“What – me and him on the same show?” asked an incredulous Margie, getting a nod from Bernie Mannel, her long time agent. “Wow! That’s cool, he’s fucking gorgeous,” she gasped, pulling her stockings up and straightening the seams. “You’re so crude sometime Margaret,” Bernie chuckled, receiving a hung out tongue from the sixty three year old actress at his persistent use of her given but mostly forgotten name. “But they’re not crude ... oh aren’t you going to wear them?” he nodded at a pair of new silk, pale blue French knickers. “Love them, that’s why I got them for you. The way you’ve dressed for years, they’re perfect.” “I’ll just put these on for now darling. Next time you’ll see them,” Margie preened and blew him a kiss. “You know me after a good shag, I don’t like to sluice you out straight away and it’ll spoil them by the time we are at the lift,” she advised Bernie, making sure her hirsute greying bush was tucked into her tiny cream silk briefs. She had many times thought of trimming it, but Bernie, Brucie Forshore, Jimmy Tarbrush and Michael Apple, loved her old style sexual attitude and of course her dress sense.

Bernie had dressed in the same way for years, and she chuckled quietly at his starched white shirt, all buttoned up, hung over his white Y-front underpants concealing still with difficulty Bernie’s fat Jewish cock. He was Windsor knotting his red and gold, known as egg and bacon, striped MCC tie, as she cast her eyes south, over his very hirsute skinny legs. He’d drawn on his navy blue socks as high as they would go. It all looked slightly incongruous, but she was used to it.

The two old timers, old lovers, Margie his mistress for forty years, were extremely comfortable in each others company, Bernie ever grateful for her mental and physical love, his beloved wife Rachel struck with Rheumatoid arthritus when she was thirty eight, too early. As Bernie flattened his tie pin, the insignia of the Kennel Club promoted thoughts of Rachel, at home with their two massive Great Dane hounds. The brindle bitch Schlom and the blue/grey dog Matzo, both named as a bit of a joke in their Hebrew way. He felt safe they would guard and look after her until he got home to Sandbanks later. Matzo might need a bit of extra exercise, Bernie thought he might be open to it. Margi threw on her mink shawl, a fiftieth birthday present from Bernie, over her dark blue sequinned dress and kissed him, leaving for home in her Series 3 silver Mercedes to her thatched cottage in the New Forest. He left the 5 star Grand Harbour, Southampton, tipping generously, as always, various staff who were nothing if discreet – he did own it, and drove his Bentley Continental home.

“Shit - that old bag,” moaned Louis.”Fucking hell, why me. I can’t stand scousers, they’re all mouthy and a fucking bint.” “You’ll be OK mate,” said Michelle, his drinking companion and new presenter of a popular BBC early evening TV show. “The most you’ll have to put up with her is in the Green Room before. You can sneak off afterwards and you won’t be alone with her. I heard she’s quite a laugh anyway.” The two half caste Brits were discussing the oncoming broadcast and Michelle’s expedition to a gym so see Louis go through his training exercises. Similar in skin tones and extremely good looking, the pair were taken for siblings or partners while they sat in Marco Pierre White’s bar near the Salford Media Centre. They had previous though; he was the proverbial shag machine and she was a addicted cunt bucket, spreading her legs all over the Corporation to finally secure this prized job which would surely lead to more prestigious shows, maybe her own.

A much decorated Olympic gymnast, Louis was sought after to be interviewed on many chat shows, sometimes as a dual with Max Whitlock an equally decorated gymnast, they were a good looking and easy going pair.

“How was Margie the other night?” asked Rachel, as Bernie took her lunch in on a tray, dismissing the expensive carer he was funding. The young Polish woman sulked, but she always sulked, with that sort of face, although being a happy smiling person. “Oh fine as usual darling,” he replied pouring her tea. “Same old same old, you know.” “Did she like those knickers? They were smashing, I would wear those,” chuckled his wife, buttering a slice of brown bread. “But I’ve got loads you’ve bought me and quite frankly I don’t want to go places these days and not bothered what I look like,” she chuntered. “Yeah - loved them, but she didn’t put them on. She said my jism would spoil them within minutes ... right I suppose. She put the ones she’d arrived in on just to drive home,” Bernie snickered. “Yeah she is, you dirty old manyak,” Rachel giggled, who often resorted to Hebrew in her vocabulary. “What is good Bernie is that you’re still producing that shit. Luckily her koos is well past having a little one, like min...” “Now don’t upset yourself sweetie. She’s old, but you are ill ... well you know. Anyway if you could, we wouldn’t anyway would be? We never wanted fucking kids, not for us.” “We’re fucking old Bernie, lets face it. At least you can enjoy yourself ... hey – do you fancy ... you know?” Rachel grinned and thumbed out of the room. “She’s got lovely tits. She’s hairy too, just as you like, I mean look at her hairline. Margie hasn’t trimmed hers has she?” “No way, they must be nearly three four inches long. The way they hang beside her pussy, love ‘em. Hey! yours were spectacular anyway, not were, sorry – are and yes I do fancy this new chick, she got a handle?” “Zofia. I’ll leave you to it. I know she’s eighteen from her documents.” The Mannells had enjoyed a free marriage over fifty years, both indulging in various affairs. Bernie had been more adventurous, even trying a male dancer with a Russian troupe. “Ok thanks darling, she’s got a hell of a tan.” “Hmm yes, she’s not from a poor destitute family I think, maybe had good holidays, it’s not particularly sunny in Poland is it?” “Don’t remember that when I was visiting, fucking cold actually. But think of Russia, I mean they love nude resorts as we found out,” Bernie snickered, pouring her some more tea. “Oh yes that place in France, they were all over it weren’t they, big and fat uurrgh!” “Oh not all of them.”

“Hey remember when we first tried nudey stuff, what a laugh,” Rachel giggled. “I looked good then, wouldn’t go now. You spotted men staring and one with a hidden camera ... well he thought it was hidden. He didn’t know I’d been a stripper and wasn’t worried about showing my pussy, so you dared me, remember?” “Yeah he was looking straight up your crotch, only about ten feet away and you gave him the whole show, lying with your legs wide open, then turning over, kneeling, sticking your bum in the air. You could almost hear him purr with such a sight on his camera, especially with your pussy, big fat lips and hairy heh heh.” Aged seventy eight now, Rachel loved nothing better to reminisce, especially with her husband who told her he would be seeing Margi tonight.

Some days later My he’s a looker, Margie pondered, when she arrived at Media City in Salford. The meet and greet chap was slim, very young and very pale, similar to herself, she’d always shunned hot sun light, she was fair and her bleach blonde accentuated the dippy blonde look, which had dominated her roles. “Come with me Mrs Clarke,” he said pleasantly. “Love to,” she giggled, not eliciting a reaction and followed his slim uniformed frame. He was a sporty walker, bit of a roll and swagger, arms held away from his body and long elegant strides. He explained that her dressing room was exclusively hers and entered a spacious room with a shower, dressing table, sofa and a desk – her practised eye noted no fridge or mini bar. “I’ll be outside if you need anything. It’s quite a way to the green room, you’ll have a ball up there and studio, so it’s up to me to sort you out and by the way my name is Simon. I’ve seen a lot of your work on YouTube, the old soaps and stuff, it’s cool, anyway...” he gestured, stepping back outside. “Leave you to it...” “ ... Thanks Simon, much obliged mate. Looking forward to the show, meeting Louis Smith, talk about cool,” she snickered. “Got a new dress as well.” The unimpressed lad left and clicked the door shut, she locked it. Gazing around with an hour to spare, Margi fumbled in her bag and dragged out stuff. She poured herself a neat double vodka from a small flask always carried, and downed it in one. She thought about a shower, towels were plentiful – yeah why not. She unpacked her compact valise, spread her make up – a lot of it – on the dresser and unfolded her new dress. Her ludicrously high Hilfiger wedges came out too. Margi’s dress slid down, then she unhooked her white 36D M&S brassiere and dropped it. She slid her hands in her white M&S plain briefs and wiggled them off.

Inspecting the gusset, she frowned and then swiftly smelled it, turning her mouth a little, pursing her bright red painted lips and wagging her head side to side as if undecided. Yes they’ve been on all day. I’ve got a spare pair of knickers she thought stepping to the shower, playing with the temperature and flow then climbed in. With bags of time, she soaked in the powerful spray after donning a provided shower cap trying not to mess her careful casual style. Margi knew there would be make up people available and her style was easy to reciprocate.

The soap was a luxurious brand and easily lathered so she carried out a full body wash, her slippery hands roaming her elderly body, lifting her sagging boobs and letting them flop then repeating that several times. Her dark perky nipples had enlarged in the spray and become sensitive, so she tweaked them, nipping with soapy digits which sparked a reaction down below. She bent forward slightly, bending her legs and soaped her hairy minge trying not to get too much soap up inside which later might promote some unpleasant sensations. Twiddling her clitoris she mused on young Simon’s earthy attraction, while playing one hand over her breasts – hmmm! Naaiaiice. Reaching through and behind her Margi attacked her arsehole, which had enjoyed a dildo for half an hour that morning, while she watched a porno video, showing some stringy, wizened old elders of a tribe in New Guinea being seduced by a so-called team of French explorers, three of them in their fifties and sixties. The westerners being pufftas, were in their element, which hadn’t interested the very heterosexual Margi, but the sight of the French and native old men’s cocks being nursed to erection was impressive. She was seriously into mature men, but would never eschew a young blood who fancied a trek through her forest.

Drying and taking another large snifter, as she termed it, of vodka, she viewed her hanging gardens of long, lush grey/black pubes in the mirror and patted them, careful to arrange them, they been very knotted she’d noticed entering the shower. She was due to have dinner with Bernie and that poncey bloke Michael Portillo after the show, to discuss a possible tie in with Portillo’s railway series and featuring her on the Mersey ferry and then what would be a blissful night with Bernie under his skilled thoughtful attentions and lusty old body.

“I’ve got to have a piece of your big fat poon tang,” Louis gasped, thinking he was up with street slang, watching Connie a curvaceous fat, black, studio assistant swallow his long dick. She’d come on strong in the make-up reception area before his TV programme hosted by Michelle Ackerley and Matt Baker. Telling him he would have to wait a short while, as he was early and the staff were otherwise engaged, Connie had made sure of her signals being received by clattering her ginormous boobs against Louis’ arms, bending over two ways - flashing her pink panties or channelling massive vistas of her incredible cleavage his way, dwelling on a lips kiss and being flirty girly every which way.

Loads of time and mister shag happy, meant he’d allowed her to manoeuvre them into a side cupboard. She’d dragged his chinos down, his pants too and got straight to work on his tool. Looking down on her bobbing mass of raster styled hair, she was fucking good. She was much darker than him and he loved that pink/ orange mix of skin tones on her palms as she cupped his balls. He often tried and succeeded to screw whoever was interviewing or coaching him, females only of course, but Margi Clarke? Fuck no. Being a light skinned mixed race guy, if he did fuck a black, he liked them as Connie, blue/black, huge rubbery pink lips with a dark outline – real niggers.

“Mmmhhph maybe later mmummph Louis,” Connie gasped between swallows. Her deep throat technique was well polished, enabling her to stuff his length straight back down her gob. Taking Louis’ cock way into her throat made him cum and Connie savoured the thick and no doubt athletic sperm he copiously pumped. They exchanged details and hurried to other destinations in the broadcasting suite.

“Oh Zofia, that is gorgeous – so soothing but exciting too,” purred Rachel Mannel. Her eighteen year old Polish carer, was tenderly licking the old woman’s soft pale nipples, while a hand was stroking over the wrinkled saggy mess of Rachel’s vulva. Mrs Mannel had deduced that Zofia, from Cracow, had earlier trained as a massuese before emigrating and taking the first job she could get in Bournemouth, which needed a dedicated army of carers to handle the ever rowing number of elderly residents, rich residents, especially in Sand Banks, the Mannel’s suburb. Zofia and Agata – her partner, had emigrated together, being tipped off that they could rip off the extremely rich people who could afford the stylish contemporary houses. Bernie was paying twice the minimum wage to get assitance for Rachel. “At eighty three, it doesn’t get much use these days,” Rachel snickered. “Bernie plays and I do and sometimes I get Ma...” she halted, she was saying too much in her blissful relaxed state.

Zofia concentrated on her task, a pleasant if undemanding task. She had seen what went on in the palatial Californian style three storey cliff hanging property on millionaires row. Agata, when told, had suggesed she widened her circle of operations one day and try - you know - the different aspects of getting pleasured and if it was successful, maybe Agata could somehow get invlved, but not on the precious days she did business.

Rachel murmured come closer so she could feel under the Polish lass’s starched pinafore. Zofia asked if she wanted her to undress as usual and got the nod. The two very different women were soone naked, Rachel already was anyway. They were vastly different in wealth, stature, physique, mentality and age. The contrast of Zofia’s enormous boobs to her patient’s sad little paps was marked. The young woman also had nipples that must have been half an inch sturdy, quite dark similar to her large areolae. Rachel grabbed one and suckled and then jolted as a greasy finger penetrated her vagina and then a pain started in her left knee making her jolt but with a difference.

“Owhhh! fuck it, not know,” groaned Rachel, clutching her knee. “ I shouldn’t have moved. Sorry Zofia, can you get my pills please, on the table there.” The love-in session was over, but Rachel, grimacing with the increasing discomfort of her arthritis kicking in, enjoyed Zofia’s boobs swaying side to side as she moved to the table and returned. The total image of a pretty sulky face, huge knockers and a mass of think pubic hair sprouting near up to her navel was a thriller for the ex-stripper, knowing how well Zofia would have been receieved back in the good old days when pubic hair was recognised as a usual bodily attribute.

“Where’s that fucking Ackerley bird again?” moaned Matt pacing the studio. His co-presenter missing getting near a crucial camera angle tweak by engineers, was not professional. “She’s gone to have another piss,” whispered the assistant studio manager. Michelle Ackerley was bent over a desk in a side office, being rammed solid by a bulky, bearded white American musician from Arkansas called Chet, who was part of a group guesting on her show. He’d virtually dragged her in to the room, having received what he thought was a hint. It was, but not now, for later, but she hadn’t been able to deter his thoughts and forceful actions, which having arrived in his mother’s home country, were to poke every damned limey broad he could, during the four week tour. Ignoring her squeals and half hearted protests, not fully meant, as the dude was the drummer in one of her fave bands and to get his meat up her twat was part of her evening entertainment, but not now ... especially as he’d gone from her minge to her arsehole in one deft thrust. She’d felt his fingers playing with her lumpy ring piece, not minding that, but she wasn’t exactly a lover of being buggered. With a throaty grunt he shot his load deep into her back passage, pulled out, dragged up his jeans and left her, bent flat on the desk, her arsehole sore and dripping his cum.

Amanda, the assistant to studio manager and part of the forced exit from London to Salford a while back was searching for Michelle and returning from the ladies toilet. One of those – if you want to keep your job, move from London to Salford., having taken the opportunity to change a tampon while in there, passed an office, at this time of the day not usually occupied and saw a light brown bum, pulling on a pair of black briefs and recognising the jewellery on both hands realised it was the missing Miss Ackerly. “Oh my god Michelle, what are you doing?” Amanda asked, in her Sloaney tones, barging into the room. “Er ... nothing Amanda. I thought my knicker elastic was bust that’s all,” came a not convincing reply. “Wow!” gushed airbrained Amanda. “ er ... never mind ... hmm, they’re nice knickers, anyway we’ve got to rush, Tristram is going ape shit in there,” she tittered, as Michelle flattened her skirt down over what Amanda mused were very shapely pins clad in fancy welted hold up stockings. Not the sort of underwear Amanda would choose, favouring comfy matronly pants, patterned dark tan stocking, under her sensible workmanlike denim mid calf skirts, but she was different.