Royanna Parks sat behind her large glass desk and carefully bit into her new crunchy breakfast bar from her Park Life natural food range. The 51 year old exotic beauty, in mid flow of designing her refurbished Chelsea gym in her head, glanced over her shoulder and out of her ceiling to floor office window that looked over the lush and busy Berkley Square and watched in amusement as a neon clad plump jogger plodded across the green.
Tapping her chocolate coated pointed talons on the glass top, Royanna quickly turned around, tossed the finished wrapper in her recycle bin and pressed the intercom.
‘Darcy, can you get Melture and Briggs on the phone. I need to confirm the completion date on the new Surrey gym as we’re a week behind schedule. Also can you tell the new intern to bring up the contracts now so that I can sign off the equipment for our Chelsea gym.’
‘Yes Royanna,’ her personal assistant dutifully answered.
The health and fitness guru brushed her long black glossy hair away from her flawless face, stood up and pulled down the cream gossamer blind, blocking out the harsh sunlight and prying eyes.
Her attention then moved towards the door as she heard muffled voices from the other side.
Royanna walked back into position and sat back down behind her vast desk.
‘Come in,’ she barked.
Brendon, the 18 year old geeky intern shuffled into the room.
‘Here are the contracts Miss Park,’ he said nervously, placing a red folder on her desk.
‘Thank you Brendon. Close the door. I want a chat. And please call me Royanna.’ She looked him up and down, scanning his scrawny body with her green eyes and he closed the door. ‘Are you enjoying your time with us?’
‘Yes I am. I’ve learnt such a lot in a short time. Thank you, Royanna.’
‘That’s good. I’m glad to hear that. How long have you been with us now?’ she asked, already knowing the answer as she leant back in her plush chair and crossed her legs to show him a glimpse of her black stockings top.
‘About a month,’ he spluttered. His eyes peered through his tortoise shell glasses and glanced down to see her hand provocatively pull down her red dress.
‘A month? Is that all? Well, time does fly by when you’re having fun, doesn’t it Brendon?’
‘Yes it does.’
‘And what do you do for fun?’
‘Oh, I like gaming.’
‘Gaming? I like games too. Games are fun aren’t they Brendon? Her eyes now transfixed on his bulge that had started to grow through his tight checked trousers. Making sure that he knew what she was looking at, she continued her heavy gaze, ‘So what kind of games do you like playing?’
‘Mainly Dungeon and Dragon kind of games. Role playing games…’
‘Role playing?’ she interrupted his flow. Now looking into his eyes. ‘I love role playing too. What kind of role playing do you like?’
‘It’s the kind of role playing where I dress up as different characters at the weekend and act out fantasy situations. I belong to a club you see.’
‘I see. That sounds fascinating.’ Royanna uncrossed her legs, straightened her left leg under the table and pulled in her right leg, tenting her tight dress to reveal her hidden flesh underneath. ‘Is it just at the weekends that you like role playing?’
‘That’s when I meet my friends.’
‘How about now?’
‘Now? My friends live miles away. Plus most of them are at work.’
‘I’m not talking about your friends. Oh you silly little man. I’m talking about me. With you. Now.’
‘Now? He coughed, not sure where this inappropriate, yet compelling conversation was going.
‘Yes now. Bend down on the floor like a dog.’
‘If you like playing games, and you want this job, I said bend down on the floor like a dog.’
Brendon did as he was told. He always did what he was told.
‘Good boy. Are you now my doggy?’
Brendon nodded, not sure what he was supposed to do.
‘And is my doggy happy?’
Brendon nodded again, now getting the hang of the situation.
‘I can’t see. Turn around and show me your wagging tail.’
Brendon turned around and shook his pert bottom, as if he was wagging his tail.
‘Good boy. Nice arse you have there.’ Royanna remarked as she got up from her chair, walked around the table and stood behind Brendan. ‘There’s a good boy,’ she said bending down to stroke his arse cheeks then bringing her hand down underneath to cup his hard balls. ‘Mmm. Someone’s feeling naughty. Does the naughty doggy like to look at cats?
‘Woof. Yes,’ he said.
‘Good. I’m glad you like pussies. I have a pussy who love dogs. Would you like to see my pussy?
‘Good. Now stay there and don’t move until I tell you.’
Brendan sat still as Royanna walked back to her chair.
‘Now turn around.’
Brendan turned back and couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Royanna had sat back in her chair and had lifted up her skirt and spread her legs apart to reveal her hairless vagina, perfectly framed within two black suspender belt straps.
‘Do you like my pussy?’
Again, Brendan nodded.
‘Would you like to play with my pussy, you naughty dog?’
Brendon eyes widened and nodded eagerly. He barked softly, as not to let Royanna’s personal assistant hear what was going on in the office.
‘Good boy. Now come here.’
Brendon crawled under the table and sat in front of her. His tongue hung from his mouth and he panted like an eager puppy.
‘As you can see, my pussy is very, very wet,’ she breathed as she ran her middle finger over her moist vagina lips. ‘My pussy needs lots of attention. Are you willing to give her lots of attention?’
‘Good.’ Royanna lent back and opened her legs even wider. ‘Come closer my hungry doggy and drink from my pussy’s bowl.’
The twenty eight year old strawberry blonde day time television hunk who presented the top rated TV show, Daily Delights on Majestic Television was running late. As usual.
Bradley Walters, unkempt and flustered, with his crumpled shirt tail hanging out the back of his jeans, his flies buttons popping open, allowing a passing middle aged secretary to catch a glimpse of his mighty bulge that lurked within his white Calvin Klein’s underwear, the results from having a quick shag and a snort of cocaine in the broom cupboard with an eager to please make up girl, rushed down the busy corridor towards studio six, accompanied by his timeless good looks, his irresistible charm, his accident prone tendency and his Jack the Lad attitude.
With ten minutes to go before he was supposed to be live on air, Bradley Walters, suffering with a pounding hangover, the after effects from another exclusive party bash held in the Vanilla Lounge nightclub, burst into the bustling studio to the adoration from the waiting crew, though not from the director.
Having received a copy of the revised script and running order for that morning’s show from the floor manager’s glamourous assistant, who, as would most of the women in the production office, on the set, and as well as most of his loyal army of adoring female viewers in TV Land, longed to take Bradley home and do naughty things to him in the privacy of their bedroom or wherever their fantasies would allow, Bradley grabbed a cup of strong coffee from the studio’s gofer, the CEO’s nephew, thanked him with a nod whilst stuffing his face with a Danish pastry and sat down in his chair ready to be pampered and wired up, unaware that he was flying low.
‘Bradley, where the hell have you been?’ screamed the harassed director from the control box down to his earpiece.
‘Well man, you see…’ Bradley started to explain as he tried to lean over and put his coffee cup down onto the floor next to him, but accidentally tipped the contents all over the studio floor.
‘Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know,’ the director held up his hands to the small screen in front of him labelled camera five, which picked up the handsome presenter as one of the sound men attached a small microphone to his shirt. ‘We haven’t got time for any more excuses, the show is about to start.’
‘It won’t happen again,’ Bradley apologized, with a big innocent smile beaming across his boyish face, trying to discreetly mop up the puddle of coffee with the sole of his Reebok trainers.
‘It had better not!’ the director hissed.
‘Bradley, I want to see you in my office straight after the show,’ another voice bellowed down his ear piece. It was the voice of God, the producer.
‘Sure.’ He winked down the camera at her.
‘I mean it this time,’ Karen Singer, the producer added. ‘I don’t want any more fuck ups. This is your last warning. Do you understand?’
Yeah got it he thought, remembering the last time he had a fuck up with her. And that was in a plush hotel suite in New York on their last overseas filming trip a few weeks ago.
‘Yeah, I understand,’ he smiled, thinking how much of a right goer she was, and a kinky sod at that too!
He liked that in a woman. He liked his women to be strong and forceful. Especially the ones who were hard to chase and capture. They were the best. An equal who stimulated his brain as well as his loins.
Though the attraction of blonde, buxom air head starlets who wanted him for one thing only, and that was for him to be their trophy conquest, so that they could boast about him to their friends and earn a small packet from doing a kiss and tell story for the tabloid press in the process, were appealing as well.
Although occasionally, well more than occasionally these days, Bradley didn’t mind dipping his toe into the never ending candy floss making machine for a quick, no strings attached lick and a promise from the sweet, fluffy flock of nymphets that hung around him like flies to shit. Though he didn’t class himself that low, more like bees to the honey.
Caught in the net of self-indulgence, Katrina, the just shagged make up girl, along with her tray of cosmetics and other beauty paraphernalia, had appeared by his side and was just what he needed. A well timed diversion.
With the shrill of the director’s voice still swimming around his fuzzy head, Bradley closed his eyes tight with pain as he parted his legs allowing Katrina to sidle up close to him.
Carefully, she leant up against his crotch and felt his thick cock growing hard in his tight jeans. Smiling to herself, she gently applied dusting powder over Bradley’s freckles and bronzed cheeks, eliminating the shine for the TV cameras and making him more gorgeous than ever.
Enjoying the sensual stroking of the soft brush flowing over his face, Bradley’s shaky hands wandered inside the darkness of her warm denim mini skirt, brushing up past her firm thighs and hovered on her tight bottom. His hands then slid under her g string and toyed with the elastic, twanging it against her bottom cheeks.
‘Watchya doing tonight luv?’ he whipered, pulling her closer to him so that he could have a proper poke about, totally unaware of the prying eyes of the observant crew that lurked safely behind their cameras and monitors.
‘Nothing,’ she giggled, pretending to struggle under his manly grope.
‘Wanna come with me tonight?’
‘I’d cum with you anytime,’ she breathed, agreeing with his double entendre.
‘No luv,’ he said glancing around the heaving studio. ‘I’ve been invited to one of those boring showbiz parties. You know what I mean? D’ya wanna be my date for the evening?’
‘Oh, I’d love to,’ she squealed with delight, not just with the invitation but with the pleasure of his finger delving up her bottom hole.
‘Great. I’ll tell you the plans later, but for now, my audience awaits.’
Bradley slipped his finger out of her bottom and gently nudged the flushed make up girl aside, indicating that he was finished with her. He then wiped his stained finger on the empty chair next to him, followed by a furtive sniff of it.
Relishing in the sexual exhibition antics that had just happened, Bradley leered at Katrina’s swinging bottom encased in her denim skirt as she sashayed across the studio floor and disappeared behind a black curtain towards the make up room where the Daily Delights makeover team were in mid preparation to humiliate their next unsuspecting victim on live TV.
Bradley smiled to himself.
He felt good. Real good. And he bloody well ought to of had, after partaking in a quick fuck and snort in the darkness of a cupboard!
Enjoying the thrill of surfing the wave from the cocaine adrenaline rush and relishing in releasing his load into her hungry pussy, Bradley believed that he was the king of the world and could tackle anything.
Well, not everything.
There was one thing that eluded him. The bloody autocue.
Peering under the bright lights of the studio and the reflection of the sun pouring in from the large picture window behind him that looked out onto the monuments of London, Bradley tried to focus on the words scrawling up the tiny screen, but they kept moving about and bled together into one bundle of white blur.
Sod it he thought. I’ll just make it up as usual.
Just as the seed of a fart had started to grow and fester, Kerri-Anne Drew, his CO presenter, tottered over on her Jimmy Choo shoes from the kitchen area where she had been rehearsing the cookery slot with her boyfriend and Daily Delights resident chef Maxwell Ontell, smoothed down her Versace suit, sat down on the shit smeared chair and quickly looked at her script for one last time when Bradley laughed out loud.
‘What’s so funny?’ asked Kerri-Anne.
‘Nothing luv,’ he smirked, trying to hold his laughter in, as well as a brewing fart.
‘Come on Bradley. I know you only too well.’
‘Let’s just say I’ve had a finger licking good time!’
‘Humph,’ she huffed, looking at him in a strange way, not wanting to know all his sordid details as she had gone down that road by mistake before and would never go back there again. Never!
‘OK everyone. Here we go again. Another day another dollar. And let’s have some fun!’ he heard the director’s assistant down his earpiece. Though the next snippet of conversation stayed within the confinements of the control box.
‘And if anything goes wrong with Bradley, which I’m sure it will, for Christ’s sake cut straight to Kerri-Anne a.s.a.p.’ the director hissed to the editor. ‘I don’t want another mistake like last week’s kerfuffle.’
Meaning that last week, Bradley had surpassed his usual outspoken self and had been unintentionally offensive during the daily phone in section of the programme. This time, it was all about the female menopause and he had shot his mouth open and had reduced one of the guest female panellists to tears, who happened to be a vicar’s wife as well as a doddery agony aunt for one of those dusty, old fashioned decrepit women’s weekly magazines, which were as gripping as watching an Olympic team of dithering old men having a Zimmer frame race on a wet Sunday afternoon around a urine fragrant common room in a musty old people’s home.
‘I hope he’s not high again?’
‘He’s always high.’
‘The coke head!’
‘Smack head you mean?’
‘I’d like to smack him ‘round the head,’ the editor and the assistant director bitched in the booth.
‘Ladies!’ screamed the director to the two back biting men. ‘Let’s have some decorum.’
The two men looked at each other and laughed.
‘Enough!’ the producer ordered.
The two men glanced at each other and begrudgingly continued with their work, stifling their acid sniggers.
As the director’s voice continued to bellow orders down his earpiece, and as the floor manager faffed about behind the cameras doing an charade effect coinciding with the countdown for the start of the show, Bradley adjusted his manhood in front of the waiting crew and winked to one of their guest’s, the celebrity West End sensation Tanya Phillips as she sat elegantly on one of the plush sofa’s on the adjacent pastel coloured living room set, awaiting her interview.
With the large red light indicating live on air, the Summery title music ringing around the studio and the countdown had reached number five, Bradley turned to his CO presenter, slapped and squeezed her delicate knee, accidentally snagging her Dior tights and finally released his pent up earth shaking smelly fart.
Now he was ready.
Now he was live on air.