Network Ten Late News

Author's Note:

The world, sadly, seems to be full of those who have trouble discerning the difference between entertainment and reality, unfortunately probably exacerbated by the current spate of reality being passed off as entertainment, karaoke, Survivor, Big Brother, The Biggest Loser and the like.

While it is not my intent to debate the values of such stuff here, as I expect I will already cause more than enough annoyance with the following notes, what I would like to stress is that, just because you read it on the 'Net or hear it somewhere else in the media, it is not necessarily true and you should verify the truth in a matter before you rely on the information provided as fact.

Despite maybe offending or annoying some, sadly once more, I consider it necessary to do this, as it seems there are those who simply refuse to understand that a story of fantasy could be exactly just that. I am going to make it really easy to verify the facts of this matter, so that there can be NO misunderstanding and NO mistakes, by providing the following discourse.

Do NOT, when reading this tale, make the mistake of considering it to be anything other than complete and utter fantasy. It has not ever happened, it probably could not ever happen, it most likely will not ever happen! Unless I was actually to meet the beautiful, intelligent woman who I chose to be the subject of, and my partner in, this wistful tale of forlorn wishes, and discover somehow that this was indeed her fantasy as well.

Unlikely, of course, for I suspect I'd never be quite so bold as I have been here, in order to initiate the events described. The only chance of that, I suspect, would be if she were to stumble across this tale by accident and come looking for me.

Were that to transpire, there's a greater chance that she will be accompanied by a tribe of lawyers and cooking pots full of defamation litigation than her own overweaning lust for sins of the flesh with me. Oral ministrations, and the rest, such as are detailed here, are more likely to be replaced by said tribe of lawyers chewing me up and spitting me out.

There may be other occasions when I do not really care whether others may speculate about whether some tale or other including a Celebrity or Public person has an element or an entirety of truth. This is NOT one of those occasions. There is NO truth here! In fact, so concerned was I over such reactions that I considered not submitting this specific story at all, simply keeping it for myself. But that is not the essence of literary effort nor the raison d'etre of a site such as Literotica, is it? The desire and the implicit obligation to share swayed me and resulted in the format for the story, complete with these notes, on which I finally settled. For anyone annoyed with my decision, I apologise.

You should, and must, know that Sandra Sully, the subject of this fantastic and ephemeral tale, to the complete best of my knowledge, is a consummate professional, a brilliant personality by all accounts, on-air and off, intelligent, compassionate, hard-working and totally just as she appears to anyone who meets her in her professional or private life. Anything within this tale which is compatible with that, and only with that, could be considered to be true but only so far as they match completely. The rest, as usual, is purely the subject of my own fevered imaginings, not a very safe basis for truth.

Similarly, if by some quirk of fate or by accident, I have actually reproduced actual practices or procedures utilised in the broadcast of News bulletins by Network Ten Australia, rest assured that it was not from personal experience but, once again, imagination only or, at best, observation, from having watched Sandra's broadcasts on many occasions. Don't make the mistake of thinking that I actually know about any of that stuff and, thereby, deduce that any of the rest of it could therefore be true. It isn't!

If anyone was to try to reproduce any of this and claim it as fact, that person would be opening themselves to intense scrutiny by the Media regulator within their own country or to ridicule by such monitoring programs as the ABC's Media Watch in Australia, this tale's country of origin.

If the beautiful, intelligent Sandra does happen to read this, I would ask of her only that she stop to consider that, by transforming my fantasy from the realm of the mind to the realm of the Internet, I have sincerely meant her no harm and no distress. I unreservedly apologise for any offense she may find among these words but hope that she might find none.

Sandra, if you do read this, please just consider that it was me simply worshipping at the altar of a Late Night News Goddess.

As a more general note, coarser terminologies have been used within the story to suit the nature of this forum but it can just as easily be read substituting more generally acceptable terminologies in their place and anyone should feel free to use their imaginations to do so.

Anyone else should note that the rules of this forum explicitly state that the material belongs here, and only here, unless specific arrangements are entered into otherwise. Be advised now; my permission to publish this anywhere else will never be given and permission to publish here is absolutely conditional upon the main body of this tale NEVER being separated from this prefacing Author's Note and trailing Author's Reminder.

If you cannot abide by that requirement, please DO NOT READ ON! Otherwise, please, feel free to read it and I hope there might be someone, apart from me, who finds enjoyment in it, especially if her name happened to be Sandra Sully.

Yeah, I'd be brave and bold enough for her to read it, I reckon, and hope that she might find some delight in it as well!

==

"... to position, please. Five minutes to Air Time." came through the small earpiece I was wearing, necessary to be able to monitor the Running Order of the broadcast.

If I was unable to do that, bringing a long-held fantasy of mine to fruition would embarass one of Australia's most professional news anchors, not to mention creating a firestorm of such controversy, the like of which had never been seen before, nor most likely ever would be again.

I wasn't sure whether a criminal charge existed to cover what I was going to do but, if this was discovered while it was in progress, I was sure that the authorities would find one.

I huddled further into the corner of the space under the newsdesk, where I was concealed, as I heard the sound of a lady's high-heeled shoes crossing the room toward me. I didn't want her to realise too early that I was there, that I had actually gone through with the fantasy of which I had told her.

We'd both been alone in the Conference Room at the studios, waiting for everyone else to arrive at the full Late News team meeting, the beautiful, blonde newsreader, regular and respected anchor of the Network Ten Late News, and I. We didn't know each other well, only by sight around the studios, enough to acknowledge each other in passing with a nod, a smile and a quick greeting. But both of us arriving early for the meeting, we'd engaged in some business small-talk, rather than sit together in uncomfortable silence.

Apart from being extremely competent and professional, she'd always struck me as quiet and reserved, but basically friendly as well, and I had the impression that underneath she concealed an element of mischievious humour that she kept pretty tightly controlled. She was also intelligent, stylish, slender and very beautiful, a woman on whom I had long had a crush and whom it had been a tremendous thrill to meet when I had joined her production team a few months before.

All these qualities were confirmed, particularly her friendliness and her mischievious humour, as we chatted alone while we waited. We'd been talking about interview-style shows, such as Parkinson and Andrew Denton's Enough Rope, and discussing how hosts always seemed to manage to get guests to open up and reveal unexpected, intimate aspects of themselves that they might rather have kept hidden.

In the course of that discussion, we'd speculated on the types of things that no host would be able to prise from their guests and I'd mentioned sexual fantasies. Laughing and with a twinkle in her eyes, she'd asked "And if I were to interview you, what would yours be?".

I'd laughed back and responded that being interviewed by her would be a great start but, for more, if she told me hers, I'd tell her mine. Her giggled reply was that a lady would never tell. As I had fancied her for a very long time but also had a huge amount of respect for her, holding her in high professional esteem, I decided to let her off that hook and didn't press her for a more explicit answer.

But I had truly long held the fantasy to be positioned under the newsdesk, giving her cunnilingus, while she read the Late News bulletin and, throwing caution to the winds, was unable to resist telling her, since the opportunity had so obviously presented itself.

Definitely shocked at my boldness, she sort of spluttered, then laughed and commented that it was a fantasy for sure, one that nobody would ever be brave enough to act upon. Laughing with her, I explained that as my exact definition of a fantasy but then, feeling challenged by her confidence that it would never occur, got more serious and told her that she might be surprised.

She laughed out loud, a beautiful bell-like sound, and, paraphrasing her earlier comment, told me directly that she thought I would never ever act upon it. With a twinkle in my eye and a smile on my lips, I warned her, mock seriously, that she should never challenge any man in such a manner.

I went on to tell her that, professionally, I had never seen her get flustered nor lose her cool on air and that it would fascinate me to see if she could hold that professional demeanour while I was licking between her legs and tickling her clit with my tongue. I was also curious to see whether I could actually make her cum in such a risky, stressful situation and, if so, how many times in a half-hour newscast.

Realising that I had probably gone way too far, I shut up and watched her, the smile still on my face but unsure how she might react. She stared back at me, the traces of a smile still on her face but giving away nothing of her thoughts.

At last, she started to reply but, right then, the first of the other team members, walked through the door and she shut her mouth again immediately. As the other team members straggled into the room, she smiled at me and tilted her head slightly, as if apologising for the moment passing and being unable to respond.

She could have dropped me right into the biggest pile of shit with the management that day, if she'd wanted, as it certainly could have been considered disrespectful, maybe even sexual harassment, to make such a suggestion to a female on-air personality. As she is one of the network's headliners and a highly-valued commodity, a snowflake in hell would have stood a better chance of coming out the other end with job and life intact than I would have, if a pissing match were to develop over the matter.

My job was within pre-production of the newscasts, proofreading and editing story copy, perhaps a linguist or smith of words so to speak, far more easily replaceable than a high-profile on-screen personality. I am pragmatic and would be under no illusion about my chances in such a situation, but neither do I award anyone submissive deference at any time, especially purely based upon their job. Accordingly, my experience has quite often been that I need to seek alternate employment, when I speak up rather than keep my mouth shut. This might have been just one more of those times.

Rather than taking any such action, though, she did not mention the conversation again, either to me or to anyone else. Strangely though, whenever she saw me again, her smile was just that little bit broader, friendlier and, I thought, cheekier. From that day on, too, she always greeted me by name.

I'm not sure exactly when I completely firmed up my intention to bring that fantasy to reality but here I was, underneath the newsdesk, watching the lower half of her body as she placed her running sheets on the desk, moved to the chair and, running both her hands down over her trim backside to hold her skirt smooth beneath herself, sat down on it just a metre or so away from me. She swivelled the chair ninety degrees to the left, bringing herself into position for her introductory camera shots.

I had seen her earlier in the evening and knew that her outfit for the night's broadcast suited my plans perfectly. She was wearing a light grey skirt, just longer than knee-length and of a full line rather than narrow, with a matching sleeveless vest-style jacket, a burgundy silk blouse and matching grey open-style shoes with no stockings. As usual, fashionable and stylish, she looked a treat, as beautiful a sight as I'd ever seen.

If she'd been wearing trousers, as she did sometimes, or a narrower, form-fitting skirt such as she'd worn for a regularly-run network ID clip, it would have been impossible for me to have gained easy access to the area of her body upon which I wished to concentrate without my having to wriggle her lower clothing off completely, so much movement immediately obvious to anyone watching.

It would also have been a problem with camerashot requirements, as the initial introductory shots and the final shots of the newscast showed her almost full-length, sitting on the chair facing Camera 2, located at one side of the newsdesk. Contrary to the old rumour of news anchors being naked below the line of the newsdesk, immortalised by the Pickering calendar caricature of Anne Fulwood, Network Ten's running order would not permit that, as much as it would have suited my plans.

The location of Camera 2 also meant that there was a very slim chance that some part of me under the desk might be noticeable. To minimise that chance, I was clothed completely in black, hoping I'd blend into the shadow. I had also pushed myself into the corner closest to the secondary Camera 2, where I should be well out of shot.

At that time, the Network News set, configured for the Late News, consisted of the large comfortable chair, on which she was sitting, a large, wide, deep desk at which three newsreaders could sit side-by-side easily, as they did for the prime-time News, giving me plenty of room, and both cameras. The primary Camera 1, used for almost the entire broadcast, was positioned directly in front of the desk, facing the studio Network logo backdrop. I was concealed, out of shot from that direction, by the newsdesk's floor-length modesty screen.

The broadcast team, those involved on the set, took all communications, including with the anchor, through their "cans", large sound-insulated earmuff-style headphones, which should prevent them from hearing any minor sounds that I might make. I could only envisage making noise if she reacted adversely to my presence beneath the newsdesk, in which case I suspected the noise would be the least of my concerns.

Of more concern would be the sensitive microphones attached to the lapel of the her burgundy silk blouse. These were very powerful but were oriented toward her mouth for vocal pick-up and, if I was very quiet about what I was doing, they should only pick up sounds she made, perhaps a problem in itself if she were to get carried away by sensation. Anyway, I knew the Control Room could close her mikes whenever it wasn't expecting her to be broadcasting.

Being pre-production and not part of the on-set broadcast team, I would not be missed if absent, even though I occasionally hung about to watch our broadcasts. No part of the newscast would be threatened if I wasn't there, no questions would be asked about where I was if they didn't see me, nor would anyone else have any reason to think that I was about to do what would happen beneath the newsdesk.

She sat, preparing to broadcast a teaser announcement for tonight's show, a brief rundown of the major news headlines that night, given facing Camera 2. She would also make her introduction to the main broadcast from that position, before she swivelled the chair and rolled her legs under the desk to give the full bulletin, the first time she would be safely in position for me to reach her.

It would be that instant, as her legs moved beneath the desk, just before the first news story went live to air, that I'd slide my hands up the outside of her legs beneath the hem of her skirt and she must immediately realise someone was under there. I wanted a few seconds for her to gather herself, if she could, while the News director changed shots, covered by a Ten Late News graphic, before the nation's viewers saw her face again on their sets at home.

I hoped she'd remember our discussion, realise it was me and that her professionalism would kick in, holding her together sufficiently to continue with the broadcast. Regardless, we would both know soon enough as, through my earpiece, I heard her say "Next, on Ten news ..." and I rechecked my position, readying myself as she finished "... stay on Ten".

I took several relaxing deep breaths, as I listened to the chatter on the earpiece, while the broadcast team waited for the final credits of the previous show to complete. As the countdown to Air Time was made, I could also hear the Late News musical theme playing and saw her wriggle her bum, looking for a more comfortable position, just before she started.

"Hello, welcome to Ten's Late News, I'm Sandra Sully. In the News tonight on Ten ..."

As Sandra finished her introduction, I moved myself into position, both arms ready. I saw her swivel the chair and lock it into position at the centre of the newsdesk. As planned, I slid both my hands up the outside of her legs, high up beneath her skirt, where I slipped them onto the front of her thighs. I felt her startle slightly at my touch but then relax again as the Director's "Go!" emanated from the earpieces of the entire team.

Sandra began to read the first story and I waited, stroking her thighs gently, until she finished reading, when the Director would throw to the first videotaped report and Sandra would be out of shot for a minute or so. At that instant, I slipped both hands between her legs and, with both palms flat against her inner thighs, applied gentle but insistent pressure to move them apart.

After a moment's hesitation, during which there was slight resistance to my spreading her legs, though no positive pressure to force them together, she let me move her knees to the extreme edges of the chair, allowing me to stroke the insides of her thighs. I continued to gently tickle up and down her inner thighs while she read the second story, at the end of which I moved one hand up to her knickers.

I positioned my thumb on the silken material of her knickers, massaging her through the silk, feeling for and rotating my thumb around her clit, before feeling my way down her knickers following the line of her slit. Sandra wriggled a little, briefly, as she felt my thumb stroking the lips of her pussy but held herself still again as she began to read the third news story.

I massaged my way back toward her clit, forcing the silken cloth of her knickers within the moistening slit of her pussy, feeling increased heat beginning to build there. My thumb rested on her clit once more and I massaged around it, my fingers stroking the smooth, firm skin of her lower stomach above the elastic of her knickers. As I did so, through my earpiece, I listened carefully to the sound of Sandra's voice as she read and was relieved to hear that, so far, she was giving no indication of anything out of the ordinary occurring.