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Filthy Pictures [mf, pd, sat]
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
The following piece was not written by nor reflects the views of the poster
who intends no advocacy, defence, view or statement of position, political
or moral, implicit or explicit. THE STORY IS A SATIRE WITH A STRONG SEXUAL
CONTENT INVOLVING ADULT/CHILD RELATIONS AND IS CLEARLY INTENDED FOR ADULT
READERS. Flames will be ignored. Other messages will receive an answer.
FILTHY PICTURES
The call came late one night as I was locking up prior to climbing the
stairs to bed. It is not unusual in my profession to be called out at
unsocial hours - the Federal Obscene Publications Bureau often has to act
quickly on seizures in order to serve the necessary warrents before
suspects, especially the dealers, have time to cover their tracks. Even so
- half eleven at night! I cursed as I put down the phone and looked for my
shoes. A short time later, stifling a yawn, I was sitting down with my
colleagues at the FOPB's unpretentious offices in an anonymous building in
a certain East Coast city.
'What's the rush on this one?' said Reed, folding his long body
awkwardly onto the uncomfortable government-issue chair, which they
obviously believe aids concentration. Maybe they're right.
'It's a frogger,' said Poulson, 'from overseas. They got the driver
- think they've nailed the importer. All they want is the green light from
us.'
Perhaps I should explain. We're not callous - God knows we've all
wept at some point in these pathetic little dramas we're called upon to
scan - but sheer repetition dulls some of the response. You get hardened or
you get out. So we developed our own classifications for the kid-porn that
we had to watch. We called the littlest kids 'frogs' - something about
their skinny arms and legs perhaps - and the movies which featured them we
called 'froggers'. They could be the hardest to watch and the most illegal.
Rosie swept in, as usual as if she owned the building. OK, she wrote up the
final reports but I could never quite take her seriously as Head of Unit.
'Let's not waste time,' she snapped. 'Run it,' she called and the
invisible technician dimmed the lights and the picture came up on the TV
projector, as big as a small cinema screen. I saw Rosie's eager silhouette
against the light from the screen, leaning forward, pen poised over her
clipboard; she looked like a bird of prey when it sees the rabbit. Poulson,
Reed and I glanced at each other: we didn't always see eye to eye
professionally but one thing we could all agree on and that was Rosie
Greenbaum!
On screen not much was happening. The shot was of what looked like
the verandah of a beach hotel. The glimpses of sea and sand beyond could
have been anywhere but when the camera lifted a little, Poulson said,
'Mediterranean ... no, Adriatic, maybe Yugoslav coast.' Poulson's good on
European locations. My own speciality is technical, matching video
equipment to product. Most people, including the pornographers, don't
realize how many clues to origin ('signatures') are left on a videotape
after recording.
The picture was clear, not more than second generation, and
unusually there was a soundtrack. You could hear the sounds of a typical
beach, children squealing, breaking of waves, a power-boat or something
whirring around in the distance. The camera zoomed in, nice and steady, and
we realized that what we had thought was an empty sun-lounger was occupied
by a small child. She was tanned and fair and was wearing a red bikini.
'Caucasian female: estimated age, five,' snapped Rosie, to no one
in particular.
A man's voice sounded from off-picture and the kid half sat up, leaning on
one elbow. Her long fair hair fanned out over her shoulders and the
cameraman moved in to show her face in close-up.
'Doesn't tally with any I've seen,' said Reed, whose job it was to
keep track of the kids who appeared in these movies, 'but she's a looker,
all right.'
'Dr Reed, I must ask you to observe the proprieties,' said Rosie
(Reed's a Brit, on secondment from Scotland Yard, so Rosie tends to go easy
on him.)
'Sorry,' said Reed and pulled a wry face and Poulson winked at him
behind Rosie's back.
You couldn't really blame Reed. With wide set cornflower-blue eyes, snub
nose and full red lips (eyes and lips accentuated by a touch of make-up)
the girl looked far more sophisticated and sexually aware than the average
five year old, until the camera drew back again and showed her tiny body.
The girl answered the man in a shrill voice and scrambled off the
sun-lounger.
'Freeze!' snapped Rosie and the projectionist obediently paused the
playback. The little girl was arrested in mid-movement as she pushed
herself upright off the frame of the sun-lounger. 'Dr Reed?' said Rosie.
'Er, right,' said Reed, speaking now officially for the record:
'Child A is wearing an adult-style bikini swimsuit - anyone know what you
call that style?'
'Tanga?' said Poulson, experimentally. No one knew. The costume was
made to make the wearer look more naked than naked, just a narrow strip of
material around the chest covering the nipples and a cord around the waist,
low on the hips, from which a tiny triangle of cloth was stretched taut
over the vulva and disappeared between the buttocks, which were thus
completely bared.
'Child's sexual development looks normal for her apparent age of
five years but we'll see more in a moment, I suspect,' said Reed.
'Carry on,' said Rosie and the picture came to life once more. A
man, dark haired, quite tall, a bit paunchy, came into shot; he was wearing
long, colourful swimming shorts. The little girl ran to him and clasped him
affectionately around the legs, looking up him and smiling. He reached down
and tousled her hair. It seemed like a regular relationship, maybe
father-daughter or uncle-niece, but then the picture changed as the man
swung the girl up in his arms and they kissed, mouth on mouth, long and
sensuously. The cameraman moved in but kept the zoom steady: good
technique, I couldn't help thinking. The camera closed in first on the
couple's mouths, showing the little girl's busy tongue and open lips. It
then tracked down lower, to show the man cupping the child's bare buttocks
in his two big hands, gently squeezing and caressing them. Close up, the
rear shot of the child's slim waist, broad hips and swelling rump could
have been of any female in her prime, except for the incongrously large
male fingers at the edge of the frame. Little squeaks and murmurs of
pleasure could be heard from the girl; the man came out with occasional
endearments in some Slavic language. Struck by the clarity of the sound, I
began searching for evidence of a boom mike: there didn't look to be room
for a clip-on, on the kid at least!
The man turned with the child pressed to him, her head nestling under his
chin, and went inside the house, the camera following - not much jiggle,
which made me wonder if this outfit was prosperous enough for a SteadiCam.
I made a note for future reference. The camera followed the man's wide
shoulders and broad backside through a sunlit lounge, rather cheaply
furnished, into a darker area which, when the camera's iris had
automatically adjusted, was revealed as a bedroom. The man laid the child
down on the yellow cover of the double bed and went out of shot for a
moment. The little girl, lying on her back, cheerfully slipped the tiny
breast band of her bikini over her head and then, reaching forward, undid
the two bows at her hips and removed the miniscule red panties. She then
bounced onto her knees and slipped beneath the light coverlet, pulling it
modestly up to her chin.
'Can we go back?' said Reed, the physiological specialist. 'I need
a shot of her naked.' The picture froze and then wound back and stopped on
a frame in which the girl was on her knees, thighs splayed, long hair
shadowing her face. 'How's that?' came the tinny voice of the technician
over the intercom. 'Womanly little body,' commented Poulson and he was
right. Reed, perhaps sensing Rosie's imminent sharp reaction, dived in:
'Er, Child A has the rounded hips, prominent vulva and and well-marked
nipples typical of the five year old female. Behaviour is consistent with
early sexualization. Can we enlarge the pudenda, please?'
'Enlarge the what?' said the technician and we heard somebody else
behind the scenes muttering something. I thought I heard the word 'cunt'
but when I glanced quickly at Rosie she was impassive so perhaps it was my
imagination. Anyway the projectionist zoomed in on the area between the
kid's open thighs until her vulva filled the screen.
'There is vaginal gape and some labial darkening,' said Reed,
'which could indicate previous penetration by an adult male. OK, carry on.'
The tape ran on and the man came back into shot. He was now naked and his
penis was half-erect, sticking out from his body and nodding and waving
heavily as he moved. The girl followed him with her eyes, smiling,
seemingly unconscious of the camera. The man twitched one side of the cover
back and slid into bed beside the little girl and leaned over her. She
cooed and reached up to him, putting her tiny arms around his thick neck,
presenting her lips for a kiss. Her eyes were tight shut. The camera was
very steady and had operated from the same angle now for some minutes and I
guessed it had been set up on a tripod: again it was smoothly done - these
were pros.
There was a swirl of movement under the yellow cover as the man
changed his position, getting over the child and straddling her tiny body
on all fours. He was busy with his hands underneath him and we guessed he
was pushing and pulling the little girl into position for intercourse,
though we could see nothing. What we could see was unprepossessing enough -
the man's big buttocks were sharply outlined under the thin material of the
bed-cover: not a beautiful sight! 'They sure build 'em to last, over there
in Central Europe,' quipped Poulson, earning himself a withering look from
Rosie but I knew it was just his way of relieving the nervous excitement we
were all feeling. We watched in silence then as that big, muscular backside
was lowered onto the invisible child. We saw the outlined rump pause,
quiver a little, then dart suddenly forward and down. Simultaneously there
came from the bed a muffled squeal and a triumphant grunt. This was
followed by several more violent movements and a succession of cries from
both participants, typical of copulating pairs since the dawn of time, the
one significant detail being that the pitch of the little girl's squeals
and moans was an octave or two higher than her partner's gutteral
exclamations.
'OK,' said Poulson, 'hold it there.' Sound and vision were abruptly
halted again. 'Penetration took place at ... let's see... four minutes into
the tape.'
'We don't know that,' said Rosie Greenbaum, primly.
'Aw, c'mon,' said Poulson.
'All we saw was someone exercising under a bed-cover.'
'Exercising,' I heard Reed mutter, ' that's a new one.'
'Mr Poulson,' said Rosie, 'You may or may not be aware that girls
of five are unlikely to be willingly or pleasurably engaged in intercourse
with adult males. Those were not the sounds I would expect from a child of
that age undergoing penetration by such a partner.'
'These things are often dubbed, Rosie, you know that.'
Rosie turned to me as arbiter. 'Well?' she said, raising an eyebrow.
'Can't be sure until I do a proper job in the lab tomorrow,' I
said, ' but I'd be very surprised indeed if that's not the original sound
track.
'So,' said Rosie, 'it's obviously a sham. Carry on, technician,'
she said, imperiously.
On screen things were hotting up. The heaving and tossing under the
cover and the twanging of bedsprings grew to almost farcical extent. We
could see two little shapes where the kid's stiffened legs pushed her feet
against the cover on either side of the rutting torso and backside which
pressed on and split her tiny crotch. Occasionally an extra violent thrust
would be met with a shriek, of pain or passion it was impossible to tell.
After a while, the man seemed to withdraw and from his movements, although
we could still see nothing of the kid, was turning her onto her belly then
pulling her rump up for rear entry. All through this, even when the male
shape under the cover was seen to remount the little hindquarters and fuck
the tiny blonde like an animal, Rosie sat back in her chair, playing with a
pencil, an unshakeably supercilious expression in place. 'Oh, very
convincing,' she said. 'Gentlemen, it's unpleasant, it's certainly illegal,
but I think we're wasting our time. This farrago is not going to net the
big players we want.' She had actually got up, turned her back and was in
the act of opening her mouth to tell the technician to end the show, when
Poulson said quietly, 'Rosie, wait, you'd better see this.' Unwillingly she
turned back to the screen.
The man's exertions had already pulled the yellow cover, now
rumpled and damp with sweat, to one side. Now he knelt up and the cover
lifted with him, slid off his shoulders and down onto the floor. Rosie
gasped and sat down. I couldn't blame her, we were all working hard taking
it in: the little form, pink now, skin glistening and long hair darkened
with sweat, those little legs folded right up, knees to chin, presenting
the tiny, pear-shaped hindquarters to the great, heavily-veined cylinder of
flesh, still tumescent, which arrogantly pinned her down. The man got on
all fours over the girl again and, keeping one hand on the nape of the
child's neck so that he did not pull her back too, began to withdraw. We
watched, fascinated despite ourselves (Rosie included) as the shining,
enflamed tool slid out of that tiny, shivering belly and finally cleared
the big, round 'O' of the stretched little lips with an audible wet smack
of closing flesh. The kid let out a great sigh and rolled over on her back,
legs flopping tiredly apart. She opened her arms and the man sank down upon
her again, making no attempt to enter her, but she wrapped her short legs
around him as far as they would go and commenced kissing and petting her
comparatively enormous partner.
'Well,' snorted Rosie, 'I think we've seen enough.' On screen, the
little girl was rotating and lifting her hips and the guy's dick was fully
erect and butting against the kid's pink and engorged labia.
'Well I'll be ... he's gonna pork her again,' breathed Poulson,
while Reed and myself were spellbound and appalled. That such a young child
should enjoy full vaginal intercourse with an adult somehow beggared all
the stock responses. We'd seen girls younger than this sodomised and abused
in other ways, of course we had - there's far more of that kind of stuff
around than is commonly supposed - but somehow this was different. The five
year old blonde was making love, or had been so well trained that not even
our jaundiced eyes could tell the difference.
'Dangerous stuff,' said Reed laconically. We knew what he meant. So
did Rosie. 'Get that damn filth off of the screen, now,' she shouted and
glared around the viewing room, daring any one of us to speak.
Arbuthnot, 1991
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