Bred to Fuck
Copyright 2004
Fra Peter Abelard

[Warning: If it is illegal for you to read sex stuff, my condolences, but 
fuck off. The events depicted in this story are performed strictly in the 
imagination of a professional. No not try this shit at home. If you wanna’ 
publish this story for profit, ya’ better ask me first. Finally, tell me 
what you think at <<FraPeterAbelard@hotmail.com>> [Note new email address.]

Life at a Russian cloning station (Mf, voy, ff, etc.)

Chapter One

“Sir, I have found a minor glitch in the system,” my assistant reported. “A 
little station, CS 69, has been off in its quota of 93s.”

CS is the old designation for Cloning Station. We have kept the designation 
for those stations which once produced the old, “smart” clones, probably 
just to remind us of the fiasco. The newer stations go by the more 
politically correct designation WPI, or Workers’ Preparatory Institution. 
Model 93s are workers with an IQ of 93.  Just sub-normal.  Fully educable, 
but not too bright. Can’t really think for themselves. We use them mostly 
for the more complicated manufacturing processes, as opposed to the IQ 80s 
that we use for repetitive assembly lines and such. The mission of Cloning 
Station 69 was altered a few years ago, after the fiasco with the “smart” 
clones. It now was supposed to be producing only clones with an IQ of 93.

“Production at station 69 is down?  By how much?”

“Well, they are a tiny station, their quota is only 30 workers a year, but 
they have been producing in the neighborhood of 18 or 19 for the last 
fourteen or fifteen years.”

A drop of eleven or twelve workers would hardly be noticed in one of the 
bigger WPIs, which produced more than a thousand workers a year. That, and 
the recent changes in government, probably explained why we hadn’t caught 
the slowdown in such a long time.   At a station like CS69, however, a drop 
of 11 or 12 workers was more than a third of their annual production quota. 
It would have to be looked into.

“Where is the station?”

“Just outside Moscow.”

I groaned.  Winter in Moscow was not my idea of a vacation, but it looked 
like I’d be making a trip anyway. As Assistant World Minister of 
Reproductive Services, I was the man to make the inspection. As Frank 
Winslow I was cold already.


The flight on a TCA Mach VI was uneventful. We lifted off from New York at 
10 AM, and with the two hour flight and eight hour time difference landed in 
Moscow about 8 PM. The flight gave me time to review the files. Cloning 
station 69 was an FDC, a full development center, which meant that they 
developed the clones from petri dish to 18 years of age, at which point they 
were placed into the world economy. The facility was assigned to produce 
females, only 30 a year, bred to be pretty, to be used as domestics or 
menials of any sort.  The women were, however, virtually sexless, no 
ovaries, their vaginas almost non-existent. Bred to be without interest in 
sex.  Virtually unfuckable.  Oh sure, there was the occasional rape.  After 
all they still had mouths and assholes, but clone rapes were fairly rare, 
there being more attractive and willing alternatives available.

So what was Station 69’s problem? It couldn’t be outdated facilities.  They 
had a fully functional lab, incubation center, infant facility, school, 
athletic facility. All had been updated within the last five years. There 
was one anomaly at 69. It had an equestrian center, a holdover from the old 
days when it was thought that we could produce “smart” clones,  fine, bright 
young women for high society.  What a fiasco that was!  Thousands of young 
women a year, all beautiful, all with IQs of 140, all polished and well 
educated.  They nearly took over the world.  We eventually had to round them 
up and put them on a reservation in Arizona.  Sort of the modern equivalent 
to what they did in the old USA to the American Indians, and they went about 
as peacefully…but eventually they went…or died. Not the brightest period in 
the history of the World Community.

As I studied the reports from CS 69, I noticed requisitions for various 
equine supplies. Apparently 69 still had some horses.  I also noticed, 
however, that the requisitions for school supplies, photographic equipment, 
and unusual sorts of female clothing were above normal.  What the hell were 
they doing in Moscow?




We came in to the new Tolstoy Airport in Moscow in the dark, in a virtual 
blizzard. Thank god for modern technology that allows Machs to operate in 
any weather short of a hurricane.  As I came through the VIP gates, Sergei 
Pedoloff, the director of Cloning Station 69, met me. Sergei directed me to 
a sleek Putin limo parked in a reserved area within the warm building.  We 
glided out into the winter night and whisked silently over the snow toward 
the station. The Putin’s electro-magnetic tracker had no difficulty 
negotiating the icy roadways, effortlessly passing other, older cars that 
lacked the sophisticated newer technology.

En route to the plant, I did not press Pedoloff on the subject of my visit, 
and we arrived uneventfully at the sprawling facility at about 10:45. For 
me, of course, it still felt like mid-afternoon, a very dark and wintry 
mid-afternoon. From what I could see of the place, it appeared to be a huge, 
sprawling campus.  Passing through the security gates, I was confronted 
first with nondescript gray lab buildings with tinted windows and no visible 
doors.  Passing between the two labs, we entered the main campus which was 
lit with old fashioned street lamps and spread out for several acres. It 
looked not unlike a big American university campus.  A huge, snow covered 
quadrangle took up the middle, and ten or twelve buildings surrounded it, 
most with brightly lit windows casting a golden glow over the white blanket. 
  The snow filtering down from the sky made the scene look like something 
out of a college catalogue: “Come, enjoy the beauty of winter at Cornell…or 
Brown.”

“Button up, my friend,” said Sergei, “It is, in Fahrenheit, about minus 10 
degrees, I think.”  So much for the college catalogue…

“You will be accommodated here in the adult building.  The visitor’s suite.  
We will talk in the morning.”  With that, Sergei swung open the limo’s door 
and an arctic blast swept through the car.  Pedoloff reached back and helped 
me out of the car, wrapping his big arm around me as he marched me, double 
time, up the walk to the building.  Even so, I was shaking by the time we 
covered the fifty feet to the door.  My New York coat was no match for the 
frigid Russian winter.

Sergei helped me in the door, shook hands, bowed slightly, and said in an 
avuncular way, “We will get you proper Russian winter clothings tomorrow. 
For now, here is house mistress, Anna Porsikova.  She will see to your needs 
for tonight.  Sleep well.  I will meet you at breakfast tomorrow morning at 
8 AM.  Good night, Minister.”

Indeed, as I turned, an attractive woman of about 40 was walking toward me 
smiling and holding out her hand. “Welcome, please, Minister.  Please to 
follow me, please. I am showing your rooms to you, please.  Just this way, 
please.”  I smiled . Her attitude reminded me of a puppy that turns belly up 
in submissiveness.

I attempted to put her at ease.  “You are Anna, yes?  Please call me Frank. 
Are you in charge of this whole dormitory?”

She blushed, “Yes, Minister…uhm, Frank. But, please, is not so much 
dormitory as  pleasure center, to recreate oneself.”

“Ah, a recreation center, so there are exercise rooms? A spa? That sort of 
thing?”

“Well, yes,” she said slowly, “there is those things, but that is not the 
big going-on here.”

“And what would be the big ‘going-on’ here?”

“Oh, sir, I am lost to tell you.  Perhaps you will see for yourself? Ah, 
here is room.  I will send a girl up to see that you are comfortable.”

With that enigmatic line Anna opened the door to my suite, and I walked into 
a set of rooms that would have done the old Waldorf proud.  The suite 
breathed luxury from the white brocade sofas to the opulent Egyptian cotton 
towels in the marble tiled bathroom.  I couldn’t wait to get my shoes off 
and sink my toes into the thick, pale blonde carpet. The bedroom held a 
kingsize bed in white, with plump pillows cascading halfway to the foot. The 
heavy brocaded curtains were open enough to show the winter wonderland 
outside.  It was hard to remember that the difference in temperature just on 
the other side of that glass was more than 80 degrees. I gave an involuntary 
shiver.

The headmistress snapped my attention back.  “The man will be bringing your 
luggage very soon.  I will send girl to bring food and drink.  Alas, the 
dining hall is closed.”  With that she turned on her heel and disappeared.

Several minutes later the porter did, in fact, bring my bag.  I did not 
expect to stay long, so had packed only a double overnighter along with my 
Holo-puter, my hand held holographic computer, the size of a large 
flashlight.  The man unpacked my clothes and put them in the dresser and was 
just putting my toilet kit in the bathroom when there was another small 
knock on the door.

I opened it and there, standing before me was an absolutely lovely little 
girl of about 12 or 13, beaming at me.  I could not help but smile back.  
She wore what I guess you would call a Barbarian costume, albeit a very chic 
one.  Her blonde hair was elaborately done in coils and ringlet, and she had 
a headband of a leather thong with feathers streaming off it down the side 
of her adorable face.  Her budding chest was covered, just barely, with a 
skimpy vest of some soft fur, probably mink.  A long expanse of midriff 
showed her skin to well below her belly button. She wore a hip-hugging 
mini-skirt of matching fur.  Fur covered boots rose to just above the knees. 
Coiled arm bracelets completed the ensemble.

I felt clumsy. My mouth went dry.  Someone had brought my secret fantasy to 
life before my very eyes.

The girl continued to smile up at me, and finally turned behind her to a 
trolley of dark wine bottles and dishes covered with silver lids.  She began 
pulling the cart toward the door, and I stumbled to get out of the way. A 
quick look of concern flashed across her brow and she reached out to steady 
me.  An 80 pound girl about to catch a 180 pound man.  I recovered quickly 
and did a little shuffle dance and bow to cover my embarrassment.  She 
laughed and clapped once, her hands in front of her mouth.  What a clever 
fellow I was…

The porter came out of the bathroom and set up a small table and chair.  He 
took a candle from the trolley, lit it, and placed it and a small vase of 
flowers on the table.  He then started to uncover the dishes and serve the 
meal for me.  I stopped him with a hand signal and asked, “The girl? Will 
she not eat with me?”

The man looked bewildered at the girl, who spoke to him in Russian and then 
said to me, “Nyet, spaceba…ehm, no thank you, I have been eaten already 
tonight.”

I smiled at the unintended sexual meaning. One part of my brain wondered, 
briefly, if her phrasing could possibly have been intentional. The child 
seemed to ooze sex.  But of course she was just an innocent child, 
unconscious of her raw allure.

When the porter had laid out the meal he left silently, closing the door 
gently behind him.  The girl, meanwhile, was wandering around the room idly 
fingering the rich fabrics, running a finger along the spines of the books 
in a small bookcase at the side of the room.
“Ah, Chekov!” she said.  “You are licking Mister Anton Chekov?”

Licking? Another innocent mistake?  I said, “Yes, although I find him 
dated.”

She laughed a delightful sparkling laugh, “Oh, sir, you are making joke!  
You could not have dated Anton Chekov! He is many years ago.” Then she 
clouded. “But perhaps you are licking boys not girls, you say?”

Rather than even attempt to straighten out the grammar and logic that was 
being lost in translation, I stood and walked up to the nymph. “No,” I said 
gently, raising her chin with the crook of my forefinger, “I am licking 
girls!”  Why was I being drawn in to flirting with a 13 year old?

For the girl, however, the sun came out again and she giggled happily.  “So, 
now, you eat.  I dance.”

As I sat down again to the meal, the girl went to an audio system in the 
wall and, turning a few dials, brought up a slow samba with a sibilant Latin 
beat.  She moved back toward me swaying to the rhythm.  As I ate, she 
undulated about my chair, brushing a hand languidly across my shoulders, 
walking away and suddenly bending, wiggling her fanny at me. A flash of 
silver showed under the mink of her mini-skirt.  As I was finishing, she 
leaned across from me and, pushing dishes aside, crawled up onto the table 
directly at me, provocatively lowering her chest so it grazed the last of my 
food, while she licked her lips and stared directly into my eyes from under 
her brows.

I grabbed up my wine glass and pushed my chair back.  She climbed off the 
table at me and sat on my lap, loosening my tie, opening the top button of 
my shirt. I helplessly let her do it.

“What you name, Minister?”

“My name is Frank, sweetheart.  What is your name?”

“I am Karina,” (she pronounced it KaREENa) she said proudly. “Now I dance 
for you.”

“I thought that is what you were already doing.”

“Nyet.  Now I dance for you sexy, sexy.”

With that she began to vamp her way to the stereo.  There she turned a dial 
and a flashier, harder driving rock song came on.  Karina bumped her way 
back toward me, her pelvis snapping forward with each downbeat.

I sat bemusedly watching her and suddenly realized that she was taking her 
clothes off.  The vest opened and she flashed first one softly pubescent 
breast then the other.  She had big puffy nipples that protruded out from 
gently swelling mounds, A cups, with fat succulent areolas.

I was seduced before I even knew there was a real seduction going on.  I 
should have objected, of course.  I knew better.  This was a child.  I was a 
World Council minister. What would be the repercussions?

But I was bemused, bewitched, lost.

Karina smiled a low smoldering smile and began taking off the boots.  To do 
so, she sat in my lap, her back to me, and peeled them down. Her perfume was 
spicy, light, intoxicating. When her boots were off she leaned back against 
me and looked up over her shoulder into my eyes. The look of blue eyed 
innocence stunned my heart.  Slowly she took my hands and placed them on 
either side of her hips. As she stood, she held my hands in place so that 
her mink mini-skirt slid down revealing the cleft of her ass pinching a 
silver thong.  She moved away and peeled the skirt off slowly, revealing the 
silver beneath.  She lowered the skirt all the way to the floor, bending 
away from me to show the delicious triangle of her bulging cunt, outlined in 
silver, just below where the thong disappeared into the crack of her ass.

She now wriggled her way to me and straddled me, grinding her cunt into my 
growing hardon.  With my last ounce of sanity I said, “No.”

“No? You don’t like?” She looked bewildered.

“I DO like.  Way too much.  But this is wrong.  You are too young.  We 
can’t…”

“But,” she moaned plaintively, “Is what I for.”

My turn to be bewildered. “What is what you are for?”

“I model 69, name all of us after whole station,” she said proudly. “We 
lolitas. Be for pleasure with important mens!”  She puffed out her chest and 
grinned.

“Us? How many are there like you?”

“Only 10, 12 here now.  Others go away. We stay. Take care of younger girls. 
  Also take care of visitors like you,” she grinned, pleased with herself 
for such a volley of English.

I was beginning to get an inkling of why Cloning Station 69 was turning out 
so few workers.  They were producing fuck dolls, and not just ordinary, run 
of the mill child prostitutes. If there were more like Karina, they were 
baby Geisha. Fully accomplished nymphettes, created to satisfy a man’s most 
secret fantasies.

Karina, having satisfactorily delivered her speech, went back to seducing 
me.





Chapter two


Slowly Karina began taking off her silver thong, first turning her back and 
pulling the hip strap down one buttock.  Then she faced me and pulled both 
sides down to just above her cunt.  A few wisps of golden pubic hair were 
visible above the silver of the thong.  She swayed her hips back and forth, 
occasionally thrusting her pelvis forward lewdly.  Naked except for the 
lowered thong, Karina was a vision of pubescent loveliness.  Golden ringlets 
cascaded down her neck.  Her flawless skin was very lightly tanned except 
where a skimpy bikini would ride, which meant that the puffy pink areolas of 
her little breasts were exaggerated by the surrounding white skin, all of it 
set off by the surrounding tan.
Her stomach stretched slim and taut.

She stepped out of the thong and stood before me again with feet apart, 
giving me a long view of her plump and developing cunt.  She had hair, but 
not much, above her slit, with shorter, more delicate hairs beginning to 
come in along the sides.   Again she straddled me, this time her bare cunt 
pressing my fully risen cock.

Karina reached down and began undoing my pants, all the time smiling, 
looking into my eyes, her blue eyes sparkling.  She brought her head forward 
and lifted her chin to kiss me on the mouth, a slow, warm, knowing kiss that 
invited my tongue to come play with hers.

She sighed a happy sigh and urged my pants over my hips.  I stood, and my 
boner sprang free. Immediately she was on her knees, kissing and licking my 
cock.  My pants were still around my knees and I grabbed for the back of the 
chair to keep from falling.  Karina opened her mouth and slowly began to 
swallow my cock.  She had no trouble at all deep throating my seven inches.  
I could feel the tightness of the back of her mouth and then the easing 
further down into her tight, hot throat as she brought her lips completely 
down to the base of my prick. She pumped deeply for about five or six 
strokes and then came up for air. A heavy string of saliva and pre-cum 
sagged from the end of my cock to her mouth.  She let it break and fall on 
her thighs, then homed back in and devoured my cock some more.

I had not had sex for a week, and knew it would not take much more of this 
to put me over the edge.  I said, “Wait, honey, if you keep this up I will 
come.”

Kairina pulled back and said enthusiastically, “Da, da. Is good. I like you 
come. Come in mouth, please.” And she plunged back to work.

Within twenty seconds I was right at that ecstatic point of inevitability. 
And then I let go.  Sperm surged up my shaft and exploded into little 
Karina’s hot, willing mouth.  She gasped and swallowed, and gasped and 
swallowed.  As I subsided Karina licked softly around my balls, occasionally 
returning to the hypersensitive tip to suck the last drops of my cum.

She grinned up at me with her cum smeared mouth, an absolutely adorable 
golden haired angel. She still knelt demurely before me, smiling happily. I 
offered her my hand to help her up and she rose and slid in to hug me close. 
  Her head came about to my chest and my softening cock pressed her stomach. 
  I finally stepped back and out of my pants, and Karina moved toward the 
bedroom.

“You take bath now.  I fix bed, then I come to bath with you.”

“You are staying with me/”

“Da! I am yours for duration of your stay,” she said merrily.  The she 
clouded, “Unless, perhaps, you no want me, and you go order someone else.”

I quickly assured Karina that she was doing fine.  In truth I could not 
imagine a more perfect fulfillment of my secret lust. Karina beamed.


Chapter three

I will not bore you with the rest of the evening.  Karina and I played in 
the tub, we played in the bed. I ate her, fucked her, masturbated her, and 
she did the same for me.  She offered anal sex, but I just couldn’t bring 
myself to do it to such a sweet little girl, even when she assured me she 
enjoyed it.

With it all, we managed to get a few hours of deep sleep, and I awoke 
refreshed in the morning.  While I shaved and dressed, Karina lolled about 
the bed teasingly.  She made love to the pillow, covered herself from the 
waist up, spreading her legs wide, leaving her sweet, plump engorged cunt 
gaping and vulnerable. She got on her hands and knees and pulled her hair 
over her eyes, peering out at me like a sheepdog, grinning demonically.

It was hard, but at 7:55 I kissed Karina one last time and left to find the 
dining room.  Sergei Pedoloff met me at the entrance and politely enquired 
if I had had a good night.

“Sergei, I think you know what sort of night I had.”

“Da, perhaps.   How you like our Russian hospitality?”

“Sergei, Karina told me that she is one of many girls bred here to be 
“pleasure companions’ to men.”

“Da, da, Minister.  We have been performing a little experiment here. I know 
we have not the authority to change our production, but our head geneticist, 
  Dr. Miki Wu, stumbled onto a clever new way of gene splicing, really an 
offshoot of the old “Bright Girls” formula. The result is these little 
nymphettes. Please Minister, I hope that you will understand the potential 
and the market for these girls.”

I understood it well enough.  But I also understood my responsibility as 
World Minister of Reproductive Services.  The World Community had 
specifically outlawed cloning to create child prostitutes. There were, of 
course other facilities that legitimately turned out adult sex workers, but 
their sexual education did not begin until they were eighteen, and when they 
graduated from sex school a year later, they still had choices.  The World 
Community wanted willing prostitutes.

Pedoloff saw the disapproval on my face.  He said, “Minister, before you 
decide this matter, let me show you the rest of the facility, and describe 
for you how these girls are raised. Truly, what they do is as normal and 
natural to them as playing with dolls and having tea parties is to other 
little girls. They are not being hurt.”

“And when they are seventeen, eighteen, nineteen? What then?”

“Why, they marry, or go into regular prostitution, or join the work force in 
some other way. After all, what happens to regular prostitutes when they 
reach thirty or so?  They are given fat pensions, and the thanks of a 
grateful world.  They can retire, or marry, or do what they please.”

“I am not convinced, however, that exploiting young children is healthy for 
the world, or for them.”

“Come, don’t prejudge this.  See for yourself what we are creating here.”

We said no more on the subject during breakfast. Pedoloff told me that the 
temperature had plunged to 30 below, in Fahrenheit, but was expected to rise 
during the day to a balmy zero.

>From the cloak room outside the dining hall, Pedoloff produced a thick down 
coat with a hood and handed it to me, along with boots and fur lined gloves. 
  “Most of the buildings are linked by underground passages which are warm 
enough, but first we must cross the quadrangle to the labs.”

I donned the gear and, when Pedoloff was also equipped, we stepped out into 
the arctic air.  In the two minutes it took to walk to the labs, my breath 
created rime around my mouth and the fur of my hood.

We stepped into the warmth of the labs through an antechamber where we shed 
our outerwear.  The 45 degrees of the chamber felt like Florida.  When we 
finally entered the labs proper, I thought I might start sweating. It felt 
wonderful.




Chapter four

What I learned in the labs was that Dr. Wu has developed a way to manipulate 
genes so that she could control and vary such things as hair and eye color, 
height, weight, and to a certain extent character and libido.

“You see, Minister,“ she said proudly, “from one genome, I have discovered a 
way to create variety.  Not all clones come out the same.”

“Sort of gives a new meaning to cloning, doesn’t it?” I observed.

“Dah,” said Pedoloff, “In fact, we call it ‘Wu-ing’ in honor of the good 
doctor here.”

“And, can you control for other things, such as, oh, I don’t know, say, 
breast size?” I asked wryly.

Neither Pedoloff nor Wu understood my sarcasm.  “Dah! Dah! Can control for 
anything.”

Wu confirmed, “Yes, because we know the base gene pattern, and we have used 
the same one for several years now, we can mix and match at will. In fact, 
we can and do control for things like skin color, hairiness, and 
development.”

“Development?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, we can have our girls start to mature in anywhere from ten to 
fifteen years, just like in the natural population.”

Pedoloff stepped in, “In short, Minister, what we are producing is whole 
variety of pretty, talented, and very horny little girls. Now, if you will 
be so kind as to follow me?”

Pedoloff led me out of the lab and along a corridor. One wall of the 
corridor was glass and looked into a large, darkened room. I could dimly 
make out what looked like bottles hanging from an overhead conveyer. Each 
bottle was attached to a tube that ran  into a central area.  As we moved 
from one end of the room to the other, I could see that the bottles were 
getting fuller and fuller of something.  As we stepped out of the hallway 
and into the next room, Pedoloff said, “And this is birthing room.”

The room had all the equipment of a hospital delivery room, except, of 
course for the anesthetics, scalpels, and other devices needed to deliver a 
natural child from its mother.  Here, the womb/bottles were carefully 
opened, and the baby was lifted out, wailing. Pedoloff beamed, “You are in 
luck, Minister, we deliver only one a week, sometimes less, and here you are 
to see it!”

It was a girl, alright.  Its outsized head and vagina were obvious.

Chapter five
>From the birthing room, Pedoloff led me to the nursery where nurses moved 
efficiently among bassinets, comforting, soothing, playing with, changing, 
feeding, and all those other good things that nurse/nannies to with infants. 
  Also moving among the nurses  were several young girls of various ages 
between about seven and twelve.  They too were attending to the babies, 
cooing at them, dangling bright plastic toys for them to reach, and 
generally mothering the little ones.  Among the girls, I spotted Karina, who 
was cradling an infant to her, and singing softly as she nuzzled its downy 
head.  I was amazed that she could switch from sex kitten to mother so 
easily. When I came near she looked up and smiled easily.

“See, Minister,” she said, “here is Masha.  She is same gene pattern as me! 
She is  little sister of me.”

Karina cooed to the sleeping baby and carefully but her back into her crib, 
brushing the blonde wisps of hair off her forehead, and then unconsciously 
brushing her own blonde hair off her own forehead much the same motion.

Pedoloff stepped in and said to Karina, “Would you like to accompany us on 
our tour, little Karina? You will be able to explain some things better than 
I.”

“Me? To go with you? Yes, please,” said a delighted Karina.

So the three of us, Director Pedoloff, Minister Winslow, and little Karina 
set off to see the rest of the facility.



Chapter six


Our next stop was at a school room where ten very pretty little six year 
olds were learning to read. The only remarkable thing here was that the 
teacher was about fifteen, and clearly a student herself.  When I raised an 
eyebrow, Pedoloff immediately explained that the older girls had contact 
with the younger girls in practically all aspects of the facility, and that 
there were older professionals on call if one of the student teachers needed 
help with something, but that the rapport established between the different 
age groups worked to the advantage of all.

“As you will see,” he added with a wink.

After a few more classrooms, which showed much the same thing, studious 
youngsters concentrating seriously on their lessons, we moved on (via a warm 
underground tunnel) to another building.  Karina began to grow animated as 
we approached an inner door.

“Here is much fun, Minister,” she said with a giggle.

We came into a very large room that was set up as a photography studio with 
numerous “sets” placed here and there.  One was a Japanese pagoda, one had a 
backdrop of snowy mountains, yet a third was a beach scene in front of a 
painted backdrop of ocean waves.  Also in the room were several booths with 
costumes, and makeup tables with vanity mirrors.  A middle aged woman was 
sitting at one of the tables watching what was happening in front of her.  
Only one photographer was at work at the moment, and he was posing a girl of 
about ten in a tableau of sand and grasses in front of a painted tent 
backdrop.  We must have come in in the middle of the shoot, for the girl was 
obviously doing a striptease and had already removed her blouse and was 
beginning to work on her ballooning harem pants. She still wore a 
transparent blue veil over her mouth and nose, gold coins on bands in her 
hair, and tiny cymbals on her fingers.

As we watched, she whirled, and pouted, looked sexy and demure in turns, and 
generally vamped for the photographer.  When I took a good look at him, I 
saw that he was working in his boxer shorts nothing else.

Karina explained, “The woman is makeup lady. Does makeup and costumes. 
Photographer takes off his clothes to help girls take off her clothes.  
Everybody get naked, everybody feel free.”  Then she giggled, “Photographer 
sometimes get…how you say…happy to see girl…um…sexually…I don’t know right 
words.”

“Aroused.”

“Dah! Aroused. Is good word, aroused. Photographer sometimes get aroused.”

“Then what?”

“Oh, depend on girl.  Most girls like to see photographer aroused.  Make 
them feel sexy, sexy! Pose better. Feel hot. Feel like fuck.”

“But surely…”

“Why not? We all like fuck. We built that way,” Karina said gleefully. “You 
watch, Minister, Luba very sexy. You see how she pose for photographer.”

Indeed, Luba, which I gathered was the model’s name, was coquettishly 
sliding her harem pants off and spreading her legs wide in her skimpy light 
blue thong.  She moved professionally from front views to side views to rear 
views. She took a wide stance and bent her ass toward the camera. She ran 
her finger through the crease of her cunt and created a plump cameltoe, then 
grinned over her shoulder as the photographer snapped several pictures from 
two feet behind her.  She then knelt, lifted her ass high, and pulled the 
thong aside, revealing a slit with downy hairs curling into its folds. Next 
she faced the camera and pulled the thong down to her pubic bone as she 
arched slightly away, stretching her stomach taut.  Then she hooked both 
thumbs in the thong and lowered it even farther, to just below her cunt, so 
the top of her slit showed between her legs.

Suddenly she stopped and broke out of character. She said something to the 
photographer, and he grinned, put down his camera and took off his boxers.  
His cock was semi erect and waved at Luba as he swung back to her.  She 
giggled, and, slipping her panties off, she sat back and spread her legs 
wide open. The photographer took several shots, with her legs in various 
positions, then put the camera down and asked her to do something.  Whatever 
it was, Luba , said “Nyet” followed by some more words in a teasing voice.

Karina translated, “Photographer wants Luba to play with herself, make her 
cunt area red.  Good, good, sexy pictures that way.  But Luba want 
photographer to play with himself, see how he like it.”

Indeed, the photographer began to hold his cock, and point it at Luba while 
he stretched it.  She grinned and began fingering herself, too.  Within 
seconds we had a mutual masturbation society, but the photographer suddenly 
stopped, grabbed his camera and told Luba to move her hands away from her 
cunt.  She did so, and grinned at him between her legs, lying on her back.  
He shot several pictures of her inflamed cunt partially open, as she lay 
there smiling.

Then she kissed her hand and blew it at the camera.  After than she got up 
and moved toward the dressing table.  The woman held out a robe and Luba 
wrapped up.

“So why stop there?” I asked.  “Why not just go all the way. Why not take 
pictures of the girl and the photographer together, fucking merrily away?”

Karina spoke up, “Is for special market, right Director? Is for ‘soft’ 
market.”

Pedoloff agreed, “Dah, little Karina, it is for the Asian market, mostly.  
They seem to like things more subtle than you Westerners.”

“And how do you sell these pictures?” I asked.

“We are having BIG website,” said Karina.  Many girls. Lots of pictures. 
Some movies too.”

“And you charge an entry fee, I guess.”

“Dah, credit cards good thing.”

I got the picture (so to speak).

___________________________________________________
(to be continued…with any encouragement)

_________________________________________________________________
>From ‘will you?’ to ‘I do,’ MSN Life Events is your resource for Getting 
Married. http://lifeevents.msn.com/category.aspx?cid=married