Rising Star 2
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Rising Star - An Early Recollection free porn video
She closed the dressing room door in a rather decisive manner and walked to me as I lent back against the dressing table. She took the glass from my hand and very deliberately placed it on the dresser.
“Should I lock the door, Faye.”
“if that were possible, probably yes. But nobody has seen the key since Honor Blackman played here. Apparently the director liked to pop in unannounced.”
She smiled. “Well, one can but admire his taste.” She kissed me. “And yours.” She kissed me again and her hand went inside the top of my admittedly revealing dress and cupped my right tit. Every now and then, she’d lean back to look at me as if checking I was still okay with what she was doing before leaning back into an even deeper kiss.
“Long dresses are lovely but, Faye, I do like it when the curtain rises, don’t you?” She raised the curtain, discovered minimal underwear and the next thing I knew that minimal underwear was around my knees and her fingers were invading my pleasantly moist and inviting cunt. No complaints so far from me.
It was soon after I met my agent, Flick, sister to my best friend Lilly, that she got me a job with a repertoire company in my home city. At the time my success as a professional actress had been distinctly limited. I’d been a part of a self-funding group called Dole Queue, based in Bristol and thanks only to my Dad’s generosity and an inheritance from a slightly deranged but wealthy maiden aunt had kept body and soul together. I’d done a few ads and kids TV which is basically a mechanism used to weed out those who are not truly masochistic enough to want to act.
Repertoire work is less popular than it was, thanks largely to TV and film. Back then a rep company would do several plays a month using the same cast. It was, for people like me, an apprenticeship. Most companies had people on their way up, a few very competent if unambitious members who liked the stability, and people on their way down. These were often disappointed, frustrated actors who believed nobody had seen their true abilities and who had often taken to the warm embrace of the bottle as succour and comfort.
Flick had called me to her office. Even then, although her agency was in its infancy, she was imperious, not to say rude.
“Don’t sit down, I have important people to see. The Royal Western Rep.”
“What about it?”
“They want someone who can act.”
“Did you have anyone in mind?” Even then I tried to give Flick as good as I got.
"No.” I wasn’t as good at the game as she was. “But in the absence of anyone good I have, against all that is credible, persuaded them that you can.” She mentioned a salary which was better than playing the part of a menstruating woman cycling in a tampon ad (but not much) and told me to fuck off and see the owner/manager, George Clutton. She had and still has such charm. She is living proof that the English girls’ boarding school is basically a training ground for thugs.
George Clutton was born in the mould of the great actor/managers of yore. A competent if not great actor he was a brilliant theatre manager and read his audience’s taste perfectly and pandered to it. This meant a succession of light comedies, thrillers and the occasional romantic shit for the dowagers who lived in our great city.
“Bums on seats, Faye, bums on seats. That’s what theatre management is about, that and charging them a sensible amount for a ticket. Sensible means enough to make it seem special and not so much that when they see you lot prancing about they don’t feel cheated.” We were on stage, both safety and normal curtain raised, and he was acting. George couldn’t mount the boards without projecting his voice, gesticulating, moving as to a director’s instructions. In this case, his own instructions.
“It’s bloody hard work, great experience. You’ll have to fight off Billy Forbes,” juvenile male lead, “and, when he’s sober which isn’t often, you’ll have to fight off Lionel Sheridan too.” Sheridan was one of the descending actors, in his case descending from nowhere very elevated. “Flick says you’re a lesbian. That’s good. There’s far too much fucking in the theatre for its own good. Right, rehearsals tomorrow at nine. Don’t be late.”
Thanks, George! The truth was it went well for me and I enjoyed it, had a lot of fun, some good reviews and a lot of great experience. Once each year, George and his utterly bizarre wife the former actress Nellie Pomeroy, threw a huge party for the theatre’s friends. For friends read people who gave money in order to kid themselves they were great sponsors of the arts. Greatest among them was the Wigram family. Throughout the county you’d see billboards saying “WIGRAMS. Third largest brewers in the West Country.” Who on Earth brags about being third largest of anything? Well, Wigrams did. The firm had been making beer since 1812. Another great advertising slogan. “Napoleon retreated, Wigram advanced.”
The Wigram dynasty started supporting the Royal Western Rep in 1945 to celebrate the end of the war and had been the biggest sponsors ever since. We were on strict orders to suck up to them, fawn, grovel and, if necessary, abase ourselves in order to sustain their continuing support.
It was the end of my first season with the company and the party, always held on the last night of the last play and on stage amid the properties and flats. “Give them a fix, let them imagine themselves with the spot on them.” Inevitably the cast were on a bit of a high. A six-month season of twelve different plays was demanding and the end and the prospect of a few weeks off led to high spirits and, for some, large quantities of spirits or any other booze of choice. I’d been playing the part of the rebellious and wayward daughter of a wealthy politician (perfect fit according to Flick) and simply loved the dress so, makeup off, I retained the dress for the party. It was long, hugged my tits and arse, floated and generally felt fabulous.
“You’re wearing one of my fucking costumes,” exclaimed the wardrobe Mistress, Helena.
“Too right, darling. You think I can afford anything suitable for this do on my pay?”
“You get it stained, any sort of stain, and you pay for it to be cleaned. Got it.”
“Got it, loud and clear thanks.”
George suddenly grabbed my elbow and a small drop of, thankfully white, wine slopped onto my left tit. “I want you to meet someone and,” he hissed in my ear, “be nice!”
Now the truth is I had already had a couple of large gins in the dressing room with Gloria Somerville, female lead, another waning star and devout alcoholic so I was flying a bit.
“Miss Elizabeth Wigram,” George announced portentously, “may I introduce Faye Millerton.”
I think I sobered up a bit. Elizabeth, ‘please call me Liz’ Wigram was tall, slender, bright eyed, short haired and androgynous. She was wearing a cream silk shirt (with cufflinks for heaven’s sake) and very tight leather trousers and shiny brown shoes. Those of you who have followed my chronicles will know that that combination has a dampening effect on yours truly. According to the delectable Ms. Wigram, who referred to herself as the ‘bitter heiress’ (bitter being a type of British beer) I had been ‘bloody marvellous’ in all the plays she’d seen and had especially asked to meet me. Clutton had been only too pleased to arrange it. It had the added advantage of keeping me out of the most unwelcome clutches of Billy Forbes and Lionel Sheridan for which I was grateful.
“I’m told,” she said, “that you are gay too.” Wow, I thought, come straight to the point, why don’t you? “Do I hear correctly?”
Now, in normal circumstances I’d have been annoyed but because a) I fancied her and b) we’d been told to be obsequious I decided to play it cool.
“I think I probably am, yes.”
“Probably?”
“Can I re-fill your glass?”
“Why probably?”
I smiled. She wasn’t going to let this go. “Because to date I have only ever fancied women.”
“Ah. Well, that’s excellent.” She looked over my shoulder and did a sort of smile and within seconds a waiter arrived with two glasses of wine. Heiresses get that sort of treatment. “In all the years we have been supporting the theatre I have never been backstage.”
“Would you like to?” She would, so I led her out through the wings, gave her a bit of a tour, then led her down the dangerous stairs (why are they almost always dangerous?) and showed her the big, communal dressing area and then the one I shared with Gloria.
She closed the dressing room door in a rather decisive manner and walked to me as I leant back against the dressing table. She took the glass from my hand and very deliberately placed it on the dresser.
“Should I lock the door, Faye.”
“if that were possible, probably yes. But nobody has seen the key since Honor Blackman played here. Apparently, the director liked to pop in unannounced.”
She smiled. “Well, one can but admire his taste.” She kissed me. “And yours.” She kissed me again and her hand went inside the top of my admittedly revealing dress and cupped my right tit. Every now and then, she’d lean back to look at me as if checking I was still okay with what she was doing before leaning back into an even deeper kiss.
“Long dresses are lovely but, Faye, I do like it when the curtain rises, don’t you?” She raised the curtain, discovered minimal underwear and the next thing I knew, that minimal underwear was around my knees and her fingers were invading my pleasantly moist and inviting cunt. No complaints so far from me.
“Trousers are less user-friendly than long dresses.”
“Well, if they are in your way, you know what to do, don’t you?”
“It’s only polite to start at the top.” I undid her shirt and pulled it out of her trousers and licked between the rather larger breasts than I had been expecting. Her bra was thin, sheer and I could see large, dark nipples so I kissed them as I fumbled with her belt and zip. It wasn’t easy but determination is a gift and, with a nipple between my lips I slid my hand into her knickers and found her wet, and welcoming. Somehow, we turned so it was she who leant against the dresser and, with her hands now on my shoulders, she pushed me down almost to my knees and pulled my head into her cunt. I was eager, and she knew it. I curled my tongue between her lips and worked and worked. It didn’t take long. She let out a long, hissing sigh and I knew I’d achieved my desired result. I stood and helped her straighten her clothes. She picked up her wine and took a draft. Our timing was perfect. The door burst open and Gloria came in like a galleon in full sail. Gloria was by then the wrong side of too much booze.
“Don’t mind me, ladies. That wine is so much horse piss. Gloria needs a proper drink.”
She was one of those alcoholics who can function with a vast amount of booze inside her but it was apparent, to me at least, that she was intent on going the extra mile so I suggested to Liz that we slip back to the party. On the empty stairwell she stopped.
“Unselfish little thing, aren’t you?”
“Not always.”
“Let’s go somewhere?”
“Where did you have in mind?”
“My house is really quite close.”
“I ought to change. The wardrobe Mistress will have a fit if I leave in this.”
“I’ll see you back at the party then.”
I went back to the dressing room where Gloria was sitting, drinking alone.
“Come to join me?”
“Sorry, Glor. Faye’s on a promise and needs to get out of this frock and into civvies. Have you seen my shoes?”
“Over there,” she said, pointing. Then she patted her admittedly ample bosom. “Haven’t seen my shoes for a long time.” She laughed a little sadly and poured herself another huge gin.”
I stripped off, put on the little black dress I’d been intending to wear and found my shoes. “Take it easy, Glor. You know how George hates vomit on his carpet.”
“This carpet would be improved by it. Go and get laid, you lucky cow.”
And so I did.
Her house was in one of the City’s finest streets, a crescent of beautiful Georgian architecture, lit by faux gas lamps of ornate wrought iron. The light caught the golden, autumnal leaves of the plane tree on the green opposite the house as we went up the three steps to the huge, glossy front door with gleaming brass furniture. Liz didn’t waste time, we went straight upstairs to her bedroom, vast, high-ceilinged and with a window draped by crimson velvet curtains which were closed.
Undressing urgently, she said, “Don’t wait, get your clothes off.” I took off the dress and for a brief moment I felt as though I’d been dressing and undressing all day. Naked, she closed on me and enveloped me in her arms. The kiss was hard, invasive and accompanied by her hands roaming freely over my back and shoulders and arse. The bed sheets were cold on my back. Liz lay on me, her mound on mine, her mouth on mine and we kissed again. I thought she was going to grind me but instead she rolled off me and pushed me so I was on my side with my back to her.
She posed me as you might an artist’s model, moving my knee so my thigh was straight in front of me, knee bent. She began kissing my neck, soft kisses, licks, nibbles which progressed around my neck to my ear, then down to my shoulder and then, wonderfully, down my back. There was nothing hurried about it and, to begin with anyway, it was just her mouth but then she allowed her hands to get involved. As her tongue worked slowly down my back her hand retraced her tongue’s movement; first around my neck, the shoulders and so on until her mouth was caressing the small of my back and her fingers were stroking, achingly slowly, my cunt lips.
Her tongue was at the very start of the crease of my arse, just at the end of my spine when her first finger entered me. Her hand was palm out, her finger intruding, curling and her tongue worked down my arse to join that finger. I wanted to roll onto my back but I couldn’t. I wanted to reach behind to touch her but she stopped me and continued her beautiful assault on me. I was aroused beyond words and inching ever closer to an orgasm when one of fingers pressed wetly against my arsehole. The pressure increased and as it did so a second finger slipped into my cunt. Her finger broke my muscle’s resistance and she was in me, in both holes, her tongue still busy. I screamed, not with pain but one of those screams that every lover knows is abandon, the sign of being overwhelmed, lost in the joy of orgasm.
I normally recover quickly from an orgasm but not that time. I kept having mini orgasms which was something to do with the fact that she didn’t take her fingers out of me and her tongue was still making love to my spine. Eventually, I rolled onto my other side to face her and she smiled.
“I’m good, aren’t I?”
“Good doesn’t cover it.” A bigger smile.
“Never underestimate the benefits of enthusiastic practice, Faye. It’s technique, and I have many more examples to give you.
” Well, good oh, I thought.
Libbie
- 26.03.2020
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