WARNING: The following is a work of erotic fan fiction, the events of which are completely made up and did not happen, and is no true reflection of the celebrities, people, places, conventions, events etc depicted within. This material is unsuitable to be viewed by those under the legal age limit of viewing pornographic material in your current country of residence.
Featuring: Rachel Riley (TV presenter)
Rachel's Countdown
A celebrity erotic story
Codes: MF, FF, Cons, Oral, WS, Group.
*****
Rachel's Countdown
How had it come to this
, she thought as she approached the mansion which rose majestically before her.
It didn't take long for her brain to remind her; she might have been a maths genius but the stock market wasn't based of maths; it was based on a series of algorithms and circumstances that, unlike maths, were beyond her control. A gamble and she had lost everything; her money, her house, and her job - she never should have persuaded the producers to go in with her, and when it looked to be going well she should never have told them all to shove their TV careers up their arses. It was her arse that was going to be troubled.
But what a pretty arse it was. The dress she wore was designed to show it off. She'd been told to dress well, her ass was perched above long, slender legs, legs she had always dressed to show off on the programme she was famous for, legs that got the audience to whistle when her name was called out, a whistle that sent tingles through her every time, glancing around the audience and knowing that they all wanted her. That time was gone. They all wanted her; but she was no longer theirs. She was this guy's, the guy who owned the mansion; Mr Adams was what she knew him as. They guy she was in debt to, to the region of three million pounds.
She held her breath as she used the big brass knocker, slamming metal off metal. It sounded like the death knell of her old life and the thought scared her. She could back out, but who knew what other people would do to get their three million back; that was even scarier. Wobbling on the cherry red heels, she smoothed down the slinky cream dress, one she had managed to pilfer from the show, one that they'd considered too hot for TV. Which it was, barely coming over the cheeks of her ass, tight around her slim, size six figure, and promoting what little she had up top. It was designed to do that, all without the aid of a bra.
As she waited she fluffed up her curly, blonde hair that nestled on her angled shoulders and stared at her reflection in the brass knocker, shined up like a mirror. She looked good, perhaps too slutty but she doubted Mr Adams would care. What she was going to do was worth three million pounds. Three million pounds to play a game of Countdown.
The glossy lacquer-finished door opened and she was greeted by a man, the man she had agreed to do this for. Mr Adams. Easily in his sixties though he wore it well, the suit tailored to his still slim-looking body. She had no idea what he wanted but if it involved having sex with him, there could have been worse people to do it with even if he was at least twice her age.
'A drink?' he offered, voice as smooth as the silk panties that she'd decided to wear. She had auctioned off most of her stuff to pay back some of her debt. She knew that Rachel Riley's used underwear would have gone down a storm in certain circles but couldn't bring herself to do it. So she wore them for this instead. They made her feel good.
Taking the green cocktail in an expensive crystal glass from him, she quaffed it in one.
Mr Adams laughed. 'Building up your courage are you?' he said before handing her another. She showed more restraint with the second, sipping it and allowing him to lead her into another room, what she guessed had been a sitting room, or some type of leisure quarters, ornate, carved and ancient. Now it was decked out like a very passable imitation of the Countdown set. He'd gone to some expense on this. But if he was able to pay her three million for doing this, then he had plenty to spare.
Doing what came naturally to her, she made for her place on the stage by the letters and numbers, touching the podium, memories flooding back. It felt good to be on stage once again. She knew how much she missed it, though she would never let it show.
'So where are the contestants?
Who
are the contestants?' she asked looking to Mr Adams who took up position in the main chair, Nick's chair, Jeff's chair, the man in control.
She glanced to the rows and rows of expensive cushioned chairs facing the stage. Never mind the contestants, she thought to herself, where was the audience? Were they going to play to an empty crowd? A crowd that she would have to imagine was there? That wouldn't be as fun.
She turned to ask Mr Adams what was happening. From nowhere two players were now in the contestant's chairs as if they had materialised out of thin air. One male and one female. She recognised the female immediately. Know that twisted up face anywhere. Her old co-worker Susie Dent. Why was she here, she asked herself, but knew the reason why. One of the reasons her reputation had taken a dive, why they had let her go from the show. She had fucked Susie's husband, not out of spite, or malice; just because she could. He wasn't even good-looking, but he was off-bounds and she liked that, liked the danger. It had been over in less than a minute, but it had made a major contribution to her downfall.
She strained to see the name on the front of the male card. She hadn't a clue who he was, but he was pretty good-looking and if nothing else, a bit of eye candy for her to keep an eye on throughout this 'show'. She always tried to pick out one piece, meant that she could be distracted during the boring bits of the show.
Mr Adams waved a hand towards her. Rachel didn't know what he wanted, couldn't decipher what he was trying to say. But it wasn't her he was signalling. From the door she and Mr Adams had entered a crowd of well-dressed people streamed inside, taking up position in the crowd; men and woman, mostly of advancing years, well-heeled and well-tanned, here to enjoy the show. Putting on her game face, she smiled at them all.
'Let's start,' said Mr Adams, no impatience in his voice. 'Susie, you can pick the first letters.'
A silent nod from Susie, but a look on her face that could have cut straight through Rachel. She hadn't forgotten, not that Rachel ever thought she had.
'Could I have a vowel please... bitch?' said Susie, spat at her, sharp and violent.
Rachel jerked a little but accepted that she probably deserved that. The audience murmured. This wasn't going to be the usual polite game of Countdown. There was an undercurrent that would have made great TV. Looking around, she couldn't see any recording equipment.
'Now if we can keep this civil, Susie. At least for the time being,' said Mr Adams authoritative - and ominous. Rachel was glad someone was in charge.
The letters were chosen as normal - A, G, I, L, N, A, S, U, N - with no thank you's or pleasantry, and the imitation Countdown clock set into motion with the familiar catchy ditty. As she normally did, Rachel played along. What else was there to do?
As ever the thirty seconds played out fast. She had a seven letter word - SAILING - and was pretty proud of it.
Mr Adams asked the contestants for their words. Like Rachel, the unknown male had SAILING too but Susie stated she had a nine.
