She turned from the kitchen counter and looked straight into my eyes. Her finger went down to her fly-zip and she smiled. “You know what the Ghurkas say about their kukris don’t you?” I nodded. “Say it.” Her look was stern.

“If you take it out you have to use it.”

Her grin was the grin of a wolf spotting a lame goat.

~~~

I met Lady Maria Picton, wife of General Sir Peregrine Picton, in the restaurant of a huge mausoleum of a Victorian hotel facing the sea. Sun sparkled on the water and small boats bustled across our view as we took our seats on the verandah in the warm June sunshine.

1940 and Britain was once again at war. My husband, Colonel Sir Joliffe Gardner was based in London, working on the General Staff and hers had had to fly to Scotland. A waiter fussed around us, pouring water, spreading napkins, taking our luncheon order. At last, we were alone.

She smiled at me. “May I call you Susan?”

Maria Picton was the product of a Spanish mother and an English father, both aristocrats, and she had the haughty, full-lipped and black-eyed features of her Iberian blood mixed with the fine cheekbones and dark blonde hair of her paternity.

“Of course.”

“Then you must call me Maria. We are, after all. equals.”

I arranged my napkin and looked at her. The simplicity of her grey dress belied its cost and seemed to cup her large breasts, as if two hands were sewn inside it. Her generous cleavage far more visible than would be normal for an Englishwoman except, perhaps, in an evening gown.

“My husband does not, I think, share your opinion.”

“Then he is a fool.”

I smiled. “Perhaps so. He has risked a great deal by embarking on an affaire with you.”

God, I thought, but she is good. Not a flicker crossed those dark eyes, no colour changed her skin tone, nor did she glance around to see if anyone could hear me.

“Your husband was kind enough to escort me to the theatre while you were visiting your sick mother and my husband was away in London.”

I reached into my small black clutch bag and pulled out an earring. “Did you perhaps lose this at the theatre? If so, it is a remarkable thing that I found it in my husband’s suitcase.”

“You search your husband’s belongings like a common chambermaid?” Still no sign of fluster.

“In fact, I was secreting a letter of good wishes in his suitcase when I found it and recognised it as yours. You may not be surprised that the letter did not travel with him.”

I paused as the waiter returned with our first course and poured a dry Chablis into our two glasses.

“We are, Susan, women of rank, status, sophistication. I do hope this is not going to be an unseemly encounter?”

“So do I. However, the wives of Major Winton and Captain Horrocks may not be quite as sanguine as I.”

‘Are you suggesting that I have fucked the entire regiment?”

“With the possible exception of the regimental goat, yes, perhaps.”

The director screamed a frustrated ‘Cut’ as Marilyn Foster and I collapsed into hysterical laughter, the last two lines line having been extemporised. We had said before while attempting to film the scene that it was dialogue worthy of a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl and we’d been fucking about with the lines all morning. Andre Boussin, the director, had had enough and was stomping off muttering about ‘fucking amateurs’ and telling the crew to close up for the day and ‘hope they can behave like adults on Monday.’

Marilyn and I retired to her dressing suite where she poured us both a large gin and tonic. The film was called, ‘Wartime.’

“He’s such an arse, Faye,” said Marilyn. “Can't he see or hear what crap it is?” She handed me my glass.

“Darling, you forget. He wrote it.”

“Oh, my God. Did he?” More laughter.

My dress was straight out of the 1940s. It buttoned down the front and had a thin black belt. Less glamorous than Marilyn’s but she was the femme fatale of the film and I was the ‘normal’ army wife.

Marilyn, or Maz as she was usually known, was a good mate, we’d worked together a few times and she, like me, was as gay as a village fete, promiscuous and libidinous. Tall, butch in ‘civvies’ and very much inclined to take the lead, she’d first had me when we’d been at a party thrown by Hollywood producer, Dolly Stern. On that occasion, we’d been having a drink together and she’d said, “ A little bird tells me you’re queer too. Anyone special?”

“Happily single,” which had been true at the time.

“Me too, determinedly so in fact. In this game, one is surrounded by so many beautiful women what’s the fucking point of chaining yourself to one?”

So, with her position clear, sex but don’t expect more, she’d taken me first to a side room and later back to my hotel room and fucked me senseless. Here we were, a few years later and she was still single, as was I, and working together was once again a pleasure.

“Tell you what. Why don’t we go to your apartment,” we were filming in London, “and get ourselves a bit pissed and fed and fucked? Appeal?”

I agreed and went to my own dressing room and stripped off, got the slap off my face and put my own clothes on. I met her in the car park and she looked fabulous. Five feet ten inches and, with the wig removed, her natural silver hair (not a product of age) cut in a manly style and wearing very tight black leather trousers and jacket.

We clambered into my car and I asked my driver to deliver us to my apartment. The limo had a small bar and I poured us both a glass of champagne. With the dark screen between us and the driver, we were assured privacy and so I was not at all surprised when Marilyn’s hand went inside my dress and cupped my braless tit and held me for a few moments while she sipped her wine.

For my part I let my hand rest on her thigh, conscious of a very unnatural and hard lump in her leather trousers.

She grinned. “I’m not going to rush this tonight, Faye. We’re going to take our time. But, as you may have divined, one is, as the Americans might put it, ‘packing.’”

“Fine with me on both counts. Not sure how I could have failed to notice in those! How do you get into them?”

“Concentrate on getting me out of them! Can we get some grub delivered though, I’m ravenous.” I said of course we could. “Marvellous.”

Forty minutes later and we arrived at my place. I told her I was going to have a shower and change and asked if she’d like to join me.

“No, darling, I had one in my dressing room. You go and get yourself into something sexy for me and I’ll sort the meal and pour us a drink.”

I went through to my bedroom and stripped off, showered and put on a favourite: a sheer, white silk top, loose and long-sleeved that reached the hem of matching shorts; so sheer she could see my trimmed triangle and the darkness of my nipples. I wandered back to the kitchen.

“Whoa,” Maz smiled. “Sexy! Well done you.”

“Thank you kindly.” I bowed theatrically. She handed me a glass of wine and we sat either side of my kitchen island and nattered for a while about friends, enemies, colleagues and our shared agent, Flick Caterham, a force of nature.

Maz smiled when I asked her if she’d met Flick’s assistant, Phoebe; legs that went on and on, figure to die for and ridiculously straight. “Of course I have. Took her for a drink too.”

“Oh?”

She nodded. “No good, far too straight. I don’t think she even knew I was coming on to her.”

“I bet she did, she’s smart that one.”

We were interrupted by the arrival of our supper and I hid in my room while Maz organised it with the delivery girl. I took my shorts off while I waited and fingered myself a little. When she’d gone I went back into the kitchen to find Maz putting everything in the oven to keep warm.

She turned from the kitchen counter and looked straight into my eyes. Her finger went down to her fly-zip and she smiled. “You know what the Ghurkas say about their kukris don’t you?” I nodded. “Say it.” Her look was stern.

“If you take it out you have to use it.”

Her grin was the grin of a wolf spotting a lame goat.

“Shall I?”

“If you don’t I’ll kick you out.”

“That’s earned you a spanked arse.”

Slowly, deliberately, she lowered the zip and after a brief fumble extricated a yellow, fairly slender cock. I couldn’t help laughing.

“Interesting colour!”

“How many spankings do you want, bitch?” I don’t think she had noticed until that point that I’d taken my shorts off.

“I thought you were hungry.”

“Kiss it.” She wasn’t joking now. One hunger had clearly replaced another and Maz was showing her true, dominant tendencies. One does not disappoint Maz when she’s in this mood or, if one does one fucking well hurts for it. I kissed it. I took it in my mouth and that was not just pleasure, it was an act of submission. Eyes lifted to hers as I took it into my mouth she nodded, put her hand on the back of my head and pushed so it went almost into my throat.

“Let’s be clear shall we?” She’d done this before. She knew I didn’t like it. She knew I’d do it because I might not be a total sub but, for her, I could be, wanted to be.

She lifted me rather gently, kissed the wet on my cheeks, where a mouthful of silicone had made my eyes water, licked my mouth as she stuck her hand between my legs.

“You wanked while I was accepting the food didn’t you? Christ, you’re such a tart.” I knew she was hot now, knew she would come from fucking me. It had happened before. My submission made her feel as horny as fuck, entering me took her nearer, fucking me, plundering me took her there. Fucking my arse took her there quicker and I knew that was what she was going to do.

She wasn’t rough now. She gently kissed me, then turned me and bent me over the kitchen worktop. Her hand was on the middle of my back, between my shoulder blades. Her gentleness belied the savage fucking that would follow. She wet her finger in my cunt and used my juices to lubricate my arse, as she pushed me down harder against the worktop.

One viciously hard slap on my arse was followed by another lubricating exercise. Her breathing was getting heavier. The tip of her cock touched my arse. She pushed and I hadn’t been buggered for a while and wasn’t sure if it was too big but that didn’t seem to worry her. She held with the bulbous end in my muscle for a while, her hand stroking my back.

“I’ll look after you, bitch.”

I groaned as she finally, with one push, entered me. It hurt but not enough to deny me the pleasure. She loves my groans and feeds off them. She wasn’t going to go hungry as she increased the pace and fury with which she fucked me.

“Cum, bitch.” I did and so did she.

Maz has huge appetites. I got the food out of the oven and spread it on the counter while she undressed. She sat, naked but for her cock and I straddled her, the phallus inside my cunt and we fed each other. She smeared tomato sauce on my nipples and licked it off. She threatened to stick chilli sauce up my arse and I would have let her.

We laughed, kissed, fed from each other’s lips, shared a glass of wine. When we didn’t want any more to eat she slapped my arse, less viciously this time, then led me to the bedroom where she got me on all fours and fucked me, rather more traditionally this time.

Later, much later, we lay side by side. I lifted her finger to my mouth and sucked it.

“I still reckon I owe you a good spanking.”

I turned my head slowly to her. “So do I.”

~~~

Saturday morning. Felicity Caterham, our agent, is, I swear a witch. She called me the morning after Maz and I had spent the evening and night at it. In fact, we were about to give it another go when my phone rang.

No cheery greeting. “Boussin,” (the director and writer), “is threatening to quit. He says you and Foster are, and I quote, ‘unprofessional, juvenile, disrespectful, ignorant, self-obsessed and incompetent.’ He also used the word ‘mutinous’ which I thought showed class. What the fuck are you two up to?”

I hesitated to say that we were in bed, that Marilyn was sucking my nipple and that she had only just finished delivering the second spanking having fallen asleep before she could do so the night before.

“We are engaged in… Oh, hi Flick and how are you by the way? We’re both well thanks for asking. We’re engaged in a process known as making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Have you read the script?”

“Of course I have, darling.”

“Not the current one you haven’t. Boussin has re-written it, and now I am quoting, ‘to give it more class.’ The man is a fucking imbecile. His writing is like a five-year-old's. Maz and I can barely get through it – he’s like Ernie Fucking Wise.” (Note for non-Brits. Ernie Wise was part of a British comedy double act who wrote appalling spoof plays – just thought I’d explain.)

“Have you any idea how much you two are earning from this?”

“Flick, if this film gets out we’ll never bloody well work again.” Maz did something rather amazing with her finger and I gasped involuntarily.

“Christ,” said Flick. “We’re facing a professional crisis and you two are... Shagging!”

“I can neither confirm or deny,” Maz laughed like a drain and Flick said something utterly obscene and rang off.

Maz rolled me onto my tummy and began to examine my arse. “Mmm,” she said smugly. “Nice handprint here, and here and, oh goodness, here too! You really are a wonderful fuck, darling.”

“You’re moderately competent yourself.” That got me another swat.

She rolled onto her back and spread her legs. “Get to it, bitch, before I use a belt on you.”

The idea of the belt wasn’t entirely unwelcome. Our weekend developed into one long round of sex, drink, delivered meals and precious little else. I was not complaining.

Monday morning and Maz and I were preparing to return to the studio to wrestle once more with what we had come to refer to as the ‘wartime fiasco’ when my doorbell rang.

I was astonished to see Flick in the little monitor and, when I let her in she grabbed my arm and almost dragged me to my kitchen.

“Christ, Flick, if you’ve turned queer you don’t have to drag me, I’ll come quietly!”

“Will you, just once in your life, just once, behave like an adult?” Her anger was seething. “You are, it seems, more important to the producers than Boussin. Fuck alone knows why. Boussin is history on this film. You and Foster have made a big enemy there so hope it doesn’t come back to haunt you. They’ve got Lauren Geisler to replace him and she’s taking a few days to get up to speed so you two can go back to bed and, between the sheets, try to develop some maturity. If you don’t Geisler will probably disembowel you or I will.” Her voice had risen above her normal sophisticated and mellifluous tones.

Maz came into the kitchen. She wasn’t wearing much. “Tempers frayed are they, darlings?”

“It seems,” I said, “that Andre Boussin, Shakespeare’s reincarnation, has been given the bullet to make way for Lauren Geisler.”

You don’t see Maz phased too often so her reaction was a surprise. “Geisler? Fuck. She’s known as the Gestapo’s nightmare!”

“Reflect on that, darlings,” said Flick. “You’re back on set on Wednesday.” She dumped two large scripts on my kitchen table. “If I were you, I’d be word perfect.”

She turned to leave but I stopped her. I’ve known her a long time and I had a sixth sense so I stared at her for a while.

“What?”

“You’re a piece of work.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You persuaded the producers, didn’t you? You told them we’d walk if they didn’t change director. You’ve done a deal with Geisler’s agent. And you’ve said it’s all down to us so Boussin still loves you.”

“Fantasist,” she said but there was a lift at the corners of her mouth and I knew I was right.

“Lucretia fucking Borgia and Machiavelli in one rather gorgeous pinstripe suit. Look at her, Maz, and like Ozymandias said ‘look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.’ I have to say, Flick, this time you have excelled yourself. How can I not love you?”

She grinned. “Think what you like.”

I knew I was absolutely spot on when Flick kissed me goodbye. She only does that when she’s really proud of me.

Maz took me back to bed and gave me another spanking. “It’s Monday, darling and we have a day off. Why shouldn’t I enjoy myself?”