57 Channels (And Nothin’ On)

I hated my job; I had done since my first day there. As the make-up girl for Midnight Dynamite, the adult satellite channel, I had to spend my time powdering and pandering to the egos of the succession of minor glamour models who fronted the station’s output. Each seemed to be bitchier and more vacuous than the last, with so much silicon implanted in her chest that it must have been like making love to a bag full of bowling balls. I hated my boss, too: Bruce Figgins was a jumped-up nobody with a diamond embedded in his front tooth and an over-developed sense of his own importance. Primeval slime would have had qualms about spending time in his company. Only two things kept me at the station: the fact that the studio was a mere five minutes’ walk from my rented Docklands flat, and the knowledge that, following the incident in the broom cupboard at the Christmas party with a well-endowed sound engineer from Wolverhampton and a bottle of Cointreau, I would never work for the BBC again.

It was Friday afternoon, the last of the month, and that meant only one thing: a new bimbo in the hot seat, needing help with her overdone lip gloss, and words of no more than one syllable on the autocue. I rolled up for work fifteen minutes early and bumped into Mark, the youngest and best-looking of the station’s three cameramen. He was dressed in his usual uniform of blue chambray shirt tucked into tight, faded jeans, his short blond hair flopped into his face, and his blue eyes glittered behind their round, wire-framed glasses. He flashed me an “I know something you don’t” grin as I retrieved my shoulder bag from where it had tangled in his sleeve.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” I asked him.

“What?” he replied.

“That expression on your face, the one that makes me think I’m in for a rough time.”

“Oh, nothing. Just take a look in the green room,” he said enigmatically. As I turned to pass him, he added, “You know I’ve got a bottle of brandy hidden in my locker.”

I shook my head, not having marked him down as a secret drinker.

“You do now. Just in case you need it.”

“Cheers, Mark,” I muttered, and went to deposit my bag in the dressing room before heading to see what was waiting for me in the glorified veal crate we laughingly called the green room.

It was a vision in stonewashed denim and pink patent leather stilettoes, the merest hint of mousy root ruining the illusion of natural blonde locks. It chewed gum with all the placidity of a prize Friesian as it studied its horoscope in the latest edition of OK! magazine. I glued an artificial smile to my face as I approached it.

“Hi, you must be Shelley,” I said, holding out my hand, which it declined to shake. “I’m Lizzie.”

It stopped chewing for the briefest second. “All right, babes,” it replied in squeaky Cockney tones, and returned to the forecast for Gemini.

“Would you like to come through with me?” I asked.

It picked up a bulky sports bag and tottered behind me into the dressing room. Shelley Valenti, known to her parents and the tax man as Mandy Bickerdike, a veteran of Page Three, Penthouse and a selection of soft-focus lesbian porn films at the disgustingly tender age of nineteen. Those pneumatic breasts and perky, cellulite-free bottom had graced posters, calendars and the cover of a chart-topping heavy metal album, fetchingly draped in little more than a black lace suspender belt, and not they were set to be the main attraction of the next month’s viewing on Midnight Dynamite – once they had been given the once-over by yours truly, of course.

“Would you like a coffee, or a tea?” I asked, as Shelley slipped off her jacket and settled herself in the chair.

“You got any vodka?” she replied, hopefully.

“Er… Sorry, no.” If I had, I’d be necking it myself. Then I remembered Mark’s emergency brandy. That was one secret I was definitely keeping away from Shelley. The last thing we needed was our star turn rolling out for duty half-cut.

“Okay, I’ll have a coffee, then. Black, three sugars, please.”

I waited while the vending machine disgorged a cupful of the brown glop that masqueraded as coffee, cursing quietly to myself as I did. If only I’d remembered to lock that broom cupboard door on the night of the Christmas party, I could still be powdering the faces of the Newsnight presenters, instead of nannying a girl whose idea of intellectually-stimulating television was Postman Pat.

Back in the dressing room, Shelley was scrutinising her features in the brightly-lit make-up mirror. “God, I’ve got a bastard of a zit on my chin,” she sighed. “I always get covered in them just before I come on.”

“Would you like to get your outfit out?” I asked her, trying to distract her from regaling me with the ins and outs of her menstrual cycle in graphic detail. “That was I can see what colours will go best with it.”

“Sure.” She rummaged in her bag and brought out a beautiful baby-pink corset and tiny matching panties. I breathed an envious sigh as she held it out before her. I’d seen the identical outfit in the window of one of the trendiest fetishwear shops in Soho, and knew it would set me back the best part of a month’s salary. “D’ya like it?” she asked.

“It’s lovely,” I replied sincerely.

“I mean, it’s nothing special,” she continued. “I’ve got a blue one and a black one just like it, but this is my favourite.” She unzipped her skirt and let it fall to the floor, before cheerfully wriggling out of her black lycra bra top and lacy G-string to stand before me naked, her breasts apparently defying gravity. The way she was looking at me as she smoothed her small hands over her breasts made me start to wonder if she’d stuck to appearing in purely girl-on-girl films for a reason.

My suspicions were confirmed once she clambered into the chair and I began to apply the orangey foundation that seemed garish in the dressing room and totally natural under the studio lights. As I worked, blending it into her temples and jawline, I felt the lightest of touches on the back of my knee. I ignored it at first, but when long-taloned fingers started to skitter up the hem of my skirt, heading with unerring accuracy for my crotch, I snapped, “For God’s sake, Shelley, cut it out!”

“Cut what out?” she asked innocently, her fingers kneading my pussy through the thin cotton gusset of my knickers.

“I don’t like being felt up when I’m working, that’s all,” I told her, remembering the featherlight touch of a certain sound engineer and trying to sidestep Shelley’s unrelenting fingers.

“What’s up, don’t you fancy me?” she persisted, slipping one finger beneath my knickers and insinuating it into my moistening pussy.

“It’s not that,” I said, clinging on to my bottle of foundation with trembling hands. “You’re a very pretty girl, but I’m just not into women.”

“Don’t feel that way to me,” she retorted, raking a sharp talon over my clit and making me wince.

“Well, it’s the truth, so if you’d just remove your hand…”

“I’ll do better than that,” she muttered. “I’ll remove myself.” And with that, she pulled off her protective overall, grabbed her handbag, and dashed in the direction of the ladies’. By the time I caught up with her, the door to the single cubicle was firmly locked.

“Come on, Shelley, please!” I begged. The cameras were due to start rolling in twenty minutes; the last thing I needed was for her to throw a tantrum.

I was banging on the door when there was a discreet cough behind me. I turned to see Bruce, doing one of his occasional mix-with-the-plebs tours of duty round the station. He didn’t usually make an appearance on Friday afternoons, preferring to take what he euphemistically called a business lunch with his secretary, and I wondered if his wife had finally found out about this arrangement.

“Afternoon, Lizzie,” he drawled genially, flashing his diamond smile at me. “Everything okay?”

“Erm… Shelley’s just a bit nervous, that’s all,” I burbled. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Good, good,” he replied, and wandered off in search of someone else to frighten.

As I jiggled the door handle, I realised it was starting to give. The catch had always been dodgy, and I reckoned that one solid blow might be enough to break it. Summoning up all my strength, I hurled myself against the door. With a cracking of wood, I was through.

My heart sank at what I saw. How Shelley had managed to get her hands on Mark’s brandy, I’ll never know. I assume it was the same instinct that enables salmon to find their way upstream to their place of birth to spawn and die. Whatever, she’d done serious damage to what, on inspection, appeared to be extremely good quality cognac. Coupled with the effects of three or four proprietary cold-cure capsules, whose blister pack lay discarded on the toilet floor, she was spark out and snoring quietly When I shook her shoulder, gently at first and then with a viciousness born of desperation, she merely slumped forward on the toilet seat and grunted. I am not going to panic, I told myself, before taking a generous swig of the brandy myself and haring out of the dressing room in search of Mark.

Luckily, I found him wandering towards the studio, munching on an apple. He took one look at my face and realised something was wrong.

“You’ve got to help me!” I exclaimed. “There’s an unconscious bimbo in the ladies’!”

He didn’t ask for further explanation, but simply dashed after me, and together we manhandled Shelley out of the cubicle and into the corridor. We’d almost made it to the safety of the dressing room when Bruce rounded the corner.

“I take it there’s a logical explanation for this..,” he began.

“Erm,” I replied, visions of exile to the dead zone that is the Shopping Channel dancing in my mind. “Well… She just overdid the hospitality a bit.”

“A bit!” Bruce was apoplectic. “Take her into the green room and sober her up.”

“I think we’re past the sobering up stage,” Mark replied. “We’re more into the standing her under a cold shower for a day and a half stage.”

“Well, find a replacement for her, then. I don’t care what you do, just do something. We start recording in ten minutes and I need a girl in front of that camera.”

As Bruce strode back to his office, I looked at Mark mournfully. “We might as well go and collect our cards now. We’re never going to find anyone else.” Then I noticed the way he was looking at me. “Oh, no… Not me… I couldn’t…”

Ten minutes later, I was staring back at my new reflection in the dressing room mirror. Shelley’s corset wasn’t too bad a fit around the waist and hips, but I’d had to take in the cups with pins, to compensate for my relative lack of bust. A long, curly blonde wig covered my own hair, and I’d done my make-up in pastel shades that I would normally never have worn. I looked like a new woman.

“Perfect,” Mark breathed, his eyes taking in the swell of my breasts and my stocking-clad legs.

“I can’t do this,” I muttered.

“’Course you can. All you have to do is read out those stupid links and giggle a lot. What you need is some Dutch courage.” He poured the remains of his precious brandy into two paper cups. We toasted each other, and drank. Then he put his arms round me. “For luck,” he said, giving me a kiss on the lips that deepened more than either of us expected. We pulled apart; his expression was enigmatic behind the lenses of his glasses.

“Come on,” he said. “Can’t keep Uncle Brucie waiting.”

He ushered me into the studio, and took his place behind the camera while I settled myself on to the faux leopardskin chaise longue that was the focal point of the set.

Alistair, the second cameraman, looked at us quizzically.

“Shelley Valenti is history,” Mark informed him. “Meet… Lisette L’Amour.”

The next few minutes were a blur. I tried to copy the moves I’d seen the other girls make, rolling around on the chaise longue, pouting coquettishly, occasionally running my hands across my pert, corset-covered tits and down over the front of my flimsy pink panties. My script appeared to have been dashed off by a couple of monkeys who’d got bored in their attempts to recreate Hamlet, but I was doing my best to breathe some sincerity into the clichéd lines and, despite myself, I was starting to get turned on.

I must have gyrated a bit too energetically, because when I looked up from the autocue, Mark was waving his arms, trying to attract my attention. I stared at him, totally baffled, and then he dropped his gaze. I glanced down to see that my right breast had come loose from the corset, and my nipple was standing perkily to attention. I couldn’t work out whether he thought I should cover myself up or expose a little more so, made bold by the brandy and the unexpected horniness of the situation, I pulled at the other cup, baring my left breast, too. Mark was dumbfounded, but Alistair was busily concentrating on capturing my newly topless state for the camera.

I thrust my body towards Mark, almost hoping he would dare me to go further. His jeans suddenly appeared much tighter than usual, the outline of his erection pressing awkwardly against the faded denim.

I tugged at the laces on the corset, and dropped the garment to the ground. Lying back on the chaise longue in nothing but my panties, stockings and Shelley’s borrowed pink stilettoes, I spread my legs, aware that I was becoming very wet between them. Again, my fingers stroked across the thin material. Should I remove these, too? If I hadn’t been disguised by the outrageous wig and make-up, I wouldn’t even have considered the question. But I was no longer Lizzie Wallis, lowly make-up girl on the verge of losing her job; I was Lisette L’Amour, Midnight Dynamite’s sex queen. And if this was to be my last day at the station, I wanted to make sure I went out with a bang.

As I inched the waistband of my panties down just the merest fraction with my thumbs, all pretence at following any kind of script forgotten, Mark let out a muted groan. I could almost feel Alistair’s lens zooming in for a closer look so, with mock coyness, I shook my head.

“Sorry, boys,” I grinned. “I don’t go any further unless you do.” As they gaped at me I said, “Come on, Alistair, get your kit off!”

I never thought he’d comply, but he eagerly began to peel off his teeshirt and jeans. Mark shrugged and followed suit. When both men were stripped down to their boxer shorts, I gave them a saucy wink and wriggled slowly out of my panties.

“What next?” Alistair was asking. A face had appeared in the glass panel of the studio door; Bruce, obviously wondering what his cameramen were doing standing practically naked behind their equipment. His presence was all the encouragement I needed.

“This…” I caught hold of a slightly startled Mark and kissed him full on the lips. He began to return the kiss with enthusiasm, his tongue probing deep into my mouth while his hands roamed freely over my naked body.

Pushing me back on the chaise longue, he dropped his head and began to nuzzle at my breasts, slicking one nipple with his saliva while he pinched the other between finger and thumb. I pulled his head hard into my cleavage as he nipped the soft flesh with his teeth.

His cock was poking through the fly opening of his boxer shorts, the foreskin already retracting to reveal a fat, glistening head. I reached down to tug the velvet sleeve of skin gently over the solid column of muscle beneath, already curious to know how it would feel inside me. I was oblivious to my surroundings, forgetting about the camera and the noise. All I wanted was to have Mark’s cock sliding deep into my hot, aching channel.

I parted my legs a little wider, and Mark responded by sliding down my body so that his face was pressed against my pussy. I sighed as his questing tongue parted my outer lips and skated over the folds that guarded the entrance to my cunt. He hadn’t bothered to remove his glasses and I could feel their wire frame, cold against my overheated skin. His tongue was burrowing further, seeking out my clit, and as he began to stimulate the little bud with rapid flicking movements, I felt the ripples of orgasm flutter through my lower body.

Mark was slurping with obvious enjoyment at my pussy, and I could quite happily have kept him there all day, but I wanted something more.

As he kicked his boxer shorts across the studio floor, his swollen penis bobbed close to my mouth, and I reached out a playful tongue to tease its tip. His face lit up in a smile. I took hold of his shaft and began to suck in earnest, my mouth working enthusiastically up and down his length.

It wasn’t long before he suddenly pulled away from me. Disappointed, I pouted at him, but he whispered, “Sweetheart, if you keep sucking me like that, I’m going to come, and I don’t think either of us wants that just yet.”

“So what do you want?” I husked.

“Let me show you,” he replied. I allowed him to position me on my hands and knees, then he was behind me, sliding the head of his cock into my waiting quim. He pushed in till he was buried to the hit; a perfect fit, I thought, as I felt his girth distending my inner walls.

Slowly at first, he thrust into me, and as he steadily built up a hard, satisfying rhythm, I moved my fingers down to rub at my clit, taking me towards a shattering orgasm…


I don’t know whether it was Bruce who pushed the switch. All I know is that suddenly, the station’s scheduled output, recorded highlights of the Fifth California All-Comers’ Jelly-Wrestling Championships, was replaced by extremely live footage of Mark and myself, moaning and screaming as he thrust hard into me from behind. This was not the censored, sanitised lovemaking the channel’s viewers were used to; this was raw, urgent passion, and even if either of us had realised that a small proportion of Western Europe was watching us having sex, we were both too close to orgasm to care.

The combination of Mark’s cock in my cunt and my own fingers on my clit brought me to the edge once again and I cried out, my muscles clamping hard around him. The pressure was too much and he climaxed seconds behind me, his come spurting into me.

We slumped against each other, our heartbeats slowing, Mark bestowing a kiss on my sweat-soaked breasts.

“What a way to hand in your notice!” he sighed.


Miraculously, we weren’t sacked on the spot. Perhaps Bruce was uncharacteristically giving in to a generous impulse. Or perhaps it had more to do with the fact the ratings for that particular slot were the highest the channel had ever received.

My days as a make-up girl are behind me now, but only because I’ve officially become Lisette L’Amour, Midnight Dynamite’s resident sex queen. Every week, I share my leopardskin chaise longue with some minor celebrity or another, flirting and teasing, while my semi-naked cameraman records the horny action. I never go quite as far as I did on that first occasion, but if there were footage available of what Mark and I get up to once the camera stops rolling, I swear your satellite dish would melt…


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