was standing with a younger version of herself.
Frannie introduced her daughter, Jessie, who was a lovely ginger like her mom. I introduced Traci. Jessie had just finished her second year in law school. “Entertainment law,” she said when I asked about her interests.
The young ladies walked ahead of Frannie and me, either instantly comfortable or already familiar with each other in some way. I said, “It is great to see you, Frannie. But I’m a bit surprised. What are you doing here?”
Frannie laughed. “It was supposed to be a surprise. Traci called me and said she was planning something to close the Sex Bus saga for good. She made an offer too good to refuse.”
By now, we were close to the end of the three blocks we intended to walk. I could see our bus waiting with the driver, the caterers, and two guys and two other women – more original alumni. We laughed and hugged and introduced everyone.
We got on the bus; the caterers poured the wine; the driver lowered the lights and turned on some house music. We danced and drank and acted young and stupid again, those of us who had been both. Young and smart, Traci and Jessie huddled with everyone individually at one of the high-top tables. They signed and stamped documents.
Frannie opened her blouse and leaned out the window to flash her breasts at the crowds. The rest of the alumni caught the spirit and pulled off their shirts and danced topless. They started flashing people on the street. One of the guys shook a bottle of bubbly and sprayed the crowd, then turned and sprayed all of us. What the hell. It’s the Sex Bus!
After an hour of cruising, we dropped off everyone back at the mall. We stood on the sidewalk for a while for talking and hugging. Then Traci and I got back on the bus. The caterers had cleaned up most of the mess and put everything in order. The driver looked content; he started the bus in motion.
I said, “That was a surprisingly good time. It was great to see Frannie. What were you and Jessie up to?”
Traci smiled. “I started planning the bus trip for us on Monday when you put me on something Mike said was going to be horrible. Everything was available in-house, except for the bus.” She stuck her tongue out at me. “But while I was doing the research, I discovered that Frannie or at least, a certain old video of Frannie, how shall we say, wouldn’t be completely kosher in terms of modern standards and practices.”
“Oh, shit, this will be trouble,” I said. “We were going to offload all of this.”
“It could have been trouble,” Traci said. “I found Frannie, and through her social media pages, connected with Jessie. I convinced them both to sign confidentiality agreements and claim waivers. I like Jessie. She is a notary – which has been useful. She’ll be doing an internship with our white-shoe law firm, on our dime, and have all her current debt relieved. Frannie gets a small check.”
I was stunned – impressed – but stunned. “And the others?”
“They were listed on the police report with Frannie. They get a check, too. So does the arresting officer, now retired. They all signed agreements.”
“An intern got all that done, part-time, in a week?” I asked with more than a little skepticism.
“Not alone. No one thinks I’m an intern – I’m the boss’s daughter; I’m taking over the company someday,” she smiled. “Everyone is going to be working for me.”
Yes, indeed – her serene highness, the princess of porn – my little girl. I started to have new hope.
Traci kissed me, and pulled me toward the back of the bus, through the curtain hung at the articulation joint. In the back section, a platform was rigged between the seats, above the window line. It was big enough for the queen-size mattress and fancy sheets that were on it. There was a Jacob’s Ladder and a Lava Lamp running, adding to the mood, plus an old video production switching panel that seemed familiar. The interior lights had been converted to blue; they were dimmed, but not enough to make us invisible to people on the sidewalk.
In fact, I think the pedestrians could see us quite well, given the reaction from outside when Traci removed her blouse. She must have heard them shout; she opened the window, turned to tell me to get naked, and then leaned out the window to shake her boobs at the crowd like a college girl on a party bus.
I crawled up onto the mattress to watch. Traci closed the window, and then stripped off her shoes, socks, and skirt. Wearing only a tiny g-string over her pussy and the little triangle shaved into her muff, she climbed up onto the platform and joined me on the sheets.
Traci straddled my waist and rubbed her pussy against my hard cock. I could feel her dampness through the silk as she stroked me. She clasped her hands behind her neck and waved her breasts at me and every lucky person on the street. Her body was magnificent. I could hear cheers.
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