Star Slave (17 page)

 

Michael gaped in bleary, drunken amazement. He could not believe what he was seeing. Felicity had told him just two days before that she'd not be there. She was supposed to be miles away, buried in the country at Lord Burnopside's place with a whole bunch of aristocratic chinless wonders. He had bickered and snapped, and finally they'd had a blazing row, which happened all too easily these days, and she had walked out after telling him he'd not see her at all over the holiday period, and maybe, not after that.

He wasn't going to go to the studio party on Christmas Eve. Certainly not on his own. That show-biz crowd weren't his scene at all. He had only been dragged into it all through Felicity. Trouble was, most of his associates from the financial world were older than he was and therefore tucked up in the bosom of their families, and that wasn't his scene either.

When he rang her flat, just on the off chance that she might not have left for the country yet, he was ready to be suitably abject. Perhaps she would agree to meet him for dinner, or for a drink before she left. When John had answered the phone he'd felt himself blushing, felt that quiver of emotion he didn't even want to classify. Fear, shame - excitement?

‘Look, come along to the do tomorrow night,' her cousin had said, his voice warm with persuasion in Michael's ear. ‘I'm going to be on my own, too. We can keep each other company. I'd like to see you again, on your own. It'll be good for a laugh.' There was a pause, then the tone dropped and there was a hint of seductiveness. ‘You're not still mad at me, are you? I thought we'd sorted that out.'

Michael's face burned. ‘Of course I'm not,' he said stiffly, and then laughed awkwardly. ‘We were pissed out of our heads, that's all.' He writhed on an internal spit of guilt every time he thought of that weird night - and the morning that followed. He'd felt soiled. He should have thrashed John for taking such disgusting liberties. He should have done something to retrieve his manhood, for God's sake. Instead of shuffling off, unable even to look him in the face, mumbling like a hopeless kid. For an awful second, in the doorway, he'd thought John was going to kiss him again. He'd put his arm around him and hugged him. Not the sort of thing lads did to one another at all. He still woke up sweating about it occasionally. And it festered like a boil whenever he thought about it.

But now, Christmas Eve and not a soul to turn to, unless he caught the train and turned up at home, which would be the biggest humiliation of all, a yearning weakness overwhelmed him. Somehow he found himself agreeing to attend the party.

‘I'll see you there then,' John said. ‘I'm looking forward to it.'

To the last minute he remained undecided. Everyone there would know all about it - about the split between Felicity and him, about the shakiness of their present relationship. Damn it, that blonde pervert herself would be there, laughing at him with her deviant friends. But loneliness had driven him on. That, and the drinks he'd imbibed which, increasingly of late, he'd found to be an aid to comfort and relaxation.

Stella Priest was there. Glittering, beautiful, defiantly feminine, and with a girl in tow whose spiky haircut and waif-like thinness, together with her drab costume of black T-shirt, black jeans, and ugly black bovver boots, could not have contrasted more drearily with her partner. And yet her youthful, sharp-angled features had their own appeal, one which Michael strongly preferred, and which reminded him quite forcibly of Felicity's vulnerable beauty.

To cap it all there was no sign of John, and with a sense of desperation Michael headed for the bar and hung there on the fringes of umpteen conversations, listening to the riotous laughter and false bonhomie. He was well drunk when he heard and saw a commotion across the crowded room, and there, large as life, was Felicity, swamped at once by a buzzing crowd, making it impossible for him to get anywhere near.

He saw her long black hair as she pushed against the crowd. They were cheering and hooting with laughter, and he stared perplexed. What was wrong with them?

She was pushing hard through the throng towards the golden head of Stella Priest, who seemed to be for once caught off guard, her mouth open, her face tense. Then suddenly they were together and Felicity flung her arms about the woman, pulled her close and gave her a smacking kiss full on the lips. Stella flinched, pulled back, there was an instant tension, and then she was staring, clearly overcome with amazement. She burst out laughing - everyone around them did - and then they embraced again, to thunderous applause.

Sick and furious at that kiss, Michael watched them part again and the dark head glance around, searching for someone.

Him, he realised, as he saw fingers pointed in his direction. Felicity nodded, her face lighting up in recognition. She was making her way through the crowd, who were reaching for her, laughing, touching her slim bare arms, her slender shoulders, so creamy against the severity of the clinging black cocktail dress.

He felt his body tense. He felt trapped, unable to move or breathe in the age it took for her to reach him. Was she going to do the same to him, deliver the same kiss with those lips which had just been plastered against those of her other lover - her lesbian lover? The lover she had assured him she wanted nothing more to do with, whom she could not stand, whom she had never truly loved?

Paralysed, he watched her approach, his drunken thoughts still confused by those grins, the hoots of laughter. Was that why he'd been lured to the party, to be made the fool at the centre of some cruel prank? The dark eyes met his, dancing with that familiar mischief, the lovely face lit by that gamine grin. And yet, what was different about her? His brain reeled, his senses powered by the waft of her perfume as she reached him at last and the luscious mouth closed in, the glistening lips pursed, to meet his... and at the very instant they touched, he knew.

Michael jerked back as though burned, and heard John's husky and mocking voice proclaim, ‘Hi. Sorry I'm late, darling. Have you missed me?'

‘Fuck off!' Swept by a surge of rage and shame he wrenched away, pushed aggressively against the press of bodies, and fled, the roars of laughter like flails across his back as, tears stinging his eyes, he headed for the distant door.

He managed to get into a tiny cubicle of a lavatory, and dabbed at his wet cheeks in its locked privacy. He was trembling with anger and humiliation, tortured by his sense of ridicule. And, strangest of all, he felt a deep sense of hurt, and betrayal, at the cruel prank played upon him by John. He was shocked by this, just as he was shocked by the secret acknowledgement that what had happened between them in Felicity's bed gave them an intimacy as private as that of lovers.

He was in despair when he re-emerged into the heaving crowd, wanting only to escape so he could surrender to his loneliness and misery. But, to add to his suffering, Stella Priest collared him. She had been waiting for him and grabbed his arm, pressing her breasts against him so he could only stare at that superb cleavage all but spilling from her lacy red dress. ‘Come on,
darling
,' she purred. ‘Don't run off and hide. Don't be so stuffy. That bastard cousin of hers had me fooled, too. Don't let it get to you. Come and have another drink. It's Christmas, for God's sake. And she's chucked both of us, hasn't she? What the hell!'

Michael, feeling bemused and unable to resist, allowed himself to be dragged back to the epicentre of the party where John, looking so like Felicity, and so desirable in her clothing that Michael felt again that strange dreamlike sensation, was surrounded by a crowd of admiring figures. There were more raucous cheers at the sight of Stella and Michael. She was still clinging tightly to his arm, and he felt a sense of masochistic pleasure in yielding to this collective scorn, as though he'd passed beyond the point of caring - of masculine pride. He simply stood there, the butt of the laughter. His eyes met John's, staring at him from behind their make-up, and he exchanged a look of complicity, of wounded understanding.

Now that he studied the slim figure in the short dress he could see there was something, an angularity, a ranginess that was not Felicity. And of course the chest was flatter, despite the wicked shading he'd cleverly drawn to give the faintest suggestion of a cleavage. Even so, the shapeliness of the legs in sheer stockings, the curvaceous hips, and the immaculately made-up beauty of the face, was far from the drag queen look he would have expected.

The long glossy hair dipped towards him, and the white teeth showed between painted lips. ‘Gave you a bit of a fright, did IT John said. ‘Don't tell Feely. She'll kill me if she finds out I've been using her stuff.'

On his other side, Stella kneaded his arm. ‘Admit it, Mike! He makes a fetching little cow, doesn't he? I bet you wish you were gay, don't you? And I'm beginning to wish I wasn't!' There was another chorus of laughter. She cupped her palm and stroked John's smooth cheek, with just the gesture of affection she used to show to his cousin. ‘You really are a sadistic little bitch, you know, giving us both the hots like that. And you won't be able to satisfy either one of us, will you?'

The laughter continued to burst like fireworks over Michael. Stella revelled in the attention all around her, while he stood stupidly, the fall guy for all her barbed comments and her increasingly savage mockery. John had quietly extricated himself, and was soon at the centre of a smaller, more select group. Michael continued to drink, the smile fixed on his face like a death's head, scourged by the flails of Stella's humour and contempt, yet showing no sign of flinching or hurt.

Much later, when the party at last showed signs of breaking up, except for a hardcore who looked as though they might well be there for Christmas morning, Michael followed Stella into the toilets at the end of the large room. There was a row of communal stalls, and a staggering female on the way out leered and raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. When the compartment door had closed on Stella, Michael found a bolt on the outer door and quickly secured it from within, ensuring their privacy.

She came out of the lavatory still smoothing down the skirt of her silk gown, affording him a generous view of her stockinged legs. Her eyes widened when she saw him, but that contemptuous smile appeared immediately. ‘I think you've got the wrong room,
Mikey
. This is the little girls' loo. You're not even in drag. Not like our chum. You've got no excuse.'

‘You're a perverted bitch!' he spat, the thick hatred welling up overpoweringly. A thrill passed through him at the first sign of fear that flickered in her eyes, though she swiftly hid it.

‘Jealous, are we?' she mocked, moving to the washbasin and rinsing her hands. She watched him in the mirror. ‘Because I could give young Felicity a thrill she'd never even dreamed of! Because she didn't go for your big manly dick any more? That it? You're so fucking pathetic, macho man! Well, I've finished with her, sonny - you can have her back.' She sneered. ‘You'd better watch her, though. Where's she got to tonight, I wonder? She's got a taste for things you can never give her, big boy. I hear there's a dyke down at Burnopside who's built like a brick shithouse and who our little Felicity can't drop her pants quick enough for!'

She made to pass him, treating him to her coldest, most withering stare. ‘Excuse me. I've got rid of mine. I guess you're still full of it.'

Michael gave a low snarl as she went to edge past him. He seized her golden hair and ran her across to the cubicle she had just vacated. His fingers dug maliciously into her scalp as he forced her down onto her knees. She screamed, but in the distant hubbub, no one heard. He thrust her head down into the toilet bowl, yanked at the handle, and doused her in the gushing water. ‘Felicity told me you once put her head down the bog,' he said, his chest heaving with the exertion. ‘Seems to be quite effective for hysterical females!'

He let her up a little and Stella coughed and spluttered, her lovely hair darkened and flattened to her skull, and plastered in seaweed-like strands across her face. He thrust her down again, bending over her, one hand at the back of her head and the other pressing on her shoulder. ‘Keep still, and keep quiet!' he hissed.

Gasping and crying she ceased struggling, her head pinned down in that white bowl. He let go of her, paused to see if there was any sign of resistance, and then scrabbled at the hem of her crumpled silk dress. He dragged it up over her lovely raised behind. His rough fingers clawed at her little white knickers, hauled them off her buttocks, and down her stockinged thighs.

She whimpered as she felt his rigid prick jab into the crease of her bottom and thrust against the tightness of her anus. Then his hand was round at her front, fondling her belly, her pubic bush, then lower, guiding the tip of his penis into her vaginal opening. He was surprised to feel the gripping welcome as he drove deeply home into her clinging sheath. He plunged hard, savouring the thrill of her buttocks squashing against his groin.

And though Michael fucked her aggressively, concerned only with his own hectic satisfaction, Stella savoured the throb of her invaded vagina, the novel sensation of her helplessness, and the thrill of being so deeply penetrated. And when she felt the copious eruption of his sperm, her own excitement swiftly drove her to the wild crescendo of total release.