Star Slave (11 page)

‘Maybe it's time you told Mike everything,' he suggested, with a shrug. ‘Get him over and show him your flayed arse. He's bound to sympathise, isn't he?' he added, after a fractional pause.

Now it was her turn to pause. ‘I just don't know,' she confessed. ‘He can be so straight sometimes. He's been so tetchy about this
Woman's Touch
business all along. I don't know what the hell he'd do if he found out it was for real.'

‘Do you really want to marry him, Feely?' he asked, genuinely curious.

She frowned impatiently. ‘Of course I do. I love him, dummy!' Then she pulled a face of rueful self-disgust. ‘I know. It's crazy, isn't it, when I'm such a libidinous bitch. But he's so different, Johnny.
I'm
so different when I'm with him.'

‘Cheers. Thanks a bundle!' He grinned again, then moved in and slid his arms around her.

She pulled away. ‘Don't, Johnny. I'm not in the mood.

Anyway, I can't bear the slightest touch on my bum, honestly.'

‘You won't have to,' he promised. ‘Come on.' As he spoke he slipped his hands on her shoulders, pulling her down towards the tiled floor. He lay under her and slid his hands up inside her nightie, savouring her warm flesh. She was kneeling now, her legs either side of him, and he slid under her until his head was directly under her crotch. He reached up and lightly kissed the puckered folds at the base of her dark pubis. He lapped at the salty tissue. She was leaning forward, gingerly keeping her bottom away from any contact with him.

‘Beast...' she groaned, and lowered her belly forward onto that exquisitely melting embrace. Her hips circled, her belly undulated back and forth, her head arched back and her long black hair tossed, brushing across John's arms as he held her slim waist. Feeling her orgasm approaching she reached back, still rotating over his face, and fumbled at the conflux of his thighs. She experienced a sharp dismay at the feel of his prick, already slimy with his copious emission and small and soft. With a hoarse cry she drove her loins forward and ground her wet vulva savagely against his face, smothering him, flooding him with her coming.

 

‘Look, things just aren't working out for us at the moment, are they? We haven't spent a night together in ages.' Michael's voice reflected the tension he was under, in spite of the reasonableness of his words. Felicity eyed him in mute dismay across the restaurant table. The bustle of the lunchtime scene gave them a curious anonymity. ‘Is there anything wrong?' he asked. ‘Between us, I mean. Are you cooling off?'

‘Are you?'

‘Of course not. You know I'm not. But I never seem to be able to see you. Not alone, anyway. Not properly.' He gestured at the crowded dining room. ‘It's not exactly private, is it? And now you tell me you're going to be away for a week. By the time you get back I'll be in Brussels.'

His handsome face took on an almost comic look of childish pique. She felt a swift stab of real anger, mingled with contempt, which was followed immediately by shame. But why was he always so restrained, so nobly decent? She wished briefly that he would blow his top, create a scene. What? her inner voice mocked. Put you over his knee for a damned good spanking? And what a shock he'd get if he did!

The angry redness of her bottom had changed over the intervening days to a rich variety of bruises, a multi-hued tapestry of shades from faint yellow to plum purple. They were the reason why Michael had, literally, seen so little of her. There was no way she could explain them, least of all by telling him the truth.

She wept that evening when she told her cousin about the luncheon date, and the mutually unrequited passion. She peeled off her clothes for a bath, kicking them to the floor as she shed them, then stood, hands on hips, with her back to him, looking at him over her shoulder. She stuck out her bottom. ‘How the hell could I explain this to him?' she demanded.

John, who was busy undressing, shrugged. Suddenly he dived across the bed, grabbed her and pulled her on top of him. They rolled naked, wrestling like kids, and she fought on top of him, sitting astride his chest and pinning his wrists on either side of his head. He felt her thighs gripping him, the rasp of her pubes and the soft cushion of her mons rubbing on him.

‘At least you still get your nooky,' he panted. ‘What about poor old Mikey?'

‘He should have ravished me there and then. He should have laid me across the table and shagged me silly!' She was startled herself at the vehemence with which the words escaped. She continued roughly, ‘Anyway, shut your mouth, slave! Or put it to its proper use.' She eased herself further up his body, spreading her thighs wider, thrusting her pubic bush under his chin, pressing her dampening slit lasciviously against him. ‘Smell me,' she breathed, growing more excited with every passing second.

He could feel her buttocks rocking on his breastbone, and could scarcely breathe for the smothering weight of her pressing against him.

‘I'm grotty as hell,' she said. ‘I might as well get my rocks off before my bath. Save washing it twice, eh?' But this time, instead of remaining limply pinned underneath her, paying her his unique lip service, he surprised her by heaving upward and flinging her off him. She squealed at the brute force with which he rolled over on top of her, so that now it was she who lay sprawled and captured, her wrists held above her head, her thighs spread by his knees. The dome of his penis jabbed at her belly, bludgeoned its way through her yielding labia and found her wet and eager to receive the stabbing length. He rode furiously, and soon her belly was buffeting against his, her buttocks lifting clear of the floor to meet the frenzy that sped them to the onrushing climax.

 

‘Look, we might as well use this auspicious occasion to make an announcement.' Stella beamed her professional smile at the intense looking figure of the talk-show presenter, Mary Westerman. ‘An exclusive for your show, Mary. We're past the watershed, aren't we?' She crossed her legs, generously displayed in the sheer stockings and tight grey skirt which only reached mid-thigh. On their host's other side, Felicity sat in frozen horror as Stella gazed over to her with a look of narrow-eyed passion, and pursed her lips in a clear and intimate kissing gesture. ‘Sorry, darling,' she breathed, at her sexiest, ‘but I can't keep our little secret any longer. I want the whole world to know.'

She paused. Felicity couldn't breathe. She stared like a mouse in the path of a snake.

‘I'm afraid this gorgeous creature and I are more than just screen lovers,' Stella continued. ‘You can call this our coming out party, Mary. Felicity and I have been an item since we started filming - months ago. I've never felt like this about anyone in my whole life. Sorry folks.' As she spoke she rose seductively, moved round behind the astonished interviewer and, lifting Felicity's astonished face, firmly planted a lingering kiss on her parted lips. Like talons her painted nails dug deep into the flesh of Felicity's shoulders, carrying their private message of challenge and warning. Felicity remained incapable of movement or protest.

She was gasping, sitting ashen-faced, when Stella at last broke away. A wild burst of cheering and clapping had broken out from the audience. The show, which went out at ten p.m. on Fridays,
Westerman's Week
, was noted for its forthright feminist views and controversial topics. Now that its eponymous presenter had recovered, her sharp features split into a delighted grin. This was a real and welcome bonus. The subject of lesbianism as portrayed on the screen had been given a most unexpected boost, and she shivered with dawning pleasure.

Felicity continued to sit in stunned silence, smiling mechanically and idiotically whenever Mary attempted to bring her into the conversation. Stella handled it superbly, and when Felicity watched the show's transmission a couple of hours later, her grief was intensified by the almost imbecilic portrait of herself she exhibited.

She had made a desperate plea as soon as the studio lights faded. ‘You can't let that go out!' she complained, while Mary Westerman stared at her blankly.

Stella was immediately at her side again, the arm this time possessively encircling her waist, while again those secretly pinching fingers exerted their censoring influence. ‘Felicity's a little concerned about our going public, aren't you, my love? But I've told her, it's probably harder to try to go on hiding the truth.'

‘Of course, you're right,' Mary gushed. ‘Listen, I'd like you on again. As soon as we can fix it. This is going to be a very hot issue, take my word for it.'

Her forecast was extremely accurate. Felicity was still too dazed to put up any real fight when Stella led her, their arms linked, out to a waiting taxi and back to the dockside apartment. Their mobiles were bleeping even before they got home. Felicity was imagining Michael, sitting up in his hotel room, gaping at the TV set, unable to believe what he had just heard. That was probably him right now. Which was why she wouldn't answer.

Stella's first call was from Ally. ‘My God!' the director sniggered, his camp tones reflecting his awed respect. ‘You've certainly put the cat among the fan shit, or whatever! Our noble lords are peeing in their ermine knickers, sweety. You'd better get into the studio first thing. Tell Felicity, darling. I'm sure you two will be snuggling up together tonight, doing whatever it is you deviant dollies get up to for fun!'

‘Michael will never speak to me again,' Felicity murmured, too shocked still to cry.

‘Nonsense,' Stella contradicted. ‘It'll probably put a bit of ginger into him. There's nothing turns a man on so much as the idea that his girl likes a bit of pussy on the side. If not, there's no hope for him, and he's not worth bothering about.'

‘Thank you for ruining my life,' Felicity replied bitterly. ‘What do you want me for now? Are you going to smack my arse again?'

‘Would you like me to?'

At last the tears came. Felicity sobbed, heartbroken. She was too lost, and too much in need of any kind of comfort, to resist Stella's tender advances. The blonde gently undressed her, then shed her own clothes, and soon their bodies were entwined before the rosy glow of the fire, on the soft rug, the thick pile of which Felicity's outstretched fingers were clawing in the excess of sensations exploding through her arched and spread-eagled frame.

 

The world outside was waiting, however. The studio was buzzing when they dutifully reported at nine 0' clock. One of the first figures they saw was the craggy Lord B. He wagged his finger at them. ‘You naughty pair,' he growled. ‘You've set the whole place alight, you brazen hussies!' It was evident that he was far from displeased, and Felicity soon realised why, for every newspaper, broadsheet and tabloid, as well as most magazines, from the kind that featured centrefolds where it was possible to take a pubic hair count to those that concentrated on knitting patterns, carried stories about the latest duo.

‘We couldn't have had better publicity if we'd tried - and we did,' his lordship chortled. ‘You've guaranteed that every adult, male and female, with the faintest spark of pulse left, will be riveted to the screen next month. Well done.'

Felicity discovered there was no way she could retract from this declaration of her lesbianism. In the restrained luxury of the executive suite, she tried in private to explain her dilemma. Lord B listened sympathetically. ‘I didn't wuh - want it to huh - happen,' she stammered, unable to stem the tears. ‘And certainly not for the whole world to knuh - know about it. I could die!'

By this time his lordship's sympathy had become more tactile, and she was sitting on his knee, cradled in his arms and trying to ignore the substantial lump she could feel pressing into her thigh. ‘It's my fiance,' she wept. ‘He - he won't understand. He'll nuh - never...'

‘There, my dear creature, don't take on so. We'll think of something.' He offered her his spotless handkerchief, and she dabbed and blew obediently. ‘But as to making a public denial, I'm afraid that wouldn't do at all. No, it's gone too far. Besides,' he went on gently, crooking his finger under her chin and lifting her tragic young face to meet his gaze, ‘that wouldn't be true, would it? You are Stella's lover, aren't you?' Felicity hung her head and remained silent. ‘Not to mention your little dilly-dallying with the redoubtable Magda,' he added, to her intense chagrin. ‘Perhaps your young man should show a little tolerance for your catholic tastes, eh? Perhaps we could have him down to the Hall some weekend for a few lessons in broadmindedness. That would be a good place to begin, wouldn't you say?'

Felicity tried to imagine Michael's reaction to such an enterprise, and shook her head hopelessly.

‘You're a star now,' his lordship resumed. ‘Famous all over the world. You'll have to get used to it. And so will he, if he wants to keep you.'

She gave a sudden gasp. While he'd been talking and comforting her, his lordship's hand had crept beneath her jumper and thin cotton crop top, and located her left breast, which it was exploring and playing with in a manner which stirred new feelings in her troubled mind; feelings which were proving a growing distraction. He pulled at the tight clothing until her breast, with its budding nipple erect, poked out from beneath the displaced garments, allowing him to dip his head and caress it with his lapping tongue. She felt the tickling scrape of his moustache on her sensitive flesh.