Do You Know Who I Am 2

"Come in why don't you?"

Unsure what reaction to expect, Charlie tentatively enters the luxurious dressing room on wheels - its occupant's waspish reputation precedes her.

"Something needs fixing?"

"Took your time. Dam electrics have gone south."

"Thought it was a little dark," Charlie answers laconically, looking for obvious clues as to why things have gone awry.

"Do you know who I am?" The film star with an hourglass figure enquires irritably. Sure, Mae McLure, there isn't anyone in the country who wouldn't instantly recognise this broad, thinks Charlie who despite this truth has no intention of affording her ego the satisfaction of recognition.

"An actress I guess?"

This unimpressed response does not play well.

"A star dammit! Who has been waiting 30 minutes for some layabout to turn up to this slum." The art deco-style Airstream on the studio backlot seems plush to Charlie, who simply shrugs and begins to investigate the loss of power.

"Just how many appliances did you plug into this socket?"

"All of them," Mae answers with haughty disdain, "curling tongs, hairdryer, radio."

"Which is what tripped the fuse, there are other power outlets."

"I'm a performer, those rules are for the little people."

Charlie sighs and gets on the case. Beyond the glamour of film sets and sound stages, his daily task is to maintain everyday studio electrics, including the star's trailers lined up outside hanger-size buildings. His home is a modest bungalow in an unfashionable part of West Hollywood, where Charlie is grateful for quiet and the opportunity to live alone. The Veteran's Department paid for his sparks training and helped secure his current position; a union job, paying decent dough.

While he works, Charlie coolly considers the woman stalking crossly around the dressing room, knockout physical charms scantily covered by satin French knickers and bra. The ermine collar of Mae's revealing robe matches the fur trim on her kitten-heeled mules - classic screen siren attire, along with peroxide platinum blonde locks and an abundance of camera-ready Max Factor.

"I'm due on set in 15 minutes asshole, get this mess sorted now!" Mae's patience snaps, fixated on her mostly imaginary predicament she doesn't notice the dangerous glint in Charlie's eye. Slowly and deliberately, he stands.

"Enough with the insults lady. Act like a spoiled brat you're going to be treated like one."

"Oh yeah, like how?" Mae's response is instant and unwise.

"What someone should have done a long time ago, spank the rudeness outta you." Oh hell. Reality begins to reassert in Mae's brain; this dude looks as if he means business.

"I'll get you fired," she warns, sounding less certain now.

"Still be worth it." Such threats don't impress Charlie. Been where he's been, seen what he's seen in Korea and you're numb to fear, immune to bosses, and with zero tolerance for others' bad behaviour.

Mae's threats to those she considers minions usually command servile compliance, yet Charlie's not backing down. Even worse, judging by his powerful build he'll have no difficulty bending her to his will and taming this particular shrew. Mae is peremptorily grabbed and easily pulled across Charlie's lap, heels kicking dangerously as he lifts the robe, tugs down her panties and lays into her lusciously appointed posterior with a manual work calloused palm, all the while ignoring her squirming, whimpering and increasingly plaintive pleas. Charlie doesn't stop toasting her buns until the renowned leading lady is the reluctant possessor of a burning red butt.

"OK," he says, calm and controlled, "electrics fixed, you - for the moment - fixed too." Mae is casually dumped onto the floor by his feet. "I bid you good day." Charlie doffs his fedora and departs with dignity intact, unlike the actress.

No one has dared treat her with such disrespect in years. Mae bangs furiously about the dressing room, hastily donning her costume, desperate to reach the set on schedule. With two warnings for lateness already, another will cement a reputation for being 'difficult' that could end her contract.

"He can't do that to me," Mae mutters, angrily exiting the trailer. "I'm going to get, what was his damn name, oh yeah, Charlie, sacked as soon as I see the director."

Fortunately, caution prevails; be careful what you wish for, nothing stays secret in tinsel town. Kick-off and her bare-bottomed humiliation will soon reach the ear of fellow thespians. Who'll no doubt take much pleasure from her misfortune and gleefully leak the incident to Hollywood gossip columnists, giving the press a field day. Thanks to her attitude and tantrums, Mae is far from universally popular.

Then a further thought stops Mae in her tracks, when recalling Charlie, she no longer feels angry; experiences an opposite sensation. Sure, her behind smarts with a fiery intensity; conversely, she's damp with desire. Charlie is after all something of a looker and a real man, whatever that means in the early 1960s. Confused, yet strangely exhilarated, Mae arrives at the sound stage bang on time, surprising the entire crew.

Two weeks later Mae appears unannounced on the threshold of Charlie's humble abode.

"I sent a car to get you," she announces huffily.

"Can't be summonsed. You don't get to just click your fingers. Come in since you're here."

Mae enters and likes what she sees; shelves of books, a large radiogram surrounded by vinyl records; soft lighting, and the faintest hint of a jazz cigarette.

"Folks are saying my last performance was a career-best. Seems I 'brought a laser focus and authentic emotion to the role and plausibly inhabited the character'. That's what Variety wrote anyhow. I need that again. Not too good at self-discipline so hoping you could maybe..."

"Maybe what?"

"Keep me in line, as you did before." Mae looks abashed, avoiding his eye.

"Why would I?"

"To lend a helping hand. Reckon we've got a lot in common; I came up the hard way too and took a tough road to the top. Directors and casting agents tend to have certain 'expectations', of naïve, star-struck young women. At 18 a small-town girl who knew nothing, at 20 a rising celluloid star, fucked every which way by a succession of movie producers." Mae relates the story without a trace of self-pity. "How about you?"

"Grew up in care, kid's home. Got into a bit of trouble when a teen. Joined up at 16 to stay out of jail - I guess searching for some sort of family. Saw a lot of action, wounded and honourably discharged. Get where you're coming from lady, but I don't perform to order." That said Charlie is intrigued by Mae's proposition and senses what the dame might be seeking...

Slap!

"Try now."

Face stinging Charlie regards Mae anew. Shorter without the trademark high heels she invariably wears when in public and somehow softer when unmade-up, has freckles, who knew? Today she wears a loose pink woolly jumper and pedal pushers, hair hanging loose over bare shoulders. Looks gorgeous, more appealing for her evident vulnerability.

"Listen here Lisa-Jane Lubbock, that's your real name, isn't it?" Mae nods mutely, doe eyes tracking every move as Charlie draws the belt from his jeans. "You want licks you'll get 'em. Kneel on the sofa." Without shifting her gaze from him Mae obliges. "Push those slacks down, panties too." Sensually the garments slip to her knees. "Look straight ahead and push that bottom out." Charlie's voice is commanding, but not unkind. "Six strokes, count them out loud and don't forget to thank me when I've done."

Charlie has her figured out now - no call to be harsh - Mae craves the punishment ritual as much as the spanking.

He wields the worn leather with a measured intensity, hard enough to leave broad red bands across her quivering moons, not so severe as to make Mae's voice break when she calls out each number. Although her feet kick as each fiery stripe hits home, Mae gamely stays in position and thrusts out her bare buttocks to receive the next.

"Six! Thank you, mister," gasps Mae after the last stinging stroke. Stands up, rubs her hot red tush, and wriggles her hips seductively, resolutely determined to get what she needs. Charlie's finger traces the length of her slick labia, Mae shivering in libidinous response, wanton and naughty. "Honey, I want you to fuck my brains out, don't even think of doing me from behind, I want to look at my man."

Suddenly Charlie is in a hurry, sweeps clear the dining tabletop and hefts her onto it, Mae wincing when tender buttocks contact the polished wooden surface. She opens her thighs wide in invitation as Charlie hastily frees his straining cock.

"Do it to me face-to-face, baby," whispers Mae, drawing him closer, all the while disconcertingly aware this is their first kiss. Urgently she wraps her legs around his waist, ankles crossing behind as he enters her pussy. So big, so deep, feels so right, lost in each other, is her sexual abandon acted or for real? Charlie doesn't care. This is no dream, he's inside America's most lusted-after woman and she's one hell of a lay.

"Come on Charlie," she urges, "shoot, fill me up so I can come too." Dam, it happens sooner than he'd wish, the glorious sensations too overpowering to hold back. Mae moans in delight, feels his climax squirt warmly within and surrenders to her own orgasm. "That's what I'm talking about," she breathes hotly, "now take me to the bedroom, and do it again."

"Been reading Arthur Miller," announces Mae a few weeks later, wandering semi-clothed around Charlie's front room like it was the most natural thing in the world. "The studio thinks I should act in one of his plays. He writes well, but the part's just not me."

"Word on the street is the President would like to meet you," says Charlie, from the sofa.

"His people called. Not going to happen." Mae is adamant, she allows a suitably dramatic pause. "I'm going to England soon, the Royal Shakespeare Company has offered me a part," her voice swells with pride. That she reads the Bard comes as no surprise to Charlie, Mae's a smart cookie, despite constantly being cast as a bimbo. Hell, she even beats him at chess!

"Come with me?" Mae asks shyly, wary of rejection despite her fame.

"Why'd I do that? Passed through there when in uniform. Nice folks, crappy climate. Besides, I've got a cushy number here."

"Want to repeat the same experiences for the next 20 years? I get you needed time to heal, but how about living again? A new start could save us from ourselves."

Charlie considers the proposition for a moment, knows in his heart Mae's called it correctly; looks up and smiles.

"Need someone to look out for you I guess, count me in."