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Rising Star

My acting career flourishes with some interesting diversions.

“How the fuck could you be so stupid?’

 

A well-manicured, glossy red fingernail tapped the picture on the front page of a German newspaper. The headline read, “English actress and star of new tv show leaves club with German woman.” Admittedly the headline wasn’t exactly contentious but the picture which showed her hand inside the top of my dress could claim to be.

 

The dress had been selected that night because I wanted to get laid and the club I’d been to was somewhat notorious as a place where that was exceedingly likely. I’d fancied the woman in the picture, a soft butch called Becca and we’d had a fabulous night – just what the doctor ordered.

 

“She was American.”
 

“I don’t give a flying what nationality she was she had her hand on your tits and a Paparrazo caught it.”

 

Felicity Caterham, usually known as Flick, my agent was livid. She ranted on about indiscretion, responsibility to my career and hers, the views of the tv company making the series about terrorism in the 1970s and a whole load of invective-filled vituperation. I’d seen her like this before and decided to let her vent. She vented.

 

“The BBC want to interview you. I’ve said no, it’ll die down.”
 

“Say yes.”
 

“What?”

 

“You heard me; say yes.”
 

Officially I was a client and Flick was my employed agent but that was not her style. She was overbearing, temperamental and bloody brilliant at her job.

 

I continued before she could start another rant.

 

“I want to be interviewed and I will be. I’m sick of this shit and although I am new to it I’ve seen too many people suffer from the press and I want to help stop it.”

 

We argued for a while. At one point she called Hattie, her PA in.

 

“Fuck’s sake, Hat, tell the stupid bitch why she shouldn’t go on the radio.”

 

Hattie, like all Flick’s staff, was younger than forty, taller than a redwood tree and stunning.

 

“Would anyone like a drink?” You had to hand it to Hattie, she was cool under fire.

 

“Champagne,” I said imperiously, with a sideways grin to Hattie. She and I were mates (without benefits, sadly, she being straight as a ruler) and we often conspired against Flick gently.

 

Flick erupted. “Champagne? It’s 10.30 in the morning.”

 

I looked at my watch. “So it is. Champagne, please Hat and bring a glass for yourself.”

 

Felicity looked daggers at me as we sat in silence waiting for Hattie’s return. She brought the booze and glasses, poured then sat crossing one fabulously long leg over the other and making me almost moan.

 

“God, Hattie, do me a favour and turn queer.”
 

She smiled. “Behave.”

 

The Interview.

 

The interview was on an arts programme that aired late Friday afternoons and was very popular. I sat in the studio with headphones on, facing the presenter. She was a rather dumpy woman of about fifty.

 

“Faye Millerton, you’re an openly gay woman...”

 

“Would you have started with ‘you are an openly straight woman?’”

 

She looked at me for a beat and said, “My question was about your exposure in the media since your escapade in Germany.”

 

I’d decided to be calm and reasonable but it wasn’t going to be easy.

 

“Laura, I went to a club, I met someone I fancied, I left with her and we were intimate. Ask yourself and your listeners if they have ever done anything like that? Ask yourself why you used the term ‘escapade'? Ask yourself if there is anything remotely interesting about this story in the twenty-first century?”

 

“It has caused a lot of public interest.”

 

“It’s aroused a lot of prurient interest and it’s because it’s an ‘openly’ gay woman at the heart of it. It is not ‘in the public interest’ that the media published the photograph or the story. It’s feeding prejudice and attempted scandal.”

 

Two weeks earlier.

 

We’d been filming a scene for the show in Berlin. Helen Thuring, the director, had left Berlin to move on to the next location and I had a few days spare. I’d decided to visit a club Helen had told me about mainly because I wanted a good shag. The hotel car, a black Merc that was almost invisible in Berlin, dropped me at the club.

 

It was on a busy street but was calm if relatively busy inside. The nightclub part was below ground and the ground floor was given over to a bar, dining room and a casino. There were hostesses, smartly dressed in blue uniforms and bartenders all in grey. The croupiers were smart in tuxedos. The atmosphere was one of sophistication and wealth. Fuck alone knows what I was doing there.

 

A long, zinc-topped bar ran in a serpentine wave along the left-hand side with stools before it and a brass foot rail beneath. Little brass hooks for handbags were by each stool. The body of the bar was filled with tables, some for four, most for two. I managed to find a vacant stool at the bar, hung my bag, ordered a glass of Sekt and settled in to see what might happen.

 

A woman was sitting with her back to me, talking to a companion. I had a view of a dark red silk blouse that was almost transparent and there was no sign of a bra beneath it. There was a huge mirror on the wall behind the bar and I tried to check out her companion and, if I am totally honest, to see if the front of the blouse was as sheer as the back but I couldn’t see. The clientele was exclusively female but that didn’t mean it wasn’t varied.

 

There was no ‘rough trade’ – everyone was well-dressed but not by any means all in dresses. One or two wore male style evening suits with white or black jackets, others sported leather trousers or skirts. Long hair, short hair, all colours; it was an eclectic mix. By no means all were beautiful but most were attractive.

 

A group of six women came in shortly after me. They were talking, laughing. Two hostesses re-arranged a couple of tables so they could all sit together. I watched the action in the mirror behind the bar. Orders were taken and the hostesses moved to the service area of the bar away to my right and a bartender placed drinks on their trays.

 

Hips swaying, the hostesses returned to the group and placed the drinks in front of the customers. Hands touched shoulders as they leant in to place the glasses and there was something intimate about it as if the group was well-known and popular. It was compelling viewing somehow.

 

The barmaid offered me another Sekt. I thanked her. Her smile said ‘If only I had time to chat’ but clearly she didn’t. She shrugged apologetically and walked off to serve another customer. As I turned to go the toilet I bumped straight into one of the women from the group I’d been watching earlier.

 

Apologising, she indicated I should go ahead and I was very conscious of her following me. This wasn’t the sort of place where women go to the toilet to make out; there were women kissing and fondling everywhere, more or less discreetly. She followed me into the ladies then stepped into a stall, as did I.

 

“You’re English?”
 

“Yep.”

 

“Love the accent. I’m Rebecca. I’m from the US of A.”

 

“I’m Faye. I’d shake your hand but…"

 

She laughed. “Not too easy, huh? We’ll shake when we’ve washed hands.”

 

I heard the cistern empty and her feet moving across the tiled floor. I wiped and went out to wash my hands but, more importantly, to get a good view of her. About my height but not wearing heels like mine, ash blonde hair cut short, cream linen trousers with a pale blue shirt and brown cavalry boots – soft to medium butch and very attractive. She had a large watch on her wrist, her only jewellery.

 

“Love the dress.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

She came close and put a fingertip in the cut-out triangle just below my barely covered breasts. “It’s strangely inviting.” Her smile was delightful. “Was it meant to be?” My turn to smile. “Why don’t you come and join us?”

 

And join them I did.

 

Rebecca was easy company as were her friends. The others were all German but spoke, as they often do, fabulous English and were kind enough to do so to include me.

 

It was about midnight, maybe later when Becca (as she preferred to be called) leant close. Her hand was on my thigh and she whispered in my ear, “I’d really like to take you to bed.”

 

I made a look of mock shock. “But we’ve only just met.”

 

“We’ll get better acquainted in bed. And if I don’t get you away from here soon, Ulrike,” she nodded towards a dark-skinned woman in leather, “will steal you. She likes femmes. She’s packing too. You can see it all too clearly in those leather pants she’s wearing. Still, it pays to advertise, they say.”

 

“I hope you do too?”

 

“What?”

 

“Like femmes.”

 

“I do, a lot. Do you like butch women?”

 

“Some, yes.”

 

“Why don’t you come and see my apartment?”

 

“I’d love to.”

 

Looking across the table at Ulrike, she said, “Tough luck, Ricky, seems I outbid you.”

 

Ulrike smiled and said, “My bad. Enjoy.”

 

As we left a car pulled up for us. Crossing the pavement, Becca slipped her hand back into the top of my dress. A flashlight briefly lit the scene but we got in the car and drove off to her apartment.

 

In the back of the taxi, her hand slid into the top of my dress again and fondled my breast.

 

She whispered, “I think this will be fun, don’t you?”

 

‘Yes, I do.”

 

“Do you wish Ricky had come with us?”
 

“No.”

 

It was a short cab ride. A tree-lined street of what looked like old buildings, big, imposing was our destination. The street lights were old-fashioned and cast a pallid light on the paved walkway as we got out of the cab into the warm night air. She paid off the cab and led me by the hand to a large, dark red front door.

 

She tapped on a number pad and the door clicked. Pushing it open, she held it for me and then took my hand again to lead me to the lift. We entered and, when the doors had closed she kissed me. It was a gentle kiss, a little probing tongue and her hand was at that triangle again.

 

“This is a very lovely dress. It looks classy but, as I said, it is very inviting.”

 

“I’m glad you accepted the invitation.”

 

The fourth floor and the lift stopped. We crossed the hallway and she opened the door to her apartment which seemed vast and furnished what Lilly always called ‘Scandi-plain.’

 

Without asking she poured two large Asbachs, handed one to me and said, “Cheers. Do you have any other invitations for me?”

 

Putting my glass down and moving in close to her, I put one hand behind her head and kissed her, my free hand covering her breast and my mouth open. The kiss lasted, and lingered and until we came up for air, her hand fondling my breast throughout.

 

Wordlessly, Becca led me to the window. Turning me to face it, she placed my hands on the ledge and stood beside me. There was a lake below, the lights of houses reflected in its waters. Cars passed on the dimly lit street in front of the house. Her hand ran down my back and up under my dress, roaming over my buttocks and further.

 

“When did you take them off?”

 

“I didn’t put any on.”

 

“And proper stockings too! You came out hoping to find someone, someone to fuck you?” The statement was made a question by the inflection of her voice.

 

“Yes, but not just anyone. It had to be someone I wanted.”

 

“You’re wet.” I wasn’t going to argue, her finger confirmed what she said as it slipped easily into me. “I want to fuck you, Faye.”

 

“I want you to.”

 

We turned and kissed then, her finger stroking between my buttocks, her other hand back inside my dress. I cupped her breast, larger than mine and with a hard nipple, through her shirt. Her tongue was insistent and entered me so I sucked it.

 

The finger between the cheeks of my arse pressed gently on my dark star and she whispered, “I’m going to have you here too if you lick my ear.” I licked her ear.

 

Stepping back, Becca undressed, slowly. Eyes locked on mine, she undid her shirt, her trousers and removed her boots. She stood ultimately completely naked then moved in close again and kissed me, hard. Her tongue entered me slowly, as if it was exploring me. Her hand went under my dress again between my legs and she curled a finger into me.

 

“Undress me?”

 

“No. I want you like you are.”

 

She led me to her bed. Taking a purple strapless dildo out of a drawer, she sat on the bed and I watched as she worked it into her cunt. It was slender. Her finger beckoned me to come to her and, when I was in range, she placed her hands on my hips and pulled me so I had to kneel astride her. She kissed my breasts through the silk of my dress then pulled it aside to suck my nipples directly.

 

Huskily, she said, “Sit on it.”

 

I lowered myself slowly onto it, loving the feeling as it slipped inside me, filling me delicately. When I could go no further she pulled me to her and kissed my mouth, hard. Hips rocking, I opened my mouth to her and sucked her tongue, my hands in her hair as hers stroked my back. She was gentle but insistent. She bucked under me now, pushing the dildo deep then almost lifting me off it.

 

It all got a bit frantic then. I found myself on my back, my knees up and Becca above me, She guided her cock into me and began to thrust back and forth, deep, then almost out, less deep, almost out, deeper, until I felt that she was about to cum. I was wrong.

 

She pulled out of me and said in that lovely brown voice, “Turn over.”

 

Obedience is a virtue. She lifted my hips and I felt a finger pushing into me, curling and I thought she was going to bring me off like that but she was only wetting her finger so she could lubricate my arse. Then the dildo was pressing. Wet and slender it met little resistance as it pushed into me. Fuck, I love that. She was bent over me then, one hand supporting her, the other fondling my tit through my dress.

 

She bit my neck and then really gave it to me until she shouted, “Oh fuuuck,” and came hard, very hard and very noisily.

 

I was held in that position, her dildo still inside me as she panted, quivered a bit then slowly regained her composure.

 

Somehow, and I still have no idea how, I found us with her sitting, the dildo still in me and me sitting on her like she was a chair. Her hand went between my legs and she did finger fuck me this time. There was a conspiracy of finger, dildo, hot breath, teeth on my ears, hand on my tit which took me somewhere I’d never been before. I remember throwing my head back and, eyes closed, letting sensations flow, flood, bellow silently until I sort of woke up and was aware of being held to her naked body.

 

“You’re a noisy girl!”

 

“Entirely your fault,” I said with probably the hugest grin on my face.

 

She fucked me again twice that night. She’d finally taken my dress off and spent some time between my thighs, her mouth on me, her fingers in me. I tasted her too, a lot. She was messy when her orgasms came and I always find that delicious.

 

I saw her again the following evening. She came to (and in) my hotel. We had a drink in the bar but this was about sex, not conversation and we soon repaired to my room for a close re-run of the previous evening.

 

Before she left in the morning she wrote her ‘phone number on my inner thigh. “Next time you’re in Berlin, call me.

 

I wrote mine on her hand. “England. Anywhere.”

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