In the Forests of the Night Page 3

  I arrive at Channel One’s steel and glass headquarters in a quiet cul-de-sac behind the Barbican at exactly seven-oh-five, just as most of the lights are going out in the main reception and the cleaning crew are trundling big Dalek-like machines across the polished marble floors of the corridors. A grumbling concierge buzzes Georgie and confirms that, yes, I actually do have an appointment at this bleedin’ hour, and dragging his lardy ass off his seat escorts me to the lifts and sends me whooshing up to the requisite floor of the dark and silent building.

  ♦♦♦♦

  “Amanda, down this way,” Georgie’s voice calls to me as the doors open with a quiet hiss like something off the Enterprise. “It’s a bit dark at this time of night, but just walk towards me and the motion sensors will detect you and put the lights on.”

  “This way?” I ask hesitantly taking a step towards her in the gloom, and sure enough dim blue lights flicker into life along the long corridor of closed doors and I see her distantly, framed in a tiny yellow rectangle of light at her office door.

  “Sorry about dragging you in at this hour,” she says vanishing into her den before I even get there, the endless row of closed doors like something out of Alice in Wonderland. “I just didn’t want us to be disturbed. Ah, there you are, come on in and make yourself at home.”

  Her office is a tiny oasis of low-tech in this H. G. Wells-conceived structure, with an old oakwood desk and a battered sofa, the walls covered in cork tiles that are groaning under the weight of art prints, picture postcards and snapshots of the family dog. In fact, it’s more like being in her kitchen than her office, and I half expect to see a fridge under the desk with children’s drawings Blu-Tacked to its pitted surface.

  “Yes, well, you’re here, great,” she says, looking me up and down. “Well, I won’t beat about the bush, I think you’re a very strong possibility for the pilot episode of Face Yourself, but I wanted to audition you again myself just to make sure before we moved to contract. Is that OK?”

  I’d stopped listening after the words ‘a very strong possibility’ and just stood there nodding like an idiot. They were offering me a part. There would be money in my bank account. My mortgage company wouldn’t evict on me after all. Holy fuck, I could even buy chocolate.

  “So, can we begin?” Georgie’s voice interrupts my orgasmic fantasy of snorting Fry’s chocolate crème off Chippendale chests. “I picked a time when we’d have the place to ourselves…”

  I had suddenly stopped thinking chocolate and was taking in what she really wanted me to do. And suddenly the presence of the old sofa in her room didn’t feel quite so comforting any more.

  “You mean you want to see me naked again?” I asked baldly.

  She flushed a little but it was only a momentary lapse. “Please,” she nodded. “You’re going to have to spend a long time in the buff on set, I just want to be sure you can handle it…”

  “So, we’re doing what exactly?”

  “Well, I thought, if you can, you know, strip, and are naked with me for a while rather than just a quick flash on stage, I can relax and know that you’re not going to get cold feet and freak out on me on set. Is that OK?”

  It wasn’t at all okay, but I knew that this private strip show was what was going to clinch the part for me, so I nodded and she gave me that smile again that turned my legs to jelly.

  “How do you want me to undress?” I asked, laying my coat over the back of her chair and stepping out of my shoes.

  She almost flushed again. “Oh any way you like,” she lied, watching me expectantly. “This isn’t a striptease.”

  I nodded and turned my back to her so she wouldn’t see the look of cynicism on my face. Like fuck it wasn’t a striptease. “Unzip me, please,” I said.

  Her ever-so-slightly tremulous fingers found my zipper and pulled it slowly down, savouring it, and I thought I heard her catch her breath, though she disguised it well. “Nice undies,” she said appreciatively as I stepped out of my dress. “Designer?”

  “Marks,” I replied, turning to face her as I slipped my panties down, my cunt level with her eyes as she sat surveying me from her couch.

  “Do you always do that?” she asked, her saucer-wide eyeballs never leaving my crotch.

  “Do what?”

  “Take you knickers off before your bra, you did it last time too. Most people go bra first.”

  I laughed, enjoying the feel of her eyes on my pussy a lot more than I should. “It’s just the way I undress when I’m alone,” I fibbed, knowing full well that I looked super-sexy standing there in just my bra. “This isn’t a striptease after all.”

  “Of course,” she nodded and reached for her clipboard to make a note. “OK, can you turn and let me see your back, that’s what the viewers are mostly going to see. We want to be network rather than cable, so we’re not doing too much full frontal.”

  “Sure,” I said and swivelled around for her, feeling her big brown eyes caressing the dimpled curves of my big white ass.

  Georgie swallowed. “You’ve got a lovely bum,” she whispered. “Like one of those paintings of Venus in the National Gallery.”

  I smiled in spite of myself and turned to face her again. “Should I take my bra off too?”

  She pushed her glasses up her beautiful nose and nodded. “Please,” was all she said.

  ‘You’re flirting with her, Amanda’ I told myself as I fumbled behind my back for the catch. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’

  I laughed inwardly, but without humour. I had really no idea what I was doing.

  “Those are great breasts too,” Georgie was saying, eating me up with her eyes. “And I love the way your nipples are standing up like that. That’ll look great on screen.”

  I smiled again. “It’s cold in here,” I said with a straight face, though the room was warm and soporific. “They always do that when I’m cold. Or excited…”

  She gulped again. “I see,” was all she managed, her eyes going from my nipples to my bush and back again.

  And I found myself wondering what her own pussy would be like. Furry or shaved, I wondered? Shaved, I thought, then, no, not shaved, waxed, smooth as silk.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Amanda,’ my inner voice interrupted, ‘what are you playing at here? Are you interested in another girl?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know,’ I replied. “I’m confused, that’s for sure.”

  “What’s that, honey?” Georgie’s voice interrupted.

  “I was wondering if I’d got the part yet?” I said quickly, regaining my composure.

  “Oh yes,” she replied, smiling. “You had the part when you asked me to unzip you.”

  Chapter Four

  ♦♦♦♦

  An envelope bearing the Channel One logo arrived a few days later with a contract and a sizable advance payment, and before I knew it I was being whisked off to Elstree Studios to meet the designers, a motley crew of highly camp eccentrics who immediately took me to their collective bosoms, big ass and all. And Georgie never left my side, plus she closed the set on the day that I paraded myself in the buff, admitting only essential personnel as I bared my all to the nation; and she accompanied us all on the location shoots as the team trundled me around Knightsbridge boutiques spending the production company’s money like it was going out of fashion.

  And then suddenly, as quickly as it had all begun, it was the last day of shooting and the crew were getting ready to wrap and I realised that I would never see her again. They’d restyled my hair and bought me scores of new outfits — which I got to keep, by the way — but my favourite dress by far was a long black Christian Dior ball gown, encrusted in tiny black beads that shimmered in the light and made me look like a voluptuous Audrey Hepburn, and I wore it for the after-show party at the Savoy.

  Waiters in penguin suits were pushing champagne into my hands as I arrived
, fresh from the taxi cab, and the whole room burst into a spontaneous round of applause as I entered. And everyone wanted to dance with me, fitting in their fifteen minutes with Cinderella at the ball before midnight struck and I turned back into the pumpkin girl again, but the one person that I was looking for was missing.

  Yes. After being my constant shadow for two whole weeks, Georgie, my Prince Charming, wasn’t there.

  Chapter Five

  ♦♦♦♦

  It was after one in the morning and the party was breaking up, and I’d had far more champagne than was good for me. Some of the camera crew were drunk and dozing by the bandstand, exhausted from the last two weeks of frantic filming, and the musicians were looking at their watches and waiting for the signal to wrap things up for the night.

  “This is my favourite song,” a voice whispered in my ear as the orchestra began the last waltz, a slow version of an old Billie Holiday number, a throaty brass saxophone moaning out the plaintive melody. “Shall we dance?”

  I turned, slightly unsteady on my feet, and there she was, hair slicked back with brilliantine, her long thin body clad in a sleek tuxedo, her firm little bum accentuated by the fine charcoal silk trousers, her modest breasts perky under her starched white shirt and bow tie.

  “You came,” I whispered, as she took me into her arms.

  “I tried to stay away, but it didn’t work,” she spoke into my ear, her words like kisses on my skin.

  “I’m glad,” I said back, inhaling her perfume and drawing her close to me, her skinny body hot and vibrant against the softness of my big white breasts, all exposed and vulnerable in my dress’ plunging neckline.

  “Me too,” she whispered, her eyes meeting mine, big and naked, pleading with me, our lips brushing against each other’s then meeting, touching, melting, as I felt her consuming me.

  “No, Georgie, I can’t,” I said desperately, pushing her away. “I’m only doing this because I’m drunk and I like you, I’ll only hurt you in the morning…”

  “No you won’t,” she whispered back, pulling me close to her again as the melody soared and all around us couples kissed and loved each other. “You could never hurt me, just as I couldn’t hurt you.”

  “I don’t know…” I began.

  “Well I do,” she said and kissed me again. And after that I was lost.

  Chapter Six

  ♦♦♦♦

  She’d thought ahead and booked a room and had slid me out of my incredibly expensive ball gown and onto the bed before we’d even locked the door.

  “I love you, Amanda Macintyre,” she breathed as she caressed me all over, her nimble fingers quickly denuding me as she rained kisses all over my yearning skin.

  “Yes, I know you do,” I gasped back, wanting to push her head right down to my hot wet slit. “I’ve been so afraid that you would and that I’d love you back.”

  “And do you?” she asked, suddenly as fragile as a skeleton leaf, her eyes like a Hallmark puppy dog.

  “I don’t know,” I replied mischievously, tugging at her shirt fasteners. “I haven’t inspected the merchandise yet.”

  “Bitch,” she mouthed at me, but pulled her shirt open for me in a shower of buttons nevertheless, quickly yanking her tiny bra off behind it.

  “Like?” she asked, raising herself on her elbows and dangling her diminutive breasts in my face. And I did like, though they were tiny, almost like a boy’s chest, but the nipples unmistakably female, sugar pink and rubbery with excitement.

  “Very much,” I replied, kissing, sucking, nibbling, delighting in her gasps of pleasure. “But you’re not naked yet.”

  “Amanda…” she began, but I wasn’t listening as I clambered on top of her and roughly unfastened her trousers and pulled them down.

  “Oh yes,” I gasped, surveying her. Her legs were long and skinny like a supermodel’s, white as snow with no hips, and all she had on now was a pair of rather strange black panties, like the kind that fat old grandmas wear to keep their tummies tucked in, except that she didn’t have any tummy, or any other fat, for that matter, yet there was a distinct bulge in her knickers where no bulge should have been.

  “Ah,” she said, standing up. “I suppose the fuck stops here?”

  I just looked at her nonplussed and then finally spoke.

  “Show me,” I whispered and she complied.

  She slid the heavy elasticised pants down to her thighs and a long thin cock sprang out, painfully aroused and mouth-wateringly erect. The skin on her navel was whiter than virgin snow, her pubic hair ebony black, but the cock itself was the colour of old ivory, its semi-exposed head reddy-brown and wet with excitement.

  I was staring at her like an idiot, my mouth open but also the most aroused I’d ever been in my life. “What? How?” I said stupidly.

  She sighed. “You know those babies you hear about that don’t have a gender when they’re born? Well, you’ve met one. My parents opted for me being a girl, and that was fine, except that when I was ten years old George Junior here put in an appearance. I was supposed to have surgery, I just haven’t been able to do it yet…”

  Her voice trailed off as tears ran down her cheek. “Well, that’s my story, I expect you’ll want to go now. Just remember who gave you your first break in television before you start spreading the rumours around though…”

  She was crying hard now, and, taking her sobbing body into my arms I whispered, “I won’t be telling anybody, you idiot. I’m very glad you never had surgery and I’m not leaving.”

  “You’re not?” she said, surprised, the half-flaccid George Junior quickly stiffening up again as I rubbed my very horny pussy up against him.

  “No, I’m not,” I said softly. “Now tell me, Georgie Girl, have you ever fucked a woman before?”

  She shook her head, her mouth creasing into a smile as I took her beautiful stiff prick into my hand and guided it gently into my hot wet quim. “No, I’ve never even shown it to anyone before.”

  “That’s good,” I said, closing my eyes as she slid her whole length deep inside me. “Because I want to be your first and I really want you inside me before I tell you something…”

  She held her breath and pushed hard up into me, where I wanted her to be, where she belonged, like we were two interlocking jigsaw pieces finally united, and I never wanted to let her go.

  “What do you want to say?” she begged, fucking me hard, impatient, frantic, already desperate to cum.

  “Can’t you guess?”

  “Yes, but I need you to say it,” she panted, her long cock plumbing my deepest depths.

  I smiled and kissed her, kissed her hard and deep, filled her mouth with my tongue the way her cock was filling up my cunt, pulled her to me as I felt myself start to cum like a tidal wave smashing into a shore and obliterating all that lies in its path, Georgie’s orgasm shooting scalding hot inside me as I came hard and long and screamed out the words she wanted to hear.

  “I love you, Georgie Girl, and I’ll love you for ever and ever.”

  And I did.

  In the Forests of the Night

  ♦♦♦♦

  Story Three

  Chapter One

  ♦♦♦♦

  The mansion was a huge barn of a place just off Wiltshire, and some folks said that Lionel had cheated a washed-up old silent film star for it in exchange for a year’s supply of dope. But that was only a rumour, of course, like the story about the old Cadillac in the basement garage being the one that Lionel had won from Elvis in a poker game that had almost cost the crooner Graceland.

  Anyway, whatever its dubious origins, the old pile in all its Hacienda-style Art Deco glory was all the home that Kirby had known since his folks had died in that car smash on their way down to Reno for a quickie divorce, and, since custody had never really been settled anyway, and there was no family save for an o
ld lush of a grandmother back in Tallahassee, Lionel, Kirby’s dad’s manager, had stepped up to the plate and assumed the guardianship of the bewildered little boy who had been brought to the mansion late that night and left there by a nanny clearly at the end of her tether.

  And what else did you expect? This was rock and roll.

  Anyway, over the years that followed Kirby was fed and clothed but received little in the way of emotional support, or even conversation, from his guardian, and while his old man’s records just kept selling and selling and there was quite a trust fund waiting for our young friend when his twenty-first birthday finally came around, there were days when Kirby would have traded it all in for just a friendly pat on the back and a brief “So how was your day?” when his guardian came home at night.

  Which was why he had just about fallen off his seat when the urbane Lionel, looking particularly dapper in a white linen suit and matching cream silk shirt and tie, came home to the mansion with this chubby broad in tow.

  “This is Eleanor,” his guardian had said, all blushing and bashful like some fucking fourteen-year-old moron introducing his buck-toothed prom date to the folks. “I’ve won her heart and married her. We’ve just come back from Vegas.”

  You could have knocked Kirby down with a feather.

  And, the shock marriage not withstanding, there was the phenomenon of Eleanor herself to be dealt with. I mean, she wasn’t young, she wasn’t blonde and she certainly wasn’t dumb. Which made her fairly unique as trophy wives went on this side of the boulevard. And, at forty-one, she was actually almost the same age as her husband, plus, as far as anybody knew, her sizable boobs were all her own.

  Not that women about the mansion were a complete novelty in Kirby’s life, of course. Lionel, better known downtown as Lionel Vinyl due to his legendary status in the music industry, was famed for changing his arm-candy more often than the blondies in question changed their panties. So in just what enchanted forest the old man had found this buxom hippy was quite a mystery to the whole city, his normal hunting grounds being black Lycra jungles of the bimbo bars downtown.