Risen Star Political Intrigue
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Risen Star - Back To The Fuchsia free porn video
The scene, as so often before, is my agent’s office. Flick (Felicity) Caterham has summoned me to an audience. I know, I know; I am the client, she the paid agent but with Flick those lines are not blurred, they are totally removed.
It’s 11 am. I enter the office and face Flick’s new assistant, Portia. Portia is typical of Flick’s employees; female, gorgeous, intelligent and right out of the top drawer.
“You must be Miss Millerton?”
“I must.”
She smiled. “Felicity is expecting you, would you go through?”
“What’s your name?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m Portia.”
“Nice to meet you. If you open that cupboard behind you, you will find a chilled bottle of fizz and a couple of glasses. Would you do the honours?”
“It’s 11 o’clock!”
“It is and it will wind Flick up so, please.” I gave her my famous winning smile.
A voice, pure crystal, from the inner office. “Do as she says, P, she cant function without alcohol and I need her at her best.” So, that didn’t work.
I made my way into her office and she pointed at the chair. “No kiss, this time?”
“I,” she said imperiously, “have, as always, been working tirelessly on your behalf. I have two things to discuss.”
“I’m fine, thanks. I hope you are too.”
“Good. Now, the first thing is that Alan Dormer is doing what is described as a ‘period romp.’” She said the words as if they were dirty toilet paper. “Which, being interpreted, means a ‘Carry On’ style movie in drag. It pays well and you get to be a highwayman.”
“Woman, surely, last time I checked?”
“It’s a remake of the ‘Wicked Lady.”
“No.”
“It pays well.”
“No. You know about me and horses. I don’t have to ride a half ton of highly powerful, incredibly stupid meat to earn money.”
“Then we turn to the second option.” She raised her voice. “Portia, where’s that fucking Champagne?” She lowered it again. “The second option may be seen as a tad beneath an actress of your standing.”
“Don’t take the piss.”
She carried on as if I had said nothing, “But, for reasons I will explain, I think it would be good.” The Champagne arrived, ready poured and we did the cheers bit then she continued as, distractingly, Portia took a seat and revealed far too much heavenly thigh for it to be good for me. “Do you remember Millicent Graham?” I nodded. How could I not. One of the most aggressive dykes I ever met. Not for her the ‘no fucking the hired help’ thing. “Well, she’s been fired from the Digby Theatre and has set up on her own. It’s called the Flotsam Theatre in Dorset.” She raised a hand to stifle my protest. “I know you are West End but provincial theatre is definitely on the up and if you invest a bit of effort now you could do yourself no harm at all.”
I have never been part of the Metropolitan elite. I am a country girl and love England’s rolling terrain, but theatre in the styx? I remembered touring with ‘Dole Queue’ all those years ago and performing in scout huts and village halls and shitty pubs. The audiences were usually made up of elderly matrons and sometimes we could barely be heard over the coughing, snoring and the clicking of knitting needles.
“What does she want?”
“A ‘star turn’ to be female lead in two plays she has penned herself.”
She tossed a well-thumbed script across to me. The title page said, ‘Being Apart.’ Beneath that was typed ‘Being gay in 1940.’ “Oh, Flick. No, no, surely not. For one I don’t want to be cast as gay and for two she’ll probably spend most of the time with her hand up my skirt.”
“Then wear trousers. It’s good. It’s actually very, very good. Isn’t it Portia?”
Portia’s voice was cut from the same lead crystal as Flick’s. “Fucking brilliant, I’d say.”
“And Portia has a double first in English. From Oxford.”
“Isn’t Cambridge better?”
“I got my MA there.” That told me. Why oh why do I always seem to lose the verbal joust? “The other play is still being written but is, apparently, a modern take on Faust.”
“Cheery soul, isn’t she?”
“Two plays, each running for a month with a gap of a month between them. You get to stay in the country, see Lilly,” her sister and my absolute best friend, “and get some great headlines. I’ve asked Laura Whitfield to do a piece about it and you.” Whitfield was a noted critic and columnist and highly regarded.
“Money?”
“Probably.”
The theatre wasn’t that far from my country home. I’d bought it when a film I had made earned me a fortune and my accountant advised me to spend some. The house was deep in the Somerset country, surrounded by about one hundred acres most of which was rented out to local farmers. I’d kept enough land to remain remote. That was looked after by Hamish McAlister, a former Royal Marine who, when I was in situ doubled as my driver and minder. His wife, Heather, was my housekeeper and cook. She also managed the gardens with help, if need be, from local gardeners. The proximity of the theatre to my home and the chance to do something different seduced me and I agreed.
Hamish collected me from the station. He’d have driven to London to collect me but sometimes I loved the train; especially dining in the excellent Great Western Railway restaurant en-route. A simple luxury. We drove the few miles in the Merc and Hamish brought me up to date with matters estate. It was eleven in the evening when I finally got indoors and Heather was there to greet me and fuss over my bags.
“It’s lovely you’ll be with us for a while, Miss.”
“It is for me too, Heather but, if you call me Miss one more time, I will fire you and hire someone who is prepared to call me Faye. Now, please, both of you have a glass of whisky with me and tell me more.”
We sat convivially in the drawing room, glasses of a fine malt beside us and chatted about the estate, the farmers, the gardens, Lilly and local goings on. Goings on were not much but included a fete, a garden party and a delicious scandal involving the postmaster and the local Guide leader who had been caught in flagrante in the village hall by the vicar. He was incensed but not, apparently, by the fact that the Guide was blowing the postie but by the fact she’d been blowing him only a few hours before. Disgrace all round: sort of Jane Austen with sex. If only Jane Austen had written at least some sex but, well, there you go.
The following morning, I woke up to hear unknown voices in my garden. I looked out of my window and saw two women in dungarees and wellingtons being industrious. The was a van with ‘Back to the Fuchsia’ inscribed on its side. I pulled on a dressing gown and made my way downstairs.
“Good morning, Miss, er, Faye. Will you take tea or coffee?”
“Tea please, Heather. Who are the women?”
“Oh, they’re doing some of the heavy work in the garden. They’re really good and work hard. Nadine, she’s the tall one, and Shirley.” She almost whispered, “They’re an item, if you get my meaning.” That, I have to admit, was a bit of a pity because the taller of the two was right up my street but, hell, that would have played like a porn film.
I spent a happy hour walking through the quieter lanes that criss-crossed my ‘estate’ (how pretentious is that?), then called Lilly. No point talking to her before 11.
“Faye, darling, how wonderful. Right, now I know you’re definitely here, we will have a party.”
“My turn, surely.”
“Not at all. I want to show you off, people seem to think you’ve forgotten me.” As if. “I’ve got plans for one anyway. I’ll hire a fuck-off great marquee and we’ll have a ball, literally. Have you heard about the vicar?” She didn’t wait to find out if I had. “God, how I love a scandal and that sanctimonious bastard deserved all he got; except the blow job of course. Great to see a church organ in action though, I’d imagine. Anyway, come over.”
A few days later, Hamish drove me to the theatre where I met Millie Graham. Predictably, the first thing she did was kiss me full on the lips and put her hand on the arse of seldom-worn jeans. I’d discovered in the past, the best way to get her to stop trying to have her evil way was to engage in deep and meaningful conversation about the work she’d written or was directing or, as in this case, both.
Portia had been right, the script was brilliant and deft, and it highlighted, subtly, the travails of a lesbian in the early years of the war. Did, she had wondered, the absence of so many men mean that women turned to each other for solace and sexual satisfaction; how might one woman broach that with another? I played a natural lesbian rather than what Millie called the ‘war-time volunteers,’ and her research had revealed to her that most of those ‘volunteers’ did not want to engage with the natural variety of dyke because they feared being drawn into what they perceived as the perverse underworld of lesbianism. There wasn’t much actual sex, rather it was a clever, wordy piece with undertones and the odd kiss here and there. There were also a couple of scenes of injured men-folk returning from the war, incapable of sex and the boiling resentment that did so much harm to families and marriages. It was absolutely beautifully done and I was delighted to be doing it.
We were going to rehearse for a week or so before the grand opening of her theatre and I was able to commute. I also had a week or two before the rehearsals started so the cast could learn the lines. My eidetic memory meant that, for me, that two weeks was very much a holiday. I walked every day, mostly in my own grounds. It was Friday, the afternoon of Lilly’s ball when I arrived at the small barn where the gardeners kept their van and tools, to find Nadine, the taller party, sitting on a canvas chair, the bib of her dungarees unclipped and lowered, revealing large, unfettered breasts under a dowdy, sweat-stained t shirt with proud nipples pointing pretty much at me. Her hair was covered in a tightly wound silk scarf. She was drinking from an enamel mug, a vacuum flask at her feet.
“I’m Faye.” She stood, politely. “No need for that,” I smiled. “Enjoy your well-deserved rest.”
“Would you like a cup? It’s black no sugar I’m afraid.”
“I’d love one, thank you.” She found another chair from the depths of the barn and we sat in the shade and chatted. She was well-spoken and, I discovered, the product of a school rather like mine. She’d been in the City, a high-flyer, made a fortune and decided, aged 35, to chuck it in and do something she loved, to wit, gardening.
“It’s physical, rewarding and pays enough,” she told me. “You’re an actress?”
“I am.”
“Successful I’d guess from this place?” Sometimes it’s nice when people don’t recognise you.
“Yes, I’ve been very lucky. You have to be in my game. Where’s your colleague, er…”
“Shirley?” I nodded as I took a sip of the hot, rich coffee. “She’s at home. Her husband’s away and one of her kids is poorly.” I must have looked a bit surprised. “Ah, Heather has been briefing you,” she smiled. “She caught us snogging in the barn. Shirley kicks both ways, I don’t.”
I didn’t pursue the point, but we continued chatting for a while and then I walked back to the house to get myself ready for Lilly’s party.
Hamish drove me and I said I’d get a cab home and he could go to bed. Lilly’s parties have always been legendary, and I once met a very beautiful Indian doctor at one and had stayed the night with her. It had led on to a pleasant affair, terminated when she returned to India to do good work there. I knew Lilly liked me to turn up looking like a star. She wasn’t in any sense boastful of our friendship, rather she just loved glamour. I decided, however, I was going to a country party and I could do without making myself look like a Hollywood stereotype, so I chose a very simple but, to my mind elegant, black silk sheath that came to my ankles. It was warm so I wore loose, silk knickers (my favourites anyway) and black sandals.
Hamish dropped me off and Lilly met me at the open door. She’d acquired her large house following a nasty divorce which, she always claimed she had thoroughly enjoyed. Her ex-husband was a very wealthy businessman and her allowance alone would have made her rich. The house was a bonus. There was a band playing in the garden and a groaning table in the large dining room from which double French doors led out onto the terrace.
“Who’s your target tonight, Lil?”
“Funny you should ask. Do you know Christian Mellors?” Who didn’t? A famous barrister, a Queen’s Counsel in fact, and the scourge of newspapers who make unsubstantiated claims about the rich and famous. “He has recently come back on the market following a deliciously salacious divorce from his wife.” She, the wife, was a strident politician and had, I remembered, been caught up in a scandal involving, first, her expenses and, second, a wonderfully grimy liaison with a Russian oligarch. “I say he’s back on the market, but, as you know, I am not looking to buy. I might, however, enjoy a test run.” Lilly had the morals of an alley cat. She spoke at her usual rapid pace which matched her step as, arm in arm, we made our way through the throng. “Grab yourself a drop of something and mingle. My guests will simply love brushing with stardom. Oh, and check out the woman in the jump suit,” she pointed to a tall woman who wore a dark blue, beautifully cut one piece with wide legs. I could only see her back and a mane of glossy, black hair that formed a cape on her shoulders. I could but admire her shape though. “She’s called Nadine, made a packet in the city and moved here to indulge her love of all things horticultural. Word is…”
“That she’s gay?”
“How did you know?”
“Well, for one, you are the most transparent match maker in the world and for another she is working in my garden and Mrs H is a lover of tittle tattle, so I got the full briefing, with minor inaccuracies, from her.”
Lilly did a mock tut. “I do so hate people knowing my gossip before I tell them.” She kissed my cheek. “Have fun, darling.”
I always try to enjoy people recognising me. It is, after all a part of making it in my job and, if people approach me, I like to be grateful and not, like some of my colleagues, forgetful of those who actually pay our wages. Lilly’s guests were mainly rich, but not the local great and good. No politicians, no worthies, just decent, fun people with a bit of cash. Now, I know you want to know so, yes, I did make my way through the crowd to where Nadine had been, but she’d disappeared, damn it. I got embroiled with a couple of local farmers, one of whom rented land from me and they were nice. Then I caught a glimpse of her and thought, wow, like you do. People were lovely and kept engaging with me and it was hard to get away but, after a while I broke free and went out onto the terrace to listen to the band and enjoy some air.
“Hello, Faye.”
I turned. “Hello, Nadine. I had no idea you knew Lilly.”
“She’s been lovely since I moved down. My house is only a few hundred yards down the road and in this village everyone knows everyone. I’m told her parties are the stuff of fantasy.”
“Lilly is immoderate, generous, charming, an inveterate match maker and my oldest friend. We were at school together.”
“I love your dress.”
“I love your jump suit.” We talked about everything from Heather McAlister to filming in Russia to leaving London to work here in darkest Somerset. “Why ‘Back to the Fuchsia’?”
Nadine smiled. “Because that was what it was. I left London and came back to gardening that I’d loved as a child and, yes it’s a bit of a pun but also people remember it and they smile so….”
I took her hand and examined it. Hard, nails short, callouses, beautiful. Her hand closed around mine. With her free hand, Nadine lifted my chin. “Why don’t you come and have a brandy or something at my place. You can sleep it off and I’ll take you home in the morning.” She obviously thought of something. “Or is Hamish coming to get you?”
We walked the few hundred yards to her home. It was part of a terrace of houses with the Post Office forming one end and the pub the other. The villages two lampposts stood outside the pub and Post Office and, but for the moon, most of our journey would have been in total darkness. Nadine led me up the stairs.
“I thought we were having brandy.”
“Do you want one?” I shook my head. Halfway up the flight of stairs she stopped and said, “Lift you arms.” I did and she took the tiny straps of my dress and swiftly lifted it off me, smiled, then continued up the stairs. On the landing she draped my dress carefully over the banisters then led me into her bedroom, a large room with windows on both sides. “Would you draw the curtains?” When I had she was naked. The quarter light in the room, as I turned, made her skin seem whiter than it really was, her black hair was part of the night except where a thick, untamed black triangle seemed to emphasis her crotch. Was that me taking a deep intake of breath? Her breasts seemed smaller but her nipples, pointing directly at me, seemed darker She offered me her arms and I walked to her and fell into her embrace. She kissed me, softly, then held me, then kissed me again. Her hand went to my breast as mine explored the firm muscles of her back. She rolled my nipple between her fingers.I kissed her neck. Her pubic triangle pressed against my thigh. I leant down to kiss her nipple then looked up and our mouths met again. I felt her hand run from my breast, over my belly and down into the diaphanous knickers where she touched me, hesitantly. I watched her eyes as she watched mine, and her finger stroked between my lips then into me, deeper, it seemed, than I had ever been penetrated before. I must have groaned because she kissed me then said, “I can taste your want.”
I wrapped my arms around her, my chin on her shoulder, and revelled in the sensations as her finger, then another worked inside me and her thumb worked my clit. The pleasure inside and the pleasure outside became one and I shuddered as an orgasm, a tiny, delicate orgasm rippled through me. She held me tight and guided me onto and into the bed and her thigh went between my legs making mine between hers and, as we kissed and kissed and kissed so our hips rocked. There was no undue pressure. Our cunts almost nuzzled against our thighs until I felt myself tightening and I knew she was too. We clung to each other and that was when, with soft, gentle sighs, we both climaxed together or as close as together as makes no difference. We didn’t stop. It was like we’d found our rhythm and, disengaging a bit, she guided my hand down to her cunt and, when she was satisfied I was deep enough inside her, her lovely, long finger was back inside me and we didn’t kiss we just watched each other’s eyes as, slowly, gently we stroked inside. I said, “Fuck,” and she smiled and curled her finger so I copied her and, a few moments later we both came, not so closely together this time.
She went down on me, her copious black hair like a sheet of silk running sensually over my body. Her hand reached up to my nipple and her tongue lapped at me. I suddenly, ridiculously, wondered where, when my knickers had gone. Then I decided I wanted, needed to taste her so I fought her off and went he same journey that she had taken and lt my own hair brush her as I finally got to taste her. I swear she tasted of earth and forest floor and lemon. Her knees lifted, her pelvis pushed up at me, her thighs tightened around my ears and she let out a tight groan of pleasure and I knew she was cumming. It was harder than before, she was writhing, squirming as if she couldn’t let it out until she let out another, louder groan and that was it.
No more words, no more energy. We slept, our bodies linked, sweat drying on us and we slept.
“Christ,” she said, “it’s 11 o’clock”
I was half awake and murmured, “It’s Saturday, silly.”
“Some of us have to work on Saturdays,” she said getting out of bed and moving to what I assumed was her bathroom.
“Where are you working?”
She poked her head around the bathroom door. “Your place.”
“Then I give you the morning off. Come back to bed.”
Later, dressed for work, she drove me in her filthy van to my house. Heather made us both coffee. “Nice party, was it
“Perfect,” I said.
“The best,” said Nadine.
She went off to work in the garden and I stood in my drawing room and watched her in the distance, squatting, contemplating some recalcitrant plant, her hair hidden under that scarf and I started to cry, tears running down my face, slowly at first.
“Oh, Faye, whatever is the matter?”
Heather came to me, took me in her arms and the tears were like thunder raindrops, large and plopped onto her white blouse’s shoulder and I started to sob, to sob like a child; great racking sobs that made my belly ripple and she held me and stroked my hair.
“What’s wrong?” Hamish’s voice.
“Leave us alone, you old fool.”
I vaguely heard the door shut.
Heather held me at arms-length, her hands holding my cheeks, her thumbs wiping away the tears. “She probably does too.”
“Does what, Heather.”
“Love you, silly girl.” Then she held me as I wept again until there were no tears left.
“Why didn’t she say so?”
“Did you?” I shook my head. “Well, you’d better go and do it now, hadn’t you?
Mhairi
- 06.05.2020
- 19
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- Category:
- Lesbian
