1 comments/ 17194 views/ 4 favorites Karaoke Idol By: tristantrotsky Dear Shell, you're probably wondering what's been going on since I last wrote. You might well ask. You know me. You should do by now. You know what I'm like. Do you remember, that night in the wine-bar? Those guys watching us from across the alcove? Then one of them comes across. 'Didn't I see you last weekend in that Club?' he says. 'What Club?' I say. 'Aren't you the Pole-Dancer at that new Club?' he says with a grin. And it cracks you up. You thought he was really cute. But I mean, what a witty guy! What a great line! It must have been around that time I got to thinking – is this it? Is this what it's come down to? Some dumb chat-up line Saturday night in Batley. When you think how we used to read those Celeb-mags and make plans. Well, I guess you could say – finally, I'm on my way. What else can you do, do you sit around talking about it, or do something to make it happen? Karaoke. Those nights at the 'Fiddler's Elbow'. You remember that Karaoke Idol competition? It's no big deal, but win that and it's a step up to the regional finals. And I'm going to win. I've made sure I'm going to win. There is no Plan B. Tomorrow is on a promise. You've seen those videos on CD-GB, those slappers fronting the dance-mash-ups. They can't sing. They don't need to. They know it, we know it. All you've got to do is get noticed. All you need is to get a profile. And if you cheat to win, well, sometimes you've just got to do it. It shows how determined you are, right? And I'm determined. So I'm at the 'Fiddler's Elbow' feeding Lou lines, dropping about a zillion hints about how I'd do just anything-kissy-kissy to win that regional elimination heat. And the way I play it he eventually picks up what I mean. He's slow, but he gets there in the end. A disgusting leer. A vile guy. But a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. And he's up for a bribe. The thing is, you don't know him, I do. I know him better than I should. He takes a sideways glance to check out Elaine's not there, and leads the way down into the cellar. Straight-way he's got me up against these barrels, my shoulder-straps flipped down and he's slobbering all over my boobs. Pretty unpleasant, sure, but I can deal with it. Then he stands back, unzips and flips it out like he's some kinda King Dong, and he does this 'show me how much you want to win' number. Its single eye winking at me as he wanks it up and down with his fist, priming it for my attentions. Well, Shell, it's nothing I've not done before. When it comes to cock-gobbling I was an early-starter – like I told you about that first-time experience of going-down, with that boy in Movieworld? Back then I was so naïve and scared I didn't know you were supposed to swallow it, and walked all the way through the multiplex to the Ladies with a mouthful of spunk, to spit it out. I know better now. 'You can really fix it for me to win?' I coo up at him. 'Sure, not a problem' he gulps, nervous now 'it's up to you, your decision'. So I go down on it like it's the one thing I most want to do in the world. All yummy-yum slurpy-slurp. It smells a bit stale, but then again, pheromones are in the air. That can be a turn-on. He starts into breathing funny and grunting, his gut flexing in and out making those fat balls of his sway backwards and forwards bumping into my chin. Guess Lou's not used to having his cock sucked, guess that stingy cow Elaine don't do it for him, poor sod, no wonder he's such an evil bastard! But – although I say it myself, everyone's good at just one thing in life, and this is mine. With my oral technique, I could make a dead man come. Well, I'm sucking him for, what seems like ten hours, then there's this voice from the top of the cellar-stairs. His wife. 'What you doing down there making such a row?' And he says, quick as you like, 'I'm just heaving this load'. And that really kills me, 'cos he was, if you get my meaning. I was nearly choking, half on laughing, and half on... well, you know what. Never thought an older guy could come so much! But he does. I don't want to stain my dress, even though it's scrunched up around my waist, and it seems such bad manners to spit on his floor (after all, it's valuable stuff, they pay for it down at the Sperm Bank!), so... I can't believe I'm writing all this down, you'll thinks I'm so like a strumpet. But then you know that already. We've had times, you and me, right? Anyway, he yells loud up to her 'I'm coming, one minute'. Which he is. And when he's finally finished he whips it out of my gob, wipes it on his hanky, zips up, and does this 'shhhhh' finger-across-the-lips motion at me, then he's on his way back up the steps, out the cellar, locking the door behind him! And I'm stuck down there for what must be two hours, until the coast is clear and Elaine's out the way. Well, a girl's got to make the best of bad situation, I find some racks of wine down there, and help myself. Well, I got something to celebrate, don't I? I get an 'A' for effort. This is stage one accomplished. That 'Karaoke Idol' title's as good as mine. So best 'till next time. Love 'n' stuff, your bestest friend, Chas xxx Dear Shell, not heard from you for a while. I'm here pouring out all the intimate details of my private life and leg-overs, and you don't even write back. But who would have thought it, eh? So much has happened, some good, some... less good. Here goes. We were out Clubbing Saturday, you were there to start with – right? I know what it's like for you, you've got that snuggly-warm domestic live-in scene with Tariq. You do quality-time with Scooby-snacks by the telly. But I'm still free to do what I like with whoever I like, so you won't realise that later on I pull BIG TIME! Yeah – wait for it... only MC Z (that's 'Z' as in 'Zee', not as in 'Zed')! Impressed? You should be. He was guesting there and we, sort of, connect. It seems so right. Some things are hard to remember, but I'm thinking of him now, he's all black pimp-shoes and style. Not that I'm impressed by bling – well, alright, I am, I have to admit it. Can't believe my luck. OK, so I'm a mess, but I can be one hell of a sexy mess when I put my mind to it. But I'm looking good, and I'm all over him like a duvet. You know, when you're hot you're hot, and we're so hot for each other I'm aching for him. We slink off down to the toilets together, me hoping against hope my deodorant won't let me down. First cubicle a girl is face down throwing up into the bowl. Hey, we've all had nights like that! Next cubicle, two guys, the one crouching down doing to the other what I intend doing to Z! Third one is locked with odd biological noises coming from inside. Then a free one, and even before we're inside I've already got my thong tugged off and into my bag, clenching my pelvic floor in anticipation. Hey, I'm a healthy adult, I've got appetites. We suck tongues, and I hike him out. Stand back Captain Ahab, call off the search – I've found my Moby Dick! And I'm so moist for it I must squelch every time I move. He's easing me over, gentle-like, but persistent, like he wants it from behind. No problemo. So I'm firming my hands on the bowl and sticking my ass up ready, legs wide. Just for a moment I'm wary which entrance he's going to take. I'm in an-access-all areas position. Then, as he eases it in, long inch by long inch, I'm past caring. It slithers in all the way, so good it has my pussy purring. I can see me in the circle of bog-water. You ever seen the expressions on your own face when you're being given a really good seeing to? Guess not. Not unless your snuggle-bunny Tariq has a thing about mirrors. Which I doubt. Monogamy don't rhyme with monotony for nothing. This is raw, spontaneous. Remember what that's like? I see me biting my lip, my face screwed up, my mouth pursed and blowing, then wide and gaping, grunting like an animal, head down, then head rearing up, going jerk jerkity-jerk with every deep thrust. Until – all too soon, he's spurt-spurting all that lovely gooey white stuff into me as we go into a mutual liquid knee-trembling meltdown. I'm thinking, is that it – my tits are my best features and he's not even groped them yet? Should I have held out for more? But I stick as close as if we're velcro'd together. He's telling me he's got industry-contacts he can put my way. AlthoughI know damn well he won't. He's giving me all this 'you should make a video' shit, saying it like you'd think he was doing me a massive favour. But I act stupid like I'm hung up on every word. And my star-signs must be with me. Inevitably, we wind up back at his hotel slobbering wine off each other's tongues, getting each other's clothes off faster, with an urgency like there's not enough time in the world to do all the things we want to do to each other's bodies. I mean, I don't judge a guy by cock-size. I'm not that shallow. Not quite. But it's like, I'm sure a guy can be content in a loving relationship with a flat-chested girl. But every now and then he's got to wonder what it's like to shag a girl with really big tits. It's only natural. And it must be the same with us. Sometimes you just want big pussy-stretching dick, don't you? He's eminently qualified. And more, he has an educated tongue. His tongue lapping so far up my pussy I can feel it behind my belly-bar. My mouth so full of his balls I can scarcely breathe. Doing it here, there, just about everywhere. I'm sat on his face – wriggling my clit on his nose, then sat impaled on his dick, doing vigorous aerobic up-and-downs on it, the best and only kind of pole-dancing I'm into, making sure he's watching my boobs bounce as I do it... you don't want to know this – well, perhaps you do? here's enough tease to ease a smile into your drab drone of a life, but I'm so completely out of control, must have come a squillion times until my lady-parts are sore – tingling, but glowing. Next thing I'm aware of, it's something like 2am. You know what it's like when you wake up and you've got the taste of cum and sweat in your throat, and a pubic hair stuck between your teeth? Sure you do. So I'm padding out the bedroom barefoot all over – well, I've got hold-up stockings on, he wanted me to leave them on, and I'm schlepping towards the loo, tonguing that elusive pube, when I notice his laptop sat there on the table, a low glow tells me it's still on. I flip it open, shouldn't have. But this is so totally different. Tap the pad to life. No need even for his password 'cos it's on sleep-mode. First I just decide to put myself into his address-book. Soon done. Sure, I know the one-night-stand rules, he had a different girl riding him yesterday, it'll be another tomorrow. But this night it's me and I want to be remembered, I've got a need to be the best. So, just in case...but soon I'm sat there x-legged scrolling through his emails, tapping from his address-book into my mobile. Noting this. Noting that. One says 'GameSoft'. I know 'GameSoft', it's a unit on that Business Park up past Kirkstall. So I open it. It says 'Need a foxy babe for new CGi 'Lana Craft'. Is Sharon available?' There's a date and time. It takes me less than a moment. In this life you don't get time off for good behaviour. You've got to go for it full-on. I can be inspired when I need to be. So I hit reply. Type in 'Sharon out of town. Sending Chas instead, she's super-hot'. I look at it, add a second 'hot', then one in caps – 'HOT', plus an exclamation mark, then two more. And 'send'. I smile, and back to bed. Anyway, after a breakfast coffee he heads off with 'I'll do this for you' but both knowing he won't, and I go the other way. It's then I notice the forgotten public hair's still there, between my teeth. I extract it carefully, wrap it in a wet-wipe and stow it in my bag. MC Z. Perhaps I can auction it on the internet? What do you think? Anyway, it's Karaoke night at the 'Fiddlers'. My big night. Ha-bloody-ha. I do "Can't Get You Out Of My Head" and to tell you the truth, I'm almost good. You say that, people never believe you, but I am. And Lou's there, watching. But when he gets to read out the winner – through into the regional finals, it's this other slapper! I can't begin to tell you what kind of hair she's got, and sure – she's a good two years younger than me, and about fifty times better, true. But I get Lou in the corner after and I'm spoiling for a fight. 'I thought we had an agreement' I tells him. 'She made me a better offer' he shrugs with a leering grin, 'try me again next time?' I'm seething. I feel bad. But I don't feel much like discussing that part of it. It's not too good a feeling. Don't ever go there. It'll freak you out. So when I go I make sure I leave my knickers, still body-warm and body-fluid moist in his jacket-pocket where I'm certain Elaine will find them. Backatcha! But, mad or not, lessons are there for the learning. This is going to work out well, if only to spite that pervy old git, Lou. 'Cos I've got a mobile full of half-inched numbers. Stay tuned, Shell, I'll be getting back to you on this, your mate – Chas. PS – how's your dear old Mum? Hi Shell, still no word from you. Too snuggled-up cosy in your love-nest I'll bet. Well – I hope you've got everything you need to make you happy. Because me, I'm out of this town. I've got places to go. Things to do. Problem is, those creeps trying to get off with me up in the wine-bar with the cheap chat-up line almost had it right. I could have been a pole-dancer. No bragging, but I've got the body for it. And let's face it, that's all I've got. No other talent worth a toss. When you wake up on those cold hung-over mornings and look at yourself in the mirror, you know that this is all you've got. This is it. Sometimes it scares you. I see those pram-faces on the estate. Will I end up like that? And it scares you. Absolutely. So live the dream, I can do it. I can make it work for me. But why get my tits out for thirty drunks in Batley when I can do it on-screen? That's not a problem. So, before you know it, I'm there at 'GameSoft', telling them MC Z sent me. It's a big unit. Lots of high-tech equipment, computers and stuff. Guy called Niall shows me in, polite and considerate as you like, gives me a filter-coffee. Upstairs there's some cameras and a couple of techie-geekoids. A big blue-screen. 'So what now?' Niall explains, 'we're doing the new porno computer-game Lana Craft, we do it digitally. You saw Gollum in that Tolkien movie? That's what we're doing here. We put sensors on your body, you act out the role in front of the blue-screen which creates an action body-map we use to animate Lana's movements'. I don't even know what I mean by that, but I'm sure I mean it. 'So it's not actually me?' 'Not exactly. Like Gollum, you don't see the guy who body-maps for him, except in the DVD bonus-features. So if you'd care to undress...?' As I take my clothes off – and I'm not wearing a lot, he goes through the plot-line. An Egyptian tomb. Lana discovers two embalmed bodies. She revives them with a little... er, oral-genital stimulation. They've been dead four-thousand years so they've got a lot of pent-up sexual energy. Stands to reason. And she's a warm-hearted girl, so she generously does this spit-roasting scene with them. Some in-out here, some in-out there. Do you have a problem with that?' What is it they say for the movies? 'Is it integral to the story?' 'Of course it's integral to the story, that is the story.' 'Well, that's cool, I'm so totally ready – I guess three's my lucky number.' By now I'm naked, the floor chill on my bare feet, and it feels creepy when he starts fixing these electrode-thingys on me, one here, one there, even one there. For a moment it seems my pussy-fluff's a problem. (I make a mental note, next time – a Brazilian wax! shit, I've not done this before and I'm already thinking about the next time!). But I mean, how can you ever tell about stuff like that? You can't. Niall looks across at the geekoid on the monitor 'shouldn't it be shaved', no, he shakes his head, it'll be alright. It feels weird stood there with nothing but these probes taped onto me, but on-screen you can see me moving around as a kind of horoscope-constellation of luminous stars. Then there are two guys, like me... in the state of nature, so pleased to see me – it's achingly obvious, only shaved, and horny as hell. That makes them look, almost tasty. Isn't science wonderful? If I had any reservations before – which to be honest, I didn't, they just dissolve. And we go through the story, exaggerating every action. They're supposed to be dead. They stand there like statues, but believe you-me, they don't need too much resurrecting! A liquid lick here, a slurpy suck there, and whaddya know – two stiffs, with stiffs! And with much 'hold it there, can we go through that again, bend over, put it in, take it out, turn around, now the other cock, part your legs just a little wider'. Spit-roasting they call it, don't they? Double the pleasure, double the fun? And almost too soon it's all over and done. Niall shakes me by the hand, and writes out a cheque for more ker-ching than I've ever earned in a month. And you know Shell, the weirdest thing is that in a month or so it's going to be on screens all over the country, and I'll be a cyberbabe operated by boy-toy joy-sticks. Me! But there's even more yet, couple of days later there's a text from Z. 'Impressed. You put one over on me. GameSoft well-pleased'. Crazier. He picks me up, we go to a video-shoot in the kind of big house you only usually get to see on 'Footballer's Wives'. Awesome. The film-crew are there to do a promo for Rapper Fifty-Euro. You've see him on heavy-rotation on satellite. So now – I'm in his new video! It's cut-up with lots of fast-edits, you've got to pay attention to pick me out. But I'm there, in the Jacuzzi-pool scene. Lots of model-types are strewn about in gold bikinis and high-heels, mirror-shades and tight tight thongs up big sassy studio-tan polished-butts. Oodles of sweeties too, you know? Full make-up crew teasing my hair and lippy. I could live this for real. Anyway, pretty soon we're in the Jacuzzi, Fifty-Euro giving it with the Rap, me to his right (I'm miming along, it's part of MC Z's white-label set so I know the words), this other girl draped around him to his left. I realise early on I've got a lot of competition, that brings out the exhibitionist in me, I have to work that bit harder to be the centre of attention. You can't see it, but under the bubbles I'm feeling up his lock stock and barrel, and is it smoking! Once he's finished his Rap they keep filming – for the un-cut 'adult' version. My top's gone adrift somewhere. The other girl's sucking my nipples and you know what that does to me (you should, remember that holiday in Falariki where we decided to give up on love-cheating men and try to be lesbians, and we almost make it through the weekend?). And I get intimately acquainted with that smoking barrel I told you about earlier, clear up to the hilt. I have to use two hands just to encircle it... is that tweaking your interest yet? You want more...? Have you ever fucked in swirling water? – it's a wonderful lubricant, and with three of us trading syrupy tongue-kisses and probing penetrations, fingers, tongues, cock, I lose track of who's doing what to who. You know that thing about 'balls like a stallion'? well, he's got 'em. He shags me while she's sucking my nipples, then he shags her while I'm sucking her nipples. And yes, even though he's glistening-smooth naked, he still wears his bling-bling medallion and shades throughout! Later I'm back at the hotel with Z, chilling out, when the mobile trills. A guy on the 'phone. You know Simon Coverall, the 'Mr Nasty' from the TV's 'Karaoke Idol' finals? I didn't know till then, but his production company makes the Fifty-Euro records, right? Fifty just 'fronts' the tracks that his team creates. And he's seen the video. Likes the way I rap along. Wants me to feature in the 'Karaoke Idol' TV show. There's just the preliminary formality of this 'audition' in his hotel-room the evening before... strange how things work out. You've seen those videos on CD-GB, those slappers fronting the dance-mixes. They can't sing. They don't need to. They know it, we know it. All you've got to do is get noticed. All you need is to get a profile. Is that fair? is that reasonable? who the hell knows, not me. If you've got to cheat to win, well, sometimes you've just got to go for it. Karaoke Idol Ch. 02 2: Reality Tv Wannabe This is my story. These are my exclusive true confessions. You've been reading the gossip in the red-top tabloids. You've watched me on TV. Now at last, I'm breaking my silence. These are my full, frank, and fearless real-life revelations of how it all began. You know that thing the oldsters used to say about 'all fur coat and no knickers'? – well, I guess you could say I'm half-way there. I'm doing the no-knickers thing. All I need is the fur-coat. Except it would have to be faux-fur. I don't want no dead animal draped over me. I've had enough guys like that already, know what I mean? Sure you do. How it happens is this. I'm sitting on his face, wriggling up and down, as you do. I told you I was living with DJ/Rapper Fifty Euro, didn't I? I'm sure I told you that. I'm sure I mentioned it in passing. You've seen his videos on MTV, haven't you? Well I'm here, living with him. And as I'm sat on his face, wriggling up and down, I'm watching TV, as you do. And they're talking about a new series of 'Celebrity Big House', the Reality-TV show. You've seen it. Everyone has. And they're selecting new celebrity house-mates. An eighties electro-Pop survivor from a forgotten group. One-half of a knackered comedy duo you last saw on 'The Good Old Days'. The wife of a football player. Someone caught out by the tabloids having an affair with the England Football-Manager. And a couple of other non-entities. The kind of faces you could never tire of punching. And I say 'hey, I could be on that show'. What you need is no talent, but lottsa ambition. And hey, that's me. After all, Fifty's a celebrity – isn't he?, and I'm his partner, aint I? – we've been together for, oh, at least two weeks. That's the longest committed relationship I've ever had. Well, since the last one anyhow. I did tell you I was living with DJ/Rapper Fifty Euro didn't I? I'm sure I must have mentioned it in passing. Anyway, I was telling him all this stuff, although he's in no real position to reply, his mouth full of pubes an' all, and I guess he gets fed up of my rabbiting on 'cos he flips me over, switches me around, and stops me talking with his big juicy spermy gob-stopper and the only sounds for the next half-hour or so are kind of moist slurpy ones. But afterwards I get back into bickering him. Until he gives in, to an extent. He's doing this high-profile gig. An Awards Ceremony guests-only special. And eventually he agrees I can tag along when he goes uptown to meet the event publicist – Cliff Maxford. You've seen all those celebtastic stories he's brokered in the media, the Selma Pussy confessions, the Kimberley Thin disclosures, the screw-and-tell mistress of that disgraced Cabinet Minister... It's like – y'know, my life's been a cheap back-of-the market-imitation for too long, rather than a designer Dior Christal watch. I deserve more. I'm sat there nude in front of the mirror this morning posing my tits, lifting them, squeezing them together, pushing them forward – yes, they look good. But 'do you think I need a boob-job?' I say to Fifty, 'do you think bigger tits would help me stand out more in my career?' 'They look perfect as they are' he grins 'big enough to nicely over-fill my hands, big enough for me to rub my cock up-and-down between them.' 'What about collagen injections? Bigger more pouty lips?' 'Naw, they pout just fine when they're wrapped around mah manhood.' 'A new tattoo on me bum then?', turning round and pointing below the bikini-line. 'A tattoo there saying what? Two-way traffic? Double-Parking? Access all areas...?'And he just cracks up laughing at his own wit. See what I mean, no help at all. Anyway, next thing we're there in Cliff Maxford's office. He's an oldster with slick-back silver hair. But he's well-cool. He knows stuff. 'You have to be media-savvy, before fame fixes its fickle glaze elsewhere' he tells me intimate-like. 'The reality doesn't matter that much, but there must be some basis to the story. A honeytrap with a photo... something to prove you were part of it.' But if there is a story, if we can come up with one, if we can arrange for one to happen, then he's gonna help me sell the story... it's going to be great, watch the tabloids...!!!! But now, there's top bands on-stage, the Cunning Stunts, La Coque Sucres. It's a mwah-mwah air-kissing feeding-frenzy. All the eye-candy in their spray-on clothes. Dosh and David Bexx are there too. Norma Simplants. Phil Uranus. All awash with expensive vino, studded with roguish charmers and charming studs, sprinkled with good-time girls and a good-time's been had by all girls. All designer clad and nipped-and-tucked to perfection. It's non-stop insania. I'm impressed, but trying hard to be snotty. Trying to be, yeah, it's just like, so whatever... and those paparazzi photo-opportunity lights seem to stir something in my mind, as though they're mix-pots of paint, blending my thoughts into streaks of colour. We're at the bar while Fifty's waiting his slot on-stage. Then he's on stage. He's good. Great even – you have to admit. Just that I'd have enjoyed his street-smart urban skank more if it weren't for Monique and Unique, his foxy backing vocalists in their dental-floss outfits with spaghetti-straps and choreographed bootylicious come-on. Of course, she's not really called Unique. It's Eunice. But that don't sound quite so good. So she's become 'Unique', and a unique pain in the butt. People should've been looking across at me and going – oh yeah, 'she's his live-in partner, lucky bitch' you know? But who'd believe that with them doing it near doggy-style over the speaker-cabinets? Later, we're hanging around back-stage, and there he is – David Bexx, sat there in the alcove looking so chilled it's just crazy. That close-crop, that shy weak smile, that single diamond stud-earring familiar from all those news-shots. This is so amazing. I'm never gonna get this close to him ever again. What to do? Fifty's got his camera-'phone. Do I go sit down beside him and get a photo? Ker-ching, I can give good face. That's proof we were together on the night. But hey, any fan can do that. That's no proof of anything else. That's not going to splash the red-tops. So I know instinctively what I must do. What I'm made to do. I'm not wearing much. I slip into the Powder Room opposite. And a moment later I'm wearing even less. Nought-to-sexy in three-seconds. My frock comes off. No bra, natch. Less than a nano-second's hesitation, and the thong's gone too, flashing my bushy untrimmed foof. Deep breath. Then I'm outta there, nude and shiny, Fifty's there with his cam, Bexx looks up in shocked surprise... and a grin. And I'm legging it across towards him. Game-plan is to sit on his knee, kiss him, long enough for the photo-opportunity. That's all I need. I can see him, he's all I can see, all I'm focused on, and like some Olympic sprinter I'm on course – almost there. His mouth open, half amused-half-confused. I can tell he's eyeing up the bounce of my tits, appreciating the wink-wink cleavage in the pubes. Then – WHAMMO! Something hits, like a 'Star Trek' asteroid collision where everything's impacted out of shape, and I'm jolted sideways, stumbling down. Nails attacking me, my hair wrenched around painfully – Dosh, the bitch, protecting her man. Where's she come from...? He's watching with a wide grin now as we're both rolling around on the floor ripping and tearing and yelling and cursing and screeching, kicking and punching. She's on top, her shoulder-strap comes loose and falls out of shape, we tumble over, I'm on top, naked as the day I'm born, but no longer even aware of it, just full of this crazy anger to get back at her. People stood around laughing and yelling encouragement. Then there's hands pulling us apart, spitting and sobbing like wild-cats, hauled off into our separate entourages. Someone's jacket gets draped around me... and they're gone. David and Dosh. They're gone, and my opportunity for the tabloids gone with them, straight outta the doors. And we're being escorted out of the place. Back down onto the city-street where it's drizzling-cold, and all I've got on is someone's jacket around me. I'm sadder than a song on Country Music radio. Fiddling the buttons until it looks... almost, stylish. That's when I start into taking out an inventory on my life, a stock-take check-list of plus and minus. And it's not good. If I could sing like Aretha Franklin so intense and beautiful it makes you bleed. If I could do art-statements like Tracey Emin, or act my sweet ass off with the luminous grace and intelligence of Catherine Denueve, then I wouldn't have to do this. But because I'm not wired to do any of those thing, does it mean I don't I deserve my place, my moment, my acclaim? It's my right, isn't it? At least it's my right to try my damnedest for it. See all the Waynetta Slobs out there? – the check-out no-hopers, fast-food dead-enders, that's not for me. I wanna be the kind of a girl who makes 'The Sun On Sunday'. And I'll use whatever extreme gimmicks I've got in my grab-bag of tricks to get where I wanna be. As all this deep-thinking flashes through my powerful mind, my thinking's so aglow with twinkling inklings I almost miss out on what Fifty's saying. 'What? What's that you said?' 'Just about him, David Bexx, lounging there back at the Plaza, 'cos she's off doing the video, trying to re-relaunch her Pop career yet again...' And I'm going 'I don't believe this, you know where he is now?' And he goes 'sure, the Plaza' 'So why the fuck didn't you say?' Next thing we're off in a warp-drive cab across town towards the Plaza. Four-wheel-drives and stretch-limo's flashing by. What a palace. Wow. The kind of hotel you only usually get to see in 'K.O.!' and 'Hi!' magazines. We stalk into the foyer, trying to look as though we belong, but get no further. Escorted off the premises, for the second time tonight. Outside again we drift along the pavement, meander down the side-street, to where there's an alley leading into the rear of the hotel. But how to get in? We hang around for a while, then he nudges me. A laundry truck. 'There's our way in.' I don't see the significance at first. 'What you gonna do, bribe him?' But Fifty steps out to block the way, and when the van slows to a stop he leans in and starts yakkity-yakking to the guy inside. They keep glancing across at me. At length the laundry man slides the door back. Fifty beckons me across. You know those 'Benny Hill' DVD comedy collections? The character he does called Fred Scuttle, the ludicrous cross-eyed git with the geeky grin and bent glasses, like he's seriously-challenged in some department? Well – it's him. Only the little creep's sat there with his legs splayed, he's got his hard dick out and he's waving it at me expectantly. It's then I realise the inducement that Fifty's offering. I take one step back. So it's come to this, sucking-off strangers in back alleys. Then I think on what's at stake. I get photos of me and Bexx together. That gets me into the tabloids. A touch of celebrity by association, I sell the story through Maxford. That's enough to get me onto the 'Celebrity Big House' short-list. To do that, the first hurdle is to get into his hotel room. How much do I want that...? After all, what he's asking is not a lot different to your Ibiza one-nighters, just that there you actually fancy the guy. Mostly. If you really care too much about that kind of thing after bingeing all that local cheapo-vino. The kind of guy you regret and try to forget, you wonder why the fuck did I fuck him, but hey – it soothes that raging holiday pussy-itch. So what's one more? What the hell? Fifty steps aside. Fred Scuttle grins so wide I swear he's gloop-drooling. I can't meet his eyes – mostly 'cos they go in opposite directions, don't even look at his face. He's better endowed than you'd think, and when I go down on it he starts into this heavy-breathing snort-grunting, like he's never had his cock sucked before. Perhaps he hasn't. But when I suck a guy he knows he's been sucked. And it goes on for some time. Fifty even tells me to 'hurry up', like I need urging to get this thing over! At last he gets his jollies, shooting gooey gloop across the roof of my mouth. He stands up and re-zips as I dab-wipe my lips with a hankie. He takes his white uniform jacket off and gives it to Fifty, gets another from the back of the van for me, then stands there looking forlorn and stupid in the alleyway. For him it's probably the biggest night of his life, poor shit. Fifty drives the short distance down to the gate. There's a brief exchange with the goon, he laughs at whatever tale Fifty spins him, and we drive in, stop. From there on it's a doddle. We haul two wicker-laundry baskets out of the van and no-one looks twice as we hump them in. A couple of cleaners or domestics even smile at us. Once inside we wait a bit. There's a maid's trolley with mops and aerosols, and a row of uniforms on linen cupboard shelving, even master-keys on monogrammed key-fobs. So next we're sashaying along the corridors, as though we're staff, navigating a trolley with a skewed wheel that won't go where you want it to go. And y'know, it's true, no-one notices the hired help. Probably they're out-sourced from an agency anyway so there's not even a recognition problem. Fifty took note of the suite number earlier, and next thing we're outside there. The key turns. The door inches open, and we're in. Fifty's got his digi-'phone out. He fades the lights up, but there's no-one to see, yet. I lead through the en suit, into the bedroom, and he's there, laid on that beautifully muscled back, asleep. That close-crop, that shy sleepy eyes-closed smile, that single diamond stud-earring familiar from all those news-shots. We're just stood there gawping at him, like we can't believe it. This is David Bexx, my ticket to fame. Until it's me that moves first. I've not got much on. The man's jacket from the Awards. The maid's uniform. Soon they're together in an untidy pile on the expensive carpet. I reach out, almost scared to wake him, timidly grasp the top of the duvet and carefully draw it down, bit by bit, all the way. He's wearing pyjamas with little cartoon 'Roy Of The Rovers' all over it – bless! I check to make certain Fifty's ready. He's ready. I slip the buttons open, one-two-three, folding it back over his chest, then untie the pyjama drawchord, and shrug it aside, down to his knees. What's revealed is magnificent, a thickly-veined snake with its fat head laid clear up to his navel. It makes my teeth ache with anticipation just looking at it. All it needs is a little stimulation, and I can be very stimulating when the mood is on me. Fifty starts snapping off stills as I lick and slurp at it, the foreskin hooding back so its single eye opens, regarding me appreciatively, I swallow it whole. It rises to attention. Forcing me to relinquish it bit by bit the bigger it gets. And as it gets big, it gets hard, harder than Japanese geometry. But I'm well-used to handling swollen goods. He's murmuring 'Vicky Vicky' low and husky, his hips moving up to meet my throat. I look up towards where Fifty's stood, and try to smile for the camera, but smiling's not easy when your lips are strained out of shape and your mouth is crammed with monster celebrity dick. I'm tempted to keep working at it, to taste its gift, because what's in those balls is golden, the champagne of sperm, the nectar of sperm, the most desired connoisseurs sperm that eager girls would queue up round-the-block to swallow. But I grudgingly ease it out. Fist it into launch mode, straddle over him and squelch it all the way in bollock-deep. Snap, snap. Now I'm gliding up and down on it, slow and succulent, then speeding up, so good I almost forget what I'm here for. His head starts flipping from side to side. I feel its energy building. Same instant his eyes slam open. He starts spunking off deep inside me, my pelvis scrunching down to receive every last drop. He's startled, confused, as you'd expect I guess, it must seem like some bizarre wet dream to him, waking to find a naked slapper impaled on his spurting throbbing dick. Reluctantly, and just as quick – I'm up off it with an audible 'plop'. It slops back down across his toned gut with a wet slap. 'Sorry, excuse me,' and I'm scooping up my clothes, Fifty's backing off, Bexx is rearing up, still half-asleep. He slurs 'here, what's going on?' in his wussy half-asleep voice, as we scarper for the door, Bexx verticals as lithe as his legend tells it, he makes a move to head us off, dick still stood out, waving red and impressively still-hard, glistening with my pussy-juice, his pyjama pants crumpled around his ankles, but he sharply falls forward, legs all tangled up in little 'Roy Of The Rovers' prints, head over arse. And we leave him there. Outside the room we're grinning like we've won the Lottery as I pull what little clothes I've got back on. There's no sound from the suite as we hare down the corridors, he's not pursuing us, he's not even alerting security, so we're slowing to a fast walk so's not to draw attention. Mission accomplished. Some time later, back at the apartment I'm going 'Hey Fifty.' 'What Babe?' 'Don't you ever get, like... um, jealous?' 'Wha' you mean Babe?' 'Jealous. What I mean is, don't you ever get jealous, when you see some guy white-washing my epiglottis?' 'Hey, each human soul is an independent entity.' And he goes into this crapology about 'we're not property. We're part of Heisenberg's uncertainty continuum, particles moving along the relativistic curvature of space-time, drawn by the gravitation of event horizons, singularities or strange attractors, but that don't mean we go in there and plant flags and claim territorial rights, we spin off into new orbits. We are not possessions of one another.' Yeah thanks, a simple 'no' would suffice. And we all know what you mean about planting flags. But he's transferring the photo-card to his lap-top and scrolling up the pictures. It's then I realise, and it's a sickener. Photo after photo, me with monster-dick in my mouth, me riding monster dick frame one, me riding monster dick frame two, my lady-fluff with an inch of dick protruding, two-inches, four inches... get the picture? 'You dumbo Fifty, this is all useless porno-shit.' 'Wha' ya getting at, Baby-girl?' He looks. But he still can't see what I mean. Till I yell it at him. Me, and cock. Anonymous cock. There's no pictures of his face. Not one. Nothing to identify that this is me, with David Bexx. Nothing that proves an association. Nothing that can be any good at all to Cliff Maxford and the tabloids. I slam the door on the way out. It's over. The whole escapade has been for nothing. It's morning by now. We've been up all night. I walk for an hour, perhaps more, stumbling into daylight as the streets come slowly to life around me. At last I go into a café-bar for a latte, sipping it long and slow, feeling both stupid and angry, without knowing which of them I'm feeling more. It's only 8.15 in the morning and already my life is more absolutely dismal than it ever was before. Until I notice the girl's looking at me in a curious way. I look up. She looks away, then back. 'It's you isn't it?' she says. And flips out a newspaper. There it is – 'MYSTERY NUDE BEAUTY WRESTLES DOSH AT AWARD CEREMONY!' splashed clear across page-one. Me and her rolling over and over across the expensive carpet, my bits inadequately starred out. The paparazzi, of course, they never miss a trick. I read the caption, 'who is the mystery nude? Speculation is rife. Who will be the first to name the naked-stunna...?' It's all here. Everything I need. Everything Cliff Maxford needs to market my story. Karaoke Idol Ch. 02 'Sure it's me. Can I keep it?' 'Absolutely.' And I'm back out of that place, back towards Fifty's flat, up those steps three at a time. Bursting open the door. Into the bedroom. He's there... but he's not sleeping, and he's not alone. Unique, as big and bare as life, on the juicy receiving end of what should rightly be pleasuring me. Humping and rutting all over our bed. 'Hey Babe' gasps Fifty in mid-stroke, totally unphased, 'come and join us, there's room here for three!' And Unique grins up at me, coy and inviting, her big round tits going jiggle-jiggle-jiggle as he pumps into her dark pussy. Well, I don't mind being part of a sandwich, just as long as I'm the filling. Know what I mean? – the centre of attention. It's just that I'm not into being an optional add-on, the garnish. I'm not going to be in there merely to spice up the action by nibbling a pert nipple here, mouthing a testicle there when the opportunity presents itself, as they get on with indulging in each other. No way. That's not my scene. So I'm outta there. That's it. The end. Finito... I'm solo again. A single girl in a great big world. And yeah, Fifty, street-smart urban skank is like... so last year! And you know what's this year...? You really want to know? Me. I'm what's going to be happening this year. You watched that new series of 'Celebrity Big House'. Now read 'MYSTERY NUDE BEAUTY TELLS ALL'. It's going to be wonderful... and whatever you do, don't forget to keep watching those tabloids!!!! Karaoke Idol So when I go to meet Mr Nasty I've brushed my teeth, rinsed with menthol mouthwash, and I'm wearing no underwear. Screw you Lou, and your big-hair bimbo. I guess this is where we came in, in'it? I'm on my way to where I always wanted to be. And if I don't get all the way there, I'm having a great time largeing-it trying. Watch out for me, I'm on your screen soon. Why don't you get back to me? Why don't you write back? Love – Chas. Dear Chastity, sorry I haven't replied to your letters. Own up time, fact is they arrive while I'm out and Tariq's been opening them (we have no secrets between us). He's been taking them into the bathroom, and... well, you can guess, he's jacking-off, getting off on them. Dirty sod. He wants you to write more. We both do. We look forward to your next episode. Your loving bosom-pal (yes, I remember Faliraki too!), Shell FOLLOW CHASTITY'S EXPLOITS IN PART TWO... COMING TO 'LITEROTICA' SOON...! BY TRISTAN TROTSKY