WARNING:
Adult Content 18+
(Violence, Abuse, Sexually Explicit content, Socially Tabooed Topics, Disturbing Scenes)
This book is not Erotica.
The story contains graphical descriptions including or pertaining to sexually-explicit, socially unaccepted and tabooed subject-matters that may offend and or be sensitive to some people.
Therefore:
- Potential Purchasers are advised: do not purchase this book if you are easily offended by possibly offensive content.
- Readers are advised: you should only read this book on the full understanding that you may read scenarios and or specific details you wish you hadn’t.
PART 1
THE PUBLIC STORY
Chapter 1
The story we, the general public, were fed (and for the most part fully and whole-heartedly believed) can be condensed to:
Amber Ebony, a young Australian girl, was raised by a loving single-parent father following the death of her mother in a car accident when she was nine years old. When Amber neared her sixteenth birthday, she had sex with a boy from school and enjoyed the sensation so much she undertook increasing risks so she experienced sex at every opportunity available to her.
Once her father discovered her mid-act with the young man (who couldn’t believe his luck and had become legendary amongst his social group), he took a serious and hard-parenting line to force her to not see the boy or have sex again until she was old enough. But Amber had caught the ‘sucking and fucking cock’ bug; she brazenly and defiantly had sex with other boys from her school and when she was caught out once more and verbally threatened with consequences, she ran away from home.
Amber hitched a ride to Sydney with a truck driver who happily paid to have sex with the gorgeous young girl offering her ‘puss for payment’. She headed straight for Kings Cross where she spent a couple of months working as a prostitute while she saved the money to get a passport and head over to America to sight-see.
The young girl easily found men prepared to pay handsomely to have her wrap her naturally rosy lips or puss around their hard on, and she spent a few months touring the country well able to afford her travels. But Amber had become so hooked on having sex, by the time she landed in Hollywood where she immediately secured a live action porn feed gig, after attending a porn flick as a means to discover new tricks on how to satisfy the men she happily serviced, she aspired and set out to become a porn star.
At first, she found the competition fierce. So the business-savvy Amber gave herself the porn name ‘Amber E, porn starlet (later changing it to Amberee, porn princess) and snuck into a party where it was rumoured some of the best directors of the porn industry would attend; with the help of Amber’s enthusiastic and brazen personality teamed up with one of the wealthy young men infatuated by her looks, they provided the party entertainment, informally ‘auditioning’ for all those in attendance.
Her gamble and ingenuity worked. Within days Amber had signed on to star in her first two porn flicks: Ride-Her High, and The Millionaire’s Best Asset which rocketed the young starlet to fame and fortune.
Amberee continued to do live action feeds for The Porn Shack in between her other films and photo shoots, which led to the unexpected offer for her to play the lead character in the non-porn film The Sexhouse Slave in which she played the incredibly convincing role of a sex trafficked girl who died at the hands of the abuse afflicted upon her, and which triggered a lot of controversy with the media questioning if Amberee porn princess was herself the victim of sex trafficking or an out of control nymphomaniac in serious need of society’s help. Loyal and admiring fans of Amberee were thrilled at the opportunity she gave them to secretly star alongside her for the film’s real sex scenes; and after the release of the movie, to wide critical acclaim, Amberee received even more offers to appear in men’s magazines and advertise a range of products valued from as little as ten dollars to luxury items only the wealthy can afford to indulge in.
It emerged Amberee could put ‘neither pretty feet wrong’ until her fourteenth year in the industry when she foolishly misjudged public perception and regrettably signed on to star in the porn flick, Absexlution, the advanced news of which had many people in the general public outraged, incensed at the very idea of her playing a church priestess who absolves constituents sins through the acts of debauchery, and ultimately ended the life and success she had long worked so hard for.
A colourful background befitting the exuberant, playful, promiscuous starlet.
That’s the fake story of Amberee, porn princess we’ve been fed through magazine articles and rare interviews.
Now let’s hear the real story behind all the lies and misperceptions Amber Entacott has slowly revealed to me, about what really went on behind the scenes.
PART 2
CHOICELESS & VOICELESS
Chapter 2
Hello, I’m the girl you may know as Amberee, porn princess.
This exposé is written in the hopes one day the guilty parties will be arrested, tried and jailed for their crimes. In books and movies, for legal reasons, names and places are often changed to protect the rights and identities of the guilty. I’ve chosen to provide their real names and places - why shouldn’t they lose their reputations and standing within the community? Why should they be protected?
This book is my account of how my life was stolen away from me and how I was turned into one of the richest, most profitable and recognised porn princesses known in modern times.
Here’s the truth you’d never otherwise have learned.
Oh, and if you find any of my story hard to read, then please bear with me as you can only imagine how difficult it was for me to actually live through those parts.
Chapter 3
Mum and I didn’t know it yet, but the day she met Murk Walters was the real day misfortunate, heartache, fear and violence crept into our lives.
Until meeting Murk near the local playground outside our school, it had only been Mum and me, so I will start by telling you a little bit about the Just Mum and Me years first:
I had never known who my father was, and Mum didn’t like to talk about him or the circumstances of why they were no longer still together. But, she did say, with stronger bitterness than the coffee I had once sneakily tasted, it was because she had got pregnant with me, “sinfully out of wedlock at only eighteen years of age” to a man her parents had long voiced as “un-befitting” for their daughter to date was the reason why I didn’t have any grandparents in my life either.
Although Mum and I only had each other, our life was great.
I never became aware it was financially tough for Mum while I was a baby, toddler and preschooler, that she constantly barely scraped by on the single parent pittance the government paid her; and that she regularly went to local charity organisations pop-up food stalls to get a fortnights worth of staples at a token price for us to live on, or our clothes and furniture were always someone else’s discards. I was too young to be aware of things like that. I learned this via the many, many newspaper and television stories in the days, weeks and months following her death.
Including seeing my grandparents for the first time ever. Crying and explaining on camera to reporters Mum had been held captive and gang-raped for a week until the police busted in and she was freed, and resultantly became pregnant with me. The reason for their falling out: they couldn’t understand why Marilyn refused to terminate the pregnancy and was too scared to press charges despite the pressure from police for her to do so, or why she wanted to always live with the reminder of the horrific event that had happened to her. And no, they wouldn’t seek custody of her child - they didn’t ever even want to meet her (me) due to them still finding it hard to deal with, especially now the manner in which their beautiful daughter had died. “Amber will have a better life living with her step-father than us,” they stated boldly to the media.
My memories were of having a Mum who loved and enjoyed being with me, who laid on the floor playing with toys with me, who teased me, tickled me and sometimes chased me around our teeny-tiny townhouse backyard (if you could even call it that) and squealed as loudly as I did before her laughing infectiously whenever she caught up with me. A laughter I can still vaguely remember and, on the rare times I laugh, sometimes is replicated in me.
I never went hungry or had my needs unmet. Mum gave me kisses and cuddles daily, and told me I was beautiful and she was so glad I had come into her life. I was her little blessing; the whole reason she lived and breathed. She read to me every night, until I was old enough and learning to read on my own, when she then listened to me read instead.
When I started school Mum gained a casual job at the local fruit and vege shop, where she only had to work during school hours and not on weekends or during school holidays. Before long, Mum had an old secondhand car for us to get around in, so during the summer school holidays, when she didn’t work, she asked if I wanted to go camping on the beach - which I always did - and so we packed our swimming costumes, towels and some clothes in a bag, along with sunscreen and hats, and sandwiches, fruits and drinks in a cooler, and we’d go for the very long drive to our favourite beach down the coast. The car didn’t have air-conditioning or electronic windows, so we rolled the stiff windows down to let in the breeze, often causing my hair to whip around my face and go in my mouth and poke my eyes. But I didn’t mind; I loved beach camping with Mum. It was the thing we both loved doing most in the world, escaping the city to camp in the dunes.
During the day time we visited the crowded, patrolled beaches, which often had a caravan park nearby, where we swam in the surf (really merely wading to my just-above-knee level) or an inlet or rocky pool (where I’d sit on the edge with my feet dangling in), and I made friends with other kids my age while Mum sat under the shade of our light blue beach igloo with all the belongings we had brought from the car to the sands with us, including food and drinks in the soft cooler. Mum keeping a keen eye on me, calling me whenever I drifted too far away.
Once it turned night though, and we’d had our dinner of hot chips with salt and vinegar or hamburgers with beetroot from the nearest fish and chip shop right around the time the sun was setting, instead of returning to our tent or caravan like other holidayer’s we’d spent the day with, Mum bundled me into the car again, after making sure we had everything we’d brought with us, and had dusted ourselves completely off of sand to drive further down the coast to a remote area Mum told me not many holidaymakers learned about. Because of how remote and isolated the spot was, we’d only have the occasional local fishermen there to beach-fish at night that might catch us out, if we were unlucky.
Mum parked near the beach-access path, and we’d carry the stuff we needed for the night along the narrow sandy path lined with decaying slats of wood, trying not to get snagged by any of the overhanging branches of the dense bushland on both sides of us dividing the car park from the beach, or stub our toes on those slats, and then head left along the sand with the bushland parallel on one side, the surf not far in the distance on the other until Mum found a clearing in a valley part of the bushy, sandy dune areas, where Mum, once again, set up the beach igloo under the darkening sky, lined the ground with two of the sheet-sized towels which we used specifically for sleeping on purpose; meanwhile I was tasked with blowing up our inflatable travel pillows, with Mum reminding me, “but don’t blow them too hard so they stay comfortable to rest our heads on”.
“Shh,” Mum said too, often holding her finger to her mouth while we scouted for a site or as we set up. ”We’re not supposed to camp on the beach or step into the dunes, so you can’t tell your teachers or friends about this part of our holiday, okay, pumpkin? And if any Ranger comes, you have to say we are not camping, we are here for the sole purpose of doing some night-fishing but needed a catnap, okay.” We had old fishing gear we had never used with us to make it convincing.
If I had to toilet-time, Mum got me to move a little bit away from our campsite, close enough so she could still see me, but not close enough my piddle might trickle down to our towels; and our number two’s, which Mum told me to dig a hole to do it in and then bury with sand afterwards, didn’t stink us out either. If Mum needed to toilet-time (she went further into the bushes than I went) or get something from the car, I was not allowed to leave the igloo without her first knowing about it. If anyone came along and asked what I was doing there during her absence, I had to say, “I’m not allowed to talk to strangers.” even if it was a ranger. Mum was diligent, also, about reminding me if I removed food or drink from the cooler, I had to ensure I closed it properly again, too, so we didn’t attract any unwanted nightlife into our little igloo cover - which is what we used instead of a tent so Mum had the opportunity to talk her way out of getting a fine if the Rangers ever did come across us.
We wouldn’t have been able to have had our beach holidays without doing it this way. But I appreciated right from the start Mum still took me away despite her limited finances like most of my classmates at school; though, they all appeared to go to caravan parks where their family either had caravans with annexes or they pitched large family tents in the designated camp grounds; hardly any of the kids from my district ever had parents with the financial means to take them to holiday homes, resorts or hotels though. I fitted right in as being a kid whose parent was holidaying on a tight budget.
We slept with our heads under the igloo (which was really more like a small open dome than an igloo shape which, to an outsider should convince them we were only having our claimed catnaps) and our feet pointing out. I loved the waves crashing and whooshing, the ever-present breeze and the twinkling of the stars. The moonlight was bright enough we never needed a torch or lamp, so between the time it had become dark but it was before time to go to sleep, Mum and I often went for a stroll near the surf once we were set up; sometimes the complete distance of the kilometre or more long beach, even though strolling end to end took over an hour. One, it was a pleasant activity to do: we had no television or radio or anything else to entertain us, and we simply talked; and two, Mum was able to scope out how alone we really were.
The emptier the beach, the more Mum relaxed. Most fishermen preferred to night-fish on the beach on the other side of the rocky points on the left hand end, accessed by a rough dirt track through the bushland; there was a great shallow inlet where they caught prawns and fished for flathead, usually with great success. (Mum had taken me there only once (by car), and we never went down that track again due to how potholed the track had been and the toll it took on the car’s suspension. Most people accessing that beach owned 4WD’s. Besides, Mum said, “Our beach is prettier, and strangely less popular.” Though we did twice visit those beaches and inlets by going around the rocks at low tide.
But it was rather dangerous, so we only did it those two times from memory). Occasionally, you found fishermen who preferred beach-fishing, and teenage surfers who had wild parties on the long stretches of isolated beaches in out of the way places like this one.
Mum didn’t like staying when surfers had beach-parties. Once or twice she made us urgently pack everything again and sneak our own rough path through the bushes to reach the car once they arrived after I had fallen asleep; those parties meant easy discoverability and our being harassed and we wouldn’t have people to turn to for help. Other times it started down pouring and Mum didn’t want either of us getting sick, so we drove somewhere else - usually returning to one of the popular beach’s car parks and slept in the car, parked as inconspicuously as we could be - me sleeping on the rear seat and Mum in the driver’s seat with the seat reclined as far as it went.
In non-school holiday periods, we tended to stay at home. Mum didn’t like going out much, especially not to parties where the adults drank alcohol. On weekends, Mum was usually too busy cleaning the townhouse so we’d pass inspections no matter how little notice they gave her.
Sometimes, when she wanted a break, we’d go to our local river - if we found parking, which most times we couldn’t, it was well-complained amongst locals the council hadn’t put in enough parking spots for how popular our only cooling off spot could get. Mum had bought an old computer from the school when they were replacing the ones in the library for newer, faster working models, so we had everything we needed, even if the stuff we owned was all old and unwanted by the original owners. We were happy owning it.
I miss visiting the beach, and often dream of one day being able to go again.
