Our final encounter Me and my transsexual
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Leading Lady, Or The Transsexual Twist free porn video
Leading Lady, or The Transsexual Twist
By Cal Y. Pygia
Howard Clifton ignored his leading lady's plaintive look, regarding it,
quite rightly, as being a final, last-minute, silent appeal. Several
times, she'd asked not to have to film the film's love scenes in the
nude--to no avail. Her repeated requests that Howard use a body double
had also been turned down. "There's nothing wrong with your body," he'd
assured her, and, of course, there wasn't. Like most Hollywood
actresses, her body was as flawless as her beautiful face. "Lights!"
Upon Howard's command, the lights dimmed, except for one that, in a
subtle fashion, spotlighted Stella as she stood on her mark at the foot
of the bed, awaiting her cue to act. Howard hoped that she could act.
It would be just his luck if she couldn't. He scowled. Time and again,
he'd asked Brett Bowers, the film's producer, to let him cast the
movie's leading lady, but the bastard had steadfastly refused--probably
because he was boning the bitch. As a result, Stella was an unknown
quantity. Maybe she could act, and maybe she couldn't. It would serve
Brett right if she couldn't, the director thought.
"Camera!"
The cameraman turned the camera slightly.
"Action!"
Stella let the robe slide from her body, and it fell in a heap around
her ankles, displaying as perfect an ass as Howard or the rest of the
crew had ever seen. Smooth, firm, round, and full, her buttocks were as
beautiful and photogenic as the rest of her. She stepped around the
foot of the bed, striding up to the man who slept therein. Without
waking him, she eased back the blankets and the top sheet and crept
into bed with him.
According to the script, she'd been out with her friends and had
returned late. She didn't want to awaken him, lest he learn the hour of
her return.
"Beth?" he called sleepily.
"Yes, honey."
"What time is it?"
The camera showed the luminous alarm clock on his bedside table. 3:00
a.m.
"Hold me," she replied, ignoring his question. "I'm cold."
They snuggled together.
"It seems awfully late," he observed. "What time is it?"
"Did you turn off the heat?"
"I turned it down."
She shivered in his arms. "It's cold." She paused. Her tone was
suggestive when she spoke again: "Warm me up."
His mouth found hers, and they kissed. The camera showed a close up
shot of their tongues twirling inside one another's mouths. His hand
squeezed one of her buttocks beneath the blankets. Then, he rolled on
top of her, and the cameraman focused on her breasts as they were
revealed by the lifted blankets.
"Cut!" Howard cried, pleased.
He still had no idea whether Stella Starr could act, but, one thing was
sure, she was good in bed. Good? Hell, she was fantastic! If she was
balling Brett, the producer was certainly getting his money's worth.
The actor, Robert Randolph, rolled off Stella, a sheepish grin on his
face, and she sat up, exposing both her splendid breasts and her firm,
concave tummy as she gathered the top blanket to herself, making a robe
out of it, and climbed out of bed.
"Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" Howard asked as she strode past his
chair.
"Couldn't we use a body double, please?" she begged again.
"For the thousandth time, no, we can't." He looked pointedly at her.
"If you don't want to do nude work, you shouldn't have signed the
contract." And, he added to himself, you should stay the hell out of
Brett Bowers' bed!
Stella scowled at the director. Tightening the blanket around her ample
charms, she strode angrily away from him. Howard watched her buttocks
swivel left and right as she crossed the set. Yes, he told himself,
Brett knew how to pick his ing?nues; Stella was one fine piece of ass!
In her dressing room, as she repaired her makeup and donned an actual
robe, Stella bit her lower lip. She'd gotten off lightly in this scene,
with just a brief disclosure of her buttocks and a short revelation of
her breasts. But, she knew, one scene called for full-frontal nudity on
her part. Her brow furrowed at the thought of her sex exposed to the
cast and crew--and, if the scene didn't end up on the cutting-room
floor, to millions of moviegoers as well. Her career could be over
before it began. Howard would be delighted, she thought. He seemed to
hate her for some reason. He probably assumed she was sleeping with the
producer. She snorted. If only she had been! At least, then, Brett
would have known her secret. He'd either have been all right with it or
he wouldn't have been all right with it, and, if he hadn't been all
right with it, he wouldn't have offered her the part. She thought of
the contract that she'd signed. Had she done something illegal? Had she
committed fraud? Could she be fined or, even worse, jailed for having
misrepresented herself? All her life, she'd wanted to be an actress.
Now that she'd gotten her big break, she wasn't as sure of her choice
of occupations. Maybe she should have been a waitress, a secretary, or
a maid. Well, it was too late now. Not only had she signed a contract,
but the movie had begun to be filmed as well. Maybe all was not lost,
after all, she thought. Maybe there was some way that she could--
No, there was no way.
She was fucked.
The next day, they filmed the scene in which her character, Melanie,
and Robert's character, James, met. Fortunately, Melanie didn't believe
in having sex on the first date, and she was able to keep her clothes
on throughout the filming sequence. She and Robert (or Melanie and
James) wandered a craggy bluff set against a frothy emerald sea while
gulls careened in the cloudless azure sky behind them. They walked hand
in hand along the golden sands of the private beach, he looking fit and
tan in dark burgundy trunks and she looking gorgeous in her floral
thong bikini. They sipped margaritas under a large umbrella on a
nightclub balcony as the stars glittered in the heavens. It was a
splendid day, devoid of nudity.
Stella Starr had been born Dan Stanley. At age eighteen, she went from
her high school graduation ceremony to Los Angeles, where she worked at
whatever job she could find. Within the three years it had taken for
her to be "discovered," she'd worked as a receptionist, a waitress, a
secretary, a maid, a delivery person, and a telemarketer. She'd fended
off about a hundred sexual advances, from women and men alike, and,
finally, when she'd been about to give up, pack her bags, and head back
home to Des Moines, Iowa, Brett Bowers' secretary had called her and
invited her to audition for the part of Melanie Charles. She hadn't
slept with Brett, of course. Not once. She wasn't that kind of girl.
He'd asked her to audition for the part because his daughter, Sandra,
had been served by her in one of the restaurants in which Stella had
waited tables, and Sandra had been impressed with Stella's poise,
charm, and beauty. Long one to trust his daughter's instincts, Brett
had had his secretary invite Stella to try out for the part. The
audition hadn't called for nudity, and no one had mentioned the
requirement that she strip naked to perform her love scenes with
Robert. The contract had mentioned the requirement, of course; however,
as Howard pointed out every time she asked to be allowed to wear at
least a pair of panties or to use a body double instead of exposing
herself. She should have read the damned document before she'd signed
it, but she'd been so excited to get the part that she'd signed
immediately. Now, it was too late. She had no alternative but to follow
through.
Stella stood beside the bed. She wore a thin silk robe. Robert sat on
the bed, naked. She shivered, not because she was cold but because she
was dreadfully nervous. In a moment, she would also be naked. She
gulped. Her secret would be out, for all to see.
"Lights!" Howard cried. Robert sat up straight on the bed.
Stella's heart fluttered in her breast. The moment had come at last.
"Camera!" the director ordered. Robert squared his shoulders. His deep,
chiseled chest stood out, tan and muscular.
Stella felt gooseflesh rise along her arms and on the nape of her neck,
and her nipples poked against the thin silk of the robe that, in less
than a second, she would doff.
"Action!" Howard commanded.
Robert's head turned toward his leading lady.
Stella let the robe fall to the carpeted floor. My future's over, she
thought miserably, even before it starts!
The scene went as horribly as Stella had anticipated it would go.
Robert stared at her crotch as his mouth gaped. The rest of the crew
wore the same shocked, horrified expressions on their faces--all of
them, that is, except Howard. The director grinned. To look upon her
moment of ruin with such obvious delight confirmed her suspicion that
Howard, for some reason, detested her. Why else would he have taken
such pleasure in the ruin of her career?
"My God!" the cameraman cried. Then, calling to Howard, he asked,
"Should I cut?"
"No!" the director ordered. "Keep filming!"
"But, Howard," the cameraman argued, "she's not a she! Stella, your
star, the leading lady is a man!"
"Don't you think I can see that?" Howard demanded. "She has a bigger
prick than mine."
"You want to keep filming?"
"Yes, damn it!"
"Hey, I'm not kissing some chick with a dick," Robert protested. With a
glance at his leading lady, he'd added, "Nothing personal."
"You will damned well follow the script," Howard told him. "The script
says you kiss her, you kiss her; the script says you fondle her, you
fondle her; the script says you simulate sex with her, you simulate sex
with her."
"She's not a 'her,' damn it, Howard!" Robert protested.
They argued back and forth until Robert stormed off the set and out of
the studio. There was no way, he declared, that he was going to perform
any more love scenes with a transsexual than the one he'd already shot.
That's how it had ended. Remembering the ordeal as she sobbed at the
table in her dressing room, Stella wished, for the hundred-thousandth
time, that she'd been born a woman. If only she'd been born with a cunt
instead of a cock and a pair of balls--
Her introspection was interrupted by the sharp rap at her door.
"Who is it?" she demanded, not wanting to see or speak to anyone, ever
again.
"Howard."
"What do you want?" she cried.
"May I come in?"
"You can go to hell!"
"Please, Stella. Just for a moment."
The wannabe-used-to-be star shrugged, sneering at the reflection of the
beautiful face in the huge mirror behind her dressing table. She may as
well hear whatever the bastard had to say.
She rose, trudged to the door, and admitted the director.
"You've been crying," he noted.
"Wouldn't you?"
"I'd be laughing," Howard said.
"Why do you hate me?"
"Hate you?" The director seemed genuinely surprised, even astonished,
by her question. "I don't hate you."
Stella didn't look convinced.
"On the contrary, I love you."
"Okay, what's the joke?"
"Brett Bowers is the joke," Howard said. "He insists on casting his own
movies, based on what his daughter says or his wife or the plumber or a
woman in the produce section at the local supermarket or a dream he has
after too many martinis. Then, I - or some other director - has to live
with his choice. Our reputation is on the line, but he won't let us
cast the leads in his movies. Fortunately, in your case, you can act,
at least."
"Why do you agree to direct his movies if you resent his casting the
leads?"
"Why? I'm desperate."
"You?" Stella's tone clearly suggested that she found his statement
difficult to believe. "Among directors, you're one of Hollywood's
living legends, right up there with Hitchcock and--"
"Even Hitchcock would have had to start making schlock and trash if
he'd lived past his prime." He smiled at Stella. "But, at least, this
time, the bastard has gotten his comeuppance! Imagine, making a
romantic comedy in which the leading lady is a man!"
"I'm not a man," Stella protested.
"A transsexual, then." Howard rubbed his hands together, as if washing
them. "It serves him right!"
There was another knock at the door.
"Come in," Stella called, resigned to surrendering her privacy just as
she'd surrendered her dignity.
Pete Horn, the assistant director, stepped into the room. "Sorry to
interrupt," he said, looking at Howard and avoiding eye contact with
the transsexual.
"What is it?"
"Mr. Bowers called. He's heard the news."
Howard grinned. "What did the son of a bitch say?"
Pete gulped. "He likes it."
"Likes what?"
"The fact that--" Pete cast a nervous glance in Stella's direction--
"she's a he."
Howard's face fell. "What? How could he like something like that?"
"He says the transsexual twist is perfect for a romantic comedy. It
gives the genre a new spin, maybe even a whole new direction, he says."
Howard looked faint.
"He wants us to continue, right away. He wants the movie released in
time for Valentine's Day."
"He wants to release it?" Howard repeated, trying to understand. "With
her as the leading lady?"
"Exactly." Pete darted a glance at Stella. "Congratulations. You're
going to be a star!"
Cathalina
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