Chapter Two Part Two:

I Do Give a Damn

By Pendragon

Sorry for the delays, ladies and gents.  Aw, who am I kidding?  No ladies are reading this.  Anyways, yeah, blah blah been busy blah.  You may have noticed that my pictures have been out of the fish wrappers recently.  Well, been on a sabbatical.  You see, I decided to see how much affect a 2 millimeter man can have in the ear of a highly impressionable and stupid A list celebrity.  Call it a science project.  So I’ve spent the last 9 months in Charlie Sheen’s ear.  That mother fucker said and did every fucking thing that I told him to do.  I felt like John Cusack in Being John Malkovich, but instead of a puppeteer inside of the body of a highly respected actor, I was a paparazzo inside the ear of a second-generation rich douche bag with a penchant for cocaine and hookers.

Anyway, enough about me, how’ve you been?

Wait, I don’t give a fuck.

Back to the story.  Japan, 2002, I met Scarlett Jo in a hotel bar and instantly wanted to plumb her depths.  Only problem was, how the fuck was I going to find her again?  Tokyo is a big fucking city with plenty of gorgeous scenery to film.  It’s not like this movie was going to be filmed in my hotel.  Where was I going to start my search?  So I went back to the hotel bar, ordered a tequila, and plotted.

Which is when Bill Fucking Murray sat down next to me.

“Tequila?” he asked, as he took the stool next to me.  “My kind of asshole.  Hi, I once played a Ghostbuster.”  He motioned to the bartender and set up four tequilas, pushing one my way.

I said nothing.  I mean, it’s my job to make celebrities look like assholes.  I really don’t get star struck.  But this was Bill Fucking Murray.

“I’ll take it from your stunned silence that this is a big moment for you.  I get it, I’m kinda a big deal.”

Still mute, I kept drinking my tequila.

“Anyways, I’m here in Tokyo for some indie flick.  I don’t know what’s going on.  The director is about 12.  But the lead actress is a fucking atom bomb of breasts and sex.  Red hair.  Named Scarlett.  And most of the shoot is in this very hotel, so I get to sleep in and walk about nine yards to get to make up.”

I turned towards him.  I couldn’t be so lucky.

“Anyways, I think that’s about all the information you need.  You can figure out the rest.”

I finished my tequila, still physically incapable of speech.

“By the way, kid, in case you didn’t notice, I’m basically acting as the easy exposition here.  Some cheap story telling device to cut through plot holes and get you to the good stuff.  The god in the machine.  The Deus ex Machina.  Speaking of which, DX says hi.  He’s not a big fan of the rampant misogyny and latent homosexuality of your work, but he thinks you might be useful someday.”

“DX?” I found myself forcing out my first syllables of the last 5 minutes.

“Eh, don’t worry about it, kid.  Besides, no one will ever believe you. I’m going to head back to my room and get a blowjob from a girl dressed as Sailor Moon.  I don’t know what that means, but it sounds fun.”

He finished his three drinks and turned to go.

“Oh, she’s in room 1932, by the way.  And she has an ass that won’t quit.”

I’ll tell ya, sometimes it’s better to be lucky than smart.

It took me a while to wrap my agave-soaked brain around what had just happened.  I met Carl Spackler, and he happened to basically read my mind and tell me the room number of the incredibly hot ass actress with whom I was currently obsessed.

Horse.  Gift.  Avoid the mouth.

I paid for my drinks, then headed back to my room to get my things.  Once night fell, I made my way to the elevator and headed for the 19th floor.  I felt at my belt, checking my device, making sure it was charged and ready to go.  Because I sure as hell was.

I stood outside of the door until the coast was clear.  Fiddling with the device at my belt, I set my height for one inch tall.  Small enough to go unnoticed and crawl underneath the door, large enough to navigate a foreign hotel room.

Her suite was nice.  Bamboo floors, a standing mini bar, modern and ethnically ambiguous furniture.  And a queen sized bed with a lounging, naked queen of a woman half-heartedly fingering herself above the covers as she read the sides for the next day’s filming.  She looked lonely.  I intended to remedy that.

It didn’t take too long, as my modified gloves and heightened jumping abilities made scaling the sheets of the bed a minor inconvenience.  As I walked between those titanic, well-shaped knees, I placed my hand back on the device, ready to shrink down to avoid detection.  I plodded on, like Frodo, on my way to place the ring inside of her volcano of Oroduin.  And by ring, I mean my penis.  And my volcano of Oroduin, I mean her building-sized pussy.

Scarlett’s lips were only slightly wet.  She seemed to be slapping the clam as a way to pass the time, nothing more.  It was breathtaking to watch.  Her downy red muff was simply breathtaking to see up close.  So inviting.  So, when she withdrew her hand towards her mouth to get a little saliva for lubrication, I jumped up, set my device for the minimum height, and braced for impact.

As I shrank down to two millimeters, my back was hit by a rapidly growing index finger, destination: cervix.  Once deep inside, I pushed off the massive digit and landed in Scarlett’s moist cave of awesomeness.  Still on my back, I took out my camera, turned on the flash, and took some nice personal shots of one, two, and sometimes three perfectly manicured fingers pump in and out of my rapidly wettening landscape.  Sure, I wouldn’t be able to sell these to any tabloid.  Without faces, my pictures are pretty worthless.  But maybe I could sell them to some shitty modern art museum as an avant-garde set.  If nothing else, I’d have some nice mementos of my trip.

Once my rolls ran out, I placed my camera to my side and brought out my bottle of lube.  I then proceeded to fap fap fap fap fap.  I must have cum at least four times.  I was exhausted.  It’s hard work, man.

I was so exhausted, I must have missed Scarlett withdrawing her fingers and making a phone call.  I missed the hotel room door opening.  And I missed Scarlett spreading her legs and priming her pubic mound for impact.

I didn’t miss the thousand foot long penis ramming it’s spongy head into me.

In the fuck session that followed, I never got a good look at the owner of the luckiest cock in Japan.  Was it a cast member?  A friend from America?  A surprisingly well-endowed local?  Who knows.  And who the fuck cares.

The initial impact with the precum covered cock head was more than enough for me to get lodged inside the lucky dude’s piss slit.  As such, I had a cock-eye’s view of fucking Scarlett Johansson.  After getting started with a couple more pumps inside her honey hole, my dick-host pulled out and made a bee-line for another pair or plumpy red lips.  Here, I burrowed deeper into the fleshy cock head, not wanting to be unceremoniously shot out and find myself in a cum and gastric juice cocktail.

As luck would have it, this guy had Sting-like tantric abilities and was able to keep his hard-on as he withdrew from her mouth, brushed against her lower lip and chin, and nestled firmly between her peachy, healthy tits.  From my vantage point, I could still make out, in the distance, like a way hotter version of Mount Rushmore, Scarlett’s flushed, thoroughly sex-hungry face as it gazed right at me with intense desire.  She wasn’t going to be content with tit fucking for long.  And soon, my world began to shake as her right hand grabbed my temporary dick house and pushed it past her perfect stomach, her seemingly cavernous belly button, and back deep into her cunt.

When the guy did jizz, I joined several hundred gallons of cum on the silky floor of Scarlett’s twat.  I laid there, exhausted, happy to be alive.  I was ready to sleep.

That’s when a cock reentered her and began the process all over again.  Was it the same guy?  Someone new?  Who knows.  All I know is that Scarlett likes to get fucked and fucked hard.  For these following fucks, I did manage to find a fold of flesh to hide behind that kept me from getting caught back in the action.  Which was definitely preferable.  In fact, the best was when she came without a dick inside of her, which I’m assuming came from some rather vigorous cunnilingus.  It was like being inside of an x-rated bounce house.  My head even hit the ceiling once or twice.  By the time the fucking ended, I felt like I had survived a 9.0 earthquake.  Or, at the very least, a brawly at a Pistons game.  My body was sore all over and I think I cracked a rib.

But holy Christ was that fun.

Hours passed.  I’m assuming Scarlett had a good night’s sleep.  I’m sure her fuck buddy (buddies?) did.  Me, I was content to let my bones heal and soak just enjoy the environment.  A starlet’s vagina is not dissimilar to a sauna.  Hot, steamy, and likely full of communicable diseases.  I just hoped that Ms. Johansson and the anonymous penis I had recently been introduced to were clean.  I narrowly escaped Hep B during my romp inside of Pamela Anderson, but had a really embarrassing conversation with my GP after catching full body chlamydia from Monica Lewinsky.  I know, I know, that one was more about the money than my own personal jollies.  I must disagree with Bill, though.  After having spent several hours cigar deep inside her, I can honestly say she don’t taste good.

I was wondering how long my oblivious host would remain in bed when, from my cramped coital enclosure, I heard a thunderous banging from seemingly miles away.  I could hear Scarlett’s words reverberate through her entire being, causing miniature tremors deep inside her love cave.

“Scarlett, it’s me, Sophia!” rumbled the intruding voice.  “We need you back on set, we finally figured out the lighting for the opening scene.”

“If you think I’m wearing those stupid panties, you’ve got another thing coming.”

“Just open the door, Scarlett.”

I braced myself as my hostess kicked her legs over the side of her bed and wrapped a bathrobe around herself.  Luckily, she was lax about wrapping it tight, so I was given a slight slit of vision of the outside world from between her slim labial minora.  She opened the door tentatively.

A cute, somewhat alternative looking woman in her early 30’s stood before us, wearing the same hotel provided robe.  She made her way in, shut the door, and made herself a drink at the room’s wet bar.

“Look, Scarlett honey, I know you’re having misgivings.  I mean, we’ll be projecting your ass at like 60 times it’s normal size.  You’re sure to be nervous.”

Scarlett took a seat on her bed, letting her legs spread.  “Let me just say I’m not a big fan of your description of ‘sheer’ panties.”

Sophia, who I assumed was the costume girl on the shoot, then took a gander at my hiding place, which Scarlett had just exposed to the room of 2.

“From what I can see, girl, you’d rather do this shot commando!”

“Whoops!” Scarlett giggled.  With that, she crossed her legs, squeezing me tightly deep inside of her.  Her inner walls were beginning to feel my presence and they were getting oh so moist.  “I don’t know what’s getting into me, I’m just…whew…feeling flush.”

“It’s the elevation, girl.  It happens to everyone.  Look, I’m going to take my robe off and you’re going to tell me what you see.”

I heard cloth dropping to the floor.  And then the vaginal walls moistened even more.

“Those are the some damn cute panties, Soph.  Hell, I’d wear ‘em.”

“Good.  Because these are the one’s you’ll be wearing on screen.”

From what I could tell, the other woman was shimmying out of her undergarments and tossing them over to lovely Ms. Johansson, who then stood and pulled them neatly on, taking my perfect view into the crotch level world obstructed by fine pink gauzy material.

“Damn, Soph, you’re way too hot to be a director.”

“I must take after my old man.”

“Gross, girl!  Go get dressed and tell the crew I’ll be down in a sec.  I’ll wear these things.  I’m getting hot and bothered just having them on.”

“Thinking about my dad can do that to a girl.”

The walls around me dried up.

“OK, it’s official, picturing Francis Ford Coppola makes me drier than the Gobi.  Thanks a lot.”

“It’s my job, my little ingénue.  You have no idea how much post-production time it would take to edit out your pre-cum from a final cut.  Now don’t be naughty and I’ll see you in five.  We’re all set up in room 3241.”

“Roger Dodger.”

“If you weren’t so cute, you’d be such a dork.”

“Look who’s talking, Mary Corleone.”

“Ugh, please don’t bring that up again.  Remind me to NEVER cast any of my future progeny in any of my films.”

“Go and direct, you miss director person.  I need to get in character.”

Ach, filmmaking.  It can really ruin a day spent lounging around with a microscopic visitor in your va jay jay.

So, I had to wait a while before I had a bit more fun.  As much as I love to mess around with my celebrity hosts, I don’t like to get in the way of their next paycheck.  It’s a vicious cycle, you see.  A photo ain’t worth shit unless the subject of said photo is drawing some major bank.  And if I were to fuck with Scarlett on set, well, let’s just say I don’t want to devalue some of the candids I was planning on taking in the next few days.  So I was good.  I kept the exploring to outside of her funbox.  For the time being.

By the way, if you project the final film big enough and are looking at the right place, I make a cameo in “Lost in Translation.”  In the opening scene, you might be able to see a tiny speck crawl out of that perfect, perfect curve of an ass.  And if you look REALLY close, you can see the happiest man on the face of the earth.

Filming didn’t wrap for hours, but it’s amazing how quickly time passes when you’re mere millimeters from the ass that launched a thousand rip-off ‘oh so precious’ indie films about ennui and disassociated youth.

Anyways, I spent most of the rest of my week in Japan in and around Scarlett Johansson’s vagina.  I simply lost track of time.  My clothing became seeped through with girl fluid and roughed up from my host’s more aggressive climaxes.  I didn’t care.  I was in heaven.

Until Scarlett took a trip to Shinjuku ni-chome and I made her cum so hard that I was shot out of her cunt and, with what seemed like gallons of her juices, dripped down her leg onto the pavement outside of a sex shop that specialized in dildos shaped like Power Rangers.  And, as luck would have it, my device was once again out of juice.  I scurried into the sex shop and found a corner by the window in direct sunlight.

And so I found myself back in Tokyo’s bustling gay district, my clothes in tatters, coated in the vaginal fluids of Hollywood’s next big thing.  I could only try my best to stay in the sun as my device charged.  As the sun finally went down, my device slowly charged, and Scarlett’s scent ripened, I could finally, secretly, re-enlarge myself and get back to the hotel.

A boytoy, all of 19, feathered hair, jacket, skinny jeans, approached me.  He looked me up and down, his nostrils flared.

“Mistah, mistah!  You…” he sniffed.  “You smell like toro sashimi!  Raw, bad fishy!”

I smiled. 

“Kid, you have no idea.”

*          *            *

So, that was Japan.  Nice town.  Oh, and I left my camera somewhere inside of Scarlett.  I’ve been meaning to pick it up someday.

Anywho, I got hundreds of these stories. I’ve been trying to decide what to tell you about next.  Maybe my visit to the set of Black Swan.  Mila Kunis is quite the method actress.  And Natalie Portman squirts.