Work Text:
“And who did you come to see?”
“Alison Sauce!”
The man with the microphone seemed taken aback. Heather's friends giggled on either side, but notably none of them blushed. His street interviews were meant to elicit innocent answers, a bit of cross-promotion for the acts at the event. So far none of the tweens he'd asked had dared to name one of the “adults-only” guests. Heather Waves played on the value of shock, smiling up at him across the gap of age. Just like her friends from the cheer team, all barely into middle school, Heather had worn a dangerously short skirt (more micro than mini) and a strappy top, revealing her midriff, the fabric a neon shade: Varsity Blue.
“You're serious? The 'Ride It' girl?”
“Yeah, so?”
“How old are you again?”
“Twelve.”
Shawn Philippe and his crew were filming the Q&A, and with all his cute charisma it wasn't difficult to get young girls to line up and respond. Now he looked discomfited, if intrigued, minor-key disturbed by the fact that they might not be able to use the footage. A preteen girl, admitting that she was there to see a girl gone viral for sex advice? That alone would be enough to make the clip go viral, and yet immediately get flagged, demonetised, the modern form of censored. For whatever reason, advertisers weren't cool with little girls admitting—even indirectly—how much they liked to fuck. How frequently they had sex on the brain.
Her friends—Becca, Nikki and Amber—had all given more family-friendly answers. Then like a punchline unexpectedly turning a clean joke filthy, Heather made it weird. Her eyes sparkled with the thrill of honesty, instead of any amusement. She was not trolling, no clickbait for the sake of it. She evidently wanted him to picture it: Heather with her skirt up and her panties down, the flick and roll of her hips, taking the advice of a girl who, after all, was only eight years older than she was. A girl had to start sooner or later! And when she was as blatantly willing as Heather, the honest position of most respondents was—the sooner the better.
“Well, you're a bold one. I don't think you'll get in. That's for—”
“What if I came with you?”
“They're checking ID's at the gate.”
“Take me backstage then. I'll meet her there.”
“Maybe. Will you give me a redo? Give me an answer I can use!”
“Sure.”
In platform heels, maybe she could have passed for sixteen, yet Heather had worn sneakers. She had given her actual age, and dared him to make an issue out of it. When the so-called kids were more comfortable with sex than the adults in the room, what did that say about the damage of those intervening years? Heather subtly wet her lips, like the finishing touch for all the flirtatious smiles, the open body language, the way all four girls had been playing with their hair, pupils dilated. In almost every clip he posted, the subtext was obvious and, to some viewers, outrageous. He might have been twice their age, but he could get it. Just like her friends, like so many of the interviewed schoolgirls, she was attracted to his style, his hair, his breezy sense of humour, the full picture of young male virility. How could they be otherwise? He looked to an experienced girl's eye like a fun fuck.
To an experienced man's eye, all the girls looked down for it. Willing party favours, the kind of minors who were angling for an invite to the aftershow, the circuit of events where they might meet with a celebrity or two. How many influencers had been caught and cancelled for seeking what the tweens were so willing to provide? Nudes and spread shots and meet-ups, the sentiment of “let's have fun that no one needs to know about.”
During the second go at questions, the innocent talk about what model of phones they were using, what athletes they admired, Heather could tell that he was still thinking about her answer. The implication that she was having sex already, more than a passing interest. His glances, the rapid way he checked her out, kept suggesting that in his heart of hearts he wanted to explore that very same subject. Heather had been hoping that he did more than interview girls for his feed—she wanted to be on his private drive, the unusable footage, so ready to make some more. She knew men well enough by now to catch all the signs, the evidence of that ancient drive, spread the seed, and here she was blatantly indicating to him that she stood ready to take it, smear it down her body.
A dirty little bitch, isn't that what they said? A good little slut. A twelve-year-old piece of fuckbait, happy to get it by the truck driver, by his cop friend, by the janitor at her school, and then some. Stories to tell: the wedding reception where she'd gone from flower girl to honorary bridesmaid, fucked in a closet by the Best Man—he really was. Sharing the wealth with Brianna at one of her garage parties, throats blown out and their asses gaped, so pliable before age thirteen, so pleased when they were dripping cum. Didn't the glow of all that sex shine through, until any man worth his testosterone could simply tell that she was out to get some more?
Heather and her friends tagged along with him after that point, but not too close. They all were working their own special interests, trying to find other men at the event who weren't going to hold back on account of the taboo, upheld by some pedophobic laws. Half the men who showed up had probably been lured there by the good work of his videos, showing the dress code, showing the attitude of these eleven and twelve and thirteen-year-old girls who'd come effectively alone, supervised but not really, some stepdad or older cousin, more than willing to let the tweens have their fun. This was a gathering with an unwritten rule, mutual encouragement: underage girls who wanted to fuck, and grown men who brought satisfying dick. Heather had merely set her sights on the crush-worthy catalyst of it all, the interviewer who happened to be hot.
“What's the plan, anyway?” Nikki asked. She had already shown some incriminating photos of herself to a t-shirt vendor, this man about three times her age. “Meet back where again?”
“At the flagpole out front,” Heather said.
“That's easy.”
“You're easy.”
“You're one to talk, slut!”
Laughter attended the tension-break, yet this giddy sense of impending separation obtained.
“It's all in the G. C.,” Heather went on. “Meet up, no later than eleven—if you can help it.”
“Kate'll be pissed if we stay later,” Amber said, chiming in. Kate was Amber's cousin, who'd driven them to the event in the first place.
“She'd be more pissed if she knew what we were getting up to.”
“I bet.”
“She's just jealous I have more followers than she does!” Nikki said, grinning savagely. “Like, ten X.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I don't know. She's still jealous.”
“Bitch, you're a narcissist.”
“Is that the word that means I love myself? Because yeah, fucking fact.”
They had dressed for attention, and they got it. The girls had bonded in the first place over cheer camp and crushes, only to rapidly activate over the preceding two summers, until all four of them had gone through a series of “secret boyfriends,” men from their lives, the blending of the digital and the real. Some had come through the network of family and friends, while at least half had approached through apps, found them on messengers and verified them to be real—real little sluts. A hot commodity, in other words, the most lucrative trade in the world, all the more so given the artificial restrictions imposed. Parental controls called out to be defied, and the excitement of transgressing added a layer of heat onto what was already explosive.
Heather and her friends split up as the events got underway, making it toward their primary choices, the men who had expressed interest, subtly or otherwise. Shawn let it be known that Heather had had an effect on him, given that the event he ventured toward was in fact the Alison Sauce interview on stage. While Heather was (unfairly) gatekept out of the 18+ tent, she saw that he went in without his crew, that he even glanced back at her as he went in. There, in his eyes, the lightning flash of interest. Maybe he'd broker a meeting with the viral star, maybe he wouldn't, but at the very least he'd be back out to reunite with Heather in the aftermath. The topics they discussed would keep sex on his mind, too, and all throughout he had the image of Heather right alongside, juxtaposed against her stated interest. Twelve and ready. A hormone sink. A cheerleader and a cocksucker, happy little cum receptacle, rule breaker, Daddy's little girl and Brother's wet spot, the spirit of jailbait alive and well.
“You been following me?” He asked her in a way more playful than accusatory when they met back up outside the tent.
“Maybe. Don't you owe me?”
“Owe you—for what?”
“I gave you content! Something you could use, remember?”
“Oh, yeah. I might use that. Might use something else, I don't know.” Who was he trying to kid—Heather and company were the cutest girls there by far, and dressed like sex workers. The likes, comments, subscribes would flow in, and the softcore exploitation served them both. He wanted more followers, and they wanted to be seen, the symbiosis of the modern age.
“C'mon, you have clout. Bring me back to meet her!”
“Clout. And you're chasing it. You're persistent, aren't you? What are you trying to learn from her, anyway?”
“Nothing. Whatever. I already learned it. There's shit I could teach her.”
“Now that I'd have to see to believe.”
“I'm not against it,” she teased, biting her bottom lip. She'd made her attire into the most blatant peep show, wardrobe malfunctions just waiting to happen. His difference in height meant he could just about see down her top. The hour was just past sundown, and the vast grass parking lot had become a hook-up spot in its own right, rows upon rows of cars and trucks where more than one backseat was occupied with couples who weren't supposed to copulate.
“Are you trying to get me in trouble?”
“No way. I love your stuff.”
“You're sure?”
“Yeah!”
“Where are your friends?”
“Off doing their own thing. I'm all alone, I'm ready—” she didn't finish the sentence.
“Ready to go, huh. Look, I'll try to get you a meet with Alison, but maybe we ought to do another interview real quick. One on one.”
“Without your crew?”
“Yeah. I have a separate rig in my car, if you're cool to shoot there.”
“You shoot there a lot?”
“For the right girl.”
“Little collab?”
“That's it.”
With every line, they were growing closer, and the understanding felt charged with illicit possibilities. Her blatant honesty was paying off, and the sense that he was gladly falling into her fuck-trap set Heather's pussy throbbing. His initial surprise, his staged reticence, that had been for the cameras. What he wanted was the predictable, the richness and tightness and the high heat of young sex, loli porn in 4K, the content he had in fact recorded with dozens of Heathers through the years. She wasn't his first, but then he wasn't her first either, and the respect, the desire went both ways. The message came across in pheromones, the eye contact, the body language, her open disclosure that she followed a girl known for her frank sex talk, his history of interviewing the hottest tweens at any event. Theirs was a match just waiting to happen.
When they got into his backseat, she was already undressing. She pulled her top off, revealing barely-there breasts, then slid off her skirt, leaving her sneakers on. He trained the ring light on her naked body and hit record, setting her up in this full-frame exposure, watching her smirk at him in provocation. Heather reclined on the folded back seat and spread her legs, bent at the knee, reaching to part the hot pink petals of her amped-up little pussy.
“You work fast, huh?”
“Yep!”
“Tell me your name again, and how old you are.”
“I'm Heather Waves. I'm twelve years old.”
“And what are you?”
“I'm a cheerleader?”
“What are you, really?”
“I'm a little fucking whore.”
“You like getting wrecked by older men?”
“I love it, hello. I love to suck cock. I love getting fucked in the ass.”
“All your little holes? Just a twelve-year-old slut, is that it?”
“I like this interview!”
“Bet you do. What do you want?”
“I wanna be internet famous.”
“What do you want, really?”
“I want your cock, right here.”
She rubbed the heat between her thighs, smearing around the humidity, the syrup of her need. Her slow spread and stroke meant she was toying with both holes in front of him, first the tight pink aperture of her pussy, then the ready, well-trained rosette, that ring of muscle she expected him to shove through. This wasn't begging but expectation, more of her radical honesty, a child porn star's attitude when it came to making more. The revelation of his interest in her led right to the exposure of his hard, twitching cock, and he positioned against her without wasting any time. Her ponytail looked more and more like a grip, a point of leverage for what he was about to do to her, with her, for the orgasmic benefit of it and to add more content on the pile.
“Good little bitch, here you go.” He pushed in, dipping his brush, getting in through the sweet constriction of her middle-school cunt. Hot and wet and ready, she lay there waiting for the sex maniac to show up, to power through and deliver on the promise of the public seduction. Here was a minor who loved to fuck, who boasted that she could teach the viral slut, watch her getting so enthusiastically victimised.
“Choke me?”
“Yeah? Beg for it.”
“Please! C'mon, please, please, I am a nasty little girl. I'm your filthy kiddy slut. I'm a minor, and I want you to fuck me like one!”
“You like being abused?”
“I'm here for it!!”
He slapped her, and her moans jumped in pitch, like breathy little admissions of her masochistic joy. Shawn fit his hand around her throat and her gratitude came out in a buzz, a squawk of joy, a cadence of thrilled cries that made him apply more pressure.
“Yeah!”
“Goddamn. You're a little freak. All mine now, you little whore. Twelve-year-old. Baby slut.”
When he rang all those bells of verbal abuse, when he shoved so deep and hard and accompanied it all with manual control—it felt like acknowledgement. Like recognition, like respect, a paradox that delivered slow-burning ecstasy with every stroke. In time he flipped her over, and grabbed her hair from behind, yanking until she arched her back properly and quivered on the receiving end. The first good look at her ass: round and taut, two pale mounds that he set about slapping, backhanding until they turned red. She had the build for hours of sexkitten abuse and yet, sooner or later, she had to return home and lie to her mother, protect him through her schoolgirl discretion.
“Uh huh! Fuck, yeah! Give it to me, fuck!! Harder, nnngh! Just like that!”
“Shut up. Gonna get it in your little ass now. Relax it for me—there you go.”
Heather tripped on the anal sex, feeling him repurpose the cream soaking his cock, using it to facilitate rear entry. It worked like fanning the flames, this new direction at once familiar and unspeakably hot, pumping until he was fitting the full measure of his cock up her ass. What was it, better than eight inches, a solid pipe that he worked smoothly up her tender little channel until she was practically barking in her euphoria. He reset the camera until it would be catching her face, the change in expression as he shoved deep again and again, rolling to establish a more predictable rhythm that she began pushing back to meet.
No protest at all, no cries that weren't borderline climactic, this girl edging on her own peak as he fucked her in the ass. The overheated joy of sodomy, the bliss of denial smoldering and multiplying, that's what Heather went through moment to moment. She turned over for him again and raised her ankles, brought them to his shoulders, and then he was working her over face to face, putting his hand around her throat yet again.
“That's what you fucking like, huh?”
“Yeah! I love it, I love it, please—it's gonna make me—”
“Thought so. Gonna fucking cum off this cock in your ass, aren't you. Go ahead! Nasty little preteen slut. S'what you are. Bet your friends are all getting it too. Bunch of child whores. Go on, cum, bitch! Cum on my cock, let's go. Cum, fuckbait, make your daddy proud, you cumdump, little junior high slut. CUM!”
She was already there. He worked it like a narrator, giving the orders right as she was anticipating them, obeying them the instant they were received. The spasms passed all through her body, this fiery release that she'd purposefully tried to keep off until he granted the permission. It radiated all through her body, a deep compensation, a delicious reward pulsating from her core. His cock had transformed into this liberator's hammer, a piston that worked best in her tight confines, digging out freedom from care, concern, stigma, shame, from thought itself. Her grip on his dick intensified, this instinctive milking contraction, until he found himself reaching the same point of release.
“That's it. Fuckmeat—open your mouth. Stay right there. You know what's next, c'mon.”
“Yeah, feed it to me? Gimme all your cum. I want it, I been waiting.”
“Coming right now, whore. Open!”
“Ahhh,” she said, sticking out her tongue, tilting her head back as he hovered over her. This arrived like some long-desired culmination, a picture she'd held in her mind from the very first time she'd seen the clips of him, a fantasy it had been remarkably easy to realise. A tingling soreness came through both her holes, and she knew it to be the sensation of missing him already, the physical wish that he'd kept going. Once a fuck got started, it felt better to stay fucked, and the only disappointment lay in the experience getting abridged, cut short. Yet now the medicine was on its way, a soothing rinse, and before he reached the point he started fucking her mouth as a finishing stroke.
At last he fired across her tongue, one generous blast after another giving her the flavour of victory, this latest baptism in the backseat. Errant streaks landed across her face, but the majority landed in her open, welcoming mouth, all while she looked up into the camera light—not his face. Halo for a devil, or just the shine of her calling, this latest experience to add onto her memoirs, here she was on video, so inwardly delighted, externally glazed, fed with the salty and bittersweet tang of an influencer's load of cum.
“Mmn!”
“Show it.”
She changed her angle, holding her mouth open to reveal the amount she'd taken there, then bubbled it over her lips.
“Don't waste any. Swallow, then show again.”
She looked at him like I know what to do but then complied, gulping down his load and opening her mouth again, arching a brow. This was the tone of approval she'd expected and wanted, not the safe stuff, not the legal course, not the behaviour that would please her parents but the activity that answered the lower calling of her tween-age sex life. This was the sweetness to carry back and share, let her friends know that yes, it had all happened, just the way she wanted it to.
“Good slut.”
“Mmn. You are fun.”
“Tell your friends.”
“Oh, I will! Send me the edit later?”
“Expect it. I'll be back for VidCon in August, will you—?”
“Yeah! See you there!”