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Celebrityville Episode 8

Episode 8

A quiet looking house neatly tucked away within the comfy confines of a sought after Belgravia mews, hid a secret operation behind its nondescript glossy black door.
Gathered within the cluttered art clad walls of the drawing room, three middle aged women, known as The Sisters, carefully adjusted their immaculate candyfloss coiffures and took their regular positions on three ornate Georgian thrones, as if to hold court.
Having blended, divided, bagged and sealed their precious commodity into tiny gilded wax paper envelopes for their select clients, whilst their poorer quality packages for their wholesale buyers hid amongst their classical interior decorated rented accommodation, one of The Sisters followed the weekly ritual, lit a small Kelly Hoppen scented candle on the window ledge and closed the sumptuous damask curtains behind it, sending out the secret signal.
As the flickering beacon shone silently onto the bright street, inconspicuously indicating that their shop was now open and they were ready for business, The Sisters patiently waited for their first customer.
With afternoon tea meticulously placed to precision on a small antique occasional table and the delicate chimes of the 3.30pm bell echoing from the gold carriage clock that sat upon the crowed mantelpiece behind them, The Sisters heard a sharp knock on the door.
They looked at each other and smiled.
It was time to make some money.
It was time to sell their drugs.

Listening to the hushed voices of her abductor’s under the veil of darkness, Crimson Lake twitched about in a rickety chair trying to get comfortable as the restraints of the rancid ropes restricted her every move.
‘I’ve called her, a man’s gruff voice boomed as he entered the room.
‘Good,’ another man’s thick East End accent replied. ‘The boss will be pleased.’
‘I’m sure she will.’
She? Crimson thought, unintentionally turning her blindfolded head toward the conversation.
‘Whad’ya think you’re doing?’ the first voice barked at her.
‘Nothing,’ she gasped as she suddenly felt the sting of a cold metal barrel of a gun digging deep into her botox temple.
‘Good. Keep it that way. We don’t want any accidents or anything else to happen now, do we?’ He laughed as his gun slid over her face, down her neck and across her heaving chest.
Not wanting to be slapped around the face again or anything worse for that matter, Crimson Lake shook her head as to obey her kidnapper’s orders.
‘Leave her alone. You’ve got plenty of time for that,’ the second man said.
‘Aw come on. I was just having some fun,’ the first man moaned as he pulled away his gun and stuffed it down his jeans.
‘Yeah. I know what fun you want, you dirty bastard. Let’s get out of here and grab something to eat. I’m starving. I fancy a burger. What do you want?’
‘I fancy some beef curtains,’ he retorted, looking down Crimson’s cleavage.
The second man chuckled as the man with the gun bent down to Crimson’s ear and whispered, ‘And I’m starving for some pussy too. Wanna help me out and share some of your juices as well?’
Her heart sank as he put his stubbly hand on her trembling thigh.
‘Come on,’ the second man pulled the fondling letch off of her. ‘You can do her when we get back.’
Both men laughed as they left the room.
As the jangle of keys locked her in her temporary prison and the sound of the men’s clumpy footsteps retreated, Crimson knew she would have to escape that night or otherwise her life would be in danger.
But for that moment, she just sat there and silently prayed for help as tears escaped from her covered eyes and landed in her lap.
‘Please, give me strength,’ she cried, hoping for divine inspiration. ‘Please let me get out of here alive.’

Switching off the conversation on her borrowed Samsung Galaxy s10 phone after scheduling a photo shoot and an exclusive interview with Bitzy Green at VIP! Magazine for one of their major clients, soap star and teen idol Paul Sawyer, the new personal assistant to Serena du Bois at London’s top PR agency BAD, brushed some lint from her fake glasses, leant back in the stifling taxi and wiped her dripping brow with a crumpled tissue.
Stuck in traffic halfway across Knightsbridge, Daisy Wakefield, a stunning, slender beauty at the tender age of 25, with her jet black hair twisted neatly under a hair clamp and dressed head to toe in black from Donna Karan, fanned her soggy face with a handful of press releases from Melody Starr’s publicity camp as Serena excitedly chatted about an up and coming high profile charity fashion show that she had been invited to as a VIP guest, and had immediately accepted. Naturally!
But even though they were on schedule as Daisy detested being late for anything and that included her periods, Daisy fidgeted about on the black leather seat as their first appointment of the day was with the heart broken David Normanski, the CEO of Majestic Television.
With his wife, Crimson Lake still missing, David Normanski still had to keep up with appearances and had invited over a select team of creative people for an informal breakfast meeting to finalize details for the extravagant launch party for the new winter TV schedules before lavishing them all with a magnum of champagne.
‘Stop fidgeting,’ Serena said as Harrods passed them by on the left.
‘Sorry. It’s just that I’m so nervous.’
‘Relax. There’s nothing to worry about.’
‘That’s alright for you. You’re used to this high life stuff. ‘I shouldn’t be here. I should be back in the office doing my research and paperwork,’ Daisy protested.
‘Nonsense. There’s plenty of time for that. Besides, you’ll find it more useful and informative with me than filling in silly forms. I need a PA as mine has been given a long holiday. Where I go, you go.’
‘Yes, but…’
‘No, yes buts! I can understand how frustrated you must be, but you need to be seen hovering around me. And anyway, being at my side is the perfect place to get to know his family and everyone else within his business. No one else has been given this opportunity. Consider yourself the lucky one. Or would you rather be back in your stuffy office pushing papers about and not get that promotion you’ve been working so hard to achieve?’
There were no comparisons. Daisy knew Serena was right.
‘Yeah I suppose you’re right,’ Daisy sighed.
‘Good. Now don’t worry. After our breakfast meeting, we’ll do some light shopping in Harvey Nics as I need a new outfit for the fashion show and then we’ll go back to the office and do a crash course on public relations. I know you hate our business,’ Serena air quoted the word ‘business’, ‘but things, people and events would never be promoted and kept in the public eye without us. You see Daisy,’ Serena continued as she wiped the corner of her Estée Lauder covered lips with one of her multi-coloured nail extensions, ‘people need the likes of us to keep the wheels of business in motion. And without us, the good names of all our household products, celebrities and other types of commodities would fall by the wayside.’
‘Oh I see. I never thought of looking at it like that.’
‘Now stop worrying,’ Serena affectionately tapped Daisy’s knee. ‘Enjoy this morning’s free food, keep an eye on everyone you meet and just be yourself.’
I can’t be myself. I would never were this sort of gear in the first place. Daisy looked down at her smart suit. And I should be back at the office. Not making small talk over eggs and bacon.
Annoyed for not being in control of her surroundings as she hadn’t taken to the PR game, not one bit, Daisy wanted to be inconspicuous, to blend in as a mere subservient within the fawning, arse licking industry. But that wasn’t going to happen.
And not knowing anything about the PR world, even with the total backing from the two bosses that spear headed BAD, Michael Bond and Serena du Bois, ‘BAD’ constructed from their initials of their surnames, Bond And du Bois, Daisy hated feeling incompetent.
With a Master’s degree up her sleeve, countless of work related certificates that hung proudly on her other office wall and was capable of handling an array of dangerous machinery that the general public would never get to know about, Daisy was unsure of what was expected of her. For the first time in her demanding career, Daisy felt vulnerable and completely out of her league.
And with no way out, as so much work had gone into this job, not just by her but by a whole team of people behind the scenes, Daisy sighed again as she looked out of the window and watched a flurry of expensive super cars flash by, still with a small tinge of guilt burning away inside of her.
True, she had a mission to complete.
True, her whole career depended on this work placement.
And true, there were a lot at stake and the risks were high.
Very high.
But then again, the PR coup did have its advantages. And she was going to receive and some champagne for doing practically nothing, except jotting down some notes and taping the conversations. So being a PA for a few weeks wasn’t that bad, after all.
Resigning to the fact that she would have to sacrifice her inpatient ways and play along with the game, Daisy turned to Serena, a glamourous, exuberant, high maintenance woman with high society connections, a never-ending business charge account and designer clothes to die for, gave in.
‘OK. You win.’
‘Good. Now just go with the flow.’ A bang of blonde hair suddenly dripped out from Serena’s diamanté clip and landed across her perfectly made up face. ‘After all. I’ll be doing all the work and you’ll be there taking all the notes. Simple isn’t it?’
Daisy nodded as she watched Serena swiftly replace the rogue hair back into place and then resumed her gaze out of the window.
She wished it was that simple. But it wasn’t.
Nothing was ever that simple for Daisy.
And she had a feeling that she was in for a bumpy ride!

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Celebrityville Episode 7

Episode 7 

Perry Homer, theatrical impresario, multi Olivier Award winner and philanthropist hugged his panting wife Emma, as they hid amongst the rails of colourful costumes that lined the wardrobe department at The Lake Theatre in London’s West End.
Emma giggled as the tiara she was wearing slipped off and fell into her naked lap.
‘Shhh.’ Perry hushed. ‘I think someone’s coming.’
The naughty couple sat still, listening out for any approaching footsteps, not wanting to get caught.
‘I can’t hear anything,’ Emma said.
‘Wait a minute,’ Perry put his finger on her lips as if to quieten her, but it proved the opposite effect.
Emma opened her mouth and licked his finger.
‘Stop it,’ Perry joked. ‘Someone may hear us.’
Emma looked at her husband with her naughty blue eyes.
‘I don’t care,’ she said. Let them look.’
‘Not here. It’s too risky.’
‘Well you didn’t say that the last time we went dogging, did you?’
‘That was different.’
‘Because, that’s why.’
Perry carefully stood up and peered over a rail of suits of armour costumes.
‘I can’t see anything,’ he scanned the dark room.
‘I can!’ A big grin grew on Emma’s face.
‘What? Where?’ Perry looked around the cluttered room again as Emma opened her mouth and engulfed Perry’s hard cock. ‘Emma,’ Perry purred as he gripped the clothing rail, knocking the clunky costumes back and forth. ‘Stop that. No don’t stop. Yes stop!’ he protested as he shot his load in her mouth. ‘One of these day’s you’re going to get me into trouble.’
‘If only.’
Perry bent down and kissed his wife on her cum sodden lips. The naked couple embraced on the floor, tangled within a mountain of fake fur and bales of crushed velvet, unaware that a pair of snooping eyes had watched their sexy show on CCTV.

Loaded down with a large assortment of heavy, glossy Chi-Chi designer bags after having completed a successful morning’s worth of essential clothes shopping, Phyllis Harrison-Smythe rummaged through her precious purchases in the back of a London black taxi and smiled with delight.
Oblivious for the passing traffic and the noisy London streets, Phyllis tenderly caressed one of her new outfits from Prada, chaperoned with a matching hand bag and an exquisite pair of handmade Italian shoes. Well, she couldn’t buy one without completing the set, could she?
As her heart fluttered like a butterfly trapped within a gilded cage, she then flicked through her Gucci wallet, slowly running her glossy red talons over her exclusive gold store cards, enjoying the sound as they clicked under her nylon nails until they reached her new passport to paradise, the black Centurion credit card from American Express.
Not wanting to damage her invitation only prized possession, she carefully slipped it out from its protective leather home and lovingly caressed it, imagining the endless fun that she could have with this piece of black plastic. A similar feeling that reminded her of another piece of plastic, her monstrous 9 inch black dildo that she kept hidden in her wardrobe for special occasions.
Finally she had been deemed worthy of the honour by being given the golden ticket that she had craved for so long. And now that the trophy was rightfully hers, she could hold her head up even higher than before as this sexually desired, powerful credit card symbolized her wealth, stature and worth within the high bred community. At last she had the key she needed to unlock the infinite bounds of the imagination. This unique card gave her the freedom and the ultimate thrill of entering an invited world of the privileged social elite and become a member of an exclusive club where the wondrous Universe of Shopping was hers to conquer and divide.
Catching the taxi driver as he watched her through his rear view mirror, intrigued by her salacious movements, Phyllis switched in to auto pilot and teased the perving driver with one of her controlling freak games.
‘Is it me or is it hot in here?’ she breathed, fanning herself with the card as she undid the top button of her beaded vintage Escada jacket, revealing a momentary view of her black lacy Wonder bra.
‘Yeah luv. It’s hot alright,’ coughed the driver, excited with the private peep show from the posh totty in the back of his cab.
Smiling to herself as she enjoyed his undivided voyeuristic attention, Phyllis slid the card over her face, down her neck, across her two mounds of lace encased flesh and down to her sculptured legs.
Licking her Christian Dior painted lips, she rested her head back against the head rest, arched her back and parted her legs to let her tight skirt rise up over her stocking clad legs. Fingering the card suggestively, she slowly slithered it gracefully up the inside of her thigh, making sure that the driver caught a fleeting glimpse of her black stocking tops and her knickerless muff.
‘I hate being sticky,’ she said, looking into the back of his head through her long Elizabeth Arden covered lashes.’
‘Sticky’s not good. I like comfort myself.’
‘Yes I do enjoy a comfortable ride, don’t you?’
‘It’s all about the comfort, luv,’ he grinned.
‘I agree. Comfort all the way up to the hilt.’
Slipping her card suggestively back into her wallet and bringing the impromptu porno show to an abrupt end, the taxi turned the corner and pulled up outside one of her infamous nightclubs.
‘Thank you driver for the smooth ride,’ Phyllis said as she paid for her fare.
‘Anytime luv. Here’s my card. Call me if you want to sit on my thick leather seat again.’
‘Oh I can’t wait,’ she smiled as she dropped his card into one of her bags and stepped onto the pavement.
‘I bet you can’t,’ he laughed as the taxi disappeared within the heavy traffic.
Phyllis loved toying with men and their egos. This was the kind of power trip she enjoyed, indulged and wallowed in. Only one vital ingredient made this possible and Phyllis relished in it most of all.
And that was money.

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Celebrityville Episode 6

Episode 6
Fully recovered and refreshed from his visit to Henry’s House, Simon Hargreaves gently sat down on his father’s old padded leather chair, trying not to do anymore damage to his already throbbing nether regions. With his balls burning from a whacking of a studded leather paddle, Simon needed some refreshment to recuperate and get his mind back into business mode.
Having buzzed for afternoon tea, a few minutes later, the heavy leather panelled door of his office opened and his devoted secretary, Miss Robinson, with a pair of solid black rimmed glasses perched precariously on the edge of her nose and who was a member of the twin set and pearls brigade, entered the dusty office with an antique silver tray laden with jam sandwiches and a pot of Earl Grey tea. Smiling quietly to Simon, the middle aged woman placed the tray meekly on the desk and then scurried away, quickly retreating back to her computer.
Though just as he was about to bite into his crust removed triangular fluffy white sandwiches, when Miss Robinson, flushed from rushing around as wisps of mousy brown hair straying from her French pleat, returned carrying a stack of paper work.
‘Thank you Miss Robinson,’ Simon acknowledged her offerings. ‘If anyone wants me, I’m in a meeting and not to be disturbed.’
‘Of course. And when will this meeting conclude?’
‘As soon as I’ve finished these delightful treats,’ he said, grasping a delicate sandwich.
‘Very well.’ She knew the routine all too well.
‘That’ll be all for now,’ he said, beckoning her to leave.
And to his amusement, she obeyed his commands as he watched the bespectacled dull woman scamper away and close the door behind her.
Stupid woman he thought, though deep down he was glad that he had a secretary like Miss Robinson.
True, she wasn’t an oil painting, or even a soggy water colour that had been painted by a five year old child. And true, in a plain Jane nondescript kind of way, she never showered Simon with any signs of a voluptuous verbal transaction, or any flecks of bite sized interpersonal skills that lurked within her bland, cardboard box-like personality.
But the main qualities that were endearing, personified Miss Robinson to the letter, by the way she was superefficient, reliable, dependable and extremely trust worthy. Not like some of the atrocities that were sent to him from the so called upper drawer temp agencies.
In the past whilst Miss Robinson and the other two secretaries to Angus Mc Greggar, the middle accountant who dealt with a stream of reliable corporate clients and a smattering of small businesses, and Giles Henworthy, the junior accountant of the well-oiled team, who specialized in looking after a select few of irresponsible showbiz personalities, were away on holiday, the boys needed temporary cover and some of the temps they had been given were certainly not up to their high calibre. In fact, some of them were so wet behind the ears that they didn’t know if they were coming or going!
But for one little fat girl had made Simon cum! And not by her own choice, the poor innocent thing. At that time, when he was having marital problems, Simon had been given the nod that could change his life and fortunes by having a rare chance to join a men only secret society where just to be considered for the elitist membership and to be put on their waiting list, a £5,000 donation to their cause was needed.
Having passed the first round approximately five years ago, Simon was sent a black envelope with the initials M.A.N. printed in gold on the back. This is what he had been waiting for, the invitation from Masters Above Nations. Enclosed were vivid instructions on what he had to do, the date of when he had to do it and a £10,000 payment demand simply to attend the evening event.
A few weeks after the cheque had cleared, the time had come for Simon to attend the initiation masked as a black tie dinner and dance. With a suitable partner in crime in mind, Simon invited the young temp to be his plus one. She gladly accepted.
The first part of the evening went well as the select, invited guests enjoyed the good food, drinks and networking opportunities. Once everyone had finished their meals and the dancing had started, a senior member of the group pulled out the candidates and ushered them into another room. Each of the candidates were then given a blindfold to put on and were ordered to sit outside of the room until required.
Simon smiled as he knew what he had to do.
Minutes later, Simon’s name was called. He stood up and was escorted to a large wooded door. He reached out and knocked.
‘Come in,’ he heard.
The usher opened the door and led Simon into a darkly lit room with a bed in the middle. The door closed behind him as Simon was left standing alone.
‘Are you man enough to join our organisation?’ bellowed a deep voice from the dark.
‘Yes I am,’ replied Simon, knowing what to say.
‘Are you willing to do whatever is asked of you?’
‘Yes I am.’
‘Even if it’s against your beliefs?’
‘Yes I am.’
‘Are you ready and willing to prove your devotion to the organisation?’
‘Yes I am.’
‘Then remove your mask.’
Simon obeyed the ominous voice and removed his blindfold. There in front of him was his plus one, the drunk young temp, forcibly tied up and naked on the bed.
‘You know what to do.’
The poor temp. She had no idea of what she had done when she had accepted Simon’s dinner invitation. Only Simon knew of the real intent and his true intention was now squirming on the bed. She was his contract. His passageway to his Heaven. She was just a piece of meat for him to abuse in order to be accepted into the dark, controlling organisation that ruled many businesses, politics and countries.
He knew what he had to do. It wasn’t pleasant. It was downright disgusting, terrible and horrific, but he looked at it simply as a task. An unusual task that had to be done.
Having forcefully fucked the innocent girl through the folds of her blubber to the wild applause of the audience which had sat quietly within the shadows, the initiation ceremony was complete.
Straight away the committee accepted him with open arms and thanked him for a marvellous show. And when his membership was immediately accepted on the spot, the young temp was untied, clothed and tossed aside into a dingy side ally like a used soiled tissue. It was a most horrendous incident for the young girl as it had changed her world and had scared her emotionally for life.
But it was completely different for him. Simon didn’t care about her feelings. The girl was just a vacant hole, a play thing for him to use and abuse. She was just a meal ticket to get into the club and feast on the sumptuous, willing pieces of flesh that lined the walls, the bars and bonkettes.
Simon made sure that his satisfaction from sex came first. He was a selfish bastard who always looked after number one. He never cared for anyone else for that matter, except for one person. His father.
Training his thoughts back into the room, Simon picked up his silver letter knife and with total precision, slit open the first envelope like a surgeon cutting open his patient’s stomach. Simon scanned the document and abruptly stopped in the middle as his disbelieving eyes fell on some bad news.
His stomach churned as if he was riding on a monster roller coaster, hurtling down the fragile looking steep tracks at a tremendous speed, holding on for dear life as he pulled high G’s around the tight, vertical banks whilst his shuddering body experienced the mind blowing death defying loops and origami style inversions.
Feeling very queasy, Simon slowly looked up from the letter and felt the colour drain from his weasel looking face, tasting the bile in his scrawny throat after the juddering journey.
To his horror, his ex-wife, the bitch from hell was demanding £30,000 from him. Apparently the money was to buy a completely new wardrobe of hand sewn original chakra cleansing natural fibre clothes designed by the luscious Chantra Violet, a thirty-something Scandinavian hippie chick and self-confessed sun child.
Also, Daphne needed the money for one, to sustain her weekly chakra massages that maintained the vital balance of her ying and yang. And two, to finance her essential reflexology treatments, her crystal healing workshop and cosmic colour breathing home study course.
But most of all, she had booked a fifteen day Ga Ga retreat to the Hollywood Hills in La La Land, Los Angeles, California where, in the spirit of communal communication and in the midst of a pre-fabricated multi-million dollar gothic style castle, Daphne would float about literally in a cloth sack on a detoxify your inner child self-awareness course which included the A List showbiz must do latest craze, how to release your negativity through the art of meditation, chanting and aura massaging in three easy stages.
Her mentor, the mighty Iam Coningu, a leading guru in the cosmic field of new age living and teaching was the specialist in America and she simply had to let him stimulate her brain cells with his ultimate knowledge of the universe and beyond, and manipulate her senses, energize her deflated batteries and open her vision into the mysticism of the other world.
Learn how to release her negativity my arse Simon thought as he screwed up the letter and tossed it in the dented metal waste paper bin. The fucking bitch needs to keep her negativity in! Not let the whole world see how much of a sucker she could be. But then again, she wasn’t much of a sucker with me nor for my little soldier, so why not let the bitch make a fool of herself? It could be rather entertaining. And I do need cheering up? But not for £30,000. So she can jump or levitate for all I care!
Realizing that Daphne was a hardnosed cunt, deep down he knew that her blackmail note was true. She wanted the money by the end of the week or otherwise she’d let out his dirty secret and the endless stories concerning his caveman sex life. And he knew from past experiences that she would stop at nothing until she got what she wanted.
Bitch! Where the hell am going to find that amount of money in such a short space of time? He caved in to her demands, yet again.
Tiny beads of sweat leaked out from his forehead as his calculating mind evaluated the problem, bouncing it about in his pounding head. He leant back in his large black leather chair, swivelled to face the window and pulled open the dusty brown blinds. Deep in thought, he stared across the busy square, watching the hustle and bustle of its inhabitants like tiny worker ants, scurrying to and fro, when his eyes came to rest on a small building opposite.
A wicked grin accumulated across his slimy face, knowing it was time to bump up the ante. His despicable mind quickly unfolded the ideal solution, for his special system of borrowing money in the past had worked fine and brought huge rewards. So he hoped that the unique scheme could once again work out in his favour as he needed a lot of money very quickly. And like now.
He already knew the perfect, undetectable place from where to acquire some ready money. Only this time, he would have to be extra careful and not get caught out.
And like before, he had covered his tracks perfectly in the transitional period and made a hefty profit in the process, so why not try again? Why not?
The plan was easy.
The plan was simple.
The plan was perfect.
But this time the stakes were far, far bigger and he could easily get caught out. He knew this, but he was willing to take the risk. Not just for his ex-wife’s sake, but for his sake too.
Simon yearned to break free from the blood sucking clutches of his ex-wife, only to enjoy some sort of independence. So he hoped that his artistic accountancy plan would do the trick.
Now that he had found the solution to the problem, he decided to make the bitch from hell wait a while and treat himself for once. So he called his Saville Row tailor, Gieves and Hawkes and ordered two pairs of suits, one regulation pin stripe, and one plain black.
After his expensive conversation over the telephone, he continued his self-indulgence behaviour to break the law by opening his special wooden case and pulled out a beautiful Havana cigar.
Taking great care to enjoy the ritual to the limits, Simon carefully rubbed the cigar close to his ear and listened to the perfect sound as it whispered sweet nothings to his slimy soul. Pleased with what he had heard, he then ran the tight leaf packet slowly under his nose, taking in the sweet exotic perfume as it enthused his desires and satisfied his animalistic craving.
Next he carefully shaved the end off with his gold cigar slicer and lit it in a rather theatrical manner, something that was against his nature. Taking exaggerated puffs on the phallic cigar, he inhaled the tobacco down to his contaminated lungs, clogging and filling them up with more expensive poison. As soon as he was ready, he slowly released the thick aromatic smoke through his thin, dry lips, blowing the noxious clouds out and filled the old fashioned office with a dark blanket of pollution.
With a sense of total release enrapturing his despicable body, crawling through every contemptible crevice to finally arrive at his corrupt and evil soul, a soul that was wrapped up in a contract signed in blood and was sold to the devil, Simon relished in the rich, intoxicating fumes as it saturated the stale surroundings and the sickly stained fluorescent lined ceiling. With his Oxford shoes covered feet resting on the edge of his desk and his arms clutched behind his head, Simon imagined that the smoke represented the sweet smell of success as a false sense of celebration hung low over his entire office and over himself, unwittingly suffocating him with a dose of artificial hope and a case of poor insight.
Not thinking clearly, Simon turned his dastardly thoughts to the matter in hand of raising the cash and knew instinctively what to do.
But before any of that could happen, he decided it was his turn to make the bitch from hell squirm.
It was his turn to have some fun!

After his unusual morning television programme, the de-brief and the same old heated discussions that constantly cropped up about the next edition of Daily Delights, Bradley Walters had relocated studios from the South Bank to Majestic Television’s smaller studios in the centre of London, in preparation for filming funky links and voice-overs for ‘Mad on Machines’, a late night bachelor style programme about men who were mad on machinery and anything else that was loosely associated with them.
Freshly powdered up on coke and tripping the light fantastic, Bradley, with his eyes closed and his mouth ajar in ecstasy, lounged on a small brown shabby velour covered armchair in the tiny dressing room on the fourth floor as Paige, a 20 year old eager beaver redhead on work release from Slap!, London’s top TV and film make up college, diligently caressed his throbbing manhood with her delicate and dexterous lips.
Mentally thanking her training college for the privilege of being able to work on such a great man, and for Bradley to allow her to show her appreciation, Paige peered through her long, seductive eyelashes with her sparkling green eyes and gazed lovingly up at Bradley, as her sweet rosebud lips released his red raw cock, leaving behind a slimy thread of saliva and pre cum as it escaped out of the side of her vamp-like red lipstick smudged mouth and trickled down her chin.
Bradley looked down at the obeying waif with his twinkling brown eyes and wiped the hair from her sweaty brow.
‘Don’t stop,’ he groaned, as he opened his strong tanned thighs even wider, exposing his wet rampant sex weapon to the cool temperature of the air conditioned room.
Continuing her quest and following his commands by giving head, as she was too afraid of disappointing the TV star, though secretly enjoyed the unusual work experience, Paige closed her eyes, leant forward and gloriously drank up his unique musky bouquet that radiated from his groin to intoxicate her flaring nostrils.
Though when she opened her eyes and was ready to give Bradley a second edition of her A1 lip service treatment, she had expected to see his piece of meat standing to attention, but discovered that his cock had started to whither whilst waiting for her to continue with her all important job.
Smiling back at the love God, Paige seductively licked her finger like a naughty school girl from St. Trinian’s and soaked it salaciously with gallons of spit. Fascinated with the quick deflation, Paige quickly got back on the job by pulling down Bradley’s foreskin. She then slowly circled his helmet with her moist finger and within seconds had successfully brought him back to life.
Bradley groaned with delight as the snake charmer worked her magic spell on him, hypnotizing his thick snake with her expert commands and the dexterity of her finger. His low moans rang around the room as she gripped his cock and lightly kissed the bulb of his swollen knob, holding total control over him and making him squirm with ecstasy.
Then she opened her mouth and let the hard monster slip inside her. Bradley leant back into the chair, grabbed her curly red hair with his strong, but shaky hands and pulled her head onto his cock, thrusting his groin into her heavily made up face. Harder and harder she pumped down his thick shaft, milking his udder, sucking out his spicy juices and trying not to gag as his horny friend pummelled the back of her aching throat.
But just as he was on the precipice of exploding his sticky lava out of his quivering volcano and into the dark ravines of her vacuum guzzling mouth, when the theme tune to EastEnders merrily bleeped on his mobile phone, causing him to abruptly halt his actions momentarily.
‘Shit!’ he blasphemed as he automatically answered the call.
‘Hello Bradley. Remember me?’ spat an aristocratic voice down his ear.
A sharp pain of terror ran up his spine with fear. He froze. But his loins didn’t. His cock clicked onto automatic pilot and spurted cum into Paige’s mouth.
‘Yeah. Whad’ya want?’ he grunted with pleasure as he bucked about in the chair.
‘I hope you haven’t forgotten our agreement, Bradley? I will be very cross if you don’t repay the money you owe me by the end of the week, or otherwise I will simply have to take the matter further and cut our association off completely. Understand? Saturday 5 p.m. Sharp!’ the voice commanded as they hung up on him by not waiting for his reply.
Shit. That’s all I need and especially now he thought about the ominous call as he watched Paige wipe his dripping love juices from her glowing face with the back of her hand.
‘That’s enough for now baby,’ he said pulling up his pants and his tight black Armani jeans.
‘But I can do more sugar, much more,’ she purred, crawling up his aching body, frantically flapping her skilful tongue at him.
‘Not now…I’ve…er…got to go somewhere,’ he spluttered, trying to push away the love beast in front of him.
Paige hoisted up her micro mini skirt around her waist and flashed her curly red hungry pussy. She pushed Bradley forcefully into the chair and straddled his hard thighs.
‘Not so fast Bradders. I’m horny!’
‘Me too. But it’s just that I’ve just got an important appointment to keep,’ he said trying to look at his Jaeger Le Coutre watch.
‘That’s right sugar lips, with me!’
Bradley was stuck. His arms were pinned down by Paige’s hands and her moist tongue explored deep into his mouth, searching the canyons of the unknown. He didn’t know what to do. His intoxicated head was buzzing, mixed with confusion and cocaine. He looked up as the dressing room seemed to spin round at top speed, dazzling him with bright zany colours like he was floating inside a psychedelic lava lamp.
Suddenly he felt a sharp breeze across his chest as Paige ripped open his Versace shirt, firing buttons in every direction. His heart pounded with excitement. He was gagging for her to take him, ride him like a bucking bronco at a rodeo and take him on a journey of pleasure, but the coke trip he was experiencing was too much for him as his doped up brain was trying to scramble together any lurking thoughts and come up with a solution.
Instinctively he knew what to do.
It was the only solution.
Bradley gripped her arse as Paige climbed aboard the sweating writhing body underneath her. She parted her legs and straddled her target. Smiling down at her prey, she mounted the six foot stallion and slowly glided down onto his sore, wet pole, enjoying the emerging sensation as his thick hot piece of flesh entered her wanton body.
For a second she sat still on him, allowing Bradley to take a breather. Then without any warning, she started to grind her hips, gently rubbing his cock up and down, first with slow long gliding movements, then gradually building up, generating energy and stimulation, ending up as she furiously pumped up and down on his erect cock.
He knew he was weak, but he decided to let his balls come up with the answer. After all, his manhood normally ruled his head.
Why change an institution?

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Celebrityville Episode 5

Episode 5

Tapping her glossy red finger tips impatiently on the plush arm of a large sofa in the lounge of The B Bar, a members only bar that belonged to a sophisticated and expensive hotel hidden in a secluded court yard near Piccadilly Circus, Susie, a thirty five year old working mother with two gorgeous children kept her sharp brown eyes on the antique revolving door.
‘She’s late again,’ remarked Flick, a redheaded wonder who was vibrantly decked out in a green tartan Vivienne Westward dress.
‘I don’t know how you put up with her, I really don’t’ pouted Bebe as she tapped her perfect domed afro with her long slender £10,000 worth of jewellery gold encased hand.
‘Nor do I ladies but business is business.’ Susie agitatedly sipped her glass of Clicquot champagne and glanced down at her watch. She hated people being late. Especially when it was costing her money.
‘Oh look, here she comes,’ said Flick, noticing a harassed looking woman clacking across the marble floor in her Christian Louboutin six inch stilettos.
‘You’re late,’ hissed Susie. ‘When I say 3pm I mean 3pm, not a quarter past three.’
‘Sorry Susie but the taxi was stuck in traffic,’ gasped Sasha, a fresh looking blonde beauty as she slumped down in an empty chair.
‘No excuses Sacha. You have been warned about your lateness on many occasions. I cannot have people working for me who are constantly late. I have a reputation to maintain. Do you understand?’
‘Yes Susie. Sorry. It won’t happen again.’
‘No it won’t happen again. Now, do you have something for me?’
Sacha reached into her Prada handbag and pulled out a thick, long white envelope. Without looking at its contents, Susie placed it in her sleek black clutch bag along with two other full envelopes and then lifted her champagne flute.
‘Well ladies. Here’s to another successful week,’ she smiled at the three, groomed goddesses. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers,’ they all said in unison, clinking their sparkling filled glasses over the vintage table that they sat around.
‘Now to business. Please make sure that your mobiles are switched on at all times so that I can get in touch with you,’ she looked at Flick, who sheepishly brushed a red bang away from her face. ‘Unfortunately we had an incident where we lost a considerable amount of money and I don’t like turning customers away. Also check your calendars as I’ve booked a weekend away next month for training and for you to have new photos taken for the website. No one’s replied back yet. I need to confirm with the hotel, the photographer and our little guinea pigs.’
All three ladies flicked through their mobiles.
‘Sorry I can’t make it,’ said Bebe. ‘I will be in Dubai that week on business.’
‘Ah yes I remember now. That’s ok. Anyone else can’t make it?’ Susie asked. Flick and Sacha shook their heads. ‘Good. That’s sorted.’ Susie knocked back the rest of her champagne and smoothed away a stray brown hair back into her pleat. ‘I know I may come across as a heartless bitch at times and don’t always show my appreciation, but I’m really impressed with you all. Even you Sacha who drives me mad. Keep up the good work.’
‘Thank you,’ they all said.
‘Now any other business?’
‘Are we still meeting up with the other girls here next week for the fittings?’ Bebe asked.
‘Yes. I have arranged Michel to bring over a selection of ball gowns and cocktail dresses for you all to try on. It should only last about an hour or so. We need to get in early before anyone else takes the best gowns. I don’t want those grubby little East End paws getting first pickings,’ reluctantly acknowledging her so called competition. ‘My girls deserve the best as you are the best.’
The ladies smiled.
‘Right. I’m going to have to leave you lovely ladies to finish off your drinks. If you want a snack then add it to our bill at the bar. I will send you a text reminding you about the fittings and I will see you here same time next week and on time. I believe we’re going to have a busy week ahead.’
Flick, Bebe and Sacha got up and kissed Susie goodbye.
Scooping up her glossy designer shopping bags that sat patiently next to her, Susie left the hotel bar and slipped into her silver Porsche.
Mission one done. Tick. Mission two was now under way. And that was to bank her weekly takings in one of her many secret security boxes that she used across London where she could safely hide away her true earnings. By using this system for storing her cash, Susie knew it was the perfect way from any paper trails. Only she knew exactly how much money she earnt. And by scraping off her twenty percent commission, she would deposit a certain amount of money into her legitimate business account just to keep the Tax Man happy.
And she certainly knew how to keep the Tax Man happy. Especially in other ways!

Crimson Lake closed her eyes tightly underneath her tatty blindfold and listened to the hushed voices that circled her. Unable to move her hands as were tied to the back of her chair, Crimson silently prayed for her freedom.

Releasing all the day’s dirty negativity, tension and stress, Melody Starr gently reclined her precious pampered body onto a bundle of fluffy white towels that were sprawled out across the hot damp pine bench in one the hotel’s large private sauna cubicles, reserved only for VIP’s.
Still groggy from the mass intake of the brain numbing neat vodka that she drunk earlier that day, which helped her to block out the loneliness and bitterness that gnawed away inside of her, Melody closed her contact free weary eyes, took a deep breath through her parched mouth and began to unwind as the lavender fragrance steam gently pummelled and delved deep into her clogged pores, sucking out the hidden dirt, the grime and gunge as it carefully evaporated the impurities from her young, delicate skin.
Enjoying the deep detoxifying treatment, which was pure hell but someone had to do it, Melody wrapped her black lank hair up in a towel turban and gently lowered her vodka laced head on a pile of towels, trying not to make the room spin even more.
Desperately trying to calm herself down from a stream of incubating ideas that spun about in her hazy head like a top loaded washing machine whipping its contents around on its spin cycle, Melody allowed to set those thoughts free for now and just relax for a few precious minutes.
With the lavender essence performing its calming job, at last she had control over the situation and finally allowed herself to relax and let her spirit run free within the confines of the large sauna. Within minutes she felt at ease. Totally relaxed and one with the World.
But this didn’t last long.
Just as she was declining into a state of liberation, easing her tensions away from the harsh realities of her hectic life, the warm bubble suddenly burst. The protective atmosphere she had just got accustomed to suddenly changed.
Instead of the sensual, caressing fragrant mist twisting its silky slithers of cleansing clouds around her aching lithe sweaty body, she suddenly felt a cold breeze creeping up on her, enveloping her and pawing her with its icy fingers. An uneasy feeling engulfed her still body. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up on end as the sinister glacial prankster played with her soul, selfishly ripping away the warm blanket of steam and replacing it with a chilly coat of ice. It disturbed her peace and she didn’t like it at all. Not one bit.
Still half asleep and not taking any chances, she immediately sat bolt upright and peeled opened her misty brown eyes. Clutching the soggy towel, which just covered her glistening ebony body, she grappled with the task of peering through the burning aromatic steam.
Melody sat still, her breath heavy with fear. Her acute hearing picked up every sound as she thought that she could hear footsteps creeping about, gradually getting closer and closer, louder and louder. She was right. Managing to decipher her fuzzy gaze, she saw a large silhouetted figure obstructing the rays coming from the gymnasium’s harsh white lights as they poured in through the open door.
Transfixed to the spot, she watched in horror as the menacing shadowy figure advanced through the cleansing mist, disturbing the tranquil atmosphere.
‘Who’s there?’” she croaked to the mysterious figure as she clung onto her towel enwrapped body.
The figure didn’t answer.
He just stepped closer and closer.
Letting her imagination run riot as she grappled for her glasses, she thought that her crazed stalker had tracked her down and was going to kidnap her and kill her. Realizing that this was about to come true, her heart leapt up to her throat, pounded her vocal cords and strangled her perfect voice. She tried to scream but nothing came out of her dry mouth. Only silence.
Instead of lashing out at her attacker and going for the jugular, just as she would have normally done, the once tough little cookie Melody Starr, unexpectedly shed the thick outer layer of her psyche and let the presence of the little girl that was locked within her suddenly burst through and eclipse her, over shadowing her strong personality.
Screwing up her brown eyes, Melody tucked her towel wrapped head between her slender hunched up legs to protect herself like a tortoise popping back into his shell, hoping that her actions would magically make the monster vanish, as if any action like that would help.
Curled up on the bench, she felt a strong dark presence bearing down over her terrified body. Her moist flesh crawled as the sour smell of death hovered above her, ready to take away her young life. A life that was just blossoming and starting to grow.
Melody gasped as she felt the shadowy figure’s Herculean hands encase her sodden shoulders, tightening its powerful grip. Terror flowed through her as the shadowy figure violently shook her lithe body as if to wake her up from some terrible nightmare.
But this wasn’t a nightmare. This was real.
She knew this was the end. She knew she was going to die. If only she’d been good in the past. If only. But ‘if only’ wasn’t going to help her now.
No one could help her.
No one would!
She had been a bitch to everyone and no one would be prepared to save her or even raise their little finger to help. She was alone. Alone to face the scales of judgment and only she could tip the balance in her favour and make amends.
Melody was sorry. Truly sorry. If she could turn back the time right now, she would. But her life would soon to be over. To be murdered in a public sauna with no one wanting to save her, that summed up her pitiful life.
‘It’s time to go,’ the shadowy figure’s low husky voice boomed as its deep melodic tones bounced against the wooden walls of the sauna, beckoning her to follow his commands.
Facing death head on was not what she had planned to be doing at such her early age, though realizing that her time was up, Melody undertook an enormous amount of courage, lifted up her tired, heavy head and peered at her murderer, taking one last look before she made her journey to the eternal recording studio in the sky.
Slowly she opened her petrified eyes and froze her glare in disbelief. She instantly recognized the shadowy figure.
‘It’s you!’ she croaked with relief.
Then darkness fell upon her.

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Celebrityville Episode 4

Episode 4

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.
Knock knock.
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.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘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?
Brendan nodded.
‘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?’

Brendon nodded.
‘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.
‘Yeah right!’
‘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.

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Celebrityville Episode 3

Episode 3

Struggling to fight back the torrid waves of emotions as the glint of a nervous breakdown loomed largely on the horizon, the devoted husband, family man and TV mogul of Majestic Television, David Normanski, paced around the vast master bedroom of his five million pound Surrey mansion in anticipation of the expected bad news.
Beside himself with a silver lined sack of showbiz worries, David, along with his two daughters Catherine and Emma and his newly acquired son in law, the West End impresario Perry Homer, all frantically awaited for the return of Crimson Normanski, wife number two of the self-made multi-millionaire.
Taking over the title role of Mrs. Normanski from David’s first wife, the man eating bitch and health guru Royanna Parks, Crimson Normanski, though mainly known as Crimson Lake, the thirty nine year old ex model now turned part-time TV presenter on Majestic Television’s top rated celebrity gossip show, VIP Live! was late. Eight hours late!
Known for her ditzy behaviour, as well as her impeccable time keeping, being late was somewhat out of character for Crimson. Being late was unheard of in David’s world. Unthinkable. No one ever dared to be late around him. No one. It was just plain rudeness in his eyes. It was a symbol of disrespect and a distinct lack of manners. A trait that was all too familiar in today’s society where a shortage of basic etiquette ethics and common courtesy beliefs ruled the roost.
And anyway, in some strange way under all of that candy floss of effervescence in which she surrounded herself with, deep down she was a highly organized woman. Never an hour passed without some kind of electronic bleep, ping and twang would fill the air as it squealed out from her iPhone, reminding her when her next appointment was or what she had to do next.
And now, wishing he could hear those awful sounds again, the distraught sixty five year old Russian continued to crush the precious fibres of the Persian rug with the soles of his Gucci shoes as he reaffirmed the details for the third time with Perry Homer regarding the security guard at the gate house, who was the last person to see Crimson that morning as he waved goodbye to her over a well fingered copy of Playboy magazine.
What if she’s dead? His mind battled against a chorus of nagging voices who repeatedly pierced their twisted tongues through his brain cells like a knife slicing through a cauliflower. No. That was too unthinkable. She was alive. She had to be. She needed to be.
But what if she had run off with another man?
Impossible. Crimson would never do such a thing. She loved David too much. And no one else. That thought was simply out of the question. A forbidden remark which shouldn’t have slivered out from the sludge of despair. But it did. And why? Did she play around behind his back? Wasn’t his eight inch cock enough for her? Was she happy? Sure. She must be happy? Or was she?
He gave her everything that any princess would dream of: clothes, jewels, money, cars, holidays, homes, companionship, love and great sex, really great sex. What more could she want? What else could he offer her?
A child!
Is that what she wanted after their eighteen years of marriage?
No. He knew she never wanted any children. That wasn’t her style. They had discussed that topic at considerable length and she refused point blank to go down that motherly road. No little ankle biter was going to spoil her size ten figure. And anyway, motherly feelings wasn’t her thing. Sure she cared greatly about David’s three siblings to his previously marriage. And she would do anything for them. It was easy. She could love them and leave them. They were adults and they weren’t hers.
So why was she missing? Why?
After months of endless preparations and meetings with party planners, caterers, florists and other so called PR people that leeched themselves to the celebration industry, why would she want to miss their glamorous wedding anniversary party?
Has she done this to him on purpose? No, of course not. It was only that morning Crimson declared her undying love for him.
‘Here’s to another year of wedded bliss, Mrs. Normanski,’ David winked as he chinked glasses with Crimson over their champagne breakfast. Well if you can call it breakfast at 11 a.m.
‘Chin chin, my darling,’ she smiled, flicking her shoulder length, freshly curled red hair, created and painted her pretty boy hair stylist Blaze. ‘To us.’
Crimson lifted the full Baccarat flute of Bollinger to her Elizabeth Arden’s coated lips and carefully sipped the champagne.
Having downed his drink, David then spread his six foot two solid body across his sumptuous satin encased Jacobean style four poster bed and gazed up in merriment at the red, gold and green striped canapé that swaged across the carved wooden beams.
Cupping his hands behind the nape of his pillow of golden curls, David crossed his legs, wiggled his size ten feet and smiled.
‘What are you smiling about?’ Crimson asked as she leant next to him, lovingly studying his deep brown eyes.
‘I was just wondering.’
‘What about?’
‘About how lucky I am.’
‘You fool!’
Crimson leant over and gently pecked him on the cheek, leaving behind a faint trace of lipstick, as if to say she gave him her seal of approval for being silly.
‘What was that for?’ Not worried about the answer as he perfectly knew what it was going to be.
‘That’s just for being you. Don’t ever change, my darling,’ she whispered in his ear as she carefully wiped away the lipstick mark from his cheek with the pads of her supple fingers, frightened in case a shaving of his bronzed skin would accidentally buried itself within the crevice of her shiny new nylon nails and ruin her £200 manicure.
‘What do you mean don’t ever change?’ he asked.
‘You know perfectly well what I mean.’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes you do, my special clown.’
And he did.
‘Don’t ever change’ meant that living with David Normanski was never dull. ‘Expect the unexpected’ was one of his mottoes. And he certainly lived by that rule. On many occasions.
Like for instance, during one of her kill-to-be-invited charity lunches held on their extensive Venetian styled patio in the middle of a sizzling summer heat wave, David had not only surprised her, but also her clucking cronies when a naked troupe of Russian gymnasts spectacularly tumbled across their manicured lawn.
Or another ‘Surprise Surprise’ golden moment was on her 30th birthday when he organized a string quartet to serenade her in her private hair salon in the mansion whilst she sat, ‘oh so glamorously’ wrapped in an unflattering black cotton gown, curled up to the nines under the dryer and with her hands firmly plonked into two large bowls of hot moisturizing honey and beeswax preparations.
Along with a forest of red roses that was brought in by an army of hired help, David, beaming with love behind the blooming petals of passion, knelt beside her and presented her with a platinum and diamond necklace worth around £150,000. Crimson, unable to be furious with his generous tokens of love, relented her somewhat frosty gaze from under the hood of the dryer and melted under his charms. Once again. Well, who wouldn’t with a string of expensive bling dripping around one’s neck?
And now, with the day almost at an end and with two exotically decorated marquees full of expectant guests, all lathered up on alcohol and dancing merrily to the sight and sound of pop sensation Melody Starr, David slumped onto the bed and buried his head in his mighty hands.
‘I’m sure she’s alright,’ comforted Perry Homer.
‘Yeah dad. You know Crimson can be a bit forgetful at times,’ Catherine added.
‘I know that.’ Sodden with tears, David looked towards his youngest. ‘I know she can be somewhat vague at times, but she’s never been this bad, Cat. What if something bad has happened to her? She’s not answering her mobile.’
‘Perhaps the battery’s dead?’ The eldest and logical sister, Emma said.
‘No. She’d never forget anything like that. I know she can be a bit scatty at times, but her mobile’s her life line.’
‘Could she be with her hairdresser having a touch up?’ Emma continued.
‘No. I’ve looked in there and there’s no one about.’
‘Blaze is downstairs with his boyfriend,’ Catherine remarked as Perry nudged her in the ribs for seeing the funny side to Emma’s innocent question.
‘What about one of her girlfriends. Have you spoken to them yet?’ Emma said.
‘That’s useless. They’re all here.’
Emma glanced at Catherine, desperate for more excuses to fill the awkward atmosphere when suddenly, the telephone rang.
Everyone stood still to see who was going to answer the telephone. But David didn’t. He immediately jumped up from the bed and sprang over to the telephone.
‘Hello Crimson? Is that you?’ his shaking voice cried down the receiver.
She didn’t answer.
Someone else did. And the caller didn’t sound friendly.
David’s face turned white.
It was a sign.
A bad sign.
David continued to scream down the telephone, oblivious of the evil which lurked within the shadows of his scenery and were secretly directing his glittering life in order for him to take his final curtain.
Along with their spineless method acting skills and with their plot of destruction, only one thing remained on the caller’s agenda. There was only one thing that was so important in David’s life and by removing it, would bring the powerful oligarch crushing down with one simple swipe.
All they had to do was to kick him where it hurt and push him over the edge.
And now, as the crescendo of their despicable and destroying year-long plots and schemes were coming into fruition, this last action was going to be the deathly diamond dagger that would pierce his broken heart. This was the moment when the golden bullet was going to be shot in order to destroy David Normanski, his family and his business interests for once and for all.
The husky breath of the caller continued down the telephone, relishing in the fact that the perfect present had been given to them on a silver platter, gift wrapped from head to toe with a red bow nicely decorated on the top of the priceless package.
This was what they have been waiting for.
This was the time to finally reveal their ultimatum.
This was the time to reveal the kidnapping of Crimson Lake.

A crushed black rose was carefully placed inside a brown padded envelope with a note made from letters cut out from magazines stating, ‘Die bitch!’
It was addressed to Melody Starr.

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Celebrityville Episode 2

Episode 2

Hargreaves & Co. accountancy, a stuffy, weathered three floor office complex was situated in one of the streets from Piccadilly Circus. Outside the imposing office, evolution was in abundance, bringing forth new ideas to an ever changing world, whilst inside the accountancy building, lurking behind a defence of dusty blinds, lingered a stale smell of damp papers, forgotten over the years of brow sweating, arithmetic trading. From the sturdy grey filing cabinets to the oak panels that clung to the walls, the company image, not changed for so many years, portrayed old money, respectability, stability and stagnant thoughts. This also represented the state of mind of the current owner and head accountant, Simon Hargreaves.
Simon Hargreaves, a balding forty year old accountant, who had been burdened with the responsibility of the family firm, given to him by his father a few years previously, just after he had been diagnosed with cancer, sat behind his large oak desk and toyed with some important secret documents that he’d been working on for some time.
For some time now, Simon had been thinking of chucking everything in that he had work for over the years, to do something more challenging, exciting, dangerous and spontaneous. Though he’d never got around to do it as he was stuck in his old ways and had become a creature of habit.
How he hated his dull life. Nothing exciting ever happened to him, except his afternoon meetings at his gentleman’s club, ‘HH’, Henry’s House. Although saying that, he had just received an invitation to a special themed party organized by his club, which was great, but he had no one special to accompany him.
He couldn’t take his ex-wife, Daphne, the bitch from hell, as he affectionately called her with a heavy lashing of sarcasm that aggravated his ulcer and brought bile up to burn his thin chest. She had left him after their brief marriage and took with her the Porsche, the summer house down by the coast and his secret lover at the time.
Even though they were miles apart, Daphne still was continuing to squeeze a fortune from him every month and had him by the short and curlies. With just one small tug of his cuckolded cock, she would tighten the pressure occasionally to get what she wanted from him and Simon would reluctantly cave in, surrendering to her throttling demands as he struggled under the enormous burden of knowing that Daphne retained some damaging information that could ruin his precious career.
Though the damaging information she had on Simon had been dropped from her life ages ago, bored by Simon’s ex lover’s brain dead conversational skills and his poor bedroom technique. With the man out of her life, Daphne soon found herself an unused, slightly more intelligent toy boy, and not one of Simon’s secret cast offs’.
He knew he was stuck in limbo as she had him dangling on a piece of thread and was yanking him by the balls. But there was nothing he could do about it for the time being, only to continue to fund the extravagant life style to which she was accustomed to from his never ending bank account, just so that she could keep his secret safe, which was he enjoyed the company of young men as well as women. Though if his plans worked out correctly, his bottomless wallet would soon be a thing of the past and the bitch from hell would suffer an undignified fall from favour and endure a life time penalty of poverty.
But now, it was his turn to have some fun.
As he enjoyed plotting his revenge on Daphne in his head and not wanting to leave any data traces or electronic footprints that could incriminate him, Simon opened his desk draw, picked up his grubby little black address book and flicked through the grotty pages. His fingers came across a name that was underlined in red biro, Suzie. He dialled her number using the office phone and left a message on her voice mail, wanting to book her to be his escort for that Friday evening.
Having done that, he decided that he needed a break from the office in order to have some quality time with himself. He needed some light refreshment, but it wasn’t food he was after. He was hungry for the services from his club.
His club, Henry’s House was situated around the corner from his office in a secluded back street, which was extremely handy and perfect for him to flit in and out without being seen. From the outside of the building it looked like an ordinary house, tucked between some nondescript offices. The main entrance was guarded by a black solid door with the letters ‘HH’ engraved on a brass plaque.
Having told his secretary he was going to be out of the office for a while, Simon knocked on the shiny black door, adjusted his old school tie from his exclusive private school, The Willows and fiddled with his Boss cuff links, a nervous habit he had since boarding school, brought on by many a pleasurable afternoons of partaking in unofficial rituals that laid beyond the head boy’s private study door.
Enjoying the burning sensation that brewed inside his squawny stomach as he waited on the pavement, Simon was greeted at the door by an elderly gentleman, dressed in black tie, like an old style butler.
As soon as he stepped over the threshold and into the small elegant entrance, an icy chill ran up his spine and a twinge occurred in his three days caged nether regions as a reminiscence smell of musty library rooms and leather Chesterfield sofas gently seeped through the partially opened doors of the club and wafted up his nose. With each step that he took in his shiny Oxford shoes, he knew what was in store for him and couldn’t wait.
As a sense of excitement, mixed with nervousness attacked him, he thought of the wonderful pleasures that lay ahead, causing his stomach to churn as if a mass of butterflies were swarming about in it, chasing away his fears and unleashing a different, darker side to Simon. His heart started to pound with anticipation, his head began to whirl with delight and his palms began to sweat. But that was one of the fun sides he liked about the club. At last Simon had entered the only place where he could relax and be himself.
With each step he took, the enormous pressure of work slowly evaporated from his tired, gaunt body, lifting his spirits to a higher level of consciousness and transporting the seedy accountant on a journey into the murky depths of the unknown.
Simon felt at home and believed he belonged there. This was his part of London where his sanity could shine through. This was his sanctuary from the outside world, far from the screaming sounds of Piccadilly Circus and far from the hustle and bustle of the tramps, the dodgy street entertainers and rent boys. That world was dedicated to the trashy tourist industry and he was certainly not one of them, except when he dropped his high almighty I am perfect act and became a sexual perverted tourist along with all the other riff raff, pushers, pimps and Johns.
Simon believed he was far above that sordid world. He believed that he was a titanium card holding member of an elite society where clean morals ruled the way, not where scummy alley fighting and gutter morals with back biting feuds took place. He was too far up his own lace covered arse to see that his vicious fighting took place in the respectable board rooms, with pens instead of swords.
To him, that seedy world outside of the protective wall of Henry’s House seemed so far away. But now that he was in his club and nothing could spoil the peaceful ambiance and calm that had gently crept up on him and swamped his yearning body, swallowing up his pitiful soul and sucking out the extra pounds from his vintage leather Dunhill wallet.
In Henry’s House, there was no snobbery.
Everyone was treated the same, just like its other members, senior barristers, politicians and top financial businessmen. They were all degradedly brought down to the same level.
This was a club where discipline ruled.
This was a club where he wasn’t in control, someone else was.
This was no ordinary club.

The hottest property on the pop scene, reclined in her luxury white limousine and peered out through the tinted windows on the way to rehearsals for the The DNA’s, Deadly Nightshade Awards. Deep in thought as the passing scenery of London’s top designer stores and boutiques flashed by, Melody Starr, the dark, exotic soon to be 25 year old Diva, with her large brown eyes, chiselled cheeks, reconstructed nose, a present from her record company Deadly Nightshade after she had her first number one single a few years ago and her luscious lips painted pink, a fun colour from her own branded cosmetic range, felt as if her life was passing by too.
Sitting in the crowded vehicle, along with her obeying entourage, her manager Spider, a lanky Rod Stewart wannabe, her stuck up, tweed loving and Laura Ashley adorning personal assistant Felicity Pringle, Poppy Watkins, her ever so trendy Asian stylist, dressed to the nines in the latest gear and a handsome younger Idris Elba look-alike, her muscle bound bodyguard Spud, aptly nicknamed on account of his broken nose from his earlier boxing days on the amateur circuit around East London’s Bethnal Green, Melody snatched a few moments to herself and thought about her trapped miserable life.
Idly picking at her trade mark pink nail varnish and flicking the pink shavings onto Felicity’s lap, Melody’s frustration came to fruition, causing another outburst of her usual bile.

‘I can’t take any more of this shit Spider,’ she spat, stupidly allowing the pressure of stardom to get to her.
Lifting his dark shades briefly, Spider turned around and said, ‘Don’t worry babes. I’ll sort it out,’
‘You better, or otherwise I’ll walk.’
Spider chucked. ‘You wouldn’t do that you your old pal, would you?’
‘Wanna bet?’
‘And you want to be sued for millions by the record company then?’ Spider leant his hungover head back on the leather seat.

Melody thought about the consequences.

‘Well, no. Shit Spider. What am I going to do?’ tears of frustration started to roll down her chiselled cheeks. ‘I’m so tired. I can’t carry on for much longer. I really need a break.’
Spider reluctantly moved beside her and cuddled his protégée. ‘It’s alright babes,’ he whispered. ‘Once the DNA’s are finished, you can have your break.’
‘Yeah really. But on one condition.’
‘I’d knew they’d be a catch somewhere along the way,’ she snivelled as she moved away. ‘Well, what is it?’
‘As the saying goes,’ he said, tapping his nose. ‘I have a cunning plan.’
‘I hope so. I really hope so.’

After many years of following a tight gruelling schedule, the strain had started to seep through the tough exterior, cracking Melody’s hard outer shell and attack her inner self. The tell-tale signs were synonymous with the fickle world of the pop industry: loss of sleep, no appetite, inexplicable mood swings ranging from the brink of ecstasy to sudden outbursts of rage and anger. All of which were known common symptoms but not just with her chosen profession, but with an unwanted association of her monthly friend. Her periods.
That was one side to the bad penny.
The other side was called fame.
The schizophrenic craved fame like a child desperately wanting chocolate. She would scream and scream and scream until some stupid sycophant would come along and give her what she wanted. But that wasn’t enough. Oh no. That didn’t satisfy her hunger one bit. She wanted everything and was determined to get it! Instantly.
But having to kowtow to the big chiefs, the producers and the record companies executives, which was something she had to do to get to the top and stay there, was a task she despised.
Day by day the purple people eater would rear its ugly head and spit at everyone in sight, covering the nearby defenceless scuttling creatures with her acidic spew. Though she didn’t care. She wanted the money and the fame and all she had to do was to click her fingers and the pitiful profession threw endless amounts of money at her by the bucket full. But all she wanted to do was to grab as many opportunities as possible, make a quick buck and control the ride.
But having too much too soon, Melody, the spoilt bitch that all the teeny boppers’ adored, copied by millions, fantasized about and wanked over by many, ached to escape the manacles that tied her to the Rock and Pop industry, away from the blood sucking demanding world of the wannabes, the has beens’, the do anything’s and the no hopers’.
Though there was something missing in her empty life. Something so simple that money couldn’t even buy. Even fame couldn’t compensate for what she yearned for. Desperately needed.
And that was love.
Deep down she needed someone to love and to love her. Not superficial, showbiz love. True love.
But it wasn’t as simple as that. The love was there, showered unconditionally from her grandparents and fans but it that wasn’t the kind of love she wanted. The love she wanted was missing. It wasn’t her fault, nor her grandparents fault. It was her precious daddy’s fault. He had never showed her any love. The ‘loving caring’ father couldn’t bare to go near his beautiful daughter, or to touch her. He couldn’t stand the sight of Melody. It hurt him too much. The pain ached in his heart. He missed his soul mate, his departed wife.
Melody hated her father, Harrison Whithers, as he left her alone to fend for herself in the big bad world. He blamed Melody for his wife’s death during child birth.
White Trash Scum, she called him. Oh yeah, he showered her with money to ease his conscience, but that’s not what she wanted. She wanted him to love her.
Harrison relinquished his duties as a father. He packed his bags to travel the world, never to contact Melody personally, only through the post by sending her Christmas and birthday presents. Each month he would deposit a considerable amount of money into Melody’s bank account, to help her through her school years and to further her career.
Cathy Deloris Whithers, as she was called then, was taken under the grandparents’ wing, until she was eight when the couple became too weak and frail to look after her.
After that, Melody was pushed from pillar to post, until she was old enough to be sent away to an exclusive boarding school in the heart of the English country side. When she was sixteen she was packed off to a top Swiss finishing school where she polished off her etiquette skills as well as learning how to become a first rate fucking bitch.
To be expelled from that institution was a delightful experience especially when she was the first ‘lady’ to be caught screwing in the library with the Head Mistress’ eighteen year old son.
Melody’s distant thoughts quickly vanished when her manager, Spider turned his iPad and watched her latest single Lush, set in a multi-coloured theatrical camp Bedouin style tent, over run with gorgeous guys exposing their half-naked glistening bodies.
She looked around the crowed car and scowled at its passengers. Everyone was glued to screen, watching the extravaganza flow across the screen on her YouTube channel. How she despised the pop industry, the parasites, the blood sucking leeches, the deathly sharks and wolves that lurked within in the fickle, vicious world of pop. But for now, she would have to suffer just a bit more until her bank balance was a lot healthier.
Wiping the burning tears away from her eyes, being careful not to smudge her eyeliner, ever the professional, Melody snapped at her fellow passengers.

‘Turn that fucking thing off. It’s doing my head in,’ she said as she grabbed a bottle of vodka and gulped down the clear liquid.
‘But babes. It’s such an electrifying performance,’ Spider gushed.
‘I don’t give a flying fuck. Just turn that fucking thing off!’

Felicity glared at Melody through her tortoise shell coloured glasses, disgusted at her spoilt outburst, her intolerable behaviour and perfectly controlling herself from wanting to slap Melody’s face, whipped out a stack of glossy publicity photos from her Louis Vuitton case and plonked them hard on Melody’s lap, causing the Princess of Pop to shoot piercing daggers back at her.

‘Careful bitch!’ Melody snarled.
Looking down her nose at the ungrateful cow, Felicity politely sneered, ‘Would you mind awfully signing these?’
‘I’m not signing anymore crap today. My wrist hurts,’ Melody said, waving her Pandora adorned covered wrist delicately in the air like a Drama Queen.
‘It’s your duty to your fans,’ hissed Felicity, looking forward to handing in her notice and going back into the Deadly Nightshade office.
‘Fuck my fans. I don’t give a stuff about them!’
‘Well you should. Because it was those poor buggers who put you where you are today,’ Spider said, checking his reflection for the umpteenth time in the tinted window.
‘Balls. It was you and all those other shits,’ she said huffily, resuming her gaze out of the window.
‘If you hate it so much, why carry on. I can easily find some other schmuck just like you and make them into a star.’

Melody glared at Spider, unable to retort back with a witty answer and returned to the fascinating window. She didn’t care.
Later that day she would be the centre of attention by performing at the Deadly Nightshade Awards and then soon at her birthday party. Her time would come and she would sparkle like a true star.
Then and only then, she would have a real blast.

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Celebrityville Episode 1

Episode 1

Three pairs of feet peered out from beneath a large leopard print satin covered duvet. One pedicured pair belonged to a high profile politician’s wife who was renowned as the bike of Parliament and would freely straddle any guy’s hard saddle without a helmet, bell or any warning lamps. The second, yet delicate pair belonged to a naïve reality star from a poor quality, now decommissioned TV reality series. And the middle, hairy pair of feet were owned by Bradley Walters, TV presenter and well-loved showbiz personality.
Bradley Walters, the twenty eight year old strawberry blonde Godlike figure of a man, basked in the centre of his king size bed in Holland Park as his two nameless conquests each had a grip of his seven inch throbbing manhood, both encouraging a growth for a second round.

‘Bradley,’ cooed the politician’s wife in his ear. ‘I need you now.’ Her red hair   cascaded over the glistening pillowcase as her lips nibbled his ear.
‘Me too,’ whispered the reality star, stealthily slipping underneath the slippery cover, eager to have her morning protein.
‘Girls,’ he groaned with pleasure, as the reality star started to expertly feast on his breakfast sausage, a remarkable feat of knowledge coming from an innocent looking nymph.

Not wanting to miss her turn, the politician’s wife straddled across his toned bronze chest in order to give him another full view of her Brazilian.

‘Eat me Bradley, eat me,’ the red head breathed, sliding across his face full of morning stubble.
‘There’s plenty of time. Don’t rush me.’ His words became lost under the pressure of her slender body.

But there wasn’t any time left. In fact, Bradley was running late. Again.
It was not unusual being the tenderised piece of meat in a Bradley Walters sandwich. This was now the norm. A nightly and sometimes a daily recurrence. And it wasn’t unusual to miss his early 3am morning call, even with his Galaxy S9 blasting out the song, Bat Out Of Hell.

There was a frantic knocking on his front door.

‘Mr Walters, are you there?’ he heard a muffled, yet recognisable voice from downstairs.
‘Yeah, hold on mate. I’m just coming,’ he mumbled from underneath the politician’s wife’s waxed pussy. I’ll be down in a minute,’ his flushed face covered in her love juice,  ‘Just having a lick and a promise.’
‘I’ll be waiting in the car,’ replied his driver.

The driver didn’t get a reply. Bradley was too busy cleaning up the politician’s wife whilst the reality star cleaned him up at the same time too.
This was typical of Bradley Walters. He was young, free and single. A free agent living life on the edge. Partying from day to day whilst somehow, earning a small fortune in between.

‘Let’s do this again,’ the politician’s wife kissed him on his liquid covered lips.
‘I’m up for that too,’ the reality star popped her head out from the covers with her chin dripping in spunk.

‘Sure,’ he gave them his usual ambiguous answer. He didn’t want to commit to anything definite. He was a man about town and this was just a one off. A one night stand between three consenting adults. Right?

Bradley Walters always made it clear to every woman that he’d slept with that it was a onetime event and he was a long life singleton, never to be caught in the dreaded net of wedlock. No woman, however rich or famous she were, was going to pin him down to a life of suburban domesticity. He was a wild animal. A stud. A sexual predator. A creature who craved instant gratification wherever he could find it. He didn’t care who he hurt in the process. In honesty, he was too self-absorbed and coked up to realise who he had hurt in the past to get what he wanted. He was a star. Loved by all and lusted after by many. People worshiped the ground he walked on. Many tried to copy him, emulate him and try to outdo him, but Bradley Walters was unique. He had that special quality that people would pay a fortune for, steal for or kill for. Simply, he was made of stardust.
Life was all about him. He was a leader of The Me Generation. A fully paid up, platinum member of the Instagram and Twitter elite. And that wasn’t going to change for a long, long time.

Well, that’s what he thought!

Phyllis Harrison-Smythe, a coiffured, stylish, acidic spitting fucking bitch rested her manicured hand on her chiselled hip, sculptured from many expensive cosmetic surgeries and aided by a string of fad diets, mindless hours on the treadmill and bouncing on the cocks of countless young hot studs, stood back and admired her new expensive acquisition, a Jackson Pollock.

The personification of perfection still couldn’t believe that she had paid fifty thousand pounds for a piece of work that looked as if a three year old had painted it. But however much she had paid for it, to have a Jackson Pollock grace the walls of one of her exclusive London eateries, sent out a sign for plebeian social climbers to grovel and worship at her Manolo Blahnik size five feet.

Phyllis checked over the stylised brush strokes and squiggles by using her fifty five years of impeccable taste and sophistication. But she couldn’t decide whether it was A or C, art or crap. Though for that amount of money she had spent on the painting, she came up with the right answer.


Smiling to herself for having successfully out bid a young wannabe society debutante at an auction, whom dripped in her sugar daddy’s borrowed diamonds, pouted like a cod fish and wore a Versace mini skirt that was so short that you could practically see what she had for breakfast, Phyllis knew that the vulgar Knightsbridge jail bait didn’t stand a chance of winning against her. Phyllis knew the old man, the girl’s sugar daddy intimately from many past and forgettable encounters that he was a tight fisted bastard, who liked to fuck young pussy who had no fat, no brains and were big in the breast department.

Phyllis Harrison-Smythe, a society entrepreneur, business woman and key member of the elitist London scene, glanced down at her new sparkling Cartier watch, a gift from a generous Arab customer and noticed with her piercing grey eyes, it was nearly time to open up The Harrison, appropriately and arrogantly named after herself.

She then walked over to the full length Georgian mirror by the entrance and studied herself from head to toe and was impressed by her reflection as her little black Chanel suit draped her liposuction, nipped and tucked tanned body perfectly. She adjusted her Asprey diamond encrusted brooch with her bright red claw-like talons and smoothed down her grey Vidal Sassoon asymmetric bobbed haircut.

The final touch to her perfected, high maintenance ensemble came in the form of a tube of red Chanel lipstick, which she applied liberally to her collagen implanted lips. Having finished wiping the luxurious grease stick over her lips and was comforted by hearing the ‘click’ from the black lipstick case as she replaced the lid, she heard her mobile phone ring.

‘Hello,’ Phyllis chirped, recognising her best friend’s name popping up on the screen.
‘Dahling, it’s me sweetie.’
‘Candice. Yes I can see that. What a pleasant surprise.’ Phyllis beckoned one of her two glamourous front of house hosts to open up the restaurant. ‘How are you?’
‘Simply divine. Can’t chat for too long dahling, the pool boy is about to service my pool.’

Phyllis smirked at Candice’s rude remark. Phyllis knew perfectly well that she didn’t have a pool as she was staying at Claridge’s for a few weeks. They only have a health spa.

‘But Candice, you don’t have a pool in London,’ she continued with the joke. Remarking anything about a pool was an in joke about their sex lives.
Candice laughed. ‘This is just a quick call to make sure that you are still going to Melody Starr’s party on Saturday?’
‘Of course. It’s not quite my thing to go to a flash pop star party, but you know me, I wouldn’t miss a party for the world.’
‘Splendid. Now listen dahling, Candice continued, ‘I’m going to send Alfredo my new chauffeur to collect you. You know the one, the hot Italian stud with the ring through his seven inch cock?’
‘You must remember him dahling, you were there. He was the one I picked up at that little boat party in Cannes. You know, where all those gorgeous waiters dressed up as sailors in their tight white little shorts and we discussed how we’d fuck the living lights out of each one?’
‘Oh yes. Now I remember. He was the gorgeous one that you pointed out to me as you could see his P.A. through the flimsy material.’
‘Exactly. His Prince Albert. Well anyway, Alfredo is going to collect you, say about eight o’clock? Then we can make our grand entrance together. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?’
‘Fabulous Candice. Are you bringing any play things with you?’
‘Dahling. You know me. Would I let you down?’
‘Indeed not. I know you have impeccable taste. But this time, can I please have one with a hint of a brain. It’s simply no good having a gorgeous hunk hanging off my arm if I can’t have a decent conversation with him, is it!’
‘Who wants a conversation with them? Not me sweetie. But I thought you were supposed to be seeing that gorgeous blonde piece of rough. Now what’s his name?
‘Damn I forgot about him. You mean Paul Sawyer?’
‘Yes, that’s the one. That dreadful action man soap actor with a body to die for!’
‘I know. He’s such an awful actor who thinks he’s Mr Macho. And anyway, it’s only a publicity stunt. God knows why I accepted his agent’s offer. He’s a tad too old for me! I prefer my men to be much younger and can fill me up,’ she giggled, reminiscing on the disappointing no show in her Lapis Lazuli bathtub.
‘Phyllis! You boffed a soap star?’
‘I’ve boffed many soap stars. But there’s no need to be jealous. Nothing happened. In a drunken state, I thought I’d could make him come around to my kind of thinking.’
‘Really? So what happened?’
‘He fell asleep on my bed. In private he’s as limp as a wet lettuce with a cock that’s the size of a pea!’
‘Yes really. His PR company wanted him to date me for a month or so, so that it takes the heat off his alternative lifestyle. I‘m his beard.’
‘His beard? Alternative? You mean he’s gay?’
‘Camper than a row of tents with bells on.’
‘Oh you poor thing. Imagine, having to work on his floppy disc when his hard drive is yearning for a different lap top!’
‘Let’s just say, our systems are not compatible. I shall not make that mistake again.’
‘Don’t worry dahling. I’ll pick you something nice for later that evening.’
‘Thank you Candice. If you can, that’ll be fab-u-lous. If not, don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll be able to find myself a little play thing there. Oh, by the way, are we still doing lunch today?’
‘Not today dahling. I have a busy schedule….having my pool serviced and one thing and another. Why not pop by my hotel later. We can have drinkies at the bar.
‘That will be great. We can discuss what we’re going to wear for the party on Saturday.’
‘Enjoy your…erm…dip.’
‘Oh dahling, I intend to get thoroughly drenched! Goodbye sweetie.’
As soon as Phyllis put the mobile down to her best friend, a glamorous Bianca Jagger look-alike whom she had known for five years, Phyllis hurried around the restaurant and spoke to the manager to see if everything was ready to open. Phyllis was not normally this early at the restaurant but she was expecting a delivery at her art gallery this lunch time so she thought she would pop in to see how everything was before her next business ‘meeting’.

Realizing that her team were more than capable of coping with the daily pressure, she decided to leave them to it as that’s why staff were put on the planet. And anyway, she was the boss, so why should she have to do all the hard work?

An executive decision was made. With an award winning chef at the helm and an experienced manger to deal with the nitty gritty of staff tantrums and customer demands, life was too short to worry about little things like that. She had other concerns to think about like experiencing one of the two most important things that her life was worth living for.

The first was sex and that was waiting for her later in the shape of a young, mindless hunk that she would use and abuse at Melody Starr’s party or, if she found herself feeling randy during the day, she could easily pick up the phone and call her personal masseur Jean-Claude, who was constantly on tap and always up for a quick grope, suck and a fuck.

But the most important subject in her life was her most favourite past time ever and that’s what she needed to do, and do it as soon as possible, otherwise she would burst.
And that was shopping!