I am lying back in the leather chair, my eyes closed. A tiny brush is running over my lips, tickling lightly as it applies a deep shade of crimson. Then another brush takes its place, and I smell the sickly sweetness of lip gloss as a light coat is added.
"Open your eyes and look ahead," the make-up artist commands, as she adds a final sweep of mascara to my eyelashes. I stare at the image in the mirror: not me, but Lucy Laws, newsreader. My skin is flawless, warm and glowing, my cheeks rosy, my eyes smoky, my lips full, and my hair sleek and shiny. I wish, again, that I could see this in my bathroom mirror in the morning, instead of the usual bleary eyes, smudged make-up and hair standing on end.
"You're finished," she announces.
"Thanks, Toula," I say, as I slide out of the chair and head into the studio.
I feel the white heat of the lights as soon as I push open the doors. I stride across the floor and settle into my seat, and the guys in the semi-darkness stop joking with each other about Britney Spears and turn the cameras towards me, focusing. I glance down to my monitor and check: the purple jacket, the black silk camisole, the silver earrings. Fine. Stylish. Classy. Just sexy enough to grab the viewers' attention but not too sexy to distract them from what I'm saying.
People sometimes imagine that under the desk I'm wearing shorts and thongs, but I'm not. I'm wearing a skirt, and nice shoes, because I'm at work. But no knickers. I like the thought that while I'm informing Australia about the latest one quarter of a per cent rise in official interest rates, I can feel a light breeze blowing against my pussy lips. I think it adds a certain dimension of humanity to my delivery.
Just kidding. I'm a tart at heart, that's all.
BJ, the sound guy, comes up to attach my microphone. BJ and I are going to fuck each other one day, and it's going to be brilliant. We both know it. He's only been here two weeks, and we haven't exchanged more than a dozen words, but it's going to happen. With some people you know as soon as you meet them. Lust at first sight. I'm a firm believer in it. The heat between us is something I haven't felt in a long time. When he looks at me, his eyes burn right through my clothes, and I know he can see me naked. I feel a jolt run through me to my cunt, and I have to turn away.
BJ is tall and skinny, with curly dark hair that he scrapes back in a loose ponytail, and the most beautiful hands you've ever seen, with long, elegant fingers. I watch them as he fiddles with the microphone, trying to get it to sit right on my camisole. His fingers are just centimetres away from my breasts. As I breathe in, my breasts rise, and so does the camisole. He is still fiddling with the microphone. It's not that hard to get it right. My nipples are erect. He knows it. I look down to his jeans and I can see the long outline of his dick. It's hard, as I suspected.
"BJ, haven't you got her miked up yet?" comes the shout from Dave, the floor manager, and we both jump. BJ finishes and slinks off. I am left sitting there alone under the glare of the lights. My thighs are already slippery with my juices. BJ and I are going to have to fuck very, very soon. I don't think I can stand this sexual tension night after night.
"Sound check!"
I glance down at the pile of papers in front of me, then look up at the autocue. "John Howard found in motel room with Bronwyn Bishop and mystery gerbil," I announce in my most serious voice. The floor crew snicker. They're used to me adlibbing. "Pauline Hanson pregnant with Ernie Dingo's love child."
"Okay, that's fine."
I compose my newsreader face and prepare myself. I try not to think about my wet cunt and the hard-on hidden in BJ's jeans. I'm a professional.
"Five...four...three..."
And then I'm on.
"Good evening. In news tonight, the Government announces a plan to slash hospital waiting lists."
