The Comeback

by

Steve Fitzsimmons

GENERAL HANDYMAN required for property eight miles north of Bath. Previous experience preferred. Knowledge of gardening an advantage. £100.00 per week. Live in. REF G171.

Well, I thought, it's better than the dole, and ever since Mel had gone, the flat wasn't much of a place to live in. Too full of memories. Even the wallpaper made me feel like crying whenever I looked at it: not because of the pattern, but because she had chosen it. Every time I saw the pagodas and the little men pulling their rickshaws and the Oriental women smiling shyly behind their coloured fans, it reminded me of her. She'd never been to Asia, and neither had I, but we were planning to go to Thailand for a holiday when I eventually got a job and had some money put by.

Evidently The Call Of The North was stronger than The Call Of The East because she packed her bags and ran back to her scumbag of an ex in Bradford. It wasn't the end of the world but it was the end of mine.

The Job Centre clerk was a pleasant woman in her late forties; she knew my face well enough because I was in there at least three times a week. There weren't many vacancies for my skills but I still made the effort. The only time that a job came up and I dashed excitedly to the desk, I was told that the position had been taken that morning. That was while I was signing on at the main office. Wouldn't you believe it …

She smiled and asked me to take a seat. "Which job are you interested in?"

I told her: "General Handyman, Ref G171."

"OK - let me see." She flipped through her cards. "Oh, yes, here we are. You do have the experience, don't you?"

I assured her that I had. "Qualified tree surgeon, twelve months on a building site and pretty handy at interior decorating." And Oriental wallpapering, but I didn't say that..

"Well, that seems to fit the bill. It's a five-acre property halfway between here and Bristol. The employer is a Miss Arden.

Would you like me to arrange an interview?"

She took my name and picked up the telephone. I fiddled with a rolled-up bus ticket as she waited for a reply.

"Miss Arden? Good morning, this is Mrs Collins from the Job Centre; we have a young man interested in the position. Is it still open?"

It was. Mrs Collins wrote something on a piece of paper as she listened. She put the phone down. "There we go, Mr Hart; this is the address. She says that you may come at any time as long as it's no earlier than eleven a.m."

"Thank you very much," I said.

"It's a pleasure. Good luck."

I borrowed a car and drove to Pinewood House. It wasn't signposted so I had to follow the directions from the piece of paper that Mrs Collins had given me. First right past The Golden Fleece and take the track for a mile. Use the intercom system when you get to the gate.

The Golden Fleece was easy enough to find; I'd been there a couple of times with Mel. The track was pretty rough with plenty of deep puddles; it had been raining for two days and it was still raining now. It was only a car-width wide so I hoped that I wouldn't meet anything coming the other way. I didn't but I nearly got bogged down twice. After twenty minutes or so, Pinewood House appeared behind a diamond-mesh fence that was about twelve feet high and it looked very much as if the single wire strands between the tops of the posts were electrified. Sangatte looked easier to climb, but that's not saying much.

There was an automatic sliding gate between two stone pillars. Each one had a carved eagle on it; they were looking at each other with stony eyes. Miss Arden wasn't short of cash, by the look of it. I had to get out of the car to use the intercom. Nothing happened when I pressed the button. I pressed it again.

"Yes."

I nearly jumped back; it was that loud. "Er, good afternoon. It's Peter Hart, about the job."

The gate slid back without another word from the speaker. Miss Arden might have been wealthy but she wasn't much of a one for talking. The house was another two hundred yards ahead, between two ranks of privet animals. There were peacocks and elephants and camels and all sorts of other exotic green things.

At the very end were two lions, one on either side of the gravel drive. They were well shaped, but needed trimming, like the others. The lawn that stretched out in front of the house was about six inches deep and dandelions sprouted from it like yellow acne.

The house was one of those Edwardian affairs: two floors of grey stone, loads of windows and a flat roof. A woman in a long blue skirt and white cotton blouse was waiting under the porch.

I pulled up beside her and got out. She was nothing like I imagined her to be, especially after the short conversation on the intercom. It was difficult to say how old she was, maybe around sixty. You can't tell with elegant women; at least not with their clothes on. She had one of those finely chiselled faces with high cheekbones and a perfectly straight nose.

Despite the crow's feet around her eyes and a few wrinkles, she was still attractive, and her hair, which was mostly hidden under a floppy sun hat, was a deep copper, obviously dyed.

She still had a good figure and looked annoyingly familiar; like seeing the barmaid from your regular in the street and not being able to recognise her.

"Come in out of the rain before you get drenched." Her voice was familiar as well, a little husky, as if she was getting over a cold.

There were two steps leading up to the porch. "Hello, Miss Arden. I've come about the job."

"Yes, I know. Do come inside; let me take your coat." She grabbed my elbow and almost dragged me into the hallway. I looked around. The paintwork was faded and peeling and a sheet of wallpaper was in the slow process of unrolling itself from the wall. There were cobwebs in the corners and on the cornices and the net curtains that covered the small windows on either side of the door were yellowed as if somebody had pissed on them. The place was a mess.

She tugged at my sleeve. "Let me take your coat," she said again.

What was this thing about coats? I wasn't hot and I wasn't even slightly damp. I took it off anyway and gave it to her. She looked me up and down and hung it on an empty coat rail.

"Yes, you look very suitable, Mr Hart, or may I call you Peter?

Some of the applicants have been very unsuitable. I can see that you know how to look after your body."

Well, she obviously couldn't see very far. She wouldn't have said that if she knew what I'd been living on for the last couple of months. Dole money doesn't go very far, especially when you spend half of it on Milk of Amnesia.

"Your body is a temple," I said, thinking of the one Indiana Jones was looking for. You can't beat clichés when you can't come up with a good answer.

"How very sweet of you to say that," she replied, "Thank you."
What the hell was she talking about?

"Let me show you over the house," she continued," and you can tell me all about yourself."

So I told her all about myself as she led me through her mildly decaying house.

"The hallway lights don't work, do you think it might be the switch? - it's a bit wobbly. You're not married, are you?"

I pushed it. It was very wobbly. "No. I was engaged once, but it didn't work out."

"This is the sitting room. Where are your parents?"

It was in a worse state than the hallway and the floorboards creaked ominously as we walked on them. "They're divorced.

My mother's in Jersey and I don't know where my father is. I haven't seen him for years."

"The windows stick shut when it rains. Look - they're solid. Where do you live?"

"That's easy to fix. I've got a flat in Batheaston; it's only rented."

She dragged me into the library. "Look at the wallpaper - I've had to hold it up with nails. It's so damp in here, you see. I do so hate to have mouldy books - the pages stick together. Do you have a girlfriend?"

"No. Not any more. She was the one that I was engaged to.

That plaster will have to come down."

"Such a shame for you."

The 'no girlfriend' or the plaster?

"Do you think that you could possibly fix this door handle? The door slams when the wind gets up. There's a draught from somewhere. You have a car, I see."

"Perhaps the broken window's got something to do with it. It's not my car; I borrowed it for the day."

"Come and see my favourite room. I daren't light the fire; the whole house fills with smoke. Do you have relatives in Bath?"

"Maybe the chimney's blocked. No, but I've got a sister in France." She bulldozed me along the passageway and into the favourite room.

"Do you know how to sweep them - it makes a dreadful mess, doesn't it?"

But I couldn't answer her. It was like a museum exhibition. The room was about thirty feet by twenty and lit by electric chandeliers. The walls were panelled in dark oak, by the look of it, and hundreds of framed photographs were hanging from lines of picture rails. I looked at them as she chattered away. Some were large, some were small, some were in colour but most of them were black and white. A younger version of Miss Arden was in every single one.

She was sitting at a glittering table with David Niven and Diana Dors, standing next to Gregory Peck outside a hotel foyer, lounging beside a pool with James Dean and Marlon Brando, on horseback with Clark Gable and sipping cocktails on a yacht with Spencer Tracy. Everywhere I looked there was Miss Arden in the company of film stars. I recognised Marlene Dietrich and John Wayne and that swashbuckler who was supposed to have had a twelve-inch dibber. All of Hollywood seemed to be in Miss Arden's favourite room. Then it clicked - it wasn't Miss Arden I was standing next to, it was Beckah Corman!

No wonder she'd seemed familiar.

I hadn't even been born when she was in her heyday, and I hadn't seen many of her films, but everyone had known of her once: - Britain's answer to Sophia Loren. I couldn't remember when she'd faded from the limelight. Was it round about the early seventies? She'd re-appeared about the same time as the Gulf War, even sleeker and more glamorous than before and that was it, except for the odd TV role and guest appearance on the Parkinson and Terry Wogan chat shows. And now I was standing next to her, talking about chimneys.

She obviously saw the look of astonishment plastered all over my face.

"Just imagine the trouble I'd have with my fans if they knew that Beckah Corman lived here," she said, "So for the present, I'm Miss Arden. I hope that I can count on your discretion, Peter?"

Yes, I assured her, I would be very discreet, although I suspected that she was slightly overestimating her popularity in the new millennium.

"Good," she said, "You won't get soot all over my awards, will you?"

There was a full-width cabinet at the far end of the room. I was still getting over the shock of meeting a film legend as she showed me the Oscars that she'd won for Eternal Dawn and The Tide Runs True. She blew a coat of dust from her 1973 Emmy Award for The Halls of Parnassus.

I asked her if she missed the screen.

"No, Peter; I can go back whenever I wish. Let me show you the upstairs. Don't lean on the banisters, if you can help it."

There weren't any banisters in places, and there weren't any carpets on the floor below to absorb the shock of a falling body, either. I trod carefully but Miss Arden knew exactly where to put her feet. I nearly put one of mine in the wrong place.

"The house needs a lot of work; you must have gotten it for a song."

"What do you mean - a song? It cost me almost a million, ten years ago."

Oops. I followed her along the passageway. There were twelve doors: six on either side. They were all painted blue, except for the first one, which was red. She didn't show me that one.

"This is my bedroom. The radiator makes an appalling

knocking noise. Sometimes I can hardly sleep."

"That's just air in the system; there's a bleed point on the side."

So this was a film star's boudoir … There were more pictures of her with Hollywood big-shots and location souvenirs all over the place: Inca masks, Roman swords, stuffed crocodiles and that sort of thing. Her bed was one of those four-poster jobs with net sides and tied-back crimson curtains. The room had a warm feminine smell, a mixture of talcum powder, perfume and expensive soap; a bit like the Boots cosmetic department.

A huge black cat was asleep on the floor.

"Borgia," she said, "He's nearly fifteen."

The other rooms were pretty decrepit; one of them had a hole in the floor big enough to drop a sheep through.

"Woodworm," she said.

Pretty big woodworm. "You'll need to replace the floor. Maybe the joists are rotten, as well."

She took my arm and steered me back into the passage. "Oh, Peter, you are full of bad news, shall we look at your quarters?" We passed the red door on the way back. "My favourite colour," she said, and left it at that.

'My' quarters were downstairs, just off the pantry. "There, what do you think?" she breezed, as she opened the door.

It was almost as big as my entire flat in Batheaston. There was a threadbare carpet on the stone floor and a fireplace that must have been at least five feet wide. A double bed, two wardrobes and a chest of drawers occupied one side of the room and a ratty three-piece-suite faced the hearth. A couple of chairs and a table did their best to fill up the rest of the space.

"The bathroom's through the curtain," she said, pointing to a heavy red drape.

Well, it all seemed a bit basic but there was nothing that a television and some music couldn't fix.

"Greta does the cooking and cleaning," she said, absent-mindedly, "It's her day off. She's been with me for years."
Pinewood House must have had long days; the whole place was gross.

"When can you start?" she said.

How far would four hundred pounds a month go? A lot further than my dole money. The letters from the bank were getting more insistent, too.

So I found myself saying: "On Monday, if that's all right."

***

She'd given me the money to hire a Transit to move my belongings. The landlord didn't seem sorry to see me go, and I wasn't sorry to go, either. I wouldn't have to look at the Mysterious East any more. He kept the deposit because I hadn't given him a month's notice. Cheeky bastard; I knew that he had someone ready to move into just as soon as he had my key.

The van pulled away from Pinewood House and splashed its way back towards Bath. I heard the gate grind shut behind it. Greta helped me move my stuff into the butler's quarters.
She was fifty-ish, as round and heavy-looking as a medicine ball and spoke in some peculiar Central European accent.

"Zer Mizz is in bed. I am azziztink you."

We didn't say a lot as we lugged my gear into the room, which suited me fine, as I could only understand about one word in three. She wandered off to her nebulous duties and left me to unpack. It didn't take long; I was through in an hour.

I rooted around in the outhouse and found some tools in a swish-looking box. They were good quality, as well. I made a start. It seemed as if the previous handyman got bored easily; a lot of jobs had been started and left half-finished. One of the bathrooms had been completely papered in pink anaglypta except for the bit above the door.

Miss Arden appeared just before twelve as I was repairing the library door handle. A little bit of oil works wonders.

"Ah, Peter, good morning. I see that you're keeping yourself busy." She was wearing a silk dressing gown with tri-podded cine cameras on it.

There was enough to keep me busy for six months. "Hello, Miss Arden. I thought that I'd start with the easy stuff. I've put some hardboard over the broken window for the time being."

"My, my. I think that we're going to get along very well. Well, don't let me stop you." She drifted away without another word.
I was feeling pretty shagged by the time Greta called me for lunch. I wasn't used to eating at four o'clock and I wasn't used to goulash, either. I watched her as she poured some kind of yoghurt over the lumps of meat and beetroot.

"I've never eaten it like this before," I said, as we sat in the kitchen.

"And you vill not be eatink anythink like it again if you are leavink any," she said, darkly.

Anyway, it tasted fine, despite the sour yoghurt, the sour beetroot and the sour cook. I asked her where Miss Arden was.

"Zer Mizz is eatink up the stairs." She pointed to the dumb waiter. I reckoned that it was better company than she would ever be.

I worked on until about seven and went to my room. There was no sign of Miss Arden. There wasn't a television aerial point so that put the clappers on that. I put the TV back into its box and plugged in the stereo. I didn't think that Greta or Miss Arden would appreciate Nirvana at any volume so I put the headphones on and stretched out on the bed. 'R-a-a-a-ape me,' screeched Kurt Cobain. That got me to thinking about sex. I hadn't had a screw since Mel had buggered off. Nearly three months. It depressed me, so I stuck my head inside the fireplace and had a spliff: best not to advertise the fact that I enjoyed the odd spell of mental erasure.

The bed wasn't too bad and the pillows were like giant marshmallows; the next thing I knew, it was six o'clock. The alarm clock emphasised it. I had a bath. It was almost big enough to do a length in and the rim came up to my shoulders. The Edwardians certainly did things in style.

Greta was busy in the kitchen. She grunted and slammed a plate down onto the table: I half-expected boiled boar's trotters and steaming bear's tripe but it was bacon and eggs. That was a relief; the nearest McDonalds was eight miles away.

"Zer Mizz say zer things come today for you."

Zer things turned out to be a couple of hundredweight of sand, bricks and cement, followed by a van-load of planks and beams. A pick-up arrived with twenty litres of paint and enough wallpaper to do the house, inside and out. I got stuck in.

I didn't see much of Miss Arden over the next few days; she would occasionally watch me as I replaced floorboards, unstuck windows and patched plaster. I did one room at a time and it wasn't long before the place started to look better. Once, she felt my shoulders as I was mixing a load of cement. The sun was out for a quick visit and I was down to jeans and trainers.

"You're a very strong young man, aren't you, Peter?"

Well, I could quite easily lift a pint. "It's the exercise, Miss Arden. Builds the muscles."

"Yes, you certainly work very hard. You must take the weekend off; I don't want you to overtax yourself. Do you want to go to Bath, I can get Greta to drive you?"

What was the point - I had nowhere to go and no money until I got paid. It was a bit early to start asking for advances. "No, I think that I'll stay here. I've got some books and my computer to keep me occupied."

"As you wish, Peter. Greta will get you some beer for the weekend."

Great - a few cans, a couple of spliffs and Tomb Raider Five. That will do nicely! I went back to the cement.

***

There was a note taped to the outside of my door when I opened it on Saturday morning.

Get own brekfist. My day free. Greta. Her writing skills weren't any better than her spoken ones.

I made do with toast and fish paste. What did Miss Arden eat? I opened the doors of the dumb waiter. It was empty. But the bottom compartment of the fridge wasn't. Twelve cans of Tennents lager looked at me. There was a bottle of vodka and some tonic in there, too.

It was a bit early to press Lara Croft's buttons so I took a walk in the garden. The grass was now halfway up my shins and the dandelions seemed to be negotiating a take-over bid. Perhaps I'd do a bit on Monday. I don't like untidy gardens.
I thought that I saw an upstairs curtain move as I waded back to the house.

***

I was stoned, and half-pissed, too, when I heard the knock. Oh, fuck. Don't let it be Miss Arden.

"Peter - are you there?"

"Er, just a minute, Miss Arden, I'll be there in a second." I stumbled around like Frankenstein's monster, feeling for the light switch. The sixty-watt bulb nearly blinded me; I had to screw up my eyes to see my watch. It was a quarter to eight. In the morning or evening? Get a grip on yourself, Hart, for fuck's sake. P.M - afternoon … evening. Thank God for that.

Miss Arden smiled at me sweetly when I opened the door. I must have looked a right state; my stained-glass eyes always let me down when I'm out of it.

"Oh, I'm sorry. If I'd known that you were sleeping, I wouldn't have knocked. Are you doing anything special, Peter? If not, I thought that you might like to watch one of my movies. I've got them all on tape, you know."

Well, why not. "That's very nice of you, Miss Arden. Could I take a bath, first?" I needed to get my head together.

"Of course, Peter, of course. And for tonight, you may call me Beckah. It's the red door, upstairs. Oh, and you can bring your beer and drugs, if you wish." She smiled sweetly again and disappeared into the kitchen.

I flopped onto the bed in shock. How the hell did she know about the ganja? I'd been very careful to stick my head up the chimney so that the smoke … oh, it was obvious, now, so fucking obvious. Her favourite room - the chimney was blocked; my Bisto Boy trail of dope smoke must have been percolating through the flue system.

Well, she hadn't fired me. Come on, Hart, she's even invited you to bring it up with you. Maybe she's into it, as well? Hollywood was supposed to be full of drugs and sex.

The bath seemed even bigger after the spliffs; it was almost Olympic-sized. I tried to remember the names of her best-known films, just in case she asked me which was my favourite. There was Eternal Dawn, of course; that was a good one. The Tide Runs True, I hadn't seen; all I knew was that it was about a woman waiting for her sailor husband to return from the war. What else? The Incredible Mrs Constance. No, I wasn't into widowed women leading orphans over mountains and through Jap-infested jungles. No, it would have to be Eternal Dawn, if she asked.

I felt a bit ridiculous as I climbed the creaking stairs with four cans of Tennents under my arm and two ready-made spliffs in my shirt pocket; a bit like a boy who's still allowed to go to a birthday party even though he's been naughty. I knocked on the mysterious red door.

"Come in, Peter; it's open.

I went in. It was crazy; I couldn't believe my eyes. The room was the same size as the others but it had been converted into a mini cinema. The lights were dimmed and I could see five or six rows of people sitting in those plush, dimpled seats that fold up when you get off them and a curtained screen about the size of a table tennis table. The ceiling had been raised at the back, where I was standing, and Miss Arden was sitting in the balcony to my left, which was a half-circle on a platform six feet high. She was in a black low-cut evening dress and one of those tiara things. I half expected to see an usherette selling popcorn and choc-ices.

The curtains swished open but nobody moved or spoke; the audience sat stiffly in their seats. Some audience - tailor's mannequins, rigged out in tuxedos and ball gowns!

"Stalls or circle?" cried Miss Arden.

This was freaky stuff, and the spliffs that I'd already smoked didn't help matters any. Well, I didn't fancy sitting with a bunch of dummies; I'd done that at college for two years, so I said:

"Circle, please." I felt a complete prat.

She shone a penlight onto the floor and I followed its beam up the carpeted steps until I was in the circle with her. There were only two seats.

"Sit down and make yourself comfortable, Peter. The film's due to start in a few minutes. She handed me a programme.

I could just make out the writing: the light above us was shielded by frilled curtains. Pinewood House Cinema Is Proud To Present The Films Of Beckah Corman, it said, in copperplate script. It listed her films; there must have been at least a hundred. Some of them I'd never heard of.

"Most of these have never been seen by the Great Unwashed," whispered Miss Arden, "They're by special invitation only." I could smell her perfume. It was pretty overpowering: it gave me a rush like a lump of dope on a hot knife.

"Which one would you recommend, Miss Arden?" I said,

wondering if these were the flops that had been scrubbed by disappointed movie moguls.

"Beckah, Peter, Beckah. Well, it all depends on your tastes. What do you like to watch?"

That was a hell of a question to ask a man. The last film that I'd really enjoyed was Snow White And The Seven Giants. I couldn't tell her that.

Before I could think of something to say, she squeezed my arm and said: "Perhaps you'd like to make one of your special cigarettes before you make up your mind."

This was un-frigging-believable. "Go on, Peter," she urged.
So I sat in the circle with her and lit one of the spliffs while the stiff audience gazed blankly at an even blanker screen. Blue dope smoke filled the shaft of light from the projector like a laser beam from some crappy '50's sci-fi film. The ganja hit me like an express train and it was amplified by her perfume; it filled the balcony in an invisible mist. God-knows what it was made from - eau-de-molish? I slid back in the seat; I couldn't do anything, I was that fucked.

Her voice was silky soft and echoed through my head. "Let Beckah decide for you."

All I could do was nod weakly. She leaned forward and did something on a panel on the edge of the balcony. The lights dimmed even more and then the music started; a long drum roll and then trumpets that built up to a piercing crescendo.
Fantasia Productions Present Beckah Corman In The Desire.

I couldn't remember that one. I took another pull on the spliff. It merged with the smell of her perfume and made my spine tingle. My head whirled; I went down like a man drowning and came slowly back up again. Everything took on a warm fuzzy edge. I must have dropped a bit too much gear into the spliff. That's what comes of rolling when you're already stoned. Rolling stoned. I started to giggle.

The projector whirred. She was on the screen, thirty years younger, in a long, flowing white dress that I could almost see through. She was being filmed outside and there were some other people lying around her in the long grass, all dressed in those Grecian tunic skirt things. One by one, they got up and knelt around her in a circle; there were about six of them, men and women, and they all had butterfly eye-masks. The sun was shining behind them and I could see the women's bodies silhouetted through their clothes. It was like one of those weird Federico Fellini movies. Then they all started to wave their arms around like weeds in an aquarium. One of the guys had goat's horns on his head. What was this going to be - not one of those crummy Jason and the Argonaut movies with dancing skeletons and women with snakes in their hair …

For fuck's sake. I jerked upright in my seat; I couldn't believe what I was seeing.

They were touching Beckah's body, rubbing her arse and breasts, burying their faces into her dress; one of the women lifted up the hem and started to kiss the inside of her thighs. Beckah stiffened and arched her back. This can't be happening.

I looked at her sitting next to me. She smiled, like she was smiling on the screen, and nudged the spliff towards me. I took another pull. As soon as the dope mixed with the smell of her perfume, I got an instant and violent erection. I'd never had one like that, before; my prick was pushing so hard against my jeans that I had to lift my arse off the seat to let it find its own position. I swallowed and looked at the screen again.

Her eyelashes flickered as their hands moved over her body; she ran her fingers through the hair of the woman who was kissing her thighs. She was almost up to the top of Beckah's legs, now. The guy with the goat's horns got hold of her from behind and untied her shoulder straps. The dress slipped over her breasts and then he lifted his tunic up and started to rub his erection against her back. Then everyone was doing the same thing, tearing at each other's clothes and frotting each other. Beckah looked down at them and smiled. My prick began to leak juice onto my belly.

The camera started moving. I couldn't keep my eyes off the women; there were four of them; two with black hair, a redhead and the blonde who was between Beckah's legs. The redhead had huge tits with aureoli the size of jam jar lids and the blonde's tits were small, not much bigger than bumps. Her nipples were stiff and stuck out like pencil stubs. The other two had average tits but my eyes were flying between them all. I couldn't see anything else because they were still squirming on their knees in the grass. The music was all Pan's Pipe stuff now and a bit of harp. My hard-on poked out of the top of my jeans.

Then the redhead got up and went behind Beckah. I could see her pubic hair; it was as red as her head and bushy. She nuzzled Beckah's neck and caressed her tits; her nipples were erect and pushing through the material between the girl's fingers. All the time, Beckah was swaying and moving her head from side to side in ecstasy. My legs started to tremble and my mouth was dry with the dope and excitement. That Beckah was next to me made it even more erotic. I could see her out of the corner of my eye and I could see that she was looking at me.

The spliff had gone out: my hands were shaking so much that I wouldn't be able to light it again so I dropped it onto the beer cans and began to rub myself with the tip of my right index finger, where Beckah couldn't see.

The blonde girl had lifted Beckah's dress up and was burying her face into the forest between her legs. She was licking her cunt. Oh, Christ! I was going to explode if I didn't do something soon.

The redhead lifted Beckah's dress up until it was over her tits: her nipples were rigid; they looked as if they were quivering. The others were going wild, rubbing themselves against her where they could find space and then Beckah stiffened and jerked herself against the redhead. She screamed and sagged. Then it went berserk. Everybody was on their feet, holding her, kissing her, rubbing her tits and cunt. She fell back into the redhead's arms and slid to the ground. One of the guys tore her dress right off. The camera zoomed in.

They were all over her like a feeding frenzy; there were naked arms and legs and tits and cunts everywhere. One of the men pushed his way through the writhing tangle and rubbed his erection against the lips of her cunt. She spread her legs wide and guided it inside with her hand.

He began to fuck her, great heaving plunges that made her tits slap against each other. She cried out like a woman in pain. And then the others started: man on woman, woman on woman.

I couldn't help it - I tore my jeans down and started to masturbate - I was that stoned and turned on that I didn't care about Beckah seeing me; it even made it better. My hand was a blur and my foreskin was slapping as I jerked it over the swollen head of my prick. Everyone was moaning and grunting like animals. I glanced at the Beckah next to me; her tits were out of her gown and was kneading the nipple of one while her other hand furiously rubbed her cunt under the material. She was looking at me through half-closed eyes and the tip of her tongue darted from her lips, like some tiny penis.

The screen was bedlam, with everyone crying out and the music got louder; I didn't know who to look at as I wanked myself into the same frenzy. The guy who was fucking Beckah pulled out and shot his load over her tits. She reached out and pulled his mask off. It was Quentin Ballantyne, the actor. One by one, they all screwed her with their pricks and tongues and fingers. She was coming all the time, crying and gasping and screaming. When each one had fucked her, she tore their masks off and opened her legs for the next.

They were all famous film stars: there was Tanja Longman, Philippe Du Plessis, Carol somebody-or-other and I couldn't remember the names of the others. This must be a dream, surely? Beckah crouched over Du Plessis as he lay in the grass, getting a blowjob from Tanja Longman, and then the screen flickered and went blank for a moment.

When it came back, Beckah was alone. She was still naked and her breasts and cunt were swollen. Her belly and breasts were glistening with spunk. The crazy music started again. She began to dance.

Her hips gyrated in time to the music, faster and faster; they ground against some invisible lover; they pounded his groin; they thrust and they twisted and they grated and all the time her eyes were staring into mine. I had to squeeze the base of my prick to stop myself coming.

Then she stopped. She sank to her knees and put her hand between her legs; I watched her middle finger slide up and down her cunt in slow, sex-drenched movements. I was sweating and tingling all over; it was like a tiny electric shock every time I touched myself. I didn't want to come; I wanted to see more and more, and wank forever. I could feel my heart pounding in anticipation of what was going to happen next.
My hips jerked forward as she spread her cunt and started to rub her clitoris. I heard myself grunting; sweat dripped from my face like a leaking tap. My prick was leaking so much that my hand was slipping off it as it got to the end. Oh, Christ - I couldn't last much longer.

Beckah's hand fell onto mine, stopping me just in time. She got up, blocking herself on screen, and unfastened her dress. It slid down over her hips: tufts of grey hair curled over the top of her lacy blue panties. Even though her body was wrinkled and her breasts sagged, I was madly excited: the thought of screwing a woman who'd been adored by millions turned me on more than any young girl I'd wanked over in Fiesta.

Her hand crept down to the damp material between her legs. She put her middle finger against her slot and vibrated her hand.

My prick was no longer under any control; it was twitching and moving from side to side, like a cobra following a snake charmer's flute; I made to touch it but Beckah hissed and pushed my hand away. I shook with lust; I'd never wanted a woman so much in my life; I was aching for her, I was fuelled by a burning core of animal instinct. I slid to my knees, grabbed at her panties and wrenched them down over her thighs. Her sodden, tangled thatch oozed musk as I buried my face into it and licked her swollen lips. She jerked her hips against me and gasped. I licked harder, my tongue slipped inside and then up, against her inflated clitoris. Her hands gripped my shoulders; I could feel her nails biting into my flesh, through the material of my shirt.

She shuddered. Her body went rigid. I looked up. Her teeth were bared and her eyes were slits. Her face was shining with sweat; drops ran from her forehead, washing her scent into the sex-saturated air. It settled on me in a carnal mist.

Then she came. A stream of love-juice spurted from between her legs. It flooded my mouth. It covered my face in its warmness. I swallowed it and lapped for more. Her hands ran through my hair; I could see the other Beckah framed between her trembling legs and dripping pubic hair. Her arms were reaching out for me. She watched as her future pushed me back into the seat and took my throbbing prick in her hand.

She lowered her face into my lap and flicked her tongue over the bloated head of my prick; she wanked me slowly and firmly; her hair brushed against my balls as her head went up and down; her stiff nipples dragged over my thighs, sending ripples through my body. She sensed the warnings as my body stiffened.

Aaaah. I teetered on the edge of a cliff.

She slid her hand down to the base of my prick and squeezed; I jerked, involuntarily, she rode the movement; I felt her lips glide down over my hardness, measuring every single millimetre, down, down, until there was nothing left for her to take in her mouth.

Her tongue swirled around my shaft.

I fell.

And then nothing existed for me but the roaring of a tidal wave as it surged through my body, I cried out; my buttocks clenched; I thrust myself against her face; she tightened her lips as my scalding sperm filled her hungry mouth. Every nerve ending in my body tingled in exquisite agony. I slumped in the seat.

My prick was still rock-hard as Beckah lifted her head from my lap; semen dribbled from her lips and onto my thighs. She looked at me and smiled; her eyes were glittering and her face was flushed. She went down again. I watched as she lapped the thick, glistening pearls of spunk from my belly like a thirsty cat. Her tongue rasped the sensitive flesh and brushed lightly over the arteries at the top of my legs that pulsed in the warm blue glow of the screen. I gasped in pleasure-pain as she drew her teeth across them, revitalising my passion. I ran my fingers through her hair and lay at the altar of her sexuality. Her perfume washed over me, it carried me to heights I'd never before known.

I didn't feel any pain as she took her communion. Beckah smiled at me from the screen as her future fed them both.
I saw the audience stir before I closed my eyes and drifted away.

***

Greta called me. I took my seat in the cinema. When we were all there, Beckah walked between the seats, adjusting a tie here, a necklace there. "You look very smart this evening, Peter," she said, "A credit to Pinewood House." She was very young, tonight. Her footsteps were soft on the carpet as she took her place. After a while, I heard somebody knock on the door.

"Come in, Michael," she said, "It's open."

It seemed that Michael didn't know which of Beckah's movies he wanted to watch, so she chose for him. We sat in our seats and waited for the film to begin.

(c) Copyright: Steve Fitzsimmons 2003

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