Ben Elton - Dead Famous

What a wildly exciting thought that was! That simply by clamping their mouths together they were making themselves into stars!

Hamish boldly chanced a hand, spurred on by genuine lust and pure vainglorious exhibitionism. Gently he slipped it under the hem of the baggy vest that Kelly was wearing. It had been clear to him all evening and to the four million viewers who would later be watching on television that Kelly was not wearing a bra.

“Uh-oh, that’s second base,” Kelly breathed, and removed his hand.

In the bunker they were on the edge of their seats.

“Did he touch a tit? Did we win the magnum?”

“I don’t think so, she stopped him.”

“Cow! Let him have a squeeze, girl, go on. Think of England!”

“I think he might have touched it, I really do.”

“We’ll have to wait for the replay.”

“Plenty of time yet, anyway. Look at them.”

In Copulation Cabin Hamish’s disappointment over the failed grope was already forgotten. Kelly seemed to be turning hot again.

“I’ve got an idea,” she said. “Let’s sleep here tonight, eh? Then we can be really famous: Hamish and Kelly sleep together in poolside love nest! Ha ha!” Then she pulled off her jeans.

“Yes!” they cried in the monitoring bunker, punching the air with their fists as Kelly’s gorgeous bottom, clad (if “clad” could be considered the word) in a tiny G-string, was revealed.

“Oh, yes!” they shouted once more, their fingers positively quivering over their editing controls.

“Come on,” Kelly breathed, “get your kecks off, you ain’t sleeping in my love nest in dirty stinky boy trousers.”

Hamish did not need asking twice and immediately began pulling down his immaculate chinos. As he struggled to get them off over his shoes, which he had neglected to remove, the full erection struggling within his underpants was plain for all to see.

“Naughty,” said Kelly. “Did you make that for me?” And with that she pulled the rugs up and over them.

“Damn,” they said in the bunker. “We never should have given them anything to cover themselves with.”

In the darkness under the blankets Kelly put her hand over her microphone and whispered. “That’ll give ’em something to think about, eh?”

Kelly had reached her limit. Quickly, Hamish tried to push her on. “Why don’t we really give them something to think about, Kelly?”

“What sort of girl do you think I am?” Kelly giggled. She was already drifting off to sleep. “I’m tired.” She whispered it so quietly that even Hamish had trouble hearing her. And her hand was over her microphone.

Nobody would have heard it but him.

The booze and the soft cushions were taking their toll. Kelly was losing consciousness. Inwardly Hamish cursed. Hamish kissed her. He kissed her again, whispering in her ear, trying to revive a mood, which had never really been the mood he thought it was anyway.

“No,” Kelly murmured. “Don’t be silly. Too tired, too drunk, too comfy.”

Or at least that’s what it sounded like. She was so far away by this time that she wasn’t speaking clearly.

Hamish held Kelly close. Her arms were still around him, exactly where she had placed them before she had fallen asleep. His body was pressing up against her, his whole bursting, desperate body. He slipped his hand back under Kelly’s shirt, the hand that she had only recently removed. This time she did not remove it. She was asleep. Hamish held her breast.

In the bunker there were no celebrations. The crew did not realize that they had won their magnum. They could not see. They did not know.

“What are they doing under there?” Pru asked.

“Not very much, I’m afraid,” said the PA. “Too bloody pissed. I know the feeling.”

Under the blankets Hamish gave Kelly’s breast a little squeeze. Gently and then more boldly he allowed his fingertips to play with the glorious, sexy little nipple ring. He pulled at it a little. Kelly did not even stir.

Hamish was a doctor and he knew that Kelly was not asleep. She was unconscious. Hamish’s head was swimming in the darkness.

The darkness! Hamish suddenly realized how dark it was. They were completely concealed. It was black as coal beneath the thick, heavy, musky blankets.

Slowly, being careful not to move the blanket that covered them, Hamish began to edge his hand down Kelly’s body. Down across her ribs, which rose and fell so deeply, and so regularly, across her smooth, flat tummy, until finally slipping it beneath the tiny triangle of her G-string.

Hamish was blind with excitement. The prospect of touching such forbidden fruit had completely intoxicated his already drunken mind. Now Kelly let out a deep snore.

In the bunker they heard Kelly’s snore and, noting that the blanket beneath which Hamish and Kelly lay was scarcely moving, they concluded ruefully that the excitement of the night was over.

But the excitement wasn’t over: it was reaching fever pitch. Hamish had his hand between Kelly’s legs now, he was touching her, discovering her, discovering to his surprise that Kelly had a little secret… her labia was pierced. This she had not revealed to the group; her nipple rings she had mentioned often, but this most private piece of jewellery she had kept to herself. Until now.

As Hamish gently explored, a phrase suddenly appeared in his fuddled consciousness, a phrase which he remembered from his class on forensic medicine. The phrase was digital penetration .

That’s what he was doing now. That was what it would be called if anybody ever knew.

Suddenly Hamish became aware of the appalling risk that he was running. He was committing a serious crime . This crazy drunken improvisation, this sex prank , was assault. He could go to prison.

Hamish began to remove his hand, but reluctantly, very reluctantly. And as he did so, for a moment he pulled aside the thin, damp gusset of Kelly’s G-string and in that moment, in that one blinding moment of lust, he seriously considered taking his straining, aching erection from inside his own underpants and with it entering Kelly’s unconscious body.

The thought lasted only for a moment. Drunk as he was, the terrible, life-changing risks that he had already run were clear to him. In fact it was the momentary contemplation of this even greater abuse that truly brought home to Hamish the gravity of what he had already done.

Digital penetration . That was serious enough, for God’s sake, leave it. Leave it. Quickly, gently, with the practised and steady hand of a doctor, Hamish rearranged Kelly’s gusset in an impression of how he had found it, pushing the warm wet string into the crease of her vagina and then threading it up between her buttocks.

All the while he was deadly careful to avoid moving the heavy blankets and rugs that covered them. It was imperative that the people whom he knew were watching thought that he, like Kelly, had been asleep.

Having removed his hand, Hamish began to pretend to snore a little, not too much, just the occasional little noise to accompany Kelly’s deep, drunken slumber.

Reaching down to feel himself, Hamish realized that his pants were wet. Unwittingly he must have ejaculated or at least leaked considerably during his excitement. Had he stained the cushions? Or, worse still, her knickers? If he had, could he pass it off as an embarrassing accident? Tense with fear, he felt about to discover if any evidence of his shame had escaped. It seemed not. He had been lucky.

Kelly was unconscious and he had left no sign.

The blankets were thick and they had scarcely moved.

He was safe. He truly believed that he was safe. But the risk. The risk he had run! It made him cold to even think of it.