Chapter One

 

G'day. My name is Lynda-Jayne Payne. Yes, I know, it's rather tacky but my mother thought it had a nice ring to it. I'm from Redcliffe in Queensland, that's in Australia. Well, actually, I was born in Greater Manchester. We moved to Oz when I was eight-years-old. When I say we, that's me, Mum and my older brother, Colin.

What happened when we were in Greater Manchester was that my birth father came home one afternoon early from work for some reason only to discover Mum spread over the kitchen table, his brother banging her. There was a row, father left. His brother, who is now my stepdaddy, was over from Oz visiting family as he had migrated a few years before. He is a squealer (pig) ... a blue-heeler ... a bloody cop. Within weeks we were on our way. Mother was a theatre sister in the heart-transplant unit - so it pulled lots of strings to get us there quickly.

However, I guess you don't want to hear the boring bits from my story.

My 18^th birthday was on 1^st November so come 25^th November I was able to leave school for good. Next day, I pack my rucksack and head to the airport for a trip to Europe. Yes, that means I will be away from home for Christmas, but who gives a pig's bum? It can be so boring being with family.

Just so you know: I'm 1.7 metres tall, that's 5-foot 7-inches in your old measurement system, slim, 34B-24-33, blonde, blue eyes.

After swiftly backpacking through Italy, Switzerland, Germany and Netherlands I have arrived in England, it now Thursday, 15^th December.

Ostensibly I'm here to visit relatives, but none of the bloody rellies wants me around at Christmas as, so they claim, they have family obligations. Even my father, who is now married to his third wife - mum and the second got divorced from him - isn't interested in seeing me. So much for parental love.

It's a bummer.

However, I do have a bit of a backup plan. Like most teenagers I'm no stranger to the internet and, in particular, porn. My favourite stud at the moment is a guy that's called, Clint Cocksman. Obviously, I'm not interested in his face, just his body and what is hanging between his legs. Assuming there is no camera trickery, he sure looks to be really well hung. Makes me moist just thinking about it - his penis, that is.

So my plan is to get into the porn game, make some money, stay in a hotel over Yuletide then tour the old country.

Yes, I know it's a bit naïve, not much of a plan is it, but bloody hell, I am only just turned eighteen so what do you expect?

Anyway, there I was in Amsterdam, in a sex shop, where I spotted a couple of magazines. One was softcore, called, Femme Liberté, the other hardcore, entitled, Femme Unchained. To cut the tale, I liked what I saw and discovered that the publishers were a company called Hardman & Balls, based in London.

Which is why I am here emerging from Tottenham Court Road underground station.

 

***

 

Having found the newly-built nine-storey office block, Hardman & Ball occupying the top three floors, I'm in the lift admiring myself in the long mirror conveniently place for such egotistical people to make use of. Actually, my trainers look grubby, my very cropped booty shorts are, to the prudish, indecent, and my Australian-gold sweatshirt could also do with a dammed good wash. My hair needs my split ends trimming. My mane is held back in a pony tail. Oh, I've got no makeup on 'cos some thieving bastard filched it in the hostel in Amsterdam.

My booty shorts had attracted lots of interest on my way over on the ferry and the trains - well, I reckon it was the tight arse in them and the revealed long legs that attracted the staring. Not that I mind of course, as I adore being the centre of attention, getting guys hot for me. I'm something of an exhibitionist which is why I reckon I can do porn.

Why are my booty shorts so short, you may well ask. I set out from Oz in my old, worn, tight, faded-blue jeans, which got more tattered as I made my way through Italy, Switzerland and Germany. Finally, in the Netherlands, they were so ripped I borrowed a pair of scissors and, with difficulties, cut off both legs.

The higher the lift is going the more excited I'm becoming. My vagina is seeping, wetting the crotch of my shorts. So much so that I'd like to pull down the zipper and frig myself off.

I'm hoping and praying that I don't lose my bottle. - but hey, we Aussie girls are made of sterner stuff.

Arriving at the seventh floor, I step out of the lift. I'm impressed and relieved as this doesn't look like some sleazy organisation. There must have been half-a-dozen stunning-looking girls milling about in the reception area, all very glamourous, and what my mother would call looking like tarts. On the wall opposite the counter there are rows of A4-sized photographs, each one of a glamour girl. Dead centre, there is a single picture of a man.

I don't get to inspect it for the receptionist, who is quite stunning-looking herself, calls out, "Next, please!"

Everyone is staring at me, using their heads to indicate it is me, they clearly must have all been served and are waiting for some reason.

Going to the counter, I advise who I am and that I want to become a porn starlet. After giving me a good once-over, she says, "I'll see if someone can see you now."

I have to wait for ten minutes before a blonde woman, aged about forty comes out to greet me. My mother would describe her as tarty; my maternal grandma would no doubt say, she looks like a whore. But then, nearly every modern woman is, in grandma's book, of questionable morals. Her black dress is so strained by her very-large breasts I could make out her nipples through the stretched material. Precisely the sort I expect to be in the porn industry. She is an attractive woman, for a woman in her early forties, I reckon - well, anyone over the age of twenty-five is ancient to someone of my age.

She introduces herself as Naomi Norman, the Operations Manager, apologising that all the handlers are currently busy so could I follow her.

In her office, I take one of the two chairs before her desk, my rucksack going down on the carpet beside me. Coffee is offered but I prefer tea so that is arranged over the intercom.

"So, Miss Payne, you want to become a porn star. Are you over eighteen?" Naomi asks, having told me to use her Christian name - not that she is a practising Christian apparently, but neither am I despite my mother's best efforts.

I produce my Aussie passport that she examines, placing it down upon the desk close to her.

"Have you got a work permit for the U-K.

"Don't need one. I've dual nationality," I chirpily reply. Rooting in my rucksack, I pull out my British passport that ends up on top of my other.

A tray arrives carried in by a plump-ish twenty-something woman. China cups, teapot, milk and sugar bowl, plus a plate of chocolate covered biscuits. Clearly not Tim-Tams as these are round and stamped with Cadbury in the coating.

Let me say, it is a lovely cup of tea and I get to scoff four of the biscuits. Well, I haven't eaten much since the snack on the overnight ferry.

Naomi quizzes me about my sex life, about what I know about the sex industry - which isn't much really - and why I want to be a porn star.

From her chair, she presses several buttons that cause the blinds on the glass walls of her office to descend. "Strip off, please, Lynda-Jayne, let me have a look at what you've got to offer."

There is no point in being bashful if I want to be an adult movie star. So I stand up and take my clothes off.

At that moment this man walks in, pausing, he says, "Oops, sorry, I didn't realise-"

"It's okay, Torp. This is Lynda-Jayne Payne all the way from Australia who wants to become a Hardman & Balls adult entertainment girl. Seems to be interested in glamour work, acting, striptease, and escorting," Naomi imparts.

"Erm. Smile. Show me your teeth," he demands.

Reactively, I open wide.

"Nice teeth," he comments.

"Good dentist," I chirp. I recognise him. I'd swear it is Clint Cocksman. Six-foot two-inches tall, manly. Chestnut-brown hair that has been cut short and curled so he looks like one of them old Roman emperors. He is a lot older than he looks in his movies, early forties I'd hazard a guess.

"I'd be happy to give her a poke," he says, quite matter-of-factly. "Have you explained the facts of life-"

"I'm bloody eighteen. I'm no virgin, for Christ's sake," I interject, thinking he believes I'm some sort of a naïve virgin.

He guffaws.

"Torp means, have I explained the various ramifications of becoming an adult movie actress," Naomi advises.

"Oops, sorry," I reply, feeling a fool.

"I'll leave you two to it. Speak to you later, Naomi," he says, before exiting the room.

She explains the sex industry facts of life to me including: softcore glamour work, which gets you noticed but pays little money; hardcore, gives more money and gets you more noticed; doing stripping and feature dancing can give a girl more money but you need to be well known to start with; escort work is where the real money is; private parties are where the top money can be made particularly if you are famous - that's famous in the world of adult entertainment. I can, apparently, choose to get started doing every facet of adult entertainment or simply start with, say, glamour, and add other facets as time progresses. However, she says, time is not necessarily on a woman's side, the older a girl gets, the opportunities shrink.

"I've dreamt of doing porn for several years now. I appreciate there are risks but I have discovered that I really do love sex. And, I wanna make loads of money as quickly as I can. So, I wanna fuck for the big bucks," I respond. At her request, I go on to tell her more about myself, about my trip to Europe, and where I'm staying in England. I confess that I'll have to find a Youth Hostel for tonight.

"Is it safe for me to presume that you haven't been celibate during your trip?" Naomi asks.

"Pig's fucking bum, of course I've been rooting. Two guys in Italy. One was quite an Italian stallion. Bloke in Berlin and a Dutch guy in Amsterdam yesterday," I proudly boast.

Picking up her phone, she presses several buttons, then talks to someone.

After, she says to me, "Right, go to the eighth floor. Go to the door marked Laboratory and press the bell. They're expecting you for an urgent blood and urine test. With luck, they'll have your results by this evening. Once you've given the samples return to me. So, you can leave your backpack here. Then we'll get you signed up to be one of H & B's girls."