Tawny

Tawny in Trouble

*

Tawny looked at her watch. Only 3:15! Another three hours of yuckiness. She smiled broadly, falsely, at the elderly couple coming up the supermarket aisle.

"Would you like to try our new vegetarian breakfast sausage?" She proffered a misshapen brown bit of-–something––on a toothpick. "Nutritious! Delicious! No animals slaughtered! Help save our planet!"

The old gentleman was clearly more interested in Tawny's eco-friendly costume than the unappetizing sample. She had to wear this erotic ripoff of a jolly green giant outfit: green tights, elf shoes, a very short skirt, and a laced vest way too small for her--her breasts bulged against the restraining laces––with the droll little green cap, she was the sexy embodiment of politically correct health, and, hopefully, the nearly tasteless bits of gristle she was demonstrating. Her wide smile, almost a grimace after seven hours of demeaning work, was fixed in place.

"C 'mon Edwin, stop peekin' at her tits." the woman said, pulling her reluctant spouse away, towards the patent medicine section.

'This is the pits!' Tawny decided. Of all her recent lowpaying jobs, this had to be the worst. Even the cheapo bondage videos she had done last month were better than this! She had been paid a bit more, and kind of enjoyed the bondage, she admitted to herself, but was fired when she refused to do the blow jobs and fucking scenes. An actress had to have a little pride, after all. Standards, you know.

Her cellphone rang inside her cunning elf waist pack. She answered, grateful for the interruption.

"Tawny? This is Barry. Listen, I got a great opportunity for you! This could be the big one! Gotta see you later.."

"How about right now? This job really sucks. Half an hour, OK? Not your office, no offense, but it smells like stale pizza and failure.

"The Greek restaurant in the mall here, OK?" She was smiling her genuine smile as she clicked off and strode out of the market, her pitiful sausage substitutes abandoned. Whatever Barry, her agent, had in mind, it had to be better than this!

Tawny Bush (Her stage name; back in Keokuk, Iowa she had been Helen Sturtz) was an actress, In Los Angeles. Coals to Newcastle. Along with countless waitresses and gardeners and other would be stars, she was sure that one lucky break, one chance to show her talent, would pave the way to fame and fortune. And allow her to expand her metier, of course.

She was gorgeous (in a city where gorgeous was taken for granted): dark blonde with highlights, slim at five feet nine, but well endowed. Her breasts were large but firm, her saucy nipples uptilted slightly. Her waist was narrow, but her hips flared enticingly, her ass was perky, well rounded. And her legs, shapely, seemed longer than her height suggested. Did I mention her face? Deep blue sparkling eyes, straight nose, a wide mouth with a tiny overbite, full lips. Like I said, gorgeous. So what was the problem? Why wasn't she wildly successful in films? Because, unfortunately, she was a dead ringer for Sylvia Slate, the sexy and controversial super star. And Sylvia had gotten there first. Perhaps a bit over the hill, but still a powerful diva, she had personally made sure that none of Tawny's screen tests and interviews had seen the light of day.

Fifteen minutes later Tawny sat in the Greek restuarant, toying with a low calorie salad: diet yogurt, cucumbers and a tiny piece of feta cheese. She still wore her vegetarian elf costume; this was Hollywood; only a few customers bothered to notice or react. Barry charged through the door and pulled up a chair across from her.

"Tawny, baby! I got a real break for you! The opportunity of a life time!"

"That's what you said about this last gig, the Tim Ferrell lookalike elf bit. The pits; I just quit."

"No, listen! This involves Sylvia Slate. Hey, hey, I know you hate her, but hear me out!" He bent forward, exuding excitement .

Barry Seidlitz was skinny, intense; he whipped off his habitual sunglasses to make his point and feign sincerity. As usual he wore hip Hollywood garb, the open shirt, the gold chains, the pony tail––about five years behind the times. Most of his clients came from the vast pool of losers, wannabes, has-beens and never-weres. There was a

huge network of these celebrity seekers; they shared job tips and all the undercover rumors, scandals and gossip of the film community. And Barry heard most of it.

"So that's how I got this hot tip." Barry continued: "one of my clients, a fine Shakesperian actor now temporarily employed as a pool boy, is tight with Sylvia's housekeeper. Now get this!" He paused dramatically. Tawny began to wonder what he was up to.

"Someone's trying to kidnap Sylvia Slate! She's getting all these e-mail threats. The cops aren't interested until an actual crime is committed and she doesn't trust her security people for some reason.

She's hired a charactor actor named Rock Hammer––can you believe it?–– who thinks he's Humphrey Bogart.. But evidently she's still terrified, afraid to leave her estate."

"Barry, I think I see where you're going with this. First of all, kidnappers don't send warning notes, they kidnap. Then call and ask for ransom. So what's all this shit about emails? Sounds phony to me."

"Uh, well. Look, Sylvia believes she's a target. And so she wants a--a––double, kinda. OK, I'll level with you. I talked to Sylvia, the housekeeper got me in. I––showed her your portfolio; she knew who you are. She––she wants to hire you. To kind of––stand in for her."

"As bait, right?" Tawny was furious. "What a piece of work you are, Barry! Do you think I'd...."

Barry interrupted: "Just calm down! She'll pay you twenty thousand dollars a week! Do a few appearances, like that. Saddam Hussein had a bunch of look-alikes, no big thing..."

"How many of them got assasinated? No way, Barry! No way! Let that fat bitch solve her own problems". She paused: "Twenty thousand a week?"

"It's real career boost! She said you could double for her in the next Jill of the Jungle shoot after this foolish kidnapping scare is over. And after that, who knows?"

"OK, OK." Tawny said. "maybe––just maybe–– I'll think about it. Hell, I can do Sylvia Slate better than she can; she's getting old and fat."

"Uh, yeah, about that. Sylvia thought from your pictures that you were a bit––just a tiny bit––too skinny. So, if you could put on a few pounds...."

Tawny was on a punishing diet; she had lost nearly twenty of her healthy midwestern pounds. It had been agonizing. She exploded again; now the other diners were looking at the angry blonde in the weird green outfit. "That's it! You don't know how hard I have worked at..."

Barry held up his hands. "I hear you! But––twenty thou a week; she said she'd go to thirty thousand. Tawny, darling. Tawny! No one else can do this!"

It was more money than Tawny had seen in the last eighteen months. She took a deep breath, then another. After a long pause she looked Barry in the eye. He pulled his sunglasses back down off his forehead, hiding from her direct gaze. Finally she spoke: "Barry, you

got me. I need the cash. I'll be ready in a week" She pushed aside the salad and beckoned for the waiter.

"Bring me a plate of those dolmades and a lamb shish-ka-bob, no,

two., And a beer!" She smiled at Barry. "Might as well start right away. It will take me ten days to get as sloppy fat as ol' Sylvia. And I want the money to start right now. Take it or leave it!" She dug into the delicious Greek food.

Barry stood, almost knocking over the table. He gave Tawny a big hug, kissed her once, twice until she pushed him away. "Yeehah! Tawny, we're in business! I'll set up a meeting with Sylvia; she'll need to check you out in person. Happy pigging out!"

Tawny would have answered, but her mouth was full.

TWO

THE INTERVIEW

Ten days and fifteen extra pounds later, Tanya was impressed (and maybe a bit envious, she admitted to herself) as Barry steered his old Mazda Miata up the curved driveway to Sylvia's mansion or castle; you had to call it that. About the car: Barry kept insisting that it would be "a classic! a fucking classic! Worth a fortune! in about fifteen years!" In the meantime it was a faintly comical oil-leaking piece of junk. Barry braked grandly, spinning gravel, gave his keys to the openly disdainful valet, and rang the doorbell. The handsome young––butler?––who answered was frostily formal, "Yes?" he asked, eyeing Tawny, not Barry. 'What a hunk!' Tawny thought, and the same moment: 'He thinks I'm hot, too.'

She was. With her crash cheeseburger and fried chicken and pasta and pastry––strawberry cheesecake almost every night––diet, she had undone all the painful slimming of the last year. She was

ambivalent about the results: someone with anorexia nervosa would call her grotesquely fat; Rubens would have rejected her as too thin. The bottom line: as she posed in front of her full length mirror before her big interview with Sylvia, she liked what she saw. Her breasts were fuller, more softly inviting, squeezable; her waist remained slim with just a hint of incipient love handles, but a delicious little lower belly

roundness had appeared. Her ass was more opulent; a swelling invitation to fondling, exploring, spanking––whatever. Now she

regretted the grim months of dieting, trying to be the fashion model she was not. "I think this is me!" she told her voluptuous image in tne mirror: "Sexy me! Sylvia, watch your over–the–hill ass!"

Now, led down the grand hallway by the young butler, she was much more subdued; even cocky Barry seemed momentarily awed by the mansion: thousands, perhaps millions of dollars worth of overdone ostentatious––kitsch. So, past the tapestries and medieval armor collections, interspersed with spotlit marquee posters from Sylvia's career, they were led to an office, part bedchamber, Louis XIV styled.

An assured prim looking brunette rose from her baroque desk to meet them. Dark hair back in a bun, goldrimmed spectacles, a well tailored but severe business suit that clung, nonetheless, to her dancer's body, white blouse and black tie; her persona was impeccable as she anounced with a faint British accent: " I'm Miss Pritchard. Ms. Slate will see you now." 'Gotta be a dyke' Tawny told herself.

Sylvia's office was something else. It ws her bedroom, actually, as widely reported by the Inquirer, the Star, and other sleazy tabloids. The color scheme was pink and white, even to the deep shag rugs, the fussy draperies and the canopy over the king––or maybe emperor––sized bed. "Shades of Mae West!' Tawny thought "Wow!" And in the middle of the suite, hand on hip, was the diva herself.

One leg forward, chin raised, regal, she acknowleged her guests

with an imperious frown. She wore, apparently, nothing but a sheer silk robe in blazing saffron, cinched tightly at her waist. Her famous body was outlined, perhaps enhanced, by the clinging fabric. Her legendary disdain of underthings was well known to her fans; today seemed no exception.

"Goddamn! This lady really knows how to peddle her pussy! I can learn a lot from her! Just watch and listen, girl.' Tawny told herself.

"Ms. Slate! What an honor..." Barry began. Sylvia cut him short:

"Cut to the chase, Barry. Gerry? Whatever your name is. We know why you're here. And this is the girl that looks like me, right?" She strolled around Tawny, who yet had not spoken, like someone judging prize livestock at a state fair. Tawny felt demeaned, like a piece of meat; she was boiling, but kept silent––barely.

"You were right, she does resemble me! Beautiful in a sort of--unformed way. And that dress, dear, I think I remember it. That dreadful spy movie, wasn't it?"

Tawny had indeed copied the costume from Captive Spy, one of Sylvias's first hits, which had enraged the censors and become an overnight hit. The costume in question, as closely as Tanya could copy it with K mart knockoffs and a little skillful alteration by the Chinese seamstress from the flat next door, was a shiny black satin sheath, floor length, but slit nearly to the waist on both sides, showing lots of dark stockinged leg, and a glimpse of white thigh as well. The neckline

plunged wide and low; only world class cleavage could have worn it (and both Sylvia and Tawny qualified). But most audacious was the low cut, almost nonexistent back of the gown. When Sylvia had turned dramatically in the film, the dress exposed her swelling hips and backside and hinted at the shadowed crack between her buttocks.

Tawny had copied this iconic gown very well; in fact, the gaping cleavage was wider, flaunting most of her breasts, and the back was cut even lower; her ass showed another matching cleavage, no longer just a hint. Initially unsettled by the unbridled sexiness of this upstart, both turned on and nostalgic about the gown, Sylvia's facade was

intact: supercilous, amused, in no way threatened by this youngster––a

real actress, a diva.

Barry broke the charged silence as the two women took one

another's measure, like circling cats. Barry, a mere male, was uncomfortable and clueless during this long silent encounter. So he spoke: " Wow! Fantastic! Both of you are just awesome! I think she's just right, Sylvia––uh, Ms Slate. How about it?"

"Just a second." Tawny cut in, her voice low, controlled, furious. "I haven't got in a word yet. I haven't been introduced, for chrissake!~

Sylvia, I'm Tanya. Pleased to do business with you. Now. What do you have in mind? What is my job title and description? Am I your double, or what? "

Sylvia, unfazed, said: "My dear, I don't mean to neglect you. Your job will be very important to me. So, therefore, will you."

"With respect, Sylvia" Tawny used the first name deliberately "With all respect, that's just too vague. Do i pretend to be you only at supermarket openings and second rate award ceremonies? Or do I do press releases and inteviews for you, or do you need a body double for your next film?"

Sylvia's first impulse was to get rid of this feisty, insolent no–name bitch. On the other hand, the resemblance was so uncanny, and the kidnap threat so real––Sol Castle, the studio head, had assured her of that--she swallowed her anger and continued:

"Tawny, we can settle all those issues in a precise contract, which Miss Pritchard will attend to in a moment. Yes, you will represent me at public events. No, you will not do my interviews or write my memoirs, for that matter. And I don't need a body double!" She inhaled, threw out her world famous bosom and posed dramatically.

Tanya looked at Barry, who had been silent as the two women sparred, then said to Sylvia: "I accept. I'd be delighted to work for you –– with a little extra hazardous duty pay, perhaps, for the appearances. I know about the kidnap threats, of course."

Sylvia glared at Barry, who adjusted his sunglasses. She said: "Well, Tanya, there might be a tiny bit of risk, though I think this is just some crazy fan, Still, he––or they ––seem to know everything about me. Actually, I wonder if you'd fool a really well informed kidnapper. I

think i need to have a closer look at you; undress, please."

Tanya froze, What was this? "Excuse me? You want me to––strip?"

"Actually, yes. Unless I can ––inspect you, up close, I'm afraid the deal is off."

'What the Hell, I've got nothing to hide', Tanya thought. Miss Pritchard was watching tensely, she noted. 'Maybe they're both lesbians!'

"WHy not?" she replied. Standing tall, she began to slip off the black satin sheath, then turned to Barry. "Do you mind? I'd like a little privacy for this strip search, or whatever."

"Tawny. I should protect your--Oh, allright." Barry slunk out of the ornate bedroom and closed the door.

In a few seconds Tawny was nude save for her gartered dark silk stockings and shiny high heeled pumps. She looked at Sylvia proudly, defiantly. The older actress circled her, prodding, poking, stroking her lush bottom just a bit too long, weighing and bouncing her breasts, judging their resilient jiggle. "Take some notes, Miss Pritchard: Tawny Bush is in superb physical condition, voluptuous, desireable, therefore a suitable double for some of my public obligations." Now she turned back to Tawny. "A few ––modifiations will be required, however. You remember that I said the would be kidnappers seem to know me––intimately, Of course, so do millions of my fans, I'm afraid. So...."

She shed her robe and stood nude, dramatic, as if expecting a fanfare. She was gorgeous, Tawny admitted to herself, and that almost predatory air of sexual power she projected; that was special. And then there were the add ons.

Sylvia cocked her ample left buttock: "First, you'll need to get a

tattoo like this." High on her ass cheek was a five inch intricate work of art: a Japanese scene with a replica of Hiroshigi's famous cresting wave and below it a couple making explicit love.

"I hear they don't have to be permanent anymore. Anyhow, the old japanese craftsman who did this is still in business. Miss Pritchard, get his address, will you? Secondly, (She posed flamboyantly, legs apart; her pubes, flaunted, were bare.) I like to be hairless, while you, my dear, have all that untidy blonde fur hiding your pussy. It's got to go. Wax works best."

Tawny was stunned. First the tattoo––it was exquisite, –– and now this demand that she shave her treasured bush! And she had seen some little metallic glint as Sylvia proudly exposed her baby smooth mons veneris, her lush labia and peeping clit.

"And, finally, you'll need to get the rings. " She displayed them as she spoke: "These steel nipple rings, this silver one in my navel and the big platinum loop in my. .." She fingered her crotch. "Miss Pritchard, set up the apointments; the hot wax guy, the piercing and ring guy, and oh yes, my hairdresser."

Miss Pritchard, her eyes shiftiing from one glorious nude to the other, scribbled her notes.

Tawny had finally recovered. "Sylvia! Ms. Slate! I can't do ––that! I'm sorry. I'm not going to shave my cunt for anyone! the rings, maybe the tattoo...but..."

"Honey, it will grow back. I'm getting a really good feeling about our––working together. Besides, you'll be a wonderful double on my next Jill of the Jungle film. In tne foriegn editions, I'm pretty much, you know, bare assed naked., tattoo, rings and all."

Thirty thousand a week, And those rings, kinky, but somehow exciting. How would it feel to be pierced–down there? And the movie.

Tanya thought a long time, then spoke: "OK, I'll do it."

Sylvia embraced her, hugging her close, the two pairs of lush bare breasts touching, flattening, as Sylvia kissed Tawny on both cheeks then full on the mouth for a long breathless moment. Miss

Pritchard groaned, her hand stroking her woolen crotch.

Tawny broke the embrace first and struggled back into her dress, suddenly self conscious. "Barry, you can come back in. We've got a deal!"

**********

Tawny had a rough day and a half. The hairdresser did his thing in just an hour; Sylvias's tangled shoulder length do was duplicted in no time. And in the back room she'd submitted to the painful depilitation; shaved first, then waxed; her lovely pussy was still enticing, but bare; any mystery coyly hidden in her blonde bush was gone. Tawny grieved for a moment; her appointment with the ring guy, a debarred dermatologist, was next.

She was a bit uneasy as the smiling olive skinned doctor approached her, pulling on latex gloves. She was naked on the operating table; for some reason the silent nurse had strapped her down. The doctor examined her breasts very thoroughly, then explored and fondled her labia for an even longer time, then straightened up with an even wider smile. He rubbed his hands together as he purred: